The rain poured down, and by the time I reached Angers, after six hours of cycling, I was wet through. But my coldness did not stop me making a cautious approach to the Tourganiefs’ flat. There was no one hanging around, however, so I went up the first two flights of stairs, carrying my bicycle with me, and paused at the second flight to make certain that the stairs down to the back door were clear, as it was my only escape route. The Tourganiefs lived on the third floor, so there was not even a roof to get on to. I climbed on up, and saw a notice pinned to the door. It read: ‘Will the owners of this flat call at once at the Kommandatur on their return. We have called twice today and received no reply.’ It was signed by an officer, and bore the official stamp of the German headquarters.

My heart gave a great thump when I read this, and I swore softly out loud. I decided that as they had already called twice it was unlikely that they would call again, so I went in, changed clothes, and started to read a book to help me wait for the return of Madame Tourganief. I dropped off to sleep, but woke up with a start when I heard voices, and the sound of a key opening an outer door. I crept into the next room so that I could hear what was being said. I recognised Madame Tourganief’s voice, coming from the kitchen, but could not make out the other voice. I stepped farther into the sitting-room, to hear better, and as I did so the kitchen door was thrown open roughly and the German Gestapo officer, who had seen me at the pension ten days earlier, almost ran into the room. When he saw me, he pulled up, peered closely at me, and called over his shoulder. His civilian, French-speaking friend came in, and they held a quick conversation in German.

The civilian turned to me and said: ‘We saw you at the pension a few days ago – isn’t that right?’

I agreed, somewhat relieved that they seemed to be surprised to see me there, as it meant that they had not come to look for me.

‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped.

‘Visiting friends,’ I told him.

‘Come here, empty your pockets. Take off your coat.’

They searched my coat and felt through my trouser pockets. I thanked God that I had called at my empty house on the way into town and left the false identity cards for Madame Keller there.

‘Take off your shoes,’ was the next order. These were examined as well.

‘Sit down.’ I sat.

The two then drew up chairs. The German officer, who spoke a few words of French, brought his so close that our knees were almost touching, and his eyes were only a couple of feet from mine as he leaned forward and questioned me.

He spat out his questions, some in German, some in French, and I boiled as his spittle sprayed my face, but sat as calmly as possible under the barrage. The civilian interrupted to translate questions in German, so I was turning from one man to the other, rather like someone watching a tennis match. They had all my papers and took me through each step of my life story, making me very thankful I had kept to the rule of repeating my cover story in full to myself each week. Then, they took Madame Tourganief – who had watched my interrogation – outside, and questioned her, and again I was lucky, for I had spent some time with Boris and his wife drilling them on our joint story in case we were ever asked. Both had taken the drill very seriously, and now it was paying off. I was feeling very uneasy at the persistence of the Gestapo men, and when I did pause to search my mind, I found I was taking more and more time to recall details. All the time he was watching my face, searching for relief or anxiety. On one occasion I was saved by Madame Tourganief. They were asking me about my military service, and I had a completely true story which had been given me at Le Puy by Lieutenant Chas. When Chas first gave me this history, he could not remember one fact, the name of my platoon commander, so he invented one. Later he remembered the right name, and I memorised that. But as the Gestapo asked me the name of the platoon commander, all I could remember was the false name. I hesitated, and Madame saw it.

‘A fine lot of gentlemen you are – letting a lady stand while you sit there and talk, talk, talk. You move into my house, turn it upside down, take my chairs and leave me standing. You haven’t even told me why you are here. I have just about had enough,’ and she stamped her feet in anger.

Both men got to their feet and offered her a chair, brought another in from the next room, and restarted the interrogation. The break had been enough, and I was able to give the platoon commander’s name right away.

They left me, to search the house, and went through my room and the rest of the flat, but found nothing. Just as I was beginning to breathe again, they both shouted at me: ‘Sit down.’ The interrogation began all over again, and they asked the same questions four or five times. My head began to split with the strain and, looking down at my hands, which lay in my lap, I saw my left thumb was twitching. I quickly put my other hand over it, for I remembered a police inspector at Limoges, when I was first questioned, telling me later that the only emotion I showed throughout hours of grilling was the twitching of my left thumb. The officer then put all my papers in one of his pockets, which made me think he was going to take me off to the Gestapo headquarters for more treatment. I was not very optimistic of surviving further interrogation. So I made a mental plan to leap out of the second-floor window on the way down to the street, and chance that the two would not have time to shoot before I ducked round a corner. Also I hoped there was not another armed man waiting in a car downstairs.

They let me stand up and suggested that I accompany them round the house while they had another look round. Instead of the barking, spitting questions, they used bland, quiet, and seemingly friendly remarks, and I was more frightened by this gentle approach than I had been by the shouting. They walked around picking up this object and that, carefully putting them back from where they had moved them. The civilian picked up the book I had been reading before I dozed off to sleep earlier, and casually said: ‘Do you know anything about codes?’

