Operation Paramour: Component 01
Approximately 45 kilometres southwest of Orleans, France
August 8, 1942
0338 hours (local)
The Lancaster bomber flew at its maximum speed in total darkness, the pilot keeping his bird as low to the terrain as he dared. There were no stars out tonight, all of them were hidden behind an overcast sky. When the co-pilot looked upwards, he could make out the faint lighting in the clouds where a full moon was said to be behind. Anti-aircraft flak and tracer rounds, guided by radar and searchlights, was being sent upwards all around the horizon in a search to hit enemy aircraft, but nowhere near the bomber’s position.
The Germans, the co-pilot decided, were making sure that no bombers coming from Britain would make it to their targets tonight. The fireworks going on around them really made it look like Bomber Command was trying to give the Krauts a hard time; some retribution, obviously, for the damage done by the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain. He looked back at the instruments for a moment, then towards the pilot. He keyed the intercom system and spoke.
“It’s a perfect night for the boys, eh?”
The pilot looked over at the other man in the cockpit, nodded solemnly, then turned his attention back to the outside world in front of them. “Aye. As long as we can get there.” After a slight pause, the pilot asked: “Navigator, how much longer to this bloody place?”
Static came over the earphones for a moment before a calm voice responded from the nose of the bomber. “Oh, I’d say another two minutes on this heading, then we can swing towards the dropzone.”
The pilot grunted, then told the jumpmaster to inform their two passengers of their progress.
The two men sat uneasily on very uncomfortable metal seats. The area around them—-the hallowed-out, but still cramped, bomb bay-—was filled with the loud droning of the four engines, and was lit in a dim red colour that was barely a cut above useless. The two were dressed in suit and tie, with each holding a suitcase on their laps. Parachutes were strapped around their shoulders, helmets atop their heads as they each left one another alone to think about the task ahead.
Their operational briefing back in London had told them one thing: to cause as much disruption to enemy forces as they could. The “how” and “when” would be left to their discretion unless otherwise stated by communications from headquarters. They were to gather intelligence, conduct limited sabotage, distribute propaganda and spread rumours, lower enemy morale and raise that of the friendly population… basically to give the Germans a hard time during their stay. It was quite a mission for two men, but there was little doubt that they could accomplish their tasks.
The oldest of the two—-the Brit-—was returning to France for this, having escaped through Dunkirk, and already having a mission under his belt from the previous year. The other was a new agent coming from the United States, whose father had run a successful import/export company in France before the war. The new agent, codename Jack, was twenty-three and would be the wireless operator; and the other, codename Percival, would be the organiser at age twenty-seven.
Jack’s job was to simply keep communications going with HQ, while Percival did the grunt work. Both were extremely hazardous jobs, and being caught meant interrogation by the Gestapo, and a bullet to the back of the head or spending the duration in a concentration camp… none of the possibilities carried much appeal. Both of the men were highly skilled in what they were to do; fluent in French, German, Italian, and Spanish; and during the brief time they had known each other, had grown confident in the other’s abilities in the art of espionage.
They had been flying for the passed two hours, drawing closer to their destination. Both were struggling with motion sickness and heavy bricks in their stomachs when the jumpmaster straightened up and put a hand to his earphone. The jumpmaster, after listening for a few moments, spoke loudly enough to be heard.
“Not long now, chaps. You’re lucky that you don’t have to ride this contraption for the return flight.” The man’s friendly words did little to reassure the two operatives.
Time passed by even slower now that they knew they were closer to jumping. Each touched the French-made revolver in their waistbands and the L-tablet sewn into the cuff of their shirtsleeve, just to simply make sure both items hadn’t disappeared. Then they began reviewing their respective cover stories for one last time before stepping onto French soil.
Before they knew it, the light in the bomb bay suddenly brightened to a more useful lighting, but still not enough to ruin the two’s darkness-adapted vision. The jumpmaster helped Percival to hole in the bottom of the fuselage, Jack taking position close behind; both were hooked up to the static-line, and given a thumb’s-up from the jumpmaster.
“One minute, chaps,” the jumpmaster yelled, relaying the message from the cockpit.
The navigator in the nose peered over his map, using a dimmed flashlight to try and make out what he was looking for. The co-pilot was searching for a landmark that they could use to further pinpoint the location of the dropzone, his fingers ready to flip a switch on the instrument panel. The pilot was concentrating on keeping his bird above ground at an altitude of five hundred feet. All of the gunners aboard were peering into the night sky for any signs of German night-fighters trying to intercept them at their low altitude.
Percival sat with his legs dangling outside the aircraft, looking intently at the red light, waiting for it to change. The gusting wind chilled his ankles and calves, but he hardly noticed, only worrying for a mere second that the wind might pull one of his shoes away.
Suddenly, the red light turned green.
“Good luck, lads!” the jumpmaster yelled before giving Percival a slap on the back of his shoulder.
Percival launched himself out of the aircraft, and slipped into the air as the bomber flew on. Legs together, chin against the chest. After a moment, he felt the ripcord pull the parachute out. His hands immediately went to the control handles of the chute, his suitcase falling from his chest, only to hang twenty feet below at the end of a rope. He looked up to see that his parachute had in fact inflated and let out a sigh of relief.
He swung in the wind with the drone of the bomber’s engines receding. His eyes took in the scene around him: it was almost completely black out, with the fireworks still going on atleast thirty miles away. A heartbeat later, he felt the tension on the rope holding his suitcase suddenly give way.
He braced himself.
Jack and Percival had gathered their chutes, and had just finished burying them in a shallow grave, camouflaging it with branches and leaves. They were in a field about half the size of a football field, with trees surrounding it. The two were breathing heavily, but were starting to control their adrenaline.
Both men were looking out for any signs of detection, but their drop had been blind, meaning that there shouldn’t be a reception committee. The sounds around them indicated a conversation between atleast three different dogs. Everything else seemed normal though, but both remained cautious. After all, they had just landed in enemy-occupied territory.
Percival put his fedora on as he whispered in French.
“You know where you’re going, and I know where I’m going. I’ll contact you in a week, and’ll give you another week to reply to my message, and if you don’t, I’ll write you off. If you don’t get my message, you write me off.”
“Relax,” Jack replied.
