Mission Vis

Preparation

MISSION VIS

Preparation for the mission

(Account by Georges Soulier)

A t the MI6 and OSS school in St Albans, the formation of pairs—two-person teams—was often left to the agents’ choice. Mutual trust and esteem, as well as how far along each person was in the courses and training, usually decided it.

For this preparation, a few days later I was sent “to the country”. That was the expression used for the very discreet place where we spent the last days before departure. The goal was to finalise every detail of the mission and, if necessary, to get back into full physical shape.

It took place in a manor house hidden away in the countryside. The place was called Grendon. It was about ten kilometres from Northampton. You reached the house by crossing a large, beautifully maintained park. It was run by Captain Alden of the OSS, and all the staff were hand-picked American servicemen. Each of us had a luxuriously furnished bedroom, and there were several sitting rooms and dining rooms. I remember we ate like kings there. It was no longer the English diet. For example, at breakfast there were fruit juices, small thick sweet pancakes with runny honey, very white English bread with peanut butter, jam, cornflakes, delicious little sausages—without forgetting, of course, milk, coffee, tea or hot chocolate, etc. All you could eat. And hearty lunches and dinners.

Captain Alden explained to us that the number of people passing through the house had to remain absolutely secret, both from headquarters and from the supply services that provisioned us. So the quantities delivered were always the same, and obviously far greater than needed.

It was there that I learned my mission location would be Blois. This location had to remain secret from everyone, and we were forbidden to talk about it among comrades for obvious security reasons. The team included a mission leader (the observer) and a radio operator responsible for transmitting intelligence and receiving messages from the OSS in London. I was the radio operator. I learned my teammate would be Jourdet, a comrade who had undergone the same training and whom I already knew.

We were given a detailed map of the city of Blois. We had to study it very seriously, learn it by heart, and be able to find our way on the spot without anyone’s help, as if we had lived there for a long time. We also had to learn the names and addresses of the main shopkeepers and administrative offices. We sat several tests in which we were asked about people we were supposed to know, or how to get from one place to another.

We learned that the code name of our mission would be “VIS” and that our area of operations, with Blois as its centre, stretched from Vendôme to the north, Orléans to the east, Tours to the west and Vierzon to the south. Very detailed staff maps of this zone were issued to us. We were also asked to choose a new alias for this mission, and I chose Georges Sautel, with civil-status details that were provided to me and which—if checked—could not be verified, because the civil registers of the place where I was supposedly born had been destroyed or burned during the first part of the war.

A few days later, I was given an identity card issued in the name I had chosen, by the police headquarters in Blois. I also received various sets of papers: ration card (which I had to learn to use), work card, youth hostel membership card, proof of address, etc.

I also received all the equipment I might need during this mission. Among other things, two Mark VII transmitter-receiver radio sets in their small red leather suitcases—one of them intended for the emergency safe house—an automatic Colt .45 pistol, and various gadgets: a .38-calibre gas-firing pen that could temporarily blind, if necessary, a policeman who was a little too inquisitive; a phosphorescent ball the size of a ping-pong ball, meant to be placed near an object to be found quickly in the dark (the pistol, for example), or to make night signals on the drop zone. There was also a flask containing gin or whisky, a tiny round metal tin containing tablets to resist fatigue and sleep, a compass, a medical kit with a morphine syringe, two British No. 69 “striker” grenades made of Bakelite, and many other items that I have forgotten.

Finally, we carried a cyanide pill to swallow in case of arrest and torture, to avoid talking. Usually this tablet was placed in a gold signet ring with a movable bezel, which concealed a small cavity the size of the pill. Unfortunately for me, there were no signet rings left when I received the pill, and they only arrived after I had departed. As a result, I never had one! I must say that at the time it was the least of my worries!

Financially, we were comfortable. We had received for expenses a sum of two hundred thousand francs (about €30,500), which at the time represented an enormous amount. By way of comparison, a company director would earn at most four to five thousand francs per month (about €750) when well paid! Half of this sum would be kept in reserve in our emergency safe house.

In the last days before departure, we were made to choose civilian clothes. They had no labels, so it would not have been possible to identify their origin in the event of a check. I also received a very high-quality Swiss watch bracelet, likewise unbranded.