‘Codes? What are codes – I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean,’ I replied.

‘You know – codes. Words made into a code so you can pass a message without the true meaning showing,’ he said impatiently.

‘I’m sorry – I just don’t understand what you mean,’ I replied. I was astonished when he shrugged and turned away.

Suddenly the officer turned to me, took my papers out of his pocket, handed them back to me and, using his spitting voice again, barked out a couple of sentences in German. I turned to his accomplice, who translated: ‘Your papers are all in order, and we can find nothing wrong with them or with your answers. But there is something not quite right about you, Monsieur Chanbaran.’ He turned to Madame Tourganief and said: ‘When your husband returns, tell him to report to my headquarters.’

With that, both men walked out of the flat, closing the door behind them, quite quietly for Germans. As it shut I turned to Madame and put my fingers to my lips, for I saw she was bursting with indignation, and the chances were that the two were listening outside waiting for an indiscretion. I went through to the kitchen for a glass of water, as I was parched with thirst, and I had only taken one sip when the front door was thrown open again and my two Gestapo friends were inside once more. I could have thrown the glass in their faces. They started all over again, but this time they asked one question for which I was not prepared.

‘Why did you leave the pension, Monsieur Chanbaran?’ the civilian said quietly, and I saw that this was the important question. I had no ready answer, so I decided to tell the truth.

‘I left, gentlemen, because you had called there,’ I told them.

‘Why? Are you frightened of us?’ he snapped back.

‘No, it was not because I was frightened of you. I have just been very ill, as you saw from my medical certificate, and all the turmoil and worry your visit brought to the pension was not good for me. I have been away on a journey for my firm, and when I got back today Madame Tourganief suggested I might like to stay here quietly for a few days, until the people at the pension have got over the shock of your visit and things are back to normal.’

Both men grunted, looked at each other, shrugged, and walked out of the flat, saying over their shoulders that Boris must not forget to report to their headquarters. I watched at the window, and this time I saw them walk away down the street. The two of us sat down, and said nothing for several minutes. I felt exhausted, and my whole body seemed to be quivering with reaction to my fright. The affair had lasted about three hours. Madame had been magnificent, and backed me up when she saw I was in trouble.

I turned to her, held out my hand, and said simply: ‘Thank you, Madame,’ as I shook hers. In those sort of circumstances long speeches were unnecessary. It was all that had been said by Leroy when I pulled him out of the sea at Antibes, it was all I had said when the Commandant at the prisoner-of-war camp let us go. It was all Alex said when I brought his wife safely to Papa Jules. It was enough.

She told me that the Gestapo had picked her up at her office and forced her to walk through the streets with them to her home. She felt ashamed at being seen with them and tried to walk a few yards ahead, as though she was on her own. When she reached the flat and saw my bicycle on the second floor, she talked as loudly as possible, to try to give me some warning of her arrival with her escort. She believed that they had come on a routine check of foreign nationals, as Boris was a White Russian and had been questioned several times over the months in a desultory way.

Boris arrived shortly afterwards, and we explained what had happened. He, like his wife, believed that the Gestapo were on a routine check. He also thought they checked the pension only because it had been owned by an Englishman. We decided I would move out, because my cover story had been stretched to the limit and any further, intense, interrogation would probably break it. I went over our story with him, as he would be seeing the Gestapo the next morning, and told him to emphasise that I was a sick man and, as I had told the Gestapo, a law-abiding one. Boris laughed at that and went to a cupboard, from which he brought out a special bottle of wine and three glasses.

‘In view of your sickly condition, Monsieur, I think it is our duty to give you a tonic,’ the big man guffawed. He raised his glass and in a loud voice he shouted: ‘Vive Churchill.’ I toasted Madame for her bravery in helping me during the Gestapo visit.

Boris went to the Gestapo the next morning, answered the routine political questions he had been asked many times before, and was allowed to go. So ended that brush with fear.

We arranged to rendezvous in a day or two at the home of another foreign national, Vandaluski, who lived with his French-born wife out in the country, to the south-west of Angers. When we met with Boris at Vanda’s – it was easier than calling him Vandaluski all the time – I found him to be very pro-Allies and a quiet, thoughtful man, who dealt with matters in a cautious way.

I suggested, towards the end of a pleasant day, that he might like to consider finding fields which could be used for dropping stores from the air. He looked at me very hard, and said he would discuss the matter with his wife and let me know. I was delighted at the caution he showed. We met again two days later at Boris’s flat. I told Vanda and his wife that I was a British officer on a mission to build up Resistance and sabotage groups in the Angers area. I said that the group, run by Henri, was now much too big, and that it was inevitable someone would be incautious, which would lead to arrests. I suggested that Boris and he ran a small group acting independently, though obeying my overall orders, which were centralised from London.

