The Best of Our Spies (35 page)

The Forest of Boulogne lay to the north east of the village, across a range of upwardly sloping fields. The first line of birch and ash could be seen from the village itself and at night the forest gave the impression of an enormous black cloud that had floated down to earth. There were some small roads and tracks through the forest, but its sheer size did afford them some safety. It was very rare for German patrols to venture beyond the roads and tracks. You needed the lifetime experience of the woods such as Jean and Pierre had to be able to find your way around it in the dark. Within just a matter of yards from a track, the trees stood improbably close together and the undergrowth was heavily carpeted with bramble and ferns.

Four of them went to the forest that night, the sixth of June. The plan was to travel in pairs, taking different routes to their destination. Geraldine would travel with Jean, Pierre with Lucien. Once they met up, Jean and Lucien would rig up the aerial then fan out to stand guard, while Geraldine and Pierre looked after the transmission. It was always perilous. There was the ever present danger of German patrols added to the risk of their transmission being intercepted. They would take the right precautions: keep the transmission short, change frequency if it went on for more than five minutes and then dismantle the equipment quickly as soon as it was over.

The Germans would almost certainly intercept the broadcast and then triangulate its location, but if all went according to plan then by the time the Germans arrived at the forest the group would be safely back in the village. The danger was either a passing patrol stumbling across them by chance, or if a mobile detection unit was in the area that night.

They met at a disused woodman’s hut in what had once been a small clearing in the centre of the forest, well away from any track. The hut had not been used for years, but it was a good place to meet. The clearing was now overgrown and the forest had begun the process of reclaiming the small parcel of land.

The little moonlight around that night struggled to penetrate the canopy of the forest and a steady stream of cloud streaked across the sky. It was as dark in the forest as Geraldine could remember. She and Jean were waiting in the lee of the hut for the other two. She shivered. Instinctively he put an arm round her. She moved closer to him, placing her palm on his chest. He was about to speak when silently the other two came upon them. A brief conversation. Pierre knew every inch of the forest. They would walk five minutes to the east. The trees were very thick there, but there were a few that were easier to climb.

When they found the spot, Pierre and Geraldine prepared the radio. Jean removed his jacket and strapped the aerial to his back and with Lucien’s help, climbed the tree – lowering down the cable so they could attach it to the transmitter. They were all carrying Sten sub-machine guns. Pierre and Geraldine lay theirs on the ground next to them. Jean and Lucien fanned out on either side. Within seconds they were out of sight.

Pierre hated this business. He much preferred to rely on them receiving messages via the BBC, but recognised that there were times when they needed to contact London. As soon as they established contact he shone his torch on his watch. It was eleven thirty-three. If they were still transmitting at eleven-thirty eight then they would need to change frequency. The Germans would be able to pinpoint a position with an accuracy of around ten miles. That ought to be safe enough. It was the vans with the mobile receivers that bothered him.

Geraldine was tapping away hard at the Morse code key and scribbling down the response on a pad which Pierre was illuminating with his torch. At eleven thirty-eight he signalled to her – need to change frequency. She held up one finger: one more minute. Three minutes later she pulled off the headphones and turned off the transmitter. Pierre made a soft owl hoot and within a minute they had been rejoined by Jean and Lucien.

Pierre nodded at Geraldine.

‘What do they say?’

‘The main invasion will still be in this area. Soon. We are to be patient. They want us to begin the sabotage.’

Five minutes later the aerial had been dismantled and the transmitter packed away. They would bury it nearer to a track and Lucien would collect it in the morning in his father-in-law’s car.

Pierre and Lucien left first, taking the most direct route back to the village. Geraldine and Jean stood silently against the trees. They would wait for three minutes and then leave in a different direction which would take them to the north of the forest, further away from the village at first. They would then skirt back round the outside of the forest, making sure to stay inside the tree line. They ought to be back by half-past midnight. Geraldine stumbled once in the undergrowth and fallen over. She had allowed Jean to pick her up and he had continued to hold on to her.

