The RAF's French Foreign Legion, 1940-45: De Gaulle, the British and the Re-Emergence of French Airpower

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Continuum Studies in Military History Series editor: Jeremy Black Titles in this series include: 56th Infantry Brigade and D-Day – Andrew Holborn Reinventing Warfare 1914–18 – Anthony Saunders (forthcoming)

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45 De Gaulle, the British and the Re-emergence of French Air Power

G. H. Bennett

Continuum International Publishing Group The Tower Building 80 Maiden Lane 11 York Road Suite 704 London SE1 7NX New York, NY 10038 www.continuumbooks.com © G.H. Bennett 2011 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission from the publishers. First published 2011 British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4411-8978-3 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems Pvt Ltd, Chennai, India Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents

Acknowledgements

vi

Introduction

1

Chapter 1:

The Debacle of May–June 1940

6

Chapter 2:

Free France in Africa

19

Chapter 3:

The Battle of Britain and the 13 Apostles of Charles de Gaulle

33

Chapter 4:

Growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941

45

Chapter 5:

The Birth of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron

61

Chapter 6:

War from the Desert to the Atlantic

73

Chapter 7:

War by Attrition and the Raid on Dieppe

81

Chapter 8:

Progress of the Free French Movement, 1942–43

95

Chapter 9:

Formation of 341 (Alsace) Squadron in the United Kingdom

110

Chapter 10: 342 (Lorraine) Squadron Enters the European Battle

127

Chapter 11: Survive, Evade, Escape

135

Chapter 12: D-Day: Preparation and Execution

146

Chapter 13: Liberation

164

Chapter 14: War to the Bitter End

176

Chapter 15: Aftermath

191

Chapter 16: Conclusions

206

Appendices

217

Notes

235

Bibliography

251

Index

269

Acknowledgements

Thanking the many people who have helped to bring this book to publication is neither a formal chore undertaken from a sense of duty nor a routine gesture of common courtesy. For me it is a real pleasure to recall the many people I have met, or with whom I have corresponded, while carrying out my research. Their generosity, kindness, encouragement, questions, criticism, enthusiasm, knowledge and expertise have made my task easier, more fruitful and infinitely more enjoyable. I am grateful to the Roosevelt Study Center (Middelburg) and the British Academy, whose grants helped to fund the research for this project. Like all historians, I am greatly indebted to knowledgeable, patient and obliging archivists, especially those at the British National Archives (Kew), Sussex University Library Mass Observation Archive, National Archives II (Washington), Roosevelt Memorial Library (Hyde Park, New York), the Roosevelt Study Center (Middelburg, Holland) and the German Bundesarchiv. Other organizations to which I am grateful include the Royal Air Force Museum (Hendon), the Air Historical Branch (Northolt) and the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. In France I received welcome assistance from the Service Historique de la Défense (Paris), the Normandie-Niemen Museum (Les Andeleys), the Order of Liberation Museum (Paris) and Sylvain Cornil-Frerrot of the Fondation de la France Libre. My thanks also go to the enthusiastic compilers of the many admirable French websites devoted to the Free French movement or to the French Air Force in particular. I have enjoyed excellent service throughout from the University of Plymouth Library, Exeter University Library and Plymouth City Library. Various friends, colleagues and acquaintances have been supportive in so many ways. Simply listing their names is a small, but sincere, acknowledgement of my respect for their various contributions. At the University of Plymouth I have been fortunate in being able to turn to Sandra Barkhof, Kevin Jefferys, Dafydd Moore, Tony Lopez, Paul Honeywell, Mary Jacobs, Angela

Acknowledgements

vii

Smith, Paul Lawley, Gemma Blackshaw, Sam Smiles, Stephanie Pratt, Roger Hall, Simon Topping, Kathryn Napier Gray, Liz Tingle, James Daybell, Nick Smart, Ian Rayment and Clare Fitzpatrick. From elsewhere, I think of Simon Mansfield, Claire Byrne, and Val Mai (Cardiff), Ian McGinty (London), Jeremy Black (University of Exeter), Gary Tregidga (Institute of Cornish Studies), Kevin Wheatcroft (Wheatcroft and Son), Neil Leavesley (Project Coordinator, S130 Restoration Project), John and the crew at Roving Commissions, Roy Bennett (Ashbourne), Edward Bennett and George Bennett. At my publisher, Continuum, I have welcomed the sound advice and professional skills of Michael Greenwood, Ben Hayes, Alice Eddowes and Rhodri Mogford. Quotations from Crown Copyright documents in the National Archives appear by permission of the National Archives. A particularly important source of information has been the profusely illustrated French aviation revue Icare. (Roissypole Le Dome, BP 1995, 95733 Roissy CDG Cedex. Email: [email protected]). For many years this journal has featured authentic and profusely illustrated articles written by surviving veterans of the Free French Air Force (FAFL). Quotations from those articles appear, in translation, by permission of François Rude, the editor-in-chief. For kind permission to quote from copyright works I am grateful to the following publishers/authors: Random House, Penguin, Roger Huguen, Coop Breizh, the Imperial War Museum, Philippe Chéron, Cambridge University Press, Berger Levrault, Grub Street, Editions Marabout, and Christer Landberg. It has not been possible to trace the copyright holder of every publication quoted. Business takeovers, bankruptcies and changes of address present any author with a bewildering set of investigations in search of copyright holders. If any are not acknowledged in this book, I would be very grateful if they would write to me, care of the publisher, so that they can be properly identified in any subsequent edition. Finally, I cannot conclude without expressing my thanks to the French airmen who flew alongside the Royal Air Force (RAF) between 1940 and 1945. The more I studied their exploits, the more I came to admire their spirit and to appreciate the sacrifices they made for their own country and for mine.

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Introduction

The impetus for the writing of this book was rather unusual. Working as a historian at the University of Plymouth in 2007, I was invited to have a look at some material which had been handed to the South-West Film and Television Archive, based in the same city. It was a remarkable piece of cinefilm shot by a Royal Air Force (RAF) officer attached to 130 (Punjab) Squadron, so named because their Spitfires had been paid for by the province of Punjab in British India. In 1942 the squadron was operating from airfields at Portreath and Perranporth. The film, which lasted for over 20 minutes, was a surprising find for two reasons: it was a home movie and it was in colour.1 The stars were the pilots of 130 Squadron and other RAF squadrons based at the same airfields. Even today, Portreath and Perranporth – small, quiet, Cornish seaside villages of 1,300 and 3,000 inhabitants – are not the busiest of places. Perched on the cliff tops, their former airfields remain remarkably complete, although Portreath is inaccessible to the public. The overgrown bomb shelters and crumbling buildings of these wartime airfields stand as mute evidence of battles fought more than 65 years ago. The film was a vivid reminder of the men who had fought those forgotten battles. During the Second World War, aircraft of RAF Coastal Command flew from Cornish airfields at St Mawgan, Davidstow Moor and St Eval to combat the menace of the U-boat far out in the Atlantic. Coastal Command’s strike squadrons used the same bases to launch attacks on enemy shipping moving between the ports of occupied Europe. RAF Fighter Command flew from the airfields at Portreath, Perranporth and Predannack to protect the cities of Exeter and Plymouth, to counter the Luftwaffe’s attacks on Allied shipping entering the Western Approaches, and to launch offensive sweeps over Brittany. Sixty-five years on, even in Cornwall, few people realize the important role played by the county in the air war between 1939 and 1945. Airfields like Biggin Hill, Tangmere, Kenley and other fighter stations in the south-east of England are remembered nationally because of their

2

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

association with the Battle of Britain in the summer of 1940. In the SouthWest, Portreath, Perranporth and the great fighter battles of 1941, 1942 and 1943 have been almost entirely forgotten. In those days, personnel based at the Cornish RAF stations had to work hard to entertain themselves. Sport, reading groups and amateur dramatics competed for their attention with drinking in local pubs and dancing in village halls. The use of gun cameras for training purposes led to one of the huts at Portreath being adapted for use as a cinema. One can imagine how an enterprising RAF officer in 1942 might have dug out an old cine-camera that he had used to record family holidays before the war. He would make a home movie and show it to the budding stars of RAF Perranporth and Portreath. It would provide some light entertainment and take a little of the workload off the intelligence officer, who seemed endlessly inventive in coming up with interesting games designed to amuse the men and improve skills such as aircraft recognition. That is how the film was born, with pilots and ground crew playing unwitting and unrehearsed roles in an amateur production designed to entertain briefly the men and women of two particularly remote RAF stations. The film showed pilots and mechanics laughing and enjoying themselves. Some played to the camera; some were barely aware that they were being filmed. Morale was obviously high, and practical jokes were an accepted part of squadron life. Even returning from operations in their sometimes rather beaten-up aircraft, the pilots seemed happy and relaxed. Excited pilots explained to each other the twists and turns of aerial combat. Hand movements tried to convey the aerobatic detail of high-speed engagements, to compensate for the fact that the film was silent. The camaraderie between mechanics, pilots of different ranks and their senior officers could be sensed – as also that between men of different nations. Shoulder flashes revealed the multinational make-up of the squadrons at Perranporth and Portreath. Medal ribbons testified to recent combat and to the experiences of senior men who had spent their youth in the trenches of the First World War. One figure in particular loomed out of the film. Just after landing, and still wearing his flying gear, the man walked towards the camera with suave self-confidence. Even without the evidence of his insignia, the pilot’s bearing, looks, clothes and mannerisms identified him as French. He had all the charisma of a French film star before the camera. He exhibited none of the public-school haughtiness of some British pilots or the awkwardness that typified the body language of most of the others. This man was different. The film offered some clues as to his identity. One shot showed him sitting in the cockpit of his Spitfire. The nickname ‘Jaco’ was clearly visible, painted

Introduction

3

on the aircraft along with the symbol of the Free French movement – a cross of Lorraine against a red, white and blue tricolour roundel. ‘Jaco’ was not alone. Another young man had the same emblem and the name ‘Blondie’ on the side of his aircraft. Sweeping his mop of hair back against the wind gusting across the airfield, he was laughing and joking with the men around him. Rarely had I seen a man so alive, so full of youthful vitality. Who were those men and why had they come to Britain to fly Spitfires in the ranks of the RAF? More importantly, what had become of them? Had they survived the war, or was this film sequence a ghostly fragment of two lives cut short by war? I soon became aware of the limitations of my own knowledge about the Free French movement and the paucity of sources in English. Nevertheless, I was able to identify my two Frenchmen from 130 Squadron records.2 ‘Jaco’, my French film star, was Jacques Andrieux, who had escaped from German-occupied Brittany by boat to become an ‘ace’ of the European air war, leader of a French squadron serving with the RAF and, after the war, a general in the French Air Force. ‘Blondie’ was Roland Leblond, who had escaped by ship from Saint-Jean-de-Luz in 1940 and claimed the first ‘kill’ for 130 Squadron. He was seriously injured in 1942, and this man of such happiness, vitality and potential was forced to spend years in hospital. Nevertheless, he survived the war. Most of the comrades with whom he had left France in 1940 were not so fortunate. One by one, they had been killed in action. In unearthing the stories of Andrieux and Leblond, I realized that they were representative of scores of young Frenchmen who had left their defeated homeland between 1940 and 1942 in an attempt to redeem her honour and secure her liberation. They had fought alongside the RAF to restore France’s liberty. Along with Czechs, Poles and a dozen other nationalities, they constituted the RAF’s ‘foreign legion’. It is sad to realize just how far the stories of the Frenchmen who flew with the RAF have since been forgotten in the United Kingdom. It is even sadder to read in their memoirs how they came to feel that even their own country had forgotten them. Beyond a profusion of memoirs, mostly written in the 1950s, and the many dedicated issues of the French aviation journal Icare, comparatively little has been written about the French squadrons of the RAF. Almost 60 years after the end of the war, Colonel Henry Lafont, one of the first Free French pilots to serve with the RAF, compiled a comprehensive record of all the Free French airmen who lost their lives between 1940 and 1945.3 That record includes brief biographical details of each man. Nevertheless, in French popular consciousness, the impressive exploits of the NormandieNiemen squadron – French pilots flying in Russian aircraft on the Eastern

4

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Front from 1943 – have tended to overshadow the record of the French squadrons under RAF command and the achievements of other French airmen who served as individuals in predominantly British squadrons. Reading about the Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres (FAFL), I was struck by the difficulties and dangers faced by men whose only reward for a successful escape from French territory would be the opportunity to fight and die for their country. Those young airmen may be seen as fitting into a long French historical tradition. Since the revolution of 1789, various minorities, all claiming to represent ‘the true France’, have stood courageously against any constituted authority they regarded as guilty of betraying some ill-defined national ‘soul’. Jacobins, Girondins, Monarchists, Republicans, Bonapartists, Chouans, Boulangists, Communards, devout Catholics, Atheists, Croix-deFeu, Communists and many other groups have all claimed, at different times, to represent the ‘true France’ against the decadence, despotism, indifference, intolerance, incompetence, cowardice or spiritual bankruptcy of some ruling regime whose policies they felt entitled to reject. Following defeat in the Franco-Prussian war in 1870, the search for the ‘true France’ took on a new meaning and urgency; and with the defeat of 1940, the debate could no longer be contained within the body politic. France splintered along deep fault lines, some of long standing, some peculiar to the death of the Third Republic. The Free French movement can be seen as one of those splinter groups, but even within the FAFL one can detect the stresses caused by 250 years of a contested and eventful national history. Among the airmen were democrats, monarchists, republicans, anti-fascists, representatives of old aristocratic families, former activists in the radical politics of the left or the right and many who had taken very little interest in politics. I wondered at the nature of the ‘true France’ for which they felt they were fighting. How did they differ from the French servicemen who continued to serve the constitutional government of Marshal Pétain after 1940? How did they differ from other Frenchmen who felt that they could best serve France by enlisting under German command in an anti-Bolshevik crusade? What influence, if any, did these differences have on the aims of the Free French movement and the fighting quality of the Free French Air Force? As France Libre metamorphosed into France Combattante, how was the degree of unity necessary for victory achieved? The story of the Free French Air Force offers a rather interesting lens through which to examine the history of the Free French movement. Inspired by their example, and by their sacrifice, the French Air Force would be reborn. From the ashes of defeat in 1940, the reconstituted Armée de l’Air grew to 39 Squadrons (12 of them nominally linked to the

Introduction

5

RAF) by 1945. By then French air power was able to play a full and creditable role in the final destruction of Nazism. This book is respectfully dedicated to the French airmen who served alongside the RAF between 1940 and 1945. They showed fortitude in refusing to be defeated, contempt for their countrymen who wished to collaborate with the enemy, resourcefulness in finding solutions for every practical problem placed in their way, courage in facing death every day as gentlemen, and they never wavered in their determination to see France liberated. Such men make history. The word hero is over-used today on both sides of the English Channel, but in 1940 their shining heroism saved the honour of France. Their abilities as aviators helped to save Britain from invasion in 1941–42, and their fighting spirit helped to liberate Europe in 1944–45. Precious was the mettle, and few the number, of the men who rallied to the cause of France Libre and flew in defence of freedom, not just for France, but for Europe as a whole.

Chapter 1

The Debacle of May–June 1940

To understand how French airmen came to be flying British-built aircraft from airfields in Cornwall and elsewhere in the United Kingdom, one needs to look at the humiliating disaster that befell France in a 6-week period during May and June 1940. In the first week of May, as the Second World War entered its ninth month, French and British forces were facing their German opponents across a front line which had seen very little movement since the day war broke out. From the North Sea to Thionville the neutral territories of Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg kept the belligerents apart. From Thionville to the Swiss frontier French forces were content to adopt a defensive strategy behind the reassuring protection of the Maginot Line fortifications and the swift-flowing River Rhine. That situation had remained virtually unchanged while the Germans overran Poland in 1939, and it had remained unchanged while they launched a lightning assault on Denmark and Norway in the spring of 1940. The contrast between those dramatic campaigns and the quiescent state of the front in Western Europe has led some historians to label that period ‘The Phoney War’. That state of affairs was to change with bewildering speed. On 10 May the Germans launched a massive offensive through the previously neutral Low Countries. By ruthless use of air power and bold deployment of airborne troops and armour, they made very rapid progress. They overran the whole of Holland and the eastern half of Belgium during the first week. They also punched a dangerous breach in the French lines around the town of Sedan, on the right flank of the French and British troops pushing forward into Belgium. In the second week, German armoured and motorized divisions exploited the breach at Sedan to race across the old World War I battlefields and reach the English Channel at Abbeville. The British Expeditionary Force and French troops in the Pas de Calais and Belgium found themselves trapped in a large, but isolated and shrinking, pocket with their backs to the sea.

The Debacle of May–June 1940

7

The third week saw the end of Belgian resistance. Through the port of Dunkirk and adjacent beaches, the British began evacuating as many troops as they could manage, using whatever improvised shipping they could lay their hands on. General Weygand, who had replaced General Gamelin as the Allied generalissimo on 19 May, set about the thankless task of trying to cobble together a credible defensive line (the Weygand Line) along the Rivers Somme and Aisne. The sea-borne evacuation of almost 340,000 British and French troops from Dunkirk was completed by 4 June, during the fourth week of the German offensive, and with their rear areas now secure the Germans wasted no time in forcing breaches in the flimsy Weygand Line. By the end of the fifth week they had raced to the gates of Paris; Italy had entered the war as Germany’s ally; and Paul Reynaud’s French government was fleeing towards Bordeaux, with temporary halts at places such as Tours en route. In the sixth week, French-organized resistance collapsed. They had no answer to the German armoured thrusts supported by the ruthless and effective use of air power. After occupying Paris, German columns were able to race to Cherbourg in the north, Brest and Nantes in the west and Lyons in the south. The large French army garrisoning the Maginot Line was intact but virtually surrounded. On 16 June prime minister Paul Reynaud resigned to make way for a new French government, headed by the hero of World War I, 84-year-old Marshal Philippe Pétain. The old man knew that the game was up. This time there would be no repeat of the epic siege of Paris in 1870, no ‘miracle of the Marne’, no stubborn defence of Verdun. The day after his appointment, Pétain accepted General Weygand’s professional advice that the time had come to ask the Germans for an armistice, which was eventually signed on 22 June. Much has since been said and written about how a great European power came to be brought to its knees in 6 short weeks. Appeasement of Germany and Italy in the inter-war years, inadequate manpower, failure to extend the Maginot fortifications to the Channel coast, Gamelin’s initial defensive strategy, outmoded concepts of tank warfare, an outdated air force and bitter political in-fighting figure prominently in those diagnoses. Britain’s unilateral decision to bring her men home via Dunkirk and refusal to commit the whole of the RAF to the defence of France also come in for criticism, especially from some French historians. This is too complex a subject to debate here, but it seems clear that the Armée de l’Air (French Air Force) had not had a good war. French failure in the air was a blow at the psychological, as well as the military, level. France could claim to have been at the forefront of aviation since the late

8

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

eighteenth century, when the Montgolfier brothers had succeeded in developing the first hot air balloon capable of carrying a man into the air. For that success their father Pierre had been ennobled by Louis XVI, thus inaugurating a long relationship between the French aristocracy and aviation. In 1870 the French had shown great courage and ingenuity in using gas-filled balloons as a means of establishing communication between Paris (then besieged by the Prussians) and the unconquered parts of France. Léon Gambetta, the minister of the interior, had even been airlifted from the capital to direct national resistance from Tours. In 1890 Clément Ader had succeeded in making short jump flights in a steam-powered aircraft. Other leading French aviation pioneers included Henri Farman and Louis Blériot. In 1909 the latter became the first man to fly across the English Channel in a heavier-than-air machine. He perfected the first design for a monoplane and pioneered the development of air racing as a sport. The army’s keen interest in the possible military applications of aviation had put France at the forefront of military aviation with the initial acquisition of five aircraft in September 1909 and the setting up of an Etablissement Militaire d’Aviation as early as 1910. Popular enthusiasm was aroused by the exploits of Marcel Brindejonc des Moulinais, who thrilled France with a series of long distance flights. His round-trip flight in February 1913 from Paris to London to Brussels and back to Paris covered a distance of over 1,000 kilometres and involved a double crossing of the English Channel in poor weather conditions. By 1914 the French public had become engrossed in the romance and daring of competitive air races and distance flights that pushed the capabilities of both man and machine. Aviation was seen as a symbol of France’s engagement with modernity, technology and industrialization and as proof of her status as a great nation. The love of liberté had been extended into a love of the freedom of flight. Aviation could become a future means of linking the disparate parts of the French Empire and it might eventually provide France with an effective strike force to offset Britain’s naval dominance. During the Great War of 1914–18 aerial warfare became a field of further French achievement. It offered a colourful, romantic contrast with the horrors of trench warfare. Pilots such as Georges Guynemer, Charles Nungesser and Roland Garros had become the new knights of the air, contesting control of the skies in chivalric combat with their German and Austro-Hungarian enemies. By 1918 the French army was deploying over 3,000 aircraft; British pilots often flew in excellent French-built machines; and air superiority over the Western Front had been achieved. France emerged from the war as the dominant power in the air. For example, in

The Debacle of May–June 1940

9

1923, French companies built 12 times more aircraft for the French army than British industry was turning out for the RAF. In the popular consciousness, aerial combat was just as much a part of the French art of war as battle on the ground. For most of the inter-war period, military aviation was regarded as a kind of adjunct to the French ground forces, although periodically there were inconclusive debates about the future role of French air power. Some senior officers, such as General Philippe Féquant, saw air power in terms of an independent strategic force, but most army commanders showed little appreciation of the strategic possibilities. They still saw the future mainly in terms of tactical cooperation with the army. Lack of political will and leadership resulted in failure to ‘resolve unambiguously the place of the Air Force in national strategy and within the command structure’,1 while inadequate funding led to the squandering of France’s lead in aviation technology. Too many manufacturers of modest size took too long to develop improved aircraft designs, which they were then incapable of building in quantity and delivering on time. Pierre Cot, air minister 1932–33 and 1936–38, presided over far-sighted attempts to remedy these defects. The Armée de l’Air became a separate service in 1933, and in 1936 aircraft manufacturers were grouped in a limited number of larger nationalized companies. Realizing that large numbers of pilots would be required in any future conflict, Pierre Cot introduced measures to encourage ‘air mindedness’ through an imaginative scheme known as L’Aviation Populaire, which ranged from encouraging aero-modelling to making instruction in gliding and pleasure-flying cheaper and more widely available. The threat from a rearmed Nazi Germany after 1935 and the grim lessons of the Spanish Civil War eventually jolted the French into embarking on a rearmament programme of their own, but the inevitable teething problems of a newly independent Air Force and aircraft manufacturers in the throes of restructuring meant that the programme tended to be sluggish in implementation. The French Air Force entered the war in 1939 with many aircraft which were technologically inferior to comparable German types in front-line service, a disparity bluntly assessed as ‘catastrophic’ by James S. Corum.2 The rearmament programme, which included the development of fine modern fighters such as the Dewoitine 520, only began to get into its stride just as the ‘Phoney War’ in the West came to an abrupt end in May 1940. At that time the productivity of the French aircraft industry had risen to 500 aircraft a month, and the latest types could stand comparison with the best in the world, but in 9 months of war French aircraft factories had only

10

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

managed to achieve about one-third of the (admittedly ambitious) planned output. The short-sighted mobilization of some key workers to serve as infantrymen had adversely affected production. There were not even enough fully trained pilots to fly the aircraft turned out by the expanding French aviation industry. That shortage of pilots was critical, with only some 700 fighter pilots available to meet the German offensive. The French had perfected systems for the speedy mass training of fighter pilots in the previous war, but flight training between the wars had tended to become the preserve of a select few. Many pilots in the French Air Force had been sufficiently ‘air-minded’ to gain some kind of civilian pilot’s licence before entering the military. A licence of that kind could boost a young man’s chance of selection for the Air Force, but obtaining one required education, leisure time and money to pay for instruction. Thus, a flying career in the Air Force tended to be predominantly the preserve of young men from privileged social backgrounds, although Pierre Cot’s measures to open up recruitment across a wider social spectrum were beginning to pay off.3 Family tradition, reputation and honour placed a heavy onus of expectation on many French Air Force pilots. Roland de La Poype, who entered the Flight Training School at Angers in 1939, felt the burden particularly acutely. Coming from an aristocratic and military background, he had been named after an uncle who had been killed in the First World War. Portraits of his uncle and father in military uniform hung in the dining room at the family chateau near Angers.4 By encouraging their offspring into the Armée de l’Air, some fathers who had served in the First World War did their best to ensure that their sons would not have to go through the hell of the trenches if war came again. This became especially marked as the crisis over Czechoslovakia in 1938 gave way to a fresh crisis over Poland in 1939. Jacques Guignard, who began his flying training at Etampes on 1 September 1939, later wrote: ‘My father went through the First War in the infantry and told me all about the joys of the trenches, and I did not feel at all attracted to that type of warfare.’5 In the event of war, better the clean skies than the squalor of life in the infantry! After gaining acceptance for flight training, young pilots did not always receive instruction of the highest quality. Henry Lafont later complained: ‘If our flying training was of good quality, our instruction on the ground – aerodynamics, mechanics, navigation, weaponry, meteorology etc. – left a great deal to be desired.’6 Those who gained their wings in time to engage in combat in 1939 and 1940 found it a sobering experience. Most of them had to take to the skies in obsolescent aircraft, while the newer types languished in delivery depots well away from the front.

The Debacle of May–June 1940

11

The air battles in 1940 were not completely one-sided but, while some individual pilots enjoyed great success against the Luftwaffe, the French and British air units were quite unable to stem the German tide. Wartime estimates of aircraft losses have shown wide variations, but it seems likely that, in the period 10 May to 20 June, the Germans lost about 1,250 aircraft of all types, compared with about 950 lost by the RAF and 750 by the French.7 British and French losses are inflated by aircraft destroyed on the ground during enemy air raids and those destroyed by their own side because they were immobilized and awaiting repair when their airfields were threatened by the enemy’s advance. As the swift-moving battle for France developed, liaison between the Army and Air Force was ‘clumsy and ineffective’.8 This was in sharp contrast to the close cooperation between air and ground units which was one of the hallmarks of German blitzkrieg. French army commanders were not used to cooperating with aircraft and had little use for them when they were offered. Moreover, on a rapidly changing battlefield, delay and bureaucracy hampered front-line efforts to halt the advancing German columns. The worst problem lay with ‘the immense length of the chain of command whereby applications for support from the ground required the transmission of the message to the head of the chain before it could be passed over some bureaucratic gulf and travel down the other side, causing immeasurable delays’.9 Even within the French Air Force, the chain of command and administrative procedures resulted in serious handicaps and bottlenecks. For example, the commander of the Third Air Region was unable to use over 200 Bloch 151 fighters that were available at Tours, because the machines had not yet been fitted with machine-guns from a nearby depot. It was only in the chaos of defeat that he felt able to act, without reference to the chain of command, to secure from the depot the weapons necessary to arm the aircraft. By such efforts of last minute desperation, the number and quality of French aircraft in the skies over France actually improved between May and June 1940. Failure in the air battle occurred even though British and French cryptanalysts were routinely able to read low grade Luftwaffe radio traffic during the early months of 1940 and throughout the Battle of France.10 Through enigma decodes, the RAF sections of the British government’s Code and Cypher School at Bletchley Park and the French Air Staff’s Deuxième Bureau were able to build up a fairly detailed picture of the Luftwaffe’s order of battle and procedures. However, they were not able to read ULTRA decrypt material quickly enough to make a major impact on the actual battlefield. Coordination between the British and French intelligence services also seems to have been grudging and inadequate. In any case, with the origins

12

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

of the intelligence carefully disguised to protect its source, British and French commanders in the field showed reluctance to act on what they took to be ‘agent-derived’ intelligence of uncertain reliability. For the French Air Force, the failure to provide an adequate defence in 1940 was made all the more painful and humiliating by one of the dramatic features of the campaign – Stuka divebombers, unmolested by French fighters, carrying out strafing runs against the long columns of civilians desperately fleeing from the German advance and hoping to reach the imagined safety and plenty of rural France.11 The American ambassador to France informed President Roosevelt: Last night I met the wife of the Minister of Blockade Georges Monnet who had been at Soissons attempting to evacuate small children. They were walking on the road to Paris since they had no means of transportation and she was trying to keep them singing to help their little feet to move. Two German aeroplanes came down and machine gunned them, and the road was filled with little bodies.12 As Ian Ousby has pointed out: ‘The French had nothing to rival the Stuka or to deal with the threat it posed.’13 That failure to defend French women and children from the Luftwaffe made an abiding impression on both civilians and the military. In assessing France’s readiness for war, Martin Alexander has argued that ‘war in and from the skies remained the Achilles heel of French defence right down to 1940’.14 American defence analyst J. S. Corum has reached a similar conclusion. He estimates that the French Air Force in 1940 ‘was approximately three years behind the Germans in aircraft development and deployment’.15 French inferiority was exacerbated, in A. D. Harvey’s judgement, by failure at the command level to make the most of the available forces.16 Expecting a long war of attrition, the French High Command preferred to husband resources, including half-trained pilots and the most modern aircraft, rather than throw them into the battle. That policy caused considerable disquiet and resentment among French pilots, especially as France plunged towards defeat. Robert Baitson, a bomber pilot, wrote at that time: ‘Despite the urgent need for aircraft, training is very slow; aircraft are often not ready, and there is a lack of the essential fighting spirit which a groupe in wartime ought to have.’17 It was with some irritation that his squadron eventually got to trade in their outdated Bloch 210 aircraft for the more modern Lioré 45. As his squadron was withdrawn south to Montpellier and Marignane, Baitson grumbled: ‘If all our bomber

The Debacle of May–June 1940

13

groupes had been equipped with it, the French Air Force would have been able to take a more effective part in the desperate struggle which is taking place in the North and the East.’18 Like Baitson, those pilots not killed in combat had to retreat southwards and westwards to avoid being overrun by the German advance. With the disruption of road and rail communications and the destruction of telephone lines and exchanges, order and control disintegrated. Pitiful hordes of terrified civilian refugees clogged the roads, and wild rumours circulated. Orders were issued and often countermanded before anyone could put them into effect. One day the intention was to defend Brittany to the last as a ‘redoubt’: within 48 hours the idea had been dismissed as impracticable. Any move became a logistical nightmare. Headquarters had no idea where their units were located: units had no idea how to get in touch with their commanders. In the confusion of defeat, more and more pilots and ground crew, like other servicemen, began to wonder if the time had come to act on their own initiative, rather than wait for orders which never arrived or obey orders they found ambiguous, unpalatable or impossible. They had a limited range of choices. They might stand fast awaiting further orders, resign themselves to being taken prisoner, try to evade capture by mingling unobtrusively with the many displaced civilians or continue to retreat and rely (without much confidence) on their superiors to sort out the mess. Some began to weigh up the possibility of getting away by boat or aircraft to the United Kingdom or French North Africa. While comparatively few fully qualified and experienced French pilots flew to Britain in June 1940, a far greater number of student pilots, part way through their training, managed to get away from the shores of France. With training airfields located well away from the front, in areas such as Brittany and south-western France, trainee pilots had a better chance than front-line pilots of reaching the coast and escaping by sea. Virtually the whole of the Brittany-based No. 23 Elementary Flying School crossed to Britain on the initiative of their commanding officer, Lieutenant Edouard Pinot. In the First World War Pinot had qualified as a pilot after serving as mechanic to the great fighter ace Georges Guynemer. In June 1940 he realized that it would be only a matter of days before the Germans overran the whole of the Brittany peninsula. On 18 June he managed to charter a large fishing vessel, Le Trébouliste (119 tons), which embarked the school’s student pilots and some instructors at the Breton fishing port of Douarnenez. They even took along the unit’s chaplain, Father Robert Godard, and their mascot, a dog named Pilou. Given the long arm of the

14

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

German Luftwaffe, none of the people on board could have failed to realize that the voyage to England would involve great danger. Shortly before Le Trébouliste sailed, Father Godard, a monk of St Norbert’s order, went ashore. He explained to the students that he was carrying 10,000 francs which he did not wish to surrender to the fishes of the English Channel, should providence not smile on their endeavours. Fifteen minutes later, as most of the townspeople looked on from the quayside, he made his return from the direction of the parish church. Le Trébouliste sailed under cover of darkness, to the sound of the Marseillaise being sung by the onlookers and distant explosions from the naval arsenal in Brest. She carried over 100 men. Marc Hauchemaille, one of the instructors, recorded in his diary his recollection of the voyage to England: ‘In the morning, after several hours spent on a pile of rope, I look round the deck. What a jumble of gear! If ever we are attacked, we are done for! A large mug of rum offered by the skipper restores my nerve.’19 Some 42 hours after setting off, Le Trébouliste arrived safely at Newlyn, near Penzance, from where she was ordered round to Falmouth. A newly promoted French army officer had also wasted no time in making his own independent decision about where his personal duty lay. His name was Charles de Gaulle. An expert on the use of tanks, he had only been promoted from colonel to brigadier-general on 1 June, and he was the youngest general in the French army. On 6 June he had been appointed under-secretary of national defence in Paul Reynaud’s government. His period of office lasted just 10 days, until the Reynaud government resigned on 16 June to make way for a new government under Marshal Pétain. That evening de Gaulle returned to Bordeaux by air to report on a mission he had undertaken in London. He found himself unemployed because of the change of government, and he was dismayed to learn that Pétain and his ministers intended to set about the humiliating task of begging for armistice terms from the triumphant Germans. Next morning, along with Churchill’s military liaison officer, Major-General Edward Spears, de Gaulle was flown to England in a small RAF communications aircraft. On 18 June, the virtually unknown Charles de Gaulle spoke to his countrymen through the British Broadcasting Corporation. Few of his listeners had heard his name before. He made an emotional appeal for Frenchmen to carry on the fight against Nazi Germany. The general’s plea for his countrymen to repudiate the orders of the legitimately appointed government of the Third Republic, in the rather more nebulous and less clearly identifiable interests of the French nation (as defined by him), was not as convincing as some Gaullists were later ready to claim. Few people in

The Debacle of May–June 1940

15

France heard the original broadcast, and the appeal had to be repeated a few days later. At that time the British government would have preferred to work with some broadly based committee of better-known French politicians and officers, but they quickly realized that there was no sign of such a group emerging. For the time being, de Gaulle was the only credible resistance leader on offer. On 28 June Britain recognized him, as ‘head of the Free French’ and granted him credits to finance his embryo organization. A Free French movement, proclaiming its determination to fight on, had come into existence, but the omens did not seem very auspicious. At the time of de Gaulle’s appeal, more than 20,000 French servicemen were in the United Kingdom. Some had been evacuated from the port of Narvik after an abortive campaign in Norway, many more had arrived via Dunkirk, others had managed to get away from the Channel ports, and more were arriving every day from Brittany and ports on the Bay of Biscay. There were also the crews of some French warships which had taken refuge in British ports as their own bases had been overrun or threatened. De Gaulle was optimistic that many of these servicemen would clamour to enlist in the Free French forces, but the great majority rejected his appeal. Their presence in the United Kingdom was a consequence of a hectic, sometimes chaotic, withdrawal – but a withdrawal undeniably carried out under the orders of their superior officers and authorized by the de jure government of France. Now that government’s constitutional successor, headed by a revered military hero of the Great War, had decided to ask the enemy for an armistice to end the fighting, many thousands of patriotic and courageous Frenchmen were disinclined to follow some unknown, fire-eating, jumped-up brigadier-general along the road plainly signposted ‘desertion’, ‘treason’ and ‘death’. It was not as if they had no alternative. In return for French cooperation in allowing British ships to continue evacuating thousands of British, Polish and Czech troops from ports still under French control, the British government had agreed to allow all French servicemen in the United Kingdom to opt for repatriation, via the French colonies in Africa, if they wished. Most of them would take that option, whether from dutiful obedience to Marshal Pétain’s orders, from disillusionment with a disastrous war or from an understandable human desire to go home to their families. Even among those who had taken the risk of crossing the English Channel in Le Trébouliste, about one-third (40 men) eventually opted for repatriation, and that number included 15 flying instructors or pilots in training.20 Meanwhile, in that anxious interlude between France’s request for an armistice on 17 June and the actual signature on 22 June, and in the next

16

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

few days until the Germans had established effective control over the whole Biscay coastline down to the Spanish frontier, other Frenchmen were still striving to make good their escape to the United Kingdom or to French North Africa. The French authorities made it clear that those who acted on their own initiative would be classed as deserters, and guards were placed to thwart their efforts to get on board ships bound for Britain or Gibraltar. Nevertheless, more than 80 determined pilots, trainee pilots and other aircrew managed to bluff their way onto the ships sent to evacuate British and Polish servicemen from Biscay ports such as Bordeaux, Verdon, Biarritz and Saint-Jean-de-Luz. The great majority made their escape on 24 June aboard the Polish liner Sobieski and the British vessels Arandora Star and Ettrick from Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Many of them were helped by sympathetic French officers and gendarmes who ‘turned a blind eye’ to what was going on, and in some cases provided practical advice and assistance. The Poles colluded enthusiastically with escaping French servicemen who shared their own determination to continue fighting against the Germans, whatever the odds and wherever that might lead them. At a practical level, deception was made easier by similarities between French Air Force uniforms and those issued to Polish airmen in France. The Poles gladly lent a few badges, buttons, insignia, rank stripes and oddments of equipment to give escaping French airmen a vaguely Polish appearance. With a few borrowed phrases of dobra polski and quick reflexes in divining the meaning of unintelligible orders bellowed in Polish, the French were able to mingle with the Poles and bluff their way on board the troopships in spite of all efforts to prevent them. A further dozen French airmen got away to Gibraltar from Mediterranean ports such as Port Vendres and Sète. About 20 other aircrew, assuming France would fight on from North Africa, escaped by ship from Bayonne to Casablanca, where they were disappointed to find that the armistice was already in force. Still undaunted, on the advice of the British vice-consul they mingled with some Poles to board ships sailing for Gibraltar and England. Approximately 50 more French airmen managed to fly to England from French airfields, either in their own aircraft or by hitching a lift with the RAF, while more than 20 flew to Gibraltar from Algeria and Morocco before the end of June 1940. Escape by air from metropolitan France to the French colonies in North Africa proved to be very difficult. Jacques Guignard, a trainee pilot who managed to get away by sea from a southern French port, later wrote: ‘We had our backs to the wall; our aircraft did not have sufficient range to reach

The Debacle of May–June 1940

17

North Africa and, worst of all, we could learn nothing from the people in command, who were irresolute. It was no use relying on them to give us advice, and especially orders.’21 Despite the difficulties, many found their way to North Africa in those aircraft which did have sufficient range to cross the Mediterranean. The airmen remaining in France, or those who had retreated under orders to the colonies, found their superior officers ready to comply, if only reluctantly, with the terms of the armistice once it had been formally accepted by the Pétain government. Under Articles 5, 6 and 7 of the armistice terms, France undertook to hand over to Germany ‘all arms, aeroplanes and fortifications’. Article 9 called on the French Government ‘to prevent members of its armed forces from leaving the country or fighting against Germany’.22 The French quickly disabled most of their aircraft, and strict measures were put in place to prevent individuals from joining de Gaulle’s forces in Britain. While circumstance had conspired to place thousands of French soldiers and sailors in Britain at the time of the armistice, only a limited number of aircrew, and even fewer skilled tradesmen and other ground personnel from the French Air Force, were in a position to rally immediately to the cause of Free France. A month after making his initial appeal, de Gaulle could muster in the United Kingdom about 2,000 troops, a few sailors and 380 airmen.23 At that time only a handful of those airmen could be considered both fully trained and fluent in English. The small number of trained pilots reaching Britain meant that the possibility of the FAFL functioning as a properly formed and recognized Air Force, remained in some doubt during the summer of 1940. Certain critical questions had to be resolved. As a prophet of tank warfare, would de Gaulle finally settle the strategic squabbles of the 1930s by turning the FAFL into a mere support service for the Army? Would the Free French Navy, which had an air element of its own, advance a claim for future control of all Free French air units? In June 1940 that was a real possibility because, in the absence of any Air Force officer of sufficient seniority, FAFL personnel were placed for administrative purposes under the naval Commander-inChief, Vice-Admiral Emile Muselier, who was appointed acting head of both services. Would British support extend to the maintenance and development of a separate Free French Air Force? Given the immediate emergency posed by the Battle of Britain, for the foreseeable future the RAF might be more interested in using every available pilot and aircraft to plug gaps in its own ranks, rather than setting up exclusively French squadrons. These questions were partially resolved in initial understandings reached between Winston Churchill and General de Gaulle in June–July

18

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

1940. Their complete resolution would follow between 1940 and 1942, during the operational implementation of those original understandings. In June 1940 Churchill agreed that British aid would be given unstintingly to develop the Free French Army, Navy and Air Force. The Free French Air Force was the subject of a specific undertaking that Churchill expected the RAF to help make good. He promised de Gaulle an air force wholly French in character.24 The details of what that would mean in practice would take several more months to discuss and agree, and the project would necessarily depend on the availability of a growing number of pilots, other aircrew specialists and ground crew. In return for this British pledge over the long term, the Free French leader was willing to agree that the limited number of experienced fighter pilots he had at his immediate disposal should be given hurried operational training by the RAF and rushed into combat in British squadrons. The RAF employed some Free French bomber crews in a similar way. The fighter pilots were badly needed. RAF Fighter Command was already under pressure. Losses in France had been high and the worst was yet to come. The 1,434 RAF pilots available at the end of July 1940 would fall to 1,023 by the end of the following month.25 The agreement between de Gaulle and Churchill placed the Free French Air Force under the protective wing of the RAF. Having fought its own battles to remain an independent strategic force, the RAF was sympathetic to the idea of ensuring the growth of the Free French Air Force as an independent service. De Gaulle undoubtedly appreciated the immediate British need for pilots. He also realized the propaganda potential of a French air arm. Free French army units would take time to re-equip, train and work-up. Free French naval units, depleted by men exercising their right to return home under the Anglo-French agreement, would similarly require time to get back into the war. Fighter pilots and medium bomber crews could be brought into action much more quickly, even though the RAF insisted, quite naturally, that they must receive conversion training, employ English as the standard means of communication and adopt RAF procedures. Getting even a handful of French airmen into immediate action against the enemy would make a vital contribution to building up the sense of momentum which the Free French movement needed if it was to survive and prosper.

Chapter 2

Free France in Africa

The encouraging momentum, which de Gaulle’s movement was beginning to show signs of building up, soon suffered a potentially disastrous setback. Winston Churchill was determined to prevent the powerful French fleet from falling into German hands, whatever the cost. He was reassured neither by the promises of the Commander-in-Chief of the French Navy (Admiral Darlan) and the French Admiralty nor by specific clauses in the Franco-German armistice, which appeared to leave the fleet securely under French control. If by some means the French fleet had fallen into German hands it might have provided them with the extra sea power required for a successful invasion of the United Kingdom. Churchill decided that he simply had to neutralize that potential threat, but the cost was high. After futile negotiations, on 3 July the Royal Navy attacked the French fleet at Mers-el-Kebir, its main base in North Africa. Another French fleet in the Egyptian port of Alexandria was bullied into accepting a kind of ‘protective custody’; and French warships that happened to be in British ports were forcibly seized. On 8 July, at the West African port of Dakar, aircraft from HMS Hermes attacked the new French battleship Richelieu, but she suffered only slight damage from a single torpedo hit. These ruthless British measures against a former ally were hardly conducive to boosting the popular appeal of de Gaulle’s movement in the eyes of the French people. De Gaulle was personally offended and angered by the Mers-el-Kebir operation, which cost the lives of over 1,200 French sailors, many from the battleship Bretagne, which blew up. Coming on top of dark suspicions and rumours which had circulated during the Dunkirk-Calais evacuations in May–June 1940 – that the British had callously refused to take off large numbers of French sailors and soldiers – the steps taken to neutralize the French fleet were to cast a long shadow over Anglo-French relations, whether with Pétain or de Gaulle. In response to the attack on Mers-el-Kebir, Admiral Darlan pressed for some kind of forceful retaliation against the British. On 14 July Pétain

20

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

agreed that the French Air Force should attack the British naval base at Gibraltar.1 He subsequently wavered, but the attack eventually took place on 18 July. The raid was small and the resulting damage minimal. It was symptomatic, however, of the tensions in Franco-British relations which were to lead to a protracted, if desultory, conflict characterized by limited hostilities and a British blockade of imports to the zone of France not occupied by the Germans. With the former partners in the Entente Cordiale at loggerheads, de Gaulle’s standing in the eyes of many patriotic Frenchmen was seriously compromised. Pétain’s government, now governing the unoccupied zone of central and southern France from a temporary capital established at Vichy, could portray de Gaulle as the puppet of a country which had killed hundreds of French sailors in a brutal attack on an old, but prostrate, ally. Even the operation to seize French ships in British ports had not been accomplished without some bloodshed. The mood of General de Gaulle and his small parade of volunteers was grim indeed, as he laid a wreath at the statue of Marshal Foch in London on Bastille Day, 14 July. The small crowd of onlookers realized that, underlying the dignity of the ceremony and the singing of the Marseillaise, there was deep sadness at the fate which had befallen their country and a good deal of trepidation at the task which lay ahead. The Free French needed to show their resilience, emphasize that their movement would grow and show that their determination to continue the fight against Germany was undiminished. Within a week, Free French headquarters in London were able to announce: ‘Our airmen took part in operations carried out on Sunday night [21 July] by the RAF over North-West Germany. All our airmen returned safely.’2 De Gaulle confirmed in his memoirs what many suspected at the time, that the presence of French airmen had been at his request.3 The blows struck by Free French bomber crews in July 1940 were of minimal military value. There were, in fact, just five French airmen flying with RAF bomber units: Raymond Roques, André Jacob and Marcel Morel with 149 Squadron, and Robert Besacier and Raymond Bette with 210 Squadron.4 Their symbolic value, in demonstrating that the flame of French resistance still burned, was out of all proportion to their numbers or the damage they inflicted. One of the pilots who had left Brittany in order to carry on the fight from England recorded his own delight in his diary: ‘A great joy – great pride. French aircraft have gone “to work” in Germany! I envy them, we all envy them!’5 French headquarters in London could claim that the Free French already amounted to a military force ‘in being’ and that the fight continued. Both the British and American press accepted that rhetoric a little too

Free France in Africa

21

readily. Not everyone was convinced, however. In proving their personal courage and skill in combat, French airmen would also contribute to proving the viability of the Free French movement as a whole. The qualified pilots and other aircrew who had rallied to de Gaulle in June 1940 would, in the next 2 months, have to face the critical issue facing all Free French servicemen: whether or not to obey the Vichy government’s unequivocal order to return to France or the French colonies. At the end of July 1940 Vichy issued a stern ultimatum to those who had either joined de Gaulle or enlisted in the British armed forces: return to France by 15 August or be sentenced to death for desertion. To show that the Vichy regime meant business, de Gaulle himself was formally demoted to the rank of colonel, placed on the retired list and subsequently sentenced to death in absentia by a military tribunal. The threat served only to confirm most of the airmen in their determination to ignore orders from Vichy. Pilot René Mouchotte, who had recently arrived in Britain from North Africa via Gibraltar, wrote in his diary: What are the real French of France thinking about? Do they, perhaps reject us too? Where are the real guardians of the truth? We others all have a sense of having done our duty, and no information from France, no propaganda whatever, will be able to deflect us from our line of conduct. A week ago we learned we had been deprived of citizenship. What does that matter? Will our country not receive us with open arms when we have contributed, after victory, to ridding her of the vermin who are laying her waste?6 In response to the threat from Vichy, a ‘Ball of those Sentenced to Death’ was organized for 14 August. Attended by the ‘condemned’ Free French servicemen and British high society, the event took place in London as a very public defiance of the Vichy declaration. De Gaulle also tried to counter the Vichy threat by interviewing his pilots individually to encourage their resolve and win their personal loyalty. This gave rise to some concerns within the RAF that he was out to create a personality cult. Young pilots could find a direct encounter with the General quite awe-inspiring: Someone promised me that I would be presented to General de Gaulle, the head of the Free French! I am summoned. There I am at Carlton Gardens. Captain Bouderie7 of the Air Force welcomes me. With him, I arrive, feeling overawed, in the office of the aide-de-camp. The wait is only brief. There I am in front of the general. He asks about my escape.

22

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

I tell him everything. He smiles quietly . . . He encourages me to do the talking. I tell him about my burning desire to fight. He replies that I must prepare myself patiently for a long and hard struggle. He has complete confidence in final victory. Everything seems clear and simple. Things are happening. Nothing will be able to stop the defeat of the Axis powers. He lets me go after a long and friendly handshake and some words of congratulation.8 The personal loyalty which de Gaulle evoked from his airmen could not disguise the dangers which they might face on operations over French- or German-occupied territory, following the threats of the Vichy government. After the initial operations by Free French bomber crews, one British publication commented: ‘Had the bombers in which they flew been shot down over Germany, they would have been sent to France for a court martial by Pétain and shot; or perhaps just shot out of hand by the Nazis, who do not want people in France to know that Frenchmen are still fighting against Germany.’9 Article 10 of the Franco-German armistice was crystal clear: ‘The French Government will prohibit French nationals from fighting against Germany in the service of states with whom Germany is still at war. French nationals who do not comply with this requirement will be treated, by German troops, as francs tireurs.’10 To protect their families, several French airmen adopted a nom de guerre. Fighter pilot Jean Demozay took the name ‘Moses Morlaix’ to disguise his identity while honouring his Breton roots. Max Guedj, who took the name Lieutenant Maurice, had even more reason to hide his identity. Not only was he a renegade in the eyes of Vichy, but the family into which he had been born in Tunisia in 1913 were Jewish. Other men, including one member of the Michelin dynasty, took assumed names because their families were so prominent in French life that retribution would be highly likely. On arrival in the United Kingdom, most Free French Air Force personnel were sent initially to holding camps. At one holding camp near Liverpool, full of men awaiting repatriation to France as well as a minority eager to join the Free French movement, loudspeakers broadcast at regular intervals a recording of de Gaulle’s appeal to the French nation.11 Morale was generally awful, but Marc Hauchemaille, a pilot housed in another camp at Trentham in Staffordshire, recorded gratefully: ‘There are 6 or 7,000 men in the camp – a miracle of English organisation – in a few hours we have tents, groundsheets, cooking utensils. The morale of the troops is not good. Even the [Foreign] Legion is disheartened; they have not been able to fight.’12

Free France in Africa

23

French airmen were transferred as soon as possible to RAF St Athan (near Cardiff) or RAF Odiham (in Hampshire) to await a decision about what should be done with them. Beyond placing some experienced French pilots in an RAF Operational Training Unit at Sutton Bridge (Lincolnshire) and the employment of a handful of fully qualified pilots in RAF operational squadrons, there was considerable delay before agreement was reached for completing the training of the large number of partly trained French pilots. Confusion and frustration reigned. Hauchemaille, who had been a flying instructor with No. 23 Elementary Flying School in Brittany before arriving at Odiham, wrote: The general chaos which reigns here is not calculated to improve morale . . . Everyone is fed up with this waiting around, this uncertainty, about what is to happen to us. Are they going to set up French escadrilles? Are we going to an English escadrille? Does the [No. 23] school still exist? I have a vague impression that the English are brassed off with us and that there are frictions at Free French Air Force headquarters.13 The exasperated British air vice-marshal commanding 22 Group wrote to the under-secretary of state at the air ministry on 29 August 1940 to point out that, although there had been a considerable correspondence between the ministry and the commanding officer of RAF Odiham, ‘no communication [had been received] from the Air Ministry outlining any policy for training personnel of the French Air Force’.14 The situation was clearly unsatisfactory, but entirely understandable in the midst of the Battle of Britain and with the imminent prospect of a German invasion. The air vice-marshal’s prompting led to a meeting at the air ministry between Free French and RAF officers on 12 September. It was agreed that Odiham would become a Flight Training School for the Free French Air Force. Instruction would be by French pilots using French aircraft types. Forty French pilots would form the initial intake, with the possible addition of a small number of Belgian pilots. While the RAF was willing to go a long way to give effect to Churchill’s promise about creating a Free French Air Force ‘wholly French in character’, it was stipulated very clearly that all pilots at Odiham ‘should be instructed systematically in the English tongue’.15 After completion of the course at Odiham, qualified pilots would then go forward to RAF Advanced and Operational Training Units. Free French headquarters were not very happy with these arrangements, which could hardly produce aircrew in the numbers needed to rebuild French military power in the air. By the beginning of October they had

24

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

60 pilots (45 of them with more than 100 hours of flying experience) waiting to move on to Operational Training Units. A further 85 (60 with more than 25 hours of flying experience) were waiting to complete their initial training, and 82 acceptable recruits were waiting to begin training as pilots.16 These 227 French airmen, in addition to 93–95 Belgians, would take some time to filter through the training system.17 Within the British air ministry there was some bitterness at French complaints, since de Gaulle had been quick to send into action his limited number of experienced pilots who might have provided the flight instruction for French student pilots that the RAF was now called on to service. Squadron Leader Wells commented that, in this respect, the ‘French Staff were singularly lacking in foresight’.18 He also detailed the resources which the RAF would have to provide at Odiham: ‘Five RAF plus three civilian education officers, nine senior RAF NCOs and about 78 aircraftmen, or a total of 95 British personnel’.19 His reluctance to fall in with all the Free French desiderata was apparent when he wrote: I suggest we should make it perfectly clear to the Free French Staff that we cannot plan training schemes to meet their hypothesis that more suitable French personnel will come to this country. The present proposal is the best we can do at this stage. If valuable French personnel should come to this country in 1941, the possibilities of providing training facilities for these should, I think, be examined then and not now.20 The RAF’s delay in setting up a training scheme adequate in the eyes of Free French headquarters led de Gaulle to put forward suggestions that his volunteers might be trained in Canada by French-speaking instructors from the Royal Canadian Air Force, as part of the Empire Air Training Scheme.21 The air ministry insisted that currently agreed arrangements were fully appropriate to the current needs of the Free French Air Force. There was a certain irritation that, in his desire to secure as much support as possible for his fledgling air force, the Free French leader was willing to meddle in Britain’s relations with Canada, even if it entailed adding to the workload of the air ministry, foreign office and dominions office. Indeed, de Gaulle continued to exploit the cultural and linguistic ties between Canada and France by using the idea of training in Canada as a way of exerting leverage on the RAF.22 Right from the beginning, de Gaulle calculated that, if protecting the long-term interests of France was his most sacred duty, he could not afford to be totally dependent on, or subservient to, Great Britain. For his lofty independence to have credibility he needed to have a base in French

Free France in Africa

25

sovereign territory, where he could operate under French law, take decisions solely in the interest of France and have access to French resources and manpower. A few fragments of the French Empire – two small enclaves in India and the Pacific Ocean territories of New Hebrides, Tahiti and New Caledonia – opted to adhere to his cause during the summer of 1940, but the most tantalizing possibilities lay in Africa. Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco seemed firmly under the control of the Vichy government, but the position in the sub-Saharan territories was far less certain. The indigenous peoples were probably indifferent about which representatives of the French Republic were to rule over them, but the relatively small number of expatriate businessmen, administrators and servicemen held passionate, but sharply differing, opinions about where their loyalties and their best interests lay. Into de Gaulle’s London headquarters flowed all manner of (often conflicting) snippets of intelligence about the fluctuating sympathies of leading personalities and influential groups in the different colonies. Assessment of that intelligence, and rumours of various plots, suggested that in many of the territories a courageous initiative by the officially appointed governor, a coup by a small group of patriots or determined intervention by even a puny external military force might be enough to tip the balance away from Vichy in favour of Free France. Throughout July, de Gaulle’s secret emissaries flitted to and from the colonial capitals, while the general set his staff to work planning a military intervention somewhere in Central or West Africa with whatever limited forces he could muster. They considered a number of possible destinations, but a conference between Churchill and de Gaulle on 6 August concluded that the most attractive prize was the port of Dakar in Senegal. De Gaulle would lead the expedition personally. In that way, his prestige and authority would be considerably enhanced. He saw Dakar as a base from which he might move on to take over, one by one, the French colonies interspersed with British possessions along the Gulf of Guinea. Churchill saw Dakar as a strategically important port close to the vital sea route along which all shipping to and from South Africa, the Middle East and the Indian Ocean must pass, now that Italy’s intervention had closed the route through the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. If the Vichy government were to become increasingly hostile to Britain, or if they caved in to German pressure in the future, Dakar might easily become a base for German U-boats, surface raiders and bombers. To guard against that strategic threat, it was clearly in Britain’s interest to promise de Gaulle the limited naval and military support his expedition would require. The enterprise was code-named Operation Menace.

26

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

De Gaulle was not personally familiar with conditions in Africa, but his staff had no doubt that, once established ashore, air support would be essential if success was to be fully exploited across vast distances and difficult terrain. The Free French establishments at St Athan and Odiham were combed for experienced pilots and willing volunteers to form the Free French Air Force’s Groupe Mixte de Combat No. 1, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Lionel de Marmier. His record as an aviator was impressive. In World War I, he had qualified as a pilot, scored six confirmed aerial victories and won the Croix de Guerre and the Legion of Honour. In the inter-war years, he worked as a test pilot and in civil aviation , and also broke a number of world records for long distance flights. Service on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War testified to his anti-Fascist principles and, on the outbreak of World War II, he had returned to the Armée de l’Air to be credited with three more aerial victories in 1940. After the French capitulation, he managed to get away by ship from Saint-Jean-de-Luz. If all went according to plan, de Marmier’s unit could hope to find in Africa a certain number of French aircraft types with which they were already familiar. They might also be able to attract more volunteers from Vichy Air Force units stationed in areas that fell under de Gaulle’s control. The RAF provided de Marmier with 6 Bristol Blenheim medium bombers and 12 Westland Lysander army cooperation aircraft, which would all have to be shipped in crates and reassembled once the Free French had secured a suitable landing ground ashore. In a hectic fortnight at Odiham, the RAF struggled to familiarize the French aircrew with these unfamiliar aircraft, and instruct ground crew in how to reassemble them. Urged on by some of their experienced fighter pilots, de Marmier and de Gaulle, pleaded with the RAF to add a trio of Hawker Hurricane fighters to the expedition, but none could be spared, since every modern fighter was needed at that time for the defence of the British Isles. However, two French ‘Luciole’ biplanes were added at the last minute. Designed for training or pleasure flying, these two-seater light aircraft would not have been very different from the aircraft de Marmier had flown in the earlier war, but they had two important features – they were small and they had folding wings. Thus, they could be shipped in the hangar of a British cruiser for later transfer to an aircraft carrier. Even though their combat value was negligible, the Lucioles might prove invaluable for making contact with Free French sympathizers ashore. Troopships carrying 2,700 Free French troops and a British contingent of 4,200 sailed from British ports on 31 August. They set off with very encouraging news. Between 26 and 28 August, four French colonies in central

Free France in Africa

27

Africa had transferred their allegiance from Vichy to de Gaulle. In Chad, Congo and Ubangi-Shari the lead had come from the appointed governors, while in the mandated territory of Cameroon the pro-Vichy governor and administrators had offered only token resistance to two-dozen armed Free French enthusiasts led by an officer calling himself Colonel Leclerc.23 In just a few days, over a million square miles of the French empire had passed into the control of de Gaulle’s supporters. As the troop convoy steered towards Freetown, in the British colony of Sierra Leone, where it was to refuel before making its final approach to Dakar, de Gaulle and his staff, sailing in the Dutch troopship Westernland, wondered anxiously what lay ahead. The British naval and military commanders (Admiral Sir John Cunningham and Major-General Irwin) also tried to weigh up the prospects of success. Would Dakar and Senegal change sides as easily as the central African colonies? Ought they to redirect the operation by landing in a territory already in Free French hands? Was there a danger that elements favourable to Vichy might stage counter coups to regain control of those territories with no more difficulty than the Free French had encountered in acquiring them? This last had become a possibility because the Vichy government, with German consent, had dispatched from Toulon a naval squadron to reassert its authority in the lost territories. That squadron, consisting of three cruisers and three destroyers, had passed through the Straits of Gibraltar on 11 September and eluded the Royal Navy’s belated efforts to locate them until 19 September. Two of the cruisers were known to have put in to Dakar. In the end, Operation Menace went ahead as planned. The Anglo-French expedition approached Dakar under cover of darkness in the early hours of 23 September. In the hope of arranging an unopposed take-over, the opening phase was to emphasize the Free French element and keep the British in the background as far as possible. A number of Free French emissaries had already travelled overland to infiltrate the town and make contact with groups of sympathizers, in the hope of persuading them to stage street demonstrations in favour of de Gaulle. Before dawn, a Swordfish aircraft from HMS Ark Royal had scattered leaflets over the town to announce de Gaulle’s imminent arrival and assure the citizens that he would provide protection and supplies. From the Ark Royal, the two Luciole aircraft with French markings managed to take-off at first light. It was the first experience of taking-off from the restricted flight deck of an aircraft carrier for the four Free French airmen they carried. They were all ardent patriots. On 17 June, determined to fight on rather than capitulate to the Germans, Jacques Soufflet and

28

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Henri Gaillet had stolen a Simoun aircraft from Royan, near the mouth of the Gironde estuary, and flown it to Yeovil. Jules Joire had flown an American Curtiss fighter in the Battle for France, in which he was credited with two individual and three shared victories. Seriously wounded and evacuated to Brittany, he had left hospital in order to join the escape of Elementary Flying School No. 23 in the fishing boat Le Trébouliste. The fourth man, Fred Scamaroni, had given up a secure job in the prefectorial service to enlist as an infantryman in 1939. Trained as an Air Force observer in May 1940, he had been wounded in action on his second day of operations. He was one of those who had managed to get away from SaintJean-de-Luz on board the Polish liner Sobieski on 21 June. These four men were under orders to land the Lucioles at the Ouakam air base. Dressed in their French Air Force uniforms, they were to adopt a friendly, confident demeanour. Their aim was to bluff the Vichy airmen into thinking that de Gaulle’s take over of Dakar was a foregone conclusion, no one need get hurt and everything would be sorted out to the satisfaction of all true French patriots. As soon as they were satisfied that they had managed to establish this kind of comradely rapport, they were to place canvas strips at the side of the runway as a signal to a watching Swordfish aircraft of the Fleet Air Arm. That aircraft would then call in by radio some other Swordfish to set down on the airfield a further 20 Free French volunteers airlifted from the Ark Royal. Some of those volunteers would then secure the airfield, while others would commandeer cars to carry them into Dakar. At first this ‘softly, softly’ approach appeared to work as intended. Successive radio signals from the spotter aircraft reported that the Lucioles had landed unopposed, the prearranged pattern of canvas strips had been set out, the first three members of the follow-up party had been set down and would soon be followed by the others. Then the character of the reports changed. The airfield’s anti-aircraft defences opened fire; the signal strips were taken in; fighter aircraft were being readied and taking-off. On hearing those reports, the follow-up aircraft prudently reversed course and returned to the Ark Royal with the remaining Free French volunteers. The operation was certainly not going to end in mutual backslapping and comradely toasts to La Belle France and Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. After landing with hands ostentatiously outstretched in friendship, the unarmed Free French airmen had been greeted by the airfield commander, but it soon became obvious that he was not interested in rallying to de Gaulle. The envoys managed to overpower him, following a scuffle, but eventually other officers appeared, backed by Senegalese troops with fixed bayonets. In a few minutes de Gaulle’s envoys were placed under

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arrest. The units at Ouakam remained staunchly loyal to the Vichy regime. De Gaulle’s friendly advances suffered another setback in the port itself. Two motor launches from one of the small Free French warships entered the harbour under a flag of truce. Their mission was for one launch to land a delegation charged with the task of delivering a personal letter from de Gaulle to General Pierre Boisson, the Governor-General appointed by Vichy. The letter urged him to transfer power to the Free French without resistance. One of the envoys travelling in the launch was an airman, Captain Jean Bécourt-Foch, grandson of the French generalissimo who had led the Allied armies to victory in 1918. The officers and port officials who met the delegation on the jetty were unimpressed by this illustrious name. They were equally unimpressed by a letter from some renegade general claiming to be the self-appointed leader of Free France. As far as they were concerned, de Gaulle and his envoys were all traitors, deserters and rebels. Sensing that they were about to be arrested, de Gaulle’s representatives leapt back into their launch and made off under machine-gun fire that wounded two of them. If de Gaulle and the British wanted Dakar, they were going to have to fight for it. Later that day the shore batteries beat off an attempted landing by Free French troops. Next day, when the British admiral tried to batter the defences into submission by bombardment from carrier-borne aircraft and the big guns of his battleships and heavy cruisers, he encountered unrelenting resistance from the shore batteries and French warships. Despite the damage inflicted on the new French battleship Richelieu by aerial torpedo on 8 July, her main armament of eight 15-inch guns could still fire. In an action where sea mist created poor visibility handicapping both sides, the British battleship Resolution and the heavy cruiser Cumberland were damaged. The following day the Resolution suffered further damage from a torpedo fired by a Vichy submarine. After 3 days, as casualties on both sides mounted and with no sign of the defence crumbling, the British admiral and General de Gaulle agreed to call off the attack and withdraw to Freetown, a decision also approved by Winston Churchill personally. Shrugging off his disappointment, de Gaulle lost no time in taking steps to protect the French colonies that had already rallied to his cause. Lionel de Marmier’s tiny FAFL unit (Groupe Mixte de Combat No. 1) was at last able to get ashore, and set to work removing their British-built aircraft from their crates and getting them assembled. De Gaulle moved on to Douala, the main port in Cameroon.