The fact that I had spent a whole day at Vanda’s house without them suspecting that I was a British officer spoke much for Boris’s discretion. Vanda was astonished at my news, but readily agreed to help, as I knew he would.

By now I had moved from Boris’s flat and was living with the Blandeau family, who had a small house in Angers. Monsieur Blandeau was an architect. Michelle, the eldest daughter, was a secretary, and Madeleine, the younger daughter, was a school teacher. Madame Blandeau, tall and angular, with iron grey hair, was very energetic and forthright. Her husband was much smaller, with bad teeth and a bad digestion. But he had a lot of nervous energy, and was always cheerful. All four were in the Resistance movement and thought that it was the natural thing to do. They took as a matter of course the risk of having me under their roof. They all admitted they were afraid, and asked me not to say anything if they showed it at any time. They were very fine people. It takes real courage to pursue a course of danger when you are afraid every waking moment. Monsieur Blandeau was part of a large organisation whose eventual aims were the control of Angers. He kept his battle plan concealed in one of his drawing boards at the office.

During these few days, I went to the Keller pension twice and brought out a suitcase on each occasion, which I packed with valuables belonging to Madame Keller, and sent by a courier to Alex. I also collected my plan of the Naval Headquarters and sent it to Paris by another courier. It reached London, via another courier, two days later. Communications were better.

A few days later, Monsieur Blandeau, who was one of Henri’s stores operation reception committee, ran through the house shouting: ‘The message, the message, it’s come through.’ I had told him to listen to the BBC for the phrase: ‘Après la soupe un verre de vin,’ and this was what he had heard. He calmed himself, collected the rest of the reception committee, and we all went out to the vineyard where I had earlier dug my two pits.

The problem of hiding the twelve containers, and three other packages which had been added to the original list, had been solved quite easily in the end. The farmer had a great pile of faggots cut in one field, and immediately behind it was a hedge and ditch. By covering over the ditch with dead branches, it had been simple to make a safe cache.

It was a fine, moonlight night as we all gathered in the vineyard. There seemed dozens of men about, as Henri had brought his own team to help with the recovery of the stores, and we had quite a party, drinking wine and eating sandwiches as we waited for the aircraft to appear. At first everyone stayed very quiet, talked in whispers, and tiptoed through the fields. One of the reception committee, Duval, was forced to take his boots off, as they squeaked. For two hours this went on, then they became fidgety, talked normally, and one of the sentries even lit up a cigarette. Henri saw to it that the cigarette was put out, and the talking was hushed.

Suddenly the sirens wailed in Angers, and I rubbed my hands together with the satisfaction of a salesman who sees his victim reaching for his wallet. Not long after, I heard the drone of an aircraft, and it appeared over the brow of a hill, flying parallel to my flare-path, but some distance to the south. I flashed my signal at it repeatedly, but it did not answer, and flew away. Then it appeared again, much closer, and immediately flashed back. I called for the flare-path to be lit, and one by one the signal torches flicked on. The plane banked and thundered low over the ground, dropping the containers as it reached the right marker. I heard the parachutes open with a ‘thirripp’, and all the containers sailed down gently, except for one, which hurtled down, whistling like a bomb, to bury itself in the field.

The aircraft flew away, and all my helpers rushed around looking for the containers and the three smaller packages, which, being lighter, had drifted off. Everything was recovered. I opened the cells to see what had been dropped, and noticed that the men handled the revolvers and hand grenades lovingly, but ignored the sten-guns. I supposed they had never seen one before. I saw one or two examining the beautiful parachute silks, so repeated my orders that nothing was to be taken away from the spot, as there might be road checks on the way back to Angers. The stores were to be hidden, and distributed later.

But Henri and I were breaking the rules by taking away the three small packages. I was carrying on the back of my bicycle two radio receivers which were to be sent to Vladimir in Paris, and Henri was taking back the cell of provisions, which was included in every drop and shared between the reception committee. It usually contained cigarettes, coffee, tea, sugar, chocolate, soap, and tins of salad oil. Sometimes there was even a couple of bottles of whisky. We decided to take a very careful ride back to town and to hide our goods if we saw or heard anything suspicious.

The whole of the group, now in good humour, rode away from the vineyard together, but we soon split up and I was left with our guide and Henri. We pedalled for miles, and after an hour the guide admitted that he was lost, so we stopped, and I checked our position on my map before heading for a main road in the greyish light that precedes the dawn. My bicycle, with two R/T sets on the back, was very top-heavy, and I fell off twice as I hit potholes and ruts. I was pleased when we reached the main road where progress was much easier.

