Night Fighters in France

SHAUN CLARKE

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by 22 Books/Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994

Copyright © Bloomsbury Publishing plc 1994

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover photographs © Collaboration JS / Arcangel Images (soldier); Shutterstock.com (aeroplane)

Shaun Clarke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008155247

Ebook Edition © December 2015 ISBN: 9780008155254

Version: 2015-11-12

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

OTHER TITLES IN THE SAS OPERATION SERIES

About the Publisher

Prelude

Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Europe, commenced on the night of 5 June 1944 with the concentrated bombing of German positions on the north coast of France by 750 heavy bombers, an onslaught against the Normandy defence batteries by hundreds of medium bombers, the clearing of broad sea highways thirty miles long by 309 British, 22 American and 16 Canadian minesweepers, and landings by parachute and glider in the vicinity of the east bank of the Caen canal and astride the Cherbourg peninsula. Fires were already burning all along the coast of Normandy, acting as beacons to the invasion fleet, when, just as dawn broke on D-Day, 6 June, Fortresses and Liberators of the US 8th and 9th Air Forces, covered by an umbrella of fighters, dropped 2400 tons of bombs on the British beaches and nearly 2000 tons on the American beaches.

Shortly after dawn, the warships heading for Normandy opened fire with their big guns, covering the coastline with spectacular flashes and clouds of brownish cordite while the British ‘Hunt’-class destroyers raced in to engage the enemy’s shore batteries. To the west, American destroyers were doing the same, with the heavier guns of their battleships hurling fourteen, fifteen and sixteen-inch shells on to the beaches and the German fortifications beyond them. The final ‘softening up’ was achieved by rocket-firing boats which disappeared momentarily behind sheets of flame as their deadly payload rained down on the beaches, adding to the general bedlam by causing more mighty explosions, which threw up mushrooms of flying soil and swirling smoke.

At 0630 hours American forces swarmed on to the western shores, where a broad bay sweeps round to Cherbourg. They were followed fifty minutes later by British and Canadian troops, put ashore by more than 5000 landing-craft and ‘Rhino’ ferries on the eastern beaches. Many of the assault craft were caught by sunken angle-irons and, with their bottoms ripped open, foundered before they made the shore; others were blown up by mines.

Nevertheless the men, each heavily burdened with steel helmet, pack and roll, two barracks bags, rations, two cans of water, gas mask, rifle and bayonet, bandoliers of ammunition, hand-grenades and, in many cases, parts of heavy weapons such as machine-guns and mortars – a total weight never less than 132lb – continued to pour ashore on both the eastern and western fronts, advancing into the murderous rifle and machine-gun fire of the Germans still holed up in their concrete bunkers overlooking the beaches. Likewise savaged by a hail of enemy gunfire were the Royal Engineers and American sappers, who continued bravely to explode buried German mines to create ‘safe’ paths for the advancing Allied troops.

Within minutes, the beaches, obscured in a pall of smoke, were littered with dead bodies and black shell holes. The sounds of machine-guns and mortars increased the already appalling din. Out at sea, the guns of Allied cruisers, battleships and destroyers continued a bombardment that would account for 56,769 shells of various calibres. Simultaneously, the Air Force continued to pound the enemy positions: more than 1300 Liberators and Fortresses, escorted by fighters, bombed the German positions for another two and a half hours.

By evening the Germans overlooking the beach had been pushed well back and Allied forces were as far as six to eight miles inland. While British Commandos and American Rangers were having spectacular successes on their separate fronts, a Royal Marine Commando, even after the loss of five of its fourteen landing-craft, fought through Les Roquettes and La Rosière, quelled several German machine-gun and mortar nests, and finally captured Port-en-Bessin. There, making contact with the Americans, it linked up the whole Allied front in Normandy and paved the way for the major push through France.

Strategically vital bridges, locks and canals soon fell to the Allies and in many small towns and villages French men and women emerged from rubble and clouds of dust to wave the tricolour and rapturously greet their liberators.

Even though German resistance was heavy, by the evening of the first day a bridgehead twenty-five miles wide had been established, forming a continuous front, with American forces in the Cotentin peninsula and just east of the River Vire, and Canadian and British troops on the left flank. To the east, British troops advanced to within three miles of Caen, while to the west US forces penetrated to a depth of five miles south of Colleville and crossed the River Aure to the east of Trévières. Two days later, Isigny, six miles from Carentan, was captured. Carentan itself fell to US troops on the 12th.

Violent fighting broke out around Caen, with both sides changing positions constantly, but the Americans entered St-Sauveur-le-Vicomte on the 16th, reached the main defences of Cherbourg on the 21st and, after fierce fighting, but with the aid of an intensive aerial bombardment and artillery fire, captured the town on the 27th, taking 20,000 German prisoners of war.

By this time, British troops had cut the road and railway between Caen and Villers-Bocage to reach the River Odon at a point some two miles north of Evrecy. A strong bridgehead was established which resisted the counter-attacks of eight Panzer and SS Panzer divisions. When the Germans retreated, the bridgehead was secured and enlarged.

On 3 July, having cleared the north-west tip of the Cotentin peninsula, the US 1st Army advanced in a blinding rainstorm on a wide front south of St-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. By the following day they had captured the high ground to the north of La Haye-du-Puits and, after eight days of fierce fighting, finally captured the town. Simultaneously, other US troops were battling their way up the steep, wooded slopes of the Forêt de Mont Castre and advancing down the Carentan-Périers road to force a passage across the Vire in the direction of St-Jean-de-Daye, which fell on the 8th. By the 11th they were advancing through waterlogged country to take up positions within three miles of the vital German communications centre of St Lô.

British and Canadian forces, meanwhile, had attacked eastwards towards Caen, and early on the 8th, after a concentrated bombardment from heavy and medium bombers, launched an attack that carried them to the outskirts of the town. Supported by sustained fire from massed artillery and British ships, they took the northern part of the town by nightfall.

St Lô fell to the US 1st Army on 18 July after eight days of bloody fighting. Following the capture of the northern part of Caen, the British 2nd Army, under Montgomery, launched an attack southeast of the town. Over 2000 British and American heavy and medium bombers dropped nearly 8000 tons of bombs in an area of little more than seventy square miles, blasting a 7000-yard-wide passage that enabled armoured formations to cross the River Orne by specially constructed bridges and drive strong wedges in the direction of Cagny and Bourguébus.

While this armoured advance was temporarily halted by a combination of determined enemy resistance and violent rainstorms, Canadian troops were successfully clearing the southern suburbs of Caen and British infantry were thrusting out eastwards towards Troarn to clear several villages in the area. A further Canadian attack across the Orne, west of Caen, resulted in the capture of Fleury and the clearing of the east bank of the river for three miles due south of the latter town.

A week after the British 2nd Army’s offensive began, the US 1st Army attacked west of St Lô, captured Marigny and St-Gilles, then fanned out in three columns, west, south and south-west, to capture Canisy, Lessay, Périers and Coutances, and join up with US forces advancing from the east. By nightfall of the 30th, American armour had swept through Bréhal and, the following day, captured Avranches and Graville. Further east, Bérigny was captured.

Aiding the American success were two attacks in the British sector: one by the Canadians down the Caen-Falaise road, the other in the area of Gaumont, where, after a heavy air bombardment, a British armoured and infantry force secured Cahagnes and Le Bény-Bocage. Five more villages, including the strategically important Evrecy and Esquay, southwest of Caen, were captured on 4 August and Villers-Bocage, which was by now in ruins, the next day.

American armoured columns reached Dinan that same week, turned south and, heading for Brest, liberated several Breton towns en route. Rennes, the capital of Brittany, was captured on the 4th and the River Vilaine was reached two days later, sealing off the Brittany peninsula. The fall of Vannes, Lorient, St-Malo, Nantes and Angers soon followed, and US patrols had crossed the Loire by 11 August.

With British and Canadians, plus the 1st Polish Armoured Division, advancing from the north, and the Americans, along with the French 2nd Armoured Division, closing in from the west and south, a large part of the German 7th Army was almost surrounded. Their only escape route – the narrow Falaise-Argentan Gap – was sealed by the Americans advancing from Le Mans, which they had liberated on 9 August.

By 19 August, the Falaise Gap was closed and, after a terrible slaughter of German troops, whose dead choked the village streets and surrounding fields, the sad remnants of von Kluge’s 7th Army were taken prisoner.