30

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

In equatorial Africa, there remained just one French colony still adhering to Vichy – Gabon, lying between Cameroon and the mouth of the River Congo. On 12 October de Gaulle ordered his forces to invade Gabon, a decision which led to some sharp encounters with the Vichy forces. The Free French lost four aircraft and six aircrew, but within a month the territory was completely under Free French control. De Gaulle’s African empire now extended from the frontier with Libya, in the north, to the Belgian Congo in the south, and from Nigeria, in the west, to the AngloEgyptian Sudan in the east. In time, his empire provided key staging posts along the route set up by the RAF for ferrying aircraft from Takoradi to the Middle East. General de Gaulle and his staff left for London on 17 November. Even the success in Gabon could not disguise the fact that failure at Dakar had confounded some high hopes about his ability to win over the more strategically important parts of the Vichy-controlled French empire in Africa. It was a serious setback for the Free French movement’s credibility and reputation. Marc Hauchemaille, still under training at Odiham, was reluctant to endorse the blame some critics now tried to heap on his leader. He commented in his diary: ‘We have been beaten for speed by the Boches, but ought we to set up a hue and cry after de Gaulle? . . . It would have been better to have acted speedily and secretly. It is the permanent weakness of democracy to act with dilatoriness and argument before the lightning-quick decisiveness of dictatorships. Whichever way you look at it, it is a heavy blow for the prestige of de Gaulle and England.’24 That assessment was inaccurate in one important respect. The successful defence of Dakar owed virtually nothing to swift action by ‘the Boches’. It owed much to the determination of Governor-General Boisson to fulfil his duty to the legitimate government of France in Vichy; and it owed even more to the fighting qualities of the crew of the Richelieu and the naval reinforcements sent from Toulon. Their burning resentment at the various measures taken by Britain to neutralize French sea power, especially the attack on Mers-el-Kebir and on their own ship, had been implacable. As long as they had ammunition, de Gaulle’s chances of finding cheering crowds to welcome him as he took possession of Dakar (and the whole colony of Senegal) had probably been negligible. The British tended to blame the Free French for the failure of the expedition. Intelligence about the true allegiance of the local population, the airmen at Ouakam and the Dakar garrison had been inaccurate and overoptimistic. As hinted in Hauchemaille’s diary, Free French officers were rumoured to have been careless about security measures. It was assumed

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that the Vichy government had prior knowledge of almost every stage of the operation’s planning and execution. For their part, the Free French tended to blame the British for not preventing Vichy naval reinforcements passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, for some all-too-obvious reconnoitring in the approaches to Dakar, and for the delay in arriving off that port. As a result of Operation Menace, relations between Britain and the Vichy regime, already strained by the attack on Mers-el-Kebir, deteriorated even further. In retaliation for the attack on Dakar, 50 French aircraft from bases in Algeria bombed Gibraltar on 24 September, and a second raid with twice as many aircraft came on the following day. In all, about 450 bombs were dropped, but most fell in the sea. Periodic conflict with the Vichy French was to prove a drain on British resources. In the hope of encouraging further clashes, Hitler reversed an earlier prohibition and gave Pétain’s government permission to reinforce its air units in North Africa.25 Suddenly, Pétain seemed willing to listen to his deputy Pierre Laval’s calls for a closer working relationship between Vichy and Germany.26 By October a plan for the inclusion of Vichy in the war effort against Britain was under consideration in Berlin. Closer cooperation between Germany and Vichy, on a case-by-case basis, was agreed in principle between Hitler and Pétain, at a meeting on 24 October at Montoire.27 The wily old soldier had no intention, however, of allowing France to be drawn into all-out war at Hitler’s side, whatever provocations Britain might inflict on him. The events at Dakar deepened the antagonisms between those French people who supported de Gaulle and those who remained loyal to Pétain. At Mers-el-Kebir, Frenchmen had fought the British: at Dakar and in Gabon, Frenchmen had fought one another. From de Gaulle and his supporters there was no sympathetic understanding that the Vichy regime encompassed many different shades of opinion. People who were attracted by Pétain’s paternalistic policy of ‘Work, Family, Country’ were included with convinced Fascists and rabid anti-communists. Some detested the Germans but thought it only prudent to act circumspectly while the enemy occupied large areas of France and held huge numbers of French prisoners of war. If some, like Pierre Laval, were out-and-out enthusiasts for collaboration with the new masters of Europe, others were only waiting for a favourable opportunity to re-enter the war against the Axis powers. Those motivated only by self-interest or timidity mingled with those who obediently but reluctantly accepted what they saw as their patriotic duty to the constitutional government of the French Republic. To the Free French movement (and to British propaganda) they were all ‘tarred with the same brush’; ‘Vichy’ became a handy synonym for ‘Hitler’s willing lackeys’. Marshal

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Pétain’s supporters reciprocated by classing the Free French as ‘Churchill’s willing lackeys’, deserters and traitors to their native land; scoundrels quite prepared to slaughter their fellow countrymen at the behest of their British paymasters. A Vichy government statement about the events at Dakar dismissively referred to the Free French leader as ‘M. de Gaulle, a former colonel in the French Army who has been sentenced to death by default for having abandoned French soil before the invader and having accepted service in the pay of a foreign power’.28 For both camps, Operation Menace had left one small, but potentially very important, unresolved question. What was to happen to the Free French airmen and volunteers seized and placed under arrest on the airfield at Ouakam? Would the Vichy authorities take the opportunity to bring these men before a court martial, demand the death penalty and place them before a firing squad? That was precisely what Vichy had been threatening for everyone from de Gaulle downwards; that fate might serve as an uncompromising warning to everyone who had enlisted under the banner of Free France; and a few executions might not only discourage further defections but would also make a favourable impression on the Germans. Fully expecting to be executed, the airmen taken at Oukam were imprisoned under harsh and humiliating conditions in African jails. Yet, they ultimately got off very lightly. At the end of the year they were transferred to the unoccupied zone of France, where they were released as an act of clemency by Marshal Pétain in January 1941. ‘Fred’ Scamaroni and Jacques Soufflet even found employment for a time in the Vichy civil service.29 Is it possible that Vichy’s threats against the Free French volunteers were merely window-dressing to impress the Germans?

Chapter 3

The Battle of Britain and the 13 Apostles of Charles de Gaulle

The troubles of the Dakar operation had been dwarfed by the possibility that the Germans might launch an invasion of the British Isles in the late summer and autumn of 1940. As a prerequisite of any invasion, the German Luftwaffe sought to establish air supremacy over southern England and the English Channel in what Churchill was to call the Battle of Britain. In the course of that drawn out and closely fought battle, General de Gaulle agreed to allow some of his limited number of experienced fighter pilots to serve in RAF squadrons. After a hurried 6–8 weeks of training with RAF Operational Training Units, 13 French pilots were able to join British squadrons in the critical days of September–October 1940. They were a very welcome reinforcement, no doubt, but measured against the magnitude of the task their military value could have been little more than symbolic.1 All 13 had taken considerable risks to reach Britain. Jean Demozay, for example, had been accepted as a trainee pilot by the French Air Force in February 1940, even though he had previously been discharged from military service three times due to ill health. Still troubled by health problems, during the Battle for France he was attached to 1 Squadron RAF as an interpreter. Demozay retreated with them, step by step, until they arrived at Nantes.2 On 18 June the squadron’s surviving Hurricanes took off for England, leaving a skeleton RAF ground crew to try to get away by ship from a French port if they could. Demozay received orders to report to French headquarters. Rather than obey, he persuaded the RAF ground crew to see if they could make a temporary repair to the broken tail wheel of an obsolete, twin-engined, Bristol Bombay transport aircraft which had been abandoned at the airfield. They succeeded, and Demozay was able to takeoff and fly the Bombay to an airfield in East Anglia. That was a remarkable feat of airmanship in a crippled aircraft with 16 British ground crew on board. It also demonstrated Demozay’s confidence in his own abilities, for he was not, at that stage, qualified to fly multi-engined aircraft. East Anglia

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

was his destination, not because it was the closest place in Britain to land, but because a majority of the ground crew lived in the area and they wanted the opportunity to return home. Another airman who made his escape by air in time to see action during the Battle of Britain was René Mouchotte. Based at Oran, in North Africa, Mouchotte followed the news of his country’s collapse with shock and disbelief. In his diary, entries such as ‘It isn’t possible’ and ‘France can’t be beaten’ capture the young pilot’s growing sense of surprise and dismay.3 While some pilots, like Demozay, would escape in the heat of the moment before the final fall of France, Mouchotte was one of the many who had to go through agonizing inner debates before he could decide where his duty lay. His diary reveals how he wrestled with concern for his mother, love of country, a desire to do his duty and fears for the future: What is my duty? To give moral and material help to those I love or attempt a dubious adventure to satisfy an idea of vengeance? Should I be more use with them or in a fighter? I am not unmindful of my mother’s poor health and weak heart. I close my eyes in despair. What would she advise me to do? Would she speak to me as a mother or as a Frenchwoman, if she were at my side?4 By 20 June he had resolved his inner dilemma: ‘I mean to go to England. Since my country has rejected me as a combatant, I will fight for her in spite of her and without her.’ 5 Resolving the dilemma added to his feelings of hatred towards the Germans: ‘I dream only of shooting down some of these Boche vermin. I see red, as they say: my life no longer matters to me. Only on the day when I kill my first Boche shall I be able to congratulate myself that I followed my destiny.’ 6 With the pro-Vichy authorities at Oran busy disabling aircraft to prevent escapes and to comply with the armistice terms, Mouchotte decided to get away as quickly as possible. On 30 June he and five other airmen put into action their plan to steal a transport aircraft. Henry Lafont, who acted as co-pilot, recalled what happened: A little after midnight, taking plenty of precautions, we went towards our aircraft. Apart from the intervention of a sentry, whom Charles [Guérin] soon convinced that we were a patrol on duty, we encountered no difficulties . . . We planned to take off at daybreak, when the mist begins to lift very quickly, [but] René took the decision to take off straight away, in spite of the darkness. Less than a minute after setting off, while the engines were still cold, we began to move. The engines laboured and the

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aircraft did not gather enough speed for a normal take-off. It required all René’s skill to get it to lift off and keep it in flight. We hedge-hopped over the salt lake on the edge of the airfield. René struggled to reach the speed required to gain height. We realised that our aircraft had been sabotaged: the controls for varying the pitch of the propellers were not working.7 Despite the immense difficulty of flying a sabotaged aircraft, and the fear that fighters might be sent up to pursue them, Mouchotte piloted the aircraft to Gibraltar, which was rapidly becoming the chief destination for airmen from North Africa who wished to join the Free French forces. Between 26 and 30 June, 2 Goélands, 2 Simouns, a Morane 230 and a Glenn Martin 167 – all flown by volunteers determined to enlist with the Free French – landed at Gibraltar, but escape by that route could be risky. Any aircraft that ventured into Spanish air space could expect to come under fire. Four escapers in a Glenn Martin lost their lives when Spanish anti-aircraft fire shot down their aircraft as it approached Gibraltar. An even bigger loss of life occurred when a Potez 540 transport plane crashed and caught fire shortly after an unauthorized take-off from Fez, in Morocco. The would-be escapers – four pilots, three trainee pilots and an air gunner – all lost their lives. Nevertheless, French airmen continued to head for Gibraltar. During July and August a further 3 Simouns, 1 Goéland and 9 Glenn Martins arrived safely at Gibraltar with crews eager to respond to de Gaulle’s call for Frenchmen to fight on at Britain’s side. Mouchotte’s personal agonizing before he took the decision to leave for Gibraltar can be contrasted with other escapers, for whom the decision to fight on seems to have been an almost automatic reflex. For Bernard Dupérier there was nothing to consider beyond: La France a perdu une bataille. La France n’a pas perdu la guerre.8 For Frédéric, Marquis de Pelleport, the decision came automatically with his family background. As he explained to Dupérier: ‘I am a French gentleman; France is in danger; my duty is to fight! It is only in London that the French continue to fight. That is where I am going.’ 9 Others had been so busy fighting the Germans, and so determined to continue the fight, that they ended up in the de Gaulle camp almost by accident. Philippe de Scitivaux was one such aviator. He had joined the navy in 1931, at the age of 20, but he had not taken up naval aviation until 1937, when he qualified as a pilot. German aircraft bombed Scitivaux’s base at Calais on 10 May 1940. Climbing into one of the undamaged Potez 63s, he sortied towards Flushing. There he shot down a German Junkers

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

52 transport aircraft, but was wounded in the arm by the enemy tail gunner. Losing a considerable amount of blood, he managed to fly back to Calais, where he had to be lifted out of his aircraft and taken to hospital. In view of the rapid advance of the German army, a decision was taken to evacuate the wounded to the south by road. When they found their retreat blocked by one of the German armoured spearheads, the convoy diverted to Boulogne, where Scitivaux was again admitted to hospital. His treatment was interrupted by a doctor entering the ward to announce that the Germans would be arriving in a few hours. Scitivaux promptly got up, dressed and left the hospital to look for an escape route. After 15 days in bed, and still weak from his wound, he literally staggered down to the harbour. Most of the seaworthy vessels had already left, crowded with people eager to avoid falling into the clutches of the advancing Germans, but he was able to find an abandoned Belgian fishing boat. Rounding up some volunteers from the French Navy, he was able to put together a scratch crew that got the boiler fires going and took the vessel out to sea. Scitivaux acted as skipper and navigating officer for the short trip. The next day they landed in England, where Scitivaux, weakened by both his wound and the voyage, had to be taken ashore in a wheelbarrow. Patched up in a British hospital, where his arm was set in plaster, he embarked on a boat that took him back across the Channel. His eagerness to get back into the war was remarkable, but he arrived in Cherbourg only to witness the final collapse of French resistance. After a long trek towards the Spanish frontier, he managed to board the French vessel President Houdouce bound from Bayonne to Morocco. During the voyage, when they learned of the Franco-German armistice, Scitivaux and other servicemen on board persuaded (or bullied) the master to put into Gibraltar. There he reported to Admiral Muselier, for whom he acted as aide-de-camp until his wound had healed. For Philippe de Scitivaux there had been scarcely a moment to reflect on whether or not he should join the Free French forces. He was not alone in this ‘reflex’ decision to carrying on fighting – to resist as an instinctive reaction to the tragic unfolding of events. Unknown to him, his brother Xavier, another French Fleet Air Arm pilot, had staged his own, less dramatic, bid for freedom. For Joseph Risso, who had enlisted in the Armée de l’Air in 1938, the logic of the situation in June 1940 was inescapable. Sixty years later he explained: ‘As I did not wish to submit to Hitler’s rule, I left. It was as simple as that.’10 Based at Nouvion, in Algeria, he and three colleagues pretended to be the crew assigned to a regular communications flight to Oran. They were unaware of de Gaulle’s call to arms when they stole the Simoun aircraft

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assigned to the flight on 26 June. As they approached Gibraltar, Spanish anti-aircraft fire led them to crash land on a beach beyond the British zone. The Spanish police handed them over to Vichy diplomats in Madrid, but they were helped to get away again by a member of the French military mission and, later, by the British consul in Barcelona. He arrived in Britain too late to participate in the Battle of Britain. For Risso the decision to fight on might have been simple, even if putting it into effect proved to be dangerous and drawn out. For most French airmen, however, deciding how they should act involved conflicting emotions rather than the simple clarity of Risso’s decision. Every French pilot who reached British territory in 1940 and 1941 had to face an extensive interview about his identity and motives. Most of these interviews were conducted by British immigration and military intelligence officers at an interrogation centre set up in the Royal Victoria Patriotic School, an old orphanage in Wandsworth. It was important to make sure that defections to de Gaulle were not used as cover for infiltrating German (or Vichy) agents. Bernard Dupérier, who did not reach Britain until the start of 1941 after a roundabout journey via the United States and Canada, became increasingly angry at the length of time he had to wait before he was formally interviewed. After the usual questions about my identity, both civilian and military, he asked me what I had done after the armistice. ‘I got ready to go and bomb the Ark Royal in Gibraltar.’ [Dupérier showed his interrogator plans for the attack.] ‘Would you have done that?’ ‘Certainly! I was in the Air Force and, as long as I was a soldier, I carried out the orders I received without question. Reckoning, in the hours which followed, that I no longer agreed with them, I left the Air Force and I have come here.’ The man began to laugh. ‘In my heart I think you were right. I would probably have done the same,’ [he admitted].11 The screening process was undoubtedly thorough. For every pilot who wrestled with his inner agonies in 1940–41 and decided to go to Britain, there were many others who concluded, for various reasons, that they were not ready to take such a drastic step. Antoine de SaintExupéry, for example, was probably the best-known pilot in the Armée de l’Air in 1940. Born into a noble family in Lyon on 29 June 1900, he entered military service in 1921, learning to fly at Strasbourg. He left the military and made a name for himself as a commercial pilot in the 1920s. He also gained a reputation as a writer with short stories such as ‘The Aviator’,

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

published in the magazine Le Navire d’Argent (1926), and his first book, Courrier Sud, published in 1929. In December 1935 he crashed in the Sahara Desert while trying to win a 150,000-franc prize for the fastest air passage between Paris and Saigon. Saint-Exupéry and his navigator survived the crash and, with only meagre supplies, managed to keep themselves alive until rescued by the Bedouin. The story of the crash and rescue further enhanced his celebrity within France, and he used his experiences to write a best-selling book, Terre des hommes (1939), which was published in England under the title Wind, Sand and Stars. On the outbreak of war, Saint-Exupéry flew with the French Air Force in a reconnaissance squadron. By the end of the Battle for France, 17 out of the 23 crews in his squadron had been lost. He would later use some of his experiences to write Pilote de guerre (1942). With the fall of France, Saint-Exupéry found himself torn between a desire to reject his country’s defeat and deep concerns for the future on both a personal and a political level. Charles de Gaulle, in Saint-Exupéry’s eyes, was not a figure around which the nation could unite. The Free French leader’s apparent acquiescence in the Royal Navy’s attack on French warships infuriated him. He could not accept that the deaths of over 1,200 Frenchmen in the attack at Mers-el-Kebir were a consequence of suspicions about the possibility that Pétain government’s might hand the fleet over to Germany or find itself utterly powerless to prevent the Germans simply seizing the ships. The subsequent operations by Free French forces at Dakar and Gabon further confirmed Saint-Exupéry in his belief that de Gaulle could eventually plunge France into civil war. He was also mindful of his oath as an officer and his personal loyalties to the crews with whom he had fought in the battle for France.12 He decided that the best thing to do was to base himself in the United States and await the entry of America into the war; and in the meantime he devoted his energies to writing his most popular novel, Le petit prince, published in 1943.13 Men who managed to resolve their inner conflicts in order to rally to de Gaulle in 1940 had to go through a further process of defining their attitudes towards the French soldiers, sailors and airmen who did not wish to continue the fight and towards French civilians who faced the choice of whether to resist or collaborate. Robert Baitson, whose own attempt to join the Free French in 1940 progressed no further than Spanish and Vichy gaols, heaped a considerable share of the blame for the collaborationist element in Vichy on officers who would follow Pétain with their eyes shut, thinking ‘of nothing except saving their own skin’.14 He looked to the French

Battle of Britain and 13 Apostles of de Gaulle

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people, or as Baitson called them ‘the real French people’, to continue the struggle. He considered that those who succumbed to defeatism had failed to learn the lessons of French history: They forget the magnificent lesson which Clemenceau gave to the downhearted, the pacifists and those who were ready to volunteer to become the enemy’s servants. ‘In war as in peace, the final word belongs to those who never surrender.’ This saying of ‘The Tiger’ takes on, in the tragic circumstances through which we are passing, a new and terrible meaning. In the depths of my being, I feel that I will never be able to demean myself, nor even pretend to accept such conditions. Open warfare is coming to an end, but the underground struggle – perhaps more cruel and bloody – ought certainly to take its place. Anyone who knows the French temperament knows perfectly well that it can never fall in with the role they wish to make it play. It has never been able to bow before a dictatorship, particularly if that represents defeat and shame. In spite of threats, up to now the people have managed, by successive revolutions, to shake off the yoke of various authorities who have wished to shackle them by imposing unpopular decrees. In 1870, the siege of Paris showed that the people of the capital knew how to resist to the extreme limit of their strength and, driven on by vigorous patriotism, France was magnificently rebuilt after 1871. I know there are French people who will submit and those who will betray; but I am certain that the majority of the people will keep their inborn common sense. In spite of the enemy’s propaganda and the orders of a defeatist government, they will rise up against the Boches and, following faithfully the advice of General de Gaulle, confer on our humiliated and abused land a new escutcheon of glory and honour.15 The inner angst of men such as Baitson and Mouchotte serves to emphasize one outstanding characteristic of the Free French Air Force in 1940–41. For those who could resolve their inner turmoil and escape from Vichy control, the FAFL was a kind of exclusive club whose members required qualities of airmanship and personal philosophy, combined with courage, ingenuity, determination and initiative. These admirable qualities were complemented by tendencies towards insubordination and independent thinking. In making their escape, several pilots demonstrated criminal qualities ranging from theft and violence through to forgery, fraud and false pretences. Individualists by nature, they baulked at bureaucracy, indecision, restrictions on their actions, and any obstacle that might delay their speedy return to action against the enemy.

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

In some ways, the RAF was an ideal home for them. RAF fighter units in 1940 contained plenty of individualists and daredevils, and an airman was judged on his personal qualities, whether he was British, Czech, Polish or French. Background mattered little, and every squadron had its own special characteristics, usually moulded by the commanding officer. One RAF officer later explained: Squadron commanders had a tendency to train their pilots in a personal way so that, when it came to tactics, most of them being individualists, they were convinced the tactics they employed in their own Squadrons were the best. Command directives were issued and manuals provided, but hardly anyone took any notice of this bumph, which was usually pushed into a drawer in the Adjutant’s desk. Then again, no two Squadron Commanders thought the same as to how best to utilize their Squadron aircraft in order to get the greatest efficiency out of them. They arrived at similar conclusions but by different routes.16 The tactical freedom given to squadron leaders after 1940 was a reflection of earlier significant failures. The RAF had gone into the Battle of Britain with a three aircraft, arrowhead formation, or ‘Vic’, as its standard tactical formation. The Luftwaffe, using experience gained in the Spanish Civil War, utilized the idea of double pairs. In each pair, one aircraft would be ahead of the other. The lead aircraft was to concentrate on destroying an opponent while the second aircraft protected the rear. German fighter tactics proved superior to those of the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Attempts to refine the ‘Vic’ formation, involving staggering ‘Vics’ in layers, and using one aircraft as a ‘weaver’ to act as a rearguard, proved less effective than the German system of pairs. The result was that RAF squadrons rapidly adopted Luftwaffe tactics or variations on them. Despite their individualism, the bonds between Free French fighter pilots were very strong. They shared ties based on patriotism in adversity, and that bond extended to General de Gaulle himself. René Mouchotte met de Gaulle for the first time on 30 October 1941. He wrote in his diary: ‘For the first time I have been near our Chief, the great leader of Free France, to whom go out the hopes of all the true French in the whole world.’ 17 The burden of expectation placed on the initial cohort of French pilots was immense. Not only were they fêted, but their exploits were followed avidly. On a visit to Free French Headquarters in London in September 1940, Mouchotte received a briefing which made the position very clear:

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As the first French fighter pilots in England, from today we represent the nucleus of the French Air Forces. The whole of France has put her last hope in us. Our example will perhaps make many a hesitant young Frenchman follow in our steps . . . I am sure Headquarters is feverishly awaiting our first victories. They need a bit of publicity.18 Mouchotte and French headquarters need not have worried too much. The victories would come as he and other pilots entered service with the RAF. Maurice Choron, with 68 Squadron, registered the first success by shooting down a Heinkel bomber on 1 November 1940. Jean Demozay registered a ‘kill’ a week later. He had been posted to his old friends in 1 Squadron, based at RAF Wittering. On a solo flight familiarizing himself with the British-built Hawker Hurricane fighter, he shot down a Junkers Ju 88 on 8 November. Later that same month, on another solo flight, he shot down a Messerschmitt Me 109. For many of the young French pilots homesickness could be a serious problem. British civilians and the French expatriate community did their best to make the new arrivals feel valued. In London, establishments like the Piccadilly Hotel and Chez Yvonne became focal points for the Free French forces. The splendidly patriotic owner of the Restaurant La Coquille made French pilots particularly welcome. He promised to provide a free dinner for two to any pilot who succeeded in shooting down a German aircraft.19 On a personal level, British pilots throughout the war took considerable trouble to establish a warm camaraderie with overseas pilots serving in the RAF. LeRoy Gover, an American volunteer pilot with 66 Squadron, wrote home to explain: ‘I am the only American in the squadron and don’t know a soul, but they treat me OK. There are nine different nationalities of us pilots, so I’ll be talking everything from South African to Rhodesian.’ 20 LeRoy Gover’s comments underline the fact that, after the Battle of France, the RAF became a truly multinational force, in which French pilots were as welcome as men of any other nationality. Of his time with the RAF’s 615 Squadron, René Mouchotte wrote: ‘The English pilots . . . are charming to us and we live on terms of close friendship with them . . . I have only one French comrade with whom I can exchange melancholy memories . . . [The British] do all they can to make us forget we are in a foreign land and we really are one family.’ 21 In time, other French pilots were sent to join Mouchotte and Henri Bouquillard with 615 Squadron. Even 50 years later, Henry Lafont remembered with gratitude the way he was befriended by Flying Officer Tony Eyre, an ‘ace’ already credited with eight victories:

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‘Every morning he would give me English lessons and make me read twenty lines from The Times.’ 22 French pilots in British squadrons naturally found some comfort from the presence of a few fellow countrymen. Bernard Dupérier was posted to 242 Squadron RAF, which was already home to François Fayolle, François de Labouchère and Philippe de Scitivaux. The relief and joy at finding himself part of such a group is clear from Dupérier’s memoirs: These three young men, so different physically and intellectually, personified magnificently the eager youth of our country who refused, despite everything, to admit themselves conquered and who, for that reason, had decided without empty regret to leave behind, in a willing sacrifice, all that life might have offered them in return for cowardice . . . That afternoon there was, in the accents of those three Frenchmen, such a burning flame, such a bright light, that I found in them the voice of the whole country, the voice which had driven me on and sustained me in my own undertaking – the voice which rises from the open country where, swaying in the wind, the golden corn ripens in the sunlight of the Ile-de-France; the voice which whispers in the breath of the hills and forests; the voice which will awaken tomorrow the labourer and workman for the Liberation, and [will rouse] to fight, side by side, the descendants of the Jacobin and of the former nobleman, all those who, without counting the cost, will shed their pure blood so that France may live again. It seemed that I had known all my life these three young men whom I was seeing for the first time, and that it was an old friendship that we sealed that day. That day would certainly stay deeply engraved and very precious in my memory, because I had met three Frenchmen who, to satisfy their personal pride, had finally reached the goal I had set myself.23 While nothing could compare with the support which fellow French flyers were able to give each other, the British public did its best to make the Free French feel welcome. Pilots were invited into the homes of English people who would do what they could to cheer them up. Cinema newsreels and the British press treated them as heroes, and in 1940 at least one British newspaper went so far as to include a digest of news in French for the benefit of Free French servicemen.24 Despite these well meaning efforts, Mouchotte and others, plagued by concerns about their families in France, inevitably felt homesick and isolated at times. The machinery of RAF bureaucracy sometimes failed to make allowances for the psychology of French pilots. Mouchotte was offended when he was

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posted in September 1940 to an RAF base in northern Ireland, instead of to one of the front-line fighter stations in the south of England. He complained at ‘patrolling in a desperately empty sky [and] fretting to know why the Air Ministry has sent us here while at this very moment the Polish squadrons are covering themselves with glory’.25 He also found cause to complain in early 1941, when the RAF began to go onto the offensive by conducting fighter sweeps over France and Belgium. Initially with the agreement of Free French headquarters, Mouchotte and the other French pilots were barred from operations over French soil out of fear that they might be shot down, caught and executed as deserters. By February, however, the RAF relented, and French pilots could be employed on operations over their own country. Later it became apparent that (despite their well publicized threats), in practice the German, Italian and Vichy French armed forces would accord shot down Free French aircrew the same protection as other Allied prisoners-of-war.26 The FAFL lost its first pilot killed in action with RAF Fighter Command when Henri Bouquillard, flying a Hurricane with 615 Squadron, was shot down on patrol over Tilbury in March 1941. Based in North Africa at the time of the 1940 armistice, Bouquillard had joined the Free French by getting away from Casablanca on a ship bound for Gibraltar. His death was significant for the FAFL in a number of ways. He was to be the first of over 120 fighter pilots to lay down their lives for France while flying in RAF squadrons. He was, therefore, both one of ‘the few’ and the first of many. It was somehow apt that, among the mostly younger pilots of 615 Squadron, the 33-year-old Bouquillard was known as ‘grandfather’. His Mark II Hurricane was shot down by a Messerschmitt Me 109F piloted by Leutnant Huppertz of JG 51. Other casualties soon followed. Pierre Blaize (Bouquillard’s replacement in 615 Squadron) was attacked by two Me 109Fs from JG21 over the English Channel on 15 April. He baled out of his blazing Hurricane II, and was seen to come down in the sea 15 miles from the English coast, but an air–sea rescue launch could find only his parachute. Three weeks later Charles Guérin, another pilot with 615 Squadron, was killed when a glycol leak forced him to ‘ditch’ his Hurricane in the Irish Sea during a convoy patrol. Guérin had been one of the airmen who had escaped with Mouchotte in 1940. During another convoy patrol, 615 Squadron lost its fourth French pilot on 15 May, when engine failure forced Yves Brière down in the sea. The shooting down of Bouquillard and Blaize serve as a reminder of the important contest taking place between the aircraft designers and manufacturers of Britain and Germany. The Messerschmitt Me 109E and Hawker

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Hurricane Mark I, which had been the mainstays of the German and British fighter forces in the summer of 1940, were being hurriedly replaced with newer marks. In time, they in turn would be replaced by the Focke-Wulf 190 radial-engined fighter in the Luftwaffe and improved marks of the Spitfire in the RAF. Both sides were locked in a tense technical battle as each new development gave first one side, and then the other, a slight temporary advantage. The skies over England, France and the English Channel provided the testing ground for the latest marks of aircraft, with the pilots in the role of guinea pigs who would have to pay with their lives for every technical failing, tactical inadequacy or human error. On both sides, air aces featured in the news media as the new Hector or Achilles of their respective forces. On a day-to-day basis, the same fighter squadrons contested the air battles in a seemingly endless duel for supremacy. Some squadrons, like the famous ‘Abbeville boys’ of the Luftwaffe’s JG26, acquired fearsome reputations for their aggression and proficiency in combat. Allied fighter pilots knew their worth after encountering the ‘Abbeville boys’.

Chapter 4

Growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941

The Free French Air Force may have been small in numbers in the final months of 1940 and the early months of 1941, but it was determined to establish a presence wherever action was to be found. In addition to the widely dispersed units in central Africa and the pilots serving as individuals with RAF squadrons, the FAFL also managed to muster a few experienced pilots with a strange assortment of aircraft in Egypt. Some were men who, finding themselves in Egypt at the time of the Franco-German armistice, chose to throw in their lot with the RAF rather than obey orders to return to French territory. Others had escaped to British colonies – sometimes by air, sometimes on foot or by lorry – from Vichy-controlled territories such as Syria, Lebanon or Somaliland. They were joined later by selected pilots sent out from the United Kingdom or from French territories in central Africa which had rallied to de Gaulle. The French airmen were formed into three separate escadrilles [flights], according to their specialisms – one with just a pair of Glenn Martin bombers under Captain Joseph Ritoux-Lachaud, one with fighter aircraft under Captain Paul Jacquier and one for communications. At that critical time in the Middle East, these tiny reinforcements were made very welcome within the RAF squadrons to which they were attached. Eager to strike a blow against the Italians, the bombers were soon based in Aden and sent into action over Abyssinia, where both were lost before the end of 1940. Ritoux-Lachaud’s aircraft was shot down near Addis Ababa on 8 September. He and two other members of his crew were killed. The fourth member of the crew, Pierre de Maismont, became a prisoner of war. The Italians proceeded to sentence him to death for being an illegal combatant in breach of the armistice signed by Marshal Pétain’s government. Once again, this aroused fears that Free French airmen might not be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention when taken prisoner, but the sentence was not carried out. De Maismont was freed when British forces

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overran Eritrea and Abyssinia in April 1941. A survivor from the second French bomber, which had been shot down near Diredawa in December 1940, was also released. In the French colonies that had rallied to the cause of Free France, aircraft of the Groupe Mixte de Combat No. 1 (known as ‘Jam’), formed at Odiham in August 1940 for service in Africa, were quickly assigned to new bases. Flights of Lysander aircraft went to Pointe-Noire and Fort Lamy, and a flight of five Blenheim bombers (one having been lost in the liberation of Gabon in November 1940) was based at Douala. A further FAFL unit (known as ‘Topic’), also formed at Odiham by Commandant Jean Astier de Villatte, joined them as reinforcements. With just six more Blenheim bombers shipped out in crates, they arrived in Africa in October. Modest though these air units were, they helped to secure de Gaulle’s embryo power base in Africa, and they soon went into action against the Italians. Astier de Villatte took command of the combined Free French air units in Africa from 24 December 1940. In the far north, Chad shared a common frontier with the Italian colony of Libya. The difficult terrain of the Sahara Desert was far from inviting for military operations, but Colonel Leclerc and his Free French troops began attacking Italian outposts, with the ultimate objective of taking the important oasis of Kufra. He found aircraft useful for reconnaissance over the vast expanse of desert, but he was disappointed that the aircraft at his disposal were not capable of unleashing on the Italians the same kind of destructive power he himself had experienced at the hands of the German Luftwaffe in 1940. After the surrender of Kufra on 1 March 1941, the surviving Blenheim bombers from Chad redeployed against Italian targets in Eritrea and Abyssinia. In March 1941 General de Gaulle sent Lieutenant-Colonel Lionel de Marmier to reorganize the Free French airmen in Egypt and elsewhere in the Middle East into officially designated French units. Even before his arrival, a start had been made by posting six fighter pilots to form a Free French flight (Escadrille de Chasse No. 1) in 73 Squadron RAF. Equipped with Hurricanes, the escadrille operated with remarkable success, being credited with shooting down 14 German and two Italian aircraft in the skies over Tobruk during April and May 1941, and a further two German aircraft over Crete in late May. Nine of those victories were scored by James Denis, the leader of the escadrille, and five by Albert Littolf. Both Denis and Littolf had originally gone to Africa with the Dakar expedition, after which they had been sent on to Egypt via Chad. To strengthen their hold on the Middle East, British, Australian and Free French forces seized the French mandated territories of Syria and the

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Lebanon in June–July 1941. That action aroused such resentment among the defeated Vichy servicemen that few aircrew could be persuaded to volunteer for service with the Free French. It did provide, however, a stock of French aircraft, spare parts, base facilities and some ground crew. With these resources at his disposal, de Marmier was able to form the Groupe de Chasse (Alsace), flying a mixed complement of fighter aircraft – Hurricanes, Dewoitine 520s, Morane 406s and Curtiss H-75As – at Rayak, Lebanon, in September. James Denis and the experienced pilots of the old Escadrille de Chasse No. 1 were transferred from Egypt and incorporated in this new unit. In the following month, de Marmier also set up at Damascus an equivalent bomber unit, the Groupe de Bombardement (Lorraine), in which was incorporated the small band of airmen who had previously seen action flying Blenheims at Kufra and in Eritrea. Their old commander, Astier de Villatte, had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel and placed in command of the Free French Air Force in the Middle East from July. The new groupes (roughly equivalent to RAF squadrons) were honoured with the evocative names of famous French provinces. The two escadrilles (roughly equivalent to RAF flights) which made up each groupe were named after French cities. Thus, the ‘Alsace’ groupe consisted of No. 1 (Mulhouse) and No. 2 (Strasbourg) escadrilles, commanded by Captain Denis and Lieutenant Littolf, respectively, while the escadrilles of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe were named ‘Metz’ and ‘Nancy’. This practice may be compared with the name titles of some RAF squadrons and the naming of Royal Navy cruisers after British cities and colonies. The names bore no relationship whatsoever to the geographical origins of the men serving in the units. In that respect they should not be confused with the way British infantry regiments often carried the names of the counties from which they had traditionally drawn their recruits. The contribution of the FAFL in the Middle East was now clearly visible and officially acknowledged. The formation of these exclusively French air units had massive symbolic value. It signalled that de Gaulle had no intention of surrendering France’s status as a great power in the region; it marked growing French resistance to the Axis powers; and it served to inspire and encourage other Frenchmen. One of those inspired was Robert Baitson, a trained pilot who had made an unsuccessful attempt to escape to Britain in 1940, and ended up in Spanish and French prisons instead of flying into action in the Free French cause. He confessed that news of the successes of French fighter pilots in the Middle East, ‘instead of comforting me, makes me aware of my own inactivity and incites me afresh to try to join the Free French forces. I envy those comrades who can fight for the just

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cause. They defy the traitors of Vichy, by showing the true way to follow to those Frenchmen who hesitate.’1 Despite the casualties incurred in Africa and the loss of Bouquillard and other French airmen based in the United Kingdom, the number of French aircrew at the disposal of the RAF grew steadily during 1941. New pilots appeared from three main directions. Many of the partly trained pilots who had escaped from France in 1940 were able to complete their training with the RAF; a steady trickle of trained pilots and student pilots still managed to escape from France and the pro-Vichy colonies; and a number of qualified French pilots arrived in England from the Americas and other parts of the world. Surprisingly, some escapes from France by sea were still successful, even after the Germans had tightened their grip on the entire French coastline along the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay. Jacques Andrieux (who was later to ‘star’ in the amateur film shot in Cornwall) made his escape from the Breton port of Camaret-sur-Mer in December 1940. Having enlisted in the Armée de l’Air in 1937, he had gained his wings but did not see action before the armistice. He reacted with great resentment to the German occupation of Brittany and the rest of northern France. At a loose end following demobilization, he came to the attention of the Germans following an incident in Carhaix market, where he tripped-up a German soldier. He recalled the consequences in his memoirs: Great excitement in the market! A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. I do not have time to explain that I did not do it on purpose, which would have been a lie. I receive a tremendous kick up the backside. That evening, I polish the boots of my victim at the Kommandantur – and some others also. I have plenty of time to think about my anger – to think about what I want to do. I have to take my place among those who are continuing the struggle. Before long I wish to be among them – to take to the sea, get to England and [join] the boys of Fighter Command.2 Determined to reach England, he used his local knowledge and contacts in Brittany, where his father was a surgeon in Carhaix, to plan an escape by sea. Settling on the port of Camaret-sur-Mer, opposite Brest, he bought a 1926built, 27-ton, langoustier named L’Emigrant. The skipper, Émile Marzin, was one of the best-known names in the highly lucrative langoustine fishery. He knew both Breton and Cornish waters, and was well used to clandestine activity, having twice been arrested by the Royal Navy for illegal fishing in British waters before the war.3 On 16 December 1940, Andrieux and Marzin, together with 12 other fugitives (British, Polish and French), made a daring

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escape from Camaret.4 Most of the escapers hid in a purpose-built concealed compartment, which allowed them to avoid detection when German harbour police came on board. After explaining that they needed to sail to Lorient to be fitted with a new engine, the skipper of L’Emigrant quietly left Brest roads and slipped out into the Atlantic. The following day they landed in Cornwall. An escape of this kind required money, luck, knowledge of navigation and seamanship, careful preparation, a network of sympathizers, the creation of an elaborate cover story and modifications to the boat to create a hiding place for the additional escapers. Soon after reaching England, Andrieux was able to go straight into conversion training with the RAF. Intriguingly, after the war there was some debate about whether the Germans might have connived in the escape of L’Emigrant. In 1945 Alois Gross, who had formerly worked for German Military Intelligence (the Abwehr), claimed that the vessel had been allowed to sail because two Poles on board were actually German agents. Gross showed under interrogation that he knew a very great deal about the escape. He revealed that the German customs service were highly suspicious of Andrieux all along and knew that there were defects in the boat’s official papers. For example, the Germans knew that he had given them a false address. The claims made by Gross were never substantiated. What can be said is that the men on board L’Emigrant were convinced that they had made a genuine escape and that the two Poles who reached Britain seem to have been wholly loyal to the Allied cause. It may be that Gross had gathered his information from subsequent penetration of the escape networks in Brittany,5 or he might have invented the spy story to cover up, from his masters in the Abwehr, the failures which led to L’Emigrant’s being allowed to put to sea. Other escape attempts were not so lucky. Their fate illustrates the high stakes involved for anyone setting out to slip across the Channel with the intention of joining the Free French Air Force. On 12 February 1941, 15 Frenchmen, many of them air force pilots, boarded the fishing boat Buhara in La Fresnaye Bay, on the north coast of Brittany. Unfortunately for them, the boat turned out to be unseaworthy, and their attempt to sail to England ended in disaster. The engine failed and the halliard for the mainsail parted, completely disabling the vessel, which slowly began to sink. They were then sighted by a high-speed launch of the German air–sea rescue service. The crippled fishing boat was taken in tow to Guernsey, and the men on board were arrested and sent to the naval prison in Cherbourg. Tried before a German military tribunal at St-Lo on 3 March 1941, they were found guilty of having ‘deliberately and willingly departed from a foreign country occupied by German forces during a war against the

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Reich, in order to assist the forces of the enemy’.6 The tribunal sentenced Sergeant-Major Jean-Magloire Dorange and Corporal-Pilot Armand Devouassoud to death. Twelve of the remaining men were sentenced to life imprisonment with hard labour. Maurice Gueret, who was only 16 years old, was sentenced to a mere 7 years imprisonment on account of his youth. Dorange, aged 29, and Devouassoud, aged 20, were executed at St-Lo on 12 April amid defiant shouts of Vive la France and Vive l’Angleterre. In April 1941 two very enterprising young Frenchmen managed to take a quicker and more direct route to England. Before the war, Denys Boudard and Jean Hébert had received preliminary training as pilots under the Aviation Populaire scheme. Demobilized from the Armée de l’Air in March 1941, they made their way to Caen, in German-occupied Normandy, where they found work with a French firm laying concrete taxiways at Carpiquet airfield. They were hoping to steal a German aircraft, and soon found an opportunity. On 30 April they noticed that a 2-seater Bücker Jugman biplane, an aircraft they had previously marked down as a possibility, was standing unattended. It was normally used as a personal ‘run-about’ by the airfield commander. Ignoring the tremendous risk they were taking, they started the engine and managed to take-off before anyone could attempt to stop them. They flew at low altitude out over the Channel in heavy rain and, despite their inexperience and their unfamiliarity with the German aircraft’s controls, they managed to land safely at Christchurch airfield, near Bournemouth. After careful vetting by the British and Free French security services, the young men were enlisted in the Free French Air Force and put through comprehensive training with the RAF. Boudard became a fighter pilot and Hébert a bomber pilot. The story of their daring escape was featured in English newspapers and in over 300,000 propaganda leaflets dropped over occupied France during the summer of 1941. Men who thought the direct route to the United Kingdom by sea or air was far too risky could always try their luck overland via Spain. Whether they started from the German-occupied zone of France or the unoccupied zone governed by Pétain’s Vichy regime, the risks were still high, for the Vichy police and milice could be every bit as suspicious and obstructive as the German authorities. If the various security measures could be evaded, escapers still had to face the arduous physical challenge of crossing the Pyrenees mountain chain to reach neutral Spain, where the fascist sympathies of the authorities would often lead to escapers being imprisoned, or even turned over to the Vichy authorities. With help from British diplomats – and often after spending months on the run – the lucky ones might eventually get as far as Gibraltar or Lisbon for onward passage to the United Kingdom.

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For some fortunate individuals the route was rather more straightforward. Jean Fournier had enrolled in the French Air Force training school for observers at the outbreak of war. An able student of ancient Greek, as soon as he was demobilized after the 1940 armistice he managed to get a job as a teacher at a French high school in Tangier, the neutral North African port then in Spanish hands. It was relatively easy to get passage from there across the narrow strait to Gibraltar. It is said that, in his off-duty moments with the RAF, Fournier could often be found reading Plato in the original Greek. Tangier was also the escape route chosen by Jewish pilot Max Guedj. He had been educated in Casablanca and Paris before following his father into the legal profession. During his military service in the 1930s he became interested in flying, gaining a private pilot’s licence in 1938. He was called up to the Army in 1939, and the armistice found him in command of an anti-aircraft unit in Morocco. After demobilization, he simply invented a bogus court case in Tangier at which he claimed to represent a fictitious client. He prepared a convincing dossier of fake court documents, and in no time was on his way to Gibraltar, determined to continue the fight against Germany. 7 The dilemmas facing Jewish pilots in the French Air Force in the aftermath of the defeat of 1940 were particularly acute. The Dreyfus case of the 1890s had emphasized the marginality of Jews in French society; and the Pétain government began repression of the Jewish minority almost as soon as it came to power. Surviving letters written by Jewish airman Michel Brunschwig to his commanding officer in North Africa in 1940 provide a moving insight into the pressures facing those Jews who also thought of themselves as patriotic Frenchmen. He punctiliously submitted a formal, but naïvely optimistic, request for permission to leave for England. On 2 November he wrote: I would kill myself if I were not firmly convinced that I can still serve my country by contributing to the destruction of Germany. That conviction I have never lost. To forestall the lies which will no doubt be spread after my departure by the many narrow, subservient and cowardly minds which defeat has caused to appear, I give below my word as an officer that: 1. I will only have one country – France; 2. I only fight to help France, once again, become strong and respected, having recovered her grandeur and independence; 3. I will never fight against Frenchmen; [I am] ready to risk declining to serve or allow myself to be killed if that situation should arise;

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4. Once Germany and Italy are overcome, I will fight England with all my strength if she does not honour her promises to my country.8 One week later he expanded his reassurances in order to counter any accusations about Jews being stateless people, enemies within France or die-hard opponents of the Pétain regime: I am before everything French, and uniquely French. I have always lived, thought and acted in French, and I wish to continue living as a Frenchman . . . I do not criticise, and never will criticise, the armistice and the actions of Marshal Pétain, although I think that French people should have fought to the death in the countryside and in the villages, [and] I also have a heavy heart that those who tried to adopt the intransigent attitude of Clemenceau were regarded as wrongdoers. I do not criticise the Marshal, whom I have always respected.9 Despite the difficulties they faced, several Jewish airmen like Guedj and (eventually) Brunschwig, succeeded in making their way to England. Undoubtedly, the threat of reprisals against family members left behind in France discouraged many pilots and other aircrew specialists from leaving for England. Only the most fortunate could hope to find a solution to that problem. The evasion of Jacques Henri Schloesing in 1940 was remarkable for the fact that, without any plan or pre-agreement, his whole family made their way to London through various channels ‘by a kind of reflex response which came naturally to these well-bred natives of Alsace’.10 The wives of some of the Free French pilots were eventually able to join them in England, often taking roundabout routes which would take them through North Africa and the Americas. After the British attacks on Mers-el-Kebir, Dakar and Syria/Lebanon, any member of the French armed forces caught trying to leave the Vichy zone or French colonies with the intention of joining de Gaulle could expect little sympathy. Physical abuse, including police beatings and imprisonment in chains, usually followed capture. Trials took the form of courts martial held behind closed doors. Of all the prisons to which a convicted airman might be sent, that at Port Lyautey, in Morocco, became the most infamous because of the sadistic nature of its commanding officer, Captain Bruno. An officer in the engineers, Bruno was always immaculately dressed, invariably wearing riding boots and carrying a whip. He made no secret of his sympathies towards Hitler or of his determination to treat with equal cruelty rapists, murderers and those disaffected with the Vichy regime.

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The conditions of the prison were insanitary, with tiny cells in semi-darkness even in the height of the day. Old railway lines formed the bars on the windows of the cement-built prison block. Rats and filth were plentiful. The sole comfort of prisoners was a blanket, which they could use at night, when prison orderlies would make hourly tours of inspection with prisoners being required to confirm their presence. To be asleep, or otherwise fail to respond to the orderly was to invite a beating or a bucket of cold water. The father of Max Guedj died from his treatment at Port Lyautey, where he had been imprisoned for his open sympathies with the Gaullist cause that his son had joined in October 1940. As a response to the cruelties of the regime at Port Lyautey, the would-be Free French Air Force personnel who were imprisoned there organized a hunger strike. The strike had lasted 6 days before Bruno confronted the airmen in their cells. Mocking them he threatened to have them force-fed in the manner of geese being prepared for pâté de foie gras. He explained that, as a serving officer, once he had committed himself to something there was no way back. He further asked the pilots what they hoped to gain from their protest. ‘An Allied landing,’ was the retort of one of them.11 Bruno found the reply intensely amusing. Some exceptionally adventurous French aviators embarked on truly epic journeys to satisfy their determination to reject the armistice and fight on. André Jubelin came all the way from Saigon, in Indo-China. He was a naval officer serving as gunnery officer on board a cruiser, but he had previously learned to fly in the Fleet Air Arm before being ‘grounded’ for some misdemeanour. On 4 November 1940 he took off from Saigon Civil Aero Club for a short pleasure flight in one of their worn-out training machines. Instead of returning as expected, he set off on a carefully planned escape. After landing at another airstrip to pick up a friend, he then flew on over the Mekong delta to pick up another friend who had gone ahead in a car loaded with cans of petrol. They refuelled hastily, before the authorities could arrest them, and Jubelin managed to get the old aircraft into the air, even though it was grossly overloaded with three men and as many cans of petrol as they could cram in. Their course lay over the Gulf of Siam. As fuel was used up, one of the passengers had to climb halfway out of the cabin to pour more petrol into the tank, while the other passenger clung to his knees. Their plan to fly to Singapore was thwarted by bad weather, but they managed to reach Khota Bahru, in British Malaya – the first stage of a long journey which saw them arrive in London on 4 February 1941.12 Other French airmen made their escape by epic land journeys. Earlier evasion schemes having proved impracticable, but still hoping to get away,

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Pierre Brisdoux Galloni d’Istria and Bernard Louchet, two demobilized pilots, crossed from Marseilles to Algeria in December 1940. Accompanied by another pilot (Henri Jourdain), a native affairs officer and three Moroccans, they set off in two cars from Colomb Béchar to cross the Sahara Desert in a south-easterly direction, with the aim of reaching the Gaullist territory of Chad via northern Niger. Even as the crow flies that would have been about 1,400 miles: by land it must have been much further. The journey might very easily have cost them their lives. They were often short of water and weakened by illness, and while they were still far from their destination the cars broke down. In the end they had to resort to riding on camels to complete their journey in May 1941.13 They were then sent on to serve in the Free French Air Force in the Middle East. Another airman who joined de Gaulle after a gruelling African journey was Joseph Pouliquen, a veteran bomber pilot from World War I who had worked as a journalist for Paris Soir in the inter-war years. Recalled to the colours in 1939, he commanded the Palmyra air base in Syria. After the armistice he returned to his home town, St Malo, as a 44-year-old demobilized ex-serviceman. With the Germans in complete control, he could see no prospect of reaching England by sea, so he set off in the opposite direction. He moved into the unoccupied Vichy zone of France and persuaded one of his old press contacts to give him a spurious assignment as a reporter in French North Africa. In April 1941 this evidence of employment enabled him to cross legitimately to Algeria, and to travel in the French colonies. In September, after a long and arduous journey, which included 250 miles on foot through the bush, he reached Freetown, in the British colony of Sierra Leone, and was posted to the Free French Air Force then being built up in Egypt. Of course, there were fewer obstacles and discouragements for potential recruits to the Free French cause who were living outside the French Empire in 1940. Flyers began to arrive from places such as the United States, Argentina, Ecuador and Chile. One can only admire the courage and patriotism of these expatriate Frenchmen who chose to leave safe homes far from the battlefronts, travel across dangerous seas and then risk their lives in aerial combat. At the end of 1940 the RAF was rather embarrassed by the number of Free French airmen in training or awaiting training. Wartime expansion placed a very heavy burden on the RAF’s training establishments in the United Kingdom. Questions were being raised about the wisdom of continuing to channel partially trained French aircrew into an already overloaded system. On 15 December the Foreign Office issued a circular to

Growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941

55

its embassies and consulates asking them not to accept as potential recruits to the FAFL any pilot with less than 250 hours of flying experience.14 While accepting the need for some limitation on the number of trainee pilots, Major-General Spears (a Conservative Member of Parliament who was head of the British mission to de Gaulle) complained: ‘The development of the French Air Force is being completely held up for lack of ground personnel.’15 He suggested a second circular making it clear to Foreign Office and Embassy staff that trained French ground crew were badly needed and should be ‘given every facility’ to reach the United Kingdom.16 The second circular was sent out, but the numbers of French ground crew recruited in 1941 remained disappointingly small, imposing a serious check on the development of the Free French air arm.17 According to François Pernot, a historian with the French Air Force Historical Branch, in 1940 student pilots made up 72 per cent of the FAFL, while 12 per cent were observers and only 4.5 per cent ground crew. Figures for 1941 would show significant improvement, rising to 38 per cent qualified as pilots, 18 per cent trained as other aircrew, and (a still inadequate) 27 per cent classed as ground crew.18 The flight school at RAF Odiham had become operational in December 1940. By the end of the year, they had already turned out 15 French pilots and 6 Belgians who, between them, had accounted for four ‘kills’. Odiham was less than ideal in several ways, however. One student pilot later commented in his memoirs that, in its camouflage, the base appeared somewhat ‘sinister’ and ‘gloomy’. The rigorousness of the training at Odiham, including English language lessons, was considered particularly onerous by many of those who passed through the base: I set about English in large doses – four hours of compulsory lessons every day. I find that is not enough. With two other comrades, I visit, for the best of motives, a cantankerous old English woman [who] ‘kills us with work’. She belongs to a local volunteer bureau. The results she gets are surprising. And all this time, the Tiger Moths of the flying school circle above our heads. This does not go on without casualties. Thus, Mallet will lose his life and there will be plenty of others.19 The training aircraft at the base were also at the mercy of German intruder aircraft. ‘On the base itself life is not peaceful. A Junkers 88 flies over with a surprise rat-a-tat-tat during our English lessons. A Messerschmitt picks off an innocent English training aircraft. Thus, we lose Eno and his English instructor.’20 The rapid expansion of RAF training in 1941, through

56

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

implementation of the Empire Air Training Scheme and American-based programmes such as the Arnold and Towers schemes, meant the eventual closure of training at Odiham, but arrangements for training French aircrew in England were established on a sound footing elsewhere during 1941. To accommodate the reception, transit and basic training needs of all branches of the Free French armed forces, Old Dean Camp was built from scratch at Camberley in Surrey. Begun at the end of October 1940, the camp had to be constructed in very harsh winter conditions. Housed in corrugated-iron Nissen huts, the camp opened in the spring of 1941. It offered little in the way of luxury. In courses lasting at least 10 weeks, groups of recruits for aircrew or ground roles were put through basic military training, received lessons in the English language and underwent medical and aptitude tests to check whether they were fit for flying duties. Sixteen of these courses passed through the camp between April 1941 and May 1945. The courses for volunteers wishing to join the FAFL were under the direction of Commandant ‘Charles’, the nom de guerre adopted by Captain Ottensooser. On 17 June 1940 he had managed to arrange a flight to England from Bordeaux-Merignac by agreeing to supply an RAF transport aircraft with fuel on the condition that the pilot accepted as passengers about 10 French volunteers who wished to get away before the Germans arrived. After basic training at Camberley, French pilots would go to other establishments in England or Canada, far removed from the combat zone over south-eastern England. Advanced and operational training took place at various RAF airfields in the United Kingdom. Inevitably, there were casualties. The demands of piloting a high speed, single-engined monoplane and learning the rudiments of aerial combat were a world away from the gentler and more forgiving Tiger Moth biplane used for earlier stages of training. Jacques Andrieux remembered: ‘Aerial accidents make big holes in the class. On 23 August 1941, Le Bihan crashes into a mountain and is killed. On 11 October, Linden spins in. On the 22nd Delecray disappears. Training goes on. Our aircraft become more and more complicated.’21 At Llandow, in Wales, where they learned to fly Hurricanes with No. 53 Operational Training Unit, the station commander, ‘Taffy’ Jones, explained to his French students: ‘You have no right to kill yourself! . . . It is forbidden to crash an aeroplane.’22 Ira Jones, DSO, DFC, MC, MM, was a First World War fighter ace who commanded the respect of his pupils. He emphasized the need to be constantly seeking to take the offensive in combat while exercising due caution as a pilot. To drive home the point about sticking to the rules and regulations, and remembering the basics of good flying, the

Growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941

57

lecture rooms were decorated with photographs of crashed aircraft and the funerals of some ‘unlucky’ student pilots.23 To further emphasize the point, after a fatal flying accident to French pilot Jean Berre on 21 November 1941, the station commander arranged a parade. The body of the sergeantpilot was brought down off the Welsh hillside into which he had crashed. It was placed in the middle of the camp, and pilots were forced to parade past it. This does not appear to be the only occasion when this ‘cruel to be kind’ tactic was employed. René-Louis Leguie, who would go on to fly Spitfires, recalled a similar event during his training: Next morning at 10.00 hours, dressed in No. 1 uniforms, we were paraded in a corner of the airfield where there were some large hangars . . . One of those hangars was completely cleared of aircraft and all equipment, and being so empty it looked huge. In the centre, on two tables, each under a white drape, were laid out the mortal remains of our two comrades killed the previous day. I will spare you all the macabre details, to tell you simply that our eyes were tearful and our throats dry. We were then standing at attention in two columns at the hangar entrance. Then, a task almost unbearable to carry out, we had to march forward fifty paces individually to the centre of the hangar, salute our comrades, pause for some seconds, salute again, left turn, and return to the ranks. For good or ill, we all completed this unusual preparation for war, [but] not without some huge tears running down our cheeks.24 This brutal ordeal was intended to emphasize two salient points about the life of a pilot: caution had to be exercised at all times; and the lives of pilots were valuable assets easily thrown away. Leguie was told: ‘An aeroplane can be made in a relatively short time, while it takes a long time to “make” a fighting pilot.’ In any given situation where there was any doubt, he was advised ‘to sacrifice the aircraft rather than take a risk with the man’.25 However, the gradual expansion of the Free French Air Force would come at a high price in young lives. Crashes in training cost the lives of 21 FAFL pilots during 1941, and 51 FAFL aircrew, the majority of them pilots, would lose their lives in various RAF training units between 1940 and 1945. One very important recruit who joined de Gaulle from the Americas was Colonel Martial Valin. He was a highly regarded career officer who had joined the Army in 1917. He decided to specialize in aviation after the First World War, qualifying as a pilot in 1928. During the phoney war of 1939–40 he served as a staff officer, working closely with the British Expeditionary Force in north-east France. In March 1940 he was posted to the French

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

military mission in Rio de Janeiro, being promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel in June. Further promoted to full colonel, he declared for de Gaulle, and eventually reached Britain in March 1941. De Gaulle then decided that the time had come to relieve Admiral Muselier of responsibility for the Free French Air Force, and he appointed Valin to be Commander-in-Chief of the FAFL. Valin’s first impressions of his new command were far from favourable. In early April he summed up his assessment in just four words: La situation est catastrophique.26 He was dismayed to find that the FAFL in Britain consisted mainly of aircrew still in training, while most of the experienced pilots were with RAF squadrons, or serving in Africa or the Middle East. In trying to draw up an action plan for the future development of the FAFL, Valin found General de Gaulle rather unsympathetic and impatient.27 Even so, some encouraging progress was being made in the spring of 1941,28 until Admiral Muselier revealed that he was not yet prepared to confine his interests to purely naval matters. From the very early days, Muselier had been ambitious to build up the size of the Free French Air Force. By November 1940 he was already sounding out the British air ministry about the possibility of forming an all-French squadron in the United Kingdom. Free French headquarters was very sensitive to the fact that, with their national squadrons, the Czechs and Poles were enjoying considerable attention from the British press.29 The Free French yearned for similar favourable publicity, but more pilots and ground crew were required before a separate French squadron could become a reality. The Free French also needed to agree among themselves what kind of unit they wished to set up. On 14 April 1941, only 2 months after reaching England from Saigon, André Jubelin had taken it upon himself to advise Admiral Muselier on what was required. It must be ‘a purely French unit, commanded by Frenchmen and proceeding to battle thus organized. It should also be capable . . . of such success as will enhance the reputation of our cause.’30 He went on to state bluntly that operating large machines such as flying boats or bombers was way beyond the ‘meagre resources’ available to the FAFL. Jubelin argued persuasively that a fighter squadron was the only target at which we can reasonably aim . . . all our operational pilots are of the fighter division [and] the fighter aircraft is that which best suits our young countrymen, full of enthusiasm, who have come here from France, and is much more congenial to their French pugnacity.31 In the summer of 1941 Admiral Muselier chose to complicate matters by putting forward a proposal for forming his own naval fighter squadron.

Growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941

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He had a number of qualified fighter pilots and claimed that he could find suitable ground crew.32 Valin opposed that suggestion, arguing that it was likely to lead to complications in the relationships between the RAF and the Free French Air Force and Navy. Four months of seemingly interminable inter-service wrangling followed, and it was not until October 1941 that Valin (promoted Brigadier-General in August) and Muselier were able to hammer out an agreement on pooling their pilots and ground crew to form a joint French fighter squadron under the RAF. Meanwhile, on 24 September 1941 de Gaulle set up the Comité National Français [French National Committee]. The Allies recognized it for what it was – a French government in exile. Preparations for setting up the committee, which included a British declaration that the Government of Vichy could not be regarded as being in any sense independent, had been ongoing since July. Loyal Gaullists worried that the formation of the committee might arouse suspicions about the possible Napoleonic ambitions of their leader. Admiral Muselier was not afraid to take up these concerns frankly with de Gaulle himself. He wrote to the General urging that he should occupy only an honorary position in the committee and that real power ought to be vested elsewhere. To press home this view, he threatened to withdraw the navy from Free French control. The navy would willingly continue the fight against Germany, but it would be under Muselier’s personal control rather than that of the French National Committee or Free French headquarters. What followed was described by de Gaulle in his memoirs: ‘My reaction was clear and the discussion was short. The admiral yielded, alleging a misunderstanding. For reasons of sentiment and expediency, I made a show of letting myself be convinced, took cognizance of his undertakings and appointed him Commissioner for the Navy and Merchant Marine in the National Committee.’33 General Valin became Commissioner for Air. In the complicated politics of the Free French movement, the presence of a loyal Gaullist of Valin’s seniority was extremely important. His support helped de Gaulle withstand the continued scheming of Muselier, which culminated in the admiral’s resignation early in 1942. Muselier’s behaviour placed a question mark in de Gaulle’s mind over the loyalty of the Free French Navy. That, in turn, made him more reliant on the Air Force and more determined to promote the interests of its loyalists. The growth of the Free French Air Force in 1941 justified further steps to profit from Churchill’s promises to de Gaulle. Initially, French aircrew wore RAF battledress. Following from the logic of the Churchill–de Gaulle understanding, by 1941 the RAF agreed to support the wearing of traditional French Air Force uniform and insignia by Free French pilots. They would be eligible to ‘wear the French insignia or flying badge’ even if they had

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

completed their final pilot training with the RAF.34 However, this concession did not always apply on flying operations. In view of Vichy threats, some French airmen still preferred to wear RAF battle dress. Some even went so far as to wear ‘Canada’ shoulder flashes on their uniform, in the hope of being able to pass for French Canadians if they were shot down and captured. René Mouchotte was one of those who wore the ‘Canada’ shoulder flash. He was somewhat disgruntled by the refusal of the RAF to provide him with appropriate false papers to support his cover story of coming from Toronto, but he accepted that the odds on a fatal crash were realistically far greater than the likelihood of needing to pass himself off as a Canadian.