By the time we reached the outskirts of Angers it was broad daylight, but everything seemed normal. There were no extra checks out, so I decided to continue as Henri branched off towards his home. I reached the deserted town and suddenly, out of a side street, poured a company of German infantrymen on bicycles, riding in the loose formation of dockyard workers when they leave at clocking-off time. They were all going my way, so I had to ride along in the middle of them. They seemed mild and inoffensive, and I passed the time of day as one or two tried out their poor French, wondering what their reaction would have been if I told them what I had been doing all night. After ten minutes or so, they all swung off to the right and I was on my own again, much to my relief.

I reached the Blandeaus’ house to find everyone up, but no Blandeau. The rest of the family were worried, but I told them he would be along in a few minutes, and he was. As he walked in I had to laugh, for he looked as though he was in the last stages of pregnancy. I shook my fist at him, for I guessed what he had done, and I was right. Like a naughty schoolboy who has been caught stealing apples, he said: ‘Please don’t be angry with me – but I’ve brought a parachute. It’s for my daughters.’ The parachute was quickly disposed of by the girls, who unpicked all the seams, dyed it, and had the panels converted into underclothes, which I saw only when they were blowing on the line on washdays.

I sent a report of the success of the operation to London, through Vladimir, and was told in reply that I could expect another drop shortly. Two operations in one month was progress indeed, and I was well content. I had selected another dropping zone near Vanda’s home, and this had been accepted by the RAF. I warned Boris and Vanda of the drop and said that I wanted to bring along Blandeau, and our friend of the squeaking shoes, Duval, to give them experience. I realised that if things continued at this pace I could not control every drop. Others must be trained as well.

Two nights later the BBC came up with our message and I headed once again to a dropping zone, with Duval and Blandeau. It was a cloudy night, with a waning moon. In the direction of Saint-Nazaire I heard frequent explosions and the noises of aircraft. Obviously a big raid on the naval and submarine base. At two in the morning an aircraft came flying in quite low. It headed straight for us and, so far as I could see, it was British. I signalled, lit up the flare-path and waited for a returning signal. I got one, but it was not the answer I was expecting, for as I watched, another plane came into view and the first plane opened up its throttles and fled. I was able to make out that the second aircraft was a German night fighter, before they both disappeared in the night.

Despite the protestations of the others, I decided to stay until four o’clock, which allowed me enough time to hide the containers. At ten to four, another aircraft came in high, and obviously very much in a hurry. It gave me the right reply to my signal, flew up the flare-path the wrong way, dropped my containers, and disappeared at speed. I counted twelve parachutes, but as they had been dropped from height they all drifted off. We could only find ten, which we hid in the roof of an old barn. Then all the team went back, with the exception of Boris – who did not have to clock in at a set time – and myself. Vanda would have stayed, but he had to be in bed before his servant girl – who knew nothing of his night-time operations – came to call him in the morning. Boris and I waited, and easily spotted the white parachutes as it got light. We hid them away with the others, for all the stores from this drop were to be collected by Monsieur Bremond, a dyer and cleaner who owned a plain van. He would bring his son, Maurice, and Duval, fully armed, and if they met any Feldgendarmes – who generally patrolled Angers in twos – they would shoot them, bundle them into the van, and burn the bodies in the enormous furnace which was always alight at their dye works. The stores were to be in a clever cache built in the roof of the factory. To get at it, a ladder had to be placed on top of their machinery and a trap door lifted. Each time the cache was used, Monsieur Bremond plastered the ceiling over to hide the trapdoor. They moved our stores a week later, without recourse to the furnace.

I was very busy, now that we had stores, lecturing group after group on methods of sabotage and the use of small arms. The sten-guns were no longer ignored, for the French fighters soon realised they were a very fine, close-range weapon. I also instructed groups to draw up plans of possible targets, like oil depots, engine depots, bridges, and factories, which I might be called upon to blow up later, and asked them to keep a check on German troop movements and concentrations. A division of troops in a couple of fields would make a fine target for the RAF.

The lectures brought immediate success. Monsieur Blandeau came to me with drawings of a top secret construction being built by the Germans at Watten, in northern France. None of us could work out what it was, for it looked like no other structure we had ever seen. Blandeau had been given the plan by one of the foremen on the job – an Alsatian – who thought it must be of great value as the Germans had gone to great trouble to check all the workmen on the project and had extra guards placed in the area to keep sightseers away. We did not know it then, but this was a drawing of the first flying-bomb site. I thought it must be important and hid it, with the plans for the take-over for Angers, in Monsieur Blandeau’s drawing board.

I heard, also, that the pension had been closed down by the Gestapo, who asked many questions about those known to have used it. Henri, in particular, was interrogated by the Gestapo, and I thought it would be wise to see less of him and the Tourganiefs.