We learned that a team led by a certain “Pierre” was to receive us on the ground and take us to a temporary safe house where we would be secure before leaving for Blois. This Pierre would also give us the name of the person to contact in order to settle in that city. A prearranged message would be broadcast by Radio London, the famous BBC, in the “personal messages” section to inform the reception committee of our arrival. One thirty p.m.: This is London, here are personal messages:

The typhoon will take four crews

We repeat:

The typhoon will take four crews twice.

Upon hearing this message repeated in the seven-thirty p.m. and nine-thirty p.m. bulletins, Pierre was to make all the necessary arrangements to receive us that same evening and, in particular, to mark the field and secure it with the help of local resistance members.

On 30 May 1944, in the morning, we were told: it’s for tonight! In the afternoon we dressed in civilian clothes, keeping only our weapons. All the rest of our clothing and equipment was packed into containers that would be parachuted with us. Three other teams would depart at the same time as “Vis”: “Madeleine” would work in the St Germain area, “Marbot” in Versailles, and “Cure” in Tours. In the evening after dinner, we gathered one last time with those staying behind, to drink a farewell toast. We drank only gin or whisky—but in quantity. By the end of this send-off, we were well fired up.

After saying our goodbyes, around 10 p.m. we boarded cars that took us to the Harrington airfield, not far from Tempsford, one of the 8th Air Force bases. Two B-24 Liberators from the Carpetbaggers, 801/492 Bombardment Group of the USAAF, were waiting for us. The Liberator was a huge four-engine bomber carrying eight crew members: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier, radio operator, dispatcher, gunner and mechanic. Note that the aircraft assigned to this type of mission were painted matte black, non-reflective, for camouflage and protection from flak searchlights.

Our containers were already loaded. We strapped on several foam pads, then put on the camouflage suit, canvas over-boots, and finally the foam helmet to cushion hard landings. Then all that remained was to put on the parachute. The colonel came to slip us a few words of encouragement. We boarded four per aircraft, the engines already running. We sat on the floor, as there were no seats or benches. The plane took off into the night; it was very dark because inside the fuselage there was only a small night light. Outside everything seemed black as well, even though it was a full moon, as on all parachute drops. Inside, the departure euphoria gave way to complete silence.

We were quickly over the Channel. The gunners fired a few bursts to check that their weapons were working properly. I felt a strong apprehension—first about the jump to be made, which is always the same as the first time no matter how many jumps you have already done, but above all about what we would find on the ground. It had already happened that those responsible for receiving the drop had been arrested and replaced by Gestapo agents.

We had been flying for more than half an hour when suddenly the plane was surrounded by flashes and violently shaken. The flight leader, without the slightest emotion, explained that we were reaching the French coast and that we were dealing with anti-aircraft fire shooting at us. Then everything calmed down again.

Another hour passed without incident. Then the dispatcher, in radio contact with the pilot, told us to get ready because we would soon arrive. We all hooked our parachute snap hook onto the steel cable running the length of the aircraft and waited… but nothing happened! After several circuits over the field, the dispatcher told us that the reception committee had not marked the DZ (dropping zone) nor sent the agreed signal. As a result, the drop was cancelled and we turned back to England! A cowardly relief then replaced the fear I had felt until that moment. I think the others felt the same, because suddenly we all became more talkative.

Passing over a town, the dispatcher took large bundles wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He cut the strings with his knife and threw all these bundles, still closed, out through the hatch. He explained that they were anti-German leaflets. Bundles still tied take some time to open while falling quickly, so the leaflets would only scatter at low altitude above the houses. We landed back at base around 3 or 4 a.m.

After a few hours’ rest, towards the end of the morning our American officers announced that we would leave again that very evening. As the day before, we toasted this new departure before returning to the aircraft. The flight passed without any notable incident. Again the dispatcher told us to get ready, and again we waited. Once more, nothing happened: still no signal on the ground, and we returned once again to England.

The next day, 1 June, we were teased by the comrades who had stayed behind. They joked that we had been afraid to jump, or that it was just to drink another farewell toast, and many other similar jokes. Almost immediately we were told that we would leave again that same evening. At the new farewell drink, everyone declared that in the end it wasn’t unpleasant to repeat the same ceremony every evening, and that we could keep going like that for a few more days.

