I hoped I was to leave for France almost immediately, so I was very disappointed when I was sent back to Beaulieu for yet another course, with Ely, Vladimir, and Roland. This time it was in another, much smaller, house, set in some woods. Here we were shown some particularly useful methods of opening handcuffs, picking locks, and breaking safes. All the instructors were in uniform, but I wondered once or twice whether their peacetime professions were entirely legal. There was a jolly little miniature train that ran through the grounds of the house, and we all practised methods of train wrecking, using plastic and the normal detonators. We were much more assured in their use at the end of the course, and we all enjoyed the bangs we made in that quiet part of Hampshire.

I got to know my companions very well during this time. I shared a room with Vladimir, whose real name was Grover Williams, a British racing driver. He was always cheerful, very philosophical, but impatient to rejoin his wife who was living in Paris. I met him later in France, where he worked very successfully for a time until Maurice Benoist, the brother of another racing driver, Robert Benoist, gave him away while he was being tortured. Vladimir was also tortured for long periods but never gave anything away. Then he was shot.

Ely, E. M. Wilkinson, was to become my great friend and we worked together in the south of France for some time and later at Angers. His field name was Alexandré, or Alex, and he was captured with me on one occasion and imprisoned. The second time he was caught, the Germans made certain he would not escape again by shooting him at the concentration camp of Buchenwald.

Roland, R. M. (Bob) Sheppard, the youngest, was full of vitality and fun and managed to survive by watchfulness and luck. He had the misfortune to drop by parachute on top of a police station. He said later: ‘It didn’t matter how good a cover story I had, it was quite impossible to explain away my unorthodox method of dropping in.’

When we completed our course I was sent to a specialist to have my leg examined, and he told me there was nothing wrong with it. But when he saw my ankles he was not very optimistic. I had twisted them and weakened them several times over the years, tearing ligaments while running or climbing. ‘I wouldn’t give you twopence for your ankles, and one foot has lost all its spring. However I will allow you to parachute providing you stick carefully to the drill. Keep your feet well together on landing. In fact, I’d rather you parachute than run or walk long distances across open ground,’ the doctor said. He bound both ankles tightly and ordered me to keep them bandaged until I had done my parachute drops.

I went to Ringway airfield, Manchester, for a course which lasted from five to fifteen days, depending on the weather. I joined other would-be jumpers at a house close to the airport, and everyone was very tense. Before our jumps we were taken to see the WAAFs who packed the parachutes, and the care they took was most reassuring. I only hoped they had not put on an act for us.

As I had never flown before, I was given a quick flip around to see if I belonged to the chronic airsick group. But I liked flying and was not sick, and as soon as we landed I was told that I was to make my first jump right away. My stomach knotted up. I became even more silent and tense as an instructor helped me on with my harness.

‘How’s that, sir, not too tight? Good. Remember, sir, if anything goes wrong and your ’chute doesn’t open, let us know, quoting the official number stamped on the back of the harness, and we’ll issue you with another one. If you can’t remember the number it doesn’t matter – they’re pretty decent about that sort of thing here.’

I thanked him most seriously for his advice. My mind was in such a state that some seconds passed before the penny dropped, and then we both had a damned good laugh, although I felt that mine was verging on the hysterical.

There were eleven of us in the Wellington bomber, the twin-engined aircraft used for training, an instructor, who would jump first, and ten learners. I was to be the last one out. The instructor swung himself on the edge of the hole in the middle of the fuselage, through which we were to drop, and although he had jumped something like thirty times before, I noticed that even he tensed up, just before the green light went on, and he disappeared.

The aircraft had to make nine circuits before my turn came. I hooked on my static line – the line that pulls open the chute as soon as you are clear of the aircraft – and dangled my feet in space. I gripped the edge of the hole, fearsome that I might tumble out before the green light. It blinked on; I pushed off … there was a flurry, confusion, noise, and suddenly, beautiful peace.

