Chapter Eleven

Moonlight placed its eerie mantle over the fields and hedgerows at one-thirty on Sunday morning, as fourteen members of the Resistance took up their positions on the northern edge of the Forêt de Paimpont awaiting the arms drop. The group was split up into seven pairs, each pair would work together in retrieving the arms canisters after they landed, carrying or dragging them into the shelter of the forest prior to opening them and dividing the arms up according to the arms dispersal and storage plan.

The airplane making the drop was to be an Armstrong Whitworth Whitley B Mark V night bomber, powered by two 1145 horsepower Rolls-Royce Merlin X engines that gave a somewhat lumbering cruise speed of only 185 miles per hour. The fuselage floor was specially modified with a large hatch through which arms canisters and other supplies could be released. Before leaving Erwan’s farm, André had received a communication from Grendon that the plane was on its way from somewhere in southern England. Unless the plane was shot down or developed engine trouble, the drop was on.

Erwan and Annette were operating as one of the pairs, so they lay together in the forest’s undergrowth, but with a clear view of the field into which the canisters were supposed to fall, at least according to the plan. In fact, it would be a miracle if they fell into that particular field because of the many varying parameters that affected their descent, such as release point, release height, and wind drift.

Fifty feet from Erwan, André stood behind a large oak tree adjusting a new toy. The toy was an S-phone, an ultra-high-frequency secret radio-telephone powered by batteries, developed but under refinement by SOE. This enabled intercommunication between an agent in the field and an aircraft or ship. André had never used the S-phone before, and as far as he was concerned it was still experimental. He was a diehard Morse code lover, but because London had ordered its tryout, André reluctantly agreed to its use. Marcel had been able to give him some instruction on how to operate it, based on a limited training session he had had during his last recall in England.

The S-phone was strapped to André’s chest, and because it weighed 15 pounds, he felt as though he were going to fall flat on his face the whole time. Also, he did not like the idea that he had to stand out in the open and rotate himself until he was lined up with the incoming aircraft in order to get suitable reception for a two-way conversation with the pilot. It sounded like suicide to him. On the plus side though, he did appreciate that because the device used a sky wave beam tilted upwards, the ground wave was minimized, so making detection by an enemy monitoring station very difficult. In an earlier radio transmission, he had been told by Grendon that the Whitley would locate the approximate drop-zone by dead-reckoning navigation and then circle it at 500 feet until the pilot heard André’s voice guiding him to the exact spot. If the S-phone failed, the backup plan was for André to run into the middle of the field and use his flashlight as a Morse code indicator by repeatedly sending the letter “V” - three short and one long set of flashes.

Marcel moved quietly over to André and said, “You see that gap in the high hedge on the far side of the field about 100 yards away, get there now and keep still. I think the hedge on either side of you will give reasonable cover; at least you won’t be on the skyline. There’s still fifteen minutes to the plane’s ETA, but just as soon as you think you hear it start talking. You’ve got a range of about six miles for a plane at 500 feet. I don’t know how good the pilot’s French will be so you’d better use English; I know yours is good.

“If you hear the plane but can’t communicate with it for any reason, don’t hesitate to run to the middle of the field and use your flashlight as the backup method. OK, good luck; go, go!”

André broke cover and moved off around the edge of the field in an unhurried fashion. He did not like this; this was not his usual modus operandi. He was used to sitting in a small room surrounded by friendly walls and a roof that gave him some sense of security. Out here in a large field, alone, he was scared stiff. The bright moon cast complicated shadows from the hedgerow he was following, and a light wind rustled the hedge leaves whose motion was magnified in the shadows. Every movement could be a German soldier about to open fire and tear André into shreds. He told his imagination to be quiet. He was going to be all right because he had a bunch of good comrades hiding in the forest, armed to the teeth, protecting him. But his heart was pounding like a jack-hammer. He wondered whether the pilot would hear his heart over the S-phone. What a joke that would be.