This time again, we settled into the same aircraft. We were beginning to know the procedure well. Approaching the French coast, we came under heavy anti-aircraft fire as on the first attempt, but the aircraft was not hit. Shortly before reaching the DZ, we saw through a porthole—quite far off to our left—large red glows. We were told that, to create a diversion for our flight, US aviation was bombing a railway centre.

Soon after, we prepared to jump again. The dispatcher told us that this time it was on. The agreed recognition signals were carried out; the reception committee was indeed there. The hatch opened. First pass to drop our containers, then we came around at the end of the field. Heart pounding, I sat on the edge of the hatch. I saw the red light come on and heard someone shout at the top of his lungs, “Action stations!”, then, as the light turned green, a yell: “Go!!” My mission began!

I threw myself into the void.


Thus delivered to their fate, each of the Sussex agents took a very active part in providing intelligence to Allied headquarters, moving with the front line, often even retreating alongside the German troops.

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Operations

MISSION VIS

The mission

A strong gust of wind in my face, then a hard jolt—my parachute has just opened. After the roar of the engines, there is complete silence. The weather is fine, the moon is still almost full, and I descend slowly onto this field near Rochefort-sur-Loire. In the distance I can see the glow of the bombing for which I am partly—and quite involuntarily—responsible. Very quickly, a wheat field comes up beneath me and I land softly and silently. But there is no time to daydream in the moonlight. I quickly get rid of my parachute harness, rolling it up as I was taught to do. Same for the suit, the helmet and the canvas over-boots, which I conceal as best I can. I find Jourdet quite quickly—my teammate who jumped after me—who has landed in a vineyard, right between stakes on which he might have been impaled!

Everything is calm and quiet around us. At that moment a man steps out of the shadows and comes towards us. It is Pierre, who has come with his reception committee. There are several men, including a local farmer with a horse-drawn cart, which we join.

This drop brought our four Sussex teams to this field. We spent a good part of the night recovering our containers— two per team, eight in total—which we loaded onto the cart. With the parachutes, that takes up space! All our comrades gradually joined us, except one who still turned up later. He explained that he had landed in the middle of the Loire, on a gravel bank! Fortunately, at that season the river was almost dry.

We set off on foot behind the cart. Pierre told us that our two aircraft had crossed and re-crossed several times above the field, one taking it lengthwise and the other crosswise instead of following each other, risking collision each time. It was true that we were flying with all lights out.

Arriving in the farmer’s yard, we unloaded all our equipment and stored it in the stable. Pierre warned us that we all had to be gone before 6:00 a.m. with all our belongings! So there was no temporary safe house as planned, and no means of transport for us and our equipment. Pierre simply told us that we must contact Mr Vignon, the Secretary-General of the Prefecture of Blois, and give him the following password: “Serious incidents have occurred.” He must then reply: “The case is quite common.”

After that final instruction, Pierre left the farm.

The farmer agreed to keep the equipment for the day while we would take the train to Nantes to buy trunks. At 40 km away, it was the closest city to Forges, the village where we were, but there was only one train in the morning around 7:00 to go there, and another in the evening to come back. Since it was already after 5:00 a.m., there was no question of sleeping, so we took our travel bags out of the containers and packed the few items we might need immediately.

On the station platform we quickly realised that all our bags looked alike: brown or blue canvas, with handles and light leather reinforcements! Of course, such bags were fashionable and you saw quite a few, but still—eight brand-new bags at the same time in a tiny rural station… We were not proud of risking drawing attention to ourselves like that. Thank God, at the station people didn’t seem to pay any attention to us. Perhaps they simply did not want to see us. We heard them talking about the flights of the night before, saying the planes had come back again for the third night in a row and that something must surely be being prepared… At last the train for Nantes arrived. We boarded, and during the journey, listening to conversations around me, I suddenly realised that I understood everything they were saying. Since England I had lost the habit.