The Russian and his French wife knew where I lived, but I had asked them not to come near the house unless it was a matter of extreme urgency. They agreed, and I always met them at other rendezvous. I asked Henri to do the same, but he started to visit me two or three times a day, using the most footling excuses. Madame Tourganief gave me a further warning about the Gestapo’s interest in Henri, so I told him that it would be wiser for him to take a business trip away from the area until things cooled down a little. He laughed at the idea, until I said I was moving again and that I would not give him my new address. He flew into a violent temper and shouted: ‘Do you trust me, or don’t you? There can be no halfway about this, and I insist you tell me where the hell you’re going to be. I’ve got to be able to get you in a hurry from time to time and I shan’t be able to do that unless you’re honest with me.’ Of course I trusted him, and I told him so. But I also told him that I did not trust the Gestapo. He could not swear not to give away secrets if he was arrested.

Henri pounded his chest and said: ‘They can put me against a post and shoot me – but they will never learn a thing from me.’

I told him quietly that shooting was the last thing they did, and it was the interval between arrest and shooting which led to people talking. But Henri was past reason and said that unless I told him where I was going he would have nothing more to do with me. The threat left me cold, for although he had been useful, he was getting too lax on security and I could well do without his tantrums. Fortunately the Blandeaus agreed with me, as did others in the group.

Monsieur Bremond, the dyer and cleaner, sent me to stay 15 kilometres outside Angers on the way to Le Mans, where his two aged parents lived. He drove me there in his old, plain van, and I arranged to keep in contact with him through his children, Maurice, Renée and André, or through the Tourganiefs or the Blandeaus.

I got a message from Paris saying that Vladimir was sending someone to collect the two radios and a suitcase of clothes, sent over in the last drop. I was given the number and description of his car, a meeting place near my house, and a password. I did not need the password, for Vladimir himself stepped out of the car. It was the first time we had met since we were training back in England a year earlier. Vladimir (Grover Williams) was a well-known peacetime racing driver. So was his second-in-command, Robert Benoist, whom he had brought with him. The two fitted the radios into a secret place in the car which just held the two sets. They felt the new clothes might compromise them if they were stopped, so they decided to send these by train.

Vladimir asked me to leave with him for Paris immediately as there was a British officer there who wanted to talk to me. ‘You’ll have to take off those old blue overalls and get properly dressed, because you would look very out of place with the bunch we’re operating with,’ he said. I changed into my old blue suit and pulled on my black army boots. I was hardly the well-dressed man.

We reached Paris just before curfew. The car, of course, was very powerful, and with Robert at the wheel belied its van-like appearance, and I found that he did not keep all his élan for the race tracks. We were stopped once when guards checked the cars and Robert’s papers, but that was all. They would have had a good haul if they had been a little more efficient – two British agents, two radios, and Robert.

The following afternoon I went to Vladimir’s peacetime house, where his French wife was living, and met the officer from London, Renaud. He was a Mauritian business man, called J. F. Antelme, well known in banking circles in France. He was awarded the OBE for his work in Paris, but was caught and executed before the Liberation. I gave him a complete breakdown of all the people I had met, their usefulness, and the possibilities of future targets.

He then told me that London wanted me to go back to England for a rest, as the Gestapo were not far behind me at Angers and it would be a good thing for the groups to lie low for a while. I did not want to go, as my work was going well, and I was reluctant to leave my friends.

‘I know how you feel, old boy, but just take a look at yourself in the mirror,’ he said.

I knew what he meant. I still looked as though I had just come out of prison, in spite of the good food and kindness I had been given. Life, under the constant state of tension, trying to be brave for other people as well as myself, had left its stamp on my face, which was heavily lined and drawn. I never relaxed, never felt safe. I was on guard even in my sleep. The word ‘England’ was a great temptation, and I thought of the countryside, lunch in Soho, of saying ‘hello’ to a policeman without my stomach turning over, and beer in a pub. I nearly agreed to go, but then I remembered Blandeau and Bremond, Boris, Vanda, and Duval, their wives and their children. There were no holidays for them, and they needed me.

So I told Renaud I could not go. He said it was all right by him but it would be up to London to decide after he had reported hack to Buckmaster.

We talked a lot about Alex, whom Renaud had seen. London wanted him back, too, but Alex would not go. With his wife and family in France and his incredible devotion to duty, I felt there would never be any argument strong enough to persuade him to return for a rest. He believed that as the Gestapo were looking for him in Angers, and not in Nantes, he was as safe as one ever could be in wartime France.

Renaud asked me if I knew an Inspector Imar.

‘Yes, I know him. He’s a policeman who had dealings with Alex and me in Limoges. He is not to be trusted at any cost. Why do you want to know?’ I asked.

