Chapter
Twelve
His
first combat mission as part of No. 105 Squadron
was simply as a follower of sorts, there to learn by
watching a master craftsman at work, his Squadron Leader who had
commanded a Flight of No. 105
before it even had a number.
He
was another from down under, but a New Zealander, as he was
quick to let you know. Kevin was his real name, but everyone in
the squadron called him “Curly”,
though no-one knew why.
Curly
loved to tell of his boyhood on the sheep ranch, when he and his
brother would shoot coffee cans off a farm fence with a rifle,
from horseback at full gallop; he used the story to convince his
pilots that “kicking
Jerry’s fat arse is a piece of cake” compared to
those days.
Wade soon became Curly’s protege and--after being the
kiwi’s shadow on several sorties--the young American began to
wonder why he had been so fortunate--blessed was how he
thought of it--to draw a series of such outstanding teachers.
Prior to the advent of PFF, Curly had flown almost all versions
of the Mossie--photo-recon, night-fighter, un-armed bomber,
fighter-bomber, transport-- and
had loved each with equal fervor.
He
told Wade that he preferred the Night-Fighter Mk II,
that
had a maximum speed of 365 mph, a range of 1671 miles,
with four 0.303 machine guns in the nose as well as four 20 mm
cannons under the nose in the forward bomb bay. He
explained that while Mossie’s
great speed was rather nice,
“it is of bloody little use when Jerry is closing on
one head-on, you see”.
Two
months to the day after joining No. 105,
Wade was summoned by Curly to the Squadron Briefing Room,
where he was introduced to a Wing Commander Greeley and a man in
civilian clothes whom Curly introduced simply as “an agent
with BI”, which Wade assumed meant British Intelligence. Curly
then turned
to the Wing Commander, “If we actually do this mission,
I would like Johns as my wingman.”
“Done,
Kevin; provided Johns is willing. As I have explained, this must
be a ‘volunteer only’ affair. Perhaps Agent Malone will be
good enough to outline the scheme to him.”
“Very
well, Sir; I’ll endeavor to get to the heart of it right off,
in the interest of time.”
He
explained that there was an important Italian
partisan leader who had been taken prisoner by the
Nazis a few days prior; The Allies had been counting heavily on
his assistance in the Italian campaign that had only recently
gotten underway “on the boot proper”.
Three days ago, BI had learned that a handful of
Nazi agents were holding him at a small town
called Ventimiglia, on the coast very near the French
border. He said, “There is a very well-organized and effective
French resistance unit based at Eze Village, a medieval
mountain-top village
no further than 20 miles from Ventimiglia. We have been
in contact with them;
they say they are confidant
they
could get Signore Marconi out and across
the border for us. The question is how to get him totally
out of the region before the Germans swarm the region and
possibly terminate him if they should manage to regain
possession of him.”
The
agent continued, “There is a landing strip, down by the sea
near Eze sur Mer, that Sir Edward here says could handle a
Mosquito, barring horrid weather conditions and assuming a pilot
with outstanding expertise. That is where your Squadron Leader
enters the picture.
“He
believes he can get a Mossie, properly stripped of excess
weight, but set-up to carry Marconi and one Commando out.
But--and here you become part of the equation--he wants
another Mossie, specifically the night-fighter version with its
nose-guns, to fly cover for him while on the ground and after
takeoff until he attains sufficient
altitude for normal speed.
“It
is only fair to emphasize that this will be--at best---a risky
outing, and one we do not normally ask of military personnel. We
have our own aircraft, to be sure, but none of our chaps are
qualified in your Mossie, and there is complete unanimity that
it is the only aircraft of choice for this venture. Once Kevin
is at a decent cruising altitude, your Navigator will plot a
course directly here, and you, with your weaponry, will fly
Kevin’s wing home.
“If
you wish to think on it, we can give you a half hour.”
“I
don’t need any time; if Curly wants me there, that’s it. But
what about the range? How far is it from the north shore of the
Mediterranean to here?”
Kevin
spoke up, “We should be well within our range, Wade. Perhaps
we will fly from one of our new airfields we now have in Sicily,
which would shorten the trip a bit. You need some margin for
error;
in the event I’m on the ground longer than planned, you
would burn more petrol doing the cover.