Four days earlier, on 15 August, General Eisenhower had taken command of the Allied Expeditionary Force, leaving Montgomery at the head of the 21st Army Group, which consisted of General Dempsey’s British 2nd Army and General Crerar’s 1st Canadian Army. Lieutenant-General Omar Bradley was at the head of the 12th Army Group, comprising General Hodge’s US 1st Army and General Patton’s 3rd Army. The latter was driving towards Dijon as other Allied forces advanced from the south.

To aid the advance of Patton’s 3rd Army, the Allies planned airborne landings in the Orléans Gap, and to soften the enemy before the landings, they decided to drop a squadron of men and jeeps by parachute in the area of Auxerre, central France. The squadron’s task would be to engage in a series of daring hit-and-run night raids against German positions to distract the enemy from the landings taking place elsewhere.

While the Allied advance was under way, the French Forces of the Interior (FFI) were seizing high ground in advance of the American armour and engaging in guerrilla warfare, to harass the Germans and protect Allied lines of communication. In central France, the Maquis – Frenchmen who had fled from the Germans and were living in makeshift camps in the forest – were conducting sabotage missions behind enemy lines. Among their tasks were blowing up bridges, putting locomotives out of action, derailing trains, and cutting long-distance underground communications cables between Paris and Berlin. Montgomery, knowing of these activities, decided that the men chosen for the parachute drop should establish a base and make contact with the Maquis.

The men deemed most suitable for this mission, known as Operation Kipling, were those of C Squadron, 1 SAS, based in Fairford, Gloucestershire. Formed in North Africa in 1941, 1 SAS had already gained a reputation for uncommon daring. That reputation would be put to the test over the weeks to come.

1

The men crowding into the briefing room in their heavily guarded camp near Fairford, Gloucestershire on 10 August 1944 were not ordinary soldiers. They were men of uncommon ability, members of the Special Air Service (1 SAS), which had been formed in North Africa in 1941 as a self-contained group tasked with clandestine insertion, long-range reconnaissance patrols behind enemy lines, and sabotage and intelligence-gathering missions, often with the Long Range Desert Group (LRDG).

Originally, 1 SAS had been conceived and formed by Lieutenant David Stirling, a former Scots Guard who, having joined No. 8 Commando, was promptly dispatched to the Middle East on attachment to Colonel Robert Laycock’s Layforce. After taking part in many relatively unsuccessful, large-scale raids against German positions along the North African coast, Stirling became convinced that raids with small, specially trained units would be more effective. In the spring of 1941, hospitalized in Alexandria after a parachute accident, he passed the time by formulating his plans for just such a unit, based on the belief that 200 men operating as five-man teams could achieve the surprise necessary to destroy several targets on the same night. Subsequently, with the support of Deputy Chief of Staff General Neil Ritchie, L Detachment, Special Air Service Brigade, was born.

The new SAS Brigade’s first raids behind enemy lines in November 1941, which involved parachute drops, were a complete failure. However, later raids against Axis airfields at Sirte, Tamit, Mersa Brega and Agedabia, during which the men were driven to their targets and returned to base by the highly experienced LRDG, were remarkably successful, gaining L Detachment a legendary reputation. By October 1942, when L Detachment was given full regimental status as 1 SAS, it had grown to include the 390 troops of the existing 1 SAS, the French Squadron of 94 men, the Greek Sacred Squadron of 114 men, the Special Boat Section of 55 men and the Special Interrogation Group.

Lieutenant Stirling was captured in January 1943, incarcerated in Gavi, Italy, from where he escaped no less than four times, then transferred to the German high-security prison at Colditz. In April 1943, while Stirling was embarking on a series of daring escapes from Gavi, the French and Greek Squadrons were returned to their respective national armies, the Special Boat Section became a separate unit, the Special Boat Squadron (SBS), under the command of Major Jellicoe, and 1 SAS became the Special Raiding Squadron. In May 1943 2 SAS came into existence and, later that year, the Special Raiding Squadron reverted to the title of 1 SAS. Finally, in January 1944, the SAS Brigade was formed under the umbrella of 1st Airborne Corps. It consisted of 1 and 2 SAS, 3 SAS (3 French Parachute Battalion), 4 SAS (4 French Parachute Battalion), 5 SAS (Belgian Independent Parachute Company), HQ French Demi-Brigade, F Squadron, GHQ Liaison Regiment and 20 Liaison HQ, which was the SAS link with the Free French.

The men crowding into the briefing room at Fairford, however, were the British founder members of the SAS Brigade, having joined it in North Africa in 1941 and taken part in its first daring raids. The ‘Head Shed’ in charge of the briefing and now taking up his position in front of the covered blackboard on a raised platform was the squadron commander, Captain Patrick ‘Paddy’ Callaghan, No. 3 Commando, an accomplished boxer and Irish rugby international who had, at the time of the formation of L Detachment, been languishing in a military-police cell in Cairo, waiting to be court-martialled. Though normally an amiable, courteous man, Callaghan had a fiery temper and had often landed in trouble because of it. Nevertheless, he was one of the most able officers in the SAS, often mentioned in dispatches for his bravery in action. Thus, though he had not been promoted since 1941, his abilities had been officially recognized when his superiors put him in charge of C Squadron.

Standing beside the heavily built Captain Callaghan was his slim, handsome second in command, former Lieutenant, now Captain, Derek ‘Dirk’ Greaves. Like Stirling, Greaves had been a member of No. 9 Commando, posted to General Wavell’s Middle Eastern Army on attachment to Layforce. With Layforce he had taken part in raids against the Axis forces in Rhodes, Crete, Syria, around Tobruk and all along the seaward side of Libya’s Cyrenaica Desert, before being wounded, meeting Lieutenant Stirling in the Scottish Military Hospital in Alexandria and becoming his right-hand man in the formation of L Detachment. Single when with Layforce, he had since married his Scottish fiancée, Mary Radnor, and now missed her dreadfully, though he took comfort from the knowledge that she was living safely in the family home in Edinburgh, and now eight months pregnant with their first child.

‘All right, men, quieten down!’ Captain Greaves shouted. ‘We haven’t got all day!’

When the spirited babble continued even as Captain Callaghan was taking up his position in the middle of the dais, Sergeant Ralph Lorrimer bawled: ‘Shut your mouths and let the boss speak! Are you men deaf, or what?’

Formerly of the Dorset Regiment, then with the LRDG, an expert in desert tracking and warfare, but also unbeatable with the Browning 12-gauge autoloader, Lorrimer had been approached by Stirling and Greaves to join L Detachment when he was spending his leave in Tiger Lil’s brothel in Cairo’s notorious Sharia el Berka quarter. He was therefore respected by the men for more reasons than one and, when he shouted for them to be silent, they promptly obeyed and settled down to listen to the Head Shed.

‘Can I just open,’ Captain Callaghan asked rhetorically, ‘by saying that I know how frustrated you men have been, stuck here in Gloucestershire, when the battle for Europe is under way in France.’

‘Damned right, boss!’ Lance-Corporal Jack ‘Jacko’ Dempster cried out. ‘The best bloody brigade in the British Army and they leave us sitting here on our arses while lesser men do all the fighting. A right bunch of prats, that’s how we feel.’

As the rest of the men burst into laughter or murmurs of agreement, Sergeant Lorrimer snapped: ‘We don’t need your bloody nonsense at this time in the morning, Jacko. Just shut up and let the boss speak or I’ll have you out in a guard box.’

‘Yes, Sarge!’ the lance-corporal replied with a smirk.

Nevertheless, Lorrimer was grinning too, for he had a great deal of respect for Dempster and the rest of the ‘other ranks’. Jacko, as everyone knew him, was just one of the many men in the room who had been founder members of L Detachment when it came into existence in 1941. Known as the ‘Originals’, they included Sergeants Bob Tappman, Pat Riley and Ernie Bond; Corporals Jim Almonds, ‘Benny’ Bennett, Richard ‘Rich’ Burgess and Reg Seekings; and former Privates, now Lance-Corporals, Neil Moffatt, Harry ‘Harry-boy’ Turnball and, of course, Jacko Dempster.