Table 4.1 Free French (FAFL) aircrew, fatal casualties, 1940–41

RAF Training Units (UK) RAF Training Units (overseas) RAF Squadrons (UK) 340 (Ile de France) RAF Squadrons (Malta) Central Africa (various) Fleet Air Arm Middle East (fighter pilots) (bomber crew) Crashed escaping to join FAFL Exceptional cases Total

3

1940

1941

(1)

(12) (4)

(20) (1) 7 (1) (1) 4 5 (13) (1) 4 (4) 10 (2) (3) (3)

(20)

30

(3)

6

9

(49)

Note: (a) Bold figures show aircrew killed (including missing believed killed) during operations. (b) Figures in brackets show deaths during non-operational flying and certain exceptional cases. (c) Deaths from illness or non-aviation accidents are excluded. (d) Exceptional cases – 1940: Four lost when s.s. Aska was sunk in Irish Sea. 1941: One lost as passenger in civilian airliner shot down by enemy, and two captured attempting to escape by sea to join FAFL, and later tried and executed by the Germans. [Source: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

Chapter 5

The Birth of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron

General Valin had secured British consent to the formation of a complete Free French fighter squadron in the United Kingdom as early as July 1941, and by September the Free French Air Force could muster a grand total of 186 pilots and 19 navigators and engineers. Nevertheless, progress towards creating a Free French Air Force ‘wholly French in character’ seemed to move at a snail’s pace, apart from the setting up of French units in the Middle East. Inter-service rivalry between General Valin and Admiral Muselier was not resolved until the autumn, and then plans for setting up the first Free French squadron in RAF Fighter Command were further delayed by a Franco-British disagreement over issues to do with discipline. In October, during a visit by General Valin to French pilots at an RAF base, at least one French pilot responded rather robustly and disrespectfully to some of the general’s remarks. Contrary to understandings reached earlier in the year, French headquarters dealt with the breach of discipline directly. When the British air ministry reminded the French command that any disciplinary matter on an RAF Station should have been dealt with by the station commander,1 General de Gaulle took up the matter personally: An officer belonging to the French Air Forces has behaved towards a French General Officer, the National Commissioner for Air, in a manner contrary to service etiquette and discipline, and in a matter wholly outside the command of the Royal Air Force unit to which he has been temporarily posted. The National Commissioner for Air has penalised this lack of respect on the part of a French officer, and I approve of his decision. I am convinced that, like myself, you would not consider our agreement of the 15th January 1941 of such a nature as to remove from myself and from the commanding officers appointed by me, any authority over members of the French armed forces who have entered into a contract to serve me and for whom I am responsible to my country.2

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Sir Archibald Sinclair, the Secretary of State for Air, was able to pacify de Gaulle sufficiently for an agreement to be reached over future disciplinary procedure. Under this agreement, sketched out in correspondence between de Gaulle, Valin, General Spears and Sinclair, the RAF would remain in full control of disciplinary procedures for Free French personnel temporarily assigned to RAF squadrons.3 French headquarters could request the RAF to make particular individuals report to French headquarters in London, at which point they would fall under French jurisdiction. It was further agreed, at a meeting on 11 November between General Valin and Air Vice-Marshal Medhurst, that Free French aircrew posted to headquarters for ‘punishment under French military law . . . could not again be accepted for service by the RAF’.4 The episode highlighted de Gaulle’s determination to assert his authority over the whole Free French movement matched by the RAF’s determination to remain in control of French pilots as long as they were serving in its squadrons. During the negotiations, both sides hinted at possible sanctions. In his letter of 5 November Sinclair argued that the formation of the new French fighter squadron ‘should not proceed until these vital questions of principle have been agreed’.5 De Gaulle realized that he had to compromise if he wanted to bring into existence his new all-French squadron, with its enormous potential for generating favourable publicity and boosting national pride. He was aware that Sinclair was one of Churchill’s inner circle, and would probably be acting with the prime minister’s backing. De Gaulle later countered with demands that three French pilots who had enlisted directly in the RAF Volunteer Reserve should be transferred to the Free French forces. The general argued vindictively that, in his eyes, ‘any Frenchman serving in the RAFVR [was] a deserter’.6 That threat was quietly dropped, but it was a reminder that the leader of Free France could prove to be a very awkward ally whenever he failed to get his own way. In due course, the new Free French fighter unit became 340 (Ile de France) Squadron of the RAF. Equipped with Mk I and Mk IIa Spitfires, it formed up at Turnhouse, in Scotland, in November 1941. The cadre of experienced leaders came from 242 Squadron RAF, which had been temporary home to four exceptional French pilots: Bernard Dupérier, François Fayolle, François de Labouchère and Philippe de Scitivaux. They were delighted when they learned that an exclusively French squadron was to be established: We cannot believe it! There has been so much talk about this squadron, the command of which has been half-promised to everybody . . . But this

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time it is for real. Back in the large room which I shared with Philippe [de Scitivaux], we talked about it for a long time before putting the light out. This French unit would be a fine thing, where we would gather together all the old traditions of our homeland, where everyone would be motivated by the same passion, the same enthusiasm. They never stopped talking about the exploits of the Polish squadron, but we would be perfectly capable of equalling them, and we would show what some Frenchmen could do when they had belief in their hearts, a leader like de Gaulle, and the resources of the Royal Air Force in their hands. But how many material difficulties still had to be overcome?7 The four pilots left London on 6 November, in company with René Mouchotte, from 615 Squadron. Dupérier and de Scitivaux had been selected as escadrille [flight] commanders. On arrival at Turnhouse, Dupérier was delighted to find Marc Hauchemaille, with whom he had been a student pilot at Istres in 1937. Initially the squadron would have a British squadron leader, but it was understood that a French leader would be appointed before the squadron went on operations. That key job was eventually given to Scitivaux, in part because it was thought that he was best placed to smooth over some of the divisions between former Air Force fliers and those originally in the naval air arm. Scitivaux’s appointment left one former naval pilot deeply disappointed. André Jubelin, the man who had travelled all the way from Saigon to join the Free French, was convinced that General Valin and Admiral Muselier had promised that he would command the first French squadron.8 To prepare for that role, he had spent the summer of 1941 training to be a fighter pilot with the RAF, but he found himself totally excluded from the formation of the new French squadron. Instead, he was posted to 118 Squadron RAF. His disappointment was made even harder to bear by the death of Jean-René Arnoux in a training accident at Dumfries on 29 October. Arnoux had been one of Jubelin’s companions on the hazardous escape flight from Indo-China. In Scotland, possibly as a result of the dispute about disciplinary jurisdiction, the dilatory procedures of RAF bureaucracy hindered the development of the Free French fighter squadron, and it took some time for their aircraft to arrive. A hint of despair appears in the squadron’s operations record book. On 12 November the adjutant wrote: ‘Zero. No serviceable aircraft, no dispersal points, no tools, no engineers, but any amount of good temper and patience.’9 Turnhouse airfield, regarded as ‘rather elderly and rather prim’, was not to the liking of many of the French squadron’s ‘rather young and rather noisy’ young men.10 When aircraft did eventually

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

arrive, there was some understandable dismay at the state they were in: ‘We never had enough aeroplanes to keep our pilots and mechanics busy. They arrived in dribs and drabs and in such a dilapidated state that, after every flight, they were out of action for hours or days despite the [ground staff’s] ingenuity and enthusiasm.’11 Apart from that enthusiasm, the maintenance personnel of the squadron left a great deal to be desired. Some of the ground crew had made escapes from France every bit as dramatic as the escapes made by some of the pilots. A number of them came from the Bourgogne, near Dijon. Mobilized at the outbreak of war in 1939, they had served as armourers for a bomber squadron. While French resistance was collapsing in June 1940, they ended up on the quayside at Marseilles under the command of Lieutenant Vaissier. To put them beyond the reach of the advancing Germans, they were ordered to embark for Oran on board the commandeered Italian freighter Cap Olmo, a vessel temporarily under the command of an officer named Vuillemin (nephew of the Commander-in-Chief of the French Air Force). Also on board were two observers from the Air Force and two junior officers of the French Army, who had disguised themselves as sailors in order to escape to North Africa. During the voyage, they heard the news of France’s surrender and de Gaulle’s broadcast appeal. The various officers held a meeting to discuss what action was to be taken. They jointly decided to rally to de Gaulle, but they faced a major obstacle in that the ship was sailing in convoy under escort from French warships still taking their orders from Marshal Pétain’s government. The Cap Olmo’s resourceful chief engineer offered to fake an engine-breakdown, and the ship dropped behind the rest of the convoy. Approached by one of the escorts, Vuillemin shouted that they would make repairs and rejoin the convoy as quickly as possible. As soon as the convoy disappeared into the darkness, however, the engines were restarted and course was set for Gibraltar, where everyone volunteered to join the Free French forces, even though the British authorities offered them the option of returning to unoccupied French territory.12 At Turnhouse the men from Bourgogne found themselves working alongside men from Tahiti. These trained mechanics in the French Navy had volunteered for service overseas when the French colony had rallied to de Gaulle. They probably did not expect that they would be required to serve in Scotland renowned for its grey skies, numerous rainy days and long, cold winters. The Tahitian ground crew complained loudly about the weather, but they were by no means the only wartime servicemen unfavourably impressed by the Scottish climate. The working up of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron was beset by all manner of difficulties. With pilots and ground crew drawn from both the Air Force

The Birth of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron

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and the Navy, there were considerable disparities over such intangible matters as service ethos and traditions, as well as down-to-earth issues like pay, rank and seniority. A decision was taken to pay Free French personnel the current RAF rates for equivalent rank, but that meant a cut for men originally on naval rates of pay. This problem threatened to create a breach between the Free French services, and between them and their British hosts. The underlying jealousies and resentments between French Fleet Air Arm personnel and those drawn from the former ranks of the Armée de l’Air quickly produced a situation where Admiral Muselier threatened to withdraw all naval personnel from the squadron. Desperate to preserve the first French fighter squadron in the United Kingdom, General Valin approached the air ministry to sound them out about the possibility of providing British ground crew to support the ‘Ile de France’, if Muselier went ahead with his threat. Sir Archibald Sinclair responded that ‘this was impossible, as it was a matter of principle which had been decided on for all the Allies that no Allied squadron would be formed without the corresponding Allied ground personnel’.13 The RAF’s official position was clear: either naval and Armée de l’Air personnel got along or there would be no squadron. Nevertheless, from postwar memoirs of French pilots it is clear that the ruling was not strictly applied at Turnhouse. For some time, almost 50 per cent of maintenance staff had to be provided by the RAF. A system of dual command evolved, under which each maintenance operation was overseen by both French and British experienced non-commissioned officers. In addition to these manpower problems, the defeat of 1940 had created a fresh set of issues to divide Frenchmen, as well as reviving far older political disputes. Alan Brown explains: The divisions which had plagued the Third Republic since its forced inception at the hands of the Prussians way back in 1871 still had resonance in 1942. Republicans and royalists taunted each other, and those who still nursed anti-British grudges after Oran quarrelled with Gaullists and spread defeatism . . . [Later, when the squadron was based at Tangmere] Valin made an appearance and bluntly told the men that they ‘were not giving complete satisfaction’. He threatened them with courts of enquiry, demotion, and even expulsion from the squadron if they did not pull their weight and give maximum effort for the cause of France.14 Despite their problems, the French squadron celebrated the Christmas of 1941 in fine style. French headquarters contributed 220 litres of red wine, and well-wishers lavished gifts on them. A Christmas tree was selected and

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

felled, and the Tahitians played their guitars to add to the entertainment. The celebrations provided some light relief after a worrying number of aircraft accidents just before Christmas. Most ended with damage to aircraft rather than pilots, although a glycol leak at 10,000 feet on 21 December had almost accounted for Philippe de Scitivaux. The Free French movement received invaluable publicity when press censorship was relaxed in the new year to allow the existence of the first complete French squadron in the RAF to be made public.15 On 12 February 1942 the pilots were proud to stage a special fly-past with 12 aircraft forming de Gaulle’s chosen emblem, the cross of Lorraine. The occasion was an inspection visit by the general.16 It would not be the last time that this special formation was flown by a Free French squadron. On 29 March they received orders to transfer to Westhampnett, a satellite station for RAF Tangmere in Sussex, where they arrived on 6 April to prepare for their first combat mission. That first mission, on 10 April, made an indelible mark on the young pilots. The squadron had already experienced its first fatality on 22 December 1941, when Maurice Daligot crashed into the sea after becoming lost in fog during a training exercise over the Firth of Forth. The first combat mission turned out to be an altogether bigger tragedy, however. They were given the job of escorting 12 Hurricane fighter-bombers on a mission to attack Boulogne. Wing Commander Michael Robinson, the RAF officer commanding the Tangmere wing, decided to lead the French squadron that day, flying with Maurice Choron, a French pilot, as his wingman. In the late afternoon, sighting enemy aircraft below, Robinson dived away so suddenly that only three of the French pilots were able to follow his Spitfire. That was the start of a battle which would, according to André Gibert, involve around 300 aircraft.17 In the middle of the unfolding dogfight, Bernard Dupérier, leading yellow section, spotted a Spitfire in trouble below him: I suddenly saw a Spitfire go by heading left in a desperate attempt to escape from a sombrely camouflaged Focke-Wulf, which was on his tail and ready to open fire. My reflex [response] was quicker than my calculation, and I found myself diving like a meteor on the Boche, in the hope of shooting him down before he himself got the Spitfire. Unfortunately, those months spent in the north had made my tactical appreciation rather rusty, and I came up with my prey far too fast. Forced to turn away to avoid a collision, I fired a short burst while passing, and pulled back on the control column to gain height. Passing within touching distance above the German, who was beginning to turn, I could not see the result of my

The Birth of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron

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firing, but I hoped that, if the strikes I had seen reach their target had not disabled the enemy, he would have been finished off by Debec, Schloesing or Fournier who were following me. But were they in fact still behind me? A glance behind reassured me; my three comrades had not left me by so much as a foot and they were still flying impeccably, as if on exercise. To sum up, we at least had the satisfaction of helping out of a jam the unknown Spit who had taken advantage of the incident to get away.18 Dupérier’s after-action combat report contained a little more detail than the account given in his memoirs: I saw 2 FW’s attacking a Spitfire to the South and about 5,000 ft. below, the 3 aircraft travelling north while diving. I dived immediately to try and make them disengage the Spitfire and opened fire from dead astern on the second aircraft at 300 yds. I gave several short bursts with cannon and machine-gun up to about 50 yds range, when I disengaged to avoid a collision. At this moment, the FW seemed to roll over to starboard but, coming from above, it was difficult to observe the result of my attack. I had the aircraft dead in my sights when I attacked from dead astern. I began weaving and climbed to 18,000 ft, and after searching for more E/A [enemy aircraft] and finding none, I joined some of our aircraft and made course for England.19 Dupérier subsequently picked up radio messages from both Robinson and Maurice Choron who, with Philippe de Scitivaux, had dived away to attack at first sight of the enemy. Choron spoke of setting an enemy aircraft on fire and Robinson could be heard calling for the ‘Ile de France’ to reform over Calais. Robinson, Choron and de Scitivaux had been ambushed by Focke-Wulf 190s from JG 26, the infamous ‘Abbeville boys’, who were among the best pilots in the Luftwaffe. They claimed four Spitfires in the Calais/Etaples vicinity during 10 minutes of fighting in the late afternoon of 10 April. One of the victorious German pilots was Wilhelm Galland, who recorded his fifth ‘kill’ that day. Robinson and Choron were among JG26’s victims. So too was Philippe de Scitivaux.. The loss of each of these pilots was keenly felt. Scitivaux had done much to establish 340 (Ile de France) Squadron and get it ready for combat. He had shot down one German aircraft before the fall of France, and had added another two to his score while serving with an RAF squadron. Bernard Dupérier was asked, within minutes of landing, whether he had seen what had happened to Scitivaux:

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I had the sudden impression of living a nightmare and of seeing a bottomless abyss beneath my feet. What? Him? Philippe? My comrade in the bad days and in so many air battles? Him I had seen emerge unscathed from many extraordinary scraps? He who had twice crossed the Ostend [anti-aircraft] barrage? He with whom we had set up, and with such pride, the groupe which we had led into battle that day?20 Sadness at Scitivaux’s loss was eventually softened by the news that, although wounded, he had been able to bale out of his aircraft and had been taken prisoner by the Germans. His wife, whom he had left behind in France in 1940, arrived in England shortly after he had been posted missing.21 The loss of both Choron and Robinson was an even more poignant tragedy. They had met in Corsica before the war and got on well together. In June 1940 Choron had escaped from Port Vendres to Gibraltar on the cargo vessel Apapa. In the United Kingdom, along with Xavier de Montbrun, he went through familiarization training before being sent to 64 Squadron RAF, where he had registered the first victory by a Free French pilot in the Battle of Britain. When Robinson took over command of 609 Squadron he asked for Choron, who was happy to accept the posting, even though he was the only Frenchman in that squadron. It was with considerable pleasure that he resumed his friendship with Robinson, as the latter was promoted to Wing Leader. The Choron-Robinson partnership seemed symbolic of the close working relationship which had been established between the RAF and the FAFL. With 22 victories to his credit, Robinson had been held in the highest regard by most of 340 Squadron. He was, in André Gibert’s opinion, a superbe personnage.22 By the time of the ‘Ile de France’ squadron’s first air battle, Choron had been credited with three confirmed kills. What made his loss even more painful to bear was a story, which seems to have circulated in mid-1942, that his body had been recovered from the sea about a month after he was shot down. According to Raymond Lallemant, a Belgian pilot flying with the RAF: ‘Maurice Choron was recovered from the sea in his dinghy a month later, dead from exposure. I cannot think of it without saying to myself that Maurice had had to wait in vain and to suffer terribly from not being found; every time [I think of it] I am deeply saddened.’23 On the face of it, the story appears to be nothing more than rumour. The British and German air–sea rescue services were very efficient. They operated in the English Channel with networks of high-speed launches, flying boats and moored rescue buoys. Those buoys contained emergency supplies, and a downed pilot could take shelter in one of them until help arrived. The rival rescue

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services, combined with the tides and currents of the English Channel, make it improbable that a pilot in a dinghy was likely to have remained drifting between England and France for more than a few days before sinking, being found or washed ashore. Henry Lafont’s book Aviateurs de la Liberté is probably correct when it records Choron’s fate as simply disparu en mer.24 Their initial combat mission as the first Free French fighter squadron in the United Kingdom made a lasting impression on the men of the ‘Ile de France’. So great was the concern within both the FAFL and RAF that Bernard Dupérier was summoned to Free French headquarters in London the day after the battle. General Valin told him that the RAF wanted to pull the squadron out of the front line for further training. It was only with considerable difficulty that Dupérier, appointed as the missing Scitivaux’s replacement to lead the squadron, managed to persuade Valin to plead with the RAF to keep them in the front line. He argued that the squadron’s losses on its first combat assignment were nothing more than bad luck, and that his men could put the loss of the three pilots behind them. Dupérier won his battle, and the French squadron went back into action, along with 81 and 129 Squadrons RAF, on a mission over Caen on 14 April. There the ‘Ile de France’ became embroiled in another dogfight with Focke-Wulf 190s of JG 26. One French pilot was slightly wounded, and had to make a forced landing, but otherwise the squadron acquitted itself well. They continued to escort bomber operations over France throughout the rest of the month, losing in the process two more pilots, one to the FW190s of JG 26 on 27 April. The pilot shot down on 27 April was Marc Hauchemaille, flying as Dupérier’s wingman. Hauchemaille had been a flying instructor in Brittany at the start of the war, before he accompanied the students of Elementary Flying School No. 23 in their mass escape by sea on board Le Trébouliste. Alongside his former pupils, Hauchemaille passed through the stages of RAF operational training, eventually being posted to 340 (Ile de France) Squadron. On 27 April, as Dupérier dived away on sighting the enemy, Hauchemaille lagged behind by a distance of some 500 to 600 metres, allowing a FockeWulf 190 to close on his tail. Dupérier, seeing the danger, turned to attack the German aircraft, which broke off the attack and climbed out of range. Hauchemaille’s aircraft had been hit, however, and before losing visual contact, Dupérier noticed it leaving a trail of white vapour. Hauchemaille used his radio to inform Dupérier that he was bailing out over the sea. Although the other French pilots searched for him, there was no sign of a parachute or a dinghy. Running short of fuel, they had to return to base, and no trace of Hauchemaille was ever found.

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The ‘Ile de France’ Squadron had suffered another devastating loss from its ranks. His death depressed morale throughout the squadron. Back at base, the chief of the ground crew that serviced Hauchemaille’s Spitfire sat on one of the chocks in front of the empty space for the aircraft and openly cried. ‘Nonoche’ (as they nicknamed him) had been a father figure to many of the young pilots. They had turned to him for advice and occasionally for the odd short-term loan. Dupérier, sorting through the missing man’s belongings, found a moving letter from Hauchemaille addressed to his comrades for the day that he did not return from an operation. In compliance with the letter, Dupérier forwarded to Hauchemaille’s wife the small number of her husband’s belongings which were not RAF issue. Dupérier was saddened that Hauchemaille had never been able to fulfil his ambition of shooting down a German aircraft. Indeed, the problem went rather wider than that. With the exception of two ‘probables’ on 10 April, the squadron had yet to claim its first ‘kill’. They just seemed to keep losing pilots and welcoming enthusiastic new hopefuls who arrived as their replacements. The ‘Ile de France’ was in real danger of earning a reputation as a ‘hard luck outfit’, but their luck turned on 3 May, during a morning fighter sweep over Calais. Dupérier and Jean de Tédesco each claimed a Focke-Wulf 190 destroyed. A further Focke-Wulf was damaged in the engagement. The French squadron did not lose any of its own aircraft, although Tédesco had to make a forced landing at RAF Manston. News of the squadron’s success was widely acclaimed, with telegrams flooding in from Fighter Command, 11 Group and Sir Archibald Sinclair (the British Air Minister). The mechanics celebrated those first victories long and hard. The atmosphere of elation did not last long. It evaporated the following day, when Pierre Bourgeois, their youngest pilot, fell to a Focke-Wulf 190 of JG26 over Le Havre. Nevertheless, with further victories claimed – one Me 109 destroyed, one Me 109 damaged and one Ju 88 destroyed – before the end of May 1942, there could be no question that 340 Squadron was, at last, well and truly in the war and competing on equal terms with the Luftwaffe over France. As commanding officer, Bernard Dupérier worried that his young pilots might become predominantly anglicized. He was keen to counter that tendency by finding ways of building up and emphasizing the squadron’s special identity as a French fighting unit: I should like to say something about our pilots . . . [I] thought the world of them. From first meeting them I had found that wonderful youthfulness and that exuberance which prevailed in our squadrons in France.

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However, none of them had known what that was like, because they had all been trained in English flying schools. It was all very well for the French pilots we had found here, and at bottom they were proud of it. But most of them had known no other service life than that of the RAF and, if their spirit was French, their reflexes were English, as much in the mess as among themselves at ‘dispersal’. Far be it from me to complain of this, but I wished, nevertheless, to remove that ‘trademark’ and re-establish completely what I had known in France when war broke out. Our duty towards these young men themselves was, moreover, to build up a French unit which would be able to take its place – and it ought to be first place – when we would be reunited with the French Air Force in North Africa. Those who had made so many sacrifices to carry on the struggle here, and so many of whom would pay with their lives, deserved the respect of their comrades who, for one reason or another, had not been able, or had not wished, to leave North Africa or metropolitan France. It would never do for them to be anglicised, [because they] might then be regarded quite wrongly as mercenaries, which they have never been.25 Dupérier considered that ensuring all French pilots wore their own national uniform, instead of that of the RAF, was a significant step in the right direction. His views on uniform were not accepted unanimously, however. Outside the ‘Ile de France’ squadron, some French pilots continued to prefer RAF uniform and rank badges to disguise their identity, as far as possible, if they happened to be shot down in enemy-occupied territory. Dupérier was very much alive to the importance of symbols as a means of reinforcing the identity of the FAFL. In the summer of 1941 he and the other French pilots then in 242 Squadron had formulated a plan to fly down the Champs-Elysées on Bastille Day (14 July) while releasing blue, white and red smoke. It would have made a powerful impression on the Parisians, and the pilots saw it as a way of demonstrating ‘how close we were to them and their sufferings, and how much we wished to offer them a hand in the terrible ordeal through which they were passing at the time’.26 In the event, Fighter Command refused to authorize the operation. Dupérier and the others again pressed to be allowed to mount the same operation on Armistice Day (11 November), when the ‘Ile de France’ was forming up at Turnhouse. Again, Fighter Command would not authorize the plan, despite the undoubted impact it would have made if carried out successfully. Throughout the summer of 1942, 340 (Ile de France) Squadron continued to develop its operational effectiveness, although aerial engagements were mostly inconclusive. They had their fair share of important visitors,

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including General de Gaulle on 12 July. Two days later, on Bastille Day, Dupérier opened what, in his eyes, constituted proper French Air Force mess facilities for his pilots. Those arrangements included a superbly qualified chef, formerly employed on the trans-Atlantic luxury liners of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, to cook authentic French cuisine. No longer would patriotic French palates have to suffer at the hands of RAF cooks. On 20 July the squadron was sent to Ipswich to rest. Nine days later Dupérier received word that he and two other pilots of the squadron were to be awarded the (British) Distinguished Flying Cross.

Chapter 6

War from the Desert to the Atlantic

In an ideal world, the Free French ‘Lorraine’ bomber groupe, set up in Damascus in October 1941, would have been put through a period of intensive training to ensure that everyone was familiar with essential operating procedures, that crews bonded into effective teams, that aircraft maintenance was reliable and that a high standard of formation flying was achieved. Long periods of training would not have been congenial, however, to the aircrew themselves. Boring and repetitive training drills far from the enemy were definitely not why they had taken all manner of risks to rally to de Gaulle. Free French headquarters in the Middle East appreciated the political and propaganda advantages of getting the groupe into action against the enemy as quickly as possible, while RAF headquarters needed all the air support they could muster in defence of Egypt and the Suez Canal. Even the Free French groupe’s obsolescent Blenheim bombers might make a useful contribution. With General Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps and his Italian allies poised on the Libyan-Egyptian frontier, a major British offensive was about to be launched. Its aim was to drive Axis forces back into Cyrenaica and relieve the British Commonwealth garrison clinging on to the besieged Libyan port of Tobruk, 70 miles behind Rommel’s front line. This offensive, Operation Crusader, was scheduled for 18 November 1941. On 5 November the Bristol Blenheims of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe flew from Damascus to an airfield near Ismailia, in Egypt. Mechanics and other ground crew followed by lorry through Palestine and Sinai, an exhausting journey of over 500 miles. In an impressive ceremony on 11 November, a significant date for both partners in the Entente Cordiale, the groupe was formally placed under RAF command, and in the next few days they moved to a desert airstrip in western Egypt just in time for the Crusader offensive. While back in the United Kingdom the men of the newly formed 340 (Ile de France) fighter squadron were enduring the rain, cold and general misery of a Scottish winter, their fellow countrymen of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe

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were trying to adjust to the ubiquitous sand, daytime heat, dust, flies and thirst of a flat, featureless patch of Egyptian desert which carried the almost anonymous designation ‘Landing Ground 75’. Accommodation against the wind and the low night-time temperatures consisted of nothing more luxurious than holes dug in the ground, which the energetic or imaginative could embellish or extend in their off-duty time. As a fast moving and fluctuating armoured battle developed in the area between the frontier and Tobruk, the Free French groupe soon received its baptism of fire. Five Blenheims bombed enemy traffic on the road between Tobruk and Bardia on 21 November, the first of many similar operational sorties. They suffered their first casualties on 28 November, when an aircraft engaged on a lone mission to bomb the road from Gazala (west of Tobruk) was shot down in flames, but the pilot managed to make a crash landing. Only the air gunner was unhurt, and he became a prisoner of war. The pilot and observer both suffered serious burns, and were taken for treatment to an enemy field hospital, where the observer died 2 days later. The pilot, Raymond Jabin, was flown to Italy for further treatment and, after a lengthy period in the hands of skilled doctors, he was considered fit enough to be transferred to a prisoner-of-war camp.1 The land battle continued to sway backwards and forwards for several days. At one point it even seemed as if Rommel might be about to advance boldly into Egypt. The Free French bombers were employed against enemy positions around Bardia and in harassing columns of tanks and motorized infantry in open country, a task made more nerve-wracking by the difficulty of establishing the nationality of any vehicles sighted, since enemy and allied forces were intermingled in a featureless landscape and both sides often pressed captured enemy vehicles into service. The French groupe suffered further casualties. On 4 December a crash on take-off killed the pilot and seriously injured the observer, while 2 days later another Blenheim was shot down in flames by a German fighter south-west of Tobruk, all three members of the crew being killed. Up to that time the ‘Lorraine’ groupe had been led by Commandant Edouard Corniglion-Molinier, a veteran pilot from World War I with one aerial victory to his credit. Between the wars, he had combined a successful career as a film producer with long distance flying and service on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War. Credited with two more aerial victories in the Battle of France in 1940, he returned briefly to civilian life after the Franco-German armistice. He soon became involved in the Dernière Colonne resistance network in the south of France, and spent a brief period in prison in Marseilles. On his release in January 1941, Corniglion-Molinier

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made his way to London by way of Morocco, Martinique and New York. De Gaulle appointed him chief of staff to the Free French Air Force in the Middle East, where he was involved in the setting up of the ‘Alsace’ and ‘Lorraine’ groupes. His command of the latter groupe during the operations in Egypt was only a temporary appointment, pending the arrival of the permanent commander selected by General de Gaulle and General Valin. Corniglion-Molinier handed over to the new man and departed for the Lebanon on 13 December 1941. His successor was Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Pijeaud. He had been a staff officer with the Armée de l’Air during the Battle of France, and in the final collapse he managed to board a ship from Port Vendres to Gibraltar, where he enlisted with the Free French. Because of his staff experience, he was appointed chief of staff to the FAFL, a job in which he played an important part in setting up the first training programmes in the United Kingdom, planning the expedition to Dakar and establishing good relations with the RAF. He was not content, however, with being a desk-bound warrior. He pestered his superiors with requests for a combat command, and they had reluctantly agreed. To reach his new command he had been compelled to take the long air route to Egypt, by way of Gibraltar, West Africa, Chad and the Sudan, enduring all manner of delays which accounted for his late arrival in Egypt. Three weeks of confused fighting in eastern Cyrenaica had resulted in a hard-won British victory, and the Axis forces had begun retiring westwards to avoid being encircled and overrun. The retreating columns were attacked repeatedly from the air. With the enemy in full retreat, the ‘Lorraine’ groupe was moved forward to operate from another desert airstrip at Gambut, half way between Bardia and Tobruk. The previous occupants had been the Italian Air Force, who had left in such a hurry that the Free French were delighted to ‘inherit’ stores of petrol, weapons, equipment, provisions, wine and toiletries. On 20 December, four of the French Blenheims joined other bombers and a fighter escort from the RAF in an offensive sweep seeking targets of opportunity in the enemy columns escaping in the direction of Benghazi. Pijeaud took the opportunity to lead his new command for the first time. The formation was attacked and broken up by a large force of Messerschmitt 109s which had the advantage of height and cloud cover. A confused dogfight ensued, in which the escorting RAF Tomahawk fighters shot down several of the Messerschmitts. One of the ‘Lorraine’ Blenheims simply disappeared, and nothing further is known about the fate of its crew of three. A pair of German fighters attacked the aircraft flown by Lieutenant Yves Ezanno, but his air gunner succeeded in shooting down one of them and driving off the other.

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Lieutenant-Colonel Pijeaud was not so fortunate. His air gunner was killed in the turret, and the aircraft caught fire and began to lose height. After ordering the navigator, Lieutenant Gaston Guigonis, to bail out, Pijeaud also abandoned the stricken aircraft, but not before he had suffered serious burns to his face and hands. Guigonis parachuted safely to earth, and spent 5 days evading capture in the open desert before he was picked up by advancing British troops. Handicapped by his injuries, Pijeaud was captured by an Italian patrol and taken to hospital for treatment. When the Italians continued their retreat towards Benghazi, Pijeaud feared that they would take him with them. Despite facial burns which rendered him blind, he managed to make his way from the hospital and find a hiding place nearby, where he was able to conceal himself until the last Italians left. He then returned to the hospital to await the arrival of British forces. In view of the severity of his injuries, he was evacuated to a base hospital at Alexandria, where he died on 6 January 1942. When Pijeaud was posted missing, command of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe devolved on Captain Pierre de Saint-Péreuse. Bombing missions continued to be flown against Rommel’s main force, which had halted at Agedabia, south of Benghazi, and against a German pocket still holding out far to the rear at Halfaya Pass, on the frontier of Egypt and Libya, where they were effectively blocking the best road between the two countries. This Halfaya pocket was finally hammered into surrender on 17 January. By the end of January the Free French bomber groupe was badly in need of a rest. Enemy anti-aircraft fire, mishaps on the ground and the cumulative wear and tear of 300 missions from primitive desert airfields had worn out the aircraft. The ground crews were also exhausted by the strain of being expected to perform miracles of improvisation in order to keep the planes flying, while illness, injury, or losses in action had reduced the number of aircrew by about a third. The unit was withdrawn from Libya, via Egypt, to the much pleasanter environment of the Lebanon. The departure of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe more or less coincided with a surprise counter-attack by Rommel, who again drove the British out of Benghazi and western Cyrenaica. The Free French symbol, the cross of Lorraine, was still represented in the skies over the Western Desert, however. In January 1942 the ‘Alsace’ fighter groupe had been transferred from the Lebanon to Ismailia, in Egypt, where it remained for 3 months before moving westward to counter Rommel’s next offensive, launched at the end of May against the British defence line west of Tobruk. A period of very heavy fighting with fluctuating fortunes followed. Free French troops under General Koenig earned great credit for their stubborn defence of Bir

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Hakeim, the southernmost bastion of the Gazala defence line, but by 5 June the Axis forces had gained the upper hand and their opponents were in retreat. Tobruk fell on 21 June, leaving the British to escape as best they could into Egypt. The ‘Alsace’ groupe was then under the leadership of Commandant Joseph Pouliquen, the officer whose determination to rally to General de Gaulle had led him to walk through the West African bush to reach Sierra Leone a year earlier. The Free French fighter groupe spent a very hectic June operating from various desert-landing grounds in between hasty withdrawals to keep ahead of Rommel’s advance. During that time they were credited with shooting down two Messerschmitt 109s, but they met with disaster on 27 June, when three of their Hurricanes on patrol were attacked by Messerschmitt 109s. The worn-out Mk1 Hurricanes were no match for the newer German fighters, and all three were shot down. Two of the pilots were killed. Both had shown great determination in overcoming obstacles to join the Free French. Bernard Louchet had been a member of the group which crossed the Sahara from Colomb Béchar to Chad in order to enlist. André Colin, a demobilized pilot, had escaped from the airfield at Vichy on 1 February 1941 by stealing a Caudron Goéland aircraft used by the Armistice Control Commission. He set course for England but, faced with signs of engine trouble and unsure of his position in low cloud as he crossed German-occupied Brittany, he calmly landed in a field, fixed the problem, established his position and took off again to cross the English Channel. The loss of such men was a serious blow to the morale of the groupe. The third pilot, Maurice Mailfert, emerged unscathed from a crash landing in the sand. He was found by British forces and returned to his unit. By the end of June the battlefront had become stabilized at El Alamein, where both sides paused to prepare for the battle which would decide the fate of Egypt and the Suez Canal. The surviving men and aircraft of the ‘Alsace’ operated from Amrya airfield in Egypt during July and August before being transferred to Rayack, in the Lebanon, in September. Their departure from Egypt was marked by a glowing tribute from the RAF Commander-in-Chief in the Middle East: It is with great reluctance and regret that I agree to General de Gaulle’s request that you should be transferred to England with a view to taking part in operations for the relief of your countrymen from the oppressor . . . I am sorry to lose you. You have had a hard time, with disappointment after disappointment in regard to equipment. Through no fault of our own we failed to fulfil our promise to re-equip you many months ago as we had

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hoped – failed to give you aircraft and kept you inactive for many months. But you never complained and your understanding of our difficulties I appreciated. Now that you are fully equipped with Hurricane IIs, and at the peak of your efficiency and thirsting for battle, you have to leave us. But your high morale, your spirit and determination will, I know, persist and your skill as Fighting French airmen will remain. Over the skies of Europe you will have the opportunity which I know you have been longing for, and I know full well that you will cover yourselves in glory.2 Reading between the lines of that carefully worded message, one can sense that the groupe’s time in Egypt had been beset with problems. In some quarters the RAF regarded them as so extravagant that an ‘expert audit investigation’ of their finances would be justified.3 It was calculated that they were costing the British taxpayer the equivalent of £1,200 a day, excluding the cost of equipment and essential supplies.4 In view of possible diplomatic consequences, the idea of calling in the auditors was not taken up with the Free French. The difficulty seems to have arisen because administrative and financial arrangements had never been thought through before the Free French groupes were deployed on operations. An RAF Group Captain complained, ‘Considerable inconvenience is being experienced owing to the fact that no proper machinery has been authorised for the handling of French demands for equipment.’5 The most vital pieces of equipment were, of course, the fighter planes themselves, and no amount of official praise for the excellent work they were doing could reassure pilots who faced the reality of flying obsolescent Hurricane Mk 1s in combat. The ‘Alsace’ groupe’s intelligence officer, Claude Raoul Duval, was so incensed that he compiled a selection of sortie reports, underlining the inadequacies of the aircraft, and sent it to the Allied Air Forces Co-operation Section at RAF headquarters in the Middle East. The Co-operation Section’s dismissive response was to claim that they were ‘rather at a loss as to why [the reports] have come to this section at all’.6 The pilots of the ‘Alsace’ were all French, but the FAFL was still far from self-sufficient in all the specialized trades required to staff an operational squadron. A typical squadron might require about 350 non-flying personnel, a considerable investment in skilled manpower. Even after their departure from Egypt, the groupe’s headquarters, maintenance and signals staff still included many men with such Anglo-Saxon surnames as Fletcher, Bolton, Rogers, Murgatroyd, Harrison, Moss and Baxter.7 The Free French air units scattered through de Gaulle’s empire in central Africa were grouped together from January 1942 as the Bretagne groupe.

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They were equipped with a varied collection of aircraft, some of pre-war French origin, some supplied by Britain and some from the United States. In the north of Chad they still carried on a sporadic war against the Italian outposts in southern Libya, a role in which the Westland Lysander proved surprisingly effective, considering its slow speed and very limited payload. Elsewhere the groupe was mainly employed in maintaining communications, ferrying and training – unglamorous roles for which a price still had to be paid in casualties. Distances were huge, and much of the terrain was inhospitable. Despite its importance, much of the work was not very satisfying for the more combative French aviators, whose great ambition was to engage in battle with the enemy occupying two-thirds of their homeland. The importance which General de Gaulle and General Valin attached to creating exclusively French groupes such as the ‘Ile de France’, ‘Alsace’, ‘Lorraine’ and ‘Bretagne’ did not mean that Free French airmen were no longer to be found serving in predominantly British RAF squadrons. In some cases a posting of that kind might make the best use of an individual’s particular skills; in other cases it might be seen as a way of acquiring specialist expertise in some aspect of air warfare where there were too few French aircrew to make up an exclusively French unit. A good example of this latter motivation was General Valin’s interest in the RAF’s role in maritime warfare. At the end of 1941 he gave permission for 16 volunteers then in training to be posted to RAF squadrons in Coastal Command. Of the 16 original pilots sent to Coastal Command, 12 would be killed in training or on operations before the war ended.8 Valin’s own explanation of his decision was a little disingenuous: ‘In 1940 the French Air Force had no command equivalent to the British Coastal Command. In France the naval air arm was responsible for that role. As I already had plenty of problems in setting up fighter and bomber units for the Free French Air Force, it was not possible for me to set up any others. However, I realised that Coastal Command was a remarkable organisation and that we ought to be involved. That is why I gave permission for volunteers to be posted there.’9 For the long-term interests of the French Air Force, Valin was far sighted enough to set about establishing the principle that maritime warfare should not be seen as the sole prerogative of the Navy. In the services of Free France (and probably in all other countries), politics and interservice rivalries sometimes took precedence over exclusively military considerations. The nature of the internal rivalries among the Free French in 1941–42, especially the clash between Admiral Muselier and de Gaulle, may have influenced Valin’s eagerness to have some of his own men involved in the war at sea. In the Mediterranean, airmen of the ‘Lorraine’ groupe

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became involved for a time in seaward reconnaissance from the coast of Lebanon, where they claimed to have sunk an enemy submarine. In central Africa, Free French airmen took off from airfields in Cameroon and Gabon in search of German U-boats which might seek to penetrate the Gulf of Guinea, and to look for boatloads of survivors from Allied merchant ships. For this role a small unit equipped with Avro Anson aircraft and named the ‘Artois’ groupe was established in August 1942.

Chapter 7

War by Attrition and the Raid on Dieppe

For most Free French fighter pilots serving in the United Kingdom, the air campaign from 1941 to 1942 developed into a depressing and costly war of attrition fought above the sea approaches to the United Kingdom and over northern France. The nature of aerial fighting in 1941 had changed dramatically since the desperate days of the Battle of Britain. German bombing attacks on the United Kingdom were mainly at night or by lone intruder aircraft in daylight. As increasing numbers of their aircraft were transferred to the Eastern Front, the Luftwaffe became cautious about giving battle in the skies over the Channel or western Europe unless they enjoyed a clear advantage in numbers, cloud cover or location. The RAF had to go looking for the enemy over his own territory. These incursions into enemy air space took several forms: operations codenamed ‘Rhubarbs’ consisted of two or three aircraft hunting for targets of opportunity; ‘Rodeos’ were large-scale fighter sweeps; and ‘Circuses’ involved escorting bombers to short-range targets. These operations were designed to provoke large-scale reactions from the enemy. The Luftwaffe would exercise patience and cunning to draw the RAF fighters deep into France, where they were at the limit of their range, before battle was joined. The scope of these operations had also increased dramatically. No longer was it a case, as in 1940, of sending a single RAF squadron tasked with a particular mission. A wing of at least two fighter squadrons was almost the minimum force committed to a single operation over France, and it would frequently involve operating alongside bomber units. When he judged the circumstances to be in his favour, the enemy would sometimes commit large numbers of fighters to contest these incursions. The scale of operations was very extensive and, on any given day, a particular operation might be part of a whole series directed on several targets, some major and some merely diversionary, spread right across Europe as far as Berlin. The romantic idea of the pilot as an individual duellist was minimized as the fighting escalated. In Chaz Bowyer’s judgement:

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Air fighting was no longer the almost piecemeal affair of single squadrons or even lone individuals engaged in solitary combat. The battle arena had become a three- or four-dimensional science; a complexity not unlike three-tier chess, where vast formations replaced the gallant knight or lonely bishop as combat was prepared, sought and engaged in pre-planned moves and onslaughts. Though individual skill and courage remained the prime ingredients, the overall panorama was now controlled, directed, calculated and executed with an almost detached objectivity. Each pilot was simply a pawn in the greater ‘game’, albeit with the added advantage of an inborn individualism which might cope with the unexpected situation or unplanned circumstances.1 Pilots were very well aware that, unlike in 1940, most of their combat flying in 1941 and subsequent years was taking place over enemy-occupied territory. Of course, to some members of the RAF, enemy-occupied territory was, in fact, their homeland. That consideration affected some Free French airmen very deeply, but others claimed to be able to set this in perspective against wider war aims. Jacques Andrieux, ordered to attack the railway viaduct at Morlaix in 1942, accepted its destruction as necessary to further the recovery of French liberty, even though he knew perfectly well that the proximity of homes and businesses close to the foot of the viaduct meant that French civilian casualties were inevitable. In contrast, Jean Maridor was deeply moved by the experience of flying in support of bombing missions against French targets. One of his biographers describes how Maridor was troubled by a mission on 18 December 1941, when he flew with 612 Squadron from RAF Perranporth, in Cornwall, in support of a force of 54 bombers whose mission was to attack the French port of Brest. The young pilot thought of the people of Brest, which yesterday’s air raid alert had perhaps surprised on their way to the shops which were still open. They would have been getting ready for Christmas, despite the difficulties at that time. Jean knew about the busy time at the end of December . . . His father and mother went out on various pretexts which fooled nobody, and they came back with mysterious parcels in their hands.2 Later Maridor showed that, driven by his powerful emotions, he would not hesitate to fall out with fellow pilots who, in the course of operations, did not show due care and consideration for the property, lives and welfare of French citizens. Intelligence room film shows, involving camera gun

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footage, would sometimes be punctuated by outbursts from Maridor as he rebuked his comrades for actions likely to endanger French lives on the ground.3 Maridor’s reaction perhaps provides some insight into one aspect of the combat trauma experienced by Free French pilots. He was not alone in his concerns about the impact of bombing raids. RAF bombing policy aimed to minimize the number of deaths of French civilians while still allowing attacks on German military positions and key industrial plants. The RAF had no wish to provide the propagandists of the Axis with antiBritish horror stories about terror bombing, and the British government wished to avoid antagonizing the Vichy regime into any form of military retaliation, but appalling damage and casualties in German-occupied France were unavoidable. Regrettable though it might be, the practical outcome of RAF bombing policy was to see ports like Brest and Lorient hit again and again. Brest was a repair and supply base for German surface ships operating as commerce raiders in the Atlantic and, with Lorient, it was a prime location for the building of U-boat facilities. Both targets were considered suitable for ‘blooding’ new bomber crews before they graduated to the ‘big league’ of the skies over Germany. Among the French pilots who still continued to make their way to Britain from the Americas was one who was to become very prominent in the history of the Free French Air Force. Pierre Clostermann, the son of a diplomat, was born in Curitiba, Brazil in 1921. He was educated in Paris before returning to Brazil, where he gained his pilot’s licence. He later studied aeronautical engineering at Caltech in Los Angeles and worked as a commercial pilot in California. His request to join the French Air Force on the declaration of war was turned down, and he remained in Brazil. The defeat of France presented him with none of the conflicting loyalties experienced by some French pilots: ‘The issue was straightforward. I am an Alsatian Frenchman . . . The Germans were in Paris, the Germans were in Strasbourg and for an Alsatian this meant that there was no alternative but to make war.’ 4 He was angered by newsreels showing the apparent acquiescence of Parisians, as units of the German Army paraded through the French capital. De Gaulle’s broadcast on 18 June 1940, which Clostermann read about in the American press, struck a chord with the young man. He cut out the article and ‘kept it in a book next to an oak leaf’. Clostermann’s patriotism was not fuelled by any xenophobic hatred of Germans as individuals. At least one of his relatives on the German side of the Alsatian border would fly in the Luftwaffe. What really impelled him to cross the Atlantic in 1942 was the thought that he ‘might receive the opportunity to fly the Spitfire . . . I had a lot of flying

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hours but this was piloting simple planes. In my mind was the desire to step up to the experience of piloting a real thoroughbred of the skies, the Supermarine Spitfire.’ 5 His passion for the aircraft was intense: The Germans called her the oeillade of the peacock because of her beauty. My god this plane was a beauty. She had feminine lines with the soft curves of a woman’s hips all around a bubble of Plexiglas for the canopy that sat calmly on the fuselage. In spite of her wing cannons, she had the grace of a swan. There was something beyond the first impression of the beauty of the Spitfire that caused a certain reverence, a silence whenever she was discussed among the pilots.6 A particular mission, experience or sight could affect certain individuals profoundly. For Pierre Clostermann it was the fear of fire which really stood out from the general day-to-day terror of a war of attrition. He later recalled: What shocked me then and after hostilities was the severe drama of a crash in flames, the pilot burned severely, but still alive with no hope for survival. Often a physician would administer several morphine injections to ease the horrible pain and agony; it was humane euthanasia and it was practised on a large scale in this impossible situation. We did not have the knowledge to care for severe total body burns at that time. Sometimes we tried to salvage what we could and used immersion techniques, submersion of the burned pilot in salt solutions or gentian violet solution but this led to prolonged agony and death was inevitable in a few agonizing days.7 Despite his fear of fire, before the war ended Clostermann would fly 420 sorties, many of them on Spitfires, and emerge as the top French air ace of World War II. For Jacques Andrieux the traumatic moment came in June 1942, when the aircraft of fellow French pilot Roland Leblond was involved in a mid-air collision with another Spitfire while they were escorting a convoy: With that one blow, Blondy’s plane rears up, then plunges immediately into a vertical dive, the nose heading straight for the sea. I automatically scream into my microphone, ‘Jump, for the love of Heaven! Jump!’ The [plane] falls dizzily. Stupified, I see Blondy, my old buddy, rush towards the sea at [what seems like] a thousand miles an hour, crashing, trapped in his cockpit, in his coffin . . . Panic seizes me . . . I keep shouting into my microphone, ‘Blondy, get out of there! Jump!’ But nothing happens. I send a

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distress call to the sector controller . . . The plane, without a tail, hits the water . . . A huge shower of water closes over the plane, over my comrade. I have dived after him. I am petrified with distress. I wait. Why? I do not know. At that moment, close to the surface, I get the impression – but I am still too high – of a white flower opening. The parachute has scarcely opened before Blondy is already in the water. God! What a relief! Just in time. My heart begins to beat normally again. But in my delight I call everybody – on land, on sea and in the air – to shout the news that Blondy is still alive.8 The intense emotion of that moment in June 1942 is clear from Andrieux’s description of it in his memoirs. Leblond would return to operations, but for Andrieux the incident highlighted the fragility of a fighter pilot’s existence. To fall under the guns of the enemy was one thing; to plunge into the sea through colliding with a friendly aircraft quite another. The incident was made doubly demoralizing by the fact that Andrieux would have been left as the sole French pilot in 130 Squadron. Even before the incident, Andrieux and Leblond had lobbied French headquarters for a move to 91 Squadron, which would allow them to link up with Maridor and Demozay. The formation of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron had sharpened the sense of isolation for those French pilots still posted in their ones and twos to other RAF squadrons. In the first half of 1942, serving with 118 Squadron RAF at Ibsley, André Jubelin still had not achieved functional competence with the English language: I can just about manage while grounded; but the moment we take off the noise of the engine makes it very difficult for me to make out what is being said on the radio. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were not for the fact that as soon as we are up against the Messerschmidts [sic] the phlegmatic islanders get excited and I just have to stop guessing what they are talking about . . . I am utterly at a loss. And yesterday, while I was concentrating on trying to understand something, I was very nearly brought down by a Boche who came from I don’t know where. I saw nothing of him but a magnificent tracer fifteen yards from my nose. I intend in future to switch off my radio and go into battle in silence. I shall thus recover, undisturbed, my capacity for attending to external events. But, in that case, how am I to know what the orders are?9 Jubelin set about planning a spectacular solo exploit in which he would not need to worry about orders in English. In a personal letter to General

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de Gaulle, he proposed to fly a long-range Spitfire to Paris, where he would drop a French tricolour over the Arc de Triomphe. The operation depended on meticulous timing so that he could exit along the Champs Elysées, where he planned to machine-gun a German military band which always paraded there at 11.15 a.m. precisely. Free French headquarters were all in favour of the plan, and suggested that he should carry it out on 18 June 1942 to mark the second anniversary of General de Gaulle’s broadcast appeal. A huge national flag was obtained and special propaganda leaflets printed, but the project had to be abandoned at the last moment when they learned that an RAF Beaufighter had carried out a similar flag-dropping operation a few days before the planned date. In his postwar memoirs, Jubelin vented his understandable chagrin with the surprisingly mild comment, ‘I can well understand that the British may have wished to make the first gesture towards France when she was down. But since the idea was our own and there were so few of us in England, I think they might have shown a little more generosity.’10 In the summer of 1942, the RAF was busy planning something much bigger than a lone propaganda gesture over Paris. The outstanding air battle of 1942 was to be brought about by Operation Jubilee, a combined operations assault on the French port of Dieppe: There were hundreds of planes screaming through the sky. Dozens of dogfights going on. Planes plummeting to earth on fire. Pilots who had been shot down were floating in their dinghies . . . The beach was covered with fallen commandos . . . Boats that had been sent in to pick up the commandos were leaving the beach with three or four commandos. Most all were dead on the beach or couldn’t break out because of the terrible shelling directed at them.11 Writing in his diary at the end of 19 August 1942, LeRoy Gover, another member of the RAF’s foreign legion, eloquently captured what for him was ‘the most memorable experience while in the RAF’. The young American, who had volunteered for service with the RAF in 1941, found himself caught up in the vast air battles that raged over the beaches of Dieppe. The Dieppe landing was conceived as a raid in force with the main assault coming across Dieppe beach. Flanking attacks and diversionary operations would help to protect the main force, while further support would come from aerial and naval bombardment. Beyond that, there was little consensus about what the raid was meant to achieve, and planning for it was marred by delays and disagreements. Its main supporter was Lord Louis Mountbatten,

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the Chief of Combined Operations. Over 250 ships were to be involved. The majority of troops engaged would be Canadian, although units from other nations, including American Rangers and Free French commandos, would also be employed. The landing was supposed to strike a daring blow against the enemy, test new weapons and work out solutions to some of the problems of amphibious operations. In the event, it was to be a tragic disaster. Compared to the land component, the air battle over Dieppe was planned in relatively clear and bold terms. The Luftwaffe’s switch to night bombing had largely robbed RAF Fighter Command of the role for which it had become famous during the Battle of Britain. In 1941 and the first half of 1942 the RAF engaged in large-scale fighter sweeps over western Europe, though their military value was questionable. Losses were high and victories limited. Nevertheless, the fighter offensive continued, partly to maintain morale and partly from the conviction that winning air superiority over western Europe would be a precondition to a successful invasion of France at some time in the future. There was also a political dimension to the continued offensive. While the German armies were advancing rapidly in Russia, RAF Fighter Command had done its best to draw some of the German fighter strength away from the Eastern Front. Fighter Command losses increased from 51 pilots in the first half of 1941 to 411 in the second half, but inflated claims about German aircraft losses encouraged Fighter Command to persist with operations deep into French air space. The British air offensive had lessened in intensity in the first half of 1942, partly in order to conserve the strength of Fighter Command, and partly because the Russians had managed to halt the German armies before Moscow and Leningrad. The Luftwaffe was actually transferring some fighter squadrons from the Eastern Front back to France, since the Russian Air Force had been more or less neutralized, at least for the time being. The transferred squadrons were usually re-equipped with the new Focke-Wulf 190, which had a decisive edge over the Spitfire Mark V. As one French pilot was to put it: ‘Our Spits did not have a chance, neither diving nor climbing, against the FW [190], only in turning [was the Spitfire superior].’12 And yet, in the spring of 1942 the RAF continued to believe that it was winning air superiority in the skies over France. In fact, for every German aircraft shot down over France in early 1942, RAF Fighter Command was losing five of its own. Overestimates of enemy losses tended to hide from senior RAF commanders the inadequacies of the Spitfire Mark V, although they were well understood by most of the pilots who flew them. The tendency to overestimate enemy losses was even more marked after the entry of the US Air Force into the aerial battle during 1942.

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Fighter Command welcomed the proposed operation at Dieppe. It was seen as a chance to draw the Luftwaffe into major combat on terms which were considered more or less equal. RAF squadrons were concentrated in southern England in August 1942 in preparation for what was to become the most intense period of fighter combat in the Second World War. Medium bombers and Hurricane Mk IIs were to be used to attack ground positions in support of the troops. To protect the bombers and provide air cover over the landing beaches, 48 Spitfire squadrons were to be employed, but only 4 of them would have the new Spitfire IX, whose performance was a match for the Focke-Wulf 190. On 19 August the amphibious landing achieved the objective of surprise, and the German response was initially slow. The level of enemy activity increased throughout the day, however, and the bombing attacks mounted by the RAF proved largely ineffective. During the course of the day, 2,500 sorties were flown, and the RAF managed to prevent the Luftwaffe from interfering decisively with the landing and subsequent withdrawal, but the cost was high. The intensity of the air battle is reflected in the combat reports of some of the Free French pilots who flew at Dieppe. Many of those pilots, fervently wishing it were a full-scale invasion of Europe instead of a mere raid, wore their French uniforms. There was seldom any time to observe the effects of their attacks on the enemy. To do so was to invite almost certain destruction. Roland Leblond, flying with 130 Squadron from Thorney Island, was called to readiness at 04.00 a.m. on August 19. The previous evening, Wing Commander Blake, a New Zealander, had given them a comprehensive briefing. At 08.15 a.m. the squadron was sent to provide air cover over Dieppe. From 08.45 until 09.15 a.m. they fought a defensive battle over the beaches. Focke-Wulf 190s made diving attacks on the squadron, which went into a defensive circle. Slowly but surely the circle was broken into groups of twos and threes by the diving attacks. At 09.15 a.m. the squadron made for home. Leblond and Andrieux had stuck together during the engagement, and they were the first to land back at base. Two of 130 Squadron’s aircraft were missing and one pilot had returned badly wounded. One of the missing was Wing Commander Blake. A Battle of Britain veteran with eight victories, Blake’s loss on the first operation of the day was a grim indication that all was not going the RAF’s way in the skies above Dieppe.13 Leblond’s second mission of the day began at 12.45 p.m., when the squadron climbed to meet six Boston medium bombers over Selsey Bill. Their target was the Rouen-Dieppe road.14 Ten miles from the French coast the bombers climbed to 6,000 feet. Squadron Leader Simpson, leading 130

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Squadron’s Red Section, was attacked by a Focke-Wulf 190. Out-turned by Simpson’s Spitfire, the enemy aircraft broke off the attack and dived away after being hit by canon and machine-gun fire from Flight Lieutenant Rossar leading Yellow section. On the return leg of the escort mission, Leblond saw two Focke-Wulf 190s approaching as they neared the French coast. Attacking from the enemy’s starboard quarter, Leblond turned his aircraft around and opened fire on one of the Focke-Wulf’s from 300 yards. Black smoke came from the enemy aircraft, which immediately ‘rolled on its back and went down in an aileron turn’. In seven-tenths cloud, with enemy aircraft in the vicinity, Leblond lost sight of the German aircraft, but ‘a few seconds afterwards he saw a big splash in the sea and later a big patch of green and black on the sea’.15 Supported by evidence from the cine-gun camera fitted to his Spitfire, Leblond was credited with a ‘probable’. Like many other pilots, Leblond found that Dieppe was a dangerous and gruelling assignment that ended in little reward. Inevitably, there were Free French casualties among the losses sustained by the RAF at Dieppe. Five French pilots lost their lives: René Darbins (340 Squadron), François Fayolle and Maurice du Fretay (174 Squadron), Jean Lecointre (236 Squadron) and André Vilboux (611 Squadron). In addition to du Fretay and Fayolle, 174 Squadron also lost one other French pilot wounded and captured. He was Raymond van Wymeersch. His Hurribomber collided with a Focke-Wulf 190 over Dieppe. He survived, despite breaking both his legs, and ended up in a German prisoner-of-war camp. Du Fretay and Fayolle were perhaps the best-known pilots lost that day. Halna du Fretay had made a remarkable escape from German-occupied Brittany on 15 November 1940. Holder of a civilian pilot’s licence, he secretly assembled a tiny private aircraft in his parents’ garage, where it had been stored in a dismantled state since the outbreak of war. After persuading neighbours to cut down some overhanging tree branches, he and a companion took off from the road outside his parents’ chateau near Jugon-les-Lacs. Helped by a tail wind, they successfully navigated their way to England and joined de Gaulle’s forces.16 Fayolle was senior to du Fretay. Born into a military family on 8 September 1916 (his grandfather Marshal Fayolle was one of the most successful French generals of the First World War), Fayolle had joined the Air Force as a student pilot in 1938. Fully fledged as a fighter pilot by July 1939, he had been posted to Oran, where he got to know René Mouchotte. He was part of the same escape plot that saw Mouchotte steal an aircraft bound for Gibraltar on 30 June 1940. A second aircraft – a Simoun – followed with Fayolle at the controls. After a brief period of training with the RAF, Fayolle

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was sent to 85 Squadron. He thus became one of the 13 French pilots to see action in the Battle of Britain. When 85 Squadron was withdrawn to Scotland for rest and recuperation in late 1940, Fayolle moved to 242 Squadron. When they, too, were withdrawn to a quiet sector in August 1941, he transferred to 611 Squadron. He married an English girl in July 1941 and was promoted to lieutenant shortly afterwards. On the formation of the ‘Ile de France’ in November 1941, he transferred to that first all-French fighter squadron. Fayolle made a name for himself both as fighter pilot and combat leader. He had shot down a Heinkel III on the night of 10–11 May 1941, a FockeWulf 190 on 3 May 1942 over Calais, and a Junkers 88 over Beachy Head 8 days later. The RAF awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross in July 1942. At the end of that month, after leading ‘B’ flight in the ‘Ile de France’, he was offered further promotion and placed in command of the mainly British 174 Squadron. That squadron was equipped with Mark II Hurricanes. Most of the British squadrons in the Battle of Britain had flown the Hurricane Mk 1, which had been on the verge of obsolescence by the end of 1940. The Mark IIC Hurricane entered service in May 1941. It was faster and more heavily armed than its predecessor, although it soon became clear that it was no match for the latest marks of Me 109 and Focke-Wulf 190, which made their appearance over the Channel in the late spring of 1941. The Hurricane was, however, a rugged and dependable aircraft and provided an almost perfect stable gun platform. Armed with four 20 mm cannon and machine-guns, the Mark IIC was the equivalent of airborne artillery. They were employed against German shipping and in a ground attack role. The Mark II Hurricane was not, however, a Spitfire, with its perfect lines and agility, which almost every fighter pilot – French, British and German – yearned to fly. Placing a British squadron under Fayolle’s command was testament to the RAF’s faith in its Free French pilots. Fayolle himself was torn between a sentimental wish to remain with his countrymen and their Spitfires in the ‘Ile de France’ or accepting the great honour of leading a British squadron, albeit one equipped with the Hurricane Mark IIC. On 19 August, Squadron Leader Fayolle led his new squadron on bombing and strafing runs around Dieppe. With a small nucleus of French pilots already in 174 Squadron, Fayolle hoped, in time, to turn it into the first all-French ‘Hurri-bomber’ unit. During the operations somewhere over Dieppe, amid heavy flak and enemy fighter activity, Fayolle disappeared from the view of the rest of the squadron. When news that he was missing reached the ‘Ile de France’, Bernard Dupérier was deeply affected: ‘I broke down. François, on whom luck always seemed to smile, who was loved by all and deserved so much, had disappeared without, it seemed

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anyone who could give an account of it . . . No one knew anything: only that Fayolle was missing.’ 17 His loss was a hard blow for both 174 Squadron and the FAFL as a whole. After the raid, Dupérier visited 174 Squadron to see if he could find out more details of his friend’s death. He would later describe Fayolle as ‘one of the most outstanding figures in the Free French Air Force. In death he left such a vivid memory among our Allies that the following year, during a ceremony at which he was speaking, Sir Archibald Sinclair, Minister for Air in His Britannic Majesty’s [Government], was pleased to say that the Royal Air Force would always remember his name as a symbol of the friendship between our two countries.’18 The air battle at Dieppe might be assessed as a strategic victory for the RAF, in that the Luftwaffe had been unable to interfere decisively with landings on a stretch of coast much nearer their own bases than they were to the RAF’s bases in England. Indeed, Churchill’s initial assessment was that the raid could be justified by the results of the large-scale air battle alone. It was claimed that the Luftwaffe had lost 43 bombers and 49 fighters, with 39 other aircraft probably destroyed and 140 damaged. After the war, the Air Historical Branch at the Air Ministry arrived at more modest figures, putting German losses at only 25 bombers and 23 fighters, with 24 other aircraft damaged. RAF losses amounted to 106 aircraft, with 71 of the pilots killed or missing.19 Those figures show that the air battle provoked by the Dieppe raid amounted to a defeat in tactical terms. The Luftwaffe had shot down more RAF aircraft than it had lost. Considerable gaps had been torn in the ranks of most of the 48 Spitfire Squadrons deployed over Dieppe that day. Just as tellingly, the inadequacies of the Spitfire V had been laid bare for all to see. On the ground the outcome had been even more clear cut. Of the 6,086 men who managed to get ashore, 3,623 were killed, wounded or captured. The battle was especially poignant for the French pilots who flew over Dieppe that day. The first large-scale Allied landing on the French coast since the collapse of 1940 had turned into an accident-ridden disaster that fell well short of the very limited objectives set for it as a raid in force. The French were bound to be disappointed by the defeat of Allied forces as they landed on French soil, and they mourned the loss of a number of their own comrades. It was a profoundly depressing experience. Even with the German army heavily committed on the Russian Front, any major Allied invasion of France would obviously be a costly and formidably difficult undertaking for which much more preparation would be essential. In fact, the lessons learned from the disaster at Dieppe meant that it would be another 2 years before the liberation of France could be attempted in earnest. In the long run, however, despite being costly in men and aircraft, the lessons learned at Dieppe would help to ensure the success of subsequent landings.

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During the long months of the aerial war of attrition, every pilot must have had moments when he could seemingly bear the unbearable no long. For Bernard Dupérier that moment came in October 1942. The atmosphere within 340 (Ile de France) Squadron had already been made tense by the loss of four pilots, including Captain François de Labouchère DFC, on 5 September. They had fallen to the guns of JG 26 while taking part in ‘Circus 214’. Then, on 31 October two more pilots were lost over Dunkirk while on a ‘Rhubarb’operation. Dupérier heard the bad news on his return from a visit to headquarters. In his memoirs he simply comments: ‘I went mad. I loved them both too much not to be put out by this cruel loss – [Claude] Hélies, who showed so much promise, and [Captain] Chauvin, one of the very first members of 340, whose immense kindness and permanent smile had so often been a comfort in difficult times.’20 As was his practice, Dupérier collected Chauvin’s belongings in order to take them to Madame Chauvin, who lived near the base. It was only with the greatest difficulty that the missing pilot’s German shepherd dog could be persuaded to leave its master’s bedside. Dupérier put the dog and Chauvin’s belongings into his car for the short drive to the Chauvins’ home. Madame Chauvin knew what had happened the moment she saw Dupérier standing there with her husband’s clothes. Refusing to believe that Chauvin was probably dead, she insisted that her husband would return one day. Full of admiration for her touching faith, Dupérier left her with her hopes and her determination. In fact, Madame Chauvin’s optimism proved well founded. Shot down and wounded, her husband was taken prisoner. Eventually he managed to escape, and he returned to the United Kingdom, via Russia, in 1945. Hélies and Chauvin were to be the last pilots lost by 340 (Ile de France) Squadron in 1942. By contrast, before the end of the year they would be credited with shooting down nine German Focke-Wulf 190s, with one more classified as a ‘probable’ and a further four damaged. The health of the squadron’s end-of-year balance sheet would do wonders for morale and ease the pain of heart-breaking moments like losing Chauvin. The problem of combat stress for fighter pilots came about, in part, from the strange unreality of their existence. An infantryman in the line had to face the dangers of combat day in, day out. The mission of a bomber crew could last for many hours. Merchant seamen crossing the stormy Atlantic at seven knots knew that, at any moment of the day or night, a torpedo might send their ship to the bottom. For a fighter pilot the stress was of a different order. Flying high performance aircraft at 300–400 miles per hour made enormous demands on concentration, technical skill, and accurate navigation. A typical mission might last for 90 minutes. Some 10 minutes of that might involve a desperate, nerve-jangling dog fight, in which a pilot

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would have to call on every muscle and every reserve of skill and energy to try and outwit an equally determined and watchful enemy. A ‘kill’ might require a burst of cannon and machine-gun fire lasting as little as 3 seconds. All the time there would be the constant strain of looking for the enemy above and below, possibly in the sun, possibly coming out of the clouds. A few pilots broke under the strain of this kind of combat and were classified by the RAF as ‘lacking in moral fibre’. For others the constant strain took its toll on a man’s reflexes and attention levels. The fighter pilots of the Luftwaffe could be relied on to expose and take advantage of any such weaknesses. At the end of the day, for the lucky ones, there would be the return to base – to comradeship, boisterous horseplay, singsongs in a country pub, comfort and the (at least adequate) cuisine of the mess. For some, like Fayolle and Chauvin, whose wives were in England, there was even the possibility of a home life, turning the fighter pilot into a kind of commuter who each day left home and went off to war. Some people might have viewed the life of the fighter pilot as ‘cushy’ or ‘glamorous’, but they could not imagine the stresses that went with the role. The cumulative effect of successive operations, the constant searching of the skies, the intensity of air battles and the loss of close friends took a toll which few could truly comprehend unless they had experienced it themselves.

Table 7.1 Free French (FAFL) aircrew, fatal casualties, 1942 RAF Training Units (UK) RAF Training Units (Overseas) RAF Squadrons (UK) 340 (Ile de France) Sqn RAF Malta Africa (various) Bretagne groupe Middle East (various) (Alsace groupe) (Lorraine groupe) Total

19 12

(11) (3) (2) (1) (4)

2 (7) 3 1 37

(28)

Note: (a) Bold figures show aircrew killed (including missing believed killed) during operations. (b) Figures in brackets show deaths during non-operational flying. (c) Deaths from illness or non-aviation accidents are omitted, as are those for parachutists and secret agents. [Source: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45 Table 7.2 Causes of aircraft losses: 340 (Ile de France) Squadron, 1942 Enemy aircraft Unknown causes Enemy anti-aircraft fire (flak) Simply listed as ‘disappeared’

14 5 2 1

Total

22

[Sources: Articles on the French squadron and biographies of individual fighter pilots inwww. cieldegloire.com.]