“And,
listen well to this; don’t feel you must do this
mission; it is truly voluntary. If you decline it, no-one else
will ever know you were asked. Yes, I did
request you, but there are others who could do it--and well.”
“No
problem, skipper. I’m ready when you are. When do we start?”
Agent
Malone answered with, “First we must contact our young friends
in France. Today is Tuesday, so
they are scheduled to be be tuned to their short-wave
tonight at midnight, U.K. time, 1:00 A.M. in France; I’ll talk
to them. I suggest
we meet here again at 0700 tomorrow.”
As
everyone
nodded assent, he turned to Sir Edward, “Meanwhile, you
chaps may wish to do your own planning, as needed. I already
have a top-drawer Commando on standby, within an hour’s drive
from this station. I’m guessing a tad, but I believe Les
Amis will want to nab Signore Marconi on a Saturday. Oh
yes, I
should explain that the code name for this resistance unit
is Les Amis de Liberté; in English,
‘The Friends of Liberty’.
“When
we last were in contact, our man in that region indicated that
they want to go in while the weekly Saturday market in the town
is going full tilt. Marconi is being held in a building very
near the market, so the section there will be the usual mob of
noisy natives --and damned noisy, most assuredly --
in the neighborhood. Now,
if Saturday is the day they hit Ventimiglia, that
probably means you should be doing your pick-up on Sunday or
Monday, since they may not be able to stash our man safely for
more than a day or so; is that enough time for your
preparations?”
Sir
Edward looked at Kevin, who replied, “Don’t think that’s a
problem. We need to decide on a flight plan in---from here or
from Sicily---and bang around a bit on the interior of the two
Mossies; the latter may take a day or so. Yes, we’ll be
set.”
The
small town of Eze Village, situated mid-way between Monaco and
Nice, has been
inhabited since the Bronze Age. Throughout the centuries,
Ligurian, Greek, Roman, and Saracen tribes invaded Eze. In the
10th. century Eze came under the control of the Earls of Nice
and Provence and from 1388 it belonged to the Counts of Savoy.
After several French invasions during the 16th., 17th.,
and 18th. centuries it became part of the district of Monaco and
remained so after the creation of the province, Alpes-Maritimes
in 1792. It was not until 1860 that the people of Eze voted to
rejoin France.
It
is one of a number of “perched villages” that were created
in ancient times to withstand the frequent and perilous attacks
that occurred frequently in the region. This was especially true
during the era when corsairs sailed the Mediterranean coast
constantly, in search of young men they could capture and
keep--or sell-- as slaves,
and for young women for their harems.
With
defense foremost in mind, Eze was laid out so that it could be
defended easily. Sitting at the top of it’s rocky mountain,
with a double-fortified gateway, dating from the 14th. century,
as the only entry, it has long been aptly called Le Nid
d’Aigle (The Eagle’s Nest) of the Cote d’Azure.
And Eze was the chosen--and secret--redoubt of Les
Amis de Liberté, as they persevered in their ongoing
battle for freedom.
Tonight,
their leader and his interpreter were crouching low,
inside the old church bell-tower, speaking over their
tiny short-wave radio. BI Agent Malone was listening,
furiously making notes on his pad.
Les
Amis had been only five when they first left the Maquis
advanced-trainng camp near Grenoble in the Spring of ‘42. They
had gone there to learn to organize as a team, rather than
continue working as five well-meaning but under-skilled
individuals. Jean-Pierre was still the leader, and Bridgette,
Dominique, and David were waiting nearby to hear the message
from London.
Isabelle
had grown up in the Alsace region, hearing German spoken almost
as frequently as French,
and had summered yearly in the Italian part of
Switzerland while a child. Her fluency
in Italian, German, and English, as well as her mother
tongue, automatically made her the interpreter for the unit; in
Grenoble, she had been trained also to be a radio operator.
David
was an artist of sorts, not only skilled in the preparation of
necessary documents from time to time, but equally so
as a photographer and creator of ingenious disguises.