Each one of these men had gone into the North African desert with minimal knowledge of desert warfare, learnt all there was to know from the Long Range Desert Group, and then taken part in daring, mostly successful, raids against Axis airfields located well behind enemy lines. Remarkably, only one of them – the revered Lieutenant John ‘Jock’ Steel Lewes – had died during those raids. As a brutal climax to the final raid of that period – a simultaneous attack by three different groups against Sirte, Tamit and Nofilia – the survivors, all now present in the briefing room, had made it back to the forward operating base after an epic trek across the desert, most of them practically crawling into their camp at Jalo Oasis. Though they never openly said so, they were proud of what they had accomplished and stuck together because of it, keeping themselves slightly apart from the other, more recent arrivals in the SAS Brigade.

Furthermore, as Sergeant Lorrimer knew only too well, the Originals had developed a low boredom threshold, and this had caused immense frustration when, at the end of 1943,1 SAS were returned to Scotland for training and operations in northern Europe. Initially they were kept busy establishing a base near the remote village of Darvel, east of Kilmarnock; but in May the following year the SAS Brigade had been moved to Fairford, where the men had been able to do little more than constant retraining in preparation for Operation Overlord. Small wonder they had become even more frustrated when D-Day passed without them. Now Lorrimer was hoping that what the CO was about to tell them would make amends for that.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Captain Callaghan continued, ‘to end the suspense, we’ve been assigned a specific task in France and it commences forthwith.’

When the cheering, clapping and whistling had died down, the captain continued: ‘At this moment, General Patton’s 3rd Army is driving south towards Dijon.’

‘Mad Dog Patton!’ shouted Corporal Richard ‘Rich’ Burgess.

‘I wouldn’t let him hear you say that, Corporal,’ Callaghan admonished him, ‘because although he may seem mad to you, he’s a damned good soldier and proud of it.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Anyway, to aid Patton’s advance, Montgomery has asked for airborne landings in the Orléans Gap.’

‘That’s us?’ Lance-Corporal Harry ‘Harry-boy’ Turnball asked hopefully.

‘No,’ Callaghan replied. ‘Our task is to soften up the enemy before the landings – and to distract them from the landings – by engaging in a series of hit-and-run raids against their positions. For this mission, Operation Kipling, you and your jeeps will be inserted by parachute in central France. Once you’ve all been landed, you’ll establish a base, lie low and make contact with the Maquis.’

‘Frogs?’ Lance-Corporal Neil Moffatt asked dubiously.

‘French partisans,’ Captain Callaghan corrected him. ‘“Maquis” is a Corsican word meaning “scrub” or “bush”. The Maquis are so called because when the Krauts introduced compulsory labour in the occupied countries, many men fled their homes to live in rudimentary camps in the scrubland and forests. Since then, with the aid of our Special Operations Executive and America’s Office of Strategic Studies, they’ve been engaged in highly successful sabotage activities behind German lines. They may be Frogs to you, but they’re a bunch of tough, courageous Frogs, so don’t knock them.’

‘Sorry, boss,’ Neil mumbled.

‘Good or not, why do we need ’em?’ Rich Burgess asked.

‘Because we believe their local knowledge will make them invaluable for planning raids, particularly those behind enemy lines.’

‘Are they troublesome?’ Sergeant Bob Tappman asked.

Callaghan nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes, and for a couple of reasons.’

‘Which are?’

‘The Maquis are split between those who support General de Gaulle’s Free French and those who sympathize with the communists. Unfortunately, the latter believe, as do the communists, that de Gaulle is no more than Britain and America’s stooge, to be used and then discarded.’

‘Bloody marvellous!’ Corporal Reg Seekings murmured, then asked: ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Callaghan said. ‘A lot of the Maquis have shown more interest in storing weapons for after the war, to use against de Gaulle’s supporters, than they’ve shown in actually killing Germans.’

‘Beautiful!’ Jacko said, laughing. ‘I can’t wait to work with them.’

‘Also,’ Callaghan pressed on, ‘the SOE views the Maquis as its own concern, has its own teams to arm and organize them, and therefore won’t take kindly to us becoming involved. In fact, they’ve already unofficially voiced their complaints about the plan to insert us in what they view as their own territory.’

‘Well, stuff the SOE!’ Rich exploded.

‘I agree,’ said Bob Tappman. ‘Those sods don’t know anything about the real world. We can deal with the Maquis better than they can, so let’s go in and get on with it.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Callaghan continued, ‘even given these negative points, we do believe that with the advent of D-Day and the continuing advance into Europe, the Maquis will be more co-operative than they’ve been in the past. They’ll want the war to end as soon as possible…’

‘So that they can get stuck into each other,’ Jacko interrupted, copping a laugh from the other men.

‘…to enable them to sort out their differences,’ Callaghan continued, ignoring the interjection. ‘We’re banking on that.’

‘And what if it doesn’t work out that way?’ Bob Tappman asked bluntly.

Callaghan nodded to Greaves, then stepped aside to let his fellow captain take centre stage. ‘Where we’re going,’ Greaves explained, ‘the situation is changing constantly, so our own position there will be highly unpredictable. Therefore we have to be ready to change our plans at a moment’s notice. What I’m about to outline to you is a preliminary course of action that’ll be subject to changing circumstances on the ground.’

‘I love surprises,’ said Jacko.

‘I should point out, first thing,’ Greaves continued, ‘that we won’t be alone. The Special Air Service Brigade, consisting of British, French and Belgian components, was flown into France shortly after D-Day and has since set up a wide network of bases in Brittany, the Châtillon Forest, east of Auxerre, the area around Poitiers and the Vosges. Some of these groups are working hand in glove with the Maquis; others are out there on their own. Either way, they were inserted in order to recce the areas, receive stores, and engage in active operations only after our arrival.’

‘So when and where do we arrive?’ Bob Tappman asked.

In response, Greaves picked up a pointer and tugged the canvas covering off the blackboard, to reveal a map drawn in white chalk and showing the area of central France bounded by Orléans to the west, Vesoul to the east, Paris to the north and Dijon to the south. ‘We’ll parachute in here,’ he said, tapping a marked area between Rennes and Orléans, ‘and then make our way by jeep through the forest paths north of Orléans. The vehicles will be dropped by parachute once you men have landed. They’re modified American Willys jeeps equipped, as they were in North Africa, with twin Vickers K guns front and rear, supplemented with 0.5-inch Browning heavy machine-guns. The modified versions have a top speed of approximately 60mph and a range of 280 miles, though this can be extended by adding extra fuel tanks, so you should get anywhere you want to go with a minimum of problems.’

‘And where do we want to go?’ Jacko asked.

‘With the recent American breakthrough at Avranches, we’ve been presented with a fluid front through which small vehicles can pass. The American Advance Party already has one troop spread across a direct line from Normandy to Belfort, roughly across the centre of France. With those men already in place, and with ensured air supply for our columns, we’re in a good position to cause chaos behind the Germans who’re withdrawing in front of the US 3rd Army led by General Patton. Therefore, in order to lend support to Patton’s advance and help his 3rd Army reach Dijon, you men will head initially for the Châtillon Forest and, once there, make contact with the Maquis. You will then learn everything you can about the area from the Maquis and, using that knowledge, embark on a series of hit-and-run raids, preferably by night, against enemy positions.’

‘How far do we take the raids, boss?’ Bob Tappman asked in his customary thoughtful manner.

‘Nothing too daring, Sergeant,’ Greaves replied. ‘Nothing too risky. The point is to harass them – not engage in unnecessary or lengthy fire-fights – and to sabotage their channels of communication and, where possible, destroy their transport. The task is harassment and distraction, rather than elimination – so just get in and out as quickly as possible. And no heroics, please.’

‘You won’t get any heroics from us, boss,’ Jacko said, lying for all of them. ‘No one here wants a bullet up his arse if he can possibly avoid it. We all want to live to a ripe old age.’

In fact, Jacko was not alone in thinking that the last good time he had had was a month ago, when on a weekend pass to London. After the peace and quiet of Gloucestershire, he and the other Originals had been thrilled to find the West End so lively, with staff cars and troop carriers rumbling up and down the streets, Allied bombers constantly roaring overhead, protected by Spitfires and other fighter planes, flying to and from France; the pavements thronged with men and women in the uniforms of many nations; the parks, though surrounded by anti-aircraft guns, packed with picnicking servicemen and civilians; ARP wardens inspecting the ruins of bombed buildings while firemen put out the latest fires; and pubs, cafés, cinemas and theatres, albeit with black-out curtains across the windows and their doorways protected behind sandbags, packed with people bent on enjoying themselves.

