Last check of our false papers, of our French pocket money, of our wallet.
Our flight suits are given to us — easy to put on, with zippers all along the chest and legs — easy to take off as well. Reserves of cookies and chocolate — French brands and “occupation” quality. Finally, a 7.65mm Mauser rifle — heavy, too large for my taste — with two extra ammunition magazines. I am aching to verify that it isn’t loaded and that the safety catch properly works. With this type of gun, it can go off all by itself, with the right kind of jolting!
Finally, a safety helmet. I have inherited a new type of helmet — no doubt to try out – never before been seen among our “classic” ones of brown canvas wrapped in foam rubber. At first sight, the helmet’s form makes me think of Hannibal’s soldiers, crossing the Alps! It covers the entire head, even the neck, in foam — not covered by cloth. The joints are held by strips of paper tape. The whole thing is light gray.
Everything is ready for jumping with our parachute, which the instructor has carefully and completely verified — the waist belt, shoulder straps, thigh fastenings, as well as the closing and opening of the round buckle on the stomach, where the other straps all fasten.
Walking toward the car is difficult — with our civilian clothing, our flight suit with camouflage colors, our reserves of food… Moreover, we have been blessed by the inflated man, made out of tires — the publicity mascot of the Michelin Tire Company, the makers of the maps of France that we will rely on!
All goes very quickly. In a matter of minutes, France is there, under our wings. The four engines of our Halifax hum with a constant speed.
I think of all those who have no idea that I am flying over their heads at this very moment. Down there — Vittel: my parents who are no doubt sleeping in that “hotel” concentration camp.” Not far, below and to the left, Epinay: my French family. Next, to the right, Nantes: my comrades and my little neighbor girl. I see them all, no doubt tucked into their sheets on this warm night in June.
The “fishing trip” – the cover used by the team on the ground – has long since completed in the silence of the night, at the edge of the Saône River, close to the drop zone. The electric lamps have been quickly checked. The Morse Code signal has been flashed, to let the pilot know that he is flying over good ground. Each of them is in place. The three who will hold the lamps are ready to form a triangle, to point the direction of the wind. For the moment, they sit under the cover of a bush. The others are ready to receive the parachutists and supplies — finding where they landed and storing the chutes in containers after recovery. Everyone is on the lookout, in the silence of the clear still night, where everything can be perfectly distinguished. For now, they wait for the sound of the plane engines, which will be the signal for the operation.
Everything is calm. All is ready. At the first distant purring sound, all will commence.
The speed of the engines changes abruptly. We begin our descent. The two teams, the ground team and the sky team, each not knowing the other, approach each other rapidly. Astounding, when you consider the organization of all this, unfolding behind the scenes. The same for the players who take advantage of it. They gather the containers of Sten machine-guns, the explosives of all kinds, the pistols, the boxes of ammunition, and on and on — all the items that have been perceived as necessary to have on hand. All the while, they have no idea of the history and planning of such an event. They don’t even know the origin of it, since the time of the original decision. Nor the preparation, the contacts that have already happened, the recruitment… It makes you think twice about complaining, when you get there – about the pressed time frame, or of the lack of such and such in the container… From the folding of the parachutes before takeoff, to recovering them on the ground… To ensure that all is in order and that the two groups – who are distant in so many ways — actually meet-up — at a defined moment, at a given location… One can never say enough, in the midst of these mysteries of the secret war, about the enormous effort that it represents — likewise, about all the danger.
The Sergeant comes to open the circular trap door. The wind rushes in. Along with Nicolas, we can see the ground of France, its stretching fields, light blue in the moonlight, a sparkling river — as if a moving map, in full relief, is parading underneath the hole in the fuselage. The descent continues slowly. We are beginning a gentle turn. No doubt an adjustment for alignment for the target area, still some distance away. The engines become quieter. The vibration in the fuselage quiets down.
From the instant when they hear the plane, without seeing it, those “on the ground” take position. The sound of the engines gets louder. Georges, with his electric lamp, sends the letters of the Morse Code signal. He sees the flickering response: “Light the lamps.” Very low on the horizon, he sees the black silhouette of the quad-engine appear over the Saône, and get larger — seeming enormous to them. The tension is at its height. Everything is ready. Then another silhouette flares out behind the plane, looking like a black flower, instantly appearing. Then another. And another…
Action station. The small lamp by the trapdoor lights, red. Nicolas is already in position, ready to push with his arms and to slip, stiff as a post, through the trap door. I am in position on the other side of the hole. After Nicolas disappears, I will follow.
We both fixate on the red lamp which, at the precise moment, will turn to green.
Nicolas gives me a wink. The hand of the Sergeant in charge of the jump is held in front of us.
Green… The hand signal.
“Go!”
I see the helmet of my comrade disappear. Already, I have my legs in the hole, my arms held tight.
“Go!”
I am out… I have left the last thing that still holds me to England — to take to the skies of France. I feel again the sensations of the wind, of the unfurling of the chute, of the acceleration, and suddenly… I am floating in the calm — strange and absolute. During this brief pause, there is no longer any war. There is nothing… Only the immensity — in the dark blue sky, by the light of the moon. Absolute peace… Alone, under the planetary vault… Always the best moment of a parachute jump.
Everything is in order. I take hold of the straps which rise above me, in the form of a V. Heels together. Around me, the silence. To my left, a mirror which seems immense. The giant curving line of the Saône.
I think about my parachute harness release buckle — about releasing it if I end up landing right in the water… No, the light wind is taking me to the right of it. Wait. I can tell that I am too high. I am going to miss the drop zone. Still, I would love for this moment to last. Maybe, forever!
It is no more than a temporary moment which passes quickly, lasting only a matter of seconds. I see the ground approaching. I have passed by the landing area. I see the glistening of the reflection of the moon on the railroad tracks… I am heading straight for the village.
I don’t have long to reflect. Firmly grasping the lines, knees flexed, feet together, I wait, expecting to feel hard ground or cobblestones. It’s worse… The sound of breaking tiles… And my parachute is not where I would expect it to be… I grip the lines to keep from falling off the roof. The parachute is tangled in the wires on top of… an electric post, attached to the neighboring house.
Quickly, I release myself from my harness, hang from the gutter and jump to a lower roof. I will take off my flight suit, afterwards. There is no one in the street. That’s when a flashlight is pointed at me. A small window opens, revealing two silhouettes. I hear my first words, in French — sitting on this roof, in France. I, who just this instant, have arrived from London… The unimaginable. How unlikely. Completely unexpected… Along with a little humor — almost comic:
“Halt! Who goes there?… French police!”