Dominique was their resident writer, whose primary job
was to prepare flyers and other printed matter, in an effort to
keep the populace aware that hope for liberation lived, thereby
preserving aid from some and--hopefully--neutralizing those who
were tempted to believe the Vichy
propaganda that
résistants were criminals.
And Bridgette? Bridgette possessed certain charms--and the willingness to use them--that were extremely helpful to their cause at times. She freely admitted to having been une grande horizontale in her early youth, and had long since mastered the art of manipulating the male ego for her purposes. She saw no reason why she should not utilize those same skills in her more noble role as a patriot.
All
of the original five were now proficient in the use of several
weapons, not only
handguns and shoulder weapons, but also grenades, as well
as the knife and the garrotte. The same was true for the five
they had added since their training at Grenoble. It was their
policy that the entire ten rarely quartered together.
Thus
all members of Les Amis were not in Eze when the call came from
Agent Malone; instead, the others were staying the night near
the grand mansion of their financial backer-- and
clandestine comrade--at nearby Cap Ferrat.
It
was almost two a.m. when Jean-Pierre and Isabelle descended from
the bell-tower and returned to the waiting three at their
quarters near the summit.
He said simply, “It is go for Saturday. Tomorrow
we plan; but now we rest.”
They
met in Monsieur Georges Blanchot’s
boathouse, situated at the water’s edge 200 yards down
and through the garden behind
his huge chateau on Pointe Malalonge. The point
was on the Villefranche side of Cap Ferrat, very near
la Phare, the lighthouse that guided ships safely by the
point or into the Bay of Villefranche, as had
ancient versions of it for centuries past.
A
grand mansion, such as that of M. Blanchot, was not un-common on
this famous peninsula, which had long been a home or
retreat--and
a quiet playground of sorts--for the rich and famous from
around the world. These stately estates--almost all of which
were walled-- literally lined both sides of the beautiful road
that wound its way along the rim of the southernmost part of the
cape.
Since
the fall of France in the Spring of ‘40, some of the homes had
stood vacant, while
the ones owned by those deemed
enemies of the Reich had been confiscated by the
Nazis or their Vichy minions, primarily for the pleasures--often
lustful--of their favored friends. Thus, while M. Blanchot
detested his new neighbors, he was happy that their influence in
the current power structure begat an important benefit: it was
rare indeed that agents of the Gestapo--or their Vichy clones,
the Milice--dared to inquire into, or question, the
activities of those then residing on Cap Ferrat.
The
Blanchot family had been among the elite of the banking and
financial life of France since before the Revolution. Their
power, financial skills and influence around the world was
legendary, particularly so in the board rooms of the great banks
of Switzerland. The family, of which Georges was now the
fifty-two year old leader, was not only respected, but also
feared, even by Hitler’s bankers. In late 1940, Berlin and
Vichy had decided it was wiser to tolerate Blanchot’s obvious
disdain than to challenge him.
For
his part, Georges Blanchot did not openly provoke those then in
political power, but for a single reason only: Since the French
resistance movement had become his passion he had organized--and
was providing the primary
financial support for--Les Amis.
Prior
to the war, the boathouse had been a larger than life building,
utilized to house his equally large yacht, as well as elements
of a small export-import business he had in Beaulieu, a small
town nearby. Some of his exports were difficult-to-find
electronic parts which were essential for heavy sea-going
ships--including military vessels--with requirements for deep
draughts.
The
site of his boathouse was ideal, inasmuch as the deep-water Bay
of Villefranche was one of the few on the Mediterranean coast
that could accommodate such vessels, as it does to this day.
While
Les Amis had been in training near Grenoble, he had slowly but
methodically converted a part of the building into a concealed,
but rather large and comfortable, safehouse, for the protection
of his comrades as well as a refuge for downed Allied airmen
awaiting safe passage back to duty. He called it his halfway
house. He had visualized--and it had become a reality of
late--that pick-ups of
aircrew personnel could be made, on occasion, by British
or American submarines entering
the deep water of the Bay while submerged, then later
surfacing--under cover of darkness--near his boathouse and dock.
The
frequent coming and going of workmen, servants, and the like,
was routine in the care, repair, and maintenance of these Cap
Ferrat showplaces; accordingly each member of Les Amis had been
provided two sets of appropriate garments to wear when arriving
or departing the premises. Today, six of the group had gathered
for their strategy session.