We arrived in Nantes without incident. With Jourdet, we walked through the streets with a certain apprehension when we crossed German soldiers and officers, whereas yesterday we were meeting Americans or British! It seemed to me it must show on our faces that we were arriving from England! We had lunch in a restaurant, and we had to pay with ration tickets. It was the first time, and I handed them over very carefully so as not to make a mistake. As they were forged, I was a bit worried and wondered whether they would be accepted without problems. But I was quickly reassured: the waitress accepted them without even looking!

In the afternoon we bought our trunk after wandering around town to pass the time, but I was starting to be exhausted—Jourdet too. No wonder: it was still the third consecutive night with almost no sleep. Besides, the nervous strain of the three flights and the parachute drop was not exactly helping. I wondered if I should take one of the tablets we had been given to fight off sleep. But I knew that after a few hours of full energy, fatigue and sleep would come back even harder. As we had not yet reached Blois, I preferred to refrain and keep those tablets for a more urgent situation.

At the station we took the train back to Forges. On arrival, the farmer told us that Pierre had come by and had taken our weapons??? Claiming that he could travel very easily, he said he would send them to Blois through a certain “Marcel” whom we did not know! A month later, still not having recovered our Colts, we asked Vignon to request them from this Marcel. But Marcel—whom we never met—sent word that for the work we had to do, we would not need them!?

We never got them back.

We spent another good part of the night packing as much equipment as possible into the trunk. I regretted having to abandon our beautiful white silk parachutes, but security came first. I should point out here that the farmer—whom we recommended not to use those canopies and to destroy them—did not take our advice at all! Result: we learned much later that, having had shirts made with the silk from one parachute, he unfortunately drew attention to himself. After a Gestapo search, the other parachutes were discovered. After “rough” interrogation, he was shot for having sheltered “terrorists”.

The next morning, 3 June, after a little sleep, we left Forges for good and headed to Blois. The railway line, theoretically direct, was cut— probably due to sabotage or bombing. We had to take many detours. Thus we passed successively through Nantes, Le Mans, Château-du-Loir, and Tours. In each of these towns we had to change trains and wait for connections, so that we only reached Blois on 5 June in the afternoon.

There, we went straight to the Prefecture and asked to see the Secretary-General, Mr Vignon. In a prefecture, the Secretary-General is an important figure— second only to the Prefect. So we had to wait before he would receive us. Finally, we were shown into his office, where two prefecture employees were already present. For us, there was no question of speaking in front of them, but they did not seem willing to leave, and in response to Vignon’s silent question as he looked at us, we immediately gave the agreed password: “Mr Secretary-General, we have come to see you because serious incidents have occurred.” Instead of the reply we expected, he retorted: “Ah yes… where?” Very surprised, we hesitated for a moment. On our guard, we began to wonder if we were indeed facing the right person. Our hesitation must have made him think and jogged his memory, because he corrected himself and finally declared the phrase we were waiting for: “The case is quite common.” I breathed easier. He asked his employees to leave us alone.

Once they had left, he apologised and told us he had been expecting us for several days and that the password had slipped his mind. He asked about our journey, then told us that we would be lodged with his secretary, Mademoiselle Hélène Jourdain, who lived with her mother in an apartment right in the centre of Blois, directly opposite the bridge. He took us there and asked us to avoid going out and being seen. He explained that he was very well placed to obtain all the information we might need and that we only had to ask him. I told him that for security reasons it was absolutely essential to arrange an emergency safe house as quickly as possible. He promised to take care of it.

The room where we were to live was on the top floor and had a sloping roof. Since it was very small, I anticipated difficulties for my radio links. Indeed, the antenna of my Mark VII had to be long enough to transmit and receive under good conditions. That very evening I tried to make contact with our London station, but without success.

The next day, it was 6 June—the day of the Allied landings in Normandy. I tried again to make radio contact at different hours, changing the position of my antenna. Finally, in the middle of the night, I managed to make contact! I was relieved. It wasn’t perfect, but good enough to understand each other. I reported that we had arrived safely and were ready to work. In return I received a message congratulating us on our installation and asking us to report any troop movements that might be coming up from south of the Loire toward the Normandy front via the Blois bridge, which was one of the few still intact over the Loire—essentially a compulsory crossing point. They also asked me to report military railway convoys passing through the town and heading for Normandy.