He reached the gap in the hedge, climbed the small embankment upon which the hedge stood and crouched down, trying to make himself invisible. Barely a minute had past when he thought he heard the dull drone of engines in the distance. He stood up, put the earphones on, activated the S-phone and spoke into the mouthpiece in a normal voice.

“This is Carotte calling Foxtrot. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Carotte calling Foxtrot. Come in please. Come in please.”

No response. He repeated the sign-on but in a louder voice. Still no response. Now he could hear the plane distinctly, but he saw no shape in the moonlight against the clear starry sky. He repeated the sign-on once more, but all he received back was crackling static, even though he rotated his body and the antenna through 360 degrees. The antenna was a vertical rod that formed a T-junction with a smaller horizontal rod that came out of his phone chest-pack.

Then he suddenly realized what was causing the problem. It was the hedge on either side of him making a blind spot as he swept the antenna passed it, and, as luck would have it, the plane just happened to be on a course straight up the line of the hedge. His theory sounded a bit far fetched for surely his ultra-high-frequency gadget could shine through a bit of foliage. Maybe, maybe not, but when the plane starts to circle, at some point the antenna should have a clear line for signal transmission. He was not going to wait for that; time was running out. He had no alternative but to head for open space right in the middle of the field. He scrambled down the bank, and, clutching the S-phone pack close to his chest, ran as fast as he could to the center of the field. By the time he got there his earphones had fallen off his head and were trailing through the grass. He quickly put them back on and hoped they weren’t damaged. Once more he spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Carotte calling, Carotte calling Foxtrot. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?”

Silence, then, with ears straining, André heard a voice, very faint, but definitely a voice. He smiled one of his rare smiles and even gave a quiet chuckle.

“OK, Foxtrot, I can just hear you. Welcome to France! Now I’m going to talk a lot of nonsense, continuously; anything that comes into my head just so you can get a beam on where I’m located. I’ll stand still, you circle and find where the signal strength picks up then turn to port and fly down the beam until the signal is a maximum. Then, voilá, here I am, good to see you. But you don’t need me to tell you how to do this stuff. You’re the expert, I’m the novice.”

“This is Foxtrot. Message received, Carotte. Good to hear you. Will start circling now. Keep talking,” said the Whitley pilot.

Marcel had become worried and confused as he crouched at the edge of the forest. He had seen André get to the gap in the hedge and then obviously try to use the S-phone. He had cursed when André headed for the center of the field because that must have meant the phone wasn’t working. So then he should have started to use his flashlight, but he didn’t. What the devil was he up to, he thought, for he could distinctly hear the plane now. He crept along to where Erwan and Annette crouched anxiously.”

“What the hell is André up to? We’re going to lose that plane if he doesn’t damn well signal it right away,” growled Marcel. “You’d better get over there and see what’s up, Erwan, and move like the wind.”

“OK, I’m off.” Erwan didn’t need any further encouragement. He ran upright as fast as he could, even though that gave him a bigger profile for the enemy to see should they be in the neighborhood. He reached André without incident.

“Has your flashlight packed up as well as the phone?” gasped Erwan, almost out of breath as he clutched André’s forearm for support.

“What do I need my flashlight for, I’ve got the pilot on the phone? We’re having a grand conversation. Can’t you see his silhouette as he circles? Now bugger off and let me concentrate on getting him right overhead before he does the release.”

The pilot circled one more time, flying lower as he did so.

“This is Foxtrot, Carotte. I can actually see you now. This moonlight is giving you a beautiful complexion. I’m going to drop the canisters now, seven of them, and then buzz off back to Blighty. Nice chatting with you. Bonne chance, mon ami!”