Even during the night, when diminishing numbers of German bombers flew over to pound London and V-l and V-2 flying bombs caused further devastation, the city was packed with soldiers, pilots, sailors and their women, all having a good time despite the wailing air-raid sirens, exploding bombs, whining doodlebugs, blazing buildings and racing ambulances. Compared with tranquil Gloucestershire, the capital was a hive of romance and excitement, for all the horrors of war. In truth, it was where most of the Originals wanted to be – either on leave in London or taking part in the liberation of Europe. The latter was, at least, now happening and they would soon be part of it. That made Jacko, and most of the others, feel much better. They were back in business at last.

‘What’s the transport situation?’ Sergeant Pat Riley asked.

‘Handley-Page Halifax heavy bombers specially modified to carry men and supplies and drop jeeps and trailers from its bomb bay,’ said Greaves.

‘Bloody sitting ducks,’ Neil Moffatt whispered to his mate, Harry ‘Harry-boy’ Turnball.

‘Not any more,’ the captain said to Neil, having overheard his whispered remark. ‘In fact, the Halifaxes are now armed with two .303-inch Browning machine-guns in the nose turret, four in the tail turret, and two in manual beam positions, so we should have adequate protection should we be attacked by enemy fighters during the flight.’

‘Thanks, boss, for that reassurance,’ Neil said wryly.

‘Is it true, as some of us have heard, that we’re having problems in getting enough aircraft?’ Rich Burgess asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes. Because we don’t yet have our own planes, all arrangements for aerial transport have to be co-ordinated by 1st Airborne Corps and 38 Group RAF at Netheravon and Special Forces HQ. This means that we practically have to bid for aircraft and we don’t always get enough for our requirements. For this reason, you should expect to be inserted in batches over two or three successive nights; likewise for the jeeps.’

‘Which means that those who go earliest have the longest, most dangerous wait on the ground,’ Rich said. ‘More sitting ducks, in fact.’

‘Correct,’ Greaves replied with a grin. ‘Which means in turn that the most experienced men – including you, Corporal – will be in the first aircraft off the ground.’

‘Gee, thanks, boss,’ Jacko said, imitating an American accent with no great deal of skill.

‘Do we take off from Netheravon?’ Bob Tappman asked.

‘No. From RAF Station 1090, Down Ampney, not far from here. Station 1090 will also be giving us support throughout our period in France.’

‘So when do we get out of here,’ Rich asked, ‘and get to where it’s all happening?’

Greaves simply glanced enquiringly at the CO, Captain Callaghan, who stepped forward to say: ‘Tomorrow night. You’ll be kitted out in the morning, collect and manually test your weapons throughout the afternoon, and embark at 2250 hours, to insert in central France just before midnight. Any final questions?’

As the response was no more than a lot of shaking heads, Callaghan wrapped up the briefing and sent the men back to their barracks with instructions to pack as much as they could before lights out. They needed no encouragement.

2

Next morning the men rolled off their steel-framed beds at first light, raced to the toilets, then had a speedy cold shower and shaved. Cleaned and jolted awake by the icy water, they dressed in Denison smock, dispatch rider’s breeches and tough motor-cycle boots. The smock’s 1937-pattern webbing pouches held a compass and ammunition for the .455-inch Webley pistol, which was holstered at the hip. Though most of the newer men wore the paratrooper’s maroon beret with the SAS’s winged-dagger badge, as ordered by a directive of the airborne forces, of which they were presently considered part, the Originals viewed the directive as an insult and were still defiantly wearing their old beige berets.

Once dressed, they ‘blacked up’ their faces and hands with burnt cork, which they would keep on all day and at least throughout the first night in France. They then left the barracks and crossed the parade ground to the mess hall at the far side, most glancing up just before entering the building to see the many Fortresses, Liberators and escorting Spitfires flying overhead on their way to France for the first of the day’s bombing runs. In the mess, which was filled with long, crowded tables, steam, cigarette smoke and a lot of noisy conversation, they had a substantial breakfast of cereal, bacon, fried eggs and baked beans, with buttered toast or fried bread, and hot tea.

‘The last day we’re going to get decent grub for a long time,’ Jacko said to the men at his table, ‘so enjoy it, lads. Only two more to go.’

They tucked in as best they could in the time allocated to them, which wasn’t much; then, with full bellies, they left the mess hall and walked briskly to the armoury, where they collected their personal and other weapons. These were, apart from the Webley pistol, which they already had, of a wide variety, most chosen by the individual for purely personal reasons and including 9mm Sten sub-machine-guns, Thompson M1 sub-machine-guns, more widely known as ‘tommy-guns’, and Bren light machine-guns. Their criss-crossed webbing was festooned with thirty and thirty-two-round box magazines, hand-grenades, a Fairburn Sykes commando knife, a bayonet, binoculars and some Lewes bombs – the latter invented by the late Lieutenant John ‘Jock’ Steel Lewes and first used in the North African desert in 1941.

Burdened down with their weapons, they scrambled into Bedford QL four-wheel-drive trucks and were driven to a firing range at the southern end of the camp. There, as the sun climbed in the sky and the summer heat grew ever stronger, they lay in the dirt and took turns at firing their various weapons, simultaneously practising their aim and checking that the weapons worked perfectly and did not jam. After a couple of hours, they stripped and cleaned the weapons, slung them over their shoulders, then clambered back into the trucks and were driven back to their barracks. There they deposited their weapons in the lockers by their beds before returning to the mess hall for lunch.

‘The second-to-last decent meal for a long time,’ Jacko reminded his mates, ‘so tuck in, lads.’

After lunch they were marched to the quartermaster’s store, where they picked up their bergen rucksacks, groundsheets, survival kit, including water bottles, first-aid box, tin mug and plates with eating utensils, and finally their Irvin X-Type parachute. Another hour and a half was spent packing the kit into the rucksacks and checking thoroughly that the chute was in working order, then they strapped the rucksacks, rolled groundsheets and parachute packs neatly to their backs, picked up their weapons and left the barracks like beasts of burden.

‘All right, you ugly mugs,’ Sergeant Lorrimer growled at the men, standing before them with his clenched fists on his broad hips, as bombers rumbled overhead on their way to France, ‘get in a proper line.’

After being lined up and inspected by their respected sergeant, who had an eagle eye and a sharp tongue when it came to error and inefficiency, they were marched to the waiting Bedford trucks, clambered up into them, and were driven out of the base and along country roads to Down Ampney and RAF Station 1090. On the way they passed columns of troop trucks heading away from many other staging areas and bound for various disembarkation points along the coast, where the boats would take them to France to join the Allied forces already there. Above, the cloudy sky was filled with Allied bombers and fighter escorts likewise bound for France. Such sights gave most of the men a surge of excitement that had been missing too long, and eased the bitter disappointment they had been feeling at missing D-Day.

‘Nice to know we’re joining them at last,’ Rich said to his mate Jacko. ‘We’ve been stuck here too long.’

‘Bloody right,’ Jacko replied, waving at the troops heading in the opposite direction in Bedfords. ‘And we’ll be there in no time.’

After passing through the heavily guarded main gates of the RAF station, they were driven straight to the airfield, which was lined with both British and American bombers, as well as the fighters that usually escorted them to Germany. Disembarking from the trucks at the edge of the airfield, near a modified Halifax bomber being prepared for flight and the Willys jeeps waiting to be loaded on to it, they were greeted by Captains Callaghan and Greaves.

‘How goes it, boss?’ Sergeant Lorrimer asked Callaghan.

‘Not too well,’ Greaves replied bluntly. ‘Captain Callaghan and I have wasted most of the day desperately phoning between 1st Airborne Corps and 38 Group RAF at Netheravon and Special Forces Unit, begging for more aircraft for the drop.’

‘Bloody waste of time,’ Callaghan said curtly to Sergeant Lorrimer and the other ranks grouped around him. ‘By the time we’d finished we still had only one Halifax to go with – this one here.’

‘Which means,’ Greaves cut in, ‘that we will, as feared, have to insert the men and jeeps over two or three nights.’

‘Wonderful!’ Lorrimer murmured sardonically. ‘What a bloody waste of time!’

