The Nazi Hunters (8 page)

The first priority had to be to instruct the Maquis in the use of the new weaponry. Priority number two was to radio in a ‘sitrep’ – situation report – to London, giving the location and status of the mission. And as soon as possible Druce needed to arrange a meeting with Colonel Grandval to assess the needs of the entire Maquis, then leave Gough and his Jedburghs to call in the bulk of the arms while he got the main body of the SAS flown in.

‘So, when will I be able to see Colonel Maximum?’ Druce asked Lieutenant LeFranc, over a breakfast of coarse brown bread dunked in bitter acorn coffee. ‘When will we be able to start some proper planning?’

Druce’s enthusiasm, coupled with his ability to speak French like a native had endeared him to the Maquis commander.

‘The colonel will come,’ Lieutenant LeFranc reassured him. ‘I am told he is at Le Round Table Salon, attending to some important business. But he will come.’

Druce was unsure what the ‘Round Table Salon’ might signify, but important Maquis business was presumably important Maquis business.

‘Right, in the meantime how about we get your men training with the new weaponry?’ Druce eyed a patch of trees that would give good cover, but was relatively free of undergrowth. ‘Get ’em to fall in over there, and we’ll get to it.’

‘Right away, Captain,’ Lieutenant LeFranc replied. He paused for a moment. ‘But you will need to send a radio message to London, no? The colonel has asked that you do not use your radios within 5 miles of the camp, due to the risks of DF. I can send one of my best guides to take your signallers to a place from where they can transmit in safety.’

‘DF’ stands for direction finding. The Germans had excellent mobile DF units, which could detect a radio signal at distance, triangulate the point from which it was transmitting, and so fix its location.

‘Sounds like a very sensible precaution,’ Druce agreed. ‘I’ll send a team out this morning with your man.’

With the Jedburgh signaller, Seymour, out of action owing to his injuries, it would be up to Hislop and his Phantoms to establish first communications. Just a few weeks previously a new type of radio had been issued to all Special Forces, nicknamed the ‘Jed Set’. It was comparatively lightweight and was powered by turning a handle, which meant that fewer bulky batteries needed to be lugged over the hills.

The Jed Set was simple to operate, the wavelength of transmission being set by a ‘crystal’, a small piece of crystalline mineral, such as galena, that was slotted into the device. This ensured there was no need to ‘tune’ the set prior to transmission or reception. The Jed Sets were inoperable without their crystals, so it was crucial to get rid of them if a set were ever in danger of falling into enemy hands.

SAS and Phantom signals were routed via Brigade Tactical Headquarters at Moor Park, where a contingent from the Royal Corps of Signals manned five transmitter-receiver sets 24/7. Each team was supposed to transmit two daily ‘skeds’ (schedules) from the field: the first between 08.30 and 09.00 hours and the second at 13.00–14.00 hours. If one or more sked was missed, Special Forces Headquarters (SFHQ) would consider a party compromised and on the run, possibly captured or killed.

Shortly after breakfast Hislop loaded up his Jed Set and headed into the forest, with seventeen-year-old local Roger Souchal acting as his guide. Souchal was definitely one of those who had come to the Maquis to fight. A schoolboy with aspirations to train as a lawyer, Souchal had been forced to grow up fast once the Germans took possession of the Vosges. He burned to drive the hated enemy out, and he would prove to be a steadfast ally over the weeks to come.

During the previous day’s climb Hislop had suffered almost as much as had the concussed Druce. In the aftermath of his racing accident, Hislop had contracted jaundice and tonsillitis. During the trek he’d found it increasingly difficult to lift his rucksack after each rest period, and he’d practically crawled into the Maquis camp, dripping wet with perspiration. He’d begun to fear that his lingering illness had rendered him unfit for a mission such as this.

But as they set out that morning, Hislop felt like a new man. It seemed as if he’d sweated the sickness out of his system, the purifying mountain air giving him a new lease of life. As Souchal pushed on at a punishing pace, Hislop and his Phantom team stuck right on his shoulder. Souchal led them to a patch of mature deciduous woodland, which spread a high, cathedral-like canopy above the scene. It was less dense and dark than the coniferous forest which predominated in the area, and it was full of noisy bird life.