As for that bridge, we could not have been better placed: our window looked directly onto it, so we could observe under optimal conditions all the movements of troops and military vehicles and report them immediately by radio. As for the railway line, Vignon told us that the stationmaster of Blois was a friend of his, that he knew his patriotic feelings, and that he would agree to supply us with all the information he had on troop and equipment convoys. Indeed, in the following days, I was able to send by radio numerous pieces of information about these movements.

Leaving Blois toward Normandy, there is a railway bridge that had already been bombed but had been provisionally repaired because it was indispensable for reinforcements. As soon as I was informed of the arrival of a convoy, I reported it to London, which then sent the RAF to bomb this strategic structure again, and troop transports and armoured vehicles were thus regularly harassed and destroyed. Moreover, after each operation, the civil authorities went on site to assess the damage. For the Prefecture, it was the Secretary-General, our friend Vignon, who travelled there. Thus he could give me a precise report of the damage, which I transmitted immediately by radio.

Our clandestine life went well up to that point. Our task was frequently interrupted by air-raid alerts: at first we went down to the cellar or shelters, but very quickly, seeing that nothing much happened, we stayed in our room. I had a lot of work encoding and decoding the many messages, which themselves generated heavy radio traffic. Given the number of messages, the transmissions became longer and longer and began to constitute a significant risk.

My teammate Jourdet, of Alsatian origin, understood German very well. During the day, he frequented all places where soldiers might be found, hoping to glean useful information that way.

One morning around 10:00 a.m., after an alert during which we had stayed in our room as usual, the siren sounded the all-clear. Mechanically I looked out of the window, and on the other side of the Loire, exactly in line with the bridge, I saw two aircraft approaching, one behind the other, heading straight towards us—two American P-47 Thunderbolts. I was surprised they were still there: normally the all-clear only sounds when there are no more aircraft in the area.

I watched closely when suddenly, as they reached the bridge, I saw two bombs detach from one of them. The effect was staggering and it took my breath away, because in a split second I realised those bombs were going to fall on us. We rushed into the staircase to try to reach the cellar, but we didn’t have time. A tremendous noise—and we were surrounded by dust and rubble. Instinctively I sheltered under the sink in a kitchen. Crouching as tightly as possible, I was not feeling brave at all.

After a few minutes, everything became calm again. I came out of my hole, heart still pounding. We then realised that one of the two bombs had fallen right in front of the house, damaging the façade and causing major damage inside. But we had escaped by a hair’s breadth! No one was injured, but the house was now uninhabitable. We therefore left immediately with all our equipment for the emergency safe house that Vignon had arranged for us some time earlier, located at La Chapelle-Vendômoise, 12 km from Blois, on the road to Vendôme.

It was an isolated farm on the outskirts of the village. The farmer, Mr Ouzilleau, was a widower and lived with his eleven-year-old daughter. He was not very tall, rather plump and very friendly. Above all, he was endowed with Herculean strength. I have never seen anyone so strong. I remember he would make me sit on a chair, take it with one hand by the round bar linking the two legs on the side, and manage to lift me with his arm outstretched!

He used to tell us that his great pleasure was to stroll along the Loire quays in Blois after nightfall, to spot unguarded German cars. He would unscrew the bolts of a wheel, then lift the car with one hand, and with the other remove the wheel and throw it into the Loire!

We settled on the farm. Thanks to the layout, I could install an external antenna which allowed me to have the best radio contact possible. Jourdet, who needed to be in Blois itself to “fish” for information, left me to settle with Mr Martel who lived there. Yvon Martel was the Chief Engineer of Roads and Bridges of the department, whom Vignon introduced us to. By virtue of his functions, he had an Ausweis allowing him to travel freely. It was in fact he who drove us from Blois to La Chapelle-Vendômoise with all our equipment.

Unfortunately, Vignon’s activity in favour of the Resistance began to attract attention and make him suspicious. He therefore decided to leave before being arrested and went underground in Paris. His departure did not hinder us too much in our work, because our network of informants was now well organised. Besides the stationmaster, who continued to pass on all information likely to interest us, the Chief Engineer mentioned above provided, among other things, extremely valuable details on V1 and later V2 launch ramps. He also handled all the transport we needed. In addition to these two very important informants, we also had the Police Commissioner of Blois, who put himself at our disposal, and Maurice Fleury—an employee of the Prefecture about my age—served us as liaison and intelligence agent.