Five
had cycled
over from Eze, and
were joined by Juan, a French Communist who had fought in
the Spanish Civil War; Jean-Pierre sometimes referred to him as
“our token assassin”, which usually brought a rare semblance
of a smile to Juan’s normally unhappy countenance.
Juan
had spent his childhood near the city of Nimes, where his father
had been a common laborer at the aréne there, one of the
few active bullrings left in France.
The father’s grand dream had been for Juan to become a
matador, but had died seeing his son still trapped in the same
drudgery he himself had endured for a lifetime. Two days after
his father’s funeral,
Juan left for Spain.
It
was no secret to the others that their dark-eyed and somber
comrade-in-arms had a different political agenda than they. He
had refused to join any resistance group while he thought
Stalinist Russia was an ally of Nazi Germany, but changed
overnight when Hitler turned on and attacked the Soviets.
Juan’s longterm--and openly expressed--hope was that, after
the war, France would be ruled by his Communist party. He was
tolerated by his colleagues only because he had actual and
varied
combat experience that the unit needed from time to
time--and Jean-Pierre believed that Saturday, in Ventimiglia,
might well be one of those times.
Jean-Pierre
opened the meeting by relating the information given him by BI.
Signore
Marconi had been a political opponent of Benito Mussolini for
years, and had continued to have a substantial following
throughout Italy even after he had been forced to go into hiding
to survive.
Throughout
the war to date he had been leading many partisan activities
from his base he had established in the Tuscan hill town of
Cortona, roughly midway between Rome and Florence. After the
U.S. Fifth Army had invaded Italy proper at Salerno a few weeks
before, its Commander,
General Mark Clark,
had requested that Signore Marconi join his staff as a
civilian advisor as his army moved northward toward the capture
of Rome,
and eventual ‘liberation’--as Marconi described it in
his pamphlets--of all the
Italian people.
Marconi
had been willing, but wanted first to take his wife to
Ventimiglia, where she had lived in her youth and where she had
family with whom he felt she could live safely. Apparently,
German intelligence had somehow learned of his plans, and
had abducted Marconi on his arrival at Ventimiglia.
According
to an Italian informant, three Nazi agents were holding him in a
house, awaiting instructions from their superiors. BI believed
that they intended to try to force
Marconi to act as a double-agent, and failing that, they
would liquidate him.
Jean-Pierre
then outlined his tentative plan for Phase One of “Blue
Waters”, the code-name BI had given this operation.
By
11:00 on Saturday, the market would be having it’s
biggest--and usually it’s noisiest--crowds. Also, it was the
time the band would be starting to play in the small piazza.
Fortunately,
the one-story home where Marconi was being held was
situated between the piazza and the massive shed that housed
most of the vast Market. “With the Italians’ market bruit
on the right--and their brass band blasting on the
left--there will be sufficient noise to cover a major battle; we
can be sure of that!” he exclaimed.
The
tradition in the town, especially true since the beginning of
the war, was that the band would start with a few marches, then
settle into music composed
for dancing--fast and joyful dancing. Most
of the Italian people had always opposed this war, and they had
come to enjoy immensely their Saturday markets as a weekly
emotional release from the trauma of the conflict.
The
plan was that as soon as the band went into its dance music,
Bridgette, dressed in her most seductive Italian attire, would
grab a man and induce the dancing. If that didn’t create a
chain reaction of dance by the crowd, Jean-Pierre was certain
that at least every
male eye on the piazza would be locked in on the swaying
hips of Bridgette.
The
ideal scenario would have the Nazi agent-in-charge as one of
those being
mesmerized. BI’s informant had noted that on the
previous Saturday he had come out of the house and had seemed to
enjoy his dancing with a
young Italian woman, while a second agent leered
lecherously from the front doorway.
In
the meantime, Jean-Pierre and Juan would enter a window in the
rear of the house where Marconi was confined. If they met
resistance from two or more, they would have to use their
pistols, in spite of the resulting noise; if there was only one,
Juan was to use the garrote or stiletto only, if practicable.