It may have been because of this or possibly because the cloud cover had grown thicker that they did not see the Germans until it was too late. They were approaching one of the tracks that threaded across the forest. The normal procedure would be to halt well short of the track and Jean would creep forward until he could see it properly. If all was clear, he would signal Geraldine forward, she would cross the track while Jean covered her and he would follow, with her providing cover for him.

For some reason, they stumbled across the track before they noticed it. They only came to a stop when Geraldine was on the track itself and Jean right behind her. It was too late. A German motorbike and sidecar was parked on the other side of the track, no more than five yards from them. Standing with his back to them, lighting a cigarette was a soldier. Jean and Geraldine froze. Jean made a reversing gesture with his hands. They would move back into the cover of the trees and hide. At that moment the soldier stepped out into the centre of the track and turned casually towards them. They had the advantage of having had their shock a crucial two or three seconds before his. In the second that he stood there, stunned and transfixed to the spot, momentarily unable to react, they both rushed him. Jean threw himself at the soldier, diving at his hips and using his speed and momentum to bring him down in a rugby tackle. The soldier’s rifle fell as he went over. On the ground, the soldier and Jean struggled. The soldier was a large and strong man. Once he had got over the initial shock he seemed to regain his strength and worked his way on top of Jean, pinning him to the dusty ground. He was reaching for his holster.

‘Help me,’ Jean called out.

From her side belt Geraldine pulled out the knife that was standard SOE issue. The only time she had used it before was on a straw dummy in a barn in Lincolnshire. Now she plunged it into the soldier’s back. There were two things that struck her in that moment. The first was that nothing had prepared her for the amount of bone that the knife would hit. She thought it would just go straight in. The other was the blood. She must have hit an artery, because a fountain of blood spurted up.

As this happened, Jean threw the soldier over and pinned him down with his hands round his neck. He held them there, tightening his grip. The soldier’s eyes seemed to double in size and a look of utter terror was etched into every line on his face. Even in the dark, she could tell that he was turning blue.

‘Watch out, there will be another one,’ Jean panted.

She turned round. Of course. A motorbike and sidecar. There would be two of them. The other one was coming towards her. He must have gone into the woods to go to the toilet because he was now running out with his trousers flapping loose around his thighs. He was using one hand to try to hold them up. Geraldine lunged at him with the knife, but he parried her blow, sending the knife skidding across the track. She remembered she must have put her Sten gun down when she got out the knife. The soldier was raising his rifle to her, his trousers now round his ankles and his finger on the trigger.

The bullet that she thought would kill her came from behind and sent the second soldier crumpling to the track. She turned round. Jean had one knee firmly on the throat of the now still soldier. In his hands was his sub-machine gun with which he had shot the second soldier just before he was able to fire at her.

He checked the pulse of the first soldier, nodded and walked over to her. She was now kneeling on the track, drained of all her energy. He picked her up, holding her close to him as he did so. At that moment he shrieked. The second soldier had lunged at Jean. He must have found Geraldine’s knife and despite his wounds was able to attack. Geraldine grabbed Jean’s sub-machine gun. The soldier and Jean were in a frantic struggle. She took aim, but in the dark it was hard to see who she was aiming at. She stepped over to the two of them and held the gun at the soldier’s back and pulled the trigger. His body muffled the noise and he slumped onto the track, a dark pool emerging from under his body.

For one moment she feared that she had also hit Jean as well. His shoulder was covered in blood, but he climbed out from under the second dead German. It was a knife wound.

‘Quick,’ he said. ‘We have to move them. Now.’