Callaghan nodded wearily, then continued: ‘Since then, we’ve been rushing around trying to finalize routes, supplies and men, and liaise with the units across the water. Everything’s now set for the drop, but the insertion will necessarily be tedious. The most experienced men will therefore go first.’

‘That’s us,’ Jacko said.

‘Lucky us,’ Rich added. ‘We’ll be on the ground with Krauts all around us and we won’t be able to do a sodding thing until the others are dropped. Two or three days of high risk coupled with boredom – a fitting reward for experience.’

‘Stop whining,’ Lorrimer told him. ‘When it’s over you’ll be boasting about it in every pub in the land. You should thank us for this.’

‘Gee, thanks, Sarge!’ Rich replied.

‘All joking aside,’ Callaghan said, ‘this business of not having our own aircraft means we’re practically having to beg for planes that are constantly being allocated elsewhere at the last moment, leaving us strapped. I don’t like being at the mercy of 1st Airborne Corps or 38 Group RAF. Sooner or later, we’ll have to get our own air support – always there when we want it.’

‘I agree,’ Greaves said. ‘But in the meantime we’ll have to live with our single Halifax.’

‘All right, let’s get to it.’

Already well trained for this specific task, the Originals of C Squadron, who would go on the first flight, removed the twin Vickers K guns normally mounted to the front and rear of the modified American Willys jeeps, along with the 0.5-inch Browning heavy machine-guns, and placed them in separate wooden crates. Then, with the aid of short crates and nets operated by REME, the jeeps were placed in their own crates, which had air bags underneath to cushion the impact on landing. When the lids had been nailed down, four parachute packs were attached to each crate. To facilitate the drop, the aircraft’s rear-bay doors had already been removed and a long beam fastened inside, so the men rigged each crated jeep with a complicated arrangement of crash pans and struts, then attached it to the beam to spread the load.

‘Those should slow your darling down a bit,’ Jacko said to the RAF pilot standing beside him, referring to the crated jeeps and weapons.

The pilot, who was chewing gum, nodded. ‘They’ll certainly have an adverse effect on the aircraft’s performance, but apart from making it sluggish to fly, there should be no great problems.’

‘Unless we’re attacked by Kraut fighters.’

‘Hopefully they’ll take care of that,’ the pilot said, pointing at the other RAF men who had already entered the Halifax and were taking their positions behind the two .303-inch Brownings in the nose turret and the four in the tail turret. The remaining two guns in the manual beam positions would be handled in an emergency by one of the other seven crew members. ‘They’ll make up for our sluggishness,’ the pilot added.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Jacko.

By the time the last of the crates had been fixed to the beam in the rear bay, darkness was falling. Once the rest of the RAF crew had taken up their positions in the aircraft and were checking their instruments, the men of C Squadron were ordered to pick up their kit and board the Halifax through the door in the side. After forming a long line, they filed in one by one and sat side by side in the cramped, gloomy space between the fuselage and the supply crates stowed along the middle of the dimly lit hold. Shortly after, the RAF loadmaster slammed the door shut and the four Rolls-Royce Merlin 1390-hp, liquid-cooled engines roared into life, quickly gained power, and gradually propelled the Halifax along the runway and into the air.

Flying at a speed of just over 685mph, the aircraft was soon over the English Channel, though the SAS men in the windowless hold could not see it. All they could see directly in front of them were the wooden supply crates which, though firmly strapped down, shook visibly each time the aircraft rose or fell. Glancing left or right, all that each trooper could see were the profiles of the other men seated along the hold, faces pale and slightly unreal in the weak yellow glow of the overhead lights.

The hold was long, too crowded, horribly noisy and claustrophobic, making many of the men feel uncomfortable, even helpless. This feeling was in no way eased when, over France, the Halifax was attacked by German fighters and the Brownings front and rear roared into action, turning the din in the hold into absolute bedlam. To make matters worse, the Halifax began to buck and dip, obviously attempting to evade the German Stukas, and the piled crates began banging noisily into one another while making disturbing creaking sounds.

‘Christ!’ Neil shouted, to make himself heard above the noise. ‘Those bloody crates are going to break away from their moorings!’

‘If they do, they’ll fall right on top of us,’ his friend Harry-boy Turnball replied, ‘and crush more than our balls. They’ll bloody flatten us, mate!’

‘Or crash right through the fuselage,’ Jacko put in, ‘and leave a great big fucking hole that would see us sucked out and swept away. Put paid to the lot of us, that would.’

Even above the clamour of the Halifax’s engine and the banging, groaning supply crates, they could hear the whine of the attacking Stukas and the deafening roar of the Brownings.

Suddenly, there was a mighty explosion outside the Halifax, which shuddered from the impact, followed by cheering from the front of the plane. The RAF sergeant acting as dispatcher, standing near the crated jeeps in the bomb bay, gave the thumbs up.

‘They must have knocked out one of those Kraut fighters,’ Rich said. ‘I just wish I could see it.’

‘Right,’ Jacko replied. ‘Bloody frustrating being stuck in here while all that’s going on outside. Makes a man feel helpless. I’d rather be down there on the ground, seeing what’s going on.’

‘Too right,’ Rich agreed.

In fact, they didn’t have long to wait. The buzz of the Stukas faded away, the Brownings ceased firing, and the Halifax, which had been dipping and shaking, settled back into normal, steady flight. Ten minutes later, it banked towards the drop zone (DZ) and the dispatcher opened the door near the bomb bay, letting the angry wind rush in.

‘Five minutes to zero hour,’ he informed the men, shouting above the combined roar of the aircraft’s engines and the incoming wind, which beat brutally at the seated men. ‘On your feet, lads.’

Standing up, the SAS paratroopers fixed their static lines to the designated strong points in the fuselage and then waited until the dispatcher had checked the connections. This check was particularly important as the static lines were designed to jerk open the ’chutes as each man fell clear of the aircraft. If the static line was not fixed properly to the fuselage, it would slip free, the canopy would not open and the unlucky paratrooper would plunge to his death. A man’s life could therefore depend on whether or not his static line was secure.

Satisfied that the clips would hold firm, the dispatcher went to the open door, leaned into the roaring wind, looked down at the nocturnal fields of France, hardly visible in the darkness, then indicated that the paratroopers should line up, ready to jump. As they were already in line, having been seated along the length of the fuselage, they merely turned towards the open door, where the wind was blasting in, and stood there patiently, each man’s eyes focused on the back of the head of the soldier in front of him.

Because he could not be heard above the roar of wind and engines, the dispatcher mouthed the words ‘Get ready!’ and pointed to the light-bulb above his head. Looking up at the light, which would signal the start of the drop, the men automatically tried to become more comfortable with their harnesses, moving the straps this way and that, checking and rechecking their weapons, then doing the same with their equipment.

‘Close your eyes and think of England,’ Rich murmured, though most of the others merely took very deep breaths and let it out slowly, each coping with the rush of adrenalin in his own way.

The light turned to red. Two minutes to go.

As CO, Captain Callaghan was back at base, waiting to come out with the third and last group, and Captain Greaves was heading Group One. Greaves therefore took up a position beside the open door, from where he could check that each man had gone out properly before he became the last man out. The first man to jump was Sergeant Lorrimer, not only because he was the senior NCO, but because he was going to act as ‘drifter’, indicating the strength and direction of the wind.

Taking his place by the open doorway in the fuselage, Lorrimer braced himself, leaned into the beating wind, took a deep breath and looked down at what appeared to be a bottomless pit of roaring darkness. Eventually the dispatcher slapped him on the shoulder and bawled: ‘Go!’

Lorrimer threw himself out.

First swept sideways in the slipstream, he then dropped vertically for a brief, deafening moment. But suddenly he was jerked back up when the shoot was ‘popped’ by the fully extended static line secured inside the aircraft. Tugged hard under the armpits, as if by the hands of an unseen giant, he then found himself dropping again, this time more gently, as the parachute billowed open above him like a huge white umbrella.

In just under a minute the seemingly infinite darkness beneath him gained shape and definition, revealing the moon-streaked canopy of the dense forest north of Orléans. No sooner had Lorrimer glimpsed this than the trees were rushing up at him with ever-increasing speed. Tugging the straps of the parachute this way and that, he steered for the broad, open field that was now clearly visible and watched the trees slip away out of view as he headed for the DZ. The flat field seemed to race up to meet him and he braced himself for contact. The instant his feet touched the ground, he let his legs bend and his body relax, collapsing to the ground and rolling over once to minimize the impact. The whipping parachute dragged him along a few feet, then collapsed, and he was able to snap the straps free and climb to his feet, breathless but exhilarated.