“The less noise, the better, obviously”, commented
Jean-Pierre.
Isabelle
would be watching through the back window of the house. If all
went well, she would go to the front, wait three minutes, then
get Bridgette, and dash into and through the market shed to lose
themselves in the crowd, before heading for the boat.
If
Juan and Jean-Pierre were in trouble, Isa had several options
from which she must select , depending on the exact nature of
their trouble: (1) enter the room and assist with her small
hand-gun, or (2) use the one grenade she had in her purse,
or
(3)
retreat at once, get Bridgette, and hurry to the boat.
David
would be waiting with
the motorboat, at the dock near the seaside restaurant,
owned by an Italian partisan friend of Marconi. He had agreed to
hide the group in the cellar of his restaurant, if that became
necessary because of any unanticipated developments; in such
event David would move offshore with the boat, and return after
dark.
“What
do we do with the fascist who may be still out front with
Bridgette? What if he tries to prevent her from leaving?”,
asked Isabelle.
“Use
your own stiletto on the pig!” volunteered Juan.
“No!”
, corrected Jean-Pierre, “First, I think Bridgette can get
away O.K., because it should be rather chaotic.
If not, Bridgette, try your ‘karate to the crotch’
act first, the one you almost disabled me with during our class
at Grenoble” he groaned as he recalled, then said “If that
does not work, then either of you should use the blade or
your Derringer, whichever is more convenient at the moment.
Remember, we want to attract as little attention as possible, to
reduce the chances of a successful pursuit.”
“After
we
are underway in the boat, we will have two options: to the
boathouse on the Cap, or to the
dock near Eze Sur Mer. I believe--and hope--that the
authorities will assume we would withdraw by automobile and will
set-up road-blocks. If I am wrong we
may have to abandon the boat near Eze sur Mer, rather than
compromise the operations of Monsieur Blanchot by leading the
enemy here to the boathouse. Questions?”
“Yes;
what about my role in this?” asked Dominique.
“Yes.
Originally I had planned on you for back-up, but when I arrived
this morning and saw the boat, it simply is not designed for
more than six passengers. So you stay home this trip--maybe next
time? You might use the time to plan on assisting Signore
Marconi with some pamphlets; I’m sure he will be in the mood
to tell his supporters about his latest ‘adventure’ with the
Nazis.”
David
then spoke up, “We need to think about dress sometime
today. The Italian police seem to have an uncanny ability to
spot a non-Italian, and I’m sure it’s by our attire. Again,
we don’t want to draw any more attention than necessary.”
“Absolutely
correct David; it’s true even in the Italian part of
Switzerland. Why don’t you and I write up some suggestions for
all.”, said Isabelle.
“Do
it.” Jean-Pierre ordered, “Now Juan and I need to check our
weapons and ammunition. Ready, amigo.”
“Si
Senor” grunted Juan.
As
he and Juan were leaving the room, he turned back to the group,
“Oh yes, we must talk also about the pick-up by the RAF, Phase
Two of Blue Waters,
tentatively scheduled for Sunday at the airstrip. Be back
here at 2:30, please.”
At
2:30 sharp, the six had re-convened, joined by the remaining
members of Les Amis: Marie-Françoise, Claude, Frederic, and
Eugenio. Their leader outlined his plan for delivering the
Signore to the RAF.
It
would be done on Sunday, at 11:00 A.M. sharp,
while most of the few residents of Eze sur Mer would be
either traveling to--or attending--Mass at L’Eglise des
Palmiers --on the highway along the coast, called the
Basse Corniche--six kilometers to the east of
their village. On
Sunday the small rail station was never staffed---another
advantage, inasmuch as the landing strip was less than two
hundred meters west of the station.
The
strip itself had never been used a great deal, and even less
since the start of the war. Originally,
it had been financed and constructed by the Office de
Tourisme of the nearby principality of Monaco, for the
convenience of wealthy visitors who preferred to travel there by
their private--and usually light--airplanes. The terrain in the
region did not
offer many acceptable sites for an airfield, so they had
selected the one
reasonably flat surface they found near the rail station.