Chapter 8

Progress of the Free French Movement, 1942–43

The military strength of the Free French grew only slowly during 1942. There was still an intermittent trickle of recruits from both the occupied and unoccupied zones in France. Some had fallen foul of the German or Vichy authorities and decided to leave for their own protection. Others, who had been prepared to give the benefit of the doubt to Marshal Pétain’s regime and the Germans in 1940, had had their thinking clarified by events. Some may have felt able to leave only after formal demobilization from the French armed forces or after they had made prudent arrangements for their families or businesses. Their numbers may not have been very large, but they were tough, determined, resourceful characters. They needed to be, for their escape routes meant crossing the Pyrenees on foot, evading the German, French and Spanish authorities, possibly spending time in General Franco’s gaols or his notorious Miranda prison camp, and finding their way across the Iberian peninsula to Gibraltar or Lisbon, where they might hope to secure a passage to the United Kingdom. A few equally bold recruits for de Gaulle’s forces made their way from various parts of the French empire to Gibraltar or other territory under British control in West Africa or the Middle East. From the very darkest days of 1940, de Gaulle had seen his personal destiny as embodying the honour, heritage and status of France as a major power on the world stage – a position she was entitled to resume once the Axis powers had been defeated. He would never consent to anything that might infringe what he saw as France’s inalienable rights. Even though the forces at his disposal in the middle years of the war were very limited in comparison with those of the major Allied powers, he understood the importance of ensuring that the tricolour flag of France was present and plainly visible across the battlefields of the world. With that end in view, he made sure that Free French airmen fought in the Battle of Britain and Free French warships escorted Atlantic convoys. Free France controlled its own, strategically important, colonial empire in

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Equatorial Africa. Free French airmen fought the Germans and Italians in the skies over Egypt, Greece, Libya, Eritrea and Abyssinia. Free French soldiers in Cyrenaica won a glowing reputation for their defence of Bir Hakeim against Rommel’s Afrika Korps. They fought at El Alamein and they chased the Italians out of the Fezzan. The entry of the United States into the Second World War, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour on 7 December 1941, created new possibilities and new challenges for the Free French. The relationship between France and the United States went back to the days of the American Revolution, when France had come to the assistance of the 13 North American colonies as they fought for independence against the British. In 1918, General Pershing’s American Expeditionary Force had arrived just in time to shore up an Allied line on the point of breaking under the weight of the German spring offensives. Those same troops had gone on to spearhead many of the Allied attacks that had liberated French soil. Now, in 1942, what would the Americans again be able and willing to do for a stricken France? The American taxpayer could bankroll the liberation of France through the Lend-Lease programme. American industry could provide the Free French with the latest equipment in lavish quantities, and the American military could train French airmen, naval officers and soldiers. In American political circles, however, there was considerable opposition to de Gaulle and distrust of the movement he led. Some of this was a reaction to the general’s rather austere personality. Captain John McCrea, naval attaché to President Roosevelt, spoke for many within the administration when he wrote in his draft memoirs that he found de Gaulle ‘demanding, truculent, imperious and exasperating beyond belief’.1 The United States continued to recognize Marshal Pétain’s government as the de jure government of France, and a US embassy continued to function in Vichy. American assessment of General de Gaulle was influenced unfavourably by the impressions of the ambassador in Vichy, Admiral William Leahy. After 6 months in post he warned President Roosevelt: ‘The de Gaulle movement has not the following indicated on the British radio or in the American press. Frenchmen with whom I can talk, even those completely desirous of a British victory, have little regard for General de Gaulle.’2 The uneasy relationship between de Gaulle, Roosevelt and Churchill was not helped by a Free French initiative which occurred a few days after the United States had been brought into the war. On 24 December 1941 Free French naval forces seized control of the small islands of St Pierre and Miquelon off the coast of Newfoundland.3 While these insignificant fragments of the French empire had remained under Vichy control, the

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Americans had emphasized to Pétain and the British their own keen interest in the affairs of the islands. In diplomatic terms this amounted to a kind of marker that, since they fell within the declared United States neutrality zone, any change in their status would lead to repercussions with the United States. On 30 December Churchill arrived in Ottawa, where he delivered a very public attack on the Vichy regime. That was taken by the Americans to imply full British approval of the operation to seize the islands and his disapproval of the continuing diplomatic links between Washington and Vichy. Yet, less than 3 weeks previously, Churchill had privately expressed to Roosevelt his support for the maintenance of those links. Straightening out the resultant suspicion and confusion took some time and left a lingering sense of antagonism between the parties involved, which immediately began to colour preliminary discussions about plans for the Allies to seize control of French North Africa. The American Secretary of State, Cordell Hull, wrote to Roosevelt on 31 December: ‘Our British friends seem to believe that the body of the entire people of France is strongly behind de Gaulle, whereas according to all my information and that of my associates, some 95 per cent of the entire French people are anti-Hitler, whereas more than 95 % of this latter number are not de Gaullists and would not follow him. This fact leads straight to our plans about North Africa and our omission of de Gaulle’s cooperation in that connection.’4 The United States had become temporary home in exile to a number of significant French political personalities who could stand neither Pétain nor de Gaulle. Their opinions had helped to raise doubts about the legitimacy and potential democratic appeal of de Gaulle in the mind of the US president. Roosevelt was convinced that it would be possible to find other Frenchmen who would be potentially less troublesome partners in the wartime alliance. In the longer term, they might also turn out to be capable of making a wider appeal across the whole spectrum of French opinion, in place of the highly divisive, ultra-nationalism of the general. Mutual antipathy would continue to mar relations between the Roosevelt administration and de Gaulle. In any case, de Gaulle’s emphasis on the eternal integrity of the French empire did not endear him to an anti-imperialist American president. Roosevelt was anti-imperialist on principle. His opposition to Japanese policy in French Indo-China in 1940–41, as the Japanese pressured the Vichy colonial administration into humiliating concessions effectively transferring control of that part of the French empire into Japanese hands, had been motivated by the president’s determination to contain Japanese militarism and imperialism. The economic sanctions imposed on Japan did

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not imply American support for the maintenance of French imperial interests in perpetuity. He would later emphasize to his fellow Allied leaders that he ‘felt no obligation to defend the British, French or any other Empire, [and] that the United States had entered the war solely to stop aggression’.5 The close alliance between the British and Americans developed in spite of Churchill’s own romantic affection for the British empire and everything it represented. Roosevelt and Churchill disagreed sharply ‘about the qualities of de Gaulle’s leadership, about the qualities of other political refugees from Europe to whom England had given asylum, and about the extent to which they should be supported in their effort to return to power after Allied forces had driven out the Germans’.6 In particular, Roosevelt considered that the French were ‘not good colonizers, they had done little or nothing to help the underprivileged of their colonies’.7 In the long term, Roosevelt wanted to see the British and French decolonize to create a world of independent nations between which trade and raw materials could flow without the malign exploitative effects of empires. In the president’s mind, empires operated markets closed to American producers, and they made supplies of key raw materials like rubber and tin inaccessible to American industry. For him, ‘Empire’ was a part of the world’s economic problems and a source of political tensions out of which wars could grow. To de Gaulle and Churchill, on the other hand, ‘Empire’ was the embodiment of national glory, the means by which modernity and civilization could spread to less fortunate parts of the globe, and a key element in building national economies and developing international cooperation. The differences between the American and Franco-British perceptions of ‘Empire’ could not have been more profound but, while Churchill had the political skills to pacify Roosevelt and swiftly change the subject to more pressing and immediate concerns, de Gaulle was inflexible and absolutist. Churchill was used to playing the political and diplomatic game: de Gaulle, until at least the end of 1942, saw himself as a simple soldier engaged on a mission to liberate his country. Weasel words and diplomatic shenanigans were the kind of bargaining strategies he could leave to others who were less high-minded than he was. Nevertheless, some cooperation between the United States and the Free French was achieved. Far away in the Pacific, Free French control of Tahiti, the New Hebrides and New Caledonia provided valuable bases for US forces in the war against Japan. A Flotille d’Exploration was set up in the United States at the end of 1942 so that the air arm of the Free French Navy might become acquainted with the latest developments in naval aviation. The manning of that unit was only made possible by withdrawing from 340

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(Ile de France) Squadron its naval fighter pilots. At the United States Naval Air Station at Jacksonville, Florida, men like André Gibert, who had flown Spitfires with the ‘Ile de France’, retrained on PBY Catalina flying boats. In all these developments, the importance of killing and defeating the enemies of France went arm in arm with the importance of asserting France’s enduring significance as a world power. Nowhere was this better exemplified than in de Gaulle’s astute handling of relations with the Soviet Union. He realized that the German attack on Russia in 1941 presented an opportunity to make his movement less reliant on British support and favour. The speed and extent of the German advance, with their spearheads reaching the suburbs of Moscow by late 1941, caused Stalin to make desperate appeals to the British and the Americans for material help. He also began to press for military action in western Europe to draw German units away from the east. Stalin showed that he was also ready to court de Gaulle. On 26 September 1941 the Soviet Government accorded the Free French National Committee formal recognition as a rightful government in exile. The Russians offered to extend all possible help to the Free French. Wishing to reciprocate, and hoping to pave the way for a future alliance by making a tangible military contribution, the general considered sending a Free French army division from Syria to fight on the Eastern Front. British objections blocked that plan, but in April 1942 he offered the Russians 30 fighter pilots and 30 ground crew.8 The commitment of even a token number of French pilots to the fighting on the Eastern Front would bring de Gaulle a great deal of prestige and provide opportunities for effective publicity. Their presence would symbolize the continuing growth of Free French forces and their willingness to meet the enemy on any and every battlefield. The chance to be less dependent on the British and Americans was especially attractive. At a time when the Russian Air Force had been very roughly handled by the Luftwaffe, the potential political pay-offs from the commitment of a small group of French pilots to the Russian cause looked very promising, but de Gaulle never achieved a really close working relationship with Stalin. The Russian leader calculated that, even after Germany had been defeated, the United States and United Kingdom would be more important than a weak and impoverished France to the future of the Soviet Union. He was also astute enough to perceive the extent to which the Americans and British mistrusted de Gaulle. Consequently, Stalin was quite prepared, as a matter of courtesy, to keep them apprised of the nature and content of Franco-Soviet conversations. The goodwill which de Gaulle hoped to foster

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by the offer of air support never blossomed into the kind of far-reaching political outcomes for which he must have hoped. The despatch of the Free French fighter unit to Russia was far from trouble free. Handling the Russian authorities called for careful diplomacy, and the accidental deaths of two senior members of the Soviet military mission in London meant that some points had to be renegotiated. The original French plan, to draw most of the pilots from those serving with RAF squadrons, brought a sharp protest from the air ministry, who had invested much time, money and expertise in their training. The British had no intention of releasing them willingly when they were making a valued contribution to RAF operations. In the course of some tricky and protracted negotiations with the Russians, the Free French offer was increased to the provision of a full fighter unit, which was to be equipped with Russian aircraft. Groupe de Chasse GC 3 ‘Normandie’ officially came into existence in the Lebanon on 1 September 1942, and the first elements moved to Russia at the end of November. There they had to undergo several months of conversion and operational training on the Russian Yak-7 fighter, before they were ready for an active operational role in March 1943. The original nucleus of experienced pilots for the ‘Normandie’ groupe came from the ‘Alsace’ fighter groupe in the Middle East. General Valin had visited them while they were operating from the desert airfield at Fuka, in Egypt, during May 1942. His call for volunteers to serve in Russia met with an enthusiastic response. Perhaps service in Russia appeared to offer an attractive alternative to men fed up with flying worn out Hurricanes on boring missions amid the heat, dust and flies of Egypt. A detailed account of the exploits of Free French pilots on the Russian Front lies outside the scope of this book. It is worth remembering, however, that a number of the men who provided leadership in the ‘Normandie’ groupe had learned their trade and honed their skills while flying with the RAF, either in the Middle East or in the United Kingdom. The ‘Normandie’ included some exceptional pilots drawn from such contrasting backgrounds that they can have had little in common beyond a burning desire to fight for France. Alexander Werth, a foreign correspondent for the British Broadcasting Corporation, visited the squadron on several occasions. He later gave an account of what he found: In June 1943 I saw a great deal of the airmen of the French Normandie Squadron, a mixed bunch ranging from Paris communist workers talking with a delightful faubourg accent to the ginger-haired Vicomte de La Poype. The Russians were astonished that a vicomte should want to fight

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on the side of the Bolsheviks. But the most impressive amongst this marvellous group of fellows was the commander of the squadron, Commandant Tulasne, small, handsome, with [real] finesse.9 Roland de La Poype was a former trainee at the French Air Force fighter school at Etampes who had completed his training with the RAF. Posted to 602 Squadron, he shot down his first enemy aircraft in August 1942 before he volunteered to serve in Russia. With his aristocratic background, he was a figure of considerable interest to the media inside the Soviet Union – and to the international press. He quickly rose to become one of the senior officers of the ‘Normandie’ and, with 15 ‘kills’ to his credit, one of its most successful pilots. The large numbers of German aircraft deployed on the Eastern Front meant that there was plenty of action and no shortage of targets. The Free French groupe rapidly made a name for itself and enjoyed considerable success. Commandant Tulasne had gained experience as both a flying instructor and as a squadron commander before the outbreak of the Second World War. In January 1940 he had been posted to Syria, and in December 1940 he stole an aircraft to fly from Beirut to Palestine, where he joined the Free French. After serving with 274 Squadron in the Tobruk sector in early 1941, he rose to become Chief of Staff of the FAFL in the Middle East and Commandant of the ‘Alsace’ groupe. His appointment to command the ‘Normandie’ groupe had not been universally popular or unchallenged. During the preliminary planning, General Valin seems to have offered the command to André Jubelin, but Tulasne was quickly nominated in his stead. Astier de Villatte, commanding the FAFL in Syria, then complained that he was too inexperienced in modern air warfare and too headstrong for such a post, a view which Valin came to share on a tour of inspection in May/ June 1942. Valin was not completely satisfied with the morale of the ‘Alsace’ groupe under Tulasne’s leadership, and he told the RAF that he was considering replacing him.10 Valin was not an easy man to please. Perhaps his reservations about Tulasne explain why the task of setting up the ‘Normandie’ groupe in Russia was initially entrusted to Commandant Pouliquen and only passed to Tulasne in February 1943, when Pouliquen moved to the Free French military mission in Moscow. Despite the doubts of Valin and Astier de Villatte, Tulasne proved to be an outstanding commander who led the groupe from the front until he was posted missing in combat near Orel on 17 July 1943. The process of setting up the Normandie groupe and getting it into action in Russia had taken more than a year. In that same period there had been

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other important developments in France’s involvement in the war. For reasons of high strategy, Britain and the Free French had both pursued a policy of ‘nibbling away’ at those parts of the French colonial empire still controlled by the Vichy government. Seizure of Syria and Lebanon in June 1941 had been followed in May 1942 by British-led forces landing in Madagascar to forestall any possible Japanese ambitions in that direction. In these ‘liberated’ territories de Gaulle showed that he could be a proud, inflexible and fractious ally whenever he felt that Britain paid insufficient respect to French sovereignty and his own susceptibilities. Churchill and Roosevelt could be forgiven for wondering whether he might create serious difficulties when the time arrived to liberate metropolitan France. Then, on 7 November 1942 came the major Anglo-American Operation Torch, with the ambitious aim of taking control of the whole of French North and West Africa. Once Axis forces could be driven completely from the African continent, North Africa could provide the springboard for an eventual assault on southern Europe. After initial Vichy French resistance, involving about 3,000 casualties on each side, Anglo-American forces quickly took control of Morocco and Algeria. The Germans, reacting with lightning speed (and with the active cooperation of Vichy officials on the spot), took control of Tunisia before the American and British forces could extend their occupation to that strategically important area. The Germans used the events in North Africa as an excuse to march in and take over the previously unoccupied (Vichy) zone of metropolitan France on 11 November. After a further period of uncertainty, on 27 November they finally made an attempt to seize the main French fleet at Toulon, but Admiral de Laborde loyally obeyed the formal order he had received to scuttle his ships rather than allow them to fall into German hands. Allied occupation of the various French colonial territories removed most of the obstacles facing any French servicemen stationed there who wished to enlist under General de Gaulle, especially those who had been imprisoned for their Gaullist sympathies. At first, however, the number of servicemen from these territories choosing to volunteer was very disappointing. For example, fewer than one in six of the French troops ‘freed’ by the liberation of Syria and Lebanon in 1941 chose to rally to de Gaulle.11 French airmen, who had loyally done their duty for the Vichy regime by resisting the Allied invasions, naturally felt resentful and were in no hurry to change sides. Their reluctance raised further doubts in American and British minds about the real standing of General de Gaulle with his own people and as a leader of international importance. Free French pilots serving in the United Kingdom followed news of the landings in North Africa with great interest. They recognized that the

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liberation of those huge territories opened up a potentially rich source of recruits to the Free French movement, not merely as individuals, but as complete army regiments, powerful naval units such as the battleships Richelieu and Jean Bart, and whole groupes of the Armée de l’Air – professionally commanded, properly trained, fully equipped, disciplined, competently serviced and combat-ready. In fact, most of the units of the former Vichy Air Force were flying obsolescent aircraft, and morale was low. It would take time to prepare them for service as front-line squadrons. They would require, at the very least, operational training on American or British aircraft and tuition in the tactical lessons which Allied airmen had been learning painfully in the heat of battle. Recognizing that the time had come for a wider appeal and a new emphasis, de Gaulle had changed the name of his movement from France Libre (Free France) to France Combattante (Fighting France) in July 1942. France would have to play a major role in fighting for her own liberation: French people could not simply wait to be liberated by the military effort of other nations. That resurgence would only become a reality if the relatively small and gallant band who had rallied to de Gaulle’s call in 1940–42 could be expanded by the inclusion of large numbers of former Vichy servicemen and civilians in a movement of national unity. If the pugnacity of the new name was intended to attract all sections of French opinion, it did not meet with immediate success. Among the many genuinely patriotic commanders of the former Vichy forces in North Africa, and among the mass of officers and men, were many who were still not ready to accept that readiness to fight for the liberation of France also had to entail fighting under de Gaulle’s leadership. In a secret session of the House of Commons on 10 December 1942, Churchill explained the British government’s attitude towards General de Gaulle: ‘We finance his Movement. We have helped his operations. But we have never agreed that he and those associated with him, because they were right and brave at the moment of French surrender, have a monopoly on the future of France.’ Later in the same speech he added, ‘I could not recommend you to base all your hopes and confidence upon him, and still less to assume at this stage that it is our duty to place, so far as we have the power, the destiny of France in his hands.’12 President Roosevelt shared that reservation. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Winston Churchill managed to preserve an uneasy truce between the aloof and ‘prickly’ French general and the American president. At one time the Allies had toyed with a project to lure General Weygand from Vichy and install him as a new (and far more senior, distinguished and famous) leader of French resistance to German domination of

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Europe. Immediately after the occupation of Algiers, the Allied High Command seemed perfectly happy to deal with Admiral Darlan, formerly reviled as a close associate (and deputy) of Marshal Pétain. After the admiral was assassinated by a Gaullist sympathizer on 24 December, General Henri Giraud, who had been clandestinely smuggled out of France on board a British submarine, was built up as a potentially powerful rival to de Gaulle’s leadership. For a time the two generals formed an uneasy partnership as joint leaders of French resurgence, but in the end, Giraud proved less ambitious than the Americans had hoped and certainly less politically astute than de Gaulle. While French politicians of all shades of opinion, hoping to be the power brokers once France was liberated, began to plot and jostle for position in Algiers and London, de Gaulle continued to tread the path he had chosen in 1940, but showing surprising political finesse. The nadir of Roosevelt’s irritation with de Gaulle was reached in the middle of 1943, after the Free French leader had persuaded Giraud to enlarge the French National Committee from 7 members to 14. A majority of the extra members were Gaullists with the result that the French National Committee was now firmly loyal to de Gaulle. The Americans were exasperated by de Gaulle’s manoeuvrings and by Giraud’s apparent lack of political sense. On 17 June Roosevelt wrote to Churchill in the frankest terms: I am fed up with de Gaulle, and the secret and political machinations of that Committee in the last few days indicate that there is no possibility of working with de Gaulle. If these were peace times it wouldn’t make so much difference but I am absolutely convinced that he has been and is now injuring our war effort and that he is a very dangerous threat to us. I agree with you that he likes neither the British nor the Americans and that he would double-cross both of us at the first opportunity. I agree with you that the time has arrived when we must break with him. It is an intolerable situation. I think the important thing is that we act together . . . We must divorce ourselves from de Gaulle because, first, he has proven to be unreliable, uncooperative, and disloyal to both our Governments. Second, he has more recently been interested far more in political machinations than he has in the prosecution of the war and these machinations have been carried on without our knowledge and to the detriment of our military interests. One result of this scheming on the part of de Gaulle has been that Eisenhower has had to give half his time to a purely local political situation which de Gaulle has accentuated. The war is so urgent and our military operations so serious and fraught with danger that we cannot have them menaced any longer by de Gaulle.13

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Nevertheless, during 1943, despite all the scheming and shabby manoeuvring of his French opponents and the Allied governments, de Gaulle eventually emerged as the unchallenged head of the French Committee of National Liberation. The attempts to topple him had only served to solidify his support within the Free French forces. One pilot put it thus: It was not until after . . . the Americans, especially President Roosevelt and his closest associates, dissatisfied with General de Gaulle’s inflexibility, wished to replace him with General Giraud, that the Free French rallied around the General and became Gaullists. Among us, at least in fighting units, there was no talk of politics. Our purpose was to win the war, and the political future of the country gave us no immediate concern.14 Public opinion in the United Kingdom had also tended to move in favour of de Gaulle. Surveys conducted by Mass Observation showed that, in 1941, favourable attitudes towards the Free French were expressed by 41 per cent of those surveyed, as compared with 31 per cent who expressed unfavourable attitudes. By March 1943 52 per cent were favourable towards the (renamed) Fighting French, while a mere 11 per cent were unfavourable. The survey report explained: Most of those who admire the Fighting French like them for their bravery and for fighting in the cause of the allies while their relations are still in France. Many feel that their position is a difficult one while Giraud remains head of the French in North Africa, and admire de Gaulle for his tact and patience.15 A further survey conducted on 24 August 1943, on the wider question of what British people thought of the French in general, showed 33 per cent were favourable while 52 per cent were unfavourable. One critical interviewee explained: ‘They’ve had so many governments and they don’t seem able to have unity among themselves.’ Another said, ‘If their leaders can’t agree in exile it doesn’t give much confidence in them.’16 Roosevelt and many other Allied leaders may have perceived General de Gaulle as some temporary, stopgap leader of a forlorn cause, an insignificant ‘stooge’ who ought to show more gratitude for whatever his British and American paymasters saw fit to grant him – a man who might be quietly jettisoned as soon as some more noteworthy French figurehead became available. That was definitely not the general’s own view of the role which he felt destiny had called him to play.

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During the first half of 1943, even as the complicated negotiating and plotting in Algiers ran its course, all parties involved were agreed on the importance of getting the French forces in North Africa actively engaged in the war against Germany as soon as possible. The Americans and British saw them as an important reservoir of manpower which ought to be contributing to the liberation of France – if only to reduce the strain on their own manpower, and take their share of the inevitable casualties. Supporters of General Giraud (and even former supporters of Marshal Pétain) realized that public opinion in France would never forgive the military if they just idled away their time in the African sun and left young men from other countries to do the fighting. Ambitious officers, with an eye to their future careers, were anxious to build reputations and gather some of the accolades that were being heaped on those who had rallied to de Gaulle in France’s darkest hour. For his part, General de Gaulle realized all too well that the time had come to show the world that France still had both the means and the will to play a major role in the outcome of the war. He knew that his country’s standing when peace came would depend, to a great extent, on her having made a significant contribution during the final stages of the conflict. In short, if there was agreement on little else, few dissented from the idea that the former Vichy forces must be brought into action on the Allied side as quickly as possible. One aspect of this conviction was that later reinforcements for the ‘Normandie’ groupe in Russia were often drawn from pilots who had loyally served the Vichy government until the Anglo-American landings in North Africa. Volunteering for service in Russia offered them a chance to demonstrate their courage and patriotism without having to learn English, submit to the training requirements of the RAF or suppress lingering grievances against Britain for Mers-el-Kebir, Dakar, Syria, Madagascar and other affronts to their national pride. In time, units of the Free French armed forces would have to face the difficult problem of integrating these newcomers with the hardened veterans who had responded to de Gaulle’s appeal in 1940. Among the later arrivals in Russia was one, however, who most certainly had never served in the Vichy Air Force. Jules Joire had rallied to de Gaulle in the very beginning. He had risked his life for France as a fighter pilot in 1940, risked it again escaping from Brittany in the fishing boat Le Trébouliste, risked it once more as one of de Gaulle’s envoys who landed from a tiny Luciole aircraft at Ouakam (Dakar), risked it yet again in the clutches of the Vichy legal system after the failure at Dakar, and, still determined to rejoin the battle, risked it once more to cross the Pyrenees on foot, endure a Spanish prison

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and make his way to Algeria in May 1943. He promptly volunteered to join the French fighter unit on the Russian front. There, on 15 March 1944, his outstanding record of patriotic service was to end tragically with a collision during a training flight. Although he managed to bail out, his parachute became entangled with the plummeting aircraft, and he was dragged to his death. The operational employment of complete units from the former Vichy army and air force in North Africa began with their involvement in support of the American and British campaign to drive the Axis forces out of Tunisia. That campaign was finally brought to a successful conclusion in May 1943. For the rest of that year the French were involved in the AngloAmerican conquest of Sicily and southern Italy, and in September they joined with the local Resistance movement in driving the enemy out of Corsica, a morale-boosting liberation of French territory by predominantly French forces. Most of the French army and air force units, which thus returned to the war after the 3-year pause imposed by the 1940 armistice, operated in association with the Americans. Despite some initial reluctance by the American Joint Chiefs of Staff, on account of the already heavy demands on US aircraft production, these French units owed their reequipment and retraining to the Americans, and their story lies outside the scope of this book, but three of the fighter groupes were equipped with British Mark V Spitfires. Between them they claimed to have shot down 25 enemy aircraft in the second half of 1943, most of them over Corsica. By 1 December the three French fighter groupes flying British Spitfires had officially become part of the RAF. Groupe de Chasse II/7 became 326 (Nice) Squadron, GC I/3 became 327 (Corse) Squadron, and GC I/7 became 328 (Provence) Squadron. Together they formed a French fighter wing, and they were proud to be operating from liberated territory which was constitutionally part of metropolitan France. From their base at AjaccioCampo dell’Oro the wing took on the roles of convoy protection, interception of German shipping and escort duties for American bombers heading for targets in Italy. The changing allegiances of these French pilots is illustrated by the combat record of Georges Blanck of 326 (Nice) Squadron. During the Battle for France in 1940, he had been credited with successes against two German Heinkel 111s, two Messerschmitt 109s, and a Junkers 87. In November 1942, during the Anglo-American landings in North Africa, as a loyal member of the Vichy Air Force he had been credited with two British Fleet Air Arm Albacores and three American D520s. In September 1943, over Corsica, he was able to add a German Messerschmitt 323 to his tally.

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Political expediency and military practicality made the employment of men like him unavoidable, but it was bound to set up serious tensions within the reconstituted French Air Force, as pilots who had risked everything to rally to de Gaulle in 1940–42 found themselves expected to serve alongside (and sometimes under the command of) men who, for various reasons, had chosen to take their orders from Vichy. Two units of the French Fleet Air Arm were also converted into RAF squadrons. Flotille 7E was a flying boat unit, while Flotille 1E was land-based. They operated from Dakar in a maritime reconnaissance role. As part of the re-equipment of former Vichy formations, in July 1943 the former received some Sunderland flying boats from the RAF, while the latter flew Wellington bombers. Their employment continued unchanged, but on 29 November Flotille 7E became 343 Squadron of the RAF and Flotille 1E became 344 Squadron. Although formally a part of the RAF’s 295 Wing, these squadrons did not come up to British expectations. By the middle of the following year 343 Squadron was assessed as only performing at two-thirds the level of a similar British squadron, while 344 Squadron was considered only slightly better than 343.17 The national honour and international standing of France called for the former Vichy Air Force in North Africa and the Free French Air Force to be fused into a reconstituted Armée de l’Air. This difficult task was entrusted to General René Bouscat. He had served Vichy in North Africa but, after the Anglo-American landings, he had quickly recognized the importance of General de Gaulle. Bouscat played a key role in arranging the brief, but essential, partnership between de Gaulle and General Giraud. On 1 July 1943 Bouscat became Chief of the French Air Force General Staff, and, towards the end of that year, the French Committee of National Defence accepted his ambitious plan for a radical expansion of the Air Force. De Gaulle explained in his memoirs that, under the plan: Seven units, four for pursuit and three for bombardment, were to be based in Great Britain; twenty-one groups, eight for pursuit, four for bombardment, six for defence of coasts and airfields, one for reconnaissance, two for transport, were to operate in the Mediterranean theatre; two pursuit groups were to operate in Russia.18 De Gaulle and Bouscat intended that the reconstituted Armée de l’Air was to be a force to be reckoned with. It would enhance de Gaulle’s value as an ally; it would make an important contribution to reasserting French sovereignty at home and throughout the worldwide empire; and in the

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longer term its existence would have to be taken into account by friend and foe alike. One small but encouraging sign that the wider world was becoming aware of a reborn France came from Hollywood. In February 1944 Warner Brothers made Passage to Marseille, a film starring Humphrey Bogart and directed by Michael Curtiz. The prologue to the film explains that it tells the story of a Free French air squadron [but] it is also the story of France. For a nation exists, not alone in terms of maps and boundaries, but in the hearts of men. To millions of Frenchmen, France has never surrendered. And today, she lives, immortal and defiant, in the spirit of the Free French Air Force, as it carries her war to the skies over the Rhineland.19

Chapter 9

Formation of 341 (Alsace) Squadron in the United Kingdom

In the autumn of 1942, the Free French Groupe de Chasse ‘Alsace’, which had rendered sterling service to the Allied cause in the Middle East, was disbanded. Some pilots and ground crew had been hived off to form the nucleus of the new ‘Normandie’ groupe which was being formed for service on the Russian Front. There seemed little point in trying to rebuild the ‘Alsace’ in the Middle East. Instead, it was decided to bring the best elements of what remained of the groupe back to the United Kingdom, where they could re-equip and retrain in preparation for the major air offensive which a cross-Channel invasion would eventually entail. The RAF liaison officer with Free French Air Force (FAFL) headquarters in the Middle East assured his British superiors that selection of men for transfer to the United Kingdom would be in the hands of an officer of the French intelligence service: ‘It is desired to only send the very best of what is out here, hence there will be a judicious weeding out of names before decisions are taken. Personnel not designated for the UK will be distributed between French Equatorial Africa and Middle East Commands according to requirements.’1 The development of the FAFL in the Middle East had been handicapped for some time. Their heterogeneous collection of pre-war French aircraft and obsolescent British machines was so difficult to maintain that a tour of inspection by Wing Commander Candler, on behalf of the RAF, led him to the discouraging conclusion that shortage of spares and other technical problems meant that almost every aircraft at the disposal of the French was ‘apparently not really fit to fly by our standards’.2 There had also been problems with discipline, morale and standards of efficiency. On taking over command in November 1942, Lieutenant-Colonel Gence held out the possibility of beginning with a clean slate, but he accompanied it with a stern warning: ‘I shall obliterate past negligence from my memory. However, any cases of negligence in the future will be severely dealt with. I hope that I shall not be called upon to take these measures but that my instructions will be understood and followed.’3

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Matters were not helped by political, administrative and operational tensions in Syria and the Lebanon between Britain and the Free French. In December 1942 Gence felt obliged to write to the RAF liaison officer at his headquarters to protest at the unauthorized presence of British soldiers at the Rayak air base, adding, hopefully, ‘I look forward with optimism to a more harmonious co-operation, in which we can deploy our joint efforts in the cause of the United Nations, and pursue in perfect accord our war aims, which are and remain: TO BEAT THE ENEMY.’4 Nevertheless, Gence clearly had to accept that he was dependent on the RAF for the new aircraft he required to rebuild the operational capability of the French Air Force in the Middle East after the transfer of so many experienced key personnel to Russia and the United Kingdom.5 He was particularly keen to establish a communications flight and a unit for desert reconnaissance. That he had not taken over a happy and united command is apparent from a rather bitter letter he wrote to General Valin: The departure of the contingents for UK and Russia represented for certain of these officers the disappearance of the F[ree] F[rench] Air Force in the Middle East. In the minds of these officers, only their own presence justified [its] existence and their departure should therefore bring about the automatic disappearance of this Force. This is what, in the throes of all sorts of difficulties, and sometimes with bitter feelings, I have been obliged to witness and what I consider it my duty to report to you. I must admit that even the morale of the personnel remaining here has not gone untouched by the various rumours spread around, for example; that the personnel remaining must obviously be the least desirable . . . I can assure you that these men are only awaiting the opportunity to disprove the statements that those leaving dared to express in regard to them.6 Gence obviously appreciated that, important as their contribution had been and would continue to be, the men who had originally rallied to General de Gaulle could not be allowed to claim the exclusive right to represent France in the march towards final victory. Like de Gaulle himself and the various leaders in North Africa, Gence could see that, for the future reputation of France and the security of the French empire, the time had come for a much wider cross-section of French servicemen and civilians to enter the fray – and they ought to be made welcome and feel valued, whatever their previous allegiances. In the middle of 1943, however, RAF headquarters in the Levant rather contemptuously described his men as ‘a very mixed bag . . . [some] profess to be ardent de Gaullists, some are deserters from Giraud’s forces, and some are ex-political prisoners’.7

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Whatever may have been the justification for Gence’s complaints, the selected fighter pilots from the ‘Alsace’ groupe were shipped back to the United Kingdom and sent to Scotland. Brought up to full strength by newly trained French pilots from RAF operational training units, the ‘Alsace’ reformed, under RAF operational command, at Turnhouse in January 1943. They then became 341 (Alsace) Squadron, under their new squadron leader, René Mouchotte. He was rather surprised to be given the command. After the great air battle at Dieppe, where he had flown with 340 (Ile de France) Squadron, he had been offered the command of the RAF’s 67 (East India) Squadron. That offer to a Free French pilot gives some indication of the high regard in which he was held by the RAF. Mouchotte found the experience of commanding a squadron both gratifying and thrilling: I am living in a great mansion tonight, part of which has been converted into a mess. My room is regal, one of the most handsome ones. I have a car and my own plane, and everyone calls me ‘Sir’ with outward signs of the greatest respect. I have an office to myself, a telephone, secretaries, and a unit of about one hundred men attentive to my slightest order. Finally I have twenty-eight excellent pilots, all keen to follow their leader – me, since 11 a.m. yesterday – into battle.8 Delighted at first, Mouchotte soon became depressed when Fighter Command transferred 67 Squadron from the south of England to Drem, in Scotland, for a period of rest. He tried to get the squadron sent out to Malta, where the air battles were frequent and intense, and at the end of 1942 they were put on a training programme involving take-offs and landings on aircraft carriers. Mouchotte felt certain that he would be taking ‘his’ squadron to the Mediterranean early in the New Year, and that the final leg to Malta would involve flying off an aircraft carrier. Instead, he received orders to report as commanding officer to the newly forming 341 (Alsace) Squadron at Turnhouse. Mouchotte had done a good job with 67 Squadron and had clearly caught the eye of superiors who wanted the formation of the new French fighter squadron to proceed more smoothly than the birth of the ‘Ile de France’. He cut a near perfect image as a leader. One British officer described him thus: Tall and thin, he was always immaculately dressed and very rarely to be seen without a long stylish cigarette holder held either between delicate fingers or gently gripping teeth. But René’s appearance belied his true

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worth as a leader and a fighter pilot. He was dedicated to the liberation of his country and to him there was no joy in life so long as the Boche (he had a singularly expressive way of pronouncing the word) was on French soil. A quiet and reserved officer on the ground; an aggressive and purposeful fighter in the air.9 Determined to forge an effective fighting force and to guard against any repetition of the disciplinary problems that had dogged 340 (Ile de France) Squadron in its formative stage, Mouchotte took great care in his selection of both aircraft and pilots. Within the RAF hierarchy he had enough influential contacts to ensure that he got what he wanted eventually. In the meantime, obtaining resources like adequate office accommodation and sufficient kit was an inescapable part of the daily workload for Squadron Leader Mouchotte. The cold Scottish weather made no positive contribution to squadron morale, which was very high nonetheless. Accidents were few, and the pilots showed that they were highly skilled. In February 1943 the squadron was put through a routine aircraft recognition test. Their delighted adjutant noted in the operations record book that the scores ‘were the best ever held on this station; all pilots obtained 38 out of 40 with 5 all correct’.10 Nine of the pilots took part in an escape and evasion exercise on 5 March. [They were] taken 5 miles from the camp, and dropped at intervals one mile apart. The Home Guard, Police, RAF Regiment [were all] participating in the exercise. Seven were captured by the RAF Regiment 2 miles from the camp; one whilst trying to crawl under the camp wire, and Flight Sergeant Leguie alone succeeded in entering the camp. As everything was in favour of the defenders, and on a previous exercise with a Naval Squadron, everyone being caught, the result was not entirely unsatisfactory.11 After initial working up, the squadron received the latest type Spitfire IX. Introduced as a direct response to the enemy’s Focke-Wulf 190 and the limitations of the Spitfire Mark V, the type IX could outperform earlier marks of Spitfire in everything but turning circle. Over the Focke-Wulf 190 it had significant advantages, which RAF pilots quickly learned to exploit. If Mouchotte got his way over the choice of aircraft, then he also got his way over the personnel he wanted. He handpicked his pilots, after taking advice from veterans such as Michel Boudier, formerly with 340 (Ile de France) Squadron, and Bruno Bourges and Claude Raoul Duval who had come from the previous ‘Alsace’ groupe in the Middle East. Mouchotte’s

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diary reveals his uncompromising views on selection: ‘I do not know how many officials I’ve given my two famous lists to, the golden list of pilots I wanted and the black list of the ones I wouldn’t have at any price.’12 Exercising an RAF squadron leader’s prerogative, Mouchotte himself laid down the principles by which the ‘Alsace’ were to fight. He devised a formation where mutual covering support was the priority. His system, which he was called on to explain to senior officers in Fighter Command, required a high degree of discipline (or, as Mouchotte called it, ‘blind discipline’) for aircraft to remain in formation and complete the mission assigned to them.13 Surprised and relieved at the ‘good name’ which the squadron rapidly earned for its leader, Mouchotte was ready to deal ruthlessly with any pilot who was not willing to submit to that ‘blind discipline’. He wrote in his diary on 16 March: ‘I made no bones about getting rid of three doubtful ones, one for technical reasons, another for reasons of morale, the third for both.’14 One excellent pilot rejected by Mouchotte seems to have been Jean Maridor, who was returned to 91 Squadron RAF, his previous unit, which may have been better able to accommodate that stubborn individualist from what had become the Free French Air Force’s old guard. Mouchotte demanded – and obtained – the highest standards and complete dedication from his pilots. After being posted to RAF Biggin Hill in March, the squadron soon began to prove itself on operations, which frequently involved escorting American bombers. The squadron’s operations records book for 13 May records typical missions: A fine clear day with good visibility. The squadron of 12 Spitfires IX led by Commandant Mouchotte took off at 11.28 as part of 1st Fighter Echelon to 6 Mitchells bombing Boulogne marshalling yards. Proceeding at zero feet to 5 miles south of Hastings, the wing commenced to climb. Huns were reported 12 miles to the east, but as they were too far away, the squadron turned to port crossing over Berck at 28,000 feet. The squadron landed at base at 12.40 hours, an uneventful sweep. At 15.37 hours, the squadron’s 10 Spitfires led by Commandant Mouchotte, with Captain Martell and Captain Boudier leading yellow and blue sections respectively, took off acting as part of 2nd High Cover to a force of Fortresses bombing the Potez factory at Maulte. The Fortresses were dead on time . . . North-East of Amiens 12 Me 109s came down on the wing, which went into orbit until height was made on the Huns, who dived away into France. Reforming, the squadron proceeded to the target area when a short melee with enemy aircraft took place, again splitting the wing. Most of the squadron worked their way back to

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base independently, landing around 17.10 hours. Sergeant Chef Galley returned with oxygen trouble and three others landed at aerodromes nearer the coast owing to petrol shortage.15 Saddling fighter units with the responsibility of protecting bomber formations seriously curtailed their opportunities for shooting down enemy aircraft. In any case, Mouchotte was not very favourably impressed at first by the American Eighth Air Force. He considered some of the American claims for shooting down German fighters quite incredible. René-Louis Leguie shared his scepticism: Reports of the [American] operations seemed to show phenomenal scores in their favour. Forty to fifty enemy fighters shot down on each sortie. That seems to us to be extraordinary . . . We know from what is said and from personal experience that these bombers are like hedgehogs as far as their heavy machine-gun armament is concerned. Moreover, the men who serve these weapons are quick on the trigger. But . . . however you look at it, in our opinion you would need a whole generation of ‘Lucky Lukes’ to justify such figures.16 Leguie found that, on escort missions, the difference in cruising speeds between Spitfires and Flying Fortresses created serious difficulties: ‘Being faster, we had to fly in zig-zags and to throttle back to keep our distance from them.’ He also feared the gunners on American bombers, who were known for being not only trigger-happy, but also lacking in discrimination: At one time, it happens that we get a bit too close to one of their formations, a bit too close for their liking, no doubt, because many of their machine-guns open fire. We sheer off quickly, and the lesson will be remembered. The ‘cowboys’ have a light trigger, and they have not had to study carefully the white sheets on which silhouettes of friendly and enemy aircraft are printed in black and shown from many angles.17 The gunners on the B17 Flying Fortresses and B24 Liberators were not the only Americans feared by French pilots. Bernard Fuchs-Valeani was flying Spitfires with 501 Squadron RAF in 1943. He was incensed after experiencing friendly fire from American pilots in P47 Thunderbolt fighters: After the second pass by the P47s, I warned Biggin Hill sector that, if the American aircraft attacked a third time, I would give the order to shoot them down. Next day at Hawkinge I was visited by an American pilot at

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lunch time. As we ignored him and even looked at him with some animosity, he asked me what was going on. I told him, ‘Come with me’ and, in front of a Spitfire, I said to him, ‘Look carefully at this aircraft. It is not a German aircraft but a Spitfire of the RAF. Look at it carefully, because yesterday you shot down three of our Spitfires, two of them mine.’ He took off again immediately without his lunch.18 In addition to the difficulties and risks of operating alongside the Americans, Mouchotte and other fighter pilots were also painfully aware of the limitations of the Spitfire for many of the tasks, other than traditional aerial mêlées, which the changing nature of the aerial war over France now required it to perform. The Spitfire, when used on offensive sweeps, was too lightly armed to do serious damage to ground targets and its range was too short, either to permit it to penetrate far inland or make more than a brief pass at any target it managed to find. When used as an escort fighter, the Spitfire proved almost useless: it lacked the range to accompany bombers all the way to most worthwhile targets, and the Luftwaffe naturally waited for the escorts to turn for home before attacking the bombers.19 The ‘Alsace’ Squadron was involved in a very well publicized triumph on 15 May 1943. Escorting 12 Boston medium bombers to attack Caen airfield, they became involved in a dogfight. Mouchotte claimed one enemy aircraft destroyed, and a Canadian pilot in the same wing claimed a further two. That brought the total number of enemy aircraft destroyed by fighters based at Biggin Hill to 1001. Precisely who shot down which aircraft at what moment was difficult to establish, and a decision was taken that Mouchotte and the Canadian should share the honour of shooting down the one-thousandth aircraft. The press were on hand to publicize this landmark victory, which had been anticipated for some time. It was a triumph for the new French squadron and for Mouchotte personally. With the detached, professional minimalism of a seasoned fighter pilot, René Mouchotte recorded the incident for the benefit of RAF Intelligence: I was leading 341 F.F. [Free French] Sqdn., flying due west about 10 miles S.E. of Caen at 23,000 ft., when Control reported some Boche immediately below us. The Wing Commander ordered 611 Sqdn., who were below us, to dive and asked me if I could see anything. I replied that

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I could not and continued on the same course for about two minutes, then turning hard to starboard with the intention of bouncing any Boche who might have been split up by 611 Sqdn’s attack. On seeing nothing, I completed the turn onto my original course and saw a lone Hun flying level on a westerly course about 4000 ft below. I dived sharply and started firing at 300 yards from dead astern and slightly above, continuing firing in the dive up to 250 yards, seeing strikes on the cockpit and the wing roots. At this point the Hun suddenly climbed vertically and blew up in mid-air, forcing me to climb rapidly to avoid the debris which was flying in all directions. Nothing else being seen, I reformed with the wing and proceeded home.20 He displays little emotion in the report, no sense of elation at another victory or regret at the taking of a human life. Only his use of words such as ‘Boche’ and ‘Hun’ gives some indication of his hatred of the Germans. The victory probably meant more to Mouchotte as another tiny step along the road to the liberation of France than as a statistical milestone for the RAF base at Biggin Hill. By coincidence, Mouchotte had organized a ball at the Hyde Park Hotel for the evening of 15 May. It was to be the ‘coming out ball’ for 341 (Alsace) Squadron, the newest debutante of Fighter Command. He regarded the ball as a very necessary landmark in the life of the squadron, integral to morale and to their identity as French officers of high social standing. The Biggin Hill triumph added to the significance of the occasion. General de Gaulle, senior officers from Fighter Command and many other important people were among the guests. The only thing to mar the ball came the following morning, when the rather jaded pilots were called to readiness at dawn. They were then sent down to Cornwall to operate from RAF Portreath as cover for a bombing raid on Morlaix. The media interest in the ‘Alsace’ continued for several days, and detailed scrutiny of the events of 15 May gave rise to a growing feeling that the French squadron had been unjustly deprived of full honours. The entry in the squadron’s operations record book for 17 May reflects that sense of grievance: Journalists, cameramen and recorders for the BBC visited the station to contact the commanding officer (Commandant Mouchotte) and the Commanding Officer of No. 611 Squadron (Squadron Leader Charles) to record and film the pilots responsible for bringing down the 1000th

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Hun (Biggin Hill the first station to reach this figure). It has been decided now to share this honour between No. 341 and 611 Squadrons, although it seems from the reports that No. 341 Squadron was responsible, Commandant Mouchotte having seen the parachute of the Hun brought down by No. 611 Squadron before he attacked his victim. It was not for us to make this decision, but it must be said that the squadron was disappointed in not having this honour complete.21 Whatever the case, a further ball took place later the following month at the Grosvenor House Hotel, Park Lane, to celebrate the 1000th ‘kill’ officially. Sponsored by Vickers-Armstrong, the ball was the finest of the war, with over a thousand guests, three Air Force bands and masses of food, including duck, chicken, lobsters and side dishes cooked to a standard which Mouchotte for one thought remarkable. Cocktails and champagne flowed freely. At the end of the evening a group of London taxi drivers turned up at the hotel to offer their services free of charge to the men from Biggin Hill. The RAF later reciprocated by entertaining 50 cabbies in the mess at the airfield. From that point on, as one senior officer was to recall, ‘Biggin pilots experienced no difficulty in obtaining a taxi in London’.22 The formation of 341 (Alsace) Squadron was an indication of how the Free French Air Force was changing. As the fighter war in western Europe intensified, the men who had rallied to de Gaulle in the early days were beginning to find themselves serving alongside later arrivals. They were called on to fly increasing numbers of escort and diversionary missions, as the bombing offensive was intensified. Offensive fighter sweeps into France and Belgium were also stepped up, as the Allied air forces strove to establish the degree of air superiority which would be crucial for the launching of the second front in Europe. The psychological and physical pressures on pilots were immense. Almost every day there was a mission, an air test or an exercise. Bad weather offered a rare chance to rest. Mouchotte confessed in his diary on 9 June 1943: And the sweeps go on, at a terrible pace. I am at the record figure of 140. I feel a weariness from them. It is useless for me to go to bed at 9.30 each night; I feel my nerves wearing out, my temper deteriorating. The smallest effort gets me out of breath; I have a crying need of rest, were it even for forty-eight hours. I have not taken a week’s leave for two years. Always at readiness to fly or stuck in the office on administrative work! Anyway, where can I go?23

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That diary entry can be compared with details for a typical week in 341 (Alsace) Squadron’s operation record book: 9 July: The squadron was briefed early and 11 Spitfires, led by Commandant Mouchotte, took off at 0720 hours and were acting as high cover to a force of 12 Mitchells bombing the marshalling yards at St Omer. Crossing the French coast at Le Touquet, they escorted the bombers out as far as Dunkirk. The squadron turned to port and back again to St Omer, where they orbited and turned for home. The squadron was ordered off at five minutes notice, but when just about to take off orders came through for the operation to be postponed 15 minutes. After 15 minutes the squadron again taxied out for take off, but the show was then cancelled. A hostile aircraft flew over the airfield at approx 1700 hours. The guns opened up, and bombs were dropped in the valley knocking down a small house without causing any casualties. 10 July: The squadron took off at 0710 hours, led by Commandant Mouchotte to act as close support to bombers bombing Le Bourget and Villacoublay. Rendezvous was made with the bombers 10 miles North of Fécamp. Escorting the Fortresses to beyond Eureux, the Wing Leader gave the order to return. The Fortresses also returned owing to 10/10 clouds, and touched down at base at 0845 hours. Weather deteriorated during the day, and there was no more flying. With the recent postings of Flight Mechanics the squadron is up to strength for the first time since forming. 11 July: Low clouds with rain – these conditions continued all day – there was no flying. The squadron was released at 1530 hours. Flying Officer Goddard left for a three days course on the Carburettor. 12 July: Clouds with rain – these conditions continued all day. There was no flying. New linoleum was laid in the pilots’ dispersal, and pilots commenced to paint the interior. 13 July: There was early briefing for a sweep and 12 Spitfires took off in good weather at 0830 hours, led by Commandant Mouchotte, for a sweep in the Abbeville area. The mouth of the Somme was crossed at 23,000 feet to the area along the coast at Dieppe, turned north, touching down at base at 1000 hours. Several Hun formations were out in Amiens area, but nothing was seen by squadron. Cloudy conditions prevented further flying. 14 July: Fine clear morning. Many smoke trails in the air from Fortresses. They re-passed over the airfield three hours later, two landing having been shot up. Briefing at 0730 hours, the squadron of 12 Spitfires, led by Commandant Mouchotte, took off at 0805 hours to act as escort cover to Fortresses seen withdrawing from bombing Le Bourget and Villacoublay

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airfields. The squadron was flying at 18,000 feet and bombers at 13,000 feet, and the squadron was too high to be engaged in any of the combats – one straggler was escorted to the English coast. The squadron landed at different forward airfields owing to lack of petrol. No news of the Commanding Officer until he landed at Biggin Hill, having [first] landed at Tangmere. The watch officers there failed to notify us. The squadron was released at mid-day to 1100 hours on the 15th, causing great satisfaction to the French pilots [and] permitting them to go to London to celebrate their Fête Nationale.24 Every aspect of the squadron’s work, from leading a combat mission to the arrival of new linoleum or sending someone on a course about the carburettor, meant work for Mouchotte. The workload took a heavy toll on his stamina, as he was determined to lead from the front and fly on operations as often as the other pilots. Only to his diary did Mouchotte confide the pain of leadership, the strain of daily operations and his growing tiredness. On 29 July the ‘Alsace’ squadron was congratulated by Churchill. Three days earlier they and 485 Squadron had shot down a combined total of nine enemy aircraft without loss to themselves. Churchill commented: ‘Nine for nought is an excellent score.’25 The squadron’s success featured in a broadcast on the BBC’s French news service. It included interviews with three of the pilots: Martell, Clostermann and Brunot. In August 1943 Mouchotte was able to take a short rest from operations. On his return his luck almost ran out. During an escort mission on 19 August he was nearly killed during an air battle over Abbeville and Amiens. Around 25–30 enemy aircraft were involved in the dogfight, during which a Focke-Wulf 190 made a head-on attack on Mouchotte’s aircraft. He explained later: ‘I opened fire from 150 yards to point blank and the E/A [enemy aircraft] had to break below to avoid collision. I was unable to break because my speed was about 400 mph. I saw my cannon shells bursting all over the E/A before losing sight of it underneath the nose of my aircraft.’26 The crediting of a ‘probable’ to Mouchotte could not disguise just how close the ‘Alsace’ had come to losing their leader. Eight days later Mouchotte’s luck finally ran out. While he was leading his squadron on yet another escort mission, a dogfight developed with enemy fighters. The RAF report on the operation, unusually thorough (probably in view of the loss of Squadron Leader Mouchotte), provides a vivid description of war in the air in 1943: The Wing led by Comm. Mouchotte left at 1804 to act as escort with Northweald’s [Spitfire] IX’s to the first 60 [Flying] Fortresses. After

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leaving Dungeness, the Bombers were seen a long way ahead and the Wing increased speed and were in position shortly after crossing the French coast at Berck, with 485 Squadron to port and 341 Squadron to starboard. As soon as the bombers turned North at St. Pol, a host of FW 190s and ME109s (estimated at from 40–80) attacked out of the sun. The E/A carried out their attacks mainly from below and astern, closing in to about 400 yards before breaking away downwards. As soon as they had broken they climbed again and renewed their attacks. This continued all the way to about five miles from Mardyck. Both squadrons broke into Sections and endeavoured to counter these attacks, but our A/C were greatly outnumbered, and no assistance was received from the Squadrons of Thunderbolts above. Both Squadrons were heavily engaged and many pilots including Comm. Mouchotte found themselves alone. Comm. Mouchotte was heard to say, ‘I’m alone with the Bombers,’ and nothing more was seen or heard of him. Sgt. Magrot, also 341 Squadron, was last seen diving down with a FW190 on his tail. Blue section 341 Squadron were engaged with about 8 FW190s, and in the dogfights that ensued Capt Boudier attacked one of the E/A. After firing 3 short bursts without result, he came in nearly dead astern. He saw strikes on the port wing, and the port leg of the U/C [undercarriage] dropped. The E/A then went into a spin and was seen to crash on the ground. S/Lt Laurent (No. 3 in the same section) fired two short bursts at another FW190, which was firing at a Spitfire. He fired 2 bursts from astern and above at close range, hitting the engine and fuselage. The E/A started to burn and went down in a spin. The pilot, however, had to break away as he was attacked by four more FW190s and did not see the end of his victim. Sgt/Chef Closterman (Red 2) and Asp. Buiron (Red 3), 341 Squadron, both attacked FW190s which were firing at Spitfires below. The former opened fire from dead astern at 250 yards but the E/A was drawing away from him. Strikes were seen on the port wing and fuselage. When about 800 yards away, the E/A turned upside down emitting smoke. It continued thus in a shallow dive until it crashed in flames near a small wood. The latter attacked a FW190 from the starboard quarter and hit it in the fuselage and in front of the cockpit. The E/A tightened his turn and went into a spin. Asp. Buiron did not follow but climbed and rejoined the others who had remained with the bombers. 485 Squadron meantime had gone down below the bombers in an endeavour to prevent the E/A from penetrating. This was, however, almost impossible owing to the very large numbers of E/A operating and the fact that they closed to such short range. It was found that it was more advantageous to attack the E/A as they broke away. In the course of

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carrying out these tactics, P/O [Pilot Officer] Houlton chased a FW190 in a hectic dive right down to ground level and, after a lengthy steeplechase round woods and over an aerodrome, the E/A, in a sudden turn, hit some overhead cables and crashed, exploding and bursting into flames as it hit the ground. Most of the engagements took place between 12,000 and 7,000 feet. One of the Fortresses was hit by flak, which was intense and accurate over the target. The crew were seen to bale out. Another disabled Fortress, running on two engines only, was escorted by S/L [Squadron Leader] Checketts, 485 Squadron, from Mardyck to Manston. After refuelling at forward airfields, 22 aircraft landed at base by 20.20 hours. Enemy Casualties 1 FW190 destroyed 1 FW190 destroyed 1 FW190 probable 1 FW190 damaged 1 FW190 damaged 1 FW190 destroyed

Capt. Boudier Sgt. Clostermann S/Lt Laurent S/Lt Laurent Asp. Buiron P/O Houlton

341 (FF) Squadron 341 (FF) Squadron 341 (FF) Squadron 341 (FF) Squadron 341 (FF) Squadron 485 (NZ) Squadron

Our Losses 1 Spitfire 1 Spitfire

IX Comm. Mouchotte (missing) 341 (FF) Squadron IX F/Sgt Magrot (missing) 341 (FF) Squadron27

The report captures the hectic nature of combat in which a moment’s inattention could allow an enemy to make a fatal pass, or lead to a squadron breaking into confused groups. Somewhere amid the brawl between bombers, Spitfires and Focke-Wulfs, Pierre Clostermann, Mouchotte’s wingman, lost contact with his leader. Some writers have suggested that Clostermann was so busy trying to get on the tail of a Focke-Wulf 190 that he neglected a wingman’s primary duty to protect his chief. Interestingly, an RAF officer described in his postwar memoirs an earlier exchange that he witnessed between one of the senior pilots of 341 (Alsace) Squadron and Pierre Clostermann: As I pulled up in front of the Frenchmen’s dispersal, I noticed Chris Martell berating a Sergeant Pilot. It was very rare for Chris to lose his temper and I was interested to find out why. ‘What’s the matter, Chris?’ I asked, coming up behind. The normally good-natured Chris looked

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quite embarrassed as he turned to greet me, and answered: ‘Clostermann here lost me in that fight and I got jumped. I’m bloody angry.’28 In the circumstances of a fast-moving air battle it is hardly surprising that squadrons should get split up, but the cardinal rule for wingmen was to stick with their leader. Clostermann broke that rule with Martell and, seemingly, again with Mouchotte on 27 August. Mouchotte called out over the radio that he was all alone, and he was not seen or heard of again. His body eventually washed up on the beach at Middelkerke in Belgium, where it was interred in a local cemetery until after the war.29 Clostermann transferred to 602 Squadron RAF a month after Mouchotte’s death. Until the end of the war he would continue to serve with great distinction in squadrons staffed mainly by British pilots. Jacques Andrieux recalled his deeply felt emotion on hearing of Mouchotte’s death: ‘René, my friend, you have left us – you such a great man, so genuine, so loyal. Heaven grant that we avenge you!’30 Within the swelling ranks of the French Air Force, men like Mouchotte left an influential legacy. The ‘Alsace’ would remain the squadron that Mouchotte had built. While the old guard were dwindling in numbers – Mouchotte’s death left just 5 remaining out of the 13 pilots who had flown with the RAF in the Battle of Britain – their continuing influence was unmistakable. Bernard Dupérier, who had done so much to build up and nurse 340 (Ile de France) Squadron through its early troubles, was on hand to take temporary command of 341 (Alsace) Squadron for a month before handing over to Christian Martell (the nom de guerre of Lucien Montet). The loss of Mouchotte was a cruel blow, but it was one from which the squadron soon recovered. Martell had already made a reputation for himself as a pilot of extraordinary bravery and daring. One RAF senior officer, a friend of Martell, described him as ‘a gentle giant of sixteen and a half stone . . . but a killer in action’.31 With replacements like Dupérier and Martell available, even the loss of a leader of Mouchotte’s calibre could not halt the progress of the ‘Alsace’. The combat record of the squadron during 1943 was remarkable. They were credited with shooting down 28 enemy aircraft, more than twice the number of successes credited to 340 (Ile de France) Squadron in the same period, but in comparing the records of the two French fighter squadrons in the United Kingdom it must be remembered that, between 20 March and 10 November 1943, the ‘Ile de France’ were stationed in Scotland and taking a well-earned rest from front-line combat. Even so, in the first two and a half months of the year, Robert Gouby, one of their pilots, was

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credited with the impressive score of five enemy aircraft destroyed, one ‘probable’ and two damaged.32 Gouby’s successes usually resulted from large-scale dogfights. In those battles the two Free French fighter squadrons and individual French pilots serving in RAF squadrons had proved that they could make a very creditable contribution, highly valued and much admired by RAF Fighter Command. Although the ‘Alsace’ and ‘Ile de France’ were increasingly successful by the end of 1943, the pilots of the Free French old guard were showing signs of growing exhaustion. Bernard Dupérier was one of several men who had to be rested from operations. Rest periods varied considerably, from a few days to several months. The shorter breaks from operations were not always as beneficial as they might have been. René-Louis Leguie and another pilot were ordered to rest for 8 days in 1943: We have nothing to do except sleep, read and go for a walk. In addition, the food is excellent. We cannot go into town . . . However, there is a dark shadow in the picture. Our accommodation is on the edge of a large hospital specialising in the treatment of the badly burned. Thus, when walking in the magnificent gardens of this establishment we are constantly confronted by these beings who, because of their terrible injuries, hardly seem human. Many charming nurses push wheelchairs so that the worst cases can get some fresh air. One shivers to think of the suffering hidden behind those red brick walls, without forgetting that cosmetic surgery is only in its infancy. Furthermore, fire being the thing most dreaded by fighter pilots, one can only wonder if the selection of that place for a rest was really wise.33 Others began to realize both their own mortality and an all-pervading sense of tiredness. For Pierre Clostermann there was a moment of epiphany while engaging a pair of Focke-Wulf 190s over the English Channel. During a dogfight over Brighton, Clostermann and his wingman shot down one of the Focke-Wulfs. The wingman was forced to make an emergency landing, but not before indicating to Clostermann that he should go after the remaining enemy aircraft, which had been damaged: I immediately engaged in the pursuit and finally caught up with the Focke-Wulf in the middle of the Channel, but my weapons were locked and would not fire . . . I continued the pursuit and drew closer to the damaged Focke-Wulf, noting that it was slowing down and losing altitude slowly. A small sly flame appeared on the left side of the canopy that was

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immediately followed by a grey smoke trail. I thought, he cannot go on much further. The pilot should exit his plane and jump; there was still sufficient altitude to open his parachute and land safely, and I would warn the British patrols of the situation. A prisoner is always interesting to interrogate. I could not shout at him. There was no way to communicate. ‘Get moving, you fool! Move before it is too late!’ Imperturbable, the pilot of the Focke-Wulf continued to lose precious altitude. As we approached the Cape of France the pilot gave me a shy salute; 500 metres, then 300 metres, then 250 metres. Apparently, what he wanted, above all else, was to return to France, his home base. Shortly there appeared puffs of black smoke indicating engine failure. Prudently, I edged up closer from behind to within a few metres in order to get a closer look at this man in distress. At one point I could clearly see the pilot’s strained face, for he had removed his oxygen mask . . . I thought, ‘He is going to die’ . . . because one does not put a fighter-aircraft into the water without suffering complete disintegration 99 times out of 100. Suddenly I felt aware that I did not want to witness this final, fatal event.34 Clostermann pulled up and away. Glancing back, he saw ‘the long frothy wake’ of the disintegrating Focke-Wulf. This kind of reminder of the enemy’s vulnerable humanity did little to ease the growing tiredness of pilots racking up over one hundred combat missions for the RAF while France remained firmly under German control. Every pilot reacted differently to the stresses and strains they were put under. Some even developed behaviour in combat which was either reckless or impossibly brave, depending on one’s standpoint. On 25 May 1943, at dusk, Jean Maridor of 91 Squadron was coming in to land when he heard a call from control that a flight of enemy aircraft was coming in towards Folkestone. He decided to tackle them. I opened up straight out to sea and saw about 12 FW 190s at sea level, one mile off-shore, heading straight for Folkestone. I dived head-on at the leading formation with blue 4 just behind me to starboard. There were five E/A [enemy aircraft] in a close box and the remainder were spread out behind them. Flak opened up from Folkestone. All the E/A panicked and jettisoned their bombs, turning towards the French coast. I selected one E/A and was about to attack when I saw Pilot Officer Round in a better position than I was. I took another E/A on the starboard side and closed to 300 yards without difficulty, giving him a four second burst from astern without result. I closed to 250, giving him another 4 secs burst

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[and] seeing cannon hits on the fuselage. He began to smoke and I gave him a third burst, seeing further hits. I broke away on seeing some tracer going past my wings from astern and saw the E/A I had attacked go straight into the sea.35 Attacking 12 enemy aircraft with a force of just two Spitfires was an act of remarkable bravery or, more likely, the reflex reaction of a man conditioned by mission after mission to react in no other way. The exhaustion felt by many pilots did not make them the most convivial of people, even though their reputation and gallantry awards meant that they were often sought out by fellow pilots, the press and well-wishers. Clostermann was on a visit to Free French Air Force headquarters when he encountered the highly respected Max Guedj of Coastal Command. Guedj had made a name for himself as squadron leader of 248 Squadron engaged on anti-shipping strikes. He had witnessed the very high rate of attrition of RAF Coastal Command Beaufighter and Mosquito crews on anti-shipping missions. Even so, he never spared himself, and he had acquired a reputation as a man who was reluctant to take leave. Approaching him at the bar, Clostermann found Guedj a remote figure, ‘silent and alone, for he was not of a “matey” disposition and his recent experiences had embittered him’.36 After an encounter with Guedj, one reporter wrote: ‘Getting a story out of this French pilot is like opening oysters with your bare hands . . . I once tried to make him talk, but he looked at me with eyes that said, “I am wholly certain of myself. My mind is cold and sharp as a new razor blade and I won’t tell you anything.” His dark eyes, like polished damsons, brook no interference with his authority, and he has the rare blessing of believing that he is always right.’37 For most Free French pilots, by the end of 1943 there was an urgent need to see progress towards the opening of a second front in Europe and the liberation of France.

Table 9.1 Causes of aircraft losses: 340 and 341 Free French Squadrons, 1943 Enemy aircraft Forced landings Crash in the sea Simply listed as ‘disappeared’

12 3 1 1

Total

17

[Sources: Articles on the French squadrons and biographies of individual fighter pilots in www.cieldegloire.com]

Chapter 10

342 (Lorraine) Squadron Enters the European Battle

The ‘Lorraine’ bomber groupe’s brief but costly tour of duty in Egypt and Cyrenaica at the end of 1941 and the first few weeks of 1942 had been followed by a lengthy period of rest and recuperation in Lebanon and Syria, combined with some maritime reconnaissance in the Eastern Mediterranean. They could no longer be considered fit in every respect for further front-line duty. Their Blenheim aircraft were now considered antiquated, and it was high time that they were re-equipped and trained to use modern machines capable of flying faster and delivering a heavier bomb load. General Valin, in consultation with the RAF, decided that the most convenient arrangement would be to disband the groupe in the Levant, deploy some of the aircrew on ferry duties in Africa and the Middle East, and bring the rest to the United Kingdom. There, like the men of the ‘Alsace’, they could be fully re-equipped, trained in the latest techniques and made ready to play a role in the liberation of Europe. In October 1942 the aircrew selected to form the cadre for this new unit began the long sea voyage from Suez to the United Kingdom, by way of the Red Sea, Arabian Gulf, Mombasa and South Africa. For some of them it very nearly ended in disaster. They were among the 253 service passengers embarked on the 8,233-ton transport Mendoza. As the vessel approached the South African port of Durban on 1 November she was torpedoed in 29.13S 32.13E by the German submarine U-178. Fortunately for the French airmen and other passengers, the Mendoza’s lifeboats were launched successfully by a competent and well-drilled crew. Although the ship’s master (Captain Batho), 22 crew and 3 passengers lost their lives in the sinking, 250 passengers and 130 crew survived to be rescued by a US merchant ship and some small vessels of the South African Navy. After being landed at Durban, the survivors were eventually able to continue their voyage to the United Kingdom.