He told me that Imar had got in touch with Alex again, asking his assistance to help two of our agents, who were in serious trouble. A meeting had been arranged between Imar and Alex for the following day.

I was suddenly very worried for my friend.

‘Renaud, you must stop Alex going. Find him for me and let me persuade him not to go. Alex gets a rush of blood to the head on occasions, and this is one of them. I can stop him – if you can find him.’ I knew that Alex was in danger, deadly danger. Do not ask me how, but it was an instinct developed over the months. Asked what was wrong with a situation, all one could do was to touch one’s nose with the forefinger and say: ‘The pifomètre says that it smells.’ The pifomètre was saying very loudly – ‘Save Alex’.

Renaud saw my anxiety and agreed to do his best to trace Alex. He was generous and loyal to his friends, as I found out so many times.

All was well when I arrived back at Angers, apart from another outburst from Henri, who made a scene because I had left the area without informing him. People were beginning to treat him like a bad joke, or with suspicion.

I now had as many dropping fields accepted by the RAF as I could manage for stores operations and two level, even clearings big enough for landing parachutists, or even a Lysander or twin-engined Hudson aircraft. I also had three good, small groups operating, the best of them being that formed by Boris and Vanda. Duval, squeaky shoes and all, had formed another small group at Ancenis, where the next drop was expected, and at Châteauneuf a very level-headed man from Alsace, called Louis, led another group. A drop was planned for Châteauneuf at about the same time as the one at Ancenis.

It was now that I experienced, for the first time, the antipathy existing between the rival political groups in France. They were looking to the future and a new, free France, and each group wanted the newness to be provided by their own political party. I accepted men in the Resistance from any political group, provided they understood that they had a soldier’s job to do first and that they would not be released by me to play at politics until after the liberation. Politics was of secondary importance, I thought, and I knew that too many good Frenchmen were executed and tortured after being denounced by political rivals for their own ends. I was not popular with the politicians, for two main reasons. Firstly I was British, and secondly I had no political axe to grind and would not involve myself with the wranglings of the day. In the early days of the war the party of the right held back from any strong military action, but towards the end it was the leftists, reserving themselves to seize power, who held back. It was an extremely difficult job for a military agent in the field to manoeuvre his way through the various factions to get his mission accomplished. At times I felt that a couple of hand grenades thrown among the squabblers would make my life much easier, but a quiet drink would calm me down and I reverted to diplomatic language to get my own way.

I went out to Châteauneuf for a few days with Monsieur Louis and stayed at a mill run by an active Resister, François Berger. Duval visited me there, and I told him he would have to run his own parachute reception operation. He was very proud to be trusted with the job. It was obvious to me that the increasing number of drops by the RAF would overtax the military agents and that more and more Frenchmen must take control of them.

While I was there, Madeleine, the Blandeaus’ younger daughter, cycled over and told me that the Gestapo had questioned Henri, the Tourganiefs, and Madame Bruges about me, and that her father and Bremond, the dyer and cleaner, thought it wiser for me to stay with Louis for a few days.

We had a picnic that day, a sunny, pleasing spring day, and in the evening, as we sat round the fire, there was a knock at the door. Everyone stiffened – that was the effect of any knock on the door in those days – but when it opened we found Blandeau and one of Alex’s couriers, called Charles. After the meal Charles took me aside and told me that I was to report to Renaud in Paris, in four days’ time, at Vladimir’s flat. It seemed, although Charles did not say this, that I was to go home for a rest after all. I told Blandeau that I was going on a journey and might be away for a long time. I suggested that, as the Gestapo was so active in Angers, he and the other groups should do nothing for a few weeks. When I came back, I told him, the groups could start up again, and if I did not come back, then I would see that another agent was sent to work with them. Blandeau was upset by the news but all he did was shake my hand and say: ‘Remember, we are counting on you.’ He was a very gallant little man.

It was later that evening that Charles gave me the news about Alex, of Renaud watching him enter the café, and his failure to reappear.

I spent the next day or two training Louis on how to run a stores operation, as he had never been on one. He was relieved when I said Duval might be able to help him if his drop did not coincide with the one at Châteauneuf, but I felt that he was capable enough.

His second-in-command was a real old warrior from the 1914–18 war, who had served in the present war and, after demobilisation, had smuggled his Fusil Mitrailleur – a weapon like a bren-gun – home with him and hidden it on his farm. ‘By Gad, if the Germans come I’ll set that gun up and mow them down,’ he would say. I heard many stories from Frenchmen of what they were going to do if the Germans came, so I did not think much of his boast, but I suggested I would like to see the gun later that evening. I expected a rusted piece, or the excuse: ‘I’m sorry, it’s too well hidden to disturb it just to satisfy your curiosity.’ But no, the old gentleman asked myself and Louis to his farm that night at eight o’clock. We were there on time and were introduced to his family with cakes, coffee, and eau-de-vie. After two drinks we were taken into a back room and there, in the middle of the floor, was the FM set up ready for action. It was in perfect working order and spotless. The old man and his great friend, also a 1914 veteran, stood to attention by the side of their gun, holding the three pans of ammunition which was all they had.