Living in Blois, Jourdet ate all his meals at the restaurant. One evening he had an altercation with the head of the Milice, whose attention he had drawn. The Police Commissioner warned him that he had received orders to arrest him the next morning. He therefore had to leave as quickly as possible. He came immediately to see me at La Chapelle-Vendômoise, told me briefly what had happened, and informed me he was going to take refuge with a relative, giving me the address in Roanne. He left at once. That same evening, during my radio transmission with London, I reported this incident and his departure. I then proposed to continue the mission alone, since with my network of informants I was able to answer any intelligence requests that might be made. London naturally agreed and thanked me warmly, insisting that I must not take any unnecessary risks.

I therefore continued the mission. The information reached me in increasing quantities, and the length of my radio transmissions was proportional. All this was contrary to basic security rules, but how could one do otherwise? Of course, I ended up being detected by German direction-finding. At this point I must explain how this detection worked—or rather how it worked at that time.

It was what was called triangulation direction-finding. We had lessons at St Albans: in France there were three main radio direction-finding centres. When a clandestine transmitter was detected, the three centres—located in different places—pointed their antennas toward the transmitter, producing three lines which intersected and formed a triangle covering a more or less wide area. An aircraft was then sent over the area to narrow the perimeter. It was easy to spot, bristling with antennas and flying at low altitude. Once the transmission area was well defined, it was the turn of a van to come into play. It could be recognised by an attentive observer, because its body was made of wood to improve reception and eliminate interference. Inside, well hidden, was a specialist with headphones on, who, following the signal, drove right up to the house where the transmitter was located. The vehicle was generally disguised under the sign of a major department store. Near the clandestine set, the van would drive very slowly, and to avoid attracting attention, its occupants would pretend it had broken down and would push it. That was the final phase of the search. When it reached that point, you had better not be there to meet them. Unfortunately, far too many agents were caught that way—too absorbed in their work and not seeing them coming.

I mentioned earlier that on the farm lived an eleven-year-old girl. It was summer and she was on holiday. Her father, Mr Ouzilleau, had told her never to speak about me to anyone outside. She understood very well that it was important. She was very kind, a bit shy, and played almost always alone outside, in front of the farm. During my transmissions I asked her to watch the surroundings carefully and to warn me immediately of anything unusual—especially vehicles, as far away as possible. At the time traffic was nothing like today, and cars were rare, especially in the countryside. One afternoon I was transmitting a particularly long message when she ran in, saying there was a vehicle driving very slowly, still fairly far down the road. I went to the window and indeed recognised a detection van that two men were pushing—clearly in the final phase of their search. I quickly removed all equipment and any trace of my presence. For extra safety, I went out the back of the house and hid in a nearby wheat field. When the danger seemed past, I returned to the farm, where no one had been bothered. This time I had escaped by a hair’s breadth—and it was the little girl who saved my life.

Of course, it was out of the question to continue working here.

As always, from the moment I arrived in the sector, I had looked for an emergency safe house. Martel had found one for me at Onzain, 15 km south-west of Blois, on the banks of the Loire. As soon as I returned to the farm, I had Martel contacted to come and pick me up and take me to Onzain, which he did the next morning. During the journey, he told me that Mr Sibenaler ran a fairly large sawmill and that he supplied timber for the provisional repair of bridges destroyed by bombing or sabotage. For that reason he often received visits from German officers, but I was not to worry: he was completely safe. He introduced me to his friend, then went back to work.

Mr Sibenaler received me very kindly and had me sit under a trellis he had set up in his garden, then served me a good Anjou wine. I had set my radio suitcase and the spare battery on the ground beside me. We were talking when a German Major arrived. Mr Sibenaler immediately reassured me: he was one of his clients. He quickly threw a canvas sack over my equipment, introduced me as a friend, and invited the officer to sit beside me. I was not reassured at all, but in the end everything went well. We drank together, then he left after settling his business with my host. In this case it concerned supplying timber to reinforce the Blois railway bridge—precisely the one I had already had bombed. I breathed easier after he left.