It should prove far easier amongst such lighter cover to raise a radio signal. As Corporal Davis rigged up their Jed Set, Hislop scanned their surroundings with eye and ear. To their front he could hear a pair of woodsmen working with some oxen, hauling timber out of the forest. Their musical cries, cut by the rhythmic crack of the oxen whip, rose above the forest quiet, providing a bass track to the morning birdsong.

For a Phantom, the moment of making first radio contact on a live mission was always one of high drama. More or less immediately the first letters of the HQ’s answering call sign could be heard, loud and clear. Davis punched a thumb into the air to signify success, but just as quickly the Jed Set went dead, a needle-thin wisp of smoke fingering out of the rear of the radio, betraying the fact that it had burnt out.

Luckily, they’d brought a second, back-up set, and Roger Souchal offered to go and fetch it, the 10-mile round-trip being as nothing to the young Maquis guide. While Souchal hurried off, Hislop lay beneath the trees, gazing up at the canopy above him and feeling as if all was well with the world. But still a small part of him sensed that somehow this was the calm before the gathering storm.

Souchal returned with the replacement Jed Set, accompanied by Victor Gough. With an injured signaller and broken radio to contend with, the Jedburgh captain would have to rely upon the Phantoms for communications, at least for now.

The second set functioned perfectly. ‘Landed safely. Skye damaged ankle. Fit in seven days. Have contacted Maximum . . . Are with Maquis group 2 kms south of Vexaincourt in Valley Celles-sur-Plaine.’

Vexaincourt was the nearest village of any size, lying in the Celles-sur-Plaine Valley, adjacent to that in which the Op Loyton team had landed. ‘Skye’ was Seymour’s (the injured Jedburgh) code name. From the tenor of the message, the calm and lack of perceived threat is clear.

But even as Hislop, Gough and Davis were making contact with London, Druce himself was becoming apprehensive. That morning a German Storch reconnaissance aircraft had circled over the Lac de la Maix base. Of course, Druce had no proof it was searching for him and his men, or even for the Maquis. But there was a new, and unexpected, arrival at the camp, who was convinced that the plane was on the lookout for the French and British fighters.

Lou Fiddick was a Canadian airman. During a July ’44 bombing raid he’d been shot down by a night fighter over Germany. Though injured, he’d spent a week walking out on the same bearing to that on which his bomber had flown in. He’d crossed the French border, made contact with friendly villagers, and they had brought him to the Maquis.

Fiddick could not have been happier to hook up with Druce’s force. ‘I was finally amongst people I could understand! I was also impressed by the fact that they had dropped into an area so rife with Germans!’

Fiddick had been in the Vosges for long enough to have learned a little about the enemy stationed in the region. He’d had to evade numerous search parties, hiding in dingy cellars, cramped attics and even down a well. At one point he was en route to join the Maquis, but ended up coming face to face with a German patrol. Fortunately, the villagers had dressed him as a local, and the enemy column had marched on by.

In short, Fiddick knew that – contrary to the briefings the SAS men had been given – the area was crawling with the enemy.

Druce had invited Fiddick to join his force, becoming their sixteenth man, and he’d even kitted out the Canadian in a spare SAS uniform. Fiddick was peculiarly suited to operating in an environment like the Vosges. Having grown up on the heavily forested Vancouver Island on Canada’s western seaboard, he’d worked as a woodsman before the war, and the Vosges felt almost like a home from home. As Druce remarked, Fiddick ‘would turn out to be one of our best soldiers’.

Being an experienced airman – Fiddick had been flying a Lancaster bomber when shot down – he understood the roles played by various warplanes. He feared that the Storch reconnaissance aircraft could only be doing one thing – searching for the Maquis’ deep-forest bases. And, bearing in mind how quickly the Germans had come looking for him, Fiddick feared that the enemy must know at least something of the British parachutists’ arrival, hence their aerial search.

Fiddick’s concerns were soon to be proved correct. As Hislop, Gough and Davis returned from their radio excursion, they discovered a second new arrival at camp. Albert Freine was the
gard-chasse
 – chief gamekeeper – of the region. As such, he was of necessity closely involved with the local German commanders, many of whom were keen on a spot of wild boar hunting, or fishing. It made Freine’s other role – that of chief intelligence officer of the Alsace Maquis – doubly rewarding and challenging, in equal measure.