They dragged each soldier as far as they could into the undergrowth. They would be difficult to find at night and that would give them enough time to get back to the village. But the track was covered in blood and in any case the dogs would find them soon enough. Then there was the motorbike and sidecar. They wheeled it into the undergrowth on the other side of the track, but could not move it more than five yards in before the undergrowth made it impossible to go any further. They spent a minute or two pulling branches and shrub on top of it. It might just about cover it during the hours of darkness, but at first light the search parties would spot it easily enough. Geraldine checked Jean’s wound. The knife had penetrated the front of his shoulder, but it did not appear to be too serious. She gave him her scarf. ‘Keep this pressed against it.’

It was nearly one o’clock when they crept into the house on the morning of 7 June. Within hours the whole area would be teeming with search parties. Fortunately for them, they had killed the soldiers on a track on the eastern edge of the forest, which was in the direction of Boulogne. Other villages were nearer. There would be nothing to link the attack with this village. They went upstairs. Both of them were covered in dirt and blood. She needed to deal with Jean first. He sat on his bed. The curtain in his room was very thick, so they could risk lighting a lamp. Even in the dim light she could tell that he was pale.

‘Remove your shirt.’

He peeled off his shirt. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it would need cleaning up before she could tell if it would need stitching. She was worried that he might need medical attention. A couple of years before a doctor from nearby Isques had been shot for helping a wounded
résistant
. From the bathroom she fetched a bowl of cold water and a sponge. They would need to burn their clothes. She cleaned the wound and then put ointment on it from the small first aid box that she had found in the bathroom. She placed a pad over the wound and told him to hold it while she found something to keep it in place. The wound did not seem too bad. The real concern now would be to make sure that it did not become infected.

The priority was to remove all trace of the dirty clothing. If the Germans did a house to house search they would find them both filthy and covered in bloody clothing. She was trying to remain calm. When Lange realises what has happened he’ll be furious, but she had no alternative. The most important thing was to maintain her cover. She knelt down and untied Jean’s shoes and removed his socks. ‘You need to remove your trousers, Jean.’ He couldn’t do that while still holding the pad over his wound, so she undid his belt and unbuttoned his trousers before pulling them down. She sponged the filth and blood from a now naked body. A small pile of filthy clothes was now on the floor by the side of his bed. When she turned round, Jean had pulled over the bedspread to cover himself.

ooo000ooo

Pas de Calais, 7 June 1944

She was woken that night by the muffled background of more bombing raids. They did not sound as close as Boulogne this time, but it had made for a strange and urgent background. She remembered she had to do something with the clothes. She tied them into a bundle and hid them in the loft. They would survive a random house to house search, but nothing more thorough. Jean would have to take them with him to work and destroy them. She was aware of vehicles speeding through the village, which was unusual at this time of the morning. The search was on for the missing soldiers.

In the morning she checked Jean’s shoulder. It couldn’t have been more than a glancing blow. She cleaned it once more and dressed it. He would be fine.

They went downstairs for breakfast. Jean prepared the coffee and they sat together in silence at the table. Neither of them felt like eating bread and jam. Yesterday had been Jean’s nineteenth birthday, which they had celebrated by killing two Germans.

Pierre stopped by on his way to work. He commented on the amount of Germans on the road and they told him what had happened. Pierre paced up and down the small front room, trying hard to arrange his thoughts.

‘And there is nothing that could link the deaths with you... with us?’

‘Nothing – only the clothes and Jean will destroy those at work today.’

‘No, too dangerous. There will be roadblocks everywhere. They will search everyone. Keep the clothes where they are for the time being. You didn’t take their weapons?’

‘No, we didn’t think,’ said Jean.

‘Don’t worry. Maybe it is safer anyway. There will be reprisals when they find the bodies. Just stick to your routine. We had better delay the sabotage until later in the week.’

So they stuck to their routine. Jean left as normal for the farm. He wore one of his father’s jackets; the extra bulk would help conceal his shoulder dressing and any awkward movements.

Geraldine cycled into Boulogne. There were fewer troops at the roadblocks, so she assumed they had not found the missing soldiers yet and were still out searching for them. She did not say anything to Françoise at work. It would be too risky.