André kept his eyes on the plane and saw seven objects tumble out, fall about a hundred feet and then have their descent slowed by mushrooming parachutes. The canisters swung like giant pendulums before crashing into the ground with considerable force. Four of them landed in the field where André and Erwan were standing, but the other three were a bit off target and came to earth in the next field over. The Resistance did not waste any time. As soon as the canisters were down, they broke cover and ran doubled up with rifles or Sten guns slung across their backs. For a few minutes they fussed over which pair should have which canister. Three pairs had to climb the gate of the next field to find the strayed ones. Annette ran to Erwan, and together they took hold of the straps at each end of the canister nearest to them, lifted it a few inches off the ground and walked laboriously towards the edge of the forest. They had walked about ten yards when chaos erupted.

Annette saw it first as small flashes of light coming out of the forest, then the air was whining and bits of the field mysteriously jumped upwards in puffs of dirt and glistening frost. Hot lead was seeking their bodies. She and Erwan, reflexively, dropped the canister and threw themselves on the ground behind it. As they did so, they heard someone on their right give an ugly but short scream as the person was thrown backwards by a bullet’s impact. Intuitively, Annette knew it was André.

Annette was sweating from running and lifting the canister, and from the fear that comes with being under fire for the first time. So she welcomed the cool, moist, frosted grass on her face as she lay hugging the field. Erwan slowly raised his head to peep over the covering canister and saw more flashes.

“Sorry, Annette, we’re in a tight spot. Must be a German patrol; just stumbled upon us.”

“Like hell!” said Annette. “Some traitorous bastard gave them a tip-off. But what do we do now? We’re stuck right out in the open. We don’t stand a chance.” Erwan did not respond immediately. He was not a rapid thinker.

But Marcel was. He and his partner were carrying a canister that had fallen only ten yards from the right hedge when the chaos started. In front of the hedge was a ditch, shallow but deep enough for a man to crawl along unseen. After the first burst of gunfire, Marcel and his partner made a successful dive for the ditch and edged along it to the forest. His plan was to try and outflank the Germans by reaching the forest, filtering through it and then pick them off one by one. He hoped that another pair of his men on the far side of the field were in a position to formulate the same plan so both flanks could be attacked. But it was only a hope. He knew that a frontal assault across the field would be suicide. His plan gave them the best chance, but he was not able to tell the other members of the group what he was going to do. Anything could break loose.

Marcel and his partner crawled along the ditch as fast as possible, but it was slow going because the bottom of the ditch was a mixture of mud, ice and water. It was hard to get a grip and Marcel knew that time was running out. The Germans might emerge from the forest in strength at any moment and finish off whomever was still alive in his group. So he got out of the ditch and ran along side it, going like a hare. His partner followed suit. They had almost made the edge of the forest when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure running fast, firing from the hip and yelling something incomprehensible. Whoever it was possessed either extreme bravery or extreme stupidity. Marcel had no option; he had to draw some of the Germans’s fire to try and give the charging lunatic a chance. He unslung his Sten and fired short bursts at where he thought one of the Germans was located. The response came quickly; a stream of bullets pummeled the bank of the hedge just behind them, off the mark but too close for comfort. Marcel increased his stride then took a flying leap into the undergrowth at the edge of the forest, unscathed. He gave a quick glance back into the field but saw no movement, although there was a still form about twenty yards from the forest. It could be the fallen lunatic, thought Marcel.

Marcel’s partner crouched beside him and gave the thumbs-up sign. They moved deeper into the forest to gain more substantial cover from the large tree trunks before moving along to seek out individual members of the German patrol. The firing became spasmodic and then stopped altogether. This was not good, for Marcel needed gun flashes to locate the enemy. He froze in position behind a tree with his partner about fifteen feet to his right behind another tree. The perfect silence was uncanny; no zephyrs rustled leaves or branches; no forest animals scurried about their nightly business. It was as though the steely moonlight wanted all to rest, all to be peaceful. Momentarily, Marcel’s brain was distracted by that age-old philosophical conundrum, ‘If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there, does it make a sound?’ Marcel smiled at the foolishness of this thought occurring in a situation like this where his life hung by a thread.