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Four months later, two other Free French airmen, Charles Beyssier and Paul-Jean Roquère, were not so fortunate. Beyssier was on his way to a staff appointment and Roquère to a posting with the new bomber squadron. They were lost, together with Mme Beyssier, when the Italian submarine Leonardo da Vinci torpedoed the 21,500-ton liner Empress of Canada in the South Atlantic on 13 March 1943. Roquère was an experienced bomber pilot, having served with the Topic unit in Central Africa in 1940–41 and with the ‘Lorraine’ groupe in Egypt and Cyrenaica in 1941–42. The reformed Free French bomber squadron officially came into being on 7 April 1943 at West Raynham airfield, near Fakenham in Norfolk. It still retained its old honour title as 342 (Lorraine) Squadron of the RAF. Its new commander was Commandant Henri de Rancourt, who had played a big part in building up the Free French Air Force, first in command of the Franco-Belgian flying school at Odiham in 1940–41, and then as a staff officer at FAFL Headquarters. Now he was to have the chance to fulfil his ambition to command a front-line fighting unit. Like all the other Free French squadrons, 342 was divided into two escadrilles, ‘Metz’ commanded by Captain Charbonneaux and ‘Nancy’ commanded by Captain Yves Ezanno. By a strange coincidence, the two escadrille commanders had been the pilots of two Blenheims which managed to escape and return to base when Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Pijeaud’s aircraft and another Blenheim were shot down over Cyrenaica on 20 December 1941. Ezanno was a very experienced and exceptionally versatile pilot. He had flown Lysanders in action with the Groupe Mixte de Combat No 1 in Central Africa, and then gone on to fly anti-submarine patrols in the Gulf of Guinea. He had seen action with Blenheim bombers over Kufra, Eritrea and Tobruk. Completing 43 bombing and reconnaissance missions with the original ‘Lorraine’ groupe in Egypt and Cyrenaica during 1941–42 had not been enough to satisfy his determination to fight his country’s enemies. When the bomber groupe was withdrawn from Egypt he had transferred to the ‘Alsace’ fighter groupe to complete 52 further missions flying Hurricanes over the Western Desert. Now he had reverted to the role of bomber pilot. The reliable and robust modern twin-engined bomber with which 342 (Lorraine) Squadron was equipped was the Boston Mark IIIA. Built in the United States by the Douglas Aircraft Corporation, where it was known as the A20, it was given the name ‘Boston’ in British service. It was designed for a maximum speed of 304 miles per hour and could carry a maximum bomb load of 2,000 pounds. Having an operational range of 1,020 miles, and a service ceiling of 24,250 feet, it was well fitted for operations over western Europe, where its role would be mainly in low level daylight

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bombing raids. With seven machine-guns it was also well equipped for ground strafing, the kind of role which was increasingly being assigned to fighter aircraft, and which could be expected to grow in importance after a future invasion of France. Although it often carried one or two extra aircrew, the Boston could be flown by a crew of three: a pilot, a wireless operator/air gunner and a navigator/bombardier. This last role was often referred to by the obsolete title of ‘observer’ in French units. Initially the aircrew of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron were divided into 27 three-man crews. Personnel were, of course, interchangeable, but for maximum efficiency and high morale it was important that a crew should bond together as a team, with each man knowing and trusting the courage, competence and reliability of the other two. Before the eager Frenchmen could be entrusted with operations against the enemy, they required a couple of months of intensive training to familiarize themselves with every aspect of flying the Boston, and polish the special skills for flying in formation at low level. The training programme came at a price. On 10 April a pilot on his first flight in a Boston lost control on take-off and crashed near Great Massingham. A low altitude training flight resulted in another aircraft hitting a tree and crashing near Rougham on 22 May. A third machine suffered failure of the port engine while taking off on 6 June. It crashed near the end of the runway at Sculthorpe. Those accidents cost the squadron three pilots, two wireless operator/air gunners, one navigator and a specialist air photographer. Louis Ducorps, the pilot of the plane which crashed at Sculthorpe, had flown with Jubelin and Arnoux from French Indo-China across the Gulf of Siam to Malaya in a stolen aircraft in 1940, and then travelled by merchant ship half-way round the world to receive lengthy training with the RAF in the United Kingdom. The crash cost him his life just at the point where he was ready to be employed in an operational role. Developments in air warfare were leading to aircraft being employed in bigger and bigger formations. To meet that requirement, 342 (Alsace) Squadron was grouped with 88 and 107 Squadrons of the RAF to form a larger Anglo-French unit known as 137 Wing. Operational missions for 342 Squadron began in June 1943, initially from the base at Sculthorpe in Norfolk before they were transferred to Hartford Bridge, Hampshire, in September. The first operational casualty was soon incurred. The navigator died and the other three crew members were injured when a Boston crashed into the sea near Skegness on 27 June. Six days later a three-man crew died when another aircraft was brought down by flak while attacking a factory near

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Ghent in Belgium. From then to the end of the year the French squadron fell into a routine of regular bombing raids over northern France and the Low Countries; and they suffered the pain of losing aircraft and comrades, month by month, as the struggle for air superiority over Europe intensified. Two aircrew died in August, seven in October, two in November, and ten in December, with others burned, badly injured or made prisoners of war after bailing out over enemy territory. Operations were usually carried out by day against carefully selected targets such as railway marshalling yards, bridges, factories and airfields. The preferred attacking formation was a ‘box’ of six aircraft made up of two Vs of three. The route to the target, and a different return route, would have been precisely planned to mislead the enemy about the eventual objective, avoid known concentrations of anti-aircraft artillery and allow for a pre-arranged rendezvous with fighter aircraft flying as top cover against intervention by enemy fighters. For a target like the airfield at Monchy Breton, in the Pas de Calais, the complete operation on the afternoon of 9 September 1943 could be completed in less than 2 hours from take-off to landing back at base. Even a deeper penetration as far as Paris could be completed in under two and a half hours. A particularly important operation was carried out on 3 October against a cluster of three important power stations at ChevillyLarue, on the southern edge of the French capital. As on many other operations, the 12 aircraft selected to carry out the attack were led by their commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel de Rancourt. In briefing the crews he gave orders that the first ‘box’ of four aircraft would release their bombs at very low level, while the other eight would attack at no more than 1,500 feet. He also emphasized the crucial importance of minimizing casualties among French civilians: Before using your machine-guns against a ground target, check that there is no risk of hitting any French people; if in doubt, don’t fire. As for bombing, if the target is not exactly in the wires of your bombsight, don’t release the bombs, bring them back. Above all, don’t forget that, near the target, especially to the eastward, there are houses close by . . . you mustn’t hit them on any account.1 By 12.55 p.m. the aircraft had taken off, slipped into formation and set course for France. An hour later they were approaching the target, and facing heavy anti-aircraft fire from both 88 mm guns and machine-guns.2 As soon as the bombs had been dropped, the formation turned for home on a

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course that took them over Paris within sight of such unmistakable landmarks as Sacré-Coeur and Vincennes. One Boston was seen to go down in flames and crash into the River Seine. Another could only limp along until, unable to keep formation any longer, it crashed near Compiègne. A third aircraft had to make an emergency landing at an English airfield near the coast, leaving nine to return over their base by 03.15 p.m. One had to be given priority in landing as it had a wounded man on board. The whole operation had taken less than two and a half hours from take-off to landing. From the aircraft that crashed near Compiègne, two injured members of the crew became prisoners of war, while the other two were spirited away by French civilians, passed on to the Resistance, and enabled to return to England after more than a month ‘on the run’. There were no survivors from the aircraft that crashed into the Seine. The day after the raid Radio Paris announced that one of the crew had died en route to hospital and another shortly afterwards. The Paris newspaper Le Matin described the men as ‘De Gaulle’s mercenaries in England’. It went on to claim: ‘The criminal misguidedness of these traitors, who have denied even their birthplace to sink so low as to carry out common law crimes against innocent people, aroused the resentment it deserved. And the comments to which today the people of Paris gave vent, as the body of the plane with the Cross of Lorraine markings was salvaged from the river, expressed in no uncertain terms that feeling of public outrage and that contempt.’3 Subsequent photographic analysis appeared to show that the bombing had been carried out with great precision and minimal damage to nearby domestic properties. Nevertheless, French airmen were constantly troubled by the thought of killing their fellow countrymen. One navigator explained his own attempt to resolve the conflict between logical reasoning and heartfelt concern: If we do not attack targets in France, other Allied airmen would go in our place. Would they pick out their objectives with such care and attention to detail? Whatever their conscientiousness, their wish to spare French lives, we have more reason than they to operate with less regard for our own safety, even if that adds extra risk. We have learned a lot in recent months about the technique of low level bombing. It makes us more vulnerable, but it ensures accurate bomb-aiming and makes it possible to avoid scattering bombs outside the target area, even if the objective is very small.4 Since the formation of the French National Committee in 1943, a number of representations had been made to the British and Americans about

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bombing of targets in France. Pinpoint attacks on specific military targets were accepted as unavoidable, but high level attacks by the United States Army Air Force were regarded as indiscriminate murder. As early as 16 April 1943 Sir Anthony Eden, the British Foreign Secretary, had been asked by the foreign affairs spokesman of the French National Committee if ‘our American friends’ could be taught ‘some British methods’.5 The AngloAmerican response was to define more narrowly the list of French targets considered suitable for aerial attack. However, the issue had not gone away as the Allied bombing campaign intensified. General Giraud wrote to General Eisenhower on 11 October 1943 to express his concerns.6 Beyond a placatory reply couched in platitudes about French heroism, there was no real attempt to allay the anxiety by placing more restrictions on the selection of targets in France. The flying personnel of the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron included some outstanding personalities. Before the war Pierre Mendès France had been one of France’s most promising young Radical politicians and served as a junior minister in Léon Blum’s Popular Front government. He had been arrested in Morocco in 1940 while attempting to escape to join de Gaulle in England. The Vichy authorities put him on trial and imprisoned him, but he made a daring escape from custody on 21 June 1941 and made his way to London. Already a trained navigator, after further training he joined 342 (Lorraine) Squadron on its formation. Another navigator/bombardier was Romain Kacew. Born to a Jewish family in Vilna, Lithuania in 1914, he and his family had moved to Nice when he was an adolescent. He enlisted in the French Air Force in 1938, and escaped to London in 1940 to continue the fight against Hitler.7 Once in England he changed his name to Romain Gary to disguise his origins, and he was one of the French airmen who flew with the RAF on bombing raids over Germany as early as July 1940. Later he served in the Middle East, gaining operational experience in Abyssinia and Libya before being brought back to England and posted to 342 (Lorraine) Squadron on its formation in 1943. After the war he was to become a famous novelist, using the pen name Romain Gary, but he had already been developing his talent for writing while serving with the ‘Lorraine’. Of the Spartan conditions faced by the French airmen at Hartford Bridge during the hard winter of 1943–44 he later wrote, ‘It was very cold. I wrote at night in a corrugated iron hut which I shared with three fellow officers. Each night I would put on my flying jacket and my fur-lined boots, prop myself up in bed and write till dawn with numbed fingers, my breath rising in vapour in the freezing air.’8

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Some of the air gunners who manned the Bostons’ machine-guns also came from interesting and varied backgrounds. In 1942 Jacques Duchossoy, aged 17, ran away from his family home at Newhaven, in Sussex, in order to enlist with the Free French Air Force.9 He received radio training at RAF Cranwell and gunnery training at Morpeth before being posted to the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron. One of his fellow gunners was a seasoned veteran of the Foreign Legion by the name of Louis Ricardou. He had been evacuated to England from Narvik in 1940. He then served with General Koenig’s forces in central Africa and Cyrenaica before being wounded at Bir Hakeim.10 The wound cost him his left leg, but he was still determined to get back into the war. Applying to serve as an air gunner, Ricardou had to pass a test devised by the British air ministry to decide if he was fit to fly as aircrew. He was able to show that, despite the loss of his leg, he was still nimble enough to get in and out of an aircraft with ease, and there could be no doubt about his proficiency behind a Browning machine-gun. Before each mission, Ricardou would take off his false leg and ask a mechanic to look after it for him until he returned. Another North African veteran was Marcel Ducos-Baler. He had seen service with the French Special Air Service Squadron in Egypt and Libya in 1942 before coming to England to serve with the ‘Lorraine’. Nara Natapu was another wireless operator/air gunner.11 After volunteering in Tahiti he went to Auckland in New Zealand with 22 others before being shipped to Canada for initial training. After crossing the Atlantic in convoy, he trained at RAF Cranwell and in Scotland before being posted to an operational squadron. In addition to Tahitians and one-legged former legionnaires, the ‘Lorraine’ sometimes included British airmen to make good any temporary shortage of a particular specialism. Bill Morris was a Boltonborn wireless operator/air gunner. He flew 17 mission with 88 Squadron before being seconded to the Free French, with whom he flew a further 15 missions.12 From December 1943 the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron were employed in attacking a new category of target – mysterious 165-foot-long ramps of reinforced concrete which the Germans had begun building in north-east France. Well defended by anti-aircraft guns, these ramps were difficult to locate, difficult to hit, and difficult to destroy. They were, in fact, the launching pads for the first of Hitler’s V1 flying bombs, which German scientists and German industry were then perfecting as a response to the growing air superiority of the Allies. The operational deployment of this weapon still lay 6 months in the future, but Allied intelligence agencies knew what was coming, and were anxious to disrupt the construction programme of the launching ramps and the bombs themselves.

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For 342 (Lorraine) Squadron the attacks on these unusual targets did not get off to an auspicious start. On 23 December, in an attack on a site at Mesnil-Allard, they lost two Bostons to German flak. One was brought down in France and the other crashed as it tried to land back at base. A week later, another pair of Bostons collided as they were taking off for a raid on a site at Hesdin. Both aircraft crashed, one of them ending in a terrible explosion and fire when the full bomb load detonated. Accidents of this type, clearly visible on the squadron’s own doorstep, were not good for morale, but attacks on the V1 sites had to be continued into the new year. Table 10.1 Free French (FAFL) aircrew, fatal casualties, 1943 RAF Training Units (UK) RAF Training Units (overseas) RAF Squadrons (UK) 340 (Ile de France) 341 (Alsace) 342 (Lorraine) Fleet Air Arm R. N. Africa (various) (Bretagne groupe) (Artois groupe) Middle East (various) (Bretagne groupe) Exceptional cases Total

4 6 4 23 2

(7) (1) (2) (4) (2) (9) (2) (6) (5) (5) (3)

39

(46)

Note: (a) Bold figures show aircrew killed (including missing believed killed) during operations. (b) Figures in brackets show deaths during non-operational flying or certain exceptional cases. (c) Deaths from illness or non-aviation accidents are omitted, as are those for parachutists, secret agents and the Normandie groupe in Russia. (d) Exceptional cases – 2 airmen lost when the s.s. Empress of Canada was sunk; and 1 prisoner of war shot by the Italians after escaping from prisoner-of-war camp. [Source: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

Chapter 11

Survive, Evade, Escape

When aircraft were lost over the sea or enemy territory, the chances were that the men flying them also lost their lives; and their comrades back at base could only grieve as the losses mounted. When they looked helplessly at the empty chair in the mess, the missing man’s personal possessions and sometimes an inconsolable pet dog, they could only ask each other questions about the exact details of the loss, and speculate about any remote possibility that their comrade might have survived. Where was he last seen? Had anyone spotted a parachute? Was there any sign of smoke? In what attitude did the aircraft hit the ground or the sea? The high speed and confusion of the air battles meant that, all too often, those anxious questions went unanswered, as did another unspoken question. Will it be my turn next? Sometimes, however, against all the odds, an airman did survive the loss of his aircraft. Then the kind of man who had shown courage and resourcefulness in overcoming all obstacles so that he could rally to the Free French cause showed just those same personal qualities in refusing to give up. A man who had the knowledge and self-reliance to qualify as a pilot showed just those same qualities in seeking some way of getting away from the enemy and returning to fight another day. Some Free French airmen in the Middle East provided outstanding early examples of that indomitable spirit. Xavier de Scitivaux1 had boarded a ship at Saint-Jean-de-Luz on 20 June 1940 in order to continue the struggle against Germany. Posted to the Middle East, he had flown with 33 Squadron RAF during the campaign in Greece. On 11 April 1941 he was shot down by anti-aircraft fire while machine-gunning German troops near Tobruk. Despite serious injuries, including multiple skull fractures, he managed to walk all the way back to his base – a desert hike of more than 30 kilometres. Unfit for further flying, he spent most of the rest of the war doing staff work for the Free French Air Force in the Middle East. Jean Pompei was another example of survival in the desert. In 1940 he had escaped on foot from Syria into Palestine and on to Egypt, where he

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became a pilot of the Free French fighter escadrille within the RAF’s 274 Squadron. On 21 May 1941, in a dogfight over Tobruk, he shot down an enemy aircraft but was obliged to make a crash landing behind enemy lines after receiving a serious wound in the right thigh. He was rescued by a group of Senoussi Arabs, who hid him in their camp and took him with them on a month’s trek through the desert until they could hand him over to British forces, in return for the customary reward payment. On returning to his unit, Pompei found that his comrades had already celebrated a mass in his memory. The death of Lieutenant-Colonel Pijeaud, commanding the ‘Lorraine’ bomber groupe in Egypt, provided an inspiring example of bravery and determination.2 Pijeaud’s story showed that, even when shot down and captured, a Free French airman’s resistance to the oppressors of his homeland could still be carried on by other means. Many memoirs by Free French airmen mention the case of Pijeaud, often with puzzling discrepancies about locations and details, which suggest that his example was so widely known and discussed that it acquired some mythical distortions in the telling. His story also illustrates two of the fundamental problems facing any potential escaper or evader. The first was the paramount importance of surviving the loss of the aircraft with a minimum of physical injury, whether by taking to the parachute or making a crash landing. Any injury was bound to impair a pilot’s chances of subsequent survival, let alone successful escape or evasion. Secondly, aircrew had to come to terms with the environment in which they then found themselves. That environment could range from the Sahara Desert to the open sea, and through many variations in climate and terrain, including the streets of densely populated industrial conurbations. The crucial problem of survival in desert terrain is exemplified by the loss of one Free French Blenheim bomber which was posted missing after a raid on Kufra oasis on 4 February 1941. Its fate remained an unsolved mystery until the wreckage was found 18 years later. Evidence at the wreck site showed that the crew of three had survived the crash landing, but then they had taken 3 weeks to die a terrible lingering death from thirst while they waited in vain to be found and rescued. Parachuting into the English Channel presented quite different challenges. Raymond van Wymeersch of 174 Squadron found himself with no alternative after an attack on the airfield at Abbeville on 2 May 1942: Fire breaks out, and while unbuckling my harness and getting rid of what is left of the canopy, I send off ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ messages. A short turn upside down, and I am outside [the aircraft], searching desperately for

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the ripcord to open the parachute. There it is, I pull and, oh! a miracle! I find myself hanging under a white canopy drifting slowly down towards the Channel, which sparkles under the blue sky of early May. Slowly! – it is easy to say – but the nearer I get to the water, I seem to be going quickly. Splash! The water is not warm; I get to work; release the parachute. I open and blow up my rubber dinghy. What worries me is that I am close to the coast at Berck, that is to say enemy waters. I climb into my dinghy and have hardly finished checking the equipment [before] two Spitfires fly over and wag their wings. That is reassuring. Unfortunately, some minutes later, after flying over once more, they fly off towards the English coast. Broken hearted, I wait, and the time passes slowly; despair steadily begins to take over. I search the sea and the sky. Curiously, I get the impression of being at the bottom of a basin. I bale water out of the dinghy, hoist the red and white flag on the telescopic mast, put the medicine chest and the red hand flares on one side. I open the box of rations and munch a kind of hard, but not disagreeable, chocolate cake. Suddenly, a dozen Spitfires appear on the horizon; they head straight for me; a dozen others are at altitude. The first group, in single file, fly over my head at wave-top height and begin to circle round. My morale improves, and even more when a silhouette of a fast motorboat appears on the horizon, followed by a second. I am hauled on board, undressed, rubbed down, dressed in long white hospital stockings, sailor’s trousers, a long woollen sweater that comes down to my knees, and shod in boots size 47 (and I only take 41!).3 The experience of being shot down was stressful, both mentally and physically. Airmen had to cope with this if they were to survive. Van Wymeersch also experienced the sense of loneliness brought about by being plunged into an unfamiliar and threatening environment. While a downed bomber crew could offer one another some degree of mutual support and encouragement, the fighter pilot was very much on his own. Appreciation of this is shown by the behaviour of the fighter pilots who flew over Van Wymeersch while he was in his dinghy. Although they could do little to help him directly, other than repeat his ‘Mayday!’ and position, over-flights and waggling of wings were intended to reassure the downed pilot that he had been spotted, was not alone, had not been forgotten and help was on its way. British intelligence agencies had recognized since the outbreak of war that the enemy’s resources could be sapped by encouraging people in occupied Europe to engage in sabotage and other forms of resistance. Allied prisoners of war who escaped from German camps could similarly tie down numbers of enemy troops, out of all proportion to the number of escapers.

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In view of their lengthy and expensive training, airmen were encouraged to evade capture altogether, if possible, and to escape if they were captured. In the early days there was some scepticism about the practicalities of escape and evasion. In 1941 René Mouchotte felt that the RAF’s provision of escape equipment was rather too generous: The English amuse themselves by encumbering us with a quantity of small objects of undeniable usefulness if fate should make us the quarry in some absorbing manhunt . . . It must be extraordinarily exciting and, once the first agonizing minutes were over, being French would make my task easier. We go with our pockets stuffed with odd paraphernalia: compasses hidden almost everywhere in the form of trouser buttons, propelling pencils and collar-studs; miniature hacksaw sewn into the belt; maps, on silk, of Holland, Belgium and France hidden in shoulder pads. We carry nutritive chocolate, pills to stop us going to sleep, an ampoule of morphine with a needle to inject it, tablets to purify water and a great deal of French and Belgian currency. With all that, we are ready to face the terrors of a grand pursuit.4 Mouchotte was perfectly justified in assuming that a French background might be advantageous for an evader. From the beginning of the war, French pilots had proved themselves particularly adroit escapers and evaders. In occupied Europe their language skills, local knowledge and contacts made them prime candidates for evasion or escape if the need ever arose. By 1943 a large number of Allied airmen were in enemy prison camps, and at any one time there would usually be several others ‘on the run’ in Europe after being shot down. In German-occupied territories, resistance networks had sprung up spontaneously to help airmen escape from the prison camps or evade capture altogether. The brave French, Belgian and Dutch men and women who worked in the evasion networks faced almost certain death if they were arrested by the enemy, while the airmen they were helping could generally (but not invariably) expect to receive fair treatment under the Geneva Convention. German efforts to penetrate and disrupt the escape lines were unceasing, elaborate and effective. If he survived the trauma of being shot down in a strange and lonely landscape, the airman’s next peril was the imminent threat of capture, which carried its own risks. Not only was there an outside chance that enemy troops or police might shoot aircrew out of hand, but there might also be danger from infuriated and vengeful enemy civilians. There were several

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well-documented occasions when British or American bomber crews were summarily executed by the German military or by angry mobs of civilians. At least one French fighter pilot – Yves Bourgès, shot down over France on 17 May 1943 – seems to have been shot by the German army unit that captured him. He was seen to parachute from his aircraft, but nothing more was heard about his fate. After the war, his old comrades in the ‘Alsace’ made enquiries in the area near Caen where he had been shot down. Local civilians remembered a French aviator being captured and executed by German forces on a date corresponding with that when Bourgès had been lost. His body was never found. Some pilots showed remarkable presence of mind in adapting to new surroundings after the shock of being brought down. Maurice Cermolacce had made repeated attempts to get away from Vichy-controlled North Africa and had spent time in Spanish prisons in Morocco before he eventually succeeded in reaching Gibraltar on 15 July 1943. Two and a half years in Vichy and Spanish prisons had sharpened his wits and strengthened his resolve to join the FAFL. Claiming 850 hours of flying time (three times what he had really completed), he bluffed his way past the RAF’s language tests in order to secure a posting to 341 (Alsace) Squadron in early 1944. After he had completed just a handful of missions, German flak blew off his aircraft’s propeller over occupied France: When I saw that the ground was very close and there was nothing more to be done, I pulled back on the control column with all my strength and put my arms in front of my eyes to protect them. The shock was terrible; everything disintegrated. When the dust had subsided, I was sitting on my parachute in the middle of the debris from my aircraft. My only concern was to make sure that not one bit of my plane remained intact, especially the radio and the call signs we had been given. I was in a pitiful state. My new trousers and my white shirt were covered in dust. I had been banged full in the mouth and my nose was bleeding slightly. When I calmed down a bit, I was glad to be alive, but aware of danger. Not wishing to be captured by the Germans, I set off running towards a small wood nearby. It was then that I saw a peasant working in a field. He beckoned me to him. I had confidence in him and went towards him. He tried to speak to me in English, but as soon as I explained that I was French, he told me to take off my Mae West, which showed where I had come from. At that moment the Germans arrived and asked if I had seen the Englishman. I had time to roll up the sleeves of my shirt and put an implement over my shoulder, which made me look like an agricultural labourer. I then

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replied to the Germans, ‘You can see perfectly well that I am French. The plane crashed over there. I have seen nothing.’5 His attempt to bluff the enemy was so convincing that even many local villagers did not recognize him as a pilot on the run. After being taken in hand by the local resistance network, Cermolacce was unfortunate in being captured, along with a number of other Allied aircrew, when their safe house was betrayed by a local French collaborator and surrounded by German troops. He had managed to remain at liberty for just 24 hours. Some pilots chose to offer armed resistance when faced with imminent capture, despite the risks. Raymond van Wymeersch, shot down for a second time over Dieppe on 19 August 1942 while flying a Mark II Hurricane with 174 Squadron, describes the experience and the shock of being captured: Completely unstable, my [aircraft] stalls, and I lose control. How can I find time to set the bombs to safe, jettison the canopy, unbuckle the harness, bail out, without counting the six seconds one has to wait before opening the parachute? I know nothing about it. In any case, it is not before time, because the parachute is hardly open before I plunge violently to the ground. With my ankle and right foot broken, I scramble out of my parachute harness and get rid of my ‘Mae West’. I try to drag myself towards the bushes. The enemy arrive; I fire all the bullets in my Smith and Wesson [revolver], but fine marksman though I am, I do not kill anyone; I only manage to wound one of them. The soldiers who captured me were not bad. They took me to a garage where a German civilian offers me cigarettes and a drink.6 Coming to terms with the loss of liberty was a major problem for any pilot, especially if, like Van Wymeersch, they were badly injured. Some even managed to evade capture in spite of serious injuries. One was Captain Jacques Schloesing, who had taken over command of the ‘Ile de France’ when Bernard Dupérier was ordered to take a compulsory rest at the end of his combat tour. On 13 February 1943, while escorting Circus 262 over northern France, his Spitfire Mark IX was set on fire by one of JG26’s Focke-Wulf 190s. Schloesing was trapped in the burning aircraft as it fell from 11,000 to 2,000 metres. Only then did he manage to free the jammed canopy and bail out. Although badly burned about the face and hands, he was able to hide until he could make contact with the Resistance. They arranged treatment for his burns and helped him to reach Gibraltar via Paris and Spain. Hospitalized at East Grinstead, which specialized in the

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treatment of burns, Schloesing went through eight surgical operations before being able to return to flying in command of 341 (Alsace) Squadron in August 1944. With him in the ‘Alsace’ was another pilot who made an escape even more remarkable than his own. Claude Raoul Duval had been born on 22 October 1919 in Paris. In 1939 he had entered the Ecole de l’Air and had been commissioned as a sous-lieutenant by the start of the German offensive in 1940. With the advance of the German armies, most of the pilots of the Ecole de l’Air retreated to Bordeaux, eventually embarking on a ship for North Africa. Raoul Duval was not among them. He embarked on a Dutch vessel, the Nettie, bound from Verdon to Falmouth. On arrival in the United Kingdom, he enrolled in the Free French Air Force. After completing his training he was posted to the ‘Alsace’ groupe in the Middle East, where he flew over 50 sorties. When they were brought back to the United Kingdom, he was one of the founder members of the newly formed 341 (Alsace) Squadron in 1943. Raoul Duval took part in an operation over Le Havre on 17 April 1943, when the target was the German airfield at Triqueville. While bombers attacked the airfield, the ‘Alsace’, led by Mouchotte, were supposed to wait in ambush for the German fighters to appear on the scene. When the ‘Alsace’ arrived over Triqueville, however, the French pilots quickly realized that the Germans had already scrambled two fighter groups. The ‘Alsace’ were trapped in an aerial pincer movement, with a group of Focke-Wulf’s climbing from below, and a group of Me 109s coming in from above. On the edge of Mouchotte’s formation, Raoul Duval was quickly picked off. Wounded in both legs by shell splinters, he parachuted to earth. The Germans were on the trail of the wounded airman as soon as he landed in the woods near the Chateau de Tancarville. Realizing that he could not hope to outrun the enemy, he crawled under some bushes and did his best to camouflage his position. Searching German patrols missed his hiding place, but some French peasants found him after the enemy had moved on. For several days, one local family after another hid him, as they transferred him from farm to farm. He then spent over 2 weeks at the Benedictine Abbey of Saint-Vandrille, until an evasion network moved him to a farm near Rouen. When the network managed to establish communication with his father, who confirmed that he could offer his son safe shelter in Paris, Raoul Duval headed for the capital. In Paris, where his father looked after him and he was reunited with Josette Bort, his fiancée, Raoul Duval thought carefully about possible routes by which he might be able to escape from France. He decided that a

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boat from Brittany offered the best chance of getting back to the United Kingdom quickly. With his fiancée, he left his father’s home and travelled to the house of his former nurse at Saint-Quay-Portrieux. There he hoped to make contact with one of the local evasion networks that could arrange for his departure. He was right about the escape networks and about the growing resistance in Brittany. What he did not anticipate was that those networks were already under great pressure from the large number of Allied airmen being shot down over the Atlantic coast on their way to bomb ports like Brest and the U-boat pens at Lorient, St Nazaire and La Pallice. After making contact with the ‘Oaktree’ network, Raoul Duval was staggered at the number of evaders who were being hidden and cared for by Breton families. ‘Oaktree’ supporters in Saint-Quay-Portrieux, Plourivo and Tréveneuc were concealing 90 of them. Lack of direct radio communication between the ‘Oaktree’ network and British intelligence agencies thwarted all attempts to arrange for the airmen to be picked up before the short summer nights made any clandestine approach to the Breton coast by boat extremely hazardous. Raoul Duval found himself increasingly drawn into the problems of ‘Oaktree,’ especially after the Germans arrested the head of the network.7 Using his personal contacts, Raoul Duval tried to do what he could to make life easier for the Breton people hiding Allied airmen. For example, the Comte de Kergariou provided him with money, which was a great help in obtaining provisions to feed the airmen. It was obvious, however, that with such a large contingent of fugitives and little prospect of prompt help from Britain, another escape route had to be found urgently. Getting across the Pyrenees into neutral Spain offered the only realistic alternative for such large numbers. By establishing contacts with two Paris-based evasion networks, Raoul Duval managed to set up the arrangements necessary to move groups of airmen trapped in Brittany as far as south-western France. In August he made his own run for freedom. The first stage was to Paris, where he took a southbound train from the Gare d’Austerlitz. On reaching Foix, he left the train and began an 8-day hike over the Pyrenees. He eventually managed to make his way to Barcelona, where he announced his arrival to the British consulate. They arranged his onward travel to Gibraltar to wait for a ship sailing for the United Kingdom, where he finally arrived in November 1943. Accompanying him on his travels in France and Spain were the crews of two American B-17 bombers. Raoul Duval’s successful evasion had been remarkable, and he had a particularly fine set of anecdotes to amuse his envious fellow pilots when he returned to action with 341 (Alsace) Squadron.

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Raoul Duval’s evasion succeeded in circumstances where his personal qualities, willing support from strangers and family members in France, and access to essential finance could combine effectively – and then enjoy an astonishing and prolonged run of good luck. Other men were not so fortunate, and over 80 French airmen operating under RAF command became prisoners of war between 1942 and 1945. The number went up sharply during the last 2 years of hostilities but, for those shot down towards the end of the war, the period in captivity was, of course, mercifully brief. Bravado, panache, and the practical advantages of involving Free French personnel were features of the largest escape attempt from a German prisoner-of-war camp during the Second World War. Free French pilot Lieutenant Bernard Scheidhauer played a major part in the escape on 24 March 1944 from Stalag Luft III, at Sagan in Germany. After excavating a tunnel almost 350 feet in length, 76 Allied airmen succeeded in breaking out of the prison camp in what has since become known, thanks to a successful film, as the ‘Great Escape’. The German authorities had to take exceptional measures, and employ considerable resources, to recapture the escaped airmen who scattered across Europe. The outbreak of the Second World War had interfered with Scheidhauer’s hopes of becoming a pilot in the Armée de l’Air. Seeking to join the Free French forces in Britain, he failed in his initial attempt to cross the Pyrenees into Spain. He then turned his attention to the idea of escaping by sea. On 20–21 October 1940 he and five other Frenchmen set sail from the port of Douarnenez, in Brittany, on board the fishing boat La Petite Anna. With rations for only 24 hours and a minimal amount of marine diesel fuel, they managed to evade German units patrolling the coast and head out into the Atlantic. Through navigational errors, they were still at sea, out of rations and out of fuel, some 48 hours later. A further 8 days went by before a British merchant ship picked them up in the Bristol Channel and set them ashore at Milford Haven. Bernard Scheidhauer had gone through a terrifying ordeal to enable him to enlist in the Free French Air Force. He was already a practised and successful, but decidedly lucky, escaper before he began training with the RAF in 1941. Passing through flight training, Scheidhauer gained his wings in June 1942 and joined the RAF’s 242 Squadron, flying MkV Spitfires. He flew with them during the great air battles over Dieppe in August. Next month he was posted to 131 Squadron with Henri de Bordas and another French pilot. They took part in repeated fighter sweeps over the Channel and over France. After being involved in a mid-air collision on 11 November, he was rescued from the sea and returned to operations almost immediately. Taffy

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Williams, the British pilot with whose aircraft Scheidhauer had collided, was less fortunate. His body was later recovered from the sea. One week later Scheidhauer was carrying out attacks on railways and other targets of opportunity on the Cotentin Peninsula. Hit by flak over Carentan, he tried to nurse his aircraft home. His wireless transmitter was out of action, and he was alone. Henri de Bordas repeatedly called him but failed to get any response. Believing he was over the Isle of Wight, Scheidhauer set his aircraft down in a textbook wheels-up landing. He did not realize that he had landed on the German-occupied island of Jersey until he met some local people. With the assistance of the locals, he did his best to destroy his virtually intact aircraft. Their ineffective demolition efforts were interrupted by the arrival of German troops, who captured Scheidhauer and the aircraft. The Spitfire would later fly again in German colours, and Scheidhauer ended up in prisoner-of-war camp Stalag Luft III. He soon came to the attention of the camp’s escape committee. Fluent in English, German and French, he established a good relationship with South African Squadron Leader Roger Bushell, the head of the camp’s escape committee. The Frenchman worked in the security detail, charged with observing and eavesdropping on the camp guards, as the escape committee drew up an audacious plan to dig three tunnels out of the camp. The tunnels were codenamed ‘Tom’, ‘Dick’ and ‘Harry’; and only the last was actually completed. On the night of the escape, Bushell and Scheidhauer were to be third and fourth out of the tunnel. Bushell wanted Scheidhauer with him because of his language skills. The pairing with Bushell was, nevertheless, a last-minute arrangement after Bushell’s original escape partner, Wing Commander Stanford Tuck, was transferred to another prison camp days before the date scheduled for the breakout. The escape on the night of 24/25 March 1944 did not go well. The tunnel ended some distance short of the woodland on which they were relying to provide cover for their escape, and other problems caused a delay of at least an hour. Emerging from the tunnel into open grassland, Bushell and Scheidhauer reached the woodland unobserved and made their way to Sagan railway station. By the time guards back at Stag Luft III discovered the escape, some 76 prisoners were on the run. After travelling as far as Saarbrücken by train, Bushell and Scheidhauer were on the point of crossing into France when their luck ran out. Alerted by a minor error on their forged papers, a Gestapo man wished the pair a cheery ‘Have a good day’ – in English – as he returned their travel and identity documents. Probably because he was so fluent in three different

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languages, Scheidhauer responded in English with an unthinking, ‘Thank you’. The pair were promptly arrested, and held for several days in the Kriminal Polizei prison at Saarbrücken. During that time, Hitler gave orders that 50 of the 76 escapers were to be shot as punishment for the audacious escape and as a deterrent to other escapers. Bushell and Scheidhauer were taken by car towards Mannheim on 29 March. Their escorts included Obersturmbannführer Dr. Leopold Spann of the Gestapo and two other men. They stopped at the roadside en route, ostensibly to allow the two prisoners to relieve themselves. They were then shot, Scheidhauer by Dr Spann and Bushell by Gestapo man Emil Schultz. The bodies were subsequently cremated and the ashes returned to Sagan for burial. Scheidhauer was just 22 years old when he met his death on the road to Mannheim.8 Only three of the 76 men who escaped from Stalag Luft III succeeded in getting all the way home. After the German surrender, the war crime was investigated thoroughly. Dr Spann had been killed in an air raid on Linz on 24 March 1945, but Schultz, the man who had murdered Bushell, was identified, tried, and executed on 27 February 1948. One of the lucky minority during the Great Escape was the irrepressible Raymond van Wymeersch. Teamed up with a Dutch prisoner, he travelled as a French electrical engineer employed as forced labour by the firm of Siemens. At one point he found himself standing on the same railway platform in Breslau as Scheidhauer and Bushell. Van Wymeersch got as far as Mayence before an error in his papers gave him away. Taken under escort to Berlin, he used an Allied air raid as cover for another escape from custody, but he was subsequently picked up as a suspicious character in one of the Gestapo’s routine round-ups. Van Wymeersch bravely refused to reveal his true identity, and his status as an escaped prisoner of war remained undetected. Eventually he was sent to Sachsenhausen concentration camp, where he was held with some of the Third Reich’s most important prisoners. After the concentration camp had to be evacuated ahead of the Russian army’s advance in 1945, the prisoners were transferred to another camp near Innsbruck. Van Wymeersch simply walked out, escorted by a German guard who decided that the time had come to desert. Together they crossed the Alps into Italy. There, following advice they had been given by the Italian General Garibaldi, one of the VIP prisoners at Innsbruck, the French airman and the German deserter attached themselves a group of Italian partisans with whom they stayed until the end of the war.9

Chapter 12

D-Day: Preparation and Execution

As early as the summer of 1943 discussions had taken place about the possibility that French squadrons from the former Vichy Air Force in North Africa might join the main Anglo-American strategic bombing offensive from British bases. Some officers in Bomber Command did not welcome the idea. The French squadrons would need re-equipping with new fourengined bombers, and aircrew and ground crew would all require extensive (and expensive) retraining. No doubt mindful of the appalling casualties being incurred by his men, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris, Commander-in-Chief of RAF Bomber Command, wrote on 8 July, ‘We will have to accept this, unfortunately, but the French ought to be pretty good, and as good as other “foreigners”. The shortage of British crews expected in the future will result in these French Sqdns being an “extra” to what would otherwise materialise.’1 A decision to accept two French heavy bomber squadrons followed soon afterwards.2 In accordance with General Bouscat’s ambitious expansion plan for the reconstituted French Air Force, two former Vichy bomber units from North Africa, Groupes de Bombardement II/23 ‘Guyenne’ and I/25 ‘Tunisie’, began to arrive in the United Kingdom by sea in September 1943. These airmen had some recent operational experience flying twin-engined LeO 451 bombers. They had seen action against Axis forces in Tunisia, but they needed retraining before they would be ready to fly British-built Handley Page Halifax aircraft. Normally carrying a crew of seven, the four-engined Halifax had a cruising speed of 215 miles per hour at 20,000 feet. It could carry a 13,000pound bomb load divided between the main bomb bay in the fuselage and smaller bomb bays in the wings. French airmen who could not speak English were given language lessons on arrival. They were then placed with specialized RAF training establishments: the mechanics to RAF St Athan, gunners to the Air Gunnery School at Elvington, pilots to 15 Advanced Training Unit at Longnewton, navigators to 10 Advanced Training Unit at Dumfries and so on. All this was inevitably

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time consuming because of the complexity of the new aircraft, the range of specialist skills required by both aircrew and ground crew, the ever-changing tactical lessons the RAF was acquiring through hard and costly experience, and the need to translate into French the many technical manuals.3 In time, the French airmen would be formed into crews and pass through an RAF Operational Training Unit and a Heavy Conversion Unit. This retraining process would last well into the middle of 1944 before the French units could expect to be ready to take part in the strategic air assault on Germany.4 They would then become 346 and 347 Squadrons of the RAF, while retaining their original regional honour titles. The twin-engined Boston bombers of the old Free French 342 (Lorraine) Squadron were still fully involved in low-level attacks on important targets in northern France. One aircraft was lost to flak during a mission against an enemy airfield in the Pas-de-Calais on 8 February 1944, and in the same area flak also claimed another Boston during an attack on a V1 launching ramp on 2 March. Lieutenant-Colonel de Rancourt relinquished command of the squadron in the middle of March, and was succeeded by his former second-in-command, Commandant ‘Gorri’. The new man’s real name was Michel Fourquet, but he had adopted ‘Gorri’ as his nom de guerre. He had commanded an escadrille in 1940, but left the Vichy Air Force in January 1941 to take up an industrial post in German-occupied France. There he soon became involved with the ‘Alliance’ resistance network, providing industrial intelligence and recruiting suitable new members. At the end of 1942 his contacts in the ‘Alliance’ network arranged for him to leave for England by fishing boat from Brittany. ‘Gorri’ regularly led the ‘Lorraine’ bombing operations over enemy territory. If he had fallen into enemy hands his nom de guerre might have offered some flimsy hope of concealing his former role in the Resistance. The ‘Lorraine’ Squadron played its modest part in the Allied bombing strategy during the run-up to D-Day. They were employed attacking transport and communications targets to seal-off, as far as possible, the future Normandy battlefield from the rest of France. The work was far from easy. Bombing a railway junction, bridge or crossroads required pinpoint accuracy at low level. There was also an increased likelihood that French civilians would be killed on such missions. French civilian casualties provided enemy propagandists with opportunities to target French public opinion. Within France, people who would otherwise have been glad to see the back of the Germans expressed sorrow and indignation about the Allied bombing. The British and Americans received further representations on this delicate matter from French North Africa shortly before D-Day.5 Those representations were ignored. The needs

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of the invasion force had to be given precedence. Everything that could be done to ensure a successful invasion of France in June 1944 would be done, whatever the cost. In the military judgement of Allied commanders, there was simply no alternative to targeting the transport infrastructure, and they were convinced that they were already doing all that could be done to minimize the inevitable collateral damage and casualties. Moreover, while protests came from the North African territories formerly controlled by Vichy, the old guard of the Free French movement in Britain voiced no opposition. Indeed, in May 1944 General Koenig, the French National Committee’s representative at Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and General Valin, head of the French Air Force in Britain, made private and public statements in support of the bombing.6 The two Free French fighter squadrons in the United Kingdom (‘Ile de France’ and ‘Alsace’) were reinforced by two former Vichy fighter groupes from North Africa, with all four squadrons operating under RAF command. The first of the former Vichy units, 329 (Cigognes) Squadron, landed at Greenock in Scotland on 5 January 1944. From there, they proceeded to Ayr to form up under the command of Commandant Fleurquin. Having fought for the Allied cause as Group de Chasse I/2 in 1939–40, the ‘Cigognes’ were an established fighter unit bearing one of the most famous names in French aviation. They had been the squadron of Georges Guynemer, France’s greatest ace of the First World War. They had fought well during the air battles of 1940, losing five pilots killed or missing. Against those losses, they had been credited with the surprising total of 25 enemy aircraft destroyed and 6 ‘probables’.7 The ‘Cigognes’ spent the next three and a half years out of the war, as one of the units permitted to the Vichy French Air Force under the terms of the 1940 armistice. Their arrival in the United Kingdom in 1944 was a sign that France, as a nation, was now ready to take up the struggle alongside the gallant, but dwindling, band of FAFL airmen who had been in continuous action with the RAF since 1940. Soon after their arrival in the United Kingdom, the pilots of 329 Squadron were sent to 61 Operational Training Unit at Rednall in Shropshire. They were given a quick introduction to the Mark 1 Spitfire, before moving on to the Mark V. Jean Maridor, the experienced Free French pilot serving with the RAF’s 91 Squadron, visited the training unit to welcome the new squadron. Other FAFL veterans were less eager to welcome men they regarded as ‘Johnny come latelies’. By the end of January the ‘Cigognes’ were on their way to Perranporth in Cornwall, where they would make their operational debut. A cliff-top airfield far removed from any major town, Perranporth had few delights to offer its

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new occupants. The squadron’s social highlight for February 1944 was a guided tour of the tin/tungsten mine on the edge of the airfield. The pilots were kept busy with constant practice in formation flying, aerial gunnery and other activities designed to bring them to the peak of operational efficiency. They flew a few reconnaissance missions over the coast of northern France, and aircraft took off on several occasions to try to intercept enemy intruders, but no conclusive engagements resulted. With the invasion of Europe imminent, the squadron expected to play a leading role despite their relative lack of experience in the European theatre. By April they had graduated to escorting American bombers over the English Channel. The second French fighter unit to arrive from North Africa was to become 345 (Berry) Squadron in the RAF. As Groupe de Chasse II/2 of the French Air Force they also had seen action in 1940, when they had been credited with 19 enemy aircraft destroyed, plus 4 ‘probables’. In those battles they had lost eight pilots killed or missing.8 After the 1940 armistice, GC II/2 had been dissolved, but the Germans permitted the Vichy government to reconstitute the groupe 12 months later. They had been transferred from the unoccupied zone of France to North Africa just before the Allied landings there in November 1942. The squadron began preparations for serving with the RAF on 12 February, when 22 officers and 191 other ranks arrived at Ayr. They were mainly former Vichy airmen who, unlike the ‘Cigognes’, were not yet considered by the Free French to have proved beyond doubt where their sympathies now lay. There were still some concerns about their loyalty, and on arrival in the United Kingdom each member of the squadron was interrogated. Seven pilots did not satisfy the interrogators, which resulted in their being taken to London for further investigation the following day. Quite what happened to them subsequently is not clear from squadron records. The caution of the British and French authorities in carefully investigating new arrivals is evidence of the fear, which had existed since 1940, that the enemy would seek to smuggle into the United Kingdom agents posing as refugees or foreign servicemen. Men who had taken considerable risks and hardships to escape from Europe often resented this screening process, and even some perfectly innocent volunteers may have had to endure months of detention and interrogation if the authorities detected something suspicious about their story. Understandably, the British counter intelligence service was not prepared to take the risk of allowing a possible spy to slip through the net. In December 1942 a French civilian pilot, Lucien Lecoq made what appeared to be a daring escape from German-occupied France by flying a

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private aircraft from Le Havre to England. He eventually admitted, however, that it had all been arranged by the German intelligence service (Abwehr) as a ruse to insert him in the Free French Air Force as a spy. After Lecoq had been interrogated, an officer from MI5 assessed him dismissively as ‘a scatterbrained amateur aviator of no fixed occupation’ rather than a serious threat to the security of the realm.9 Nevertheless, he was detained until the end of the war. The Abwehr did not give up easily. On 30 September 1943 the British consulate in Barcelona was approached by a man claiming to be a French Air Force officer named George Fressay. He admitted being employed by the Abwehr, but offered to work as a double agent for the Allies. After he arrived in the United Kingdom, British intelligence officers found out that his real name was Henri de Montbron. He, too, was held as a security risk until the end of the war. Desperate for information about Allied preparations for the invasion of Europe, the Abwehr made yet another attempt in February 1944, when a man claiming to have escaped from France called at the British consulate in Barcelona to seek help in travelling on to the United Kingdom. He was Jean Fraval, another pilot in the pre-war French Air Force. Certain points in his account of his escape from France aroused the suspicions of the staff at the consulate. As he was questioned further, he admitted that he had been trained by the Abwehr, but he insisted that he had only pretended to agree to work for them as a means of getting away from France. Fraval was passed via clandestine channels to England, but he was thoroughly interrogated and held as a suspicious character until the end of the war.10 Whatever doubts the French or British authorities might still have had about the reliability of 345 (Berry) Squadron did not prevent their being moved to the south of England towards the end of April in readiness for D-Day. As late as 2 June, however, further interrogations took place, and the squadron’s operational record book for 5 June notes that Squadron Leader Bernard was visiting the British air ministry ‘with a view to getting some of the unsatisfactory personnel removed’.11 On the very eve of D-Day this seems a rather desperate measure, whether concerns about the airmen arose from doubts about security or their level of training. In the intervening period, the pilots had been sent in small groups to 53 and 61 Operational Training Units (based at Kirton-in-Lindsey and Rednall). It is unlikely, therefore, that Bernard’s concerns were based on any perceived weaknesses in the pilots’ technical ability or their lack of familiarity with the Spitfires they were required to fly. Perhaps lingering doubts about the ‘reliability’ of the squadron were allayed to some extent, at least in the mind of the air

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ministry, by posting to it a few FAFL veterans and French pilots who had passed through British flight training establishments. Some of those men had tried to escape from Vichy several times, before eventually succeeding at the third or fourth attempt. Some had spent time in French or Spanish gaols. Their late arrival in a French squadron was no reflection on their personal ardour for the Free French cause. The first few months of 1944 were filled with all the detailed planning and preparation for the invasion, which everyone knew would soon have to be undertaken by American, British, Canadian and other Allied forces. The term ‘D-Day’ had been adopted to signify the actual day (date as yet unspecified) for the extremely hazardous disembarkation in force on the enemyheld shore. In the run-up to D-Day, a major part of the Allied war effort was directed towards diverting German resources away from the coast of Normandy. Allied intelligence agencies went to considerable trouble to convince the German High Command that the Pas-de-Calais would be the principal target of the invasion. German forces were drawn away from the intended invasion area by various deceptions, even including the threat of a possible landing in Norway. Many of the meticulously trained, highly professional, pre-war fighter pilots, who had won Germany’s victories during the first part of the war, had fallen over France, the Channel, the Mediterranean and Russia between 1941 and 1944. Their replacements had not been allowed time to reach the same high standards as their predecessors. The Luftwaffe was increasingly obsessed with the overriding need to conserve both pilots and aircraft to meet the threat to Germany’s cities posed by the Allied bomber force. There was also the need to husband resources to meet the expected invasion and the opening of a second front. In consequence, large-scale aerial engagements with German fighters over western Europe declined in number during the first half of 1944. The reluctance of the German fighter force to engage in battle is shown in the total absence of aerial victories reported during the first 5 months of the year by the four French fighter squadrons based in the United Kingdom. They lost a number of aircraft on operations in that period, but none of those losses was attributable to action involving enemy aircraft. In one sense, 329 (Cigognes) Squadron had the least enviable record, losing four of their own Spitfires and causing the loss of a British machine (with the death of the pilot, Wing Commander Marples). In another sense, they were very lucky, in that three of the French pilots survived the loss of their aircraft. Their commanding officer, Commandant Fleurquin, was among the lucky ones, parachuting uninjured after a collision over Dover on 2 May 1944.

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By May the ‘Guyenne’ and ‘Tunisie’ French heavy bomber squadrons were based at Elvington, in Yorkshire. The crews did their best to turn the base into home with a massive map of France over the fireplace and a painting of General de Gaulle hanging above the entrance. The long months of training had now come to an end. Flying their Handley Page Halifax heavy bombers, they were ready to be thrown into the aerial assault on Fortress Europe. On 30 May 1944, just 6 days before the Normandy landings, 346 (Guyenne) Squadron took its place as one of RAF Bomber Command’s front-line squadrons, but 347 (Tunisie) had to wait a few weeks longer for their debut. The first operation of the ‘Guyenne’ was a part of a force of 101 Halifaxes of No. 4 Group sent with eight Pathfinder Mosquitoes on the night of 1/2 June to bomb the main German radio listening station at Ferme d’Urville near Cherbourg.12 Cloud partially obscured the target, limiting the effectiveness of the raid. The following night they attacked German coastal batteries in the Pas-de-Calais, and on the night of 5/6 June they played their part in the D-Day invasion by attacking the coastal guns at GrandcampMaisy, overlooking Omaha Beach, where the Americans were to land. Thereafter, they were constantly in action throughout June and July against two main types of target: the V1 launching sites in northern France and the railway network by which the Germans were attempting to move reinforcements to bolster the defences around the beachhead in Allied hands. On 7 July, and again on 18 July, the ‘Guyenne’ intervened directly in the land battle by attacking German armour and troops near Caen. For their role on D-Day, 342 (Lorraine) Squadron had received special training, and the bomb bays of their Boston aircraft had been fitted with large cylinders. In the early hours of 6 June, led by ‘Gorri’, they took off from Hartford Bridge in pairs at 10-minute intervals with the very special mission of laying a dense smokescreen at sea level to hide the invasion armada from the German heavy gun batteries at places like Azeville and Crisbeq on the east coast of the Cotentin peninsula.13 The guns would still be able to fire, of course, but artillery observers would be handicapped in selecting and identifying targets and in making corrections after spotting the fall of shot. Laying a smokescreen was not, perhaps, a very aggressive, inspiring or glamorous role for men eager to destroy the enemy. Indeed, flying on a steady course just above the wave tops in poor visibility was both unpleasant and dangerous. Some of the noxious smoke was bound to penetrate the aircraft, and they had to take-off with reduced crews of three, because the fumes made the position of the ventral gunner untenable. The French aircrews carried out this vital job with great diligence and accuracy. One aircraft failed to return from these missions; it was

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thought to have been brought down by flak close to the heavily defended Ile Saint-Marcouf. During April the French fighter squadrons moved to the airfields where they were to be based when D-Day actually dawned. To Merston, in Sussex, went 340, 341 and 329 Squadrons, while 345 (Berry) Squadron went to Shoreham. At last, after 6 anxious weeks, confirmation came that the invasion was about to be mounted. The news prompted a tidal wave of emotion. Briefed on 5 June for their missions the following morning, the pilots of the French squadrons could scarcely contain themselves. One senior officer later commented: ‘The expressions on the faces of the Frenchmen when they heard the glad news was indescribable.’14 The fighter pilots of 329, 340 and 341 Squadrons, operating as a single wing, flew four missions on D-Day, while 345 (Berry) Squadron escorted gliders towards Caen. For France the hour of liberation was at hand. Building by building (starting with the Café Gondrée at Pegasus Bridge), town by town (Ste-Mère-Eglise falling to the Americans in the early hours of D-Day), and city by city (beginning with Bayeux by nightfall on 6 June) France would be freed. Flying sorties over the bridgehead each day was a strange experience for Allied fighter pilots. Thousands of feet beneath them, seemingly in miniature, raged the tremendous battle, which many thought would decide the outcome of the whole war. With the Luftwaffe unable to contest the skies over the invasion beaches, pilots experienced an almost detached relationship with the events unfolding beneath them. Squadron Leader Tim Johnston of 66 Squadron RAF was one of those for whom the Normandy beaches became a ‘regular run’ in June 1944. He found that he was witnessing this key event in European history from a strangely remote perspective: Looking back, it is difficult to distinguish one flight from another: only certain scenes stand out clearly in memory. Sometimes when the tide was full, the beaches looked as lively as anthills; there were others, at the ebb, when landing craft lay high on the sand, and nothing seemed to stir below. On some days, under cloudless skies, convoys would come steaming into the bay, the merchantmen symmetrically spaced in two lines, and begin to discharge almost at once; on others, when the famous northeaster was blowing, the pitching ships lay to their anchors, undischarged, and the seas broke over the deserted piers and breakwaters.15 Jacques Souviat, a French pilot, later recalled his own vivid memories of 6 June 1944 and the preparations for action on that day:

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Since the end of May, the number of convoys in the Channel increased and whatever the weather, we left our base and covered them. Then on 3rd June, in the evening, we found pots of black and white paint near our aeroplanes together with a brush. Soon all the pilots were asked to paint their aircraft with great black and white stripes on the fuselage and wings. It was explained to us that this would facilitate our identification among the Navy and Army gunners, a measure which proved to be a good precaution. We took off at dawn on D-Day, 6th June, with some slightly improved weather. From the Isle of Wight we could see lines without end of ships of all sizes. Several of these lines went uninterrupted to the beaches of Normandy, where we could see landing craft disembarking troops. The whole spectacle was magnificent. On the ground we could see smoke and explosions. In the afternoon we were called to the Ops Tent for another briefing, being told all had gone well so far, although there were some difficulties. Progress in front of Caen was being blocked and progress on some parts of the American front was also being hindered. But I had time to admire the confidence and phlegm of our chiefs who behaved as if it was all a game of rugby. That evening we escorted aircraft and gliders, which were to drop airborne troops into the battle area to help unlock the situation. The huge armada began to over-fly our base and by the time we had taken off, the tail of the stream was still over England while the head, we could see, had attained the beach-head. Night fell and the ground took on a violet tint as we arrived at the drop-zone. Near Caen, in an area supposed to be controlled by our troops, or at least empty of the enemy, the gliders and paratroops went in. I could see a field of corn changing colour, becoming a sombre red. The cause, the cavalcade of fire of all calibres from a German division, which was supposed to be elsewhere and which was firing at the great birds as if they were on exercise. The carnage was such that we were nauseated. The wretched gliders were in flames before touching the ground and the paratroops killed, sometimes before having jumped. We looked on powerless at this terrible disaster, not even able to machinegun the field because we didn’t want to kill any of our own men.16 Souviat was flying in support of Operation Mallard, the dropping of 256 gliders containing reinforcements and heavy weapons to the British Sixth Airborne Division. Ten gliders failed to make the drop-zone, but overall losses amounted to only 5 per cent.17 One of the French pilots spotted a

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particular problem. Victor Tanguy of 329 (Cigognes) Squadron remembered what followed: Our leader . . . dived vertically towards a target that we could not identify but which he had recognised. The other 11 Spitfires in the formation followed him as if we were one in this vertiginous dive from 2,000–2,500 metres. At 3–400 metres from the ground our Wing Leader opened fire. His aim was perfect and highlighted our target – a German barge full of anti-aircraft guns, moored on the River Orne in a suburb of Caen. Our twelve planes made several attacks until we ran out of ammunition. During all this the formation flew through a curtain of gliders and their Dakota ‘tractors’. God was with us and there were no casualties.18 Almost every Allied pilot who flew over the beaches on 6 June found it a moving experience. Their inner emotions are often reflected in the quality of their descriptions of that day’s flying. In the air with the French squadrons, as they headed home in the twilight of 6 June, was Wing Commander Desmond Scott of 123 Wing. Like homing seabirds, many aircraft accompanied me back across the Channel. At various distances were lone Spitfires, and here and there a lumbering four-engined bomber, ragged packs of Typhoons, Mustangs and Thunderbolts, all heading for the peace and security of their home bases on the south coast of England. For us it was the end of D-Day.19 Some French pilots were still serving in ones and twos with predominantly British squadrons. For them D-Day was a special occasion when they felt a direct personal responsibility for upholding the honour and fighting reputation of their country. Yves Ezanno had been posted to 198 Squadron a few weeks before D-Day. They were equipped with Hawker Typhoons, an aircraft which acquired a formidable reputation in a close support, ground attack role. A week before D-Day, Ezanno played a prominent part in the destruction of a heavily defended German headquarters. On D-Day itself, and in the weeks which followed, he was fearless and utterly ruthless in pressing home low-level attacks against enemy tanks and other vehicles in Normandy. The RAF were so impressed that, a few weeks later, he was promoted to command the British squadron. The cost to the four French fighter squadrons on D-Day was remarkably light. Despite pessimistic Allied intelligence forecasts, the German Air Force did little to impede the landing. At Bentley Priory, the headquarters of RAF

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Fighter Command, Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory spent the day pacing up and down muttering repeatedly ‘Where is the Luftwaffe?’20 Only one aircraft was lost by the French fighter force. It was piloted by Lieutenant Jacques Joubert des Ouches. Formerly a student at Elementary Flying School No. 23, he had been one of Lieutenant Pinot’s band that had sailed to Cornwall on Le Trébouliste on 19 June 1940. A veteran of the Dieppe battle, he had served with 87, 232 and 616 Squadrons RAF before being posted as one of the FAFL veterans sent to ‘stiffen’ 345 (Berry) Squadron. Flying north of Utah Beach on 6 June, Joubert des Ouches radioed that he had engine trouble. He managed to bail out of his aircraft, but his empty dinghy was all that was subsequently recovered from the sea. The following day, another of Pinot’s former pupils met his death while flying with the ‘Berry’ Squadron. Sergeant Pierre Autret’s Spitfire was hit by flak over Cherbourg. Next day, 8 June, the ‘Berry’ lost one more pilot, Sergeant Bonjean, whose Spitfire crashed because of engine failure. These losses were mercifully small, however, considering the magnitude and importance of the operation on which the Allies were engaged. Other Frenchmen would lose their lives flying bombing missions with 342 (Lorraine) Squadron or storming the beaches as members of commando assault units. Large numbers of innocent civilians of all ages also perished in heavily bombed centres like Caen and St Lo. The men who had rallied to de Gaulle in 1940–42 knew very well that the price of liberty and honour could never be expressed in francs, dollars, English pounds or German marks – the price had to be paid in the universal currency of blood. D-Day was the event for which they had been making down payments since they had chosen to leave France rather than accept the Franco-German armistice. Too many of their comrades, like Mouchotte, Bouquillard, Fayolle and Pijeaud, had not lived to see the day for which they had longed and for which they had fought so bravely. French pilots flying from UK bases were consumed, very understandably, by a desperate yearning to set foot on French soil. Construction crews made rapid progress after D-Day in establishing forward airfields to facilitate close air support of the ground forces fighting in Normandy. The first construction crews came ashore 48 hours after the initial invasion of Fortress Europe. The first useable airfield was ready 2 days later, although at first the landing strips were intended only for emergency use and army cooperation flights. Developing temporary strips into working airfields with the infrastructure for refuelling and rearming, let alone basic aircraft maintenance, would take a while longer. Eventually there would be 31 such temporary airfields in the British zone and 50 in the American.21

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Soon after D-Day, Marcel Boisot of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron decided to fake an emergency as a pretext for landing at airstrip B.8, near Bayeux. Five years before, after only 25 hours of flying instruction, Boisot had stolen a training aircraft from Meknes (Morocco) to fly to Gibraltar and enlist in the Free French Air Force. He had served with the ‘Alsace’ in the Libyan desert before being posted to the ‘Ile de France’. D-Day had been ruined for him because the engine of his Spitfire had cut out when he switched to his supplementary fuel tank while flying over Bognor Regis. Forced to crash land, he received a severe dressing down from the wing leader, the South African air ‘ace’ Group Captain ‘Sailor’ Malan. It was, perhaps, that disappointment which made Boisot so determined to set foot on French soil at the earliest opportunity. Making an ‘emergency landing’ with a fake glycol leak at landing ground B.8, he set off on foot towards the nearest village, Saint-Sulpice. He never forgot the reception he received there: The first human being that I met was a very old lady engaged in weeding her garden. I leapt forward to embrace her when, thinking no doubt that I wished to ravish her, she began screaming with all the strength of her lungs. When they heard her cries, the people of the village ran up to protect her virtue (or at least what was left of it). I had much difficulty in making them understand that my intentions really were perfectly honest. When all was made clear, I was taken to the only bistro in the village . . . and there I was treated like a hero. Camembert and Calvados were brought out from under the counter, and they began to eat and drink conscientiously. The cobbler gave me a tricolour bouquet and a little girl insisted on giving me the medal commemorating her first communion.22 Almost drunk with the Calvados, and loaded with Camembert, cream, butter and yet more Calvados supplied by local villagers, he returned to his aircraft. The people of Saint-Sulpice had been so generous that Boisot ordered the ground staff at B.8 to empty the ammunition magazines of his cannon and machine-guns. Carefully stowed bottles, packets and jars replaced the shells and bullets. On his return to England, it was perfectly obvious, especially after a foolhardy barrel roll, that Boisot had had too much to drink. His superiors took an understanding view, however, especially in view of the delivery of such tasty French produce to augment their rations. Boisot’s eagerness to see France was matched by other members of the FAFL. Pierre Clostermann flew regular missions over Normandy after 6 June. He became one of the first Allied pilots to land in France when, on 11 June, he touched down at B.11, a temporary airfield that was under

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construction at Longues-sur-Mer. Mentally prepared for the historic moment of his return to France, and attired in his best dress uniform, he was rather perturbed to find himself in the middle of a dump, with enemy sniper activity on the perimeter. Clostermann was told by one of the commandos who helped him from his aircraft: ‘Well, Frenchie, you’re welcome to your blasted country.’23 Jacques Souviat landed near Bayeux in early July, after running short of petrol. While his aircraft was refuelled, he met some local people from whom he bought a number of Camembert cheeses: ‘I stuck them in my Mae West and took them back to England . . . When I landed my mechanic came to help me out and nearly fell backwards when he smelt the inside of my cockpit. I should mention that it was high summer and about 100 degrees in the aircraft!’24 As early as 13 June the ‘Alsace’ Squadron was able to fly combat patrols over the beaches from a temporary airstrip in Normandy. They saw little of the enemy, but witnessed a large Allied attack forming up in the direction of Caen. By the time they returned at the end of the day to Merston, their base in Sussex, the squadron’s pilots had had an exhilarating time: Pilots were dirty and tired, but full of excitement after their first contact with France after three or four years. They had met and talked with the inhabitants, and they had investigated conditions for themselves. They found the runway very satisfactory, though the clouds of dust raised from the dry soil made take off difficult, and covered men and machines. The pilots shared their sandwiches with the ground crews, who had been living since the landing on biscuits.25 One of the French pilots – anonymous for security reasons – described to a BBC interviewer his own feelings about this return to France: Four years I have waited to come back to France . . . We feel we have come home, and we are very happy. Now we will be able to patrol the beaches and the districts further inland where the fighting is going on. We’ll be able to land, refuel and rearm and take-off again to carry on our work. If any of us get into trouble it will be much more comforting to know that the airfield is so near, instead of flying all the way back to England. I have been over this corner of France every day since our forces landed. I have patrolled over Caen where most of the fighting is going on. The town is just a smoking ruin. There are only two things which worry us: the dust and the fact that we do not see enough enemy aircraft, but between

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patrols we have already been into the villages near our airfield and have met our countrymen.26 No doubt influenced by the deliberately contrived landings of some of the French fighter pilots, orders for the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron were very specific about using the emergency strips in Normandy only ‘in cases of genuine distress’.27 Landing a twin-engined Boston bomber on a temporary airstrip was a rather more risky proposition than landing a Spitfire fighter. At the end of June, Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Gorri’ (Michel Fourquet), commanding the ‘Lorraine’, obtained permission to visit the ‘Alsace’ at their forward landing strip. On his return to England, he emerged from the aircraft with an armful of roses that a Norman peasant woman had given him. The flowers were placed in the crew room. At the same time, the mess received some 50 Camembert cheeses that he had collected during his short visit to France. One of the saddest features of the closing stages of any war is the tragedy of men losing their lives at the very moment when victory seems within their grasp. After D-Day every combat fatality had a special poignancy which affected morale, but certain fatalities seemed more painful than others, especially when they involved the loss of respected members of the old guard who had been fighting for Free France since the days when rallying to General de Gaulle had seemed little more than a forlorn hope. News of such losses travelled quickly among the close-knit fraternity of the FAFL. Every month brought its noteworthy casualty. A month after D-Day it was Michel Boudier. While escorting a group of medium bombers on 6 July, he was involved in a battle with a group of Me 109s. Absorbed in manoeuvring for an attacking position on the tail of an enemy aircraft, ‘Boubou’ was shot down by ‘friendly fire’ from an American P-47 Thunderbolt. Raoul Duval watched as the American’s guns set Boudier’s aircraft on fire. Jacques Andrieux reflected on the unfairness of fate: ‘What German pilots have been unable to do after three years of vicious fighting, an Allied pilot has accomplished quite calmly in less than two seconds. A black day – a detestable day!’28 On 19 July the ‘Alsace’ Squadron moved to an airfield near Bayeux. Shortly afterwards they were relieved to learn that Boudier had been able to bail out of his aircraft and, though wounded, was alive in German hands. He would spend the rest of the war in a German prison camp. Their sense of relief was soon clouded by the loss of another Free French veteran, Jean Maridor. Still serving with 91 Squadron RAF, he took off in his Spitfire XIV for a sortie over the Channel just after noon on 3 August. Since June the squadron had found itself tackling a new danger in the form

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of V1 pilotless flying bombs. Launched from sites in France and Belgium, and armed with an explosive warhead designed to detonate on impact, they were aimed in the direction of London. When they had flown a pre-set distance or ran out of fuel they would dive to earth and explode. The effects were frequently devastating. Between 13 June and 31 August 1944, 8,070 V1s fell on Britain.29 Maridor had made quite a name for himself in the difficult art of shooting down these flying bombs. Single handedly he had accounted for ten of them – a remarkable feat of arms. Travelling at high speed, the tail of a V1 presented a very small target at the ‘safe’ distance of 200 metres. Firing at any closer range risked an explosion which might also account for the pursuing aircraft. Allied fighter squadrons, which over the English Channel provided the outer screen for London’s anti-V1 defences, developed an alternative method of attack – the coup de wing. This involved the pilot placing the wing of his aircraft under one of the short stubby wings of the V1 and then deftly flipping the flying bomb over. Robbed of stability, the V1 would plunge towards the sea or the ground. The coup de wing avoided the danger of collateral damage from an explosion in mid-air, but there were rumours in August that the Germans had developed a counter measure, which meant that any attempt to flip a V1 would immediately trigger the warhead. Maridor had much to live for. He and his British girlfriend, Section Officer Jean Lambourn of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF), had announced their engagement, and in 3 weeks time they were to be married. He was the leading French V1 ‘Ace’: only Henry de Bordas was even close to his level of success. On 3 August, above the coast of Kent, Maridor spotted a V1. It was too late to try flipping it over, as it had already crossed the coast. His attempts to shoot it down were unsuccessful. As the motor of the V1 stopped, and it entered its final glide to detonation, Maridor closed to less than the ‘safe’ range and fired a burst from his guns. The warhead exploded, ripping one of the wings from Maridor’s Spitfire. He was too low to bail out, and his body was found later in the wreckage of the aircraft. Maridor may have sacrificed his own life in order to save a military hospital, which had been set up in Benenden School, from a direct hit. Intentionally made visible to aircraft by the sign of the Red Cross, the building’s function would have been perfectly obvious to him.30 Having already accounted for three enemy aircraft and 10 V1’s, he was not just a good fighter pilot, but among the very best; and he had plenty of experience in dealing with the type of target in his sights that day. He knew the likely outcome of a burst of cannon fire from what may have been as little as 50 metres. His self-sacrifice, with final victory and his own marriage fast approaching, came as a terrible

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shock both to those who had fought alongside him and those who knew him only by his growing reputation. He had been something of a lone wolf among the élite of French fighter pilots. One of his biographers explained: Although Jean Maridor belonged to the Free French, he was not one hundred per cent one of them. He had fought his solitary war in the British ranks. His brief spell in the French squadron had not left any memories . . . A non-conformist, he kept himself to himself. Over and above that, his gloomy personality, his meticulous professional practices, and his impulsiveness in action made him a misfit on the ground. Dances, outings and official ceremonies irritated him . . . Deep in his heart he harboured a complex about being socially inferior.31 It was Maridor’s isolation, and the image of him as the invulnerable lone wolf steadily notching up victories, which made the impact of his death so profound. Another of the early rallyers to Free France had fallen, and yet, beyond the small group of men with whom he had escaped from St Jeande-Luz on the Arandora Star in 1940, no one really knew him. From that six-man escape party, only two were still alive, and they were both unfit for flying operations through wounds or injuries by 1944. Maridor died in the most gallant of circumstances, but it was the apparent random unfairness of death, stalking veterans and newly qualified pilots indiscriminately, which caused widespread apprehension while France was being liberated in the second half of 1944. After escaping from Casablanca to Gibraltar in 1940, Robert Gouby had become the highest scoring pilot of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron with seven ‘kills’ in late 1942/early 1943. Later, he had been credited with two further victories while serving with RAF squadrons. His flying skill and extensive combat experience could provide no protection from enemy anti-aircraft fire, however. He was shot down and killed attacking a convoy of German vehicles in Normandy on 14 August. After D-Day the bombers of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron were mainly employed on missions to harass the build-up of German forces trying to prevent the extension of the beachheads. The French airmen were made to pay a high price. One Boston was shot down in Calvados, with its crew of four all killed, on the night of 29 July. Six nights later, from an intruder mission over the Falaise/Flers/Argentan area, south of the beachhead, only one aircraft managed to struggle back across the Channel to make an emergency landing in England. Four others were shot down in France. Just four men from their combined crews survived, two of them badly injured.