Glancing about him, he saw no movement either in the dark expanse of field or in the forest surrounding it. Relieved that he had not been spotted by the Germans, who were doubtless in the vicinity, he looked up at the sky and saw the blossoming white parachutes of the rest of the men, most of whom were now out of the Halifax.

Having carefully observed Lorrimer’s fall and gauged from it the wind’s strength and direction, the pilot had banked the Halifax to come in over an area that would enable the paratroopers to drop more easily into the field, rather than into the forest. Now, they were doing so: first gliding down gently, then seeming to pick up speed as they approached the ground, hitting it and rolling over as Lorrimer had done, then snapping the straps to set themselves free from the wildly flapping parachute.

Having disengaged himself, each man used the small spade on his webbing to quickly dig a small hole in the earth. Then he rolled up his chute and buried it. This done, he unslung his assault rifle and knelt in the firing position, all the while keeping his eyes on the trees. By the time the last man had fallen, the paratroopers were spread out across the field in a large, defensive circle, waiting for the Halifax to turn around and drop the crates containing the jeeps and supplies.

This did not take long. The aircraft merely turned in a wide circle above the forest, then flew back to the field. When it was directly above the DZ, the crates were pushed out of the open rear bay and floated down, each supported by four parachutes. The. men in the field had to be careful not to be standing under a crate when it fell, even though its landing was cushioned by the air bags beneath it.

Soon those not on guard, keeping their eyes on the surrounding forest, were using their special tools to split the crates open and get at the jeeps. Once out of the smaller crates, the twin Vickers K guns and the 0.5-inch Browning heavy machine-guns were remounted on the Willys jeeps and the vehicles were then driven into the forest and camouflaged. When the field had been cleared, the wood from the packing crates was buried near the edge of the trees and the upturned soil covered with loose leaves.

‘Now let’s get into hiding,’ Greaves told his men, ‘and wait for the others to be dropped tomorrow night.’

‘And the next night,’ Lorrimer said in disgust.

The men melted silently into the edge of the forest flanking the DZ, taking up hidden positions near the field’s four sides. There, they proceeded to make individual lying-up positions, or LUPs, by scraping small hollows out of the earth, covering them with wire, and laying local vegetation on top. Having eaten a supper of cold rations washed down with water, the men bedded down for the night, most of them in their LUPs, others taking turns at guard duty. Placed in the four directions of the compass on each side of the field, the lookouts scanned the forest for any sign of the enemy.

There were no land movements apparent that night, though many aircraft, both Allied and German, flew overhead to engage in bombing runs or aerial fights far away. While the surrounding forest was quiet, the sounds of distant explosions were heard all night as battle was engaged on several fronts and the Allied advance across France continued. When dawn broke, the mist of the horizon was smudged with clouds of ugly black smoke.

‘Poor bastards,’ Jacko murmured, thinking of the unfortunate men who had endured the relentless bombing all night near that murky horizon.

‘Poor Kraut bastards,’ Rich said ironically.

‘A lot of them are Allied troops,’ Jacko reminded him, ‘being bombed by the Germans. But whatever side they’re on, they’re poor bastards, all of them. I don’t like bombardments.’

‘I grant you that, mate. We had enough of them in North Africa and Sicily to last us a lifetime. I’m amazed we’ve still got our hearing as well as our balls.’

‘Some would dispute the latter assertion,’ Sergeant Lorrimer whispered as loudly as he dared, raising his head from the LUP beside them. ‘Now shut up, fill your mouths with some cold food, then go and replace those poor frozen sods out on point.’

‘Yes, Sarge!’ Jacko and Rich whispered simultaneously.

For most of the men, the rest of the day was long and boring, with nothing for them to do but either lie in their LUPs or crawl out to replace one of the guards. Aircraft, mostly Allied, flew overhead constantly, Fortresses and Liberators and accompanying Spitfire fighters, intent on keeping up the relentless bombing of German positions further inland.

Also, throughout the day, German convoys or individual jeeps and trucks could be seen passing by on the nearby road, half obscured by the hedgerows that bounded the fields, heading towards or away from the front indicated by the distant sounds of battle. Luckily, none of them turned off the road to cross the field to the forest and the SAS men remained undetected.

When darkness fell, the sounds of distant battle were accompanied by spectacular flashes that lit up the horizon and lent a magical glow to the dense clouds. Shortly before midnight, the Halifax reappeared overhead and the white parachutes of the second batch of SAS men billowed in the darkness as they drifted gently to earth. They were followed by another consignment of wooden crates, each one descending beneath four parachutes and landing on their air bags.

When the aircraft had disappeared again, the new men did exactly as the first batch had done: drove their jeeps into the forest, buried the wooden planking from the crates and covered the disturbed earth with leaves, then scraped out LUPs in areas selected for them by the Originals, who had landed the previous night.

Another night passed uneventfully, except for distant explosions from the front and eerie flashes which lit up the horizon, revealing swirling clouds of smoke. The smoky dawn heralded a second tedious day, with Allied aircraft rumbling almost constantly overhead and helmeted German troops heading to and from the front on the road beyond the field, at the other side of the hedgerows. Hidden in their LUPs, the men were not seen by the German troops, though some were already so bored that they wished they had been.

That night the third and last of the SAS groups, headed by Captain Callaghan, was brought in to the DZ by the Halifax. This time, however, one of the jeeps dropped from the aircraft broke free from two of its four parachutes and crashed to the ground, causing the crate to shatter and the waiting soldiers to run for cover. The jeep had embedded itself so deeply in the ground that it had created a large crater. Because the vehicle was badly damaged, it was left buried there, along with all the other debris, and then the hole was filled in with soil and camouflaged with loose foliage.

This time, instead of melting back into the trees, the new arrivals helped the first two batches of men to fill in their LUPs and hide all trace of their presence in the area. Then the men of C Squadron, now safely on the ground, dispersed to their individual jeeps and the column, totalling twenty vehicles, moved off along a forest track, heading for the open country behind enemy lines.

3

Aided by bright moonlight, which illuminated the narrow road through the forest, the column of jeeps had a relatively easy first morning, heading without lights for open country dotted with small farming communities. Some of the villages, as the men knew, were still occupied by the Germans and so had to be approached carefully; others had been freed but were surrounded by the advancing and retreating armies, which meant that the Germans could return unexpectedly; and an increasing number were well out of the danger zone and preparing to give a heart-felt welcome to their Allied liberators.

Progress was frustratingly slow because one jeep was out ahead on point, its crew having been given the dangerous job of acting as advance scouts, prepared to either engage the enemy or, if possible, return unseen to the main column and report the enemy’s presence to Captains Callaghan and Greaves, who would then jointly decide if they should attack or simply make a detour. The brief, as outlined by Callaghan, was to avoid engaging the enemy whenever possible and instead reconnoitre the area for a suitable base camp from where they could move out to find the Maquis.

In fact, more than once the men on point in the jeep – Sergeant Lorrimer as driver, Jacko on the twin Vickers K guns and Rich on the Browning heavy machine-gun – noticed the glow of camp-fires and oil lamps in the forest and assumed them to be from German camps. Invariably, closer inspection, usually on foot, revealed this to be true and the men therefore always had to backtrack to meet up with the column behind and inform Callaghan and Greaves of the enemy presence. The column, now split into two, with Callaghan in charge of Group One and Greaves leading Group Two, would then take the nearest side road and make a wide detour around the enemy, to travel on unmolested.

This was the situation for most of the first six hours, as they travelled through the night and early morning in the depths of the forest. By dawn, however, the trees were thinning out and they were emerging into open countryside with wide, rolling fields dotted with hamlets and crossed by a web of major and minor roads, including German military supply routes (MSRs).

‘It looks so peaceful out there,’ Callaghan said.

‘Except for that smoke on the horizon,’ Greaves replied. ‘It’s all happening there.’