There was a sound just ahead of him, small but distinctly metallic. A shadow moved. It must be human, thought Marcel, so he opened up with single shots in the shadow’s direction. Then all hell broke loose. Gunfire seemed to be coming and going in all directions; from the forest into the field; from the field into the forest, although not so heavily, and from deep in the forest to the edge of the forest. Marcel did not have time to think what it all meant for another shadow was moving in front of him. He fired again but the shape came closer and took form. He fired again but nothing happened, just a trigger click. Then he saw a bayonet flashing in a moonbeam about five feet from him. A bayonet on the end of a rifle versus a jammed Sten gun were not good odds for Marcel. He should have sought the cover of the large tree that was close by to his right, but instead he acted as though he were on the rugby field again by leaping forward and crashing his left shoulder, low, into the knees of his assailant. He felt a quick burning pain on top of his head, and then heard a sharp crack like a small pistol going off. He lay still for a few seconds, dazed, with his left forearm under the ankles of the German who had gone flying over his back. Then a hand was helping him get to his feet.

“Thanks, Pierre, but look out, I only tackled the kraut, I didn’t kill him,” said Marcel.

“No, but I did.”

Marcel could now see the face of his helper. “You’re not Pierre! Who the hell are you? A forest phantom?”

“That’s a good guess. I’ll explain later, but now follow me or you’re likely to get shot by one of my men.”

Marcel was hesitant at first but, still being a little dazed, did what he was told. Suddenly, Pierre was in front of both of them with Sten gun leveled. “Arretez!” he shouted, not worrying about how loud his voice was because there was so much noise going on in the rest of the forest anyway; shots, screams, breaking branches, commands yelled in German, commands yelled in French, a truck’s engine starting up, a loud explosion.

“It’s OK, Pierre, it’s me, Marcel, and a friend.”

“Call me Jean,” said the friend. Then, “There’s another group of three Germans over there still firing at your group in the field. Let’s get them. Keep close. All the other krauts are engaged with my men.”

The Germans never knew what hit them as Pierre and Jean gave a three second burst from close range. Then the gunfire stopped, save for a few seemingly random shots from the field. It was almost peaceful again.

“I think we’ve probably got them all,” said Jean. “Now you’d better get your survivors to quit firing from the field. I don’t want my men going out there until it’s safe. And hurry, there will be another German patrol coming to see what’s happening shortly. You can bet on that.”

As Marcel went out of the forest, he put his hand to his forehead because something seemed to be trickling into his eyes. It felt sticky so it wasn’t sweat. He touched the crown of his head. Very sticky and warm, indeed. Obviously blood, and quite a bit of it, he thought. So that’s where the German soldier’s bayonet had gone, a glancing blow to my skull. No wonder I went groggy. No time for first aid now, it’ll have to congeal by itself. But I’ve lost my damn beret. Sod the krauts!

“Hold your fire, hold your fire! This is Marcel! I repeat, Marcel! Stop your firing!” Marcel waited a few seconds and then stepped farther into the field, but he saw no signs of life so he walked over to the canister closest to him. As he did so, a figure slowly and suspiciously stood up with Sten gun ready to fire. It was Annette. Marcel breathed a small sigh of relief but did not express it in words.

“Come on, we’ve got to move this canister into the forest quickly. We’ll talk as we go,” ordered Marcel. They staggered with their heavy load through the frosty field, so brilliantly lit by the moon.

“Erwan took off towards the forest about half a minute after the firing started, but I don’t think he quite made it,” said Annette. “I watched him make his wild charge like a man possessed, but then he was in the shadow of the trees and I lost sight of him. He might be hit or he might be OK. And I’m sure André got it. I believe he’s lying somewhere over to the left. I heard him, or someone, give a nasty scream of pain as he went down.”

Marcel was impressed with the steadiness in Annette’s voice. She had just been under intense fire, had seen some of her comrades killed or wounded and yet had given him a cool, calm, factual report. Yes, he was impressed with her courage and professionalism.