‘Give us some more ammunition and then let them come,’ the old boys said. I believe they meant it.

Just before I left, Blandeau handed me the plans of the mysterious construction at Watten, and I arranged to give it to Renaud when I reached Paris. I was concerned with finding a good hiding place for these on my journey, in case I was stopped and searched, until I remembered Alex and the loaf in which we hid our file. I decided the best place would be inside a sandwich, so I handed the papers to Madame Louis and asked her to hide them for me. She did such a good job that I had to mark the sandwich in case I ate it by mistake.

I cycled to the station accompanied by Monsieur Louis and left my bicycle at a small inn ready for my return, with orders for it to be picked up if I did not return within ten days. I bought my ticket, went through the normal check at the station entrance, and swung aboard the Paris train, which was packed as usual. That was the last time I saw Angers. I have never been back, although I wanted to go there after the war. But SOE advised me that for ‘political reasons’ it would be wiser for me to keep clear. There were few of my friends left at that time, for many who had worked so well and loyally with me were dead. The Tourganiefs were arrested, and disappeared. Vanda was arrested, but later got away. Bremond, the dyer and cleaner, was arrested and died from his treatment in captivity a short time after he was released. Alex’s wife, Madame Keller, was arrested, but came through. It was a long, sad list.

I met Vladimir at his flat and was taken to his wife’s house, where I saw Renaud again. He came to the point at once. ‘London wants you back and a plane will pick you up in about ten days’ time.’

I expected this order, but London had seemed so far away for so long, and so much had happened, that it took quite a time for the news to sink in that I would soon be free, if only for a short time, of the strain of being an enemy agent.

Renaud promised to go to Angers and tell Blandeau and Louis that they were not being abandoned by London.

He also said he had heard that the Gestapo were on the verge of a big clean-up and that I was suspect at Angers. Alex had been arrested and he might talk under ‘treatment’, but we found after the war that Alex, as I would have expected, did not say one word. I asked him if he had any further news of my friend.

We were silent for some time, each with our own thoughts, and both heavy at heart.

I put my hand in my jacket pocket to pull out a cigarette, and felt something soft. I pulled out my sandwich, which I had forgotten, and handed it to Renaud.

‘Thanks, not now. Camembert and white bread, excellent, but I’m not hungry,’ he said.

I explained, and showed him the plans. He studied them carefully and seemed impressed. He had a courier going to London in two days, and would dispatch them then.

These plans were to confirm for me the internal jealousies of SOE. On the corner of the plan I had written my code name for London, Fabien. When I was in London later on, I saw the plans again by pure chance, but this time the corner with my name on it had been snipped off with scissors. I asked why this had been done, and the officer I was talking to was astonished.

‘How do you know about this, it’s a top secret business?’ he said.

‘Well, I know about it because I got the plans to Paris and handed them over – that’s how.’

‘Well I’m damned – we’ve been told that another agent was responsible for getting this.’

This was pettiness, claiming credit where it was not due. We were all in the same war, but these little jealousies persisted all the time.

Two days later I was taken to the Austerlitz railway station to meet Prosper, head of the Paris circuit and the man I glimpsed many months earlier as he came out of the famous Black Bathroom at SOE headquarters. He introduced me to Claude and Auger, the men who were responsible for handling the reception of the Lysander which would be taking me out in a few days, and also to Phillip Miller. He was an Englishman, navigator of a Mosquito aircraft shot down a few days before. He was a fine man, but he did not speak one word of French and looked as English as roast beef.

Prosper and I parted, and I went off with the other three. I did not know it, but I had escaped capture by a very narrow margin. An hour or so after I left Prosper he and a large number of his group were arrested by the Gestapo – the operation that Renaud talked of. Prosper died, so did many others, and his organisation collapsed.

I briefed Phillip, who had good false papers, to go to sleep as soon as he got on the train with Claude, Auger and me for the four-hour journey to Amboise, as the travelling French are very friendly and chatty. I also told him to watch me carefully when any official came round so that he would not hand over his papers when his ticket was needed, or vice versa. The journey passed safely, but then came the identity check at the station. We planned to let Phillip and Claude go first with me, with Auger following immediately behind. If there was a holdup at the barrier over Phillip’s papers, we would push and hope Phillip and Claude could run away in the confusion.

The gendarme at the barrier took Phillip’s papers and studied them for a long time, comparing the photograph with the fresh-faced young British airman beside him. Finally he looked straight at Phillip, grinned, winked, and waved him through.