Now out in the open, they had to travel much more carefully. To get from one side of an MSR to the other, they usually drove alongside it, out of sight behind hedgerows or trees, until they came to where the road was crossed by a track. There they would wait until the track was inspected by the jeep on point; when it was reported clear, the column of jeeps, using the track, would cross at top speed. Once or twice the last of their jeeps crossed just as retreating German columns appeared along the MSR and headed towards them; but that first day, at least, they managed to push on unseen.

The first village they came to was on the banks of the Loire. Arriving there just before noon, they were greeted by villagers, mostly women, children and elderly men who cheered, applauded and placed garlands of flowers around the soldiers’ necks. The soldiers then learned that they were the first Allied troops to arrive; that the Germans had only recently fled from this village; that three of the villages around it were still occupied by sizeable German columns; and that the Germans were reported to have recently fled from the next village along the SAS men’s route.

As most of the soldiers settled down in the sunny village square to flirt with the bolder local girls while enjoying a lunch of fresh bread, cheese and calvados, all supplied by the grateful villagers, Callaghan and Greaves received a visit from the mayor and the sole remaining member of the Maquis. The mayor was a portly, good-humoured individual who gave them invaluable information about the German forces who had occupied the village. The Maquisard was a young man, Pierre, who wore shabby grey trousers, a torn tweed jacket, shoes with holes in the soles and a rakishly positioned black beret. With a stolen German semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, he grinned cockily as he told them, in French, that the rest of his Maquis friends had left the village in pursuit of the fleeing Germans and that he had been left behind to act as guide to the first Allied troops to arrive.

‘That means us,’ Callaghan said.

‘Oui, mon capitaine. I will be proud to serve.’

‘Ah, you speak English!’

Pierre grinned and placed his index finger just above his thumb, leaving a tiny gap between them. ‘Only a little.’ Then, reverting to his own language, he said: ‘But your French, I notice, is excellent.’

‘It’s good enough,’ Callaghan said, though he spoke the language well, ‘I’m sure we’ll get by with it. What was it like with the Germans here?’

Pierre shrugged and stopped grinning. ‘Not good, monsieur, but other villages had it worse. Here, though the Boche commandeered the best houses and took most of the food we grew, they were a disciplined bunch who neither harmed the older folk nor abused the women. They did take the few remaining young men away for forced labour in Germany, but as most of us knew they would do that when they came, we fled into the forest and made our own camps there.’

‘And were very successful at harassing the Germans,’ Greaves said diplomatically.

‘In a limited way only – at least until the invasion was launched. Before that, we had to be careful about coming out of the forest to attack the Germans, because if we did they would exact some terrible form of vengeance. Sometimes they shot three or four Frenchmen for every German shot by us, or even worse, in one case they herded every member of a village into the church and then set fire to it. So some of them have done terrible things, but here we were lucky.’

‘And your fellow Maquisards are now pursuing those same Germans?’

‘Sniping on them as they retreat. The main German supply route, along which they are retreating, runs through hilly, densely forested countryside. The Maquis are well protected by the trees and pick them off from the hills. This not only reduces the Germans in number, but also makes them constantly nervous. I wish I was there!’

‘You can be,’ Callaghan told him. ‘It’s imperative that we link up with the Maquis and learn all we can about the Germans’ movements and habits. If you act as our guide, you’ll be able to rejoin your companions.’

‘Then I’m your man, mon capitaine.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’

Callaghan glanced across the village square and saw that the SAS troopers not on guard at the edge of the forest encircling the village were sprawled around the fountain in the middle of the square, in the shade of the leafy trees, finishing off their bread and cheese, swigging calvados, and shamelessly flirting with the younger, bolder girls. The girls’ parents were looking on, not offended, simply thrilled to see the British soldiers here, scarcely believing that they were human like other men, and might seduce their daughters. The fountain itself, Callaghan noticed, had been hit by a bomb and was now half demolished and covered with its own rubble and pulverized cement. There was no sign of water.

‘When do we move out?’ the young Maquisard asked, removing his semi-automatic weapon from his shoulder and laying it across his thighs, where he lovingly stroked it.

‘When we’ve checked that the next village has been cleared, I want you to go with a forward patrol, lead them to the village, see what’s happening, then return here. If we know that the village is cleared, we can move on to link up with the Maquis.’

‘Very good,’ Pierre said.

Nodding at Sergeant Lorrimer, who was kneeling beside the young Frenchman, Callaghan asked: ‘Do you mind doing this?’

‘My pleasure,’ Lorrimer replied. ‘That calvados perked me up no end and now I’m raring to go.’

‘Then take Pierre with you and try to get back here as soon as possible. Be careful, Sergeant.’

‘I will, boss,’ Lorrimer said. ‘OK, Pierre, come with me.’ When Pierre stared uncomprehendingly at him, Lorrimer stood up and jerked his thumb, indicating that the Frenchman should follow him. With Pierre beside him, he walked around the smashed fountain to where Jacko and Rich were sitting on the steps of a house, enjoying themselves by trying to communicate with two giggling girls who spoke almost no English.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Jacko was saying, indicating himself and the dark-haired girl nearest to him by jabbing at her and himself with his index finger. ‘Me…love…you. Me want to get in your knickers.’

The girl, not understanding what he was saying, started giggling again, though Rich silenced her by saying: ‘That’s bloody rude, Jacko! They’re decent girls.’

‘And we’re their conquering heroes, so we might as well…’

‘Shut your filthy mouth, Jacko,’ Lorrimer growled as he approached the men, ‘and get to your feet. Before you cause offence here by saying the wrong thing in front of a Frog who knows English, I’m taking you on a little patrol.’

‘Aw, come on, Sarge!’ Jacko protested, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand and waving his bottle of apple brandy. ‘I haven’t finished my lunch!’

‘You’ve had enough for now. And if you have any more of that stuff you’ll be even more stupid and loose-tongued than you are normally. So put that bottle down, pick up your rifle, and get on your feet. You, too, Burgess.’

‘Very good, Sarge,’ Rich said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and winking at the moon-eyed French girl beside him. ‘Unlike some we could mention, I never complain about being asked to perform my duty. Backbone of the squadron, me, Sarge.’

‘And humble with it, I note,’ Lorrimer responded. ‘Now say goodbye to your two little girlfriends and let’s get to the jeep.’

Rich shyly mumbled his farewell to the girl sitting beside him, but Jacko, climbing to his feet, was considerably more theatrical, bowing, sweeping his beret across his chest and saying with a dreadful accent: ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle. Je t’adore.’ When the girl burst into giggles again, Jacko grinned from ear to ear, then followed Lorrimer, Rich and the young Maquisard across the square to their jeep.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ Rich said.

‘I don’t,’ Jacko replied. ‘Those are the only Frog words I know. Picked them up from the films.’

‘What a fucking prat!’ Sergeant Lorrimer muttered to himself, shaking his head in exaggerated disgust. Then, indicating the young Frenchman with the German rifle, he said: ‘This is Pierre, of the Maquis. If you understand what I’m saying, Pierre, this is Corporal Burgess, known as Rich, and Lance-Corporal Dempster, known as Jacko. As neither speaks French, you won’t have to put up with their bloody awful conversation.’

‘Well, thanks a lot!’ Jacko exclaimed.

‘I understand,’ Pierre said proudly, smiling at everyone. ‘Rich and Jacko! Nicked names!’

‘Nicked names,’ Lorrimer said. ‘You’ve got it.’ He sighed in exasperation and turned to the other two. ‘Pierre’s going to act as our guide and hopefully lead us to his fellow Maquis. But first he’ll take us to the next village on our route. If it’s been cleared, which we think it has, we’ll come back and tell the others about it. Then we head out.’

‘You picked the right men for the job,’ Jacko informed him.

‘I’m sure,’ Lorrimer said, then he clambered up into the driver’s seat of the Willys jeep, indicated that Pierre should sit beside him, and waited patiently until Jacko and Rich had climbed into the back, the former behind the twin Vickers guns mounted in the middle of the vehicle, between the front and rear seats, the latter behind the Browning heavy machine-gun mounted on the rear. ‘All set?’ Lorrimer asked.

‘Of course,’ Jacko replied.

‘Fire away,’ Rich added.

‘Hold on,’ Lorrimer said. Just to take the wind out of the sails of his two cocky passengers, he released the handbrake and accelerated quickly, making the tyres screech in the soil as the jeep shot forward, practically taking wing. Jacko and Rich were nearly thrown out and had to hold on to their mounted machine-guns to stay upright; they were still frantically trying to keep their balance when their SAS mates in the square, still eating and drinking, clapped their hands and cheered, before being obscured in the cloud of dust churned up by the departing jeep.