I glanced casually upwards and saw a pair of boots; then I realised that I was heading for the ground headfirst – not the recommended method – as my feet were entangled with the rigging lines. I was surprisingly calm, and methodically cleared away my feet until I was right way up. I looked around, and felt the exhilaration of parachuting I had read so much about.

As I neared the ground the instructor called up that I was doing well, that I did not need to touch the lines. ‘Keep your feet together – that’s it, fine.’

But just as the ground rushed up towards me, a gust of wind caught the ’chute and I landed flat on my back.

‘Are you all right, Raymond?’ the instructor asked as I struggled to my feet, a little dazed.

‘Yes, thanks. I thought I’d do it that way to save my ankles.’ Then we both grinned and it was over. He told me that when I left the aircraft I pushed off too hard. My head hit the opposite side of the hole, although I had felt nothing through my parachute helmet, and the knock flipped me upside down.

I managed the rest of my daylight jumps without trouble, but when my turn for a moonlight drop came it was too windy. To make up for it, they put me in a balloon the next morning, wearing dark glasses. I was petrified, for the balloon was winched up with me sitting in the basket, hanging on grimly. It was deadly quiet, which made the whole affair much more cold-blooded than jumping from an aircraft, where there is noise, excitement, chatter. But I made it, although I turned one ankle on landing. At least I was entitled to wear a parachute badge on my sleeve from then on.

It was then early May, and I went back to Orchard Court to learn that I should be going into France in one month’s time. The news of my weak ankles had reached them, and I was told I would not be parachuted in, but landed from the sea, probably in the south of France. There were also two more courses to attend. The first was on the Lysander, an odd shaped aircraft, with a low landing speed, and capable of taking off from any fairly flat piece of ground. It was used many times to take agents in and out of wartime France. We went to yet another country house, near the airfield at Tempsford, where there were not only trainees but some tense gentlemen waiting for the time to come to leave for France. A group of FANYs helped to brighten things up. A well-stocked bar did the rest.

The Lysander is a small, two-seater plane. The passenger sits back to back with the pilot and speaks to him through an intercom. Two passengers can be squeezed in if you wish to be very tight and uncomfortable. The aircraft carries no guns, is unarmoured, and the only chance of parachuting out is for the pilot to turn upside down and fall through the sliding roof. It is impossible to jump out of the door, as the tailplane will cut your head off. Briefings on the aircraft were given by the pilots themselves.

They taught us how to pick landing grounds and how to lay out a flare-path to guide the plane in to land at night. This was normally done by placing four hand torches, tied to stakes, in an extended line to give the pilot an opportunity of lining himself up for his approach and landing. I carried out day and night exercises with Lysanders, choosing grounds, laying out flare-paths and then flying in and out of the chosen grounds, as though I was an agent in France.

I had a great admiration for these pilots, who had no chance of escape at all if they were spotted in the air. Many of them were injured and there were dozens of narrow escapes. One pilot I met was about to land in enemy territory when he was greeted with a burst of tracer bullets. He turned his landing into a take-off and flew safely back to England, with a bullet lodged in his neck. Another one landed in a field in France and became bogged down in mud. It took a team of oxen to roll the aircraft clear before he could get off the ground again. The man who chose the ground got a great rollicking from London when the pilot reported.

We were also instructed in the use of the S-phone, a two way radio/telephone handset with a range of about 12 miles. I was to use the services of the Lysander and the S-phone with good effect in the future.

After this training, Roland and I and a man I named Fernandel were sent off to a naval course in Scotland. Fernandel really did look like the French comedian; his ugly face and his mannerisms were very similar. He was to be killed by Gestapo bullets.

We were based in a house overlooking a loch, on which floated a yacht commanded by a man named Christmas. He was responsible for teaching us the elementary rules of navigation and seamanship, how to set sails and furl them, how to tie knots and splice ropes. I was also, to my great joy, taught how to scull a small boat along by using a single scull in the stern. It is a good method of propulsion, as it is almost silent. We also learned to handle different types of canoes and rubber dinghies until finally we were allowed to sail the yacht, plot our course, and so on. And so came the end of this course and the end of training. June, and France, were only a few days away.

