Airborne Espionage

CHAPTER 1

Behind the Lines

On a crisp moonlit night in the third winter of the Second World War, a dozen people took up their positions around a snow-dusted field in central France. Among them were local farm workers, a storekeeper, a pharmacist and a teacher. They had broken the six o'clock curfew to risk local police and German checkpoints, travelling by foot, bicycle and delivery van to their windswept rendezvous. A few were armed with ancient shotguns, while others carried only battery-operated pocket torches. Two of the men and a young woman clutched battered suitcases.

Here they waited in silence, listening for the sound of an approaching engine. If it came from one of the roads leading to the nearby farm, they would be in mortal danger and would have to flee for their lives. But it came from the air, and soon a small, single-engined aircraft circled the field while the reception committee's chef de terrain aimed his torch in its direction and flashed a code letter in Morse. When the pilot flashed back the agreed code letters with his landing light, the reception committee laid out three pocket torches in the shape of an inverted L shape 150 yards long. The aircraft, a black-painted, high-wing Royal Air Force Lysander, touched down at the first torch, bouncing on the frost-hard earth and kicking up flecks of snow in its wake.

It ended its short landing run between the two torches that marked the end of the flarepath. Here the pilot gunned the engine, swung the Lysander around in a 180-degree turn and taxied back to the first torch. The plane came to a halt facing into the wind, with its engine idling. The rear cockpit canopy slid open and a figure in civilian clothing climbed down the short, fixed ladder and jumped to the ground. A second passenger passed down two suitcases and a bundle of packets, while the three figures waiting in the shadows moved forward and passed their luggage up to him. He quickly stowed it and climbed out. When the new passengers were aboard and the sliding canopy closed, the chef de terrain passed a string bag of bottles to the pilot and gave him the 'thumbs up' to take off.

As the aircraft lifted off after a run of less than 50 yards, the remaining men, all members of a local resistance network, melted into the winter night to make their hazardous journeys to homes or safe houses. Having been on the ground for less than five minutes the unarmed Lysander, carrying three Special Operation Executive (SOE) agents, faced a dangerous two-hour night flight over occupied France towards the safety of an airfield in southern England.

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The Second World War was not the first time that intelligence agents had been flown behind enemy lines. A quarter of a century earlier, soon after the outbreak of the First World War, one of France's most remarkable pioneer aviators became the first pilot to fly these dangerous special missions.

Jules Védrines, born to working-class Parisians in 1881, grew up with an interest in all things mechanical, becoming a chauffeur/mechanic before learning to fly at Pau after witnessing Wilbur Wright's demonstration flights at Le Mans in 1908. The ill-mannered, bad-tempered Védrines proved to be a natural flyer, and in 1911 he embarked on an extraordinary series of record-breaking flights. He began by winning the Paris to Madrid race in a Morane-Borel monoplane, flying over the Pyrenees to arrive in the Spanish capital after being airborne for a total of 15 hours, spread over three days. With no instruments, Védrines narrowly missed winning the Circuit of Britain race in July 1911, but over the following year he was to make the World Absolute Speed Record his own.

Flying a revolutionary Déperdussin monoplane with a highly polished, wooden monocoque fuselage, Védrines pushed the speed record from 90 to 108mph in seven separate attempts, becoming the first pilot to break the 100mph barrier at Pau on 22 February 1912. He also won the prestigious Gordon Bennett race of that year in the United States, and in November 1913 made the first overland flight from France to Egypt - a total distance of 2,500 miles - in a two-seat Blériot XI.

When war was declared Védrines was one of the first to volunteer to join France's Aviation Militaire (the French Air Force). However, hardly had the war begun when the French authorities ordered that the fragile Blériot and Déperdussin monoplanes be withdrawn from service, leaving many experienced pilots, including Védrines, without aircraft to fly. Adding insult to injury, at the age of 33 he was also considered to be too old for front-line service. Undaunted, his navigation skills and experience of flying over unknown terrain were soon in demand to fly secret agents to and from behind enemy lines. Védrines was also one of the few pilots who had experience of flying by moonlight, another prerequisite of a special mission pilot. Early flights were made using a two-seat Déperdussin monoplane, the pilot risking not only capture by the Germans, but also being fired upon by French soldiers when crossing the lines.