Freine was viewed by the Germans as a ‘good’ Frenchman, one who was loyal to the Nazi cause. As such, he was often privy to their plans, ones betrayed by casual remarks while out on the hunt. But, by mid August 1944, even Freine’s ‘cover’ was starting to wear thin, and the deadly game of duplicity was playing on his nerves. The intelligence chief of any Maquis group would be hunted most actively, for if he were unmasked and forced to talk then the entire network could be rolled up.

Freine introduced himself to Druce. He was a curious-looking figure: slight, sandy-haired and dressed in the traditional beret and rough tweed cloak that Vosges countrymen favoured. He seemed gloomy by nature but fiercely patriotic and loyal, and boastful and fearless in equal measure. In short, he was a bundle of contradictions, but more importantly he had never been known to give inaccurate information, or to say more than he knew.

Right now, Freine had brought alarming news. A force of some 5,000 German soldiers was carrying out an east-to-west ‘sweep’ of the Celles-sur-Plaine Valley, which was less than 2 miles north of the Maquis camp. It was far too close for comfort, and Freine could only conclude that the influx of enemy troops was connected to the arrival of British paratroopers.

The German soldiers were from the
Wehrmacht
’s 405 Division, part of the 19th Army. Retreating from the Allied advance in southern Europe, the 19th had been charged with defending Germany’s eastern border in the Vosges. The 19th Army consisted mostly of ‘third-tier’ troops: wounded veterans, conscripts and ‘Hiwis’ – foreign POWs who had ‘volunteered’ to serve the Nazi cause. (Hiwi is an abbreviation of the German word
Hilfswilliger
, meaning ‘those willing to help’.)

Yet, regardless of their calibre, a 5,000-strong force was far too numerous for Druce’s unit, plus the poorly armed Maquis, to take on in open battle. Moreover, the 19th Army also included the 11th Panzer Division, which – with its distinctive emblem of a sword-wielding ghost – had seen action on the Eastern Front, where it had fought with distinction around Kiev and Moscow. Equipped with 140 tanks, this was a battle-hardened and hugely capable force, one that Druce and his men would be well advised to avoid.

In light of Freine’s report the guard was doubled around the camp. At just past midnight dark cloud rolled in from the south-east, and ear-splitting peals of thunder were punctuated by searing bolts of lightning. By dawn the storm had blown over, the morning scoured clean by the torrential rains. But the Storch was back in the air, the crystal-clear skies doubtless giving it a perfect view of whatever it was searching for.

Further worrying reports filtered in that morning. The male population of Allarmont, the nearest hamlet, had fled to the forest to avoid the German soldiers storming through their valley. Worryingly, the 19th Army troops had discovered the DZ upon which Druce and his men had landed. They were reported to be moving more soldiers into the region, supported by their battle tanks.

In that morning’s radio sked Druce sounded a somewhat harried note: ‘Could not get radio contact yesterday. Sent message blind. Expect conference with Maximum . . . today. Must march 5 miles from camp to send messages. Can only manage 1 Sked per day at present.’

He also warned SFHQ that ‘between one thousand and five thousand enemy soldiers’ were moving through the region, and that he needed to establish a new and secure DZ. For now, the flying in of the main body of the Op Loyton force would have to be put on hold.

Deep in his bones, Captain Henry Druce could sense that the net was closing.

Chapter Five

On 16 August 1944 Hitler gave orders that his forces in southern France should start to withdraw northwards to bolster the defence of the Reich. Their concentration on the eastern approaches to Germany meant that even more men and war machines were headed into the Vosges. By contrast, General Patton’s 3rd Army – the nearest friendly force – was still some 300 miles to the west, endeavouring to secure a breakthrough.

Devoid of an immediate enemy to fight, the incoming Vosges garrisons were ordered to concentrate their full might on finding and eliminating the Maquis, and their British parachutist brothers in arms. The overall German security commander in the region, Dr Erich Isselhorst, was no stranger to such anti-partisan operations.