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Among the 12 who died that night were Louis Ricardou (the one-legged air gunner), Tavi a Kainuku (an air gunner from Tahiti) and Henri Romanetti (another air gunner, formerly with the French Fleet Air Arm), who had all completed more than 30 missions with the squadron. These losses underlined the difficulties and dangers involved in low-level bombing against an enemy well equipped with anti-aircraft weapons. In the event of a sudden emergency, there was insufficient altitude to make an escape by parachute. Despite the personal risks, the head of the FAFL, General Valin, felt that he ought to be directly involved, and he flew as a tail gunner on one of the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron’s bombing missions attacking German troops in the Falaise pocket on 4 August. The second French heavy bomber squadron, 347 (Tunisie), became operational towards the end of June, flying its first sortie against a V1 launching site at Mont Candon on 27 June. It was an ideal first sortie. A rear gunner in a Halifax belonging to one of the other units attacking Mont Candon later recalled: ‘If ever there was a milk run, this was it. The flight was completely uneventful. No flak, no fighters, absolutely nothing to report.’32 As the French heavy bomber squadrons both became fully involved with 4 Group’s contribution to Bomber Command’s overall offensive strategy, later operations could not be described as ‘a milk run’. Only 9 days later, on 6 July, 347 (Tunisie) Squadron lost one of the 11 aircraft it provided for a 550-bomber raid on a V-1 site at Mimoyecques. On the return leg of the mission the aircraft crashed near RAF Lindholme in Yorkshire, killing all seven members of the crew. Six days later 346 (Guyenne) Squadron sent 13 aircraft on a 230-bomber raid on a V-1 site at Hauts-Buisson. Two of their aircraft collided in mid-air at 2,000 feet as they returned to Elvington. One managed to land safely at base, while the other crashed 4 miles East of York, killing the entire crew of seven. During their first few weeks on operations, the French heavy bombers were employed against V1 launching sites in northern France and enemy communications and troop concentrations around the Normandy beachhead. From late July they also began to take part in raids on German targets such as Stuttgart, synthetic oil plants near Essen and Homberg, the Opel works at Rudelsheim and the docks at Kiel, but the V1 sites and support for the army in Normandy still figured prominently. Their mission for 10 September was an attack on German troops at Octeville, near the port of Le Havre, by 30 Halifaxes from the two French squadrons. All went well, except that the aircraft piloted by LieutenantColonel G. E. Venot, commanding 346 (Guyenne) Squadron, was unable to release one of its bombs, and subsequent attempts to jettison it over the sea

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also failed. Venot managed to make a perfect landing back at Elvington, but the hung-up bomb then exploded, killing six of the aircrew. Venot himself, although badly burned, survived by some inexplicable miracle. Obviously, operating bigger aircraft with bigger crews was bound to incur a heavy toll in fatal casualties. Edna Baker, a 20-year-old member of the WAAF, was stationed at RAF Elvington in 1944. Her regular assignments included ambulance duty, and she never forgot the day when she was called out to visit the crash site of a Free French bomber. The crew were dead, and she had to pick up good luck charms and other personal possessions belonging to them. She also recovered a flying glove with the fingers still inside it.33

Chapter 13

Liberation

Two months of heavy fighting were needed to secure and extend the beachhead in Normandy, overrun the Cotentin peninsula and make progress with the crucial task of restoring the cargo-handling capability of the port of Cherbourg. It was not until August that the Allied armies were ready to launch their major offensive to break-out from Normandy and force the Germans into full retreat. The advance that followed was conducted at breathtaking speed. By the end of August, the Allied armies had liberated Paris, and a second Allied army had landed in the south of France. By mid-September, the front line had been pushed forward into the Low Countries and even parts of Germany. The liberation of Paris on 25 August 1944 gave rise to wild celebrations. The operations record book for 329 (Cigognes) Squadron proudly recorded: ‘Great news today, Paris has been liberated, and liberated by the French themselves.’1 Those last few words are particularly significant. The recovery of the capital city was a potent symbol of France’s rebirth, and it was very important for the nation’s self-respect that French citizens had fought to secure their own liberation. It was undeniable, of course, that it had required a mighty effort by all the Allied forces to end the German occupation. Nevertheless, the armed rebellion of the Paris police force, the uprising of the city’s Resistance networks and the arrival of General Leclerc’s French Second Armoured Division all featured men who flew the blue/ white/red tricolour flag, sang the Marseillaise and shouted Vive la France. A once proud and powerful nation, which had been so grievously humiliated in 1940, could hold up its head once more. The resurgence of French national pride was not confined to events in Paris. The credit could be widely shared. The brave men and women who had engaged in various clandestine resistance activities for 4 long years could claim to have set a shining example of defiance. Another form of resistance had been shown by the many young Frenchmen who had plucked up courage to go into hiding in the countryside and take up arms in the

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Maquis, rather than undertake forced labour for the occupying power. The former Vichy armed forces based in North Africa had fought bravely, under the command of Generals Juin and de Lattre de Tassigny, in Tunisia and Italy since 1943. Nevertheless, no fair-minded person could deny the pivotal role played by General Charles de Gaulle and the fighting men of all three services who had joined him, in France’s darkest hour, to fight on in the cause of Free France. On 26 August, as he marched down the Champs Elyseés to celebrate the liberation of Paris, de Gaulle was the personification of France’s rebirth; and among those who marched with him that day was General Martial Valin, who had contributed so much to building up the Free French Air Force. Three days before the Normandy landings, de Gaulle’s Committee of National Liberation had proclaimed itself the Provisional Government of the French Republic. As more and more French territory was liberated, communists, monarchists, old Vichy politicians, radicals, former supporters of the Popular Front, and ambitious men of every other shade of political opinion began bargaining, plotting, feuding and paying off old scores. It soon became clear that General de Gaulle offered the best – possibly the only – chance of establishing a broadly based and stable government and averting the possibility of civil war. The Supreme Allied Commander in Europe (General Eisenhower) was eager to transfer power and responsibility progressively to such a government so that he could concentrate on the military campaign, knowing that civil affairs were in safe hands and his lines of communication secure, as his armies drove the enemy eastwards. The Americans might not like de Gaulle, his other Allies might distrust him and find him difficult to deal with, but they could not really manage without him. In October the United States, the United Kingdom and the Soviet Union all accorded formal recognition to de Gaulle’s government. By that time he was no longer the leader of a tiny band of disconsolate patriots in exile: he had over 400,000 men under arms and capable of making a substantial contribution to the final overthrow of France’s enemies. There was still much hard fighting to come, however, before that day finally arrived. The launch of Operation Dragoon, the invasion of southern France, had occurred on 15 August. Initial landings by three American divisions were supported by seven French divisions, comprising over 250,000 men, under the command of General Jean de Lattre de Tassigny. These French units vigorously exploited the success of the initial landings. On 26 August Toulon was captured and 2 days later Marseilles. Air support for the advance was provided by the newly formed First Tactical Air Force, which included many former units of the Vichy Air Force in North Africa, which the

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Americans had re-equipped, and the three fighter squadrons equipped with British Spitfires and formally included in the RAF order of battle.2 On 3 September those Spitfire squadrons transferred from Corsica to Le Vallon in Provence. From that point onwards all three squadrons would continue to advance through liberated French territory as the German Nineteenth Army retreated northwards through Montelimar, Grenoble and Dijon. On 10 September Franco-American forces from the south linked up with troops of General Patton’s Third US Army advancing from Normandy to begin the final phase of the liberation of France. Throughout the advance the ‘Nice’, ‘Corse’ and ‘Provence’ Squadrons were engaged in ground support missions. The Luftwaffe had abandoned the skies of southern France as they had those in the north. Casualties in the French Spitfire squadrons were few, although the commanding officer of 326 (Nice) Squadron, Captain Georges Valentin, was shot down by anti-aircraft fire over Dijon on 8 September. In October 1944 the First Tactical Air Force was re-designated as the First French Air Force. It was a remarkable moment. The defeated Armée de L’Air of 1940 had been reborn, under US and British sponsorship. French squadrons were flying from French airfields in support of a French Army in the liberation of their country. This was the future which a couple of hundred men of the FAFL had hoped to see when they had individually taken the decision to repudiate the humiliating armistice of 1940. The formation of the First French Air Force all but severed the already tenuous link between the RAF and the ‘Nice’, ‘Corse’ and ‘Provence’ Squadrons. They would go on to distinguish themselves with a string of 25 aerial victories claimed in the final battles over eastern France and Germany.3 In western France a strange, almost private, war was being waged against German garrisons still resolutely holding various seaports (with their U-boat pens) along the Bay of Biscay. Cut off more than 700 miles behind the main battlefront, their eventual fate was certain, but the Allied High Command could not afford to divert forces from the main assault on Germany to mop up these isolated pockets at Lorient, St Nazaire, Royan, Graves and La Rochelle. That task was left mainly to the French Forces of the Interior (FFI), made up of men of the Maquis, resistance groups, armed police, local ex-service groups and all manner of other ‘citizens under arms’. They were formally included in the French armed forces by government decree of 24 September 1944. From the air they were supported by former Vichy Air Force groupes flying supplies from North Africa, and by Flotilles 3FB and 4FB, nominally units of the French Fleet Air Arm attached to the RAF. By November the FFI had also collected enough former airmen to set up seven

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of their own improvised aviation units using a strange variety of aircraft ranging from British and American types through to captured Junkers 88 bombers and obsolete French machines of 1940 vintage. Meanwhile, as the dust of high summer began to turn to the mud of early autumn, the four French fighter squadrons formerly based in the United Kingdom increasingly found themselves operating from forward airfields in northern France. The squadrons would move forward steadily from airfield to airfield through France and the Low Countries in the wake of the armies. Operating from these forward airfields cut down response times to counter any enemy threat and increased the range to which the fighter squadrons could penetrate over enemy-occupied territory. French pilots and ground crews were delighted to be back on French soil on a semipermanent basis. Some took advantage of breaks in operations to search for friends and family. Unsurprisingly, these reunions tended to be very emotional affairs. Little if any communication with France had been possible between 1940 and 1944. For example, Jacques Guignard and Martin Prudhomme of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron had no communication from their families between reaching England and landing in Normandy. They borrowed an Auster light aircraft on 24 August to fly from temporary airfield B.8, at Bernay, to visit their parents in Mans: We landed on a temporary airstrip used by the Americans for their observation aircraft. They welcomed us in a very kind way and placed a jeep at our disposal to go to Mans. As was the case for the families of all the Free French, my parents had been without news of me since I had left France. I had managed to send a few brief messages via the Red Cross, but they knew nothing of my life in England, merely that I was alive at the time I sent my message. There is no need to say that the return of the ‘warrior’ with his cap and revolver was a great surprise and the welcome very warm. My mother, with the ingenuity and skill of a French woman, cooked a delicious meal in no time at all. After telling them what my life had been in England, and telling them of my marriage, I had to get back to Bernay.4 The reunions were only temporary, and men like Guignard and Prudhomme faced further months of combat before they could return home for good. At the end of August, Captain Ozanne, commanding 329 (Cigognes) Squadron, used the need to recover a Spitfire from another airfield, where it had been forced to land through shortage of fuel, as an opportunity to search for his wife. He managed to find her and learned that the rest of his

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relations were well, although the family home in Caen had been destroyed in the heavy bombing. Two other pilots hoped to use a light aircraft assigned to the squadron to go on leave to Brittany for family reunions.5 The Allies had succeeded in establishing clear air superiority over the battlefronts. One German squadron leader gave a damning analysis of the problems facing the German fighter force in the West by 1944: Our aircraft are old and tired out . . . Maintenance services are insufficient, and both material and workmanship faulty. Petrol and ammunition are lying about on the railways, where they’ve been bombed, and never get here. The training of our young pilots is inadequate, most of them getting shot down during their first sorties. Bombers and low flying aircraft are ruining our airfields . . . The order to take off frequently arrives either when the enemy is right over the airfield or has already passed on. And so . . . when an emergency take-off finally does make an interception, the enemy superiority is too great.6 Allied aircraft could generally fly over enemy-occupied territory with relative impunity, given sufficient height. Air battles, like that in which Jacques Schloesing and Pierre Parent of 341 (Alsace) Squadron were shot down by Focke-Wulf 190s of JG26 over the Forest of Bray on 26 August, were comparatively rare. Having endured months of hospital treatment so that he could return to flying operations, Schloesing was killed on only his second day in command of the squadron. Parent survived, although wounded, and the retreating Germans left him in hospital for advancing British troops to find. In September the ‘Alsace’ moved to Bernay, in France, where the local peasants would gather to watch their aircraft take-off and land. Jacques Andrieux witnessed the outcome of one take-off by a veteran who had completed over 100 missions: Lieutenant René Royer takes to the air at the head of a patrol, thrilling the local spectators. Some metres off the ground, there is a stupid breakdown on take-off – the propeller jams. To avoid crashing into the crowd, Royer turns as much as he can but, deprived of power, the aircraft crashes . . . René is killed instantly. He had begun operations with me in 1941 . . . I almost thought of him as invulnerable.7 Spitfire squadrons increasingly found themselves employed on ground attack missions. In Normandy and beyond, fighter-bomber units adopted a system that had originally been perfected in the Western Desert. This

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‘cab rank’ system relied on the maintenance of local air supremacy. It involved a squadron orbiting a particular point until called to attack a specified position, indicated as a map reference radioed by a forward air controller. The forward air controller would usually be an experienced pilot working from ‘a truck, jeep and trailer’ with the support of two radio operators from the RAF, two from the Army, and a technician to deal with any radio problems.8 The forward air controller would operate just behind the leading units of the ground formation to which he was attached. One British Spitfire pilot recalled what it was like from the pilot’s perspective: Once we were committed to the dive-bombing attack, the procedure was usually standard. Running in at between 6,000 and 8,000 feet, we would throttle back to just below 200 mph, and aim to place the target so that it passed under the wing just inboard of the roundel. As it emerged from under the trailing edge we would roll over and pull the aircraft into a 70 degree dive – which felt vertical. At this stage one concentrated entirely on bringing the graticule of the gyro gunsight on to the target, ignoring the cockpit instruments and trying to avoid the Flak . . . The Spitfires would go down in loose line astern, with 20 to 40 yards between aircraft and each pilot aiming and bombing individually. In a dive the speed would build up to 360 mph before the release. When he judged the altitude to be about 3,000 feet, each pilot did a 5G pull-up to bring the nose up to the horizontal; by the time we had levelled out we were pretty low and the drill was to make a high speed getaway using the ground for cover. The great temptation was to pull up after attacking, to see how well one had done; but that could be fatal if the Germans were alert – and they usually were. We believed in going in tight, hitting hard, and getting the Hell out of it; there was no place for false heroics.9 Attacking ground targets to clear the way for an advancing army was a very demanding role for fast flying aircraft. In close terrain, particularly in the bocage country of Normandy, it was not always easy to give full air support. Targets were hard to identify, especially in cases where, as in Normandy and later in the Ardennes and Rhineland, forces of two Allies were fighting on either side of [an enemy] pocket, and recognition from the air was difficult . . . Thus there was a serious risk of aircraft attacking friendly troops [and] it was also possible for clashes in the air . . . to take place. In the heat of battle these were not infrequent.10

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

Casualties among the French airmen kept coming, even as German forces retreated towards the Rhine. Henri Mathey, flying with the ‘Alsace’ in support of Operation Market Garden on 30 September 1944, was among the pilots shot down. The fighter-bombers were sent in to provide close air support to British and Polish paratroops, heavily engaged at Arnhem in an operation designed to bring about a rapid end to the war. Mathey experienced engine trouble. As he lost height, his aircraft was hit by flak. After making a crash landing, he was quickly captured by the Germans and taken to a temporary hospital in a cinema. From there he was passed on to a hospital at Cleves. There he tried to escape by climbing out of a window but was soon recaptured. He was then sent to a Luftwaffe interrogation centre at Frankfurt. His captors were suspicious about his actual identity, for Mathey was claiming to be an English pilot named Anthony Bolton. He was worried that, having been sentenced to death by Vichy along with all the members of the Free French Air Force in 1940, he might simply be executed or his family subjected to reprisals. He was eventually forced to admit his true identity after several days of questioning. His interrogators, who had formed a suspicion that he might be a spy or a deserter from their own air force, were finally satisfied. Mathey was sent on to Stalag Luft III, the scene of the Great Escape, where he found that he was the only Frenchman in the camp. There he had to stay until the end of the war.11 On 4 November, during the fighting to clear the sea approaches to the port of Antwerp, Yves Ezanno, commanding 198 Squadron of the RAF, was lucky to survive his ninetieth mission with that squadron. His Typhoon was brought down in flames over the Dutch island of Walcheren. After landing inside the German lines, he succeeded in making his way to the Allied side despite coming under fire from German outposts. His severe injuries ensured that he was unable to resume operational flying before the war ended. Pilots who had survived many hazardous operations were sometimes unlucky enough to be killed in their off-duty time. By late November, French fighter squadrons 329, 341 and 345 were operating from Deurne airfield, near the Belgian port of Antwerp, which was then under almost constant attack from V1 flying bombs and V2 rockets. Some days as many as 60 V1s would fall on the city, and the pilots were forced to spend much of their time in cellars which offered some protection against the aerial bombardment. By the end of the year the city had received 590 direct hits from Hitler’s V-weapons, and Time magazine would later label Antwerp the ‘City of Sudden Death’.

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Antwerp was hit on 16 December by several V2 rockets, one of which destroyed the Rex Cinema on the avenue De Keyserlei. The packed cinema was showing Gary Cooper and Jean Arthur in ‘The Plainsman’. The death toll came to 567, and a further 291 people were injured. Almost 300 of the dead and 200 of the injured were Allied servicemen. It took 6 days to recover all the bodies, including that of French fighter pilot Georges Girard of 341 (Alsace) Squadron. Four days later another veteran pilot of the ‘Alsace’, Guy Lenoir (alias Georges Lentz), was killed when a V2 struck the airfield dispersal, where he was catching up on some clerical work. Both Girard and Lenoir had served the Free French cause for 4 years. The latter had been shot down over France in October 1943, made a successful parachute descent, evaded capture and managed to get back to the United Kingdom with the help of the French Resistance. It seems heartbreaking that such men should have had their lives snuffed out by new terror weapons just as the liberation of France had almost been accomplished. During the break-out from the Normandy beaches and the liberation of most of France, the Boston bombers of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron, still based at Hartford Bridge, had flown mission after mission attacking the retreating German army. Louis Fortin, who had already finished a complete ‘tour’ of 30 missions but started on a second ‘tour’ without a break, took part in an attack on the docks at Rouen and on German troops and vehicles crossing the Seine: We were there to destroy the enemy, but every time I look at reconnaissance photographs marked to show the results of a mission, I think about the innocent civilians who might have been killed by the bombs that, as a result of carpet bombing, fell outside the target area.12 In September the ‘Lorraine’ were employed bombing the German forces trapped in a small pocket around the port of Boulogne. There Fortin’s flying career nearly came to a tragic end on 8September: We were at 12,500 feet . . . and due to clouds we had to make a second run. The flak was heavy, and suddenly I had a fire in the port wing. I had taken a hit in tank No. 1, and the port engine suffered a burst oil pipe. My starboard rudder control was nearly completely cut. I took a direct hit on the directional compass, the intercom between crew and navigator was cut, and I took a hit on the hydraulic system, seeming to leave me with no brakes at all. In spite of that, I landed at Manston, using the emergency

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The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

brake system. There were more than 50 holes . . . but it had gotten us back on one engine. Very strong plane, the Boston.13 Targets in Germany began to appear on the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron’s list of objectives by the end of September. The town of Cleve was the first, followed by such places as Goch, Emmerich and Wesel. Understandably, the French airmen no longer worried about civilian casualties from bombs falling outside the target area. To reduce the flying time in reaching targets, the squadron moved to a new base at Corbehem-Vitry airfield, near Douai. It also received a new commanding officer, since it was high time for Michel Fourqet (‘Gorri’) to be rested from the continual stress of commanding a squadron and leading operations. The new man was Jacques Soufflet, another of the Free French old guard. In 1940 he had been one of the tiny group who landed from Luciole aircraft at Ouakam in an unsuccessful attempt to place Dakar in de Gaulle’s hands. Arrested and imprisoned, he had been pardoned by Marshal Pétain. For a time he found employment as an inspector with the Commissariat for Sport in Vichy. Like Fourquet, he had worked clandestinely with the Resistance, before escaping over the Pyrenees at the end of 1942 and making his way to London. Since then, he had flown 50 missions as a Spitfire pilot with 341 (Alsace) Squadron, before promotion to his new command with the bombers of the ‘Lorraine’. Thus, one of the small nucleus of Free French airmen from the Dakar disaster of 1940 assumed command of the squadron as it began to carry the war to the German homeland. Soufflet’s promotion exemplified the dramatic transformation that 4 years of war had wrought in General de Gaulle’s prospects – and in the prospects for France. As he considered the likelihood of final victory in the coming new year, Soufflet might have been forgiven for wondering how many of the old hands, who had risked everything so that the Free French Air Force could win its spurs in Africa in 1940, would live to savour the end of Nazi Germany. Since D-Day, at least six of the veterans of the events at Dakar, Gabon, Fezzan and Abyssinia had lost their lives. They included Jean Bécourt-Foch, one of de Gaulle’s emissaries at Dakar. He had subsequently served in the Fezzan with the Brétagne bomber groupe. He died on a training flight on 15 August 1944, as he was preparing to take up a new post as second-in-command of one of the American-equipped former Vichy bomber units in North Africa. Pierre Fenoux de Maismont had survived being shot down near Addis Ababa and being sentenced to death by the Italians in 1940. He had survived an air crash in Egypt, survived fighting as

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an infantryman at El Alamein, and had gone on to survive a tour of operations with the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron in 1943–44; but he did not survive when the Airspeed Oxford in which he was flying struck a power cable in Hampshire on 17 October. The most senior officer to become a casualty was Colonel Lionel de Marmier, the man who had raised Groupe Mixte de Combat No. 1 as the air element of the Dakar expedition. In the middle years of the war he had worked tirelessly as Chief of Staff for the Free French Air Force in the Middle East, and had done wonders in setting up a French Transport Command using whatever aircraft he could collect together and get repaired. A Lockheed aircraft in which he was flying from Algiers to Paris disappeared over the Mediterranean on 30 December 1944. It is some indication of his standing in the Free French Air Force that, after his presumed death, he was promoted to general’s rank posthumously. The airmen who had rallied to de Gaulle in the early days were proud of having made a deliberate personal decision to continue the fight after the fall of France in 1940. They had braved every anxiety, setback and danger in the years when victory had sometimes seemed to be an impossible dream. It is hardly surprising if, in the closing phase of the war, they revealed ambivalent feelings towards their comrades in arms who had only re-entered the battle from 1943 onwards, after the tide had turned. Some of these later recruits were beginning to appear as replacements in the original Free French squadrons, while most of the aircrew in the various units transferring from North Africa to the south of France were almost exclusively from the former Vichy Air Force. Still operating from Elvington, in Yorkshire, 346 (Guyenne) and 347 (Tunisie) squadrons also fell into that category. Whatever might be thought about their attitudes and loyalties in 1940–42, the men flying the Halifax bombers in the second half of 1944 were proving that they were worthy and courageous sons of France. In the last 4 months of the year, they played a full part in the RAF’s night bombing offensive aimed at wrecking German industry and breaking the will of the German people to continue the war. Raids on targets such as Essen, Bochum or Duisburg usually involved several hundred four-engined Allied bombers, and occasionally as many as a thousand. Night after night the two French squadrons would send off a combined total of 25–30 aircraft to face the natural hazards of a long flight, the risk of collision with other aircraft in the darkness, and then the formidable German flak barrage and night fighters. Their most costly operation was an attack on Bochum by 750 aircraft on the night of 4/5 November. Four Halifaxes, out of the 27 provided by the French squadrons, failed to return to Elvington. A German night fighter

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shot down one near Düsseldorf, with three of the crew bailing out safely and five killed. Among those killed was Lieutenant-Colonel Dagan, a staff officer who had asked to fly on the raid to gain experience of an actual operation. Another Halifax came down at Dashausen, killing all seven members of the crew, and a third was shot down north-west of Cologne, with five crew dead and two managing to parachute to safety. The crew of the fourth aircraft, shot down by a night fighter, all managed to bail out but two died, one as a result of parachute failure and the other electrocuted on a power line. In a raid on Duisburg on 17/18 December a French Halifax fell 15,000 feet after being hit by flak. The pilot managed to regain control and brought the aircraft back to England with two of the crew wounded and three unhurt. Two others had bailed out during the fall, one to become a prisoner of war and the other missing believed killed. Parachuting from a stricken bomber over Germany was a very different proposition from the sport parachuting one sees today. Parachute packs were bulky and difficult to strap on in an emergency. Escape hatches were small, and the parachute might catch on some projection and deploy inside the aircraft. After exiting, the correct sequence had to be followed before the ripcord was pulled. There were dangers such as power lines, lakes or fires as the parachute neared the ground, and after he landed the parachutist faced alarming uncertainty about how he would be received when he fell into the hands of the people he had been trying to kill with his bombs. A French bomber, on its way to attack Essen on the night of 24 December, was shot down by flak over the Ruhr. The pilot sacrificed his life to hold the aircraft steady while the six other members of his crew took to their parachutes. Only two of them survived. The French website devoted to the history of the Halifax bomber squadrons claims that the other four were murdered after landing.14 Twelve days later four French airmen bailed out of their Halifax after a raid on Hanover. Two injured men were taken to hospital, a third managed to evade capture, but the fourth was shot dead by a member of the German field police.15 Whenever the French airmen took off from Elvington to make their contribution to final victory, they never knew if they would return to enjoy a traditional full Yorkshire breakfast. They had to recognize that the flight might end in crippling injuries, a prisoner-of-war camp, some horrific holocaust of exploding shells and fire over the Ruhr, a plunge into the dark waters of the North Sea, or a frenzied struggle to bail out of a damaged aircraft as it fell towards the ground.

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Liberation Table 13.1 Causes of aircraft losses: Free French fighter squadrons (340, 341, 329, 345) in the United Kingdom and western Europe, 1944–45 1944 3 1 2 1 1

Enemy aircraft ‘Friendly’ fire Own bomb exploding Uncertain, Forced landing Bad weather Engine failure Crash in the sea Debris, Collision Collision and flak Enemy anti-aircraft fire (flak)

1945 1 1 1 1

5 3 1

Total

5 2 1

35

24

40

[Sources: Articles on the French squadrons and biographies of individual fighter pilots in www.cieldegloire.com.]

Table 13.2

Free French (FAFL) aircrew, fatal casualties, 1944–45

RAF Training Units (UK) RAF Sqns (UK/W.Europe) 340 (Ile de France) 341 (Alsace) 329 (Cigognes) 345 (Berry) 342 (Lorraine) 347 (Tunisie) Africa (various) Sénégal groupe Middle East: Picardie groupe S. Europe: Bretagne groupe Other Flying boats Exceptional cases Total

1944 (6) 11 9 3 1 4 25

(1) (1) (3)

1945 (1) 3 4 4 1 (1) 2

(1) (1) (2) 3

1 (1) (2) (6)

56

(24)

(1)

15

(3)

Note: (a) Bold figures show aircrew killed (including missing believed killed) during operations. (b) Figures in brackets show deaths during non-operational flying or certain exceptional cases. (c) Deaths from illness or non-aviation accidents are omitted, as are those for parachutists, secret agents and the Normandie groupe in Russia. Also omitted are those of men who enlisted too late to be officially recognized as belonging to the FAFL. (d) Exceptional cases – 1 pilot shot by the Gestapo after the ‘Great Escape’ from Stalag Luft III; 3 killed on the ground by V1 or V2 weapons; and two who died while serving prison sentences for attempting to escape by sea to join the FAFL. [Source: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

Chapter 14

War to the Bitter End

By December 1944 the whole of France had been liberated, except for the isolated German garrisons besieged in ports on the Biscay coast and small pockets on the French side of the River Rhine in Lorraine and around the town of Colmar, but German resistance was not about to wither away. After the exhilarating advances of August and September and the bold failure of the airborne landing at Arnhem, the Allied offensive had run out of momentum. Supply lines to distant ports like Cherbourg had become overextended, and it took some hard fighting during October and November to clear the sea approaches to the strategically important port facilities at Antwerp, handily located much nearer to the main battlefront in the Low Countries. The long retreat had brought the German armies closer to their own supply bases, and they had the added incentive of fighting in defence of their homeland. The last quarter of 1944 saw the front line in a state of virtual stalemate, as if the contending armies were exhausted boxers locked in a clinch. After the unpleasant surprise of the German campaign with V1 flying bombs and V2 rockets, Allied leaders were seriously worried that other ‘V’ weapons might suddenly be unleashed. The Germans were known to have new super-fast U-boats and jet-engined aircraft in production. Biological weapons, poison gas or atomic bombs were other possibilities that might tilt the balance back in Germany’s favour at the last moment. In fact, the Germans reacted in more orthodox fashion. Hitler and his generals chose not to rely on purely static defence. On 16 December 1944 they launched a surprise counter-stroke through the Ardennes in Belgium and Luxembourg. Armoured columns tore a serious breach in the American front and threatened to penetrate to the Meuse at Namur. For a time, it looked as though they might even be aiming to drive right on to retake Antwerp, but the breakthrough was sealed off, with difficulty, in what has become known as the Battle of the Bulge. In the early phase of the battle Allied air power was neutralized by weather unfit for flying, but when the

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weather suddenly improved on Christmas Eve, the German columns were exposed to continuous air attack. At Vitry-en-Artois, many of the airmen from 342 (Lorraine) Squadron had been invited to stay as guests in the homes of local people. In the early hours of Christmas Day they were hurriedly collected in lorries and, instead of enjoying the anticipated Christmas parties, they spent the day flying their Boston bombers on three missions against the German troops in the ‘Bulge’. Further ground attack missions in the Bastogne area and Ourthe Valley filled the last few days of 1944. On Boxing Day, an even more awesome element of Allied air power threw its weight into the Battle of the Bulge: 300 heavy bombers flew from the United Kingdom to attack the German armoured columns at low level. The French squadrons at Elvington contributed eight Halifaxes. All the French airmen returned safely from the mission, but the heavy flak through which they had flown may be judged by the fact that one of their aircraft was found to have no fewer than 289 bullet and shrapnel holes when it made an emergency landing at RAF Carnaby. New Year’s Day 1945 saw the Luftwaffe demonstrate its own determination to go over to the offensive, as it mounted Operation Bodenplatte, a concerted attack on the forward airfields of the Allied Air Forces. Intended to complement the Ardennes ground offensive, Operation Bodenplatte gained complete surprise and resulted in heavy Allied losses. Some 465 Allied aircraft were destroyed or damaged that day, most of them on the ground. The Germans lost 280 aircraft, with 213 of the pilots killed, missing or taken prisoner. The base of the ‘Lorraine’ bombers, at Vitry, was not one of the selected targets, but the French fighter base at Antwerp-Deurne certainly was. The French squadrons were lucky; their airfield suffered only light damage at the hands of aircraft from the Luftwaffe’s JG77. Early morning ice on the runway prevented the French from scrambling any aircraft in pursuit until 10.12 a.m., half an hour after the last German aircraft had passed. A German pilot who took part in the operation grumbled: The success of this famous attack on the airfields in the Dutch-Belgian sector was very great but it was rightly criticised. The enemy had suffered a heavy and painful defeat, but only in material. Within fourteen days they would have made good these losses. But what of the German fighter arm? The losses it suffered were never published. Even the gentlemen of the Fighter General Staff had not the least idea. People knew that certain wings had suffered terribly, particularly those who had brought up the rear.1

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The ‘Battle of the Bulge’ and Operation Bodenplatte were really despairing, last minute attempts by the enemy to disrupt and delay the final Allied advance into Germany. By the end of January the ‘Bulge’ had been eliminated, the Russians were in control of Warsaw, Cracow and Budapest, and Allied bombers continued their day and night assaults on what was left of Germany’s industrial centres and transport network. In the early months of 1945 the ‘Guyenne’ and ‘Tunisie’ squadrons at Elvington continued to provide up to 25 Halifaxes for night raids on such targets as Hanover, Magdeburg, Gelsenkirchen, Goch, Worms, Kamen and Hagen. The ‘Tunisie’ suffered a particularly galling loss on 2 January, when a mission against Ludwigshafen resulted in one of their bombers being shot down by ‘friendly fire’ from American anti-aircraft guns near Metz. Six of the crew managed to parachute to safety. Leaving such tragic accidents aside, the German flak batteries and night fighters still proved to be formidable opponents. The steady toll of French Halifaxes included two aircraft and seven aircrew who failed to return from Magdeburg on 16/17 January. Two more aircraft were lost (with all 14 crew) in a raid on Worms on 21/22 February. A raid on Kamen on the night of 3/4 March cost three more aircraft. One of them was shot down near RAF Cranwell by a Junkers Ju88 night fighter, one of 200 intruders infiltrated into the returning bomber stream by the Luftwaffe in a new ploy codenamed Operation Giselle. Five crew managed to parachute from the stricken bomber, but two others died in an attempted crash landing. That night RAF Elvington, the Yorkshire base of the French heavy bombers, also came under attack, and there were some civilian casualties. The ‘Alsace’ fighter squadron was withdrawn from the line early in January 1945. They were sent to Scotland for a brief rest until March, but even back at Turnhouse, near Edinburgh, they still incurred another fatality. Lieutenant de Penfentenyo de Kerveguin was killed in a flying accident on 8 March. New pilots, fresh out of operational training units, arrived to fill the gaps in the squadron’s ranks caused by fatalities and experienced pilots being rested after completing a ‘tour’. By this stage of the war, however, there were not enough pilots coming through the training establishments to keep the squadron up to strength with French pilots exclusively. In March seven new pilots, all English, arrived to begin working up before the ‘Alsace’ returned to the front. Combining optimism and French national pride, the compiler of the squadron’s operations record book insisted: ‘There is no fear of the squadron losing its traditions or its own particular spirit. Our new arrivals were made welcome and it is hoped in due course to get them

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to speak, if not perfect grammatical French, at least to get them to speak “Free French”.’2 The working up of the new pilots was carried out in the knowledge that the return to operations was imminent and that new dangers would have to be faced. During a question and answer session ‘someone asked a question about “flak” over the Rhine’. Flying Officer J. G. Moorat, 341’s adjutant, noted. ‘The answer left everyone very pensive.’3 On 10 March the squadron arrived at B.85, a new forward airfield near Schijndel, in Holland, and they returned to operations 5 days later. Even as the war entered the final agonies of Germany’s defeat, far-sighted people had already turned their attention to the postwar world. There was still some anxiety about the need to foster greater cohesion between the different units of the French fighter force. Tensions between the different groups which now made up the reconstituted French Air Force could not be ignored. They were symptomatic of the divisions which would trouble French society after the war. As the pilots of the French fighter squadrons continued flying a mixture of ground strafing, V-1 interception and bomber escort missions, they became increasingly aware of the growing tensions in French politics and the whole of French society. The formation of a provisional government saw the first demarcation of the future social and political battle lines. In his memoirs, written 9 years after the end of the war, Pierre Clostermann made no attempt to conceal his personal distaste and contempt for the resurgent air ministry in Paris ‘with its incoherence, its senile colonels, its “members of the resistance”, its counter orders, and all those fishy characters in their shady uniforms who had come to the surface over there, like the scum on boiling jam’.4 On a visit to Paris an airman of the ‘Lorraine’ Squadron was similarly disgusted, ‘It’s like a four-ring Barnum circus . . . Everyone you meet was in the resistance movement. In the end I felt I was the only one who’d found himself a cushy job. I felt just like a little kid beside them.’ He was particularly indignant that an officer had told him, ‘Oh, so you were one of those London émigrés. Lucky beggar! I bet you had a marvellous time.’5 Within the four French fighter squadrons under RAF command, the underlying tensions became all too obvious when they were brought together for the first time in March 1945. Forming the French Fighter Wing, they were placed under the command of Wing Commander R. W. F. Sampson. The fact that an Englishman, rather than a Frenchman, was put in command is another example of the trust which had developed between the RAF and the French Air Force. It may have been tacit recognition of the schisms which existed between the men of the different French squadrons. Sampson was very quick to diagnose the problems: ‘Whereas the Poles,

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Czechs and Norwegians eventually had their own wing leaders, Generals de Gaulle and Valin did not press for this point and I can only surmise that it was because the two squadrons – 340 and 341 – were technically, in the eyes of 345 and 329, military deserters from France.’6 Sampson detected considerable mutual antipathy between the squadrons along fault lines determined by the dates at which they had come under de Gaulle’s command. He tackled the problem of the different squadrons looking ‘somewhat sideways’ at each other by cross-promoting and cross-posting between the various squadrons.7 By this stage of the war, the German Air Force was husbanding its remaining strength very carefully. The Messerschmitt Me 109 was now regarded as obsolete, but the latest types of Focke-Wulf 190 continued to improve the capabilities of that excellent fighter aircraft. The TA 152 variant, introduced in late 1944 and in service with half of the German fighter squadrons by January 1945, was an aircraft rightly feared by opponents. Pierre Clostermann described it in reverential terms: ‘It was very fast (440–480 mph), very manoeuvrable, armed with a 30 mm cannon mounted in the engine, two 20 mm Mauser cannon in the wing roots. The TA 152 was a formidable opponent.’8 In addition to this latest mark of Focke-Wulf 190, since late 1944 Germany had begun to commit its precious reserves of Messerschmitt Me 262 fighters. This was the world’s first operational jet fighter, and it was markedly faster than the Spitfire, P51 Mustang, P47 Thunderbolt or any other aircraft that the Allies could put in the air against it. Shooting down Allied fighters at a ratio of 5:1, it was an impressive weapon, but there were only a few of them. Such was the Allied numerical superiority in aircraft that a loss rate of 5:1 was considered acceptable in the short term. The Luftwaffe was short of men, fuel and aircraft. The dearth of properly trained pilots was a special problem. Fuel shortages and the dominance of enemy air power in the skies over Germany meant that the training of newly qualified pilots was often inadequate. The surviving pilots who had trained before the war or in its early stages, provided the qualitative leavening to a German fighter force that was in serious decline. By April 1944 senior officers had identified the growing shortage of quality pilots as the principal problem. Adolf Galland, a distinguished fighter pilot who was then head of the Luftwaffe’s fighter force, explained: The problem of fighter aviation – I am only pointing out here the problem of the fighters – which the Americans have created is simply one of air superiority. Developments as they are proceeding now already border

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on air supremacy. The ratio of numbers which we fight in the daytime lies approximately between 1:6 and 1:8. The standard of the enemy is extraordinarily high. The technical performance of their planes is so considerable that one must say: ‘Something has to be done about it!’ Daylight fighting in the last four months has caused a loss of more than 1,000 of the flying personnel, among who, of course, were many of the best squadron leaders, wing commanders, and group commodores. We have trouble in closing these gaps, not with numbers, but with experienced pilots.9 Allied pilots quickly became aware of other facets of the same problem. Pierre Clostermann considered that, by late 1944, there was no middle ground in the Luftwaffe. German pilots could be divided into two quite distinct categories: ‘The “Aces”, 15 to 20 per cent of the whole – pilots who were really superior to the average of Allied pilots; and the remainder – not up to much. Very brave but incapable of getting the best out of their aircraft.’10 Given the superiority of some German aircraft over their Allied counterparts, it was fortunate for their opponents that 80 per cent of Luftwaffe pilots could not get ‘the best out of their aircraft’. Some insight into the kind of war fought by RAF fighter squadrons over Germany can be gained from the operations record book for 340 (Ile de France) Squadron for 5 hectic days in February 1945: 21 February: Red Section took off at 1306 hours to do a rail interdiction, twelve bombs being dropped at A.0441 and two near misses scored. No movement was seen in the area. Yellow section on the same mission dropped twelve bombs on the line at E.2394. Two direct hits were scored by enemy flak on Capt. Massart’s aircraft, which was damaged in the port wing and the tail. His No. 2 Lt. Blanc was hit in the propeller. Both aircraft returned to base on the completion of the mission. Blue section bombed the line at A.0741, bombs from three aircraft being very concentrated. No results were observed owing to a large pall of smoke coming up from the track. One horse-drawn transport was damaged at A.1436. Red section was off at 1513 on rail interdiction and dropped twelve bombs from a low level. There was one direct hit on the line at A.1231, the rest falling on a nearby railway station. In the station four rail tankers and three wagons were straffed. Lt. Sanlys’ strikes set the tankers on fire and there was a big explosion. Intense light flak was met.

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Yellow section up at 1615 on rail interdiction, dropped twelve bombs. There was one direct hit at Z.4504 and several near misses at Z.4402. The claims were one M.E.T. [Motorized Enemy Transport] damaged at Z.2569 and one horse-drawn transport together with an M.E.T. full of German troops at Z.6804. Light flak was met. One Spitfire was damaged Cat. B. on landing but this was not due to enemy action. Blue section dropped twelve bombs, one direct hit being registered at A.119314. One Me 262 was seen to be attacking [forward airfield] B.80 and is believed to have been shot down by AA [Anti-Aircraft] at approximately 1725 hours. 22 February: Today was an extremely busy day. Red section took off at 0940 hours for rail interdiction behind the battle area. 12 bombs were dropped three near misses being scored at A.0322. One M.E.T. was attacked at A.0834 no results being observed. Scattered M.E.T. took cover beneath the trees. Yellow section took off at 1000 hours, twelve bombs being dropped. The station and junction at Bonning A.1404 was bombed and straffed. S[ergeant] C[hef] Lelchat scored one direct hit, the out in the line being seen. Intense medium flak was met over the target area. At 1222 hours twelve aircraft with ten of 329 Squadron led by Capt. Massart took off to act as target cover for a formation of medium bombers bombing vital communications between Bremen and the battle area. The operation went according to plan, the bombers being seen but no results observed. A parachute was seen between Cloppenburg and Dummer Lake. On the way out, communications were attacked as well as targets of opportunity. One aircraft was straffed and is believed to be a He 177 on the ground near Herzlake V.9155. No results were observed. Dummy aircraft in the area were observed and straffed. Two M.E.T. were destroyed and two Germans killed, north of Lingen and other Germans were straffed. Three M.E.T. were damaged north of Loningen, all by yellow section. One motor-cycle was destroyed and two rail wagons north of Almelo, by Blue section. Three dummy aircraft were seen three miles west of Rheine airfield. Red section dropped eight bombs, one salvo of three bombs and scored near misses at A.0618. One M.E.T. was damaged at E.9828. Blue section dropped twelve bombs, scoring two direct hits on the railway crossing at A.1434. Three houses were hit near the lines. 23 February: Rain, mist and low cloud prevented flying today. 24 February: The weather today was generally fine with little cloud and good visibility. The best of the opportunity was made and there was a

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record number of sorties for the wing. Throughout the day the squadron was engaged on rail interdiction in the area of Zwolle, Amersfort, Almelo. The following missions were carried out: Red Section (Captain de Bordas), 0830 to 0912, dropped twelve bombs and scored two near misses at E.8682. No movement was seen. Yellow section (Captain Osmanville), 0916 to 1042, dropped twelve bombs and scored one near miss at A.91168. Two barges were damaged at E.9083 Blue section (Lieutenant Hardi), 0943 to 1057, dropped twelve bombs and scored one direct hit at Z.9607 with a near miss at Z.9907. Red section (Captain Massart), 1058 to 1156, dropped twelve bombs scoring one direct hit, the out in the line being clearly seen and one hit on the embankment causing the rail to buckle at E.9293. There was one M.E.T. damaged at Y.0535. The section spotted three very large stationary M.E.T. facing West at a 1000 yards interval at V.0535 (believed to be V.2 carriers). Yellow section (Lieutenant Carre), 1145 to 1251 hours, dropped twelve bombs, two direct hits being scored 50 yards apart at Z.7601. Supply dumps were attacked at Z.6705. One appeared to be set on fire. Two M.E.T. were damaged at Z.7605. Blue section . . . 1230 to 1308, dropped twelve bombs, scoring one direct hit and two near misses at E.6581. A balloon was seen flying at 500 feet at Ede (E.5885) and a rocket, probably a V.2, in the Dorsten area at approx. 1255 hours, appeared to be at about 25,000 feet. Red Section (Lieutenant Hardi), 1312 to 1422, dropped twelve bombs on the line at Z.8404. No claims were made. There was meagre accurate light flak at the target. Yellow section (Captain Massart), 1355 to 1443, dropped twelve bombs. There was one direct hit and one near miss at Y.1501.11 Enemy anti-aircraft fire (flak) was the principal threat to the pilots of the French fighter wing. Flying over Germany and Holland in support of the Allied armies, pilots had to cross certain areas where enemy anti-aircraft guns were densely concentrated. The French fighter squadrons were already familiar with the danger. Between D-Day and the end of 1944, the loss of 30 French fighter aircraft had been attributed to enemy flak. The steady decline of the Luftwaffe in 1944 led the German Army to give its army formations impressive anti-aircraft capabilities. The 2 centimetre Fliegerabwehr-kanone 30, fed by a 20-round box magazine, had been

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developed before 1939 and had seen action in the Spanish Civil War. With a range of 2,200 metres and a high rate of fire, it was an exceptional weapon against low flying aircraft. By 1945 the German Army had mounted them in ones, two and fours on vehicles ranging from trucks to the hulls of obsolescent Mark IV Panzers. The 2 centimetre Flak, sometimes supported by 8.8 centimetre heavy calibre guns employed in an anti-aircraft role, enabled German motorized units to put up a considerable volume of fire to counter Allied fighter-bombers. The 2 centimetre Flak was also deployed to defend fixed points such as bridges. It could also be mounted on a flat bed railway truck to defend the trains that were a favourite target for the fighter-bombers. So intense were the concentrations of flak which the Germans were able to deploy that Allied pilots began to use terms such as ‘flak fever’ to refer to nervousness before a mission. Pierre Clostermann refers to his own ‘morbid flak complex’ and he thought of flak in a particularly dramatic way.12 Fifty years after the war he wrote: ‘Historians of the 1939–1945 war . . . forget perhaps that every mission took us toward the scaffold, with a roll of drums from the flak as a prelude to our execution.’13 Flak and its avoidance became part of the folklore of fighter pilots. Stories would circulate of near misses with death, details of the location of particularly heavy concentrations of flak were exchanged, and theories were formulated about how to counter flak. For example, Bernard FuchsValeani, a French pilot who flew Spitfires with 501 Squadron, developed his own flak countermeasures after speaking to an artilleryman: As we never stopped losing pilots because of the flak, I asked him what I could do to avoid that. He told me, ‘To bring down an aeroplane, we artillerymen are obliged to work from three stable elements: same height, same course, same speed. If one of those elements changes, it becomes difficult; if two elements change, it becomes very difficult: if all three elements change, we have not got a chance of hitting the target.’ That was obvious. of course. But on thinking about it carefully, I thought out the antidote. When flying near zones stuffed with flak, by making large barrel turns to right and left . . . the direction would be constantly changing, also the height and the speed. It was simple and really effective, because the losses from flak in my squadron became, from that day, practically nil.14 The last Allied offensive of the war was launched on 24 March 1945. Operation Varsity involved the crossing of the Rhine by substantial ground forces. The river stood as the last major obstacle to the decisive advance

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into Germany. With this natural obstacle breached, Allied planners hoped to finish the war in a matter of weeks. The capture of the Ludendorff Bridge at Remagen, by units of the American Ninth Armoured Division on 7 March, had made the first breach in Germany’s best natural defence in the west. Operation Varsity was intended to open up such a large breach that the German army would no longer be able to contain the advance of Allied forces. Two airborne divisions were dropped to the east of the Rhine by 1,700 transport aircraft in the largest single parachute drop in history. The operation was a complete success, and casualties were relatively light. The loss of 46 of the troop-carrying aircraft gave some indication, however, of the danger which would still confront Allied pilots flying in support of the advancing armies. For the last few weeks of the war, the worn-out and patched-up Boston bombers of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron were replaced with North American B-25s, known as Mitchells in the RAF. A rather larger and better armed twinengine aircraft, the Mitchell could carry about 15 tons of bombs. They were constantly engaged in precision bombing of enemy targets to clear the way for the army and break the will to resist of any German troops who might have been bypassed or cut off. Their last sortie of the war was flown on 2 May against Itzehoe, a town north-west of Hamburg and close to the Kiel Canal. The Halifax bombers of 346 (Guyenne) and 347 (Tunisie) Squadrons continued to fly missions against the rapidly diminishing number of worthwhile targets. Their final mission was flown on 25 May by a combined total of 30 aircraft against German gun positions on the East Frisian island of Wangerooge. One aircraft of the ‘Tunisie’ was lost, together with its complete crew. In 11 months of operations between June 1944 and May 1945, these two French squadrons had flown a combined total of 2,453 sorties to deliver 9,022 tons of bombs. They had also flown 221 special supply missions to Brussels, delivering over 165,000 gallons of petrol to solve a temporary fuel shortage which might have held up the advance of the British Second Army. From all causes 346 and 347 Squadrons combined had lost 38 aircraft, with 181 aircrew killed and 41 prisoners of war. It was a combat record of which these former squadrons of the Vichy Air Force could well be proud. The final phase of the war in the air also proved deadly for Allied fighter pilots. German resistance became increasingly desperate. Just as final victory was in sight, the French fighter squadrons sustained their greatest concentration of casualties.

186 Date 01/04/45 01/04/05 01/04/45 01/04/45 01/04/45 01/04/45 06/04/45 07/04/45 07/04/45 08/05/45 09/04/45 10/04/45 10/04/45 17/04/45 20/04/45 20/04/45 23/04/45 23/04/45 25/04/45 25/04/45

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45 Squadron 340 340 341 341 341 341 329 345 340 340 340 345 341 341 341 345 340 340 341 341

Pilot

Vicinity

Cause

Outcome

Cavet Graillot Wolloshing Foissac Cristinacce de Larminat Sassard d’Aligny Delery Guichard Lavergne Lemaire de Saxcé Pottier Borne Guerin Rigaud Carré Maynard Le Flecher

Deventer Deventer Zwolle Zwolle Eindhoven Coevorden Germany Deventer Hilversum Germany Germany Zwolle Holland Germany Germany

Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Weather Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak Flak

Killed Wounded Killed Killed Forced Landing Forced Landing Killed Killed Killed Forced Landing Prisoner of War Wounded Killed Prisoner of War Killed Forced Landing Wounded Killed Forced Landing Prisoner of War

Germany Germany Germany Germany

The loss of Albert Cavet, only 5 weeks before the end of the war, was a particularly unlucky end to one brave Frenchman’s determination to fight his country’s enemies. Escaping from France in 1942, he had crossed into Spain only to be arrested and imprisoned by the Spanish authorities. In March 1943 he managed to escape, but he was recaptured and sent back to prison. The following month he escaped yet again, and this time made it all the way to Gibraltar. After training, he joined the ‘Cigognes’. When they were to be pulled out of the line for a rest in March 1945 he engineered his own transfer to the ‘Ile de France’ so that he could continue in action. Flying with his new squadron on 1 April, he took part in an attack on a train; and on his third strafing run he simply disappeared. That same tragic April Fool’s Day accounted for five other French fighter aircraft. Captain B. de Larminat was leading a reconnaissance flight when they launched an attack on some motor transport discovered near Coevorden. Hit by flak as he pulled out of the attack, he made a belly landing and was later able to reach Allied lines. Cristinacce and Wolloshing were flying an armed reconnaissance mission when they, too, were hit by flak. Cristinacce made a forced landing at Eindhoven, while Wolloshing failed to return. Foissac, who had been one of the few pilots to enter the ranks of the Free French after resisting the Allied occupation of Madagascar in 1942, was killed when his long-range fuel tank was ignited by enemy fire near Zutphen.

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Flak continued to be the most common explanation for the loss of aircraft right until the end of the war. On 9 April, Sergeant Pierre Lavergne had to crash land after being hit by flak while attacking motor transport. Wounded in the heel, he was taken prisoner and received some rough treatment at the hands of his captors. Fighter-bomber pilots could not expect to be popular with those who had suffered on the receiving end of their professional expertise. The following day it was the turn of Lieutenant ‘Fifi’ de Saxcé. As a fake Pole he had escaped from France on board the Arandora Star in June 1940, so he was one of the surviving members of the Free French old guard. His aircraft was damaged by flak while attacking ground targets in northeastern Holland. Climbing to a height of 4,000 feet, he radioed that his aircraft had been hit. It then began to lose height, descending to 1,500 feet. When de Saxcé abandoned the aircraft, his parachute caught on the tail. For almost 1,000 feet the lines remained tangled with the tailplane, until the parachute tore and de Saxcé broke free at approximately 500 feet. Damage to the parachute prevented the canopy deploying properly, and the pilot ‘Roman candled’ to his death. Such ‘last minute’ fatalities were very hard for the surviving veterans to bear. They were further saddened by the loss of Roger Borne shortly afterwards. He was born in 1920 at Cenves in the Rhône Department, but his family moved to England while he was a child. Growing up speaking perfect English, he had rallied to de Gaulle on 29 July 1940 and rose to become a flight commander in the ‘Alsace’. He was killed when his aircraft was brought down by ground fire while attacking targets inside Germany on 20 April. Three days later Jack Carré disappeared while on an operation. He had reached Gibraltar in October 1941 and enlisted in the Free French Air Force in November. From September 1944 onwards, he had flown with the ‘Ile de France’. It was only after the war that the circumstances of his disappearance became known. On an armed reconnaissance in North Germany he had single-handedly attacked a heavily defended armoured train. On his third strafing run he was brought down by ground fire, and the aircraft crashed some 300 metres from his target. German soldiers from the train discovered his identity when they went to examine the crashed aircraft, and they passed the information to some French prisoners of war who were being carried as passengers. With the end of the war just days away, Louis Le Flecher was flying as No. 2 to Jacques Andrieux while they were attacking port installations at Emden on 25 April. Andrieux later set down his memories what followed:

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I was watching [Le Flecher’s] flight automatically. Suddenly I saw his engine disintegrate, certainly under the impact of an anti-aircraft shell. Without being able to stop myself, I began to shout into my radio, ‘Come on, La Fleche, jump, jump!’ We were quite close to the ground. I repeated my order (or my prayer). I could see below me the water and the shore . . . and my poor Breton replied, ‘Jaco leader, I don’t know how to swim’. But I saw him bail out and a white canopy open out at the moment he touched the sea . . . in 20 cms of water. The sea breeze that day had not just dispersed the clouds; it had saved my friend from certain drowning.15 Although Le Flecher was safe from drowning, he was not safe from the German soldiers who raced to capture him. As he struggled to free himself from his parachute, he quickly became aware of the presence of the enemy: The Germans were 100 metres away and they shot at me as if I was a rabbit. The shots missed . . . then the soldiers caught me. Here I was, in an RAF pullover but without any boots! I could not understand anything they said, but a shaken Wehrmacht officer – our 36 bombs had caused much damage – drew his pistol and took me prisoner. I demanded a drink, and water to clean the mud off my face and head, but they kept kicking me with their boots, at first thinking I was an English pilot. We followed the river south of Emden, then crossed the river by boat and for the first time saw other prisoners. Suddenly came the sound of Spitfires, which were bombing the same targets as we had attacked earlier. I recognised them as from my 145 Wing. It was a great sight. Arriving at an army prison cell, I was again interrogated. They did not believe me when I said I was a Canadian and I finally had to admit I was French. The interrogator was extremely correct and proper and had no doubts that the war would soon be over. I was not so lucky with other bullies who used me like a punch-bag, but I was not badly marked. I was taken to a cell, being both thirsty and hungry, but went without food or drink for three days, during which time I mostly slept. Then one morning the door opened and I was told to get up . . . I was now with the Luftwaffe. Another interrogation followed, by an officer wearing the Iron Cross, who asked me a lot of silly questions. We also discussed our respective aeroplanes. He apologised as I was placed once more in a cell, guarded by two old Germans. I could have been their son.16 On 30 April, 5 days after Le Flecher was shot down, Adolf Hitler committed suicide inside his Führerbunker in Berlin. German troops in Holland, Denmark and northern Germany surrendered to British forces on 4 May.

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Hitler’s successor as leader of the German Reich, Grand Admiral Dönitz, authorized the conclusion of a formal armistice on 6 May, and the following day Canadian troops liberated Le Flecher. Fighting finally ended on 8 May at just after 11.00 a.m. Le Flecher’s aircraft had been the last combat loss suffered by the four Free French fighter squadrons. The news of final victory was celebrated in very different ways. For the ‘Cigognes’, celebrations were distinctly muted. In early March 1945 they had been withdrawn from Holland and sent to Turnhouse and then the Orkney Islands for a brief respite from operations, thereby avoiding the heavy casualties of the final battles. There was some feeling of anti-climax, of missing the final moment of victory and the satisfaction of being ‘in at the kill’. In any case, the final act had been strangely protracted, with the total collapse of German resistance taking longer than many expected. The squadron adjutant recorded in the ‘Cigognes’ operations record book for 6 May 1945: It has been announced on the radio that the total surrender of all German elements on the continent will soon be reported, and the Prime Minister will speak on Thursday. Although the end looks pretty near at the moment, there is no obvious excitement among personnel, the whole thing has dragged on for so long now that, although preparations for VE [Victory in Europe] celebrations are going ahead, feeling is not half as high as it was a month ago.17 The ‘Alsace’ greeted the news rather differently. Virtually rebuilt in March 1945 during their rest and rehabilitation period in Scotland, the new pilots of 341 had proved themselves able to live up to the standards expected of pilots in the squadron that René Mouchotte had built. The adjutant recorded proudly at the end of March 1945: ‘It is still the same old 341 . . . with its old spirit of daring and dash, and there is of course the same camaraderie and love of gambling, whether it be a game of poker or tossing for a claim shared between two.’18 The same officer recorded the squadron’s reaction to the news of peace in Europe on 8 May: ‘Today, as befits such a day, the sun is shining brightly . . . We shall long remember today’s sunshine, for it is the sun of victory. Today, Victory in Europe Day, Germany has surrendered unconditionally. While we rejoice, our thoughts turn to those who, by their courage, determination and unfailing loyalty to the cause of freedom, made such a day possible.’19 The high point of the celebrations for 340 (Ile de France) Squadron was the return on 7 May of Pierre Lavergne, who had been shot down on 9 April. Freed from captivity, he made his return to the squadron at Drope

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in Germany in fine style. Borrowing a German motorcycle and side-car, he carried with him both a Belgian pilot, whom he returned to his unit before arrival at Drope, and a German naval ensign, which became one of the squadron’s prized trophies.20 The celebrations concluded with firework displays and liberty runs to Holland.

Chapter 15

Aftermath

Even though the fighting in Europe ended in May 1945, the men of the French fighter squadrons had not entirely finished with danger, death and the dying. During May, members of 341 (Alsace) Squadron spent a considerable amount of time trying to locate Roger Borne’s crash site. They found it at last near Friedeburg, with ‘part of the aircraft stuck in the mud [and] under about 4 feet of water’.1 After digging through the mud, the search party managed to recover ‘a small bone’ on 18 May but, with tools inadequate for the task, they had to give up the attempt to recover the body. A further attempt was made at the beginning of June, and on 5 June a funeral ceremony could eventually be held. Pierre Clostermann, by then serving with 3 Squadron RAF, was lucky to escape uninjured when his Hawker Tempest developed engine failure during a flying display before the King of Denmark in Copenhagen on 1 July. Even without the threat from enemy fighters and anti-aircraft guns, flying a high performance aircraft was still an activity involving unexpected and unpredictable risks. Lucien Montet (better known under his nom de guerre as Christian Martell) died in a flying accident on 31 August 1945. Already qualified as a pilot in 1940, he was at Casablanca when he heard General de Gaulle’s appeal. He and some companions set out to escape to Gibraltar by sea from Sidi Ferruch, in Algeria, but weather damage forced their boat to limp in to Ibiza. He was imprisoned, first by the Spanish and then by the Vichy authorities. After his release he made a winter crossing of the Pyrenees on foot in January 1942, and eventually managed to get to Gibraltar and join the Free French. He was employed initially by their intelligence service, who arranged for him to be parachuted back into France in May. There he helped to set up escape routes for crashed airmen and for experienced ground crew who wished to enlist with de Gaulle. Returning to the United Kingdom in January 1943, he was posted to 341 (Alsace) Squadron. With them he completed 151 missions, being credited

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with the destruction of seven enemy aircraft and damage to a further two. From September 1943 to August 1944 he commanded the squadron. Then he was entrusted with the important task of setting up No. 80 Operational Training Unit for French pilots at Ouston, near Newcastle. A year later, on 31 August 1945, while he was piloting his aircraft on a short routine flight, the engine cut out at low level. He almost succeeded in gliding back to the airfield but, just short of the runway, he clipped a tree and crashed. Later that day he died in hospital of multiple injuries, including a fractured skull. It was a cruel turn of fate that Martell should have faced death repeatedly on the ground, at sea and in the air, only to lose his life when the fighting in Europe had come to an end. Another veteran of the FAFL who lost his life after the war had ended was Jean Demozay. Between 1940 and 1943 his outstanding record as a fighter pilot with 1, 242 and 91 Squadrons of the RAF had brought him no fewer than 18 confirmed victories and 2 ‘probables’, plus other enemy aircraft destroyed on the ground. His successes had been recognized by the RAF by the award of the Distinguished Flying Cross and bar, followed by the Distinguished Service Order. After commanding 91 Squadron from July 1942 to January 1943, he was sent by General Valin to represent the FAFL on General Catroux’s staff in Syria. Six months later Demozay took command of the Free French Air Force in the Middle East, and in July 1944 he organized the Béarn and Picardie groupes flying supplies from North Africa to the Resistance in the south of France. After the end of hostilities he became second-in-command of French Air Force flying schools, and seemed destined for a career at the most senior levels. His death in an air crash on 19 December 1945 robbed him of that opportunity.2 At least 12 other Free French veteran pilots died in air crashes between 1945 and 1961, a figure which included no fewer than 8 former members of the NormandieNiemen Squadron who had survived the campaign in Russia. Other French airmen had to come to terms with death in the form of family tragedies. Jacques Andrieux, who took over command of the Operational Training Unit at Ouston after the death of Martell, returned home to Carhaix to find that his father, a local doctor, was dead. The Germans had sentenced him to death for playing a leading role in the ‘Johnny’ resistance network helping Allied airmen to evade capture in Brittany, and he had eventually met his end in Belsen concentration camp in 1945. Friends and relatives often had to wait until the end of the war to learn the fate of loved ones who had been imprisoned by the Germans. Colette, widow of Colonel Pijeaud, had joined the Resistance. She was sent to Ravensbrück, where she died of septicaemia on 13 December 1943. Raymond

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Cauvel and August Zalewski, two of the airmen who had been sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour for attempting to escape to Britain on board the Buhara in February 1941, died of exhaustion in Luttringhausen during 1944. Raymond van Wymeersch, repatriated from Italy, learned on his return to England that his father had died in Mauthausen concentration camp. Van Wymeersch was posted to No. 80 Operational Training Unit to help train a new generation of French pilots who might still be needed for service in the continuing war in the Far East.3 Japan’s acceptance of surrender terms in August ended the possibility that the French squadrons would be required for immediate service in South-East Asia. Pilots and other aircrew then had to consider whether to remain in the service or ask for demobilization. For those who chose a civilian career, the parting was difficult. There could be no certainty about career prospects in postwar France, and they did not know whether they would ever again sit at the controls of a high performance aircraft. Pierre Clostermann, who applied for immediate demobilization, found an excuse to take his Hawker Tempest, affectionately named Le Grand Charles, for just one last flight: Coming back, I had taken him high up in the cloudless summer sky, for it was only there that I could fittingly take my leave. Together we climbed for the last time straight towards the sun. We looped once, perhaps twice, we lovingly did a few slow, meticulous rolls, so that I could take away in my finger tips the vibration of his supple, docile wings. And in the narrow cockpit I wept, as I shall never weep again.4 The French fighter squadrons, 340 (Ile de France), 341 (Alsace), 329 (Cigognes) and 345 (Berry), finally passed from RAF control in November 1945, when they were either disbanded or formally transferred to the control of the Armée de l’Air.5 Appropriately adopting the Cross of Lorraine formation, the ‘Alsace’ flew as a squadron for the last time on 2 November. The sadness of the occasion was caught by their adjutant: ‘. . . and so this squadron, formed during the dark days of 1941, returns to its country from which so many gallant men came out to fight for freedom and gave their lives for the country they love so well. Mouchotte, Martell, de Saxcé, Schloesing, Borne, these are our great men, and their glory is shared by our two countries.’6 The Halifax bomber squadrons, 346 (Guyenne) and 347 (Tunisie), also transferred from the RAF to the Armée de l’Air in November, and they were followed by 342 (Lorraine) Squadron in December.