Two experimental Blériot monoplanes were delivered to the Aviation Militaire in late 1914, one of which was acquired by the French intelligence service for Védrines to fly. Powered by a 160hp Gnome rotary engine, the Blériot had a bulky, streamlined fuselage made of papier mâché covered with linen fabric, prompting Védrines to christen it La Vache (The Cow). Unusually, the engine and two tandem cockpits were protected by 3mm-thick chrome-nickel armour plating, and a door was fitted on each side of the fuselage under the wing to enable the observer to fire at targets on the ground. When used for special missions, however, these doors proved to be a convenient method of entry and exit for an agent in a hurry.

In 1915 Védrines taught a young pilot, Georges Guynemer, who would later become France's second most successful air ace, the skills required to fly behind the lines. Serious, ascetic and frail, Guynemer was the exact opposite to the assertive and bombastic Védrines, but he was never lacking in courage. Posted to Escadrille MS3 in May 1915 soon after gaining his wings at Pau, he carried his first 'spy' across the lines in a two-seat Morane-Saulnier Type L parasol monoplane. The experience led him to acknowledge the dangers faced by those who flew regular special missions, such as Védrines, and others who would remain unknown. However, one of these anonymous heroes left a graphic account of the dangers faced by these early adventurers well behind enemy lines.

I had flown to the outskirts of Laon. There was a deserted corner, a sort of hollow basin where an aeroplane could stay without attracting too much attention. It was also an excellent strip for taking off. No main road passed nearby, and the only roads around were seldom used. It was impossible to find a better place to land for an operation of this kind. My mission was to pick up a passenger. The agreed signals were given and I let myself down to the ground to let him come aboard. He was late, and you can imagine the anguish that gripped me. I risked capture at any moment and could not stay there indefinitely. He was, however, the bearer of precious and compromising documents, and had no other means of safety than my aeroplane. What would happen to him if I were forced to abandon him?

A half an hour passed by, which seemed like half a century. I expected to see him come out of a clump of trees located nearby. The full moon was shining over the entire terrain, and under its pale light, objects seemed to come alive and move. Attentive to the slightest noise, I watched the horizon at the same time. Suddenly I heard steps, and behind the thickets two shots followed in quick succession. A man was running. Nervously I triggered my carbine, which never left my side, and, ready for anything, I awaited the fight. I finally saw my man appear.

He was running with all his might, and behind him several shapes were already in view. Without a doubt he had been followed, and I, for my part, fired away in order to take the pressure off him. I owe him this, that in such great peril he thought only of me. Still out of breath from his running, he shouted to me, 'Quick, leave! There they are!' I told him to get in, and with a gesture, I showed him the empty seat. There was barely enough time. I realised, once in the air, that several metal plates had been pierced. Fortunately, the petrol tank was intact, but my companion was wounded. 'That's all right,' he said. 'I am not ready to go back there again. I wouldn't go back to that place for 100,000 francs.'

Special missions were not the sole preserve of the Aviation Militaire, and the longer the war continued, the more important human intelligence became to all sides in the conflict. A few weeks before British and French armies began the battle of the Somme on 1 July 1916, a Royal Flying Corps (RFC) two-seat aeroplane landed at an airfield a few miles north-east of Amiens on the Western Front. Lahoussoye was the base for No. 3 Squadron, equipped with a varied collection of French Morane single- and two-seat reconnaissance machines; but the visitor was an anonymous BE2c, an artillery observation biplane that had been among the first British types to be deployed to France two years earlier. The BE2c taxied up to the furthest hangar away from No. 3 Squadron's crew hut and parked, with its engine idling. A few minutes later a 'civilian' hurried out of the hangar and climbed into the empty observer's position in front of the pilot, who turned the aircraft into wind and took off from the grass airfield, heading east. The 'civilian' was a French spy who was being flown across the lines and landed in enemy...