No
expense had been spared in the construction,
the sponsors keeping ever in mind that the clientele who
would be using it were not accustomed to anything less than the
best. Prior to the war, a white Mercedes stretch-limo---complete
with liveried chauffeur---stoodby during all daylight hours, on
the possibility of an unexpected arrival.
Much
had changed since the war,
“A damned nuisance, this conflict.” was
how one of the Monaco casino-owners described it.
The
customers never flew in anymore; the strip was covered in spots
with moss and
practically never used by any type of aircraft;
it was too short for most military types.
The
small but elegant building on the knoll just above the
strip--that had once doubled as an odd combination of
weather-shack to the pilots, but as a well stocked bar for
their
passengers--had long been locked and boarded up.
Based on their earlier check of the area, at exactly
11:00 A.M. on the previous Sunday, the likelihood of anyone
being closeby when the Mosquitos arrived was either(1) the
man--or his wife,--who ran the small combination
grocery/tobacco-shop just across the corniche from the
rail station, or (2) one or more passengers waiting outside the
station for an SNCF train . Both contingencies
would be handled by having Marie-Françoise dawdle over
a coffee at the grocer’s while Dominique would be
posing as a waiting passenger;
they could then detain--at gunpoint if necessary--anyone
who appeared inclined to intervene or alert the police.
Late
on the Friday night before the delivery, Eugenio and Frederic
were to
open the former weather-shack to re-stock the bar
with a few grenades,
some Molotov Cocktails, the 50 calibre Machine Gun and
its tripod,
an abundance of
ammunition and such other items as they might need on
Sunday, but which would be difficult to transport undetected, by
day. While inside, he intended for them to also leave one of the
new short-wave radios that M. Blanchot had received just that
morning. These
were capable of ground-to-air contact with the Mosquitos
once they were within 100 kilometers of the strip; on Sunday,
Isabelle would be continuously at the radio from 10:30 until
both aircraft were fully airborne following the pickup of
Marconi.
Four
of the five men--each armed with an American-made Thompson
Sub-Machine Gun, would be posted at each corner of the strip.
Jean-Pierre would position himself, along with Signore Marconi,
just inside the Palm trees near where he estimated the Mosquito
would roll to a stop after touchdown.
Instantly
after that stop, the British Commando would leap onto the
runway, assist in lifting Marconi into the aircraft, re-board
himself, and set up his automatic weapon in position to fire
through the open hatch as the Mosquito taxies to prepare for
immediate takeoff. If there is no significant wind, the RAF
pilot
may decide to
take-off in the opposite direction from that of his
landing; however, if there is wind of any degree, he would
undoubtedly taxi back to the other end in order to lift off into
the wind, given the short length of the strip. It was vital
that the Mosquito be on the ground for the minimum time
possible; on the ground it was very vulnerable; once airborne it
was normally the master of it’s fate.
As
far as Jean-Pierre or
BI knew, there were no German or Italian military units
close enough to be sent into the region on short notice, but he
wanted to be prepared for a firefight at the strip, if
necessary. His contingency plan, for the worst scenario, would
be to try to get Signore Marconi back to the boathouse. This
would be done by Jean-Pierre and Isabelle,
in her old Citreon that she would have left in the
station carpark on Friday afternoon. The rest would withdraw on
their bicycles, as they had arrived;
three would return to Eze Village, the others to Cap
Ferrat.
Lastly,
he told them that if he should go down, Isabelle would be in
command, and in her absence they were to follow the orders of
David.
He
then asked for questions.
Dominique
asked what she should do if the platform of the station was
totally deserted. “Should I join the men in defense of the
strip?”
“Not
until the Mosquito has taken off, unless I send up a flare; so,
if you are alone there, look in the direction of the strip from
time to time. You will not see a flare unless the situation
becomes grave.”
“You
mentioned ‘five men’ a moment ago, where is our sixth
one to be?”, asked Frederic.
“Of
course; I should have covered that. Signore Marconi and David
will stay at the boathouse Saturday night. He and David will
come in the boat on Sunday morning, both having been disguised
by David as if they were going to Mass. They will walk to
the railway platform after docking; if all appears normal
at that time, Dominigue will signal them to continue to the
strip. If trouble has erupted, she will direct them to
Isabelle’s Citreon in the station’s carpark.”