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Many of the veterans had high expectations for a France reborn and a French Air Force reborn. Robert Baitson enthused: The Air Force will undergo a complete renewal. The shadow which, since June 1940, has dulled our colours, is slowly lifting thanks to those who, in Allied uniform, won the Battle of Britain, those who, finally, have known how to show the world that France could not remain outside a struggle which had at stake her own freedom and the freedom of other peoples. The first rays of the dawn of victory will light up a new day when its colours will never again know the shame of an armistice and surrender before an enemy. Our country, liberated by thousands of anonymous heroes, is waiting for an Air Force worthy of the sacrifices of her children.7 Baitson’s optimism for the rebirth of the French Air Force was shared by many of his countrymen who had fought for France in the ranks of the RAF. They were to be quickly disappointed, however. For Roger Blitz, one of the FAFL veterans who had got away from Saint-Jean-de-Luz in June 1940 on the Arandora Star, the transfer back to the French Air Force 5 years later proved a deflating experience: ‘I found the French Air Force a bit like I had left it in 1940 – rather disorganized, lacking resources, and rather hostile to those who were arriving from Great Britain. The bases were deplorable, the officers’ mess dirty and neglected. Those of us who had experienced it recalled life on a Royal Air Force base with some nostalgia.’8 Disillusioned and disappointed, Blitz asked to be demobilized. The disillusionment of many of these pilots was probably no more than was to be expected. They were confident, combative men, proud individualists, used to a world of ‘life or death’ decisions, and they were inclined to be contemptuous of scheming politicians, bureaucrats, desk-flying ‘brass hats’ and anyone tainted with even a hint of collaboration with the Germans. Adjustment to peacetime conditions, peacetime routine, peacetime boredom and peacetime discipline was bound to be difficult for such men. The scars left by France’s defeat and the policies of the Vichy regime ran deep. For the best part of 4 or 5 years they had served in the air force of a foreign power, and during those years many had come to have little respect even for their own Free French headquarters in London. Each pilot had his own embittered story to tell of grievances that put distance between him and the headquarters staff in London. On the formation of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron in 1941, it had become apparent that French headquarters were in the habit of offering the same coveted appointment to several potential recipients. Bernard Dupérier grumbled: ‘Since my arrival in London, the

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headquarters of the FAFL had promised me the command, but I learned afterwards that before me they had already done the same to Scitivaux, Jubelin and some others . . . Jubelin took it rather badly.’9 Roland Leblond, hospitalized for years after a serious flying accident in 1942, complained that French headquarters had abandoned him during his years in hospital. Visits from their chaplain, Father Godard, and from Jean Maridor and others pilots had been his only contact with Free France. Even while he had still been flying, he had resented the slowness with which headquarters had moved to recognize that the British had awarded him the Distinguished Flying Medal (DFM). Leblond was the first and, as it transpired, the only French pilot to receive the DFM before the war ended. As he later recounted: ‘I had to wait a month after the presentation of the DFM before I received two brief messages [from headquarters]: one was to congratulate me on having been awarded that British distinction, the other was to tell me that the Croix de Guerre was going to be awarded to me.’10 After leaving hospital in 1947, Leblond would continue to feel ignored and abandoned by the French Air Force, in spite of his poor state of health and distinguished war service. Roland Béchoff remembered a more public example of the shortcomings of French headquarters: In regard to us, HQ adopted an attitude we found condescending. They only came to visit us occasionally, and I remember [a visit] which took place shortly after the black day of 10 April 1942 [when Philippe de Scitivaux, Choron and Robinson had been shot down] . . . This ‘big wig’ spoke to us in words which were judged deplorable and shocking. [The ‘big wig’ could not remember the name of one of the men who had been shot down, and added, as good news] I have learned that if a French pilot falls into the hands of the Germans, he will not be shot, but made prisoner until the end of the war.11 Béchoff was glad that, during the war, Free French headquarters could do no more than exercise a rather detached control of their air force units: ‘Personnel undergoing training and those who were spread among RAF units depended entirely on the British. In a way, all that was left for the FAFL staff in London to do was to ratify the decisions of the RAF and to manage their own staff.’12 Long after the end of hostilities, Béchoff had to use his personal influence (as Prefect of a département) to ensure that François Fayolle’s widow received an appropriate pension from the French government.13 With such resentments and slights smouldering in the background,

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it was unsurprising that many former Free French pilots should have found it easier to leave the postwar Armée de l’Air than remain in it. Airmen who were demobilized faced a number of personal challenges, some expected and some not. For many the transition to peace was difficult and painful. Pierre Clostermann explained his own feelings and his chosen cure: The first sensation that we all experienced was loneliness akin to that felt by factory workers immediately after closing of the workplace. We were lodged, fed, paid, then nothing; the absence of recognition or activity induced a terrible emptiness. I remember my friend Jacques who told me: ‘You see my old friend, they are not going to need us any more. We are left to our own devices and we have not been prepared for a return to civilian life. It will be unpleasant.’ . . . For therapy I went on a prolonged serious fishing trip up the Seine with a fishing rod . . . There I caught nearly every species that swam the river, trout, carp and many others . . . I slowly recovered my fundamental French origins.14 Bewilderment and fear very quickly turned to anger. The birth of a new France as a land fit for heroes, and an Armee de l’Air worthy of the men who had rallied in 1940–42, was neither immediate nor problem-free. It was a France beset by old problems combined with the new (but politically convenient) affliction of widespread amnesia about the war years. The amnesia reduced everyone, Vichyite versus Gaullist, resister versus collaborator, French air ace versus wartime farm hand, to the same level. At times General de Gaulle seemed to encourage this amnesia. In trying to cultivate national unity and national pride, he embraced a carefully nuanced and inclusive vision of national history between 1940 and 1945. France, with the help of the Allies, had freed herself. By acts great and small, all French people, bar a small minority who had actively collaborated with the enemy, had contributed to the liberation. Admittedly, the key role had been played by the forces of France Libre, followed by the Resistance, but millions whose resistance had taken more subtle forms had also played their part. Some found it difficult to swallow this version of recent events, which seemed to create some kind of moral equivalence between those who had gambled everything to fight on in 1940, or long-serving veterans of the Resistance, and people who had prudently waited until victory was assured before offering token assistance to the Resistance, or farmers who had quietly evaded German food requisition orders in order to line their own pockets by dealing on the black market.15

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Clostermann probably spoke for many Free French servicemen when he later expressed his distaste for the France he returned to in 1945 and the reception he received: We of the Free French Air Force, to whom the Armée de l’Air owed everything, especially honour, we who rushed into the holocaust one after the other . . . to mock the odds against us, wangling extra tours of ops, fagged out, dead beat, nerves in tatters, lungs burnt out with oxygen – we always got the thick end of the stick. The rare survivors of this four-year-long effort had wanted more than anything else to go home, to tread French soil again, to see their loved ones again, to live again the life of the Paris streets, or of their peaceful native town. But they had quickly come back, bemused, uncomprehending, though as yet unembittered. They had been overwhelmed with Resistance stories, with tales of heroic deeds; the same words had been dinned into their ears a hundred times over: ‘How lucky you were to be in London. Here, we suffered. If you only knew what risks we ran! In spite of all that, we kicked the Huns out.’ . . . Pilots didn’t understand all this. They didn’t want flowers and jollifications. They expected no reward, except to see their homes again, even if they were in ruins. They preferred to keep quiet, but deep down there was a feeling of profound injustice. What had they gone through? They had only risked being roasted alive, trapped under the blazing remains of a Spitfire, or seeing the earth surge up before them when, imprisoned in the narrow metal coffin of a cockpit with its hood jammed, you count the four, three, two seconds left to you to live. Three times a day, for months on end, they had hurled their poor shrinking bodies into the flak, missing death by a hair’s breadth, each time, until the last.16 To some airmen, it seemed as if the foreigners for whom they had flown were more grateful than the nation to which they returned. To his credit, Stalin did not forget the debt which Russia owed to the men of the Normandie-Niemen Squadron. At the end of the war the Russian dictator gave practical expression to his gratitude by offering the unit’s Yak-3 fighters to France as a gift. The offer was gratefully accepted and the pilots, loaded with Soviet honours, arrived back in France on 20 June 1945. The Yak-3’s would remain operational with the French Air Force until April 1947. The close association between the French and British Air Forces was also maintained after 1945, helped by the early diplomatic moves which led to the setting up of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation in 1949.

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Despite the grumbling of the veterans and the underlying tensions in French society, in the autumn of 1945 General de Gaulle would have been fully entitled to feel a warm glow of achievement. After all the risks that he had run, and despite the frustrations, humiliations and aggravations he had suffered since 1940, his beloved France was free from German occupation. Democratic institutions had been restored, and the danger of civil war had been averted. The country was governed, once more, by its own republican government. The principal ‘men of Vichy’ had been brought to trial, and communities all over France had meted out summary ‘justice’ to despised citizens branded as collaborators. The nation’s finances might be in desperate straits, but France was a great world power once again, able to accept responsibility for administering her own zone of occupation in a defeated Germany and entitled to one of the permanent seats on the United Nations Security Council. A general election in October showed that no political party could claim an absolute majority, but de Gaulle was head of a widely based coalition government charged with the enormous tasks of leading the country into the postwar era and guiding the elected Assembly in drawing up a new constitution to replace that of the discredited Third Republic. He enjoyed great personal prestige, and he seemed to have an unassailable claim to the respect and affection of his countrymen. In international affairs, de Gaulle cut a more impressive figure than US President Harry Truman or Clement Attlee, the British prime minister. Yet, on 20 January 1946 he resigned as president of the provisional government of France. The Assembly refused to accept his recommendation that the Fourth Republic should be led by a president entrusted with wide executive powers, as in the United States, to ensure clear policies, firm decision-making and administrative efficiency. He had become disillusioned with the political manoeuvring of his own ministers and other politicians, who seemed determined to saddle the country with a feeble, figurehead president on the pre-war model. Rather than preside over a re-enactment of the ministerial instability of the 1920s and 1930s, de Gaulle chose to resign his office and leave the squabbling politicians to get on with drawing up the constitution of the Fourth Republic in their own traditional, horsetrading fashion. In 1947 he returned to the political fray at the head of his Rassemblement du Peuple Français (RPF) but, while the RPF attracted a great deal of popular support, it never managed to gather enough votes to take control and impose the reforms which the de Gaulle considered essential. He resigned the leadership of the RPF in 1953, and withdrew into private life to write his memoirs.

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After the war, the airmen who had rallied to de Gaulle in 1940–43 continued to work for the France in which they believed, even if their general had stepped down from command. The former fliers of the FAFL became part of the backbone of postwar France. The bravest of the brave, they had risked everything to see France reborn, but there was no unanimity about how that rebirth was to be achieved. In 1940 the need to liberate France from German occupation had provided a compelling sense of common purpose for all who rallied to de Gaulle. There was no such unifying purpose in the postwar era. Many, probably most, former airmen considered that de Gaulle was the very embodiment of the new France, but others found that they could not accept his political philosophy and ambitions. Some of the Free French Air Force’s most prominent figures continued to wield influence in the postwar period. General Valin, the Commanderin-Chief of the FAFL, was promoted lieutenant-general in January 1945. In 1946–47 he served as head of the French military delegation to the United Nations. From 1947–57 he was Inspector-General of the Air Force, being promoted to the rank of four-star general in 1950. From 1946–68 he sat as a permanent member of the Higher Council of the Air Force, and in the late 1950s he was a member of the High Council of the Armed Forces. If Valin’s promotion was intended to ensure that the French Air Force remained in sound, Gaullist hands, then it was not the only example of de Gaulle’s intention to ensure that postwar France lived up to the expectations of those who had defied Vichy. Several other survivors from those who had rallied in 1940–43 remained in the service to ensure that the spirit of the old FAFL lived on in the postwar Air Force. They would be involved in fighting France’s colonial wars in Indo-China and Algeria. In addition to Valin and Corniglion-Molinier, who had received their general’s stars before the end of the war, more than a dozen other former Free French pilots eventually rose to become generals. Jacques Andrieux, for example, remained in the Air Force until his retirement with the rank of brigadiergeneral in 1970. Henri de Bordas and Pierre Laurent became generals after serving as military attachés at French embassies abroad, and Yves Ezanno and Joseph Risso also retired as generals. Henri de Rancourt, first commander of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron in the United Kingdom, received his promotion to general in 1954. Of all the veterans, Michel Fourquet (‘Gorri’), another former commander of the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron, enjoyed the most distinguished postwar career. After promotion to general in 1958, he rose to become Secretary-General for National Defence in 1962 and Chief of the General Staff from 1968–71.

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Many other former Free French airmen rose to the rank of colonel before retiring. Others might well have enjoyed distinguished careers also, if they had not met their deaths fighting in France’s colonial wars. Michel Brunschwig was killed flying Spitfires on ground attack missions against the Viet Cong during the abortive war to re-establish French colonial rule in Indo-China. Other casualties in Indo-China were Otino Sabbadini, one of the four French pilots to survive tours with RAF Coastal Command,17 and Marc Charras, who had fought with the Normandie-Niemen in Russia. Maurice Cermolacce, who had ended the war in German captivity and been forced to march many miles when Stalag Luft III was evacuated to keep ahead of the advancing Russians, followed a similar career path. He flew on operations in both Indo-China and North Africa, and survived to retire with the rank of major in 1963.18 Other former pilots preferred to use skills learned in war to build careers in civil aviation – flying passenger aircraft, in air traffic control, working as test pilots or as commercial representatives for aircraft manufacturers. Philippe de Scitivaux continued his career in the Navy. He was appointed captain of a frigate after the war, and later commanded several naval air stations until his promotion to rear-admiral in 1960. He retired in 1971 in the rank of vice-admiral.19 However, his brother Xavier did not continue in the naval service. He became director of a firm of business consultants. Another flyer from the French Navy, André Jubelin, had been taken off flying duties in August 1943 and appointed to command a warship. After the war he commanded the aircraft carrier Arromanches, and eventually retired as a rear-admiral. After working for a time as a pilot with Iranian Airways, Roger Blitz (formerly of 340 Squadron) went into the car hire business and became European director-general of Hertz and director of the Europcar network. Roland de la Poype (formerly of 602 Squadron and the ‘NormandieNiemen’) developed wide-ranging business interests in farming and livestock breeding, in the new technology for manufacturing plastics, and as founder of Marineland at Antibes. He also found time to serve as mayor of Champigné. Joseph Pouliquen, first commandant of the ‘NormandieNiemen’, chose to set up business as an antique dealer – and lived to the ripe old age of 91. Of the veterans from 341 Squadron, Claude Raoul Duval’s commercial and banking interests took him to the Congo, Nigeria, Algeria and Brazil, while René-Louis Leguie ran a printing business. Louis Leveissière joined the family metallurgy business, after a road accident forced him to give up

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working as a test pilot; and Henri Mathey (former prisoner of war in StalagLuft III) became a businessman in Besançon. Two former pilots enjoyed distinguished careers in the civil service. Roland Béchoff (of 340 and 611 Squadrons) served as prefect of a number of French départements before retiring in 1961, and Jean Pompei (whose flying had been in the Middle East) also became a prefect and member of the economic and social council. Pierre Pouyade (formerly commander of the ‘Normandie-Niemen’, 1943–44) served as air ADC to the first President of the Fourth Republic, Vincent Auriol, and was military, air and naval attaché to Argentina in the early 1950s. After a period at the NATO defence college, he retired as a brigadier-general in 1956. He became a member of the Chamber of Deputies in the 1960s, and worked to improve Franco-Russian relations, a role which earned him the Lenin Peace Prize in 1977. Careers in politics attracted only a small number of the former Free French pilots. Edouard Corniglion-Molinier successfully combined business interests in aviation, film-making and the press with sitting in the National Assembly. During the 1950s he served the Fourth Republic as a government minister during the premierships of such transient leaders as Joseph Laniel, Edgar Faure, Maurice Bourgès-Manoury and Pierre Pflimlin. Pierre Mendès France had been a politician and junior minister in Léon Blum’s Popular Front government before the war. He had served with the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron as a navigator, but de Gaulle had taken him off flying duties and made him minister of the national economy in his provisional government. Mendès France resigned in 1945 over a disagreement on economic policy. After the war, while retaining profound respect for the general’s wartime leadership, Mendès France could not support de Gaulle’s political ambitions or philosophy, and he served briefly as a socialist prime minister in 1954–55. A former pilot of 340 Squadron and the ‘Normandie-Niemen’, André Moynet combined vital work as a leading test pilot with flying 76 operational missions in Algeria. He also represented Saône-et-Loire as an independent deputy from 1946–67. He spent a short period as a minister in the Mendès France government and was president of the National Assembly’s commission of national defence in the mid-1960s. Another who rose to ministerial office was Jacques Soufflet. After taking part in the failure at Dakar, he had been a fighter pilot with 341 Squadron and commanded 342 (Lorraine) Squadron in the final stage of the war. He sat in the Senate in

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the 1960s and 1970s, and served as minister for the armed forces in Jacques Chirac’s government (1974–75). Best selling author Pierre Clostermann also served as a deputy in the National Assembly from 1946 to 1969 but did not become a government minister. He went back into the Air Force in 1956–57, during which time he flew ground attack missions in Algeria. His pre-war training as an engineer enabled him to play an important role in the development of Reims-Aviation, and he later held senior positions with the Cessna Aircraft Company and Avions Marcel Dassault-Bréguet. Bernard Dupérier, another prolific writer, also went into politics and enjoyed a long career in the French Chamber of Deputies. While some former members of the FAFL rose to influential positions in the Air Force or politics, where they could try to safeguard the interests of the France for which they had fought, others worked for the same end through their writing. The late 1940s and 1950s saw the publication of a number of key texts detailing the ideals, heroism and sacrifice of the men of the FAFL. The diaries of René Mouchotte, written only as personal notes when they were first committed to paper, were never intended for publication. The decision to publish them in France in 1949 was motivated by the conviction that France needed to be reminded and reinspired by the patriotism that shone through every page of the diary. There was already a feeling that postwar France was going in the wrong direction and that her former knights of the air had new roles to play. Bernard Dupérier’s memoirs appeared a year after the first publication of The Mouchotte Diaries. Dupérier’s anger and disappointment were spelled out very bluntly. He felt that, 5 years after the war, the sacrifice of Mouchotte and the FAFL had already been forgotten. He asked in the preface whether the name of François Fayolle was remembered in France, ‘and if they do not remember François, what about our other comrades – Sergeant Bourgeois, Aspirant Waillier, Lieutenant Hauchemaille and all the others who died so that France might live?’20 For Dupérier, the sacrifice of those men who had fought for France in the darkest days imposed a debt of honour on those who remained. That debt of honour could only be redeemed by building the kind of France that Fayolle and others had given their lives for. They had come to England so that France might live, and it was for Her that they had flown away cheerfully and never returned. But it had not been with the idea of snatching a corpse from the hands of the Germanic executioner; it had been to pass on to little children at home the joy of living and also the pride in being French; the pride of belonging to a

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rejuvenated country at the dawn of a new era; pride in the prospects which lay before France in a renewed world, more even than those of a glorious past . . . Glory lay before us, for the land where an honest and virile youth would fix their eyes on the future and would deserve it by their indomitable will and persistent hard work. It was that spirit which had motivated the comrades who had fallen by our side. It was that spirit which guided into battle those who tomorrow would be no more than a name in our memory. But our victory would be their victory and their deaths would not have been in vain. Their blood would have sealed the deep foundations on which France would be rebuilt. [He goes on to express his pride in the pilots of 340 (Ile de France) Squadron] . . . They were plain and unassuming, and they did not claim to be particularly talented nor to be other than they were. They came from diverse backgrounds, but aristocrats and workers, royalists and men of the left, they were above all Frenchmen. They had not accepted defeat, and, without boastful words, they gladly gave their lives for all that they loved and for the triumph of their ideal, so simple, so fine and so clear . . . The country owes it to them to remake a pure and beautiful France, such as they longed for in their unconquerable hearts, because they had the hearts of victors, those 20-year-old boys of ‘La Vieille Equipe’.21 The year after Dupérier’s memoirs appeared, Pierre Clostermann published his own. They became an immediate best-seller, and they were translated into English and many other languages. Clostermann’s anger at the way in which his comrades had been forgotten, and at the direction that France was taking, was as palpable as Dupérier’s. Other reminders of the wartime role of the FAFL appeared in the 1950s. In 1955 General Valin published his account of the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron. Under the title The Sans-Culottes of the Air, Valin drew a powerful analogy between the French patriots of 1793 and the men of the Free French Air Force.22 He reminded his readers that in 1793 the sans-culottes had only to walk across the street in order to fight for their country. The airmen of the Free French movement had to climb mountains, cross deserts and navigate seas in order to render France the same service. For Valin, his airmen had been the guardians of France in the same way that the sans-culottes had been the guardians of the Revolution. The image of former pilots as the guardians of the new France was a logical extension of the romantic image of the airmen as chivalrous knights. A biography of Jean Maridor, written with the help of Roland Leblond, appeared in 1955.23 The book also told of the other members of Maridor’s

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patrol who had escaped from Saint-Jean-de-Luz in June 1940. The narrative thread from heroic escape through to Maridor’s death in August 1944, punctuated by the deaths of his friends, Le Bihan, Léon and Béasse, and the hospitalization of Leblond and Traisnel as a result of flying injuries, dramatically underlined the story of sacrifice that the surviving Free French pilots had to tell. Until the 1950s the British public, thanks to wartime publicity, were probably more familiar with that story than a French public which had been subjected to the wartime censorship imposed by both the Vichy regime and the Germans. The literary testament of the men of the Free French Air Force fed into a mood of growing dissatisfaction with the Fourth Republic. The humiliating failure of costly military campaigns to re-establish French colonial rule in Indo-China was followed by seemingly insoluble difficulties in Algeria, where Arab nationalism challenged France’s hold on that country. There was a paradox about the situation of France ten years after the liberation. Economically and in the international sphere remarkable progress had been made: politically the Fourth Republic was in what seemed like a hopeless impasse, which reflected only too well the general state of mind of her people. The hoped-for recovery and rebirth of the state, which was to follow liberation, had not come about. Objectively there had been progress; subjectively, France in the fifties seemed to be much what she had been in the thirties.24 On 13 May 1958 French settlers in Algeria attacked government buildings in response to what they saw as the weakness of the government in dealing with the Arab nationalist insurrection. In the middle of the crisis the French military leaders in Algeria mounted a coup calling for the return of Charles de Gaulle, who they felt confident would defend the rights of the French settlers and prosecute the fight against the Algerian nationalist movement to a successful conclusion. Before the crisis broke, the general had been busy at home in Colombey-les-Deux-Églises completing the first two volumes of his memoirs. A Committee of Public Security was formed in Algiers under Generals Jacques Massu and Raoul Salan. In view of the imminent danger that the military coup might spread to metropolitan France, de Gaulle publicly announced that he was ready to undertake ‘all necessary duties’ in the interest of the country. As soon as dissident French paratroops seized control in Corsica and began planning an airborne landing near Paris, political leaders from various parties decided that the best hope of

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avoiding a catastrophic civil war lay in backing de Gaulle, despite lingering concerns that he might yet turn out to have ambitions to rule France as a dictator. On 29 May the French President, René Coty, offered de Gaulle the post of prime minister. When he had answered the call of what he had seen as his duty in 1940, the general had been condemned for repudiating the lawful authority of the French state. In the crisis of 1958, politicians and people were only too glad to transfer the lawful authority of the French state into his experienced hands, and they were fortunate in having such a man available at a critical time. De Gaulle took up the office of premier on 1 June, but he made it clear to the politicians that he only accepted the responsibility on the understanding that he was to be granted the widest possible powers. Among the members of the National Assembly who voted for his recall to power were Edouard Corniglion-Molinier, André Moynet and Pierre Clostermann, veterans of the FAFL. Pierre Mendès France, another FAFL veteran, while respecting de Gaulle’s past services, spoke eloquently against his new appointment: I will not vote in favour of his investiture, and he will be neither surprised nor offended . . . I cannot bring myself to cast a vote constrained by rebellion and the threat of a military coup. The decision which the Assembly is about to take – everyone here knows it – is not a free decision; the consent we are about to give is tainted.25 Authorized to exercise emergency powers for 6 months, de Gaulle immediately set about terminating the Fourth Republic. He prepared a new constitution, which would bring into being a Fifth Republic in which the elected president would have increased executive power. A referendum of the French people approved the new constitution in September 1958, and de Gaulle was elected president in December. In the background to many of these developments in the military, in politics and in business were senior figures who had first rallied to the cause of Free France in 1940–43. Their patriotic credentials were proven, and many, but by no means all, survivors of de Gaulle’s old guard showed that they were ready to rally for one final campaign. Charles de Gaulle was to hold the office of President of the Fifth Republic until 1969, a year before his death.

Chapter 16

Conclusions

During the crucial middle years of the war, the airmen who fought under the Cross of Lorraine were pitifully few in number. They could very easily have come to be regarded as a pathetic collection of deserters, rebels, misfits, cranks, adventurers and romantics who could never hope to amount to more than a tiny cog in the huge war machine being built up by Russia, the United States and the British Empire. Nevertheless, following the example set by General de Gaulle himself, they never lost sight of the fact that they were fighting in the interests of France; and they fought under foreign command only to serve France. They were, above all, patriots rather than mere mercenaries in the pay of the major powers. In Clostermann’s opinion, the Allied powers had little respect for France’s long-term interests: If one looks dispassionately at 1939–1945, it is obvious that, compared with the tens of thousands of aviators engaged in that war, we were only a tiny unit. But the Battle lost in 1940 had placed on our shoulders the incredible responsibility of confounding the scenario so often written, during those ‘years of iron’, by greedy Allies for whom conquered France was no more than an undeserving girl to take and rob.1 Adopting the Cross of Lorraine as the emblem of Free France was an astute decision. At first, de Gaulle may have intended it to serve the practical purpose of providing Free French servicemen with some protection against any charge that they fought illegally under false colours (since, from a strict interpretation of international law, ownership of the unadorned tricolour was vested in the Vichy government). Psychologically, it also harnessed very powerful patriotic symbolism to the cause of liberating France. That symbol instantly associated the Free French with the patriotic zeal of Joan of Arc, who had taken it as her emblem 500 years earlier, and it also recalled the implacable determination shown by the entire French nation to free Alsace-Lorraine from German occupation after the humiliation of 1870.

Conclusions

207

The Cross of Lorraine was a potent reminder that France had triumphed over defeat in the past, and that she could, and would, rise again when her people repudiated the collaborators of Vichy and rallied to the cause of liberating their country. In the Introduction to this book a question was posed about how far the Free French movement can be seen as belonging to a long tradition of French history in which, from time to time, various minority factions have claimed to represent the ‘true France’. Given the differences of opinion within the Free French Air Force, it has not been possible to identify any generally agreed concept of the ‘true France’ for which they were fighting. When those airmen took their individual decisions to leave France or North Africa, between 1940 and 1943, to serve alongside the RAF, there was no shared vision of some future French equivalent of Utopia or a ‘New Jerusalem’. Certainly they were agreed in finding German domination of their country utterly abhorrent, but at that time there seemed little realistic prospect of defeating the all-conquering Germans or expelling them from the countries they were oppressing. Perhaps, then, it would be more accurate to see the men of the FAFL as belonging to a rather different, specifically military, French tradition. Like Napoleon’s Old Guard at Waterloo, they simply refused to acknowledge defeat, even if that meant almost certain death. The outcome of wars in which thousands or millions of people may be involved has sometimes been influenced by just a handful of individuals, and their example has often proved inspirational for future generations. In our own history we remember the last fight of Sir Richard Grenville and the Revenge off the Azores, the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava, and the defence of Rorke’s Drift. In 480 BC a mere 300 Spartans held the pass at Thermopylae, and in the early 1940s the honour of the French Air Force was upheld by an even smaller number of pilots and other aircrew. After the war ended in 1945, the survivors from those early days insisted that the service which they and their dead comrades had rendered should not simply be lost sight of or overshadowed by the far greater numbers of Frenchmen who, from 1943 onward, had played their part in the final push for victory. On 2 November 1945 the French government promulgated an ordonnance to define those who could rightfully claim to have fought with the FAFL. A cut off date was set specifying enlistment on or before 8 November 1942 (a limit extended to 1 August 1943 by ministerial instruction in 1953).2 This rather arbitrary date meant that a number of men who reached England later, perhaps after several escape attempts and spending time in French or Spanish prisons, were not entitled to claim that they had been members of

208

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

the FAFL. The division was invidious, but it can be useful in trying to arrive at a statistical understanding of the Free French Air Force. Working from their enlistment registration numbers, Clostermann calculated that just 287 men were entitled to call themselves Free French pilots. Of those 287 pilots of all types, some 206 had been killed and 25 made prisoners of war by May 1945. One of the prisoners, Bernard Scheidhauer, was shot while a prisoner of war.3 Thus, in Clostermann’s estimation, by the war’s end, there were just 80 survivors from the pilots who had originally defied the Vichy government by rallying to de Gaulle. Out of 148 partly trained French pilots listed in October 1940 as waiting to complete their training with the RAF, 73 did not live to see the end of hostilities.4 Thanks to the work of d’Olivier Rochereau, we know a great deal about the background of those who rallied to de Gaulle. In the Free French movement as a whole, 72 per cent of volunteers were under 30 years of age, and 18.5 per cent under 20. Most came from families with two or more children. While 50.5 per cent came from metropolitan France (where 94 per cent of the French population lived), 41 per cent came from the French Empire (where only 5 per cent lived).5 The remaining 8.5 per cent came from other parts of the world. This meant that the Free French movement contained a significant number of servicemen who had not experienced the full horrors of the German army’s advance through France in 1940 or the anxiety of knowing that many of their loved ones were living under German occupation. Coming from the periphery, perhaps many of them also had a romantic and nostalgic view of France and, like many expatriates, felt an even stronger emotional need than some of their metropolitan countrymen to cherish that view. The men who served as aircrew in the Free French Air Force were different in some important respects from the Free French movement as a whole. Analysis of the known birthplaces of a sample of 482 Free French aircrew shows that 20.1 per cent were born in Paris and the départements immediately adjacent to the capital, while 65.4 per cent were born in other départements of mainland France. Of the 14.5 per cent born outside the French mainland, about half were born in Corsica or various parts of the French empire, and the other half in foreign countries.6 François Pernot has pointed out that ‘a large majority of the FAFL was made up of the youngest who still knew nothing of military life . . . They usually had a higher level of education and were unmarried.’7 Analysis of the known dates of birth for a sample of 546 French aircrew shows that roughly one-third would have been between 16 and 20 years of age in 1940,

Conclusions

209

one-third between 21 and 25, and one-fifth between 26 and 30. Only one in eight would have been over 30 in 1940.8 Many aircrew were drawn from the more privileged sections of society. Qualifying as a military pilot or observer required a high level of education. Those with means could prove their aptitude for flying and boost their chances of selection by obtaining a private pilot’s licence first, but private flying lessons were expensive. Jean Maridor was one of the minority from less privileged backgrounds who managed to break into this élite, although he was not the only one. Certainly, he felt himself to be something of an outsider within the ranks of privilege – and not always a welcome outsider, despite the celebrity he achieved. Perhaps, though, what was particularly striking about the membership of the Free French Air Force is the extent to which a number of airmen came in some way from the margins, rather than the mainstream, of French society. This marginality came in various forms. For some it was determined by their religion. Several, like Max Guedj, Georges Torres and the Brunschwig brothers, were Jews. For others their marginality came about through their regional origins. Over 11 per cent of the French aircrew who saw service with the RAF in operational squadrons were born in Brittany. Those Bretons, such as Jacques Andrieux, were from a region far removed from Paris. The same could be said of others from the most easterly and south-easterly corners of France. Pierre Laurent, born in 1918 with a mother from Alsace and a father from Lorraine, was a particularly interesting case in point. Men like him came from the periphery of metropolitan France, and relationships between the centre and provinces such as Brittany and Lorraine had not always been easy. Aristocrats like Roland de La Poype, Halna du Fretay and Frédéric La Fite de Pelleport seemed to be anachronistic hangovers from the Ancien Régime; and yet they demonstrated a commitment to La France beyond that of even the most ardent Parisian republican. Such men, like the movement as a whole, were often animated by a radical conservatism. They had been dismayed at the directions taken by French society and politics during the 1920s and 1930s. They were outraged at the incompetence and lack of fighting spirit displayed by the French military in 1940; and yet, at the same time, they probably thought of themselves as non-political or a-political. Marc Hauchemaille, who at the age of 33 was one of the older men to volunteer for the Free French Air Force in 1940, certainly felt that many of his fellow pilots were from politically inactive backgrounds. Hauchemaille had been active in right wing

210

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

politics in the 1930s and was not impressed by the attitude of many of his fellow pilots: On the political side, it is obvious that there are three categories of Frenchmen: Popular Front (the minority); Those who don’t care; Men of the Right. I think the second group is by far the majority. They are fed up with politics, have only a moderate love of democracy such as existed in France, and would be supporters, not of a dictatorship, but of a regime more authoritarian than that existing in France (before and during the war) . . . Such a point of view is not understood by the English.9 Among such men, slowly but surely, Gaullism would grow as a conservative political force – a product not of one man, but of a widely shared feeling about what was needed. Writing in England at the beginning of 1941, Hauchemaille had already begun to articulate some thoughts on the basic principles for reconstructing postwar France on lines which he thought the majority of Free French airmen would find acceptable. The fundamental principles would have to be ‘social progress, patriotism and a strong France. In foreign policy . . . dignified and resolute. A France with its own policy, if one can say such a thing, and speaking on an equal footing with all the other nations, whether with England or Germany. Regarding England as a great and staunch friend, but knowing how to say “No” to her when it is necessary.’10 Hauchemaille was killed in action on 27 April 1942, so he did not live to see the postwar era when General de Gaulle would show that he had no inhibitions about saying Non! to Britain. The young men in whose political views Hauchemaille took such an interest during 1941 were probably more interested in getting into combat. Their outlook was tinged with a considerable element of romanticism. They had grown up with romantic notions of what it meant to be French, to be a soldier and to be an aviator. This romanticism and radical conservatism inclined some of them towards monarchism and thoughts of a restored monarchy, but the majority hoped for the restoration and reinvigoration of the French Republic. In 1940 both groups had few problems in buying into the image of General de Gaulle, the brave and simple soldier standing alone, proud and unwavering, against his own country’s unworthy government and against the Germans, for the sake of honour, liberty and homeland.

Conclusions

211

Vichy’s readiness to condemn to death men imbued with such notions was entirely counter-productive. The ‘Ball of the Condemned’ held in London in 1940, and the glittering social gatherings which followed it, demonstrated contempt for Vichy and contempt for danger. The volunteers of the Free French Air Force were determined to uphold the finest traditions of their country and her officer corps. Like the musketeers of Dumas, they would fight as individuals and, if die they must, then they would die for France honourably as soldiers and as gentlemen. During the First World War, the exploits of individual airmen, especially celebrated air ‘aces’ like Guynemer, Nungesser, Fonck, Ball, Mannock or Richthofen, provided the press with a thrilling, nobler, cleaner, more acceptable alternative to the appalling, depersonalized mass slaughter of great land battles like the Somme, Verdun and Passchendaele. Success in the air depended on skill, courage, speed, initiative – individual qualities which the ‘man in the street’ could both admire and envy – and the winner was known in minutes, as in a fencing or boxing contest. The idea ‘that air warfare was glamorous and romantic, that it marked a return to chivalry and knightly aspirations’ had become enshrined in European popular culture.11 After 1918, airmen like Alcock and Brown, Lindbergh, Byrd and Exupéry had continued to embellish the image of the aviator by their exploits and writings, while films, photographs, news reports and works of fiction fired the imagination and ambition of adventurous young men everywhere. In some ways it was an image based on delusions – combat and danger viewed through rose-coloured spectacles – but it was an image which many of the airmen who rallied to the cause of Free France had found inspiring and exhilerating in their youth. If as aviators they belonged to a select profession whose members dared to defy the force of gravity, then defying Vichy or the Germans was a small problem by comparison. In combat they aspired to be knights of the air, and their chivalric honour underscored their unwillingness to accept defeat in June 1940. The Battle of Britain burnished that romantic image of the fighter pilots perfectly – handsome young heroes engaging in a duel of eagles to determine the fate of nations, and all conducted according to tacit, if ill-defined, rules of ‘fair play’. In fact, the idealistic young pilots of Free France soon discovered that the brutal realities of the air war were a far cry from their boyhood visions of chivalrous jousting between equally matched opponents. The unwritten rules of air warfare quickly became eroded after 1939. In the Battle of Britain, Polish pilots serving with the RAF revealed a ruthlessness in pursuing and destroying the enemy which went some way beyond that shown by the average British pilot. After the defeat of France and subsequent reports

212

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

of German atrocities, many French pilots also nursed a burning hatred of the Boche. René-Louis Leguie later admitted: They speak now of a certain chivalry among flyers. The machine alone was the enemy, the man was not; he was only an opponent – even a distant colleague. For me, as well as many comrades at that time . . . it has to be admitted that we never thought along those lines. Should we, for example, deliberately and consciously, fire on an enemy pilot coming down on the end of his parachute? That is something I ask myself. Without turning aside and without any eagerness whatsoever, I think, . . . that if such an opportunity had appeared in my path, I would not have been able to resist the temptation to press the button briefly to open fire, if he was coming down in enemy territory. Luckily, I never had to face such a dilemma.12 Nevertheless, even after years of hard fighting, some pilots continued to cherish the sense of sharing ideals and mutual respect with enemy airmen. The death of the German air ace Walter Nowotny in late 1944 marked a turning point in Clostermann’s war, as he reflected on how the air war was changing.13 He met RAF pilots in 122 Wing who were equally moved by Nowotny’s death: That evening in the mess his name was often on our lips. We spoke of him without hatred and without rancour. Each one of us recalled our memories of him, with respect, almost with admiration. It was the first time I had heard this note in a conversation in the RAF, and it was also the first time that I heard, openly expressed, that curious solidarity among fighter pilots which is above all tragedies and all prejudices. The war had witnessed appalling massacres, towns crushed by bombs, the butchery of Oradour, the ruins of Hamburg. We ourselves had been sickened when our shells exploded in a peaceful village street, mowing down women and children round the German tank we were attacking. In comparison, our tussles with Nowotny and his Messerschmitts were something clean, above the fighting on the ground, in the mud and the blood, in the deafening din of the crawling, stinking tanks. Dogfights in the sky: silvery midges dancing in graceful arabesques – the diaphanous tracery of milky condensation trails – Focke-Wulfs skimming like toys in the infinite sky . . . Nowotny belonged to us; he was part of our world, where there were no ideologies, no hatred and no frontiers. This sense of comradeship had nothing to do with patriotism, democracy, Nazism or humanity. All those

Conclusions

213

chaps that evening felt this instinctively, and as for those who shrug their shoulders, they just can’t know – they aren’t fighter pilots.14 As German air power was diverted to the Russian and Mediterranean fronts, and the RAF moved to the offensive in the skies over France, aerial dogfights occurred less frequently, and RAF fighters were increasingly employed in spontaneous attacks on whatever ground targets were on offer. During a low-level mission by 340 (Ile de France) Squadron in the area of St-Valeryen-Caux on 15 July 1942 Fayolle, who was decidedly loved by the god Mars, suddenly saw, right in front of him on a white road, a splendid officer, well dressed in his grey-green tunic, shod in polished high boots, who was on his horse out for his morning ride. François’s reflexes caused both cavalier and mount to disappear, wiped from the ranks of the living in a burst of cannon fire. ‘Pity about the horse,’ François concluded that evening.15 That ruthless extermination of a lone horseman was merely a trivial incident in total war, a split second reflex by a skilful pilot travelling at over 300 miles per hour. A small shunting engine, a solitary lorry loaded with laundry, a field kitchen preparing breakfast, or a woodland latrine might all be similarly obliterated as legitimate ‘targets of opportunity’, but few French airmen could have believed that such incidents matched their romantic ideals of exciting ‘duels in the clouds’ between equals. Trying to shoot down pilotless flying bombs, vital and difficult though it was, must have seemed more akin to impersonal clay-pigeon shooting than knightly combat. Of course, airmen also found to their cost that ground targets were not always of the ‘sitting duck’ category. As the war moved towards its climax, they increasingly turned out to be capable of fighting back very effectively. All Allied pilots feared the risk of falling victim to an enemy fighter aircraft, but they accepted it as an occupational hazard. Death would be at the hands of a brave and respected opponent who, like themselves, had gone through months of training to handle an aircraft to the limits of its capabilities. To be shot down by a fellow aviator could be romanticized as an honourable end: to die as a result of ground fire was something else again. The longer the war went on, aerial warfare for fighter pilots and medium bomber crews became increasingly a contest between ground-strafing aircraft and intense anti-aircraft fire of all calibres. Combat became dirtier and deadlier, and these developments challenged and tarnished the idealized self-image of many pilots.

214

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

For a fighter pilot, death from ground fire could seem random and somehow ‘unfair’ and ‘unworthy’. Pierre Laurent explained: In the sky, to see, to manoeuvre, to fire and to shoot down an opponent was fine. What am I saying? It was glorious! Not to be shot down oneself was also fine. To be the victim of an 88 mm [artillery shell] at 25,000 feet – what was that? Or during ground attack, to find yourself ‘among the daisies’ because a ridiculous machine-gun hidden by the side of the objective had made a silly little hole in the radiator of the ‘Spit’ – that was not glorious.16 Another source of disenchantment for some airmen was the diminishing opportunity for individual initiative in certain aspects of aerial warfare. The proud image of the pilot as a lone hunter, relying on his own alertness, judgement and skill, still had plenty of validity. Nevertheless, it applied only within limits set by developments such as radio direction by ground controllers, the deployment of aircraft in larger tactical formations, radio commands from senior officers in the air, and the role of lead navigators and master bombers in directing whole formations. It is hardly surprising that men who had each made an independent decision about joining de Gaulle should sometimes have elected to act as they saw fit, rather than meekly obey some disembodied instructions coming over the radio. The Free French Air Force was fortunate in the quality of its leaders. General Valin may not have been to everyone’s liking – few ‘brasshats’ are universally admired by their subordinates – but he masterminded the growth of the FAFL as a distinctive force, he set high standards, he maintained amicable relations with the RAF, and he cooperated with General Bouscat in the re-establishment of the Armée de l’Air as a force to be reckoned with after 1943. CharlesPijeaud (the first Chief of Staff), Lionel de Marmier, Astier de Villatte and Corniglion-Molinier all made significant contributions to the development of the FAFL. Most of the officers who rose to command squadrons were blessed with outstanding qualities of leadership. Men like Philippe de Scitivaux, Dupérier, Mouchotte and Schloesing with the fighter units and de Rancourt, Fourquet and Soufflet of the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron earned the loyalty and respect of their men, both by their flying skill and by their exemplary courage in leading operations in person. It is, perhaps, even more remarkable that senior officers of the RAF were so impressed by the leadership and fighting qualities shown by French airmen that they were happy to place them in command of squadrons

Conclusions

215

with predominantly British personnel. François Fayolle (174 Squadron), René Mouchotte (65 Squadron), Max Guedj (143 Squadron), Jean Demozay (91 Squadron) and Yves Ezanno (198 Squadron) were all honoured in that way. Dupérier generously acknowledged what he saw as British fair play. ‘We never had any need to complain to Fighter Command. Where else, if not in England, would they have given command of national units to allied officers?’17 Outstanding airmen of the FAFL were – quite rightly – generously decorated for their exploits. From their own country recognition came in the award of the Croix de Guerre, the Légion d’Honneur or the Ordre de la Libération, with various other medals for those who had qualified as évadés or played some part in the Resistance. Honours also came from the United States and other allies. Many of the men of the Normandie-Niemen Squadron received gallantry awards from Russia. Three of the four Heroes of the Soviet Union had previously flown with RAF squadrons: Marcel Albert (340 Squadron), Roland de La Poype (602) and Marcel Lefèvre (81). The Order of Alexander Nevsky was awarded to Joseph Risso, formerly of 253 Squadron RAF. More than 30 Free French airmen who served in the R A F or in French squadrons attached to the RAF were awarded the (British) Distinguished Flying Cross, and there were two DFMs and an Air Force Medal (AFM). Andrieux, Clostermann, Demozay and Ezanno all won a bar to their Distinguished Flying Cross (DFCs) and, in addition, Clostermann, Demozay, Max Guedj and Edouard Corniglion-Molinier were awarded the Distinguished Service Order. The final group of British decorations for Free French airmen was only submitted for approval in 1949, apparently in response to French complaints that some deserving veterans had been unfairly omitted, while the former Vichy ‘late-rallyers’ of the Halifax heavy bomber squadrons had been more generously recognized.18 In old age, Pierre Clostermann recalled his time with the RAF with some satisfaction: ‘We always had excellent press, and there is no doubt that the prestige of the FAFL was exceptional.’19 That prestige was important. It meant visibility and publicity to foster public awareness of France’s continued role in the war. In the early years de Gaulle was fully aware that his movement had to depend on the goodwill and resources of the British government; and his airmen won for him the respect of Winston Churchill, the RAF and the British people. The men of the FAFL ensured that de Gaulle could justifiably assert that France fought on undaunted against the Axis powers, and by 1943 he could claim that Frenchmen were fighting on every front in a World War.

216

The RAF’s French Foreign Legion 1940–45

The idealism and patriotism of the men of the Free French Air Force meant that, even after 1945, they continued to work for the France for which many of their closest comrades had sacrificed their lives. The same impulse also made them insistent that the sacrifice of the FAFL ought to be remembered, particularly by the younger generation. Writing memoirs and other books to be read by the first generation of French children born after 1945 was intrinsic to the process and to who they were.20 Disappointment and frustration at developments in France after 1945, and resentment at the scant recognition of their own place in history, were almost inevitable outcomes for the majority of FAFL veterans. In 1992 Pierre Clostermann wrote an article in which he mused about the day when the last surviving veteran of the FAFL would pass away. He was openly contemptuous of historians, presumably for not having placed greater emphasis on the contribution the airmen had made. Clostermann suggested that the epitaph of the last Free French pilot should come from a British statesman: ‘Tomorrow, when they will have chiselled two dates on the stone under which the last of us will rest in peace, with simply the initials FAFL and a cross of Lorraine, perhaps the mason could add: “This was their finest hour” (Winston Churchill).’21

Postscript The author, attracted to the subject of the Free French airmen by an intriguing piece of cinefilm which had lain forgotten for 60 years, hopes that this book has done something to show that their place in history deserves to be remembered. If it is not too presumptuous for a historian to differ from an authentic hero like Clostermann, perhaps an even more fitting final epitaph for the FAFL might be Napoleon Bonaparte’s maxim, by which, consciously or unconsciously, the Free French airmen took to the skies between 1940 and 1945: Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.

Appendix 1

Known Birth Years of 546 FAFL Aircrew

Distribution of births by quinquennia (1890–1924) 1890–94 1895–99 1900–04 1905–09 1910–14 1915–19 1920–24

4 12 11 41 109 190 179

(0.7%) (2.2%) (2.0%) (7.5%) (20.0%) (34.8%) (32.8%)

Note: (a) More than two-thirds of the sample were born in 1915 or later. (b) Sample includes only volunteers who enlisted in the FAFL before 1 August 1943. [Sources: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres; various individual biographies and other biographies on the internet site www.cieldegloire.com.]

Volunteers Born 1890–94 In 1940 these men would have been between 50 and 46 years of age. Henri Drouilh, born in 1891, had been credited with shooting down four enemy aircraft in World War I. He would have been considered far too old for active flying duties in World War II, but he was killed at the controls of an aircraft that crashed near Colchester on 17 December 1943 when returning from a clandestine parachute drop over central France. Another redoubtable veteran of this vintage was Edouard Pinot, also born in 1891, who led the large party of trainee pilots who escaped by sea from Brittany in the fishing boat Le Trébouliste in 1940.

218

Appendices

Volunteers Born 1895–99 In 1940 these men would have been between 45 and 41 years of age. They were mainly employed in administration, instruction or command. They included General Martial Valin, who commanded the FAFL, and Edouard Corniglion Molinier. Both were born in 1898 and both flew on operations with the ‘Lorraine’ bomber squadron. Lionel de Marmier (1897) raised the first FAFL unit for service in Central Africa. He was killed in an air accident in 1944. Louis Masquelier (1898) flew many operations as an air gunner with the ‘Lorraine’ bombers, and he also served as a cine-cameraman on flying operations.

Volunteers Born 1900–04 In 1940 these men would have been between 40 and 36 years of age. They included Astier de Villatte (1900), who at various times commanded the FAFL units in Central Africa and the Middle East, and Charles Pijeaud (1904), first Chief of Staff of the FAFL, who died on 6 January 1942 of injuries received while leading the ‘Lorraine’ bomber groupe in Cyrenaica.

Volunteers Born 1905–09 In 1940 these men would have been between 35 and 31 years of age. Fighter pilot Daniel Clostre (1905) was shot down and killed near Tobruk on 16 May 1941 while flying with 274 Squadron. Bomber pilot Georges Goumin (also 1905) was shot down near Retimo, in Crete, on 26 May 1941. The age group also included Bernard Dupérier (1907), a distinguished commander of 340 (Ile de France) fighter squadron.

Volunteers Born 1910–14 In 1940 these men would have been between 30 and 26 years of age. They were old enough to have gained some years of flying experience before the outbreak of war. From this group came many of the future leaders of the various FAFL squadrons whose exploits contributed so much to establishing the combat credibility of the whole Free French movement: Philippe de Scitivaux and Jean Bécourt-Foch (both 1911), Yves Ezanno, Jacques Soufflet, Jean Tulasne (all 1912), Max Guedj (1913), and René Mouchotte and Michel Fourquet (both 1914).

Appendices

219

Volunteers Born 1915–19 In 1940 these men would have been between 25 and 21 years of age. Among those whose exploits are mentioned in this book were François Fayolle (1916), Jacques Andrieux (1917), Olivier Massart, Jacques Schloesing and Claude Raoul Duval (all 1919).

Volunteers Born 1920–24 In 1940 these men would have been between 20 and 16 years of age. They included Roland Leblond, Jean Maridor and Maurice Halna du Fretay (all 1920) and Bernard Scheidhauer (1921), the officer shot by the Gestapo after the Great Escape. Pierre Clostermann was also born in that year. An example of a very young fighter pilot was Jacques Remlinger, born in 1923. He flew with 341, 602 and 340 Squadrons, survived the war and lived in England until his death in 2003. Jean Henson, a wireless operator/ air gunner born in 1924, was a member of the crew of 342 (Lorraine) Squadron’s solitary Boston bomber lost on D-Day, 6 June 1944. Gerard Leduc, another air gunner born in 1924, was killed during 347 (Tunisie) Squadron’s last wartime operation on 25 April 1945, just 2 weeks before the war in Europe ended.

Appendix 2

Regional Distribution of Known Birthplaces of 482 FAFL Aircrew

BELGIUM English Channel

34

22

GERMANY

97 23

55

23

28 SWITZERLAND

30

Bay of Biscay

14 ITALY

37 27

22

Mediterranean Sea

SPAIN

Born in mainland France: 412 Born in French territory outside mainland France: 33 Algeria Morocco

9 1

Corsica 7 Reunion 2

Indo-China Tahiti

7 4

Madagascar Tunisia

1 2

Born in foreign countries: 37 England 5 Latin America 6

Russia Egypt

5 2

Switzerland 4 Mauritius 3

Europe (other) 12

Note: Sample includes only aircrew who volunteered for FAFL before 1 August 1943. [Sources: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres; individual biographies on www.cieldegloire.com and other biographies.]

Appendix 3

Free French Volunteers Waiting to Complete Training as Pilots with the RAF in the United Kingdom, October 1940

Category ‘A’: Pupil pilots ready to pass to Operational Training Units Aged ? 18/19 20/21 22/23 24/25 26/27 28/29 30+ Total

1 6 37 6 7 1 2 1 61

Flying hours

Location: 4.10.1940

? 50+ 100+ 200+ 300+ Total

Odiham St Athan Depot Total

1 15 38 5 2 61

26 26 9 61

Number known to have died before Victory in Europe 31

Category ‘B’: Pupil pilots needing further training before Operational Training Units Aged ? 18/19 20/21 22/23 24/25 26/27 28/29 30+ Total

1 9 27 4 1 – 1 – 43

Flying hours

Location: 4.10.1940

? 30+ 40+ 50+ 60+ Total

Odiham St Athan Depot Total

1 14 11 11 6 43

2 36 5 43

Number known to have died before Victory in Europe 24

222

Appendices Category ‘C’: Pupil pilots with under 40 hours flying experience Aged 18/19 20/21 22/23 24/25 26/27 28/29 30+ Total

12 18 4 2 3 3 2 44

Flying hours

Location: 4.10.1940

>10 10+ 20+ 30+ Total

Odiham St Athan Depot or HQ Total

5 13 20 6 44

Number known to have died before Victory in Europe

4 34 6 44

18

Category ‘D(a)’: Air Force volunteers ready to begin pilot training Aged 18/19 20/21 22/23 24/25 26/27 28/29 30+ Total

4 15 9 5 5 5 3 46

Flying experience

Location: 4.10.1940

Former observers with some experience 21 Little or none 25 Total 46

Odiham St Athan Depot or HQ Other Total

Number known to have died before Victory in Europe

3 16 26 1 46

16

Note: An additional handwritten list of 18 names was appended to Category ‘D(a)’ without further details. Four of those were duplicated in Category ‘D(c)’. Of the 14 remaining names: Number known to have died before Victory in Europe 4

Category ‘D(b)’: Navy/army volunteers ready to begin pilot training 11 names listed, none known to have lost their lives before VE Day. Category ‘D(c)’: Civilian volunteers ready to begin pilot training 24 names listed, of whom 4 are known to have died before VE Day. Summary: Volunteers needing pilot training Partly trained: Cat. A 61 Cat. B 43 Cat. C 44 Ready to begin Cat. D(a) 46 added to D(a) 14 Cat. D(b) 11 Cat. D(c) 24 Total 243

Died before VE Day 31 24 18 16 4 – 4 97

[Sources: TNA AIR 2/5189, Nominal roll compiled by Free French HQ, 4 October 1940; Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

Appendix 4

FAFL Aircrew: Fatal Casualties Incurred while Serving Alongside the RAF, 1940–45 1940 1

1941

1942

1943

1944

20 1 8 1

11 3 21 12

7 1 6 10 6

6

1

11 9 4 1 5

3 4 4

RAF Training Units RAF Overseas Training Units RAF Squadrons UK 340 (Ile de France) 341 (Alsace) 329 (Cigognes) 345 (Berry) 347 (Tunisie) 342 (Lorraine) RAF Malta Fleet Air Arm Africa (various) Bretagne groupe Artois groupe Sénégal groupe Middle East (various) Alsace groupe* Lorraine groupe* Bretagne groupe Picardie groupe S. Europe: Bretagne groupe Other Flyingboats Failed escape attempts Exceptional cases

12 4

3 3

Totals

29

79

32

6

4 1 18

28

1945

1 2 1

1 4 2

2 2 6 5

1

1

6

8 12

7 3 1 5 2 3 1 2

65

3

6

85

80

1 1

18

Total 46 5 49 36 14 1 6 2 61 5 3 31 8 5 1 7 11 19 5 2 4 2 2 15 16 356

Note: (a) Asterisk (*) denotes that figures also include casualties in various small French units which preceded the formal establishment of the French groupes. (b) Figures show deaths (including presumed deaths) incurred during operations, deaths while escaping in order to join the FAFL, accidental deaths during training or other non-operational flying and certain exceptional cases at the hands of the enemy. (c) Deaths from illness or non-aviation accidents are omitted, as are those for parachutists, secret agents and the Normandie-Niemen groupe in Russia. Also omitted are men who enlisted after 1 August 1943 and not officially recognized as having belonged to the FAFL. [Source: Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.]

224

Appendices

Thanks to the research of Colonel Henry Lafont and the Service Historique de l’Armée de l’Air it has been possible to arrive at a reasonably precise figure for the number of FAFL aircrew who became fatal casualties while serving alongside the RAF in Europe, Africa and the Middle East. It must be remembered, however, that the total of 356 deaths shown in the table above includes only men who enlisted in the FAFL before 1 August 1943. The details provided in Lafont’s book show that about 30 per cent of the FAFL aircrew who died had no known grave; they could only be listed as ‘disappeared’, usually over the sea. After 1946 the French government organized a scheme of exhumation and repatriation to meet the wishes of the many families who wanted the dead brought home from known graves in foreign lands or even from other parts of France. Lafont lists approximately 60 per cent as having been exhumed and moved for reburial, a few to the great Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, but the majority to family plots throughout France. In certain cases the remains were repatriated to more distant places such as Morocco, Madagascar and Tahiti. About 40 per cent of FAFL fatal casualties remain interred in the countries where they fell. Most of those in the United Kingdom are now collected in Brookwood Military Cemetery, but Lafont also lists a number of other British cemeteries. It has not been possible to establish detailed figures of fatal casualties for French airmen not officially recognized as belonging to the FAFL. From squadron histories and individual biographies on the cieldegloire. com website it has been possible to identify 32 deaths of French fighter pilots who did not qualify for inclusion in Lafont’s book: 1943 340 (Ile de France) Squadron 341 (Alsace) Squadron 329 (Cigognes) Squadron 345 (Berry) Squadron 326 (Nice) Squadron 327 (Corse) Squadron 328 (Provence) Squadron

1944

1945

1 1

3

3 4 7

2 1 4 2 1

3

The website of the Charles de Gaulle Organisation1, states that 342 (Lorraine) Squadron lost 35 of their medium bombers at a cost of 113 killed. Since 61 of the fatal casualties are commemorated in Lafont’s book as members of the FAFL, it may be assumed that the other 52 must have been late volunteers or former members of the Vichy Air Force.

Appendices

225

The largest number of fatal casualties in this non-FAFL category undoubtedly came from the two Halifax heavy bomber squadrons. Bill Chorley’s impressive research into Bomber Command losses2 shows the appalling toll of fatal casualties during 11 months of operations: 346 (Guyenne) Squadron 347 (Tunisie) Squadron Staff officer from HQ

94 fatal casualties 86 fatal casualties 1.

From the combined total of 181, only two are included in Lafont’s figures for the FAFL. Thus, 179 must have been late volunteers or former members of the Vichy Air Force. In addition, Chorley lists 29 fatal French casualties incurred at RAF training units while preparing to fly heavy bombers. Addition of the figures for fighter squadrons, 342 (Lorraine) Squadron and the heavy bomber squadrons (plus training units) gives a total of 292 fatal casualties suffered by French aircrew not listed in Lafont’s book as members of the FAFL. If that figure is added to the 356 fatal casualties for known FAFL men, one arrives at a combined total of 648 French aircrew who lost their lives serving alongside the RAF between 1940 and 1945. It would be safer to take the number as approximately 650. There may well have been some other lives lost during escape attempts, in training or on ferry flights. Absolute precision seems impossible, given wartime secrecy and the various ways in which French writers and the French government have sought to differentiate between the volunteers who rallied to General de Gaulle in the early days and those who only became involved in the closing stages of the war. There is also some risk of double counting from variations in the spelling of French names or where certain airmen were known by no fewer than three different identities: their real name, a wartime alias to protect their families in occupied France, and some affectionate nickname used by their comrades.

Appendix 5

Victories Credited to French Fighter Pilots Serving with the RAF, 1940–45

(a) Enemy aircraft credited as ‘destroyed’ in aerial combat Squadron

1940

RAF (various) 340 (Ile de France) 341 (Alsace) 329 (Cigognes) 345 (Berry) Middle East* 326 (Nice) 327 (Corse) 328 (Provence)

1

Totals

1

1941

1942

1943

29

16 19

8 12 28

18

2

1944

1945

Total

7 3 5

7

68 34 33

1

47

37

12 12 4

10

76

35

9 1

9 17

1 20 31 13 13 213

(b) Enemy aircraft credited as ‘probably destroyed’ or (‘damaged’) Squadron RAF(various) 340 (Ile de France) 341 (Alsace) 329 (Cigognes) Middle East 326 (Nice) 327 (Corse) 328 (Provence) Totals

1940

1941

1942

1 (1)

4 (7)

5 (8) 5 (15)

1943

1944

1945

Total

4 (3) 1 (4) 1(10)

5 (10) 1 (5) 1 (1)

2 (2)

1 1 2 (5)

1

21 (31) 7 (24) 3 (12) (1) 1 (1) 2 1 3 (5)

1 (2)

1 (1)

1 (1)

5 (8)

10 (23)

10 (22)

1 9 (16)

3 (4)

38 (74)

These figures may be taken as some indication of the scale of aerial combat, but postwar research has shown that all air forces overestimated their claims, sometimes by a considerable margin. The high speed of aircraft, problems of visibility, the distances and altitudes involved and the inevitable confusion of battle might easily cause several pilots – in perfect good faith – to

227

Appendices

claim the same aircraft. Intelligence officers did their best to sort out the various claims and reconcile conflicting evidence, but they always had to work with the impossibility of checking aircraft crash sites in enemy territory or over the sea. The Normandie-Niemen French fighter unit operated under Russian command throughout its existence. Therefore, strictly speaking, its operations lie outside the scope of this book. The figures are given here merely as an illustration of the difficulties of drawing any firm conclusions from statistics of aerial victories. Combat victories credited to the Normandie-Niemen groupe in Russia, 1943–45 Enemy aircraft ‘destroyed’ Classed as ‘probably destroyed’ Classed as ‘damaged’

273 36 45

These figures are not strictly comparable with those credited to RAF units. Russian criteria for validating claims seem to have been very different from those adopted by the RAF.

Appendix 6

Attempts by the Enemy to Place Agents in the French Air Force

The great variety of escape routes and strategems by which French volunteers contrived to make their way from enemy-occupied Europe to enlist in General de Gaulle’s forces always carried some risk that the Germans might infiltrate spies posing as genuine volunteers. It was a danger which called for constant vigilance on the part of the British and Free French security services. In December 1942 a Frenchman made what appeared to be a very daring escape from occupied France by flying a small Comper Swift civil aircraft from Le Havre to Marchwood, near Southampton. He was Lucien Lecoq, holder of a private pilot’s licence. Questioned about his motives, he was at first uncooperative, but under more searching interrogation he eventually admitted that the whole escapade was not quite what it seemed. It had all been arranged by the German intelligence service, for whom Lecoq had agreed to carry out espionage. He had had dealings with both the Army and SS intelligence services. His mission was to gather information about such matters as the opinions expressed by RAF men, developments in the heavy bomber offensive and modifications to the Spitfire fighter. If he got the chance, he was to steal a Hawker Typhoon single-engined fighter and fly it to France.1 Lecoq protested that he had never really intended to engage in spying for the Germans, but he had chosen to delay revealing their role in his escape flight because he thought the opportune moment for such a disclosure would come after he had joined the Free French Air Force and demonstrated his personal trustworthiness in action. An officer of MI5 assessed him as ‘a scatterbrained amateur aviator of no fixed occupation’ rather than a serious threat to the security of the realm.2 Nine months later the German army intelligence service (Abwehr) tried again. On 30 September 1943 a man claiming to be George Fressay, a former pilot of the pre-war French Air Force, presented himself at the British consulate in Barcelona. During the Second World War the British

Appendices

229

embassy in Madrid and consulates elsewhere in Spain had grown accustomed to receiving approaches from mysterious visitors of different nationalities. The staff of the consulate in Barcelona were not surprised, therefore, when this man freely admitted that he was in the employ of the Abwehr but insisted that he was willing to work as a double agent for the Allies. Arrangements were put in hand for him to travel via Madrid and Gibraltar to the United Kingdom; but, even before he arrived, the British intelligence service knew that he was sending letters to an address in Spain. These ostensibly innocent letters contained messages, written in invisible ink, keeping the Abwehr informed of his progress. On arrival in England he was met by British intelligence officers who took him to Camp 020 at Latchmere House, Ham, in Middlesex. Camp 020 was the principal holding and interrogation centre for people suspected of spying for the enemy. At any one time there might be as many as 130 suspects under investigation. Astute questioning soon revealed that Fressay’s real name was Henri de Montbron.3 The Germans had assumed that, with his pre-war flying experience, he would have no difficulty in enlisting as a pilot in the Free French Air Force. The Abwehr had shown him how to use invisible ink to insert information in letters which he was to address to certain people in Spain. De Montbron’s British interrogators were quite alarmed when he told them that as many as 13 other enemy agents, including at least one airman, had been infiltrated into the United Kingdom between June and October. An MI5 report on the matter added: ‘All the agents were specialists, i.e. wireless technicians, aero-mechanics, etc. Some were pilots or Air Force personnel, and there were also naval personnel amongst them.’4 This news was considered so serious that it even generated some discussion within MI5 about the possibility of asking the air ministry to ground all French aircrew for a year from their date of arrival in the United Kingdom.5 The possibility of Abwehr penetration of French air units still worried MI5 2 months later, and de Montbron was shown photographs of 94 French airmen to see whether he recognized any of them.6 If de Montbron thought that, in return for all this information, the British would be gullible enough to employ him as a double agent, he was to be disappointed. Assessed as untrustworthy, like Lecoq, he was detained until the end of the war. With sublime optimism, the Abwehr tried once more to avail themselves of the good offices of the British consulate in Barcelona, where a visitor claiming to be Jean Fraval, a French national, called on 12 February 1944. He described how he had escaped from occupied France and needed help in travelling on to the United Kingdom. Consular officials (or, more likely,

230

Appendices

intelligence officers posing as consular officials) asked questions to check the consistency and credibility of his story. Their suspicions were aroused by his account of how he had travelled by train from Paris and then paid a man to guide him over the Pyrenees on foot, before continuing via Figueras to Gerona, from where he had hitched a lift by lorry to Barcelona. They concluded that ‘the story was obviously false’. Under further questioning Fraval broke down. He admitted that the Abwehr had trained him in espionage and helped him to travel as far as the Barcelona consulate by car. Nevertheless, he insisted that he had never actually intended to do any spying for the Germans; he had merely fallen in with their plan as a way of facilitating his own desire to reach the United Kingdom and volunteer for the Free French Air Force. He gave a detailed account of the training in espionage which he had received in Brussels and the information he was directed to gather once he reached the United Kingdom. The story was very puzzling. If the Abwehr really meant business, why was the agent’s cover story so flimsy and why was he starved of funds? If Fraval never intended to work for the Germans, why had he not explained at the outset how he had tricked them? If he had seriously intended to engage in espionage, why had he confessed so quickly when interrogated? If he was apprehensive after the British extracted that confession, why did he not turn himself in to the Spanish authorities during a period of 10 days when the British consulate paid for him to stay in a Barcelona pension? On 23 February, accompanied by Belgian guides, he was despatched along a clandestine route to Portugal, arriving at the Belgian Legation in Lisbon on 29 February. The Belgians issued him with false papers and looked after him until 3 March, when he was put on an Imperial Airways civil aircraft for a flight to Bristol, where he landed the next day. Taken to Camp 020, Fraval was repeatedly cross-examined to doublecheck every aspect of his story. His replies were recorded in the minutest detail and compared with a vast archive of information built up from the interrogation of other detainees. After subjecting Fraval to a constant barrage of Who?, When?, What?, Why?, Where?, How?, the authorities felt that no significant detail of his story could have escaped their close attention. Born in Brittany in 1917, Fraval had enlisted in the French Air Force in 1935, qualifying as a pilot the following year. His squadron took no active part in operations in 1939–40, and after the armistice he continued on the Air Force payroll until demobilized in February 1941. He claimed that only illness had prevented him from escaping with some of his comrades to

Appendices

231

continue the war. He was then unable to find a permanent job, and in September he joined the Anti-Bolshevist Legion in Toulouse. That organization was attempting to recruit French airmen to fly for the Germans on the Russian front. The Legion’s Paris headquarters sent Fraval as a recruiting agent to Brittany and Toulouse, but he did not try very hard and met with no success. He secured his discharge from the Legion in November. During 1942, still unable to find a steady job, he spent his time between Paris, where he got married in March, and his parents’ home in Brittany. At the end of that year he only just managed to dodge being sent to Germany as a forced labourer. In the middle of 1943 some French acquaintances advised him where he might find a job in Paris, a suggestion which led to his meeting Lieutenant Werner, an officer in the Abwehr. From mid-August to mid-November the Germans provided him with espionage training in Brussels. Fraval gave his British questioners full details of the role the Abwehr planned for him. They expected that, with 800 hours of flying experience, he would be readily accepted into de Gaulle’s Fighting French Air Force and that, during retraining, he would have ample opportunity to collect valuable information about preparations for the invasion of Europe. The British report on his case summarized the German desiderata as: Army Information (a) Location of battalions, names and numbers – troop movements – concentration areas of troops, with particular reference to the type of arm represented. For example, Armoured, Artillery, Commandos, Raiders, US Rangers and so on. (b) Divisional signs (on uniform sleeves, or on transports) – their description and where seen. (c) Tanks; calibre of their guns, armament, armour and so on. (d) New types of weapons seen. (e) Whether troops were equipped with skis or warm clothing on East coast of England, for possible attack on Norway. (f) Type of equipment issued to any troops concentrated in ports along the coasts of England. (g) Any invasion activity seen. [He was also required to report on] Port activity – movement of ships – embarkation of troops – size of transports and so on.

