Churchill's White Rabbit (8 page)

Inevitably these activities drew negative attention and Brossolette’s efforts to develop one of the first French resistance movements brought him dangerously close to capture. He narrowly escaped the dismantlement of his network and headed to London in 1942 to meet de Gaulle. The meeting went so well that he was hired by the general to help bring credibility to the Free French movement among the various resistance groups and to discredit de Gaulle’s main political rival, Henri Giraud. Brossolette created a civilian intelligence arm for the BCRA and closely liaised with RF Section and in particular, Forest Yeo-Thomas.

Brossolette was not quite 40 when he met Forest. Small and thin, always immaculately dressed, and with a distinctive white forelock in his otherwise black hair, he was an easily recognisable face to the French. On missions he would dye his white streak of hair to avoid being identified by the Germans. Colonel Passy would later describe him as: ‘without doubt, the man who, amongst all those I have met in my life, made the greatest impression on me.’
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Forest would equally come to respect his new colleague and would consider him one of his greatest wartime friends.

However, on Forest’s return from Ringfield he only knew of Brossolette as another Frenchman fighting the Nazis. SOE headquarters, having concluded the Seahorse mission was a non-starter, were now disinclined to send Forest anywhere. Hutch had tried to get him involved in a mission to have a ‘general look round’ in France, but this was turned down with the slightly snide comment that as Forest was credited as being such a talented officer, his skills would be wasted on such a mundane mission. Hutch was not defeated however. He recognised the same desire to get into action in Forest that he felt in himself and he continued to push to secure his man a mission. It was the mission to send Passy and Brossolette back into France that tipped the scale. Judiciously, it was suggested to HQ that an unbiased representative should go with the two BCRA men to report on the matter for the British, and there was just such a man, with a superb knowledge of France, stationed at No. 1 Dorset Square.

HQ agreed and finally Forest had his chance to get into action. There were still matters to be resolved, however. Forest was sent for more training, this time in the art of sending encoded messages, while London’s forgery department was working overtime on his false papers. Forest’s new identity was that of Francois Thierry, a bachelor born at Arras on 17 June 1901. Before the war he had worked as a clerk and lived in Paris at 41 rue St Ferdinand; he had also spent time serving in the 34th Battalion de l’Air and was demobbed at Marignane on 27 August 1940. Since then he had returned to his employment as a clerk and now lived at 9 rue Richepanse, Paris. Forest had to memorise this entire story, which was backed up by an array of false documents including a French identity card, demob certificate, driving licence and ration cards. Armed with all this it was hoped that he could infiltrate France without attracting any attention.

As one last quirk it was decided to retain the codename Forest had been assigned for his abortive first mission – Operation Seahorse was ready to go.

Agents were typically dropped during a moon period (between the times when the moon was in its first quarter and last quarter phase) ideally when the moon was at its fullest to provide the parachutists with the best possible light. Forest eagerly calculated the most likely time for his drop as between 17 and 28 February. As the first date rapidly approached he was surprised that he was not frightened at the prospect, and his mind instead turned to Mademoiselle Jose Dupuis, who he had penned a postcard to on that sad day at Pointe de Grave when he fled France. Now he couldn’t contain his excitement to be heading back and arranged for a message to be broadcast on BBC radio: ‘From Tommy to Jose. We’ll soon drink again good Chignin wine.’ Tommy was another nickname Forest had used when writing for a British boxing magazine and he was certain the mention of Chignin would remind Mademoiselle Dupuis of the holidays during which they had drunk that wine in a village near Chambery.

The BBC ran a busy trade in these types of message, one of the few ways to communicate freely with France. Some were simple messages of hope to loved ones, others were meaningless phrases added in to confuse German operatives listening, and others were secret communications between agents in France or the resistance. This was the first time Forest had used the service, but it would not be the last and from that point on his messages would not be so innocuous.

On 24 February 1943 Forest was informed that his mission would commence that night. Brossolette had gone on ahead, so he would travel alone with Passy. Forest started to wrap up his world, for at the back of his mind there was always the whispered idea that he might not come back. He had a farewell dinner with Barbara, who was now working on a civilian basis with the BCRA, and at 3 p.m. picked up Passy and drove through thick fog to Tempsford in the Midlands, from where they were to take off.

Fortified by a strong cup of tea, they changed from their uniforms into the civilian French clothes they would wear on the mission. There was one last examination of all their belongings for any giveaway clue of their English origin. SOE had learned from hard experience that the German Gestapo would be amazingly thorough with any suspect they arrested and the smallest mistake could blow an agent’s cover. Clothing labels were examined and pockets turned out to make sure they didn’t contain a forgotten bus ticket or British receipt. Satisfied with the check the agents were given their last essential – a cyanide tablet. The suicide pill was in case of extreme emergency and needed to be carefully concealed. Forest hid his in a waistcoat pocket, while Passy had a Bond-like gadget of a signet ring with a swivel top where the pill could be concealed.

The base CO treated them to a last decent meal and topped them up with a decent bottle of Burgundy. Then it was on with their harnesses, rubber helmets and spine pads. Special outer pockets had room for a revolver, compasses and knives, and then it was on with the heavy parachute. Feeling like beasts of burden, the two men were driven to a waiting Halifax bomber, half hidden in the swirling mist, and clambered awkwardly aboard.

Inside the Halifax were several carefully wrapped packages containing the men’s suitcases, arms, wireless set and explosives, the latter of which it was doubtful there would be any opportunity to use. Each package, secured in rubber and canvas, had its own parachute and would be dropped with the agents and with a healthy dose of luck would land somewhere near them.