“When
do we regroup and withdraw?, asked David.
“As soon as the two aircraft are out of sight, assuming
all goes well. Now, before we leave for the day-- who needs
further instruction on our new ‘Tommy-Guns’? No-one?
O.K.-- but just remember that the fire-pattern is from 8:00
o’clock diagonally across your target to 1:00 o’clock;
don’t waste your rounds by aiming at the exact center
of your target; got it?
“Tres bon! Let’s go home.”
The
first thing Jean-Pierre checked on Saturday was the weather. He
knew that
good weather would draw the desired large crowd to the
market just across the border. It was a typical day in Provence;
the sky was as blue as the sea as he looked first up, then down,
from his window high above the Mediterranean.
All except David
would take the nine o’clock SNCF train to Ventimiglia
from
the tiny station down by the sea at Eze sur Mer; the
station was about a mile down from Eze Village via a narrow and
winding road.
David would bring the boat along the coastline from Cap
Ferrat to Ventimiglia , appearing to be simply one of many other
weekend boaters who were forgetting the war by enjoying a few
hours on the sea on such a beautiful weekend.
Sicily
The
Allies had taken Messina on August 17th, thereby effectively
ending the Sicily campaign. Even prior to the fall of Messina
they had been using well the captured airfields, including the
one Kevin had decided to use as their departure point. He had
estimated that this would reduce their flying time by nearly an
hour, as compared to departing from any base in England. An hour
saved could be critical, especially if they should be slowed by
anything unforeseen--bad weather or otherwise.
He
and Wade had brought their Mossies in on Friday, after the
needed work on each airplane had been finished the previous day.
Agent BI Malone had ridden down with Kevin and the Scottish
Commando, Sgt. Andrew Bruce,
Malone riding in the space that had been created for
Signore Marconi to occupy on the return trip. At dinner, after
landing in Sicily, Bruce suggested that they should let Marconi
use the more comfortable Navigator’s seat on the way home.
Malone--still rubbing his back because of the embryo position he
had been required to assume for so long
in the air--agreed, adding, “Otherwise our guest may
prefer to have remained subject to
the tender mercies of Jerry.”
After
dinner, Malone had raised Jean-Pierre on the short-wave. They
had re-confirmed that the pick-up would be on Sunday at 11:00
o’clock sharp, French time. The Frenchman told him they now
had the new radios that would enable them to talk with the
aircraft when they got within 100 KM, and asked that one or the
other of the RAF pilots call them when they were that close to
Eze sur Mer. He told Malone that they were all set to free the
Italian, and suggested that he call again on Saturday around
five p.m., and that the message would be either “We have the
package for delivery.” or “The deal is off.”
Malone
said he understood,
and ended with bonne chance, to which Jean-Pierre
replied in English, “Good luck also, to you and the
Mosquito crews!”
The
next morning, Kevin and Wade studied the aerial photos of
the landing strip, which had been made the day before by a
photo-recon Mosquito. The pilot who had flown the recon Mossie
also met with them, and pointed out that the structure housing
the rail station had appeared to be about the same height as the
patch of trees at the other end of the strip; he then pointed to
the wind sock in the photo and said that on both days
they had flown
over the strip it had indicated “zero” wind, so
perhaps they may want to land from the station end of the
strip, and take-off in the opposite direction, in order to save
the ground time that would be consumed by taxiing back toward
the station in order to start their take-off roll.
The main concern of all three pilots was the short length
of the strip; it was going to require a landing at close to
stall speed, and the take-off was going to be, in the words of
Kevin, “one of the most bloody exciting thrills of my
life’’, but he thought it could be done, adding, “Christ,
I hope this Italian
chap is one of their small ones!’’
Wade
and Kevin told Malone that in view of the résistants’
new radio capability, it might attract less attention in the
community if, while Kevin was on the ground, Wade didn’t
simply fly in circles directly over the strip while
providing cover; instead,
perhaps he could fly wider circles and the radio operator
of Les Amis could alert him if they needed him to come in
closer. After some discussion, they decided it was better to
simply take the chances that might come with attention,
and that Wade would cover in tight circles and “to hell
with the community”.
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