Peulevé was surprised by the brevity of his basic training, noting: ‘If it had not been for the fact that I had been in the Cadet Corps at school, I would not even have known how to march in time, for all the training the army gave me.’1 After this cursory introduction to soldiering, he was expected to join the 193rd Battery at the Leigh-onSea Regimental HQ at the beginning of October, serving as a gunner. However, his technical background at the BBC had already been noted, resulting in a swift transfer to the Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC) and a posting to the Royal Military College of Science at Lydd on the Kent coast for training. There was a pressing need for professional technicians like Peulevé, and his electronics expertise made him an ideal candidate for instruction on the new and highly-secret technology known as GL (Gun-Laying) radar.
At the outbreak of war an effective aerial early warning system was already in place. Known as Chain Home, it comprised a network of radar installations across south-east England that could identify incoming enemy aircraft by the radio-wave ‘echoes’ they produced. As a means of increasing the accuracy of anti-aircraft fire against these targets, coastal defence batteries additionally employed GL radar sets, which reported range, elevation, position and other data, and assimilated this information with other variables such as wind speed and gun temperature via a crude mechanical computer known as a Predictor. This type of radar application was still in its infancy – the Mark I variant current at this time required a crew of five to operate its separate receiver and transmitter, housed in separate cabins mounted on trailers. Once thoroughly acquainted with the equipment, it would be Peulevé's job to maintain these sets and support the work of the gunlayers, who relied on it to direct their fire. Finishing the course at the end of January 1940, he was elevated to the rank of armament Staff Sergeant and attached to a field workshop at Arras, as part of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF).
Chamberlain's government had agreed in February 1939 to send a modest military presence to France, but the strength of the Expeditionary Force grew substantially after the outbreak of war, with 158,000 troops and 25,000 vehicles being transported by the end of September. However, years of neglect by a succession of governments had left the British Army completely unprepared for such a role – relying predominantly on infantry with little armoured support, the BEF was outmoded and suffered from poor training, shortages of equipment and few experienced officers. Major General (later Field Marshal) Montgomery, who was in command of the 3rd Infantry Division at the time, later concluded that it had been ‘totally unfit to fight a first class war on the continent of Europe’.2
The command of the BEF was given to General Lord Gort, who was subordinate to the Commander-in-Chief of both British and French armies, General Maurice Gamelin. A First World War veteran in his late sixties, Gamelin became known as an evasive and equivocal leader, but was resolute in his determination to avoid another Verdun, which had been responsible for the slaughter of more than 150,000 French soldiers in 1916 and was a potent national symbol of loss. He had accordingly placed his faith in a policy of isolating Germany's economy through a naval blockade, which would give the French time to build up its army in order to launch an offensive some time later, perhaps in 1941 or 1942. This defensive, reactive outlook was shared by Britain, and their general sense of reluctance to take the initiative quickly spawned the term ‘phoney war’ or drôle de guerre.
It was expected that if Germany mounted an invasion it would come from the north, through Belgium and Holland. Gamelin believed that Germany's reliance on its armoured units made an attack through the Ardennes impossible, claiming that the River Meuse was ‘the best anti-tank obstacle in Europe’,3 whilst to the south lay the Maginot Line, an impressive system of fortifications running from the Swiss frontier up to Longwy on the border with Luxembourg. Agreeing with this analysis, the Supreme War Council agreed to a strategy known as Plan D, or the Dyle Plan, whereby British and French forces would respond to a German advance by taking up defensive positions along the River Dyle, east of Brussels.
Through the worst winter for years, British troops started strengthening their positions along the Belgian border, and in order to help build additional installations the BEF formed the Auxiliary Military Pioneer Corps. Consisting of 30,000 men, it was composed of labourers rather than soldiers, ill-equipped and mostly without training. By the spring the BEF had swelled to nearly 400,000 men, comprising ten divisions, although only a quarter of this number were battle-ready troops.
Peulevé's first impressions of the sprawling BEF General Headquarters at Arras were very different to what he had imagined. For a soldier supposedly at war he found that life here was relatively simple and easy-going – his only responsibility was to make daily inspections of the gunlaying equipment at four anti-aircraft batteries, whilst the evenings were spent in the local estaminets. Rumours of German spies dressed as nuns were common, but evidence of the war was more apparent in the newspapers than in the heart of British GHQ. However, this sedentary existence did not sit well with Peulevé, who felt increasingly frustrated by the complacency that surrounded him. These feelings became all the more acute when the Germans started to send reconnaissance aircraft over Arras, as the gunlaying technology he had been trained to use proved virtually useless, the fire from the AA guns falling well short of their targets.
On 9 April, Germany occupied Denmark and began an offensive on Norway. Plans had already been made by the Allies to mine the waters off Narvik to deter any attack, but disagreements between British and French governments ensured that by the time a decision had been reached, German forces were already on their way. Allied troops were sent during the following weeks to prevent the invaders consolidating their positions, but a combination of ineffectual planning, muddled leadership and German air supremacy would be responsible for their failure to defeat the occupiers.