They reached the heavy shadows near the edge of the forest, and heard a faint cry for help. Annette’s sharp eyes searched to her left and almost immediately spotted a moving form. She prayed that it was Erwan.

“Over there to the left; someone’s moving,” said Annette.

“OK, I see him. A few more yards then we’ll dump the canister and go back to see who it is. We’ve got some unexpected help waiting just inside the trees; they’ll look after this stuff for a while.”

Jean had been tracking Marcel’s movements and now stepped out of cover to help him with the heavy load. At the same time, some of Jean’s men went into the main field and the adjacent one to help in the recovery of the other canisters, while those that remained kept a close vigilance for the arrival of more German soldiers.

Annette was the first to reach Erwan who was sitting up and holding his right leg. “Come on, Erwan, let’s go. We’re sitting ducks out here. What’s up, can’t you walk?” said Annette with little sympathy in her voice.

Merde alors! Of course I can’t walk. Do you think I’d be sitting out here counting my toes if I could. I took a bullet in the calf muscle. The whole leg’s gone numb. Can’t put any weight on it,” said Erwan in an angry voice.

“You’re lucky you haven’t got ten bullets in you, you suicidal maniac,” said Marcel, angrily. “Trying to make Claudette a widow, were you? OK, Annette, you get the other side. We’ll take an arm each over our shoulders and get him into cover,” said Marcel.

They went a little way into the trees and laid Erwan down gently. By this time, Jean’s group and those still alive from Marcel’s group had brought in all seven canisters and were busy opening them.

“Now hold it right there!” commanded Marcel. “Keep your hands off those guns until I know who the hell you are, and what you were doing in the forest during the arms drop to my group?”

“I’ll answer the second part of your question first. We were in the forest stopping you being annihilated. You should be damn grateful. Your perimeter security was lousy; no lookouts, no trackers. Rommel could have come into the forest with ten Panzer divisions and I doubt whether you’d have noticed him.

“As to who we are, well, for now I’ll only explain briefly; we’ve got to disperse. We’re the remnants of the unofficial Renoir circuit that operated in east Normandy. The circuit was betrayed by an insider, and all except we fifteen were taken, tortured and then shot. We managed to escape and came cross-country until we found a place to hole-up. We have to live off the land. Our Resistance identities are blown, our papers and permits useless. We arrived in small groups ten days ago at the Forêt de Paimpont which seems a good place to hide and operate from, as long as we can get support from the local inhabitants. If you’ve read the underground newspapers recently, you’ll know that more and more groups are doing what we’re doing; taking to the countryside, the forests, the mountains. We’re being known as the Maquis, after the dense scrublands found along the Mediterranean coastline and on Corsica.”

“Are you from what was an independent communist group?” asked Marcel.

“Yes, exactly. London doesn’t control us; not like you. We made our own papers, our own plans, reported to no one but our group leader.”

“Yeah, well perhaps that was your downfall. We’ve got to have an overall control organization that knows what everyone is doing, irrespective of your politics. We’ve got to have a coordinated Resistance throughout all France, even Vichy France. We’ve got to support one another, share information, share equipment and arms. That makes sense and that’s what de Gaulle wants,” emphasized Marcel.

“You could be right, but first let’s finish this night’s operation together. We’ll talk more later,” responded Jean. “We’d better do a head count now. How many do you think you’ve lost?”

Marcel went around the group checking faces. “We’re missing five out of fourteen,” he said, “and three are wounded.”

“I’ve lost two, killed. I guess our group wins,” said Jean, pointedly, but Marcel let the jibe go.

Together the communists and the de Gaullists retrieved their dead and buried them quickly in the forest, noting the location. The graves were shallow and were not indicated by the customary cross. Marcel and Jean did not want the Germans to find the bodies, and maybe later they could be retrieved and given a proper burial in a proper graveyard. Annette was right; André was one of the dead and Maurice was another. She would miss Maurice; he made her laugh. The German dead were left where they lay. No German wounded were found.

