Avranches, we’ve been presented with a fluid front through which small vehicles can pass. The American Advance Party already has one troop spread across a direct line from Normandy to Belfort, roughly across the centre of France. With those men already in place, and with ensured air supply for our columns, we’re in a good position to cause chaos behind the Germans who’re withdrawing in front of the US 3rd Army led by General Patton. Therefore, in order to lend support to Patton’s advance and help his 3rd Army reach Dijon, you men will head initially for the Châtillon Forest and, once there, make contact with the Maquis. You will then learn everything you can about the area from the Maquis and, using that knowledge, embark on a series of hit-and-run raids, preferably by night, against enemy positions.’
‘How far do we take the raids, boss?’ Bob Tappman asked in his customary thoughtful manner.
‘Nothing too daring, Sergeant,’ Greaves replied. ‘Nothing too risky. The point is to harass them – not engage in unnecessary or lengthy fire-fights – and to sabotage their channels of communication and, where possible, destroy their transport. The task is harassment and distraction, rather than elimination – so just get in and out as quickly as possible. And no heroics, please.’
‘You won’t get any heroics from us, boss,’ Jacko said, lying for all of them. ‘No one here wants a bullet up his arse if he can possibly avoid it. We all want to live to a ripe old age.’
In fact, Jacko was not alone in thinking that the last good time he had had was a month ago, when on a weekend pass to London. After the peace and quiet of Gloucestershire, he and the other Originals had been thrilled to find the West End so lively, with staff cars and troop carriers rumbling up and down the streets, Allied bombers constantly roaring overhead, protected by Spitfires and other fighter planes, flying to and from France; the pavements thronged with men and women in the uniforms of many nations; the parks, though surrounded by anti-aircraft guns, packed with picnicking servicemen and civilians; ARP wardens inspecting the ruins of bombed buildings while firemen put out the latest fires; and pubs, cafés, cinemas and theatres, albeit with black-out curtains across the windows and their doorways protected behind sandbags, packed with people bent on enjoying themselves.
Even during the night, when diminishing numbers of German bombers flew over to pound London and V-l and V-2 flying bombs caused further devastation, the city was packed with soldiers, pilots, sailors and their women, all having a good time despite the wailing air-raid sirens, exploding bombs, whining doodlebugs, blazing buildings and racing ambulances. Compared with tranquil Gloucestershire, the capital was a hive of romance and excitement, for all the horrors of war. In truth, it was where most of the Originals wanted to be – either on leave in London or taking part in the liberation of Europe. The latter was, at least, now happening and they would soon be part of it. That made Jacko, and most of the others, feel much better. They were back in business at last.
‘What’s the transport situation?’ Sergeant Pat Riley asked.
‘Handley-Page Halifax heavy bombers specially modified to carry men and supplies and drop jeeps and trailers from its bomb bay,’ said Greaves.
‘Bloody sitting ducks,’ Neil Moffatt whispered to his mate, Harry ‘Harry-boy’ Turnball.
‘Not any more,’ the captain said to Neil, having overheard his whispered remark. ‘In fact, the Halifaxes are now armed with two .303-inch Browning machine-guns in the nose turret, four in the tail turret, and two in manual beam positions, so we should have adequate protection should we be attacked by enemy fighters during the flight.’
‘Thanks, boss, for that reassurance,’ Neil said wryly.
‘Is it true, as some of us have heard, that we’re having problems in getting enough aircraft?’ Rich Burgess asked.
‘Unfortunately, yes. Because we don’t yet have our own planes, all arrangements for aerial transport have to be co-ordinated by 1st Airborne Corps and 38 Group RAF at Netheravon and Special Forces HQ. This means that we practically have to bid for aircraft and we don’t always get enough for our requirements. For this reason, you should expect to be inserted in batches over two or three successive nights; likewise for the jeeps.’
‘Which means that those who go earliest have the longest, most dangerous wait on the ground,’ Rich said. ‘More sitting ducks, in fact.’
‘Correct,’ Greaves replied with a grin. ‘Which means in turn that the most experienced men – including you, Corporal – will be in the first aircraft off the ground.’
‘Gee, thanks, boss,’ Jacko said, imitating an American accent with no great deal of skill.
‘Do we take off from Netheravon?’ Bob Tappman asked.
‘No. From RAF Station 1090, Down Ampney, not far from here. Station 1090 will also be giving us support throughout our period in France.’
‘So when do we get out of here,’ Rich asked, ‘and get to where it’s all happening?’
Greaves simply glanced enquiringly at the CO, Captain Callaghan, who stepped forward to say: ‘Tomorrow night. You’ll be kitted out in the morning, collect and manually test your weapons throughout the afternoon, and embark at 2250 hours, to insert in central France just before midnight. Any final questions?’
As the response was no more than a lot of shaking heads, Callaghan wrapped up the briefing and sent the men back to their barracks with instructions to pack as much as they could before lights out. They needed no encouragement.
Next morning the men rolled off their steel-framed beds at first light, raced to the toilets, then had a speedy cold shower and shaved. Cleaned and jolted awake by the icy water, they dressed in Denison smock, dispatch rider’s breeches and tough motor-cycle boots. The smock’s 1937-pattern webbing pouches held a compass and ammunition for the .455-inch Webley pistol, which was holstered at the hip. Though most of the newer men wore the paratrooper’s maroon beret with the SAS’s winged-dagger badge, as ordered by a directive of the airborne forces, of which they were presently considered part, the Originals viewed the directive as an insult and were still defiantly wearing their old beige berets.
Once dressed, they ‘blacked up’ their faces and hands with burnt cork, which they would keep on all day and at least throughout the first night in France. They then left the barracks and crossed the parade ground to the mess hall at the far side, most glancing up just before entering the building to see the many Fortresses, Liberators and escorting Spitfires flying overhead on their way to France for the first of the day’s bombing runs. In the mess, which was filled with long, crowded tables, steam, cigarette smoke and a lot of noisy conversation, they had a substantial breakfast of cereal, bacon, fried eggs and baked beans, with buttered toast or fried bread, and hot tea.
‘The last day we’re going to get decent grub for a long time,’ Jacko said to the men at his table, ‘so enjoy it, lads. Only two more to go.’
They tucked in as best they could in the time allocated to them, which wasn’t much; then, with full bellies, they left the mess hall and walked briskly to the armoury, where they collected their personal and other weapons. These were, apart from the Webley pistol, which they already had, of a wide variety, most chosen by the individual for purely personal reasons and including 9mm Sten sub-machine-guns, Thompson M1 sub-machine-guns, more widely known as ‘tommy-guns’, and Bren light machine-guns. Their criss-crossed webbing was festooned with thirty and thirty-two-round box magazines, hand-grenades,