Increased numbers of enemy aircraft were seen over Arras on the evening of 9 May, though once again the anti-aircraft defences made little impact on their targets. A few hours later the German attack on Belgium and Holland finally began, and Plan D was executed; on the same day the beleaguered Chamberlain was eventually forced to resign, with Churchill, previously First Lord of the Admiralty, taking his place. The British and French left their positions at the border and moved up to the River Dyle as planned, but the main thrust of the German attack came through the Ardennes, the weak point between the Dyle defences and the Maginot Line, which was only lightly defended by the French.
Despite Gamelin's confidence about the impenetrability of the Meuse, Generals Rommel and Guderian crossed it at Houx and Sedan on 13 May, and rapidly made their way into French territory, effectively cutting the Allied armies in half. The German Army had long awaited the opportunity to redress the defeat of 1918 and, like the men of his Panzer division, Erwin Rommel had to keep reminding himself that ‘we had broken through the Maginot Line and were driving deep into enemy territory. It was not just a beautiful dream. It was reality.’4 By 15 May, Holland had fallen, and the British and French lines in the north were being forced back towards France. Stunned by the speed of the German breakthrough and paralysed by poor logistical planning, France's cumbersome armoured divisions failed to counter-attack effectively, whilst the more mobile Panzers continued advancing on a 50-mile front towards the French coast.
Some weeks earlier Peulevé had seen Lord Ironside, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, make a speech at a football match where he declared the Expeditionary Force to be equipped to deal with any attack, but this unfolding disaster clearly indicated a different reality. Soon streams of Belgian and Dutch refugees started to flow through the roads surrounding Arras, the first few travelling in cars, carrying mattresses on their roofs as meagre protection from the fighters strafing them, being followed by the miserable train of those on foot, their possessions in handcarts; Lieutenant General Alan Brooke, Commander of the BEF's II Corps, described this exodus as ‘the most pathetic sight, with lame women suffering from sore feet, small children worn out with travelling but hugging their dolls, and all the old and maimed struggling along’.5 Watching helplessly as this dismal procession continued south, Peulevé became increasingly tormented by his inability to do anything to relieve this tragedy, feeling ‘frustration at not having been trained, frustration at not being in a position to do much about the situation, and anger at the circumstances which brought it about’.6 However, these collective scenes of misery merely signalled the beginning of his own personal ordeal, the consequences of which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Orders were given to fit open sights to the AA guns, so that they could be used to defend against the German tanks that were now closing in on Arras. The BEF's General Headquarters attempted to meet the crisis but its communications were poor, suffering from confusion between departments in the outlying villages. Increasing levels of chaos ensued as transmission of orders and information failed to keep pace with events, and by 22 May, Lieutenant General Sir Henry Pownall, Chief of the General Staff, described it as ‘a hopeless position and too absurd because we haven't yet encountered the real German Army; this is only their (armoured) cavalry that is sending us reeling’.7 Though the defence of Arras would continue, the order was given for the RAOC workshop to join the evacuation and Peulevé, ‘horrified and depressed’,8 watched the way in which the men in his Company, including officers, started to fall over themselves to obey the command.
Any hope that their vehicles would leave in convoy soon evaporated, as they became separated amongst the hordes of people filing along the roads. Taking one of the trucks Peulevé started driving south towards Amiens and then toward the only base he knew of, at Le Havre, picking up stragglers from all services along the way who had either been walking or hitching rides on the carts of the refugees. Initial feelings of desertion soon began to play on his mind: ‘I had to face it. We were running away as fast as our cowardly little minds could urge us on.’9 Yet it was even more traumatic to witness the indignities of others who were overcome by the situation. On his way Peulevé was stopped by a corporal of the Royal Engineers, whose officer was lying prone in the middle of the road. Clearly distracted, tears were streaming down his face as he frantically fired rifle shots into the wood ahead, yelling ‘I'll get the bastards!’ Unable to communicate with him, Peulevé had no alternative but to knock him out with the butt of his rifle, carrying him to his car and leaving him under the corporal's care.
By the time they arrived at Le Havre it was clear that the panic had spread and the great swarms of soldiers already at the port left them with little hope of being evacuated. Thinking there might be a better chance further south, Peulevé headed towards Nantes, crossing the Seine at Rouen, where he encountered a company from the Pioneer Corps lining the road on either side. These men were mostly veterans from the previous war, proudly wearing their 1914– 18 ribbons, and seemed determined to make a stand even though they were armed with nothing more than rifles. As Peulevé drove through this line they began to hurl derisory comments at those in the truck, denouncing the younger generation for running away whilst the real soldiers stuck to their job. There was nothing Peulevé could have done to help, as the fourteen men in the vehicle only had four rifles between them, yet the sickening sense of guilt after running this gauntlet was enough to make him rip the stripes from his arm in self-disgust.
Some time later they stopped at a vineyard and were met by the owner who offered them a few bottles of his wine. Peulevé asked if he had any news on whether the French Government had collapsed yet, but the man was surprised that he could even contemplate defeat, declaring, ‘Never… never will we become Germans.’ Asking where they were going, Peulevé told him they were returning to England. In complete disbelief, the man was only able to mutter, ‘Good God, are you going to leave us to fight alone?’