Although Marcel did not like it, he agreed to split up the arms and equipment equally between the two groups. London control would be furious at this, but if Marcel could persuade Jean’s group to accept London control, and so become official, maybe all would be forgiven.

Thirty minutes had now past since the moonlight battle, and Jean was getting more and more nervous so he dispersed his group back into the depths of the forest, their new home, carrying the rewards they deserved.

While the arms were being shared, Annette suddenly remembered André’s S-phone pack. She knew that under no circumstances must it fall into enemy hands, and those who retrieved André’s body must have removed the pack from his chest and left it out in the field where he had fallen. But why take the time to unstrap it, she asked herself. Perhaps the antenna, headphones and cables were in a jumble and too much to deal with as well as the carrying of the body. At the risk of high personal exposure, she went back out into the field to find it. She searched back and forth for what seemed an eternity, and was just about to give up when she spotted part of it. The pack was there with a bullet hole through it, and the antenna was bent double like the drooping stalk of a dying flower. She quickly picked it up and almost dropped it again for André’s blood still lay wet and slippery on its surface. The earphones and microphone mouthpiece were nowhere to be seen. She thought about leaving the damaged pack; it obviously would not work again, but then thought, no, not a good idea, the smart Germans could probably figure out how it was designed and make a replica. So she took it with her back into the forest.

Annette’s next problem was really difficult. Somehow she and Marcel had to get Erwan back to his farm, not only carrying him but also their share of the dropped arms - four Stens, two pistols, ammunition, six hand-grenades and some plastic explosives, all of which weighed heavily on their backs in sturdy canvas packs.

The hike back to the farm was exceptionally strenuous work. Erwan almost fainted a couple of times from the pain in his leg as it banged against objects that Annette and Marcel failed to see, as they part-carried and part-dragged him along. After what seemed an interminable two hours, they arrived exhausted, with sore arms, sore backs, and drenched in sweat.

Claudette was awakened and immediately showed a foul temper, berating Marcel and Annette for what they had let happen to her beloved Erwan. Eventually she calmed down as she dressed Erwan’s wound and put him to bed with a glass of hot cider. The bullet had gone clean through his calf, causing considerable bleeding, but, it was thought, no bone damage. The nerves in his leg had come back to life after being in a state of shock. Whether the family doctor should be called in or not was undecided. Marcel wanted to wait two days before making a decision, to see whether infection was setting in. However, Claudette had other ideas; she was going to get the doctor tomorrow at first light.

While Claudette fussed over Erwan’s wound, Annette cleaned up the gash on top of Marcel’s head and pulled the skin together with six stitches. She had never pushed a needle, threaded with simple cotton, into anyone’s scalp before, but tonight had been the first time for many things, so she took it in her stride. Marcel, on the other hand, was highly nervous and winced with pain at each jab of the needle. The worst part was not being able to see what Annette was actually doing with her sharp little weapon.

Even though Annette was thoroughly exhausted, Claudette would not allow her to stay at the farm for the rest of the night. She left for Guillaume on her bicycle, and only the cold night air kept her from falling asleep as she rode.

Marcel hid the new arms in the barn, then threw himself into bed, his mind still racing with the night’s near disaster. He persuaded himself that it was only a near disaster because the objective had been accomplished in that the much needed arms had been successfully dropped and retrieved. The cost had been seven men killed, out of twenty-nine, and three wounded. He had lost men before, many men, during the battles with the Wehrmacht in the retreat to Dunkirk, yet tonight’s losses somehow seemed more personal; André’s loss certainly was. He had been Marcel’s link to the one small country that remained free, a lifeline for help and encouragement. With André dead how would he contact London? He had André’s Paraset transceiver in the barn, but he was by no means competent in encoding and decoding messages, setting up the correct transmission frequency and in dealing with the mysterious idiosyncrasies of the whole system. But that was a problem for much later in the day.