I then arranged a new emergency safe house. Mr Sibenaler told me he had a fishing hut on the other side of the Loire, by the Beuvon (a small tributary of the Loire), about ten kilometres from Onzain near the hamlet of Les Montils. He had a boat that would allow me to cross the river, and he would place a bicycle on the far bank so I could reach the hut.

I resumed work full force, Maurice Fleury continuing to bring me valuable information. For instance, he spotted a large concentration of German military trucks on a field and gave me the coordinates near his parents’ house. I immediately passed the information to London. That very evening, three US Air Force bombers came over, but their bombs missed the target and fell near Maurice’s house, without damaging the trucks or the house.

Around the same period, Martel asked him to report the presence of a very important convoy: at least twenty-five Panzers and as many accompanying vehicles. They were heading up toward the Normandy front and seemed to be taking a pause. Again I informed London. This time the dive-bombers did not miss: the next day we could see many tank hulks burning. Everything went well for the first two weeks, but one day, as I had just finished a transmission, I heard an aircraft noise that my headphones had prevented me from noticing. I looked at the sky and saw a detection aircraft circling above Onzain. No need to draw me a picture! This time I did not wait for the van. I crossed the Loire by boat, grabbed the bicycle, and reached the hut where I settled. I immediately realised this safe house could only be very temporary, because I was far from everything and contact with my liaison agents would inevitably be more complicated. So when Maurice Fleury offered to let me settle at his place, I accepted with pleasure, while keeping the hut as an emergency safe house, since I had not been detected there.

Before leaving, I witnessed an aerial combat taking place right above me between an American Lightning and a German Focke-Wulf. I wondered what these two planes were doing alone in this area, but it was extremely impressive. They fired at each other, diving, climbing, and performing every possible aerobatic manoeuvre. Bullets whistled around me! I watched the fight while hiding behind a tree trunk, circling the trunk to protect myself without missing anything of this spectacular scene. Finally the two planes separated, apparently without hitting each other, and disappeared.

I moved in with Maurice, who lived with his parents at Villebarou, a small locality near Blois. I continued my work there. But it was now August and the American troops were approaching. I received a message asking me, as soon as the first elements of the American army arrived in Blois, to contact a certain Captain Beau of G2 US (military intelligence), who had been informed of my presence in Blois.

The next day, Blois was liberated. What joy!

I quickly found Captain Beau and introduced myself. He asked whether it would be possible for me to set up teams that could continue to provide intelligence after my departure, on what was happening on the other side of the Loire between Blois and Tours, where the Germans had withdrawn. I promised to do what was necessary. With the help of Martel and Fleury, I contacted the FFI in Blois, Onzain, Amboise and Tours. Teams were sent and continued to cross the Loire regularly. The information was collected by Fleury, who transmitted it directly to G2 and Captain Beau, to whom I introduced him.

A few days after the liberation of the sector, I had the pleasure of seeing Captain Saint Clair arrive in a jeep to pick me up. He was accompanied by a comrade who had been with me at St Albans: Olivier—whose real name was Jacques Coulon. A native of the region, he had asked Saint Clair whether he could come along to try to see his parents, who lived in Amboise.

Together, with Martel, Fleury and Sibenaler, we shared a memorable meal in a restaurant at Onzain to celebrate the liberation—and above all our reunion.

Then it was time to leave the region. With Saint Clair and Coulon, we left by jeep to reach Paris, liberated a few days earlier. During the trip, Saint Clair congratulated me on the work I had done. He told me that the Allied authorities had been particularly satisfied with the intelligence I had provided. I was very happy to hear it.

It was during this return journey that I learned of the arrest of many comrades, notably the teams “Colère”, “Salaud” and “Filan”—arrests that had taken place at Vendôme, not far from my own sector of activity.

On the road we overtook military convoys and, in every town, people crowded the pavements to see us pass and applaud. In one locality where we stopped briefly, an elderly man begged us to come to his house and drink the victory toast with him. He served us an old bottle of white wine he had kept preciously for I don’t know how many years. He opened it religiously and poured, but the wine was so old that it flowed like a thick syrup and wasn’t good at all… But the man looked so happy to serve it to us that we forced ourselves to drink it anyway.

We arrived in Paris on 1 September.