Their chances of being picked up seemed much better when they eventually got to Nantes, though Peulevé and his men were still forced to shiver through the next twenty-four hours, up to their necks in the water, before they found space aboard an available vessel. Arriving at Liverpool they were then taken to Leicester and assembled in a public park, with sentries posted at the gates. Unable to understand what was going on, a man next to him asked a passing milkman to sell him a couple of bottles. His reply was unexpected: ‘Go back to France, you bastards, and get it from the NAAFI.’ After a couple of days of milling around they were given leave, though whilst waiting for his train at Leicester station Peulevé was accosted by a man wearing a Land Defence Volunteers arm-band, who growled, ‘I suppose you've come back from France. Well, I was in the first lot and we didn't run away like your shower did.’ The humiliation was complete.
These experiences had a profound effect on Peulevé's attitude to the war and his place in it. Though he had successfully evacuated his men, he felt that he had not been able to do anything to defend the country he loved, and this lasting sense of shame would govern many of his motives through the rest of the war:
I went home and thought the whole thing over. We were now in a state of siege. The only way I could wipe out the degradation and humiliation that I felt would be by getting back into a fighting unit where I could prove I was not a coward.10
He began trying every channel he could think of to get himself transferred to a more active role, but his knowledge of electronics was too important to the Army. Restoring his stripes, he was returned to the Royal Military College of Science, being posted to Bury Technical College in Lancashire where he was to spend his time instructing trainee wireless operators on the principles of radio technology. In January 1941, AA Command offered him a commission, and though he was not passed through an Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) due to time constraints, Peulevé was officially made a Second Lieutenant in April; transferred to 3rd AA Corps School as an Instructor, he was quickly promoted to Captain on the basis of his now extensive knowledge of radar. During September he was posted to a Wireless Company with 1st AA Division, mainly giving lectures on specialist topics, before returning to London in November to carry out radar maintenance work at Golders Green and Hendon.
After the intense and deeply affecting experiences of the previous year, this job seemed far removed from active service – it would have been easy for him to remain with AA Command and see out the war relatively quietly. However, the memories of what he had encountered in France and particularly the frustration that he felt over his own conduct provoked him to bombard the War Office with more requests to be transferred. Though Peulevé's motivations were largely personal, others like him also found this inertia unbearable; Harry Rée, who would later pursue a similar vocation, commented on this impetus:
You see, after the fall of France most of us in the army in this country had damn all to do. We were pushed off to Exeter or Wales or Scotland, nice safe places where there was very little to do, while wives and families were often in London or Coventry or Plymouth, all places which were being bombed – they were at risk, while we weren't. I think a lot of men resented this.11
In early 1942 Peulevé happened to hear about a commando raid on the French coast, where technicians had been employed to bring back details on a secret German radar station. This was Operation Biting, in which Major John Frost of the 2nd Parachute Battalion led more than a hundred paratroopers, several engineers and a radar expert on a mission to steal components from a ‘Würzburg’, an early-warning radar set sited on the cliffs at Bruneval, near Le Havre. Frost's force parachuted into the area, ripped the relevant components from the Würzburg installation under fire and made their way to the shore, where Royal Navy landing craft successfully picked them up. Thinking that there must be a need for technicians in roles like this, and especially for those with a second language, Peulevé tried telephoning the War Office again one evening while on duty. With no idea of who to ask for, he was passed around the switchboard until someone was found to take his details, being told that he would be contacted if anything suitable came up.
Some days later he received a request to report to room 055a at the War Office, off Horse Guards Parade. On arrival he was directed by a secretary to a small barely furnished room where he was greeted by a tall, elegant man who introduced himself as Major Gielgud. In his late forties, Lewis Gielgud had far more in common with the arts than the military; the elder brother of actor John Gielgud, he shared his passion for the theatre and had written several plays and novels whilst travelling the world as Under Secretary General for the Red Cross. Conducting their initial conversation in French, Gielgud was immediately impressed by his candidate – although only five feet nine, Peulevé's broad shoulders suggested considerable strength, but it was his force of personality that was most striking. Through piercing grey-green eyes he possessed a remarkable ability to charm and persuade, offset by a natural modesty that made him all the more engaging. Combined with the fluency of his French and his technical expertise, Gielgud felt confident that he could offer him a more engaging alternative to AA Command.
Gielgud agreed that Peulevé's involvement in raids like Bruneval might be possible, but suggested that his French might be put to better use. He proposed that he attend a special three-week course, during which time his abilities would be evaluated; if he seemed to be the kind of material they were looking for, he would be given more details about the work involved. It was also implied that, even if he failed the course, there might still be another opportunity to do more for the war effort than just drawing circuits on a blackboard. The Major made it clear from the outset that this course was in no way compulsory, he could refuse on the spot and his superiors would be none the wiser. But there was to be no turning back in Peulevé's mind and several days later he received a letter asking him to report to 6 Orchard Court, a residential block on the eastern side of Portman Square. Though he didn't know it, he was being directed to the offices of the French Section of the Special Operations Executive.