Peter was sitting at the kitchen table with his radio operator and courier, as well as three soldiers from the French Resistance. They were all sipping coffee, buoyed up at having just heard that Rome had fallen to the Allies. Their talk had turned to the new provisional French government, and the daily bombings of gun batteries now taking place along the Normandy coastline and the Cherbourg peninsula. It was clear the invasion was imminent.
Perhaps because of this, Peter had been feeling particularly reflective, thinking back to his initial training at Wanborough. He’d really had no idea when Toby had recruited him to work for the SOE that his life would change so completely. Looking back at that time was like viewing another life. Another existence. Back then, he’d believed his work as a detective sergeant for the Borough Police – his dealings with a vast array of shady characters, ruthless career criminals and those who abused others for their own satisfaction – had taught him just about all there was to know about life. That and the slow death of his first wife, of course. He’d thought he’d experienced for himself how cruel life could be. Nothing, though, could have prepared him for what he had seen since he’d been dropped behind enemy lines.
He hoped that the lives of those he knew from both the SOE and the French Resistance, with whom he and his unit had worked so closely, had not been sacrificed in vain, and that they could one day be hailed as the heroes and heroines they truly were. And he hoped if his own life were also given over to the cause, its loss would be compensated for by victory.
Seeing that it was just a few minutes before eight thirty, Peter leant over and switched on the wireless. The room immediately fell silent as they waited to hear the dulcet tones of Franck Bauer, one of the recognisable voices of the London-based radio station that broadcast in French to Nazi-occupied France. Operated by the Free French, its aim was to counter German propaganda broadcasts and send coded messages.
One of Peter’s men, Jacques, stood up and went over to the window, moving the wooden shutters slightly to check for any unwanted visitors. It was illegal to listen to Radio Londres – anyone caught would be punished with a fine and a prison sentence or sent to a concentration camp. The populace had become very wary of la Milice, the ruthless Vichy French militia who were known for snooping at doors to catch people tuning into broadcasts. The kitchen was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. A sense of expectation hung heavy in the air. Four days earlier, they had listened to the opening lines of Paul Verlaine’s poem ‘Chanson d’automne’: ‘Les sanglots longs/ Des violons/ De l’automne’ – ‘The long sobs/ Of violins/ Of autumn’. The melodic, undulating words had been read out to listeners not for literary appreciation, but rather to tell the agents and the French Resistance that the invasion of Europe was to start within the fortnight. The next set of lines would be read out within forty-eight hours of the start of what the French were calling ‘Jour J’.
Peter looked around the table. All eyes were on the radio, straining to catch every word through the crackling interference. The broadcast started as it did every evening with the opening four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, sounding out V for victory in Morse code, followed by ‘Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français.’ ‘This is London! The French speaking to the French.’
One of the Resistance fighters, a handsome young man called Louis with a mop of thick blond hair, stood up. His chair scraped back on the worn flagstones just as the words ‘Blessent mon cœur/ D’une langueur/ Monotone’ – ‘Wound my heart with a monotonous languor’ – fought their way through the static. On hearing the second half of the melancholic poem’s opening stanza, the men turned to look at each other. This was their call to action.
‘C’est l’heure,’ said Peter, standing up and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. The time had come to put into action their planned sabotage operations, the aim of which was to impair the Germans’ ability to send reinforcements. Their first task was to cut through one of the main railway tracks, then they were to disrupt telephone and power lines covering part of the north-west coast. Afterwards, they were to head to a small crossroads town called Sainte-Mère-Église. Peter’s circuit knew that it was the Allies’ intention to free the town from Nazi occupation due to its geographical importance. Having control of it would allow a clear thoroughfare for troops going from north to south.
Peter grabbed his heavy haversack which had been placed by the front door.
‘Allons-y.’
Toby was sitting at his desk in his office at RAF Harrington, reading a copy of a letter from General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force. That evening, 175,000 copies of the letter had been distributed to all those men getting ready to take back Europe from the deathly grip of a madman.
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.
Toby sighed. This much was true and had been well proven.
But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940–41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.
Toby sat back. They were stirring words. The men he knew were all, without a shadow of a doubt, courageous, devoted and skilled. He wished he could show this letter to Peter and the rest of the agents fighting behind enemy lines. It would give them a boost – remind them that they were not alone, that they might have to fight in isolation from the rest of their brothers-in-arms, but they were part of a team, part of the Allied forces. But most of all, he wanted them to know that they were all rooting – as well as praying – for them.
Toby looked at his watch and got up from his chair. It was time to see the operational group, a team of around thirty men who were about to board Douglas C-47 Dakotas that would land in occupied territory and provide reinforcements for SOE circuits and Resistance groups. The Dakotas would then bring back shot-down aircrew, wounded operatives and Resistance fighters for debriefing in London.
The bodies of those who had died for their country, though, would have to remain on the other side of the Channel.
Just before midnight a complex system called ‘Movement Control’ was activated to ensure that those about to go into battle, as well as the tanks and trucks that were to go with them, left on schedule from twenty designated departure points. Some men had been on board their vessels for the past week, waiting for the signal to depart.
Minesweepers began clearing lanes while the ships gathered at a meeting point, nicknamed ‘Piccadilly Circus’, south-east of the Isle of Wight, where they assembled into convoys to cross the Channel.
HMS Opportune started patrolling the eastern stretches of the English Channel, guarding against a German naval attack.
Meanwhile, a thousand bombers left to attack the coastal defences. Five thousand tons of bombs were expected to be dropped on German gun batteries on the Normandy coast. They were followed by 1,200 aircraft transporting three airborne divisions to their drop zones behind enemy lines.
At 05:45, a preliminary naval bombardment began from five battleships, twenty cruisers, sixty-five destroyers and two monitors.
At around 06:30, infantry arrived on the beaches, some 132,000 men having been transported by sea and a further 24,000 by air.
D-Day, the largest amphibious military operation in history, had begun.