‘Mad bastards!’ Callaghan muttered as he watched the jeep disappear around the first bend in the track, heading into the forest.

‘Lorrimer’s just having some sport,’ Greaves replied, grinning. ‘They’ll be all right.’

In the jeep, as Lorrimer slowed it down to a less suicidal speed, Jacko spread his legs and continued to steady himself by holding on to the grips of the twin Vickers. ‘Very good, Sarge!’ he bawled above the roaring of the vehicle. ‘A real smooth getaway!’

‘Designed to wake you up,’ Lorrimer replied. ‘And clearly it did.’

‘Bloody right,’ Rich confirmed, likewise holding on tight to his machine-gun.

‘Very quick! Most admirable!’ Pierre added, trying out his English. ‘We will be there in no time. Take this track, s’il vous plaît.’

Following the direction indicated by the Frenchman, Lorrimer turned off the main road and took the narrower track heading east, winding through dense, gloomy forest. The narrowness of the track and its many bends, and the overhanging branches of trees, slowed him down considerably, but he would have gone slower anyway to enable Jacko and Rich to thoroughly scan the forest for any sign of German snipers. In this task Pierre was even more of a help, knowing the forest intimately, but no movement was evident among the dense trees.

Ten minutes later they were, Pierre loudly informed them, approaching the next village.

‘Slow down when I signal,’ he managed to say in a mixture of French, English and sign language. ‘Stop, please, when I tell you.’

Lorrimer slowed down and stopped entirely when Pierre, at a bend in the narrow track around which they could not see, dropped his right hand with the palm face down. When Pierre indicated that they were going to walk the rest of the way to the village, Lorrimer executed a difficult turn on the narrow track, so that the jeep was facing back the way it had come. Having cut the engine and applied the handbrake, he picked up his 9mm Sten sub-machine-gun and jumped to the ground.

‘You, too,’ he said to Pierre, then turned to Jacko and Rich to say, as Pierre jumped down beside him: ‘You two keep manning those guns. If you hear us running back – or hear or see anything else indicating that we’re being pursued by Jerry – get ready to open fire. Understood?’

‘Yes, Sarge,’ both men replied, simultaneously swinging their machine-guns around on their swivel mounts until the barrels were facing the track at the rear of the jeep.

‘Good. Let’s go, Pierre.’

Lorrimer and the Maquisard walked away from the jeeps and turned the bend in the track, both with their weapons unslung and at the ready. At the other side of the bend, the track ran straight to the tiny village, and gave a partial view of the sides of several stone cottages with red-slate roofs. The village, Lorrimer noted, was only about five hundred yards away and smoke was coming out of the chimneys.

Using sign language, he indicated that he and Pierre should leave the track and advance the rest of the way through the trees. This they did, encountering no one and soon emerging near the backs of the cottages.

From the open window of one of the cottages, they could hear a crackling radio on which someone was speaking in French. Though not familiar with the language, Lorrimer understood enough to realize that he was hearing news of the Allied liberation of the country. The advance seemed to be going well.

Stepping up to the house and glancing through the open window, Lorrimer saw that the kitchen was filled with people, all seated around a huge pine table, drinking wine or calvados, smoking cigarettes and. listening with obvious pleasure to the news on the radio. That they were doing so was a clear indication that the Germans had already left.

Sighing with relief, but still not taking any chances, Lorrimer checked the rear of the other cottages in the row, and found similar scenes inside, so he let Pierre lead him out into the village’s only street.

The street was no more than a flattened earth track running between two straight rows of stone cottages and a grocer’s, animal feed store and saddlery, bakery, dairy, blacksmith’s, barber’s shop, one bar and, at the far end, a church, graveyard and school. Many of the locals – mainly farmers and their wives, most surprisingly plump and red-cheeked given the spartan existence they must have led during the German occupation – were sitting either on their doorsteps or on rush chairs outside the houses, taking in the sun, eating and, like those Lorrimer had seen in the kitchens, celebrating with wine or calvados.

When those nearest to Lorrimer and Pierre saw them, they came rushing up excitedly to embrace them, kiss them on both cheeks or shake their hands, and then plied them with bread, cheese, alcohol, all the while asking about the Allies’ progress. After refusing the wine and telling them as much as he knew, Lorrimer asked if all the Germans had left the village.

‘They left two behind as snipers,’ he was informed in English by a solemn-faced, gaunt man wearing an FFI armband. ‘But they didn’t last long.’ Straightening his shoulders and grinning, he turned away to point along the street. Looking in that direction, Lorrimer saw two German troopers sprawled on their backs in the dirt, their helmets missing – probably taken as souvenirs – and their heads a mess of blood and exposed bone where they had been shot. The FFI man patted the pistol strapped to his waist and smiled again at Lorrimer. ‘Me,’ he said proudly. ‘I killed both of them. There are no more Boche here.’

‘Good,’ Lorrimer said. ‘We intend bringing our men through here, so please send someone back to warn us if any Germans return.’

‘Naturally,’ the man said, clearly relishing his role as protector of the hamlet.

Lorrimer thanked the man and walked back along the village street, with Pierre beside him. ‘A good man,’ Pierre said. ‘He hates the Germans. And those who fraternize.’ They were passing a crowd that had gathered around the barber’s shop and walked over to see what was happening. An attractive young woman of no more than twenty was having her head shaved by the village barber while the excited crowd, mostly women and children, looked on, laughing and occasionally spitting at the weeping woman. ‘She slept with a German soldier,’ Pierre explained, smiling brightly at Lorrimer. ‘A collaborator bitch.’

‘Probably just in love,’ Lorrimer said, turning away in disgust.

Pierre shrugged. ‘In love…a whore…whatever – she still collaborated. That’s all we care about here.’

‘Let’s get back,’ Lorrimer said.

They returned via the narrow, winding forest track to the jeep, where Jacko and Rich were keeping the bend covered in silence.

‘The village has been cleared,’ Lorrimer told them, ‘so let’s get back to the squadron.’

‘They must have heard you coming,’ Jacko said.

‘And got scared shitless,’ Rich added.

‘Any more fancy remarks and you’ll be walking back,’ Lorrimer said as he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.

‘These lips are sealed,’ Jacko said.

‘Same here, Sarge,’ Rich added.

‘Glad to hear it, lads,’ said the sergeant, waiting until Pierre was sitting in the seat beside him before releasing the handbrake and heading back to the first village.

Twenty minutes later they emerged from the gloomy forest and drove into the centre of the sunlit village, where Lorrimer told Jacko and Rich to remain in the jeep until he had reported to Callaghan and Greaves. The two captains were sitting in the shade of a tree near the remains of the fountain, studying a map.

Though disgruntled at being prevented from again fraternizing with the pretty village girls, Jacko and Rich received some consolation when they hurried up to the jeep, gave them more bread, cheese and wine and began flirting with them. Shaking his head in mock exasperation, but unable to conceal a grin, Lorrimer ignored them while he crossed to the square, accompanied by Pierre, and knelt in the dirt beside Callaghan and Greaves.

‘The next village has been cleared,’ he informed the officers. ‘The only Germans still there are the two dead ones lying in the street.’

‘The FFI took care of them?’ Callaghan asked shrewdly.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Where would we be without our French patriots? Right, Sergeant, let’s get doing.’

The column of jeeps moved out shortly after, churning up great clouds of dust that descended on the men, women and children in the square, most of whom waved goodbye and threw flowers over the departing vehicles. Once back on the forest track, amid the now familiar gloom and silence, the men manning the guns in the jeeps carefully scanned the trees on both sides, on the lookout for snipers. In the event, nothing happened and soon they were rounding the last bend in the track and emerging on to the sunlit road that ran straight through the village.

The SAS men responded with understandable pleasure to the women and children who ran alongside their vehicles, throwing flowers and handing up more bottles of calvados. Their spirits, however, were momentarily dampened when they passed the woman who had had her head shaved and now, completely bald and streaked with blood, was kneeling in the dirt, covering her face with her hands and trembling as she sobbed. Thankfully, they were soon past her and circling around the two dead German troopers spread-eagled in the middle of the road; then they were leaving the village behind and heading out into open country again.

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