We cycled to a small hotel, where we waited for the Lysander and tried to protect Phillip from the curious residents, who thought the poor boy so young to have been made deaf by an explosion during a raid by ‘those beastly British’. When we were alone, Phillip told me of his remarkable luck since his aircraft had been shot down and his pilot killed.

After bailing out, he landed safely by a road, and walked, still in his RAF uniform, to a small crossroads. The signpost there meant nothing to him, so he chose the road that led downhill because he thought the name of the village it was pointing to was ‘charming’. He passed two women talking beside iron gates, and then heard them calling him. He turned, saw them beckoning and, being a fatalistic young man, he joined them. ‘Eengleesh, veney queek,’ they said, and hid him away. The brother of one of these ladies happened to be part of an escape-route organisation for British pilots. So, eight days after being shot down, Phillip waited to be picked up and taken home again.

We stayed three days at the hotel until a message came through that the Lysander was coming that night. We cycled out to the woods near the field where the plane was to land, waited until 1 a.m., then heard an aircraft droning in the distance.

A Lysander appeared, very low over the field, absolutely on time, and I marvelled at the navigation of the lone airman who had ferreted the right patch out of so many. We lit the flare-path, she landed safely. There was a bustle at the door, and a man, brandishing a revolver, climbed out and handed down eight suitcases. I felt for the reception committee, as carrying that load on two bicycles for several miles was not going to be much fun.

A quick handshake from Claude and Auger, and Phillip and I climbed into the Lysander, which still had its engine running. Less than two minutes after touch-down, the pilot prepared for take-off.

I adjusted the headphones and the pilot said: ‘Do you speak English?’

‘Yes, I’m British.’

‘Good show, well you’ll find two push buttons on the seats, one on the port side and one on the starboard. Got them?’

‘Yes,’ I told him.

‘If you see any night fighters or flak, push the button on the appropriate side. Got it. There’s a thermos of coffee at the bottom of the cockpit. Hold tight.’

I shouted to Phillip, and he took charge of one of the buttons. Then the Lysander taxied to the end of the field and we were airborne. Phillip and I found one parachute at the back but, because we were both big men, there was insufficient space for either of us to put it on. We decided that the chances of getting out, if anything went wrong, were very slim anyway.

I was very tense as the Lysander gained height. I had a feeling that I was going to die in this plane and I refused to believe England and safety were so near. Suddenly there were lights and flashes all round the plane, and Phillip and I pushed our buttons frantically, but the pilot was already taking action, weaving and diving to escape the flak that came at us. He swooped to the ground, only 10 feet above the hedgerows, which flicked by like telegraph poles seen from a fast moving train. Then the banging stopped and the pilot came on the intercom.

‘There’s the Channel, we’re okay now. Sorry about the bit of a shake-up.’

I blessed the coolness of that pilot and I was delighted, a few years ago, to see the courage of the men of the Lysander Force recognised in a book called Moon Squadron. They flew unarmed under the most difficult conditions.

All the way over the Channel I twitched, seeing night fighters in every speck on the windows, but finally we crossed the coast and at last circled the airfield.

The pilot came on again. ‘We are about to land…’ he paused, then with a chuckle, finished his sentence, ‘in England. Don’t try to get out until the cockpit is opened. Here we go.’

We landed very sweetly, taxied for a few minutes, and stopped. He switched his engine off, and I was engulfed by the stillness of the English morning. My tension disappeared. It was a sensual experience, a feeling of getting into warm, clean sheets – and the security of the arms of a woman you loved. I savoured those moments. Then the cockpit opened and a voice I recognised said: ‘Hello, Raymond, had a good trip?’ It was Jean Paul, Major Bodington, whom I had last seen in France. With him were André Simon, my old conducting officer who was frequently in and out of France, and Gerry Morel, the agent who had escaped from Limoges dressed as a doctor, with stitches still in his stomach after a major operation. It was good to be met by friends.

Phillip and I were taken into the mess and given whisky and sodas, bacon and eggs. I explained who Phillip was, as he had not been expected, and he was hailed as a fellow flier. I kept in touch with him, but only a short time after he went back to operations he was shot down and killed.

After breakfast I was driven back to London and arrived, shortly after 7 a.m., at André’s flat. ‘Look, old boy,’ he said, ‘I’m going to grab a couple of hours sleep. You help yourself. There’s a sofa, hot water, tea, and coffee, and here’s the telephone.’

I could not sleep, so I got into a hot bath and started thinking, trying to realise that I was in England, attempting to get back my English personality. I wondered if my mother knew I was still alive, and whether Vi, the girl I wanted to marry, remembered I still existed. She had been on a bomber station as a WAAF when I left for France.

I got out of the bath and reached for the telephone.