As the Halifax opened its engines and taxied down the runway, Forest could do little but sit and contemplate his own thoughts. It was too noisy to talk to Passy and there was no window to look out of, so he thought of France and wondered how it had changed since he had last been there. What would it be like to walk the streets of Paris under German occupation? What would it be like to be constantly on guard and hiding your true motives from a hostile invader? It was a long journey to examine these dark thoughts in detail.

It took the Halifax half an hour to reach the French coast and the first challenge of its journey. Anti-aircraft guns opened fire and the pilot jinked, dived and swerved to avoid the arcing spray of bullets. For an awful moment silence overcame the plane and it veered sideways in a wild motion. Forest was convinced that they had been hit and would have to bail out, his mission to France curtailed before it had even begun. Then, miraculously it seemed, the engines kicked in again and the plane righted itself.

The flak guns faded into the background and within a short time the pilot began to circle, and Forest guessed that he was trying to pinpoint their chosen landing spot, which should have been illuminated by a reception committee waiting for them. But the plane circled and circled with no sign of anyone and finally the despatcher had to make his way to Forest and Passy and give them the bad news that low cloud cover meant it was impossible to find the drop site. They would have to turn back.

Forest must have felt that France didn’t want him back the way he kept coming so close only to be disappointed. Passy sitting beside him was just as furious. They turned back, the Halifax having to run the gauntlet of searchlights and anti-aircraft guns yet again as they returned from another aborted mission. They arrived at 4.30 a.m., disgruntled and fed up. Nervous exhaustion had taken its toll and they retired to bed immediately before heading back to London the next day.

It wasn’t long before Forest was summoned for another attempt on 26 February. Conditions in Britain looked good, the moon was waning but was still bright enough to guide them and there was little cloud. Shortly after midnight, once again attired in their heavy gear, Forest and Passy sat in the Halifax as it took off. The journey was far quieter than the last one, there was less trouble with flak over the coast and by 3 a.m. the despatcher had come to tell them that they were over the landing site.

The hatch of the plane was opened and Forest could see down to the twinkling lights of the welcoming committee. Armed with only hand torches the resistance were eagerly marking the spot where the jumpers hoped to land. Passy was to jump first and positioned himself over the hole with his back to the engine and an eye to the despatcher who would signal when he should jump. Sitting behind him Forest saw his companion tense in preparation and eased himself closer. He was surprised by the strange calm that had overtaken him; the moment seemed too surreal to warrant fear. As the red jump light switched to green and the despatcher raised his arm, he saw Passy launch himself through the hole and a second later the static line went taut, jerked, and then it was Forest’s turn.

There was no time to think much about what was to happen. He swung his legs over the hatch, his vision filled now with those twinkling stars on the ground, then he pushed himself off. The cold night air rushed past him as he fell, then there was the sensation of being pulled back and temporarily halted, before his parachute blossomed and Forest began his steady descent.

Forest could now catch his first real glimpse of occupied France. A little below him Passy’s parachute seemed enormous in the dark night sky, such an easy target if any Germans happened to see it. Further below the figures of the welcoming committee gradually came into sight. Chosen from the resistance, they did not cut an awesome figure, just ordinary people hoping as much for the agents’ arrivals as for the supply packages that even now were being pushed from the plane. For the first time Forest could see the people who he hoped he could help to free France.

Both jumpers landed safely. Forest remembered his training and rolled as he touched the ground, taking in a shaky breath as he stood and surveyed the scene. He had done it, he had returned to France.

A man ran up to him, grabbing his hand and shaking it excitedly. ‘It’s you, Shelley?’ he asked in French.

Forest had never heard the name before. He smiled at the man and answered ‘Yes’, deciding that it was wiser to ‘play along’ at that moment than to cause further confusion. He discovered later that Shelley was the second codename he had been given for operations in France, though no one had bothered to mention it to him. Within a year that name would be infamous among the German intelligence services, but for the newly arrived Forest it was just another nom de plume to remember.

The packages that had accompanied the jumpers were now also arriving. There was no way to tell as they bumped to the ground if their cargo had survived the descent, but the important thing was to get it hidden before any inquisitive German eyes spotted it. In a wood a few hundred yards away a pit had been dug to hide the supplies and Forest and Passy helped carry the loads into the trees.

The rag-tag resistance committee shivered as they worked to bury the precious gifts, frozen to the core after their long wait in the wintry night. Forest and Passy handed around a flask of rum, feeling more sorry for these poor individuals who had spent several hours awaiting what might have been another abortive mission, than they did for themselves after their dangerous journey and descent.

As they stood sipping rum the leader of the committee approached the two agents. ‘Go, my children, to work!’ he said. This was Jacot, one of the original members of the Confrérie de Notre Dame, an early resistance movement. His vast experience gave him a natural leadership over the others and now he would see to it that Passy and Forest made it out of the woods safely.

A guide and bicycles had been arranged and while the reception committee picked up ice-cold shovels and began the arduous job of burying the crates, the two agents were escorted to a safe house 15km away. Their guide was a stickler for security and secrecy, which, in itself, was not all that common among the resistance. A curfew had been put in place by the Germans and if stopped the cyclists could be in serious trouble for being out so late. The guide had therefore concocted a suitable cover story: ‘We must say we are returning from a wedding party. We stayed too long because we were a little drunk, but must get home tonight as we have work in Rouen in the morning.’

Passy and Forest were asked to hand over their pistols as they would be far too hard to explain away should the Germans spot them.

‘Bring only your suitcases,’ the guide instructed.

The agents rummaged through one of the packing cases for their suitcases; they could hardly see in the dark, but finally found them.

‘On no account must you make any noise,’ the guide continued as he gave them their bicycles. ‘If I make a sign you are to dive into the nearest ditch or bush.’