232

Appendices

Air Force Information (a) Location of airfields, particularly new ones. (b) Names of squadrons, numbers, whether fighters or bombers, stations; type, name, speed, performance, armament, bomb-carrying capacity, new armaments, bomb sights and so on. (c) Description of layout of airfields, hangars, location of radio stations on airfields, munition dumps, petrol depots and so on. (d) Damage done by the Luftwaffe in England; also whether pilots shot down were killed or wounded, information on damage done to factories and so on. (e) Whether any aircraft were equipped with special apparatus for antisubmarine work – details and description of this. General Fraval was instructed to give information about the location of road and rail bridges, railway stations, factories, importance of the last named, what they were manufacturing, number of employees and so on.7 While training for this work, Fraval had been paid 6,000 Belgian francs each month and his wife in Paris was paid 10,000 French francs a month, but as soon as he began supplying information from England the payment to his wife was to be doubled. The intelligence information was to be sent in letters addressed to certain people in Spain and Switzerland, both then neutral. For this correspondence the Germans had supplied him with invisible ink and had given him a surprisingly brief crash course in its use and in some rather elementary numerical codes. All this intelligence gathering was apparently intended to be incidental to the training which the Germans anticipated Fraval would receive with de Gaulle’s Air Force. When that training was completed, the time would arrive for the planned fulfilment of his mission. The Abwehr expected him to steal an aircraft of the latest possible type and fly it back to France. They would be particularly pleased if he could deliver a Typhoon, Thunderbolt, Spitfire, Liberator or Lancaster. After questioning Fraval for a fortnight, the experts at Camp 020 came to the conclusion that he appeared ‘to have joined the German Secret Service, not from any strong political motive or admiration for the Germans, but only as a means of obtaining substantial pay for very little work’. His claim

Appendices

233

to have acted as a patriotic Frenchman simply making use of the Germans to facilitate his own escape was not accepted. The most senior interrogator added: It can safely be assumed that Fraval never intended to fulfil his mission for the Germans. On the other hand, his claim that he was resolved to make a complete disclosure to the British authorities is totally inadmissible. It is most probable that, true to form, he intended to take the middle way, committing himself as little as possible to either party, while trying to retain any advantage to himself. [He] is a very weak character and thoroughly unreliable. He certainly does not inspire sufficient confidence to allow him to join the Fighting French Air Force, especially in view of the instructions he received from Werner, that he was to try to fly back to France the latest type of Allied aircraft. Although intelligent and willing to give all the information possible, he is definitely not a man to be trusted, especially in view of coming operations. It is strongly recommended, therefore, that he be detained.8 The letter of the law was punctiliously observed in cases such as this. On 4 March 1944 an immigration officer at Bristol had served Fraval with a formal notice of refusal of leave to land under the Aliens Order 1920. Normally that would have been followed by a deportation order, but on 12 June the Home Secretary, Herbert Morrison, signed a detention order on the grounds that deportation would be ‘prejudicial to the efficient prosecution of the war’ and Fraval’s detention was ‘necessary for securing the defence of the realm’.9 Jean Fraval was held at Camp 020 until 6 May 1945, when he was handed over for further investigation to the authorities in France. After the war, when he was still in Fresnes prison awaiting possible trial for collaboration with the Germans, he wrote asking Colonel Stephens, the British officer who had been in command of Camp 020, to intercede on his behalf: I am sorry that my good faith was not entirely acceptable in London, or the honesty of my intentions and the great desire that I had to make myself useful in the Allied cause. Such was my aim from the very beginning . . . In France I have never carried out any activities against the security of the State . . . I have not and never had any ill wish either towards my country or for England.10

234

Appendices

Having supplied the French with a full dossier about Fraval in 1945, the British decided not to intervene further. This case leaves some intriguing, and probably unanswerable, questions. Was Fraval really a poorly prepared spy who could count himself lucky to escape being hanged or shot in England? Was he fundamentally an innocent man who tried to be a bit too clever and simply could not prove his innocence? How did the French finally decide his case? Most thoughtprovoking of all is a rather ‘throw away’ comment in a summary of the case prepared in April 1944: ‘Fraval . . . is yet another agent who has been sent to this country to fly back an aircraft of the most modern type to enemyoccupied territory.’11 ‘Yet another’? How many were there? How near did any of them come to succeeding?12

Notes

Introduction 1

2 3

Perranporth/Portreath 1942, Harry Dyson home movie, Pickering Collection, South-West Film and Television Archive. TNA AIR 27/936 and 937, Operations Record Books, 130 Sqn. Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres.

Chapter 1 1

2

3

4 5 6

7

8 9 10

11 12

13

Alexander, M. S. (1992), The Republic in Danger: General Maurice Gamelin and the Politics of French Defence 1933–1940, p. 168. Corum, J. S. (1994), ‘A Clash of Military Cultures: German and French Approaches to Technology between the World Wars’. A paper for the USAF Academy Symposium, p. 7. After the armistice, Marshal Pétain’s government ordered the arrest of Pierre Cot and his successor as air minister, Guy La Chambre (The Times, 7 September 1940) but both men were already in the United States. There Cot remained, but La Chambre actually insisted on returning home from the United States to defend his personal record in office. La Poype, R. de (2007), L’épopée du Normandie Niémen: Mémoires, p. 25 (trans.). Guignard, J. (1991), ‘La guerre? Une partie de rigolade’. Icare, 138, 40 (trans.). Lafont, H. (1991),‘Philippe Béraud, le premier disparu de l’Alsace en Angleterre’. Icare, 138, 31 (trans.). Terraine, J. (1985), The Right of the Line:The Royal Air Force in the European War 1939–1945, p. 164. Chapman, G. (1968), Why France Collapsed, p. 352. Ibid., p. 353. Thomas, M. (2000), ‘France in British signals intelligence 1939–1945’. French History, 14, (1), 41–66. Kedward, H. R. (2005), La Vie en Bleu: France and the French since 1900, p. 240. William C. Bullitt to Franklin Roosevelt, 20 May 1940, Franklin Roosevelt Papers, Safe and Confidential Files (microfilm, Roosevelt Study Centre, Middleburg). Ousby, I. (1997), Occupation: The Ordeal of France 1940–1945, p. 26.

236 14

15

16

17 18 19

20 21 22 23 24

25

Notes

Alexander, M. S. (1992), The Republic in Danger: General Maurice Gamelin and the Politics of French Defence 1933–1940, p. 167. Corum, J. S. (1994), ‘A Clash of Military Cultures: German and French Approaches to Technology between the World Wars’. A paper for the USAF Academy Symposium, p. 8. Harvey, A. D. (1990), ‘The French Armee de l’Air in May–June 1940: A failure of conception’. Journal of Contemporary History, 25, (4), 447–65. Baitson, R. (n.d.), L’ombre sur les cocards, p. 4 (trans.). Ibid., p. 3 (trans.). Chéron, P. (2004), Bonsoir Nadette: Journal d’un pilote (Marc Hauchemaille) de la France Libre 1940–1942, pp. 6–7 (trans.). L’Herbier-Montagnon, G. (1948), Cap sans retour, p. 24. Guignard, J. (1991), ‘La guerre? Une partie de rigolade’. Icare, 138 40 (trans.). Cited in Griffiths, R. (1970), Marshal Petain, p. 242. Gilbert, M. (1983), Winston S. Churchill, VI, pp. 678n and 623n. Great Britain, National Archives [subsequently cited as TNA], AIR 2/2512, Training, Employment and Organisation of Free French Personnel in UK 1940. Middleton, D. (1960), The Sky Suspended: The Battle of Britain, p. 98.

Chapter 2 1 2 3 4 5

6 7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14

15

16

17

Ousby, I. (1997), Occupation: The Ordeal of France 1940–1945, pp. 26 and 74. News Review, 25 July 1940, p. 15. Gaulle, C. de (1955), War Memoirs: Vol. 1, The Call to Honour, p. 98. www.france-libre.net. Chéron, P. (2004), Bonsoir Nadette: Journal d’un pilote (Marc Hauchemaille) de la France Libre 1940–1942, pp. 29–30 (trans.), entry for 30 July 1940. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 42, entry for 31 July 1940. Bouderie had been in charge of the London office of Air France before joining de Gaulle’s staff. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, pp. 18–19 (trans.). News Review, 25 July 1940, p. 15. Cited in L’Herbier-Montagnon, G. (1948), Cap sans retour, p. 11 (trans). Jullian, M. (1955), Jean Maridor: Chasseur de V1, p. 81 (trans.). Chéron, P. (2004), Bonsoir Nadette: Journal d’un pilote (Marc Hauchemaille) de la France Libre 1940–1942, pp. 12–13 (trans.), entry for 22 June 1940. Ibid., p. 45 (trans.), entry for 12 August 1940. TNA AIR 2/5212, Air Vice-Marshal commanding 22 Group RAF to UnderSecretary of State at the Air Ministry, 29 August 1940. Ibid., record of a meeting at the Air Ministry on 12 September 1940, Wing Commander Pori, Lieutenant Ladous and Squadron Leader Wells in attendance. TNA AIR 2/5189, Sommaire des Listes and nominal roll supplied to RAF by Free French HQ, 4 October 1940. See also Appendix 3 for full details. Ibid., Rapport sur l’état actuel des pourparlers entre l’Air Ministry, Canada House et L’Etat-Major des FAFL concernant l’entraînment des pilotes français, 4 October 1940.

Notes 18 19 20 21

22

23

24

25 26 27 28

29

237

Ibid., minute by Squadron Leader Wells, 10 October 1940. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., de Gaulle to Commandant D’Argenlieu, 4 April 1941, explaining that he hopes to see the Free French Air Force using Canadian training facilities ‘in order to reduce time needed for instruction of personnel not knowing English’. The proposal was accepted eventually at the end of 1941. By that time the training facilities in the United Kingdom had proved more than satisfactory, but the Air Ministry agreed to some French airmen training in Canada so that de Gaulle would have no further cause for complaint. See TNA AIR 2/5189, Air Ministry to Squadron Leader Skepper (Spears Mission), 25 November 1941. ‘Leclerc’ was the nom de guerre adopted by Captain Philippe de Hauteclocque (Vicomte de Hauteclocque) to protect his family in France. He used the name until the end of the war, by which time he was a distinguished general. Chéron, P. (2004), Bonsoir Nadette: Journal d’un pilote (Marc Hauchemaille) de la France Libre 1940–1942, p. 63 (trans.), entry for 24 September–1 October 1940. Paxton, R. O. (1972), Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order 1940–1944, p. 73. Williams, C. (2005), Pétain, p. 351. Ibid., p. 357. New York Times, 25 September 1940, Report by G. H. Archambault, Vichy, dated 24 September. Jules Joire, Soufflet and Scamaroni all subsequently escaped from France and rejoined the Free French Air Force. The first two will reappear later in this book. After working in the Resistance for a time, Scamaroni was brought out by sea from Brittany. He subsequently served on de Gaulle’s staff, and landed from a submarine to coordinate resistance in Corsica in January 1943. Arrested by Italian counter-intelligence officers in March, he committed suicide by cutting his throat, rather than risk betraying his associates under torture.

Chapter 3 1

During the Battle of Britain the following Free French pilots saw combat with RAF Squadrons: Blaize, P. M., 111 Sqn; later posted missing on 15 April 1941 (615 Sqn); Bouquillard, H. J., 249 and 615 Sqns; later killed on 11 March 1941; Briere, Y. J., 232 Sqn; later posted missing on 14 May 1941 (615 Sqn); Choron, M. P. C., 64 Sqn; posted missing on 10 April 1942 (340 Sqn); Demozay, J. E., 1 Sqn; later killed in an air crash on 19 December 1945; Fayolle, E. F. M. L., 85 Sqn; later killed on 19 August 1942 (174 Sqn); Guérin, C. P., 232 Sqn; later posted missing on 3 May 1941 (615 Sqn); Labouchère, F. H. E. J. A. de, 85 Sqn; later killed on 5 September 1942 (340 Sqn); Lafont, H. G., 615 Sqn; Montbron, X. de, 64 Sqn; later prisoner of war on 3 July 1943; Mouchotte, R. G. O. J., 245 and 615 Sqns; later killed on 27 August 1943 (341 Sqn);

238

Notes Perrin, G. C., 615 and 249 Sqns; Scitivaux, Capt. C. J. M. P. de, 245 Sqn. Their names are recorded on the Battle of Britain memorial at Capel le Ferne, near Folkestone.

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8 9

10 11

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21

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26

Bowyer, C. (1984), Fighter Pilots of the RAF 1939–45, pp. 109–10. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 8, entry for 17 June 1940. Ibid., p. 13, entry for 29 June 1940. Ibid., p. 10, entry for 20 June 1940. Ibid., pp. 10–11, entry for 20 June 1940. Lafont, H. (1990a), ‘Les premiers chasseurs français en Angleterre’. Icare, 133, 39 (trans.). Dupérier, B. (1957), Les Français du “B Flight”, p. 34 (trans.). Dupérier, B. (1990), ‘Le 242, le 615, et les débuts de l’Ile de France’. Icare, 133, 61 (trans.). www.normandieniemen.free.fr/Joseph_Risso.htm. Dupérier, B. (1990), ‘Le 242, le 615, et les débuts de l’Ile de France’. Icare, 133, 51 (trans.). Webster, P. (1993), Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: The Life and Death of the Little Prince, pp. 223–4. After the reunification of the Free French Air Force with the air units in French North Africa, Saint-Exupéry returned to active service in 1943, even though he still had reservations about General de Gaulle (and the general still had reservations about him). Failing to return from a reconnaissance mission over the south of France, Saint-Exupéry was posted missing on 31 July 1944. Divers found the wreckage of his US-built Lockheed Lightning aircraft on the seabed in the Mediterranean in 2004. Baitson, R. (n.d.), L’ombre sur les cocards, pp. 4–5 (trans.). Ibid., pp. 7–8 (trans.). Duncan Smith, W. G. G. (1981), Spitfire into Battle, p. 127. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 19, entry for 30 June 1941 (trans.). Ibid., p. 51, entry for 19 September 1940 (trans.). La Poype, R. de (2007), L’épopée du Normandie-Niémen: Mémoires, p. 54 (trans.). Caine, P. D. (2005), Spitfires, Thunderbolts and Warm Beer: An American Fighter Pilot over Europe, p. 68. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 51, entry for 19 September 1940 (trans.). Lafont, H. (1992), interview, in So Few: A Folio Dedicated to all who Fought in the Battle of Britain, p. 169. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, pp. 8–10 (trans.). Western Morning News, 24 December 1941, p. 5. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 52, entry for 19 September 1940 (trans.). The dearth of publicity was redressed after a report, ‘Free French Pilots in Britain: Working with Fighter Command’, appeared in The Times, 22 February 1941, p. 2. The possibility was never completely removed, cf. The Times, 15 June 1942, report of a German threat to treat as illegal combatants the Free French prisoners taken at Bir Hakeim.

Notes

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5 6

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27 28

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Baitson, R. (n.d.), L’ombre sur les cocards, p. 82 (trans.). Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel at l’enfer: France Libre 1940–45, pp. 10–11 (trans.). McWilliams, J. (2007), Breton Fisherman in Cornwall and Scilly: A Century of Friendship, p. 67. Huguen, R. (2003), Par les nuits les plus longues: Réseaux d’évasion d’aviateurs en Bretagne 1940–1944, pp. 103–4 (trans.). Richards, B. (2004), Secret Flotillas, vol. 1, pp. 81–4. Huguen, R. (2003), Par les nuits les plus longues: Réseaux d’évasion d’aviateurs en Bretagne 1940–1944, p. 66 (trans.). Lafont, H. (1995), ‘Max Guedj and Gérard Weil au Squadron 248’. Icare, 152, 9 (trans.). Brunschwig, M. and Alesch, J. (1995),‘Lettres de Michel Brunschwig et Jean Alesch’. Icare, 152, 85 (trans.). Ibid., p. 86 (trans.). Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 78 (trans.). Lambermont, P. (1956), Lorraine Squadron, p. 87. Jubelin, A. (1953), The Flying Sailor, pp. 15–46. L’Herbier-Montagnon, G. (1948), Cap sans retour, pp. 109–23. TNA FO 371/2848, cited in W. H. B. Mack (Foreign Office) to Captain A. C. Collier (Air Ministry). Ibid., Spears to Mack, 23 January 1941. Ibid., Spears to Mack, 25 January 1941. Ibid., draft minute, January 1941, jacket cover of Z513/513/7. Pernot, F. (1990b), ‘Les FAFL, une étude de motivations’. Revue historique des armées, 2, 118. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, p. 20 (trans.). Jacques Mallet was killed in a flying accident at 5 Service Training School, Ternhill, on 19 March 1941. Ibid. Ibid. ‘Linden’ was the nom de guerre, of Robert Loubet. Delecray’s real name was Armand Bayard. Both were victims of further training accidents at Ternhill. Ibid., p. 21 (trans.). Bowyer, C. (1980), Fighter Command 1936–1968, p. 103. Leguie, R-L. (1990), ‘Au jour de jour dans la RAF’. Icare, 133, 107 (trans.). Ibid. Journal personnel de général Valin, p. 10. Service Historique de la Défense, Paris. Ibid., pp. 24–5. Service Historique de la Défense, Paris, SHD (Air) 4 D 56. Minutes of meeting, 15 May 1941. Brown, A. (2000), Airmen in Exile: The Allied Air Forces in the Second World War, p. 145. Jubelin, A. (1953), The Flying Sailor, p. 76. Ibid., p. 77. Service Historique de la Défense, Paris, SHD (Air) 4 D 56. Minutes of meeting, 30 June 1941.

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Notes

Gaulle, C. de (1955), War Memoirs: Vol. 1: The Call to Honour, p. 258. TNA AIR 2/6284, Squadron Leader Skepper (Spears mission) to Flight Lieutenant J. A. de Laszlo, Air Ministry, 9 October 1941.

Chapter 5 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17

18 19 20 21

22

23

24

25 26

TNA FO 892/86, Sinclair (Air Ministry) to de Gaulle, 31 October 1941. Ibid., de Gaulle to Sinclair, 3 November 1941. Ibid., Sinclair to de Gaulle, 5 November 1941. Ibid., Spears Mission to General Valin, 17 November 1941. Ibid., Sinclair to de Gaulle, 5 November 1941. Ibid., Spears Mission to AFL3, 4 December 1941. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 59 (trans.). Jubelin, A. (1953), The Flying Sailor, p. 88, entry dated 27 June 1941. TNA AIR 27/1737, Operations Record Book, 340 Sqn, 12 November 1941. Ibid., 17 November 1941. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 75 (trans.). Ibid., p. 71 (trans.). TNA FO 892/86, Spears Mission to AFL3, 4 December 1941. Brown, A. (2000), Airmen in Exile: The Allied Air Forces in the Second World War, p. 151. The Times, 13 January 1942, p. 2. TNA AIR 27/1737, Operations Record Book, 340 Sqn, 12 February 1942. Anon. (2007a), ‘La naissance difficile du squadron mixte <> “Ile de France”’. Les Ailes Françaises 1939–1945, 7. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 107 (trans.). TNA AIR 50/131, Bernard Dupérier, combat report, 10 April 1942. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 110 (trans.). Scitivaux carried on resisting the Germans, even in captivity. His third attempt to escape, on 26 April 1945, would be successful, but by then the end of the war was only days away. Anon. (2007a), ‘La naissance difficile du squadron mixte <> “Ile de France”’. Les Ailes Françaises 1939–1945, 7, 69. Lallemant, R. (1990), ‘Robinson, Choron, un tandem inséparable’. Icare, 133, 93 (trans.). Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté: Mémorial des Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres, p. 95. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 77 (trans.). Ibid., p. 26 (trans.).

Chapter 6 1

After escaping from an Italian prison camp in December 1943, Jabin joined a group of Italian partisans. He and two of the partisans were shot by Fascist police during an anti-partisan operation.

Notes 2

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4 5 6

7

8

241

TNA AIR 23/6004, AOC-in-C Middle East to the ‘Alsace’ groupe, 6 September 1942. TNA AIR 23/6396, minute by Group Captain (signature illegible), RAF HQ, Levant, 20 March 1942. Ibid., 213 Group RAF, to AOC-in-C Middle East, 24 March 1942. Ibid., minute by Group Captain (signature illegible), 9 July 1942. TNA AIR 23/6004, Co-operation Section, Middle East HQ to Adjutant, ‘Alsace’ Squadron. The file includes the sortie reports. Ibid., No. 22 Personnel Transit Centre, Middle East, to Allied Casualty Section, RAF HQ, Middle East, 28 October 1942. Those casualties were, with date of death and unit: Charles Sapieha, 27 August 1941 (No. 3 Operational Training Unit); Eugene-Léon Théatre, 14 February 1942 (248 Sqn); Gérard-Maurice Houdin, 14 June 1942 (272 Sqn); Jacques Hazard, 21 June 1942 (228 Sqn); Jean Lecointre, 19 August 1942 (236 Sqn); Robert Chauvin, 31 August 1942 (236 Sqn); René Casparius, 26 November 1942 (235 Sn); Robert Moizan, 23 October 1942 (236 Sqn); Serge Guernon, 27 March 1943 (236 Sqn); Gonzales Caron, 21 February 1944 (143 Sqn); François Brunschwig, 30 July 1944 (172 Sqn); Maurice “Max” Guedj, 15 January 1945 (143 Sqn).

9

Valin, M. (1995), ‘Max Guedj’. Icare, 152, 13 (trans.).

Chapter 7 1 2 3 4

5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13

Bowyer, C. (1980), Fighter Command 1936–1968, p. 104. Jullian, M. (1955), Jean Maridor: Chasseur de V1, p. 132 (trans.). Ibid., pp. 132–3 (trans.). www.hawkertempest.se. Pierre Clostermann (2005), interview with Alexandre Jaeg. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, pp. 74–5 (trans.). Jubelin, A. (1953), The Flying Sailor, p. 119. Ibid., pp. 153–4. Caine, P. D. (2005), Spitfires, Thunderbolts and Warm Beer: An American Fighter Pilot over Europe, pp. 93–4. Gibert, A. (1990), ‘A floteurs et à roulettes’. Icare, 133, 121 (trans.). Wing Commander Minden Vaughan Blake shot down another FW-190 before being shot down himself. Badly injured, he paddled his dinghy in the direction of Dover, but he was picked up by a launch belonging to the German Air–Sea Rescue Service. After recovering in a German hospital, he was further injured in

242

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Notes

escaping from a train bound for Germany. Eventually recaptured, he spent the rest of the war in a German prisoner-of-war camp. He stayed in the RAF until his retirement in 1958, and he died in 1981. TNA AIR 27/936, 130 Sqn Record Book, 19 August 1942. TNA AIR 50/52, Leblond combat report, 19 August 1942. Gaujour, R. (1944), French Air Force, p. 14; and Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 152. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 166 (trans.). Ibid., p. vii (trans.). Precisely what happened to Fayolle has been impossible to establish. However, in 1998 Yves Morieult, a French author, convinced the British Commonwealth War Graves Commission that a grave in the cemetery of Hautot-sur-mer contained Fayolle’s body. On 19 August 1942 the Germans recovered from the sea the body of an unidentified man who wore the uniform of a British squadron leader. Three squadron leaders, including Fayolle, were lost over Dieppe. The remains of the other two had been recovered, identified and placed in marked graves. By a process of elimination, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission concluded that the grave of the unknown squadron leader must contain the remains of Fayolle. A new headstone was duly carved and a service of dedication held on 19 August 1998. The ceremony was attended by Fayolle’s English wife and their daughter, who had been only 3 months old when her father was lost over Dieppe. See www.aerostories.free.fr/events/fayolle-morieult. Terraine, J. (1985), The Right of the Line, p. 561, gives RAF figures shortly after the raid and cites the Air Historical Branch study, AHB/II/117/2(E), p. 124. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. 182 (trans.).

Chapter 8 1

2

3

4 5

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11 12

Captain John L. McCrea, unpublished autobiographical papers, Roosevelt Presidential Library. Leahy, W. D. (1950), I Was There: The Personal Story of the Chief of Staff to Presidents Roosevelt and Truman Based on Notes and Diaries at the Time, pp. 56–7, Leahy to President Roosevelt, 28 July 1941. Anglin, D. G. (1999), Free French Invasion: The St Pierre and Miquelon Affaire of 1941. Hull, C. (1948), The Memoirs of Cordell Hull, II, p. 1133. Admiral William Brown, unpublished memoir, p. 176, Roosevelt Presidential Library. Brown was the president’s naval aide from April 1942. Ibid., p. 165. Ibid., p. 176. Werth, A. (1964), Russia at War 1941–1945, pp. 918–19. Ibid., p. 676. TNA AIR 23/6296, Notes on meeting between AOC-in-C Middle East and General Valin, 4 June 1942. Horne, A. (1984), The French Army in Politics, 1870–1970, p. 70. Typescript of speech, Churchill Papers 9/156, cited in Gilbert, M. (1986), Road to Victory, pp. 277–8.

Notes 13

14

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243

Loewenheim, F. L. (1975), Roosevelt and Churchill: Their Secret Wartime Correspondence, pp. 344–5, Roosevelt to Churchill, 17 June 1943. Blitz, R. (1990), ‘J’ai quitté la France avec les Polonais’. Icare, 133, 157–8 (trans.). Mass Observation Archive, Report 1669Q, April 1943. Mass Observation Archive, Report 2023, 17 February 1944. TNA AIR 51/87, Air Ministry to Air HQ, West Africa, 20 July 1944. Gaulle, C. de (1956), War Memoirs: Vol. 2, Unity 1942–1944, p. 252. Warner Brothers (February 1944), prologue to film Passage to Marseille.

Chapter 9 1

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TNA AIR 23/6396, Flt/Lt van Wyck to W/Co A. G. Baker, 13 September 1942. Ibid., minute by Group Captain (signature illegible) 22 July 1942 on Candler’s report, 20 July. Ibid., 20 November 1942. Ibid., Gence to Flt/Lt van Wyck, 5 December 1942. Ibid., Gence to General Valin, 11 January 1943. Ibid. Ibid., RAF HQ Levant to RAF HQ Middle East, 20 July 1943. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, pp. 162–3, entry for 1 September 1942. Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 230. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 26 February 1943. Ibid., 5 March 1943. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 186, entry for 17 March 1943. Ibid., p .187, entry for 18 April 1943. Ibid., p. 185, entry for 16 March 1943. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 13 May 1943. Leguie, R-L. (1991), ‘Rendez-vous avec les Forteresses Volantes’. Icare, 138, 67 (trans.). Ibid., 66 (trans.). Fuchs-Valeani, B. (1992), ‘Un pilote de chasse des FAFL, parmi quelques autres’. Icare, 143, 48 (trans.). Of course, anyone might be unlucky enough to get involved in a ‘friendly fire’ incident. Jean Maridor shot down a Spitfire VB of 402 Sqn on 23 May 1942, and was promptly shot down himself by another 402 Sqn aircraft. Both pilots ended up in adjacent beds at a hospital in Folkestone. Checketts, J. (1986), The Road to Biggin Hill: A Gripping Story of Courage in the Air and Evasion on the Ground, p. 59. TNA AIR 50/132, Mouchotte combat report, 15 May 1943. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 17 May 1943. Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 241. Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 199, entry for 9 June 1943. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, July 1943.

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Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 246; and TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 29 July 1943. TNA AIR 50/132, Mouchotte combat report, 19 August 1943. TNA AIR 50/132, Final Intelligence Report, Ramrod S.8, 27 August 1943. Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 234. He was reinterred subsequently in the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, p. 163 (trans.). Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 230. TNA AIR 50/131, Gouby combat reports. Leguie, R-L. (1991), ‘Rendez-vous avec les Forteresses Volantes’. Icare, 138, 67. www.hawkertempest.se. Clostermann, P. (2005), interview with Alexandre Jaeg. TNA AIR 50/39, Maridor combat report, 25 May 1943. Clostermann, P. (1952), Flames in the Sky, p. 152. Ibid., pp. 152–3.

Chapter 10 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11 12

www.francaislibres.net. P. Mendès France, ‘Roissy-en-France’ (trans.). British Movietone story 44150, French Squadron Bombs Paris, 7 October 1943. Le Matin, quoted in Lambermont, P. (1956), Lorraine Squadron, p. 98. www.francaislibres.net. P. Mendès France ,‘Roissy-en-France’ (trans.). TNA FO 371/36038, René Massigli to Anthony Eden, 16 April 1943. Ibid., Giraud to Eisenhower, 11 October 1943. Schoolcraft, R. W. (2002), Romain Gary: The Man Who Sold His Shadow, p. 22. Gary, R. (1962), Promise at Dawn, p. 272. Following the publication of his first novel in 1945, he went on to publish over 30 novels, volumes of memoirs and essays. Gary also co-wrote the screenplay for the film The Longest Day. He won the Prix Goncourt twice. www.ournewhaven.org.uk. A. Duchossoy, A Boy Goes to War: A Wartime Memory. Sommer, F. (2001), ‘Ricardou’. Icare, 176, 44–51. Natapu, N. (2000), ‘Un Tahitien au groupe Lorraine’. Icare, 174, 59–61. www.boltonrevisited.org.uk/p-bill-morris.html. B. Morris, ‘Flying with the Free French’.

Chapter 11 1

2 3 4

He was the brother of Philippe de Scitivaux, who commanded 340 (Ile de France) Sqn from February to April 1942. The brothers had both served in the pre-war air arm of the French Navy. See Chapter 6. His death was reported in The Times, 30 January 1942, p. 8. Van Wymeersch, R. (1991), ‘De Gibraltar á la grande évasion’. Icare, 138, 57 (trans.). Dezarrois, A. (ed.) (1957), The Mouchotte Diaries, p. 118, entry for 21 October 1941.

Notes 5

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Cermolacce, M. (1992), ‘Des bagnes espagnols aux camps allemands en passant par l’Alsace’. Icare, 143, 135 (trans.). Van Wymeersch, R. (1991), p. 57. Huguen, R. (2003), Par les nuits les plus longues: Réseaux d’évasion d’aviateurs en Bretagne 1940–1944, pp. 259–75 (trans.). In September 1999 a memorial was erected near Scheidhauer’s crash site on Jersey. It read ‘Bernard Scheidhauer of the Free French Air Force, serving with 131 (County of Kent) Sqdn. RAF, crash landed near this spot on November 18th 1942. Following his capture by the occupying forces, he was interned in Stalag Luft III, at Sagan in Silesia. On March 24th 1944, along with 76 other prisoners, he took part in the largest escape of Allied prisoners of war during the Second World War. On 29 March 1944, following his recapture, he was murdered by the Gestapo, along with 49 of his fellow escapers. He was 22 years old. They gave their lives so we can be free.’ Van Wymeersch, R. (1991), p. 59 (trans.).

Chapter 12 1 2

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TNA AIR 14/1117, minute by ACM Harris, 8 July 1943. Ibid., ACM Sir R. Saundby to Under-Secretary of State, Air Ministry, 10 July 1943. TNA AIR 14/1117, W/Co B. H. Rolles to HQ Bomber Command, 30 November 1943. Manuals included: Pilot’s Notes, Halifax Mark II; No. 4 Group Halifax Notes; Gee Training Manual Parts I & II; Meteorological Observers Handbook; Bomber Code; Navigators’ Notes; Notes on Compass; Notes on Mark XIV Bombsight; Gunners’ Standard Notes; Vol. 1 – Boulton and Paul Turret; Vol. 1–Browning 0.303 Machine-Gun; Aircraft Wireless Telegraphy Operating Signals; Loran Manual; Gee Manual and Lecture Notes, H2S Manual and Navigators’ Notes. In addition, it was expected that a series of manuals relating to radar would require translation before the squadrons became operational. TNA AIR 51/87, Minimum Flight Requirements, HQ US Fighter Training Center, 25 January 1944. The Americans seem to have been less demanding in conversion training. In the case of some fighter pilots, the American course might last only 10 hours. TNA FO 371/41984. Dodd, L. and Knapp, A. (2008), ‘“How many French did you kill?”: British bombing policy towards France 1940–1945’. French History, 22, (4), 469–92. www.cieldegloire.com, citing Aéro-Journal, 4, (December 1998–January 1999). Ibid., citing Aéro-Journal, 6, (April–May 1999). TNA KV 2/1084, H. P. Milmo (MI5) to Miss K. O. Lee (Home Office), 16 December 1942. TNA KV 2/2446, Case of Jean Fraval. See also Appendix 5 for fuller details of this French airman’s case. TNA AIR 27/1741, Operations Record Book, 345 Sqn. Nicaise, R. (2003), ‘La base d’Elvington’. Icare, 187, 28–29.

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Garot, J. (2000), ‘Les fumes du débarquement’. Icare, 174, 66–74. Deere, A. (1959), Nine Lives, p. 255. Johnston, T. (1985), Tattered Battlements: A Fighter Pilot’s Malta Diary, D-Day and After, p. 164. Quoted in Sampson, R. W. F. (1994), Spitfire Offensive, pp. 121–2. Richards, D. and Saunders, H. St. G. (1954b), Royal Air Force 1939–1945: Vol. 3 – The Fight is Won, p. 113. Quoted in Sampson, R. W. F. (1994), Spitfire Offensive, pp. 116–17. Miller, R. (1993), Nothing Less than Victory: An Oral History of D-Day, pp. 455–6. Richards, D. and Saunders, H. St. G. (1954b), Royal Air Force 1939–1945: Vol. 3 – The Fight is Won, p. 112. Ibid., p. 117. Boisot, M. (1991), ‘Juin 1944, Le débarquement’. Icare, 138, 94 (trans.). Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, p. 130. Sampson, R. W. F. (1994), Spitfire Offensive, pp. 122–3. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 13 June 1944. Imperial War Museum Sound Archive, ID 1670, BBC interview with unnamed French pilot, 13 June 1944. Lambermont, P. (1956), Lorraine Squadron, p. 150. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, p. 222 (trans.). Blond, G. (1969), Born to Fly, p. 33. After the war Maridor’s sacrifice was commemorated in a memorial in the church at Benenden and in the naming of a room after him at Benenden School. Jullian, M. (1955), Jean Maridor: Chasseur de V1, p. 250 (trans.). www.holmeonspaldingmoor.co.uk. J. Bage,‘A Halifax rear gunner’. www.wartimememories.co.uk. E. Baker, ‘A lifetime in four years’.

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TNA AIR 27/1720, Operations Record Book, 329 Sqn, 8 August 1944. Gréciet, V. (2009), ‘La 1er Escadre de Chasse’. WingMasters, Hors Série 16, 48–53. The record of those three squadrons has not been considered in detail here, because their connection with the RAF was nominal rather than operational. The French Committee of National Liberation placed its units from North Africa under Allied command only on the understanding that they should be ‘exclusively under the authority of the French Commander in all matters pertaining to discipline, organization . . . assignment of personnel and supplies, uniform, postal censorship etc.’ See TNA AIR 51/87, HQ Mediterranean AAF Cmd to AAF, Mediterranean Theatre, 12 March 1944. Guignard, J. (1991), ‘La guerre? Une partie de rigolade’. Icare, 138, 46 (trans.). TNA AIR 27/1720, Operations Record Book, 329 Sqn, 28–29 August 1944. Bloemertz, G. (1973), Heaven Next Stop, p. 70. Andrieux, J. (1967), Le ciel et l’enfer: France Libre 1940–1945, p. 226 (trans.). Duncan Smith, W. G. G. (1981), Spitfire into Battle, p. 214. Baxter, R. in Price, A. (1991), Spitfire: A Complete Fighting History, p. 130.

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Great Britain, Air Ministry (1955), Air Support, The Second World War 1939–1945, p. 179. Mathey, H. (1995), ‘Au Groupe Alsace: Une folle équipée’. Icare, 152, 29. www.historynet.com. J. Guttman, ‘Luis Fortin: World War II Bomber Pilot’. Ibid. www.halifax346et347.canalblog.com. Anon. (2003b), ‘Le journal de marche du Squadron 346 “Guyenne”’. Icare, 187, 72–3.

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13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20

Heilmann, W. (1966), I Fought You from the Skies, p. 139. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 6 March 1945. Ibid. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, p. 173. Lambermont, P. (1956), Lorraine Squadron, p. 184. Sampson, R. W. F. (1994), Spitfire Offensive, p. 143. Even after the war, the men who originally rallied to de Gaulle were determined to stand apart from the ‘late joiners’. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, p. 164. Galland, A. (2001), The First and the Last: Germany’s Fighter Force in the Second World War, p. 240. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, pp. 165–6. TNA AIR 27/1737, Operations Record Book, 340 Sqn, February 1945. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, p. 232. Clostermann, P. (1992), ‘Requiem pour les FAFL’. Icare, 143, 75 (trans.). Fuchs-Valeani, B. (1992), ‘Un pilote de chasse des FAFL, parmi quelques autres’. Icare, 143, 47–8 (trans.). Andrieux, J. (1992), ‘Le dernier jour et l’oubli’. Icare, 143, 31 (trans.). Sampson, R. W. F. (1994), Spitfire Offensive, pp. 154–5. TNA AIR 27/1720, Operations Record Book, 329 Sqn, 6 May 1945. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 31 March 1945. Ibid. TNA AIR 27/1737, Operations Record Book, 340 Sqn, 7 May 1945.

Chapter 15 1 2

3

TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, May–June 1945. Bowyer, C. (1984), Fighter Pilots of the RAF 1939–45, p. 115. See also Levi-Tilley, G. E. (1990), ‘Le Colonel Jean Demozay, alias Morlaix’. Icare, 133, 25. Van Wymeersch, R. (1991), ‘De Gibraltar á la grande évasion’. Icare, 138, 59.

248 4

5

6 7 8 9

10

11 12 13 14 15

16

17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Notes

Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, p. 254. 340 and 345 Sqns were transferred to the control of the Armée de l’Air on 25 and 21 November, respectively. 329 Sqn disbanded in the United Kingdom on 17 November. TNA AIR 27/1738, Operations Record Book, 341 Sqn, 3 November 1945. Baitson, R. (n.d.), L’ombre sur les cocards, pp. 237–8 (trans.). Blitz, R. (1990), ‘J’ai quitté la France avec les Polonais’. Icare, 133, 157 (trans.). Dupérier, B. (1990), ‘Le 242, le 615, et les débuts de l’Ile de France’. Icare, 133, 53 (trans.). Leblond, R. (1990), ‘Un pilote de la France Libre face á son destin’. Icare, 133, 102 (trans.). Béchoff, R. (1990) ‘Aviateur, Marin . . . et Prefet’. Icare, 133, 135 (trans.). Ibid. Ibid., 138. www.hawkertempest.se, Clostermann, P. (2005), interview with Alexandre Jaeg. Gildea, R. (2003), Marianne in Chains: In Search of the German Occupation of France 1940–45, p. 377ff. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, pp. 173–4. Valin, M. (1995), ‘Max Guedj’. Icare, 152, 37. Cermolacce, M. (1992), ‘Des bagnes espagnols aux camps allemands en passant par l’Alsace’. Icare, 143, 137. He died in Tahiti in 1986. Dupérier, B. (1950), La vieille équipe, p. viii (trans). Ibid., pp. 189–90 (trans.). Valin, M. and Sommer, F. (1954), Les sans-culottes de l’air, p. 12. Jullian, M. (1955), Jean Maridor: Chasseur de V1. Cobban, A. (1967), A History of Modern France, p. 226. www.assemblée-nationale.fr/histoire/biographies/IVRepublic/mendès-francepierre (trans.).

Chapter 16 1 2

3 4

5

Clostermann, P. (1992), ‘Requiem pour les FAFL’. Icare, 143, 69 (trans.). In writing this book the author has ignored the narrow technical definition, and has included all who fought under de Gaulle’s leadership between 1940 and 1945. In the last 2 years of the war, men who had rallied in 1940, enthusiastic newly trained recruits, and late converts from the former Vichy Air Force all fought and died side by side for the liberation of their country. Clostermann, P. (1992), ‘Requiem pour les FAFL’. Icare, 143, 71 (trans.). TNA AIR 2/5189, Nominal roll provided by Free French HQ to the RAF, 4 October 1940 compared with Lafont, H. (2002), Aviateurs de la Liberté. For fuller analysis see Appendix 3. Rochereau, d’Olivier (2006), Mémoire des Français Libres: Du souvenir des hommes à la mémoire d’un pays, pp. 129–35.

Notes 6 7 8 9

10 11

12 13

14

15 16

17 18 19 20 21

249

See Appendix 2 for fuller details. Pernot, F. (1990a), ‘Pourquoi êtes-vous venus en Angleterre’. Icare, 133, 16. See Appendix 1 for fuller details. Chéron, P. (2004), Bonsoir Nadette: Journal d’un pilote (Marc Hauchemaille) de la France Libre 1940–1942, p. 88, entry for 31 January 1941. Ibid., p. 89. Paris, M. (1993), ‘The rise of the airmen: The origins of Air Force élitism, c.1890–1918’. Journal of Contemporary History, 28, (1), 138–9. Leguie, R-L. (1991), ‘Rendez-vous avec les Forteresses Volantes’. Icare, 138, 75. W. Nowotny (b. 7 December 1920; d. 8 November 1944) was credited with 258 confirmed victories on 442 missions. The majority of his successes had come on the Eastern Front. He was piloting one of the new Me 262s when he was shot down by an American fighter. He was buried in Vienna in a grave of honour sponsored by the city. In 2003, Nowotny’s grave of honour status was removed after a resolution was passed by the Vienna Landtag. Clostermann, P. (1954), The Big Show: Some Experiences of a French Fighter Pilot in the RAF, pp. 202–3. Dupérier, B. (1950), La Vieille Equipe, pp. 142–3 (trans.). Laurent, P. (1995), ‘Une bonne pépiniere pour les FAFL: “La Promo Z”’. Icare, 152, 121 (trans.). Dupérier, B. (1950), La Vieille Équipe, p. 175 (trans.). TNA AIR 2/10444. Clostermann, P. (1992), ‘Requiem pour les FAFL’. Icare, 143, 73 (trans.). See, for example, Sauvage, R. (1950), Les conquérants du ciel. Clostermann, P. (1992), ‘Requiem pour les FAFL’. Icare, 143, 75 (trans.).

Appendix 4 1 2

www.charles-de-gaulle.org. Chorley, W. R. (2007), Royal Air Force Bomber Command Losses of the Second World War: Vol. 9, Roll of Honour 1939–1947, pp. 433–5, 474–5.

Appendix 6 1 2 3 4 5 6

7

TNA KV 2/1084, Lieut J. H. Osbourne, file on Lucien Lecoq, 12 December 1942. Ibid., H. P. Milmo (MI5) to Miss K. O. Lee (Home Office), 16 December 1942. TNA KV 2/366, Case of Henri de Montbron, Camp 020, 17 December 1943. Ibid., Information on German Agents, Part 1, Agents Sent Abroad by the Germans. Ibid., minute by Lt-Col Robertson, 26 October 1943. Ibid., Lieut Speyer to Col Stephens, 15 December 1943. The response, if any, from the air ministry has not been found. It is a pity that an air ministry list of suspected French Air Force personnel seems to have been removed from the cover of de Montbron’s file. TNA KV 2/2447, Comment by Major Wall Row on the Interim Report on the Case of Jean Fraval, pp. 20–1, 18 March 1944.

250 8 9 10 11

12

Notes

Ibid., pp. 31–2. TNA KV 2/2448, copies of orders. Ibid., Fraval to Col Stephens, 27 March 1946. TNA KV 2/2446, Monthly Summary of Current Cases at Camps 020 and 020R, 1 April 1944. Neither Farago, L. (1971) nor Kahn, D. (2000) mention efforts by German intelligence to penetrate the Free French Air Force, but Masterman, J. C. (1972), The Double-Cross System in the War of 1939 to 1945, does make reference to a French pilot codenamed ‘Fido’, a Polish pilot codenamed ‘Careless’ and two Belgian pilots codenamed ‘Sniper’ and ‘Father’.

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(iii) Websites: www.aerostories.free.fr/events/dayolle-morieult. Identification of François Fayolle’s grave. www.assemblée-nationale.fr/histoire/biographies/IVRepublic. Articles on Free French airmen who subsequently became politicians. www.au.af.mil/au/awcgate/saas/corum.pdf. Corum, J. S. (1994), ‘A clash of military cultures: German and French approaches to technology between the World Wars’. A paper for the USAF Academy Symposium. www.boltonrevisited.org.uk/p-bill-morris.html. B. Morris, ‘Flying with the Free French’. www.charles-de-gaulle.org. www.cheminsdememoire.gouv.fr. www.cieldegloire.com. Articles on the various Free French squadrons and biographies of individual airmen. www.forum.axishistory.com. The Free French Air Force. www.francaislibres.net. P. Mendès France, ‘Roissy-en-France’. www.france-libre.net. www.halifax346et347.canalblog.com/archives. Articles on the French heavy bomber squadrons.

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Index

This index cannot claim to be fully comprehensive. It aims to list only the most significant people, units and themes.

Abwehr 49, 150, 228–34 see also intelligence issues Abyssinia and Eritrea 45–7, 96, 128, 132, 172 air battles 11, 40, 43–4, 66–70, 81–2, 86–7, 91, 114–17, 119–23, 125–6, 130, 135, 141, 168, 212–14, 226–7 air mindedness 8, 9–10, 50, 210–11 aircraft industry 8–10, 43–4 aircraft losses 11, 18, 30, 87, 91, 94, 126, 135, 147, 175, 177, 180–1, 183, 185–6, 208, 221–5 aircrew fatal casualties 30, 35, 38, 43, 45, 48, 55–7, 60, 63, 66–7, 69, 70–1, 77, 79, 87, 89, 91–3, 122–3, 129–30, 134, 136, 156, 159, 161–3, 168, 170, 174–5, 185–6, 223–5 aircrew training 10, 23–4, 33, 48, 54–7, 66, 68, 73, 75, 103, 106, 112–13, 127, 129, 133, 138, 146–50, 172, 178, 192–3, 221–2, 225 air-sea rescue 43, 49, 68–9, 137, 143 Algeria 16, 25, 36, 54, 102, 104, 107, 191, 204–5 Andrieux, Jacques (‘Jaco’) 2–3, 48–9, 56, 82, 84–5, 88, 123, 159, 168, 187–8, 192, 199, 209, 215, 219 anti-aircraft fire see flak

Armée de l’Air (pre-1940) 7–8, 9, 12, 20, 166, 194 No. 23 Elementary Flight Training School (EFTS) 13–15, 23, 28, 69, 156 Armée de l’Air (reconstituted 1943) 4–5, 71, 107–8, 111, 146, 166–7, 196, 214 Béarn groupe 192 First (French) Tactical Air Force 165–6 Flotilles 3FB and 4FB 166 Picardie groupe 192 tensions between ex-Vichy and FAFL men 102, 106, 108, 148, 150–2, 173, 179–80 armistice, Franco-German (1940) 7, 15, 17, 19, 22, 45, 148 Astier de Villatte, Jean 46–7, 101, 214, 218 Baitson, Robert 12–13, 38–9, 47–8, 194 Barcelona 37, 142, 150, 228–30 Battle of Britain 2, 17, 23, 33, 37, 40–4, 68, 87, 88, 95, 194, 211 Battle of the Bulge 176–8 Battle of France 6–14, 28, 38, 41, 46, 74, 75, 107, 141, 148, 149, 206, 208, 211, 230 Béchoff, Roland 195, 201 Bécourt-Foch, Jean 29, 172, 218

270

Index

Biggin Hill 1, 114–18, 120 Boisot, Marcel 157 Boisson, Governor-General Pierre 29–30 bombing German targets 20, 22, 132, 162, 172–4, 178, 185, 187–8 Bordas, Henri de 143–4, 160, 183, 199 Borne, Roger 187, 191, 193 Boston (aircraft) 116, 128–9, 147, 153, 171–2, 185 Boudier, Michel 113–14, 121–2, 159 Bouquillard, Henri 41, 43, 48, 156 Bourgeois, Pierre 70, 202 Bourgès, Yves 139 Bouscat, General René 108–9, 146, 214 Britain and the Free French 15, 30, 102, 111 165 Britain and the Vichy regime 19–20, 25, 31, 83, 102 Brittany 1–3, 13, 15, 142–3, 209, 217 Brunschwig, Michel 51–2, 200, 209 Buhara 49–50, 193 Camberley (Old Dean Camp) 56 Camp 020 (interrogation centre) 229–30, 232–3 Canada 24, 37, 56, 60, 87, 116 Cermolacce, Maurice 139–40, 200 Chad 27, 46, 54, 79 Chauvin, Robert 92–3 Cherbourg 7, 36, 49, 152, 156, 164, 176 chivalry and romanticism 8, 82, 210–14 Choron, Maurice 41, 66–8, 195 Churchill, Winston L. S. 19, 29, 91, 120, 216 and de Gaulle 17–19, 25, 59, 103, 215 civilian casualties (French) 12, 82–3, 130–2, 147–8, 156, 171 Clostermann, Pierre 83–4, 120–6, 157–8, 179–81, 184, 191, 193, 196–7, 202–3, 205, 206, 208, 212–13, 215–16, 219 collisions 84–5, 89, 107, 134, 143–4, 151, 162, 173 combat stress 84–5, 92–3, 118, 120, 124–5, 172

concentration camps (German) 145, 192–3 Corniglion-Molinier, Edouard 74–5, 199, 201, 205, 214, 215, 218 Czechs 3, 15, 40, 58, 180 D-Day 146, 151–7, 159, 161, 172, 219 see also invasion Dakar 19, 25–33, 38, 46, 52, 75, 106, 172–3, 201 Darlan, Admiral, Jean François 19, 104 decorations for gallantry 72, 90, 92, 192, 195, 197, 215 Demozay, Jean 22, 33–4, 41, 85, 192, 215 Denis, James 46–7 desert survival 38, 54, 135–6 Dieppe 81, 86–91, 112, 140, 143, 156 discipline and morale 2, 22, 23, 39, 61–3, 110–11, 113, 114, 117, 134 Dupérier, Bernard 35, 37, 42, 62–3, 66–71, 90–2, 123–4, 140, 194–5, 202–3, 214, 215, 218 Egypt 45–7, 54, 73–8, 96, 100, 128, 133, 135, 136, 172 Eisenhower, General Dwight D. 104, 132, 165 Elvington 152, 162–3, 173–4, 177, 178 English lessons 17, 18, 23, 42, 55–6, 85, 106, 146 escapes by air 13, 16–17, 28, 33–37, 50, 53, 56, 64, 77, 89, 101 escapes by boat 3, 13–14, 48–50, 106, 143, 156, 191, 193 escapes by ship 16, 28, 36, 43, 64, 68, 135, 141, 143, 161, 187, 194 evasion aids 138 see also resistance networks Ezanno, Yves 75, 128, 155, 170, 199, 215, 218 Fayolle, François 42, 62–3, 89–91, 93, 156, 195, 202, 213, 215, 219 fire danger 43, 76, 84, 136, 140–1, 159, 163, 171, 174, 186, 197

Index flak 76, 129, 130, 134, 135, 139, 144, 147, 153, 156, 161–2, 166, 169, 170, 171–4, 177, 178–9, 181–4, 186–8, 213–14 Flying Fortress B-17 (aircraft) 114–15, 119–21, 142 Focke-Wulf FW 190 (aircraft) 44, 66–7, 69–70, 87–9, 92, 113, 120, 124–5, 180 Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres (FAFL) 4, 45, 102–3, 105, 128, 165, 173, 194–5, 204, 207–10, 214, 217–24 see also Free French groupes and Free French squadrons Fourquet, Michel (‘Gorri’) 147, 152, 159, 172, 199, 214, 218 France, Third Republic 4, 14, 65, 198 Fourth Republic 198, 201, 204–5 Fifth Republic 205 Provisional Government 165, 179 Vichy regime 19–22, 25, 31–2, 38, 43, 50, 52–3 59, 95–7, 102, 106, 132, 149, 198, 207, 211 Free French groupes ‘Alsace’ 47, 75, 79, 100–1, 110–13, 127–8, 141, 157 see also 341 (Alsace) Squadron ‘Artois’ 80 ‘Bretagne’ 78–9, 172 Escadrille de Chasse No. 1 46–7, 136 Flotille d’Exploration 98–9 Groupe Mixte de Combat No. 1 (Jam) 26, 29, 46, 128, 218, 173 Groupe Reservé de Bombardement No. 1 (Topic) 46, 128 ‘Lorraine’ 47, 73–6, 79–80, 127–8, 136, 218 see also 342 (Lorraine) Squadron Normandie-Niemen 3–4, 100–1, 106, 110, 192, 197, 200, 201, 215, 227 Free French Movement 3–4, 15, 19–21, 23, 66, 95, 165, 207 Cross of Lorraine 3, 66, 76, 131, 193, 206–7 France Libre/France Combattante 4–5, 103, 196 Free French squadrons in the RAF

271

326 (Nice) 107, 166 327 (Corse) 107, 166 328 (Provence) 107, 166 329 (Cigognes) 148–9, 151, 153, 155, 164, 167, 170, 186, 189, 193 340 (Ile de France) 61–73, 79, 85, 89, 90, 92, 98–9, 112–13, 123–4, 140, 148, 153, 157, 161, 167, 180, 181–3, 186, 187, 189–90, 193, 194, 200–1, 203, 213, 215, 218, 219 341 (Alsace) 110, 112–25, 139, 141–2, 148, 153, 157–9, 168, 170, 172, 178–9, 180, 187, 189, 191–2, 193, 200–1, 219 342 (Lorraine) 127–34, 147, 152–3, 156, 159, 161–2, 171–3, 177, 179, 193, 199, 201, 203, 214, 218, 219, 224–5 343 and 344 (Naval) 108, 166 345 (Berry) 149–51, 153, 156, 170, 193 346 (Guyenne) 146–7, 152, 162–3, 173, 178, 185, 193, 225 347 (Tunisie) 146–7, 152, 162, 173, 178, 185, 193, 219, 225 French Committee of National Defence 108 French Committee of National Liberation 165 French National Committee 59, 99, 104–5, 131–2, 148 ‘friendly’ fire incidents 115–16, 159, 178 Fuchs-Valeani, Bernard 115–16, 184 Gabon 30–1, 38, 46, 172 Gaillet, Henri 28–9, 32 Galland, Adolf 180–1 Gary, Romain 132 Gaulle, General Charles de 14–15, 17, 19, 21, 25–6, 29–30, 32, 33, 38–9, 46, 75, 79, 105, 108, 165, 180, 196, 198, 204–5, 210 and British public opinion 105, 215 broadcast appeal 14–15, 17, 22, 35–6, 64, 86, 191

272

Index

Gaulle, General Charles de (Cont’d) and Churchill 17–19, 25, 59, 96–7, 103, 215 and FAFL aircrew 21–2, 24, 40, 61, 72, 117 and French public opinion 15, 20, 27, 29–31, 38, 96–7, 102–3, 131, 165 objectives and personality 24–5, 47, 58–9, 62, 79, 95–6, 98–9, 102–6, 108–9, 111, 196, 198, 205, 206 and USA 96–7, 103, 165 and USSR 99–100, 165 Gence, Lt-Col J 110–12 German Luftwaffe 1, 11, 14, 33, 40, 46, 81, 87, 91, 116, 151, 153, 155–6, 166, 168, 177–8, 180–1, 183, 185 JG 26 (‘Abbeville Boys’) 43, 66–7, 69–70, 92, 140, 168 Gibert, André 66, 68, 99 Gibraltar 16, 20, 21, 27, 31, 35–7, 43, 50–1, 64, 89, 95, 139, 140, 142, 157, 161, 186, 187, 191, 229 Giraud, General Henri H. 104–6, 108, 111, 132 Godard, Father Robert 13–14, 195 Gouby, Robert 123–4, 161 ground crew 55, 59, 64–5, 70, 73, 78, 167, 191 ground strafing 116, 129, 168–9, 179, 181–3, 186–7, 213–14 Guedj, Max 22, 51–3, 126, 209, 215, 218 Guérin, Charles 34–5, 43 Guignard, Jacques 10, 16, 17, 167 gun cameras 2, 82–3, 89 Halifax (aircraft) 146, 174 Halna du Fretay, Maurice 89, 209, 219 Harris, ACM Sir Arthur 152 Hartford Bridge 129, 132, 152, 171 Hauchemaille, Marc 14, 22–3, 30, 63, 69–70, 202, 209–10 Hauteclocque, Philippe de 27, 46, 164 Hurricane (aircraft) 43–4, 77–8, 89–90, 100 insignia and uniform 2–3, 16, 28, 59–60, 71, 88, 158

intelligence issues 11–12, 25, 30–1, 37, 49, 110, 133, 137, 142, 149–51, 155, 170, 191, 228–34 see also Abwehr and MI5 invasion 87–8, 91, 110, 118, 126, 127, 129, 147–8, 150, 152–3 see also D-Day Italy 7, 25, 45, 107, 145, 165 Jews 22, 51–2, 132, 209 Joire, Jules 28–9, 32, 106–7 Jubelin, André 53, 58, 63, 85–6, 101, 129, 195, 200 Kufra 46–7, 128, 136 L’Emigrant 48–9 La Poype, Roland de 10, 100–1, 200, 209, 215 Labouchère, François de 42, 62, 92 Lafont, Henry 3, 10, 34–5, 41–2, 69, 224–5 landing grounds (emergency) 156–9, 167 Laurent, Pierre 121–2, 199, 209, 214 Laval, Pierre 31 Lavergne, Pierre 187, 189–90 Le Flecher, Louis 187–9 Le Trébouliste 13–15, 28, 69, 106, 156, 217 Lebanon 45, 47, 52, 76, 100, 102, 111, 127 Leblond, Roland (‘Blondie’) 3, 84–5, 88–9, 195, 203–4, 219 Leclerc see Hautecloque, Philippe de Leguie, René-Louis 57, 113, 115, 124, 200, 212 Libya 30, 46, 73, 76, 78, 96, 132–3, 157 Littolf, Albert 46–7 MI5 (military intelligence) 150, 228–9 see also intelligence issues Madagascar 102, 106, 186 Maismont, Pierre Fenoux de 45–6, 172 Maridor, Jean 82–3, 85, 114, 125, 148, 159–61, 195, 203–4, 209, 219 Marmier, Lionel de 26, 29, 46–7, 173, 214, 218

Index Martell, Christian (Montet, Lucien) 114, 120, 122–3, 191–2, 193 Massart, Olivier 181–3, 219 Mathey, Henri 170, 201 Mendès France, Pierre 132, 201, 205 Mers-el-Kebir 19, 30, 31, 38, 52, 106 Merston 153, 158 Messerschmitt Me 109 (aircraft) 43, 75, 180 Messerschmitt Me 262 (jet aircraft) 176, 180, 182 Mitchell B-25 (aircraft) 185 morale see discipline and morale Morocco 16, 25, 35–6, 51–2, 75, 102, 132, 139, 157 Mouchotte, René 21, 34–5, 39, 40–3, 60, 63, 89, 112–23, 138–41, 156, 189, 193, 202, 214, 215, 218 Moynet, André 201, 205 Muselier, Vice-Admiral Emile 17, 36, 58–9, 61, 63, 65, 79 noms de guerre 22, 56, 147, 225 Normandy 147, 151, 152, 154, 156, 162, 164–5, 167, 168–9, 171 Nowotny, Walter 212–13 Odiham 23, 26, 30, 46, 55, 128 Operation Bodenplatte 177–8 Operation Crusader 73–4 Operation Dragoon 165 Operation Giselle 178 Operation Jubilee see Dieppe Operation Mallard 154–5 Operation Market Garden 170 Operation Menace see Dakar Operation Torch 102–3, 149 Operation Varsity 184–5 Ouakam (Dakar) 28–30, 32, 106, 172 parachute emergencies 43, 69, 76, 84–5, 107, 125, 130, 136–7, 139–41, 151, 156, 159, 162, 171, 174, 178, 187–8 Paris 7, 131, 141–2, 164, 179, 230–1 special air operations 71, 85–6, 130–1

273

Pelleport, Frédéric La Fite de 35, 209 Perranporth 1–2, 82, 148–9 Pétain, Marshal Philippe 4, 7, 14–15, 17, 19–20, 31, 32, 38, 52, 95–6, 104, 106, 172 see also France, Vichy regime Pijeaud, Charles 75–6, 128, 136, 156, 192, 214, 218 Pinot, Edouard 15, 156, 217 Poles 3, 15, 40, 43, 49, 58, 63, 179–80, 211 Pompei, Jean 135, 201 Portreath 1–2, 117 Pouliquen, Joseph 54, 77, 101, 200 Predannack 1 prisoners of war 43, 45–6, 68, 74, 89, 92, 124, 130, 137–8, 143–5, 159, 170, 174, 185–9, 195, 200–1, 202, 219 see also Stalag Luft III (Sagan) publicity and propaganda 18, 20, 41–4, 47, 50, 58, 66, 73, 86, 99, 109, 116–18, 120, 158–9, 215, 218 Pyrenees 50, 95, 106, 142, 143, 172, 191, 230 Rancourt, Henri de 128, 130, 147, 199, 214 Raoul Duval, Claude 78, 113, 141–3, 159, 200, 219 Rassemblement du Peuple Français (RPF) 198 Rayak 47, 111 resistance networks 74, 107, 131, 138–42, 147, 164, 166, 171–2, 179, 192, 196–7, 215 Reynaud, Paul 7, 14 Ricardou, Louis 133, 162 Richelieu 19, 29–30, 103 Risso, Joseph 36–7, 199, 215 Robinson, W/Co Michael 66–8, 195 Rommel, General Erwin 73–6, 96 Roosevelt, President Franklin D. 12, 97–8, 103–5 Royal Air Force (RAF) see also Free French squadrons in the RAF Air Ministry 23–4, 43, 58, 61–2, 65, 150

274

Index

Royal Air Force (RAF) (Cont’d) Bomber Command 146, 152 Coastal Command 1, 79, 126, 200 and FAFL 18, 77–8, 90–1, 100, 108, 179, 195, 197, 214–15 Fighter Command 1, 18, 48, 61, 70, 71, 87–8, 112, 114, 117, 124, 156–7, 215 Middle East Command 45, 77–8 squadrons (bold type) with some Free French aircrew, 61–2, 79 1 33, 41, 192 3 191 33 135 64 68 65 215 67 112 68 41 73 46 81 215 85 90 87 56 91 85, 114, 125, 148, 159, 192, 215 118 63, 85 130 1, 85, 88–9 131 143 143 215 149 20 174 90–1, 136, 140, 215 198 155, 170, 215 210 20 232 156 236 89 242 42, 62, 71, 90, 143, 192 248 126 253 215 274 101, 136, 218 501 115–16, 184 602 101, 123, 200, 215, 219 609 68 611 89–90 612 82 615 41, 43, 63 616 156 St Athan 23, 26 Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de 37–8

Saint-Jean-de-Luz 3, 16, 26, 28, 135, 161, 194, 204 Sampson, W/Co R. W. F. 179–80 Saxcé, Arnaud de (‘Fifi’) 187, 193 Scamaroni, Fred 28–9, 32 Scheidhauer, Bernard 143–5, 208, 219 Schloesing, Jacques Henri 52, 67, 140–1, 168, 193, 214, 219 Scitivaux, Philippe de 35–6, 42, 62–3, 66–8, 195, 200, 214, 218 Scitivaux, Xavier de 36, 135, 200 Sinclair, Sir Archibald 62, 65, 70, 91 smoke screen 152–3 Sobieski 16, 28 Soufflet, Jacques 27–8, 32, 172, 201–2, 214, 218 Souviat, Jacques 153–5, 158 Spain 9, 16, 26, 35, 37, 40, 50, 95, 140, 184, 229–30, 232 Spanish prisons 38, 47, 50, 95, 106, 139, 151, 186, 191, 207 Spears, Major-General Edward 14, 55, 62 Spitfire (aircraft) 1, 44, 62, 66–7, 83–4, 87–9, 91, 107, 113, 114–16, 119–20, 148, 180 Stalag Luft III (Sagan) 143–5, 170, 200–1 see also prisoners of war Syria 45–7, 52, 54, 99, 101–2, 106, 111, 127, 135, 192 Thunderbolt P-47 (aircraft) 115–16, 121, 159, 180 Tobruk 46, 73–7, 101, 128, 135, 136, 218 Tulasne, Jean 101, 218 Tunisia 22, 25, 102, 107, 146, 165 Turnhouse 62–5, 71, 112, 178, 189 U-Boats (submarines) 1, 25, 80, 83, 128, 142, 166, 176 uniform see insignia and uniform United States Air Force 114–16, 132 United States of America 37–8, 54, 96, 104, 165, 215 Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, 99–100, 165, 187, 197

Index V1 (flying bomb) 133–4, 147, 152, 160–2, 170–1, 176, 179, 213 V2 (rocket) 170, 176 Valin, General Martial 57–9, 61–3, 65, 69, 75, 79, 100–1, 111, 127, 148, 162, 165, 180, 192, 199, 203, 214, 218 Victory in Europe (VE Day) 189, 221–2

275

war crimes (alleged) 138–9, 145, 174 Weygand, General Maxime 7, 103–4 Women’s Auxiliary Air Force 160, 163 Wymeersch, Raymond van 89, 136–7, 140, 145, 193