I returned to Orchard Court to put the final touches to my cover story and to be issued with false papers, ration cards, and clothing coupons – all freshly brought from France by another agent, and all of the current issue. I was also told to try and make the identity cards grubby, as though they had been handled many times.

I was still René Garrat, born in Dakar, and my father had been in the timber business in Dakar until he died in 1940. I was working with him before the war, but later worked in Marseilles for another timber firm. At the outbreak of war I joined the French Army, and was demobilised in August 1941 in Montpellier. I was then quite rich, as my father had left me a reasonable fortune when he died. Since demobilisation I had just drifted around, as the firm I worked for in Marseilles had closed down. My mother had remarried and was now living in Lisbon. So I had no home or ties in France, and I was fed up with life. I had been made even sadder a few months before because the girl I loved had gone off with someone else.

This cover story was built up on facts, to help me to remember it. I knew as much about Dakar as anyone who had not been there since early youth. I had been to Marseilles a couple of times and I had studied the guidebooks and maps. My father really was dead, I had lived in Lisbon for two years, I had been in the timber business.

I also had a story about my army life, with a name for my officer and sergeant, and a history of operations, based on facts learned by SOE, of a real French Army unit.

I had documents by the handful. Military discharge papers, identity cards, ration cards, and so on, as well as a framed photograph of my ‘lost girlfriend’ – my future wife, in fact – which, because it did not give anything away in hairstyle or dress, was safe to take.

I was as ready as I ever would be, trained by the finest instructors – and if I followed their rules for survival I would get through. Only once did I break one of those rules, and it cost me my freedom and very nearly my life.

They gave me a few days leave and said I might get a telephone call at any moment. ‘Stay in touch, Raymond,’ came the order. The call came only too soon and I reported again to one of the majors at Orchard Court.

‘Well, Raymond, you’re off tomorrow.’ I felt a surge of excitement, and grinned like a schoolboy.

I repeated everything back.

‘I want to tell you, Raymond, that once you are in France there is nothing we can do to help if you are captured – we have never heard of a Heslop or Raymond Hamilton. That’s the way it is. Well, good luck. Go and be searched now,’ and we shook hands.

I was thoroughly searched to see there was nothing on me or in my suitcase, which I had brought with me, to show any link with Britain; no bus tickets hidden in the bottom of a pocket; no tobacco in my turn-ups, which could be analysed; no half-crown among my loose change.

I saw Vera Atkins, and she fitted me with a money belt to hold funds for Olive and myself. I was then told that the rest of the day was mine. ‘But be here ready and packed at 9 a.m. tomorrow – and don’t get too plastered tonight,’ the Major said. ‘Oh, you’ll have to be searched again tomorrow.’

I went to a Spanish restaurant that night, my last night in England, and ate on my own. I drank a bottle of good wine, and savoured the security of this corner of London and the chatter of happy people, mostly servicemen out dining with their girlfriends. I felt a little secretive and superior, and was not even upset by some of the officers, looking towards me in my padded French suit and long hair, obviously thinking that some people managed to avoid trouble.

But when I got back to one of the flats SOE had for agents and went to bed, the superiority disappeared. I was suddenly frightened, and fought with myself as I felt panic starting up.

It was ridiculous to expect me to go into the middle of German occupied territory to wage a secret war. I was no hero, pain frightened me, and I would have no friends. I was still apprehensive the next morning when I arrived at Orchard Court, but finally the fear ebbed in the bustle and hustle of preparations.

I asked for a room to change in and was shown into the famous Black Bathroom. The decor was black, it had a bidet, and many agents were briefed in the Black Bathroom with the agent sitting on the bidet, the briefing officer on the edge of the bath, and the lavatory seat serving as a table. There was always a pretty secretary wandering about ready to help in the briefing. I often wondered what Gestapo men thought of British agents under torture who rambled on about bidets and secretaries in the Black Bathroom.

That morning I changed into another suit, I was searched again, my valuables were sealed in an envelope and left behind, and I was introduced to my travelling companion, a Frenchman named Leroy, a tough-looking man, with a slight cast in one eye, who spoke hardly any English. I met my Commanding Officer for the first time, Colonel Maurice Buckmaster, then still a major. He went through the briefing with me again and added one more thing. I was to be known in London as ‘Fabien’, and all radio messages would be sent to me in that name. I would also be known to other agents in France by that name.

He wished me well, and then handed me the traditional parting gift that he gave each agent – a pair of gold cufflinks. These were plain and simple, with nothing to show that they came from Britain. Apart from the gesture of sentiment, they could be sold, or pawned for quite a large sum, if an agent ran out of money. I kept mine.

Leroy and I, with Buckmaster and Major Bourne Paterson, went to Paddington Station to catch a train to Plymouth, from where a Catalina flying boat would take us to Gibraltar. We all shook hands, and we were ordered to report to the Security Officer in Plymouth on arrival. He knew we were coming and would tell us what to do next.

We settled in the train, but just as the whistle went and it started to move, the Railway Transport Officer shouted to me: ‘Out, out, quickly.’ I grabbed my bag and leapt, leaving poor Leroy, with his lack of English, on the train.

I was taken to another platform, and put on another train, where I found a great pile of mailbags, destined for the Governor of Malta, in a small compartment next to the guards van. I was told to guard them to Plymouth, which I did.

At the Grand Hotel in Plymouth I met up with a very relieved Leroy. We were told that if we did not hear by 10 p.m. we would not fly that night. We waited. At 10 p.m. Leroy and I had a farewell dinner, and that night I slept without fear in my mind. I hoped I would have no more self-doubting.

We had three more ‘farewell’ dinners in that hotel before the security officer came in and told us that we were off that night, by which time neither of us had any English money.

We flew for ten hours, making a wide detour over the Atlantic to avoid German aircraft, with me still sitting by the mail for Malta. We arrived at 8 a.m., to find the sea blue and the sun shining. It seemed a remote war on that balmy day in Gibraltar.

During the next few days I met many old friends for dinner or drinks, as our submarine had left without us, and we had to wait for a British manned trawler. We were given more money, and I enjoyed my holiday. So did Leroy. But he enjoyed it too well. One evening he had too much to drink in a bar and started to talk about his coming trip to France. A security officer overheard him, took him out, and brought him to me. Leroy was reported to the Intelligence Corps, who ordered him not to visit any more bars.

We were told to be ready every night at our hotel by 9 p.m., with bags packed and waiting in the hall out of sight. A security officer told me: ‘I don’t know which night it will be, but an officer in uniform will walk in dead on nine o’clock, look round the hotel bar, nod slightly to you, turn round and walk out. You and Leroy must follow him immediately.’

The next night I was drinking at the bar when Oliver, who had served in 52 Section with me, walked in with a Gibraltarian, and we started to drink. Dead on nine o’clock the officer in uniform nodded his head. My mind did not work for a minute. How the hell could I excuse myself to Oliver? In the end I stood up, looked at my watch and told him: ‘God, I’m late – there’s someone waiting for me at the bar at the end of the street. I’ll go down and bring him back here. Hold on a minute.’

I walked out, picked up my bag, got into a car which was waiting outside, and was driven to the docks. I wondered how long Oliver had waited for me. After the war we met, and he told me he had realised something was up and had covered my absence with his friend.

Leroy and I boarded a small, grey-painted trawler run by British naval officers, and we were soon swapping tales in the tiny ‘wardroom’ as we drank their duty-free liquor.

Four more passengers came to join us later – Monsieur and Madame Dupont and two other men, Bernard, who had already been into France several times, and an objectionable Frenchman whom we nicknamed ‘The Dunker’ because he always dunked his thick slices of bread, butter and jam into his tea.

That night we were merry, happy and slightly tipsy with the strength of the navy’s liquor. At eleven there were noises above our heads and shouted orders. The engine started up, and we all fell silent.

We were on our way, a tiny British ship heading out towards the sea and the ominous land now called ‘German occupied territory’.