one thousand six hundred yards by eight hundred. The Germans, aware of these dimensions and the use to which such fields might be put, were apt to dig trenches across them and to erect hazards in the shape of farm carts, reapers and binders or steel stakes. If these trenches were filled in over -night and the hazards removed (this was done on more than one occasion), everything had to be back in its place by the dawn, every single trace of the operation obliterated.
Jean and Jeanette, therefore, set off on their bicycles. In the event of their being stopped by the Germans and asked to explain their presence in an unfrequented place, the answer was an obvious one. It had little to do with the war. Jean and Jeanette had to be prepared at a moment's notice to assume a position in a haystack that would leave no doubt whatsoever as to their purpose in visiting these lonely , private fields. These reconnoitring expeditions were very much sought after and it is on record that full dress, or rather undress-rehearsals, in case the Germans came, were not infrequent.
The field having been chosen on paper and inspected in person, its map-reference was signalled in code to Baker Street. There it was checked against an identical Michelin road map. Its location was then passed on to a certain section at the Air Ministry who looked at its own more detailed maps and pondered the physical features of the area from the point of view of their specialised knowledge of the requirements of a good landing field. Only when they were absolutely satisf ied with the preliminary survey did they assent. If there was the slightest doubt, aerial photographs would be taken while an aircraft was ostensibly en route for somewhere else, and the site would again be studied in minute detail. If these meticulous gentlemen were still in any uncertainty, the field was rejected. Baker Street was asked to contact the group and to request that another location be submitted.
Jean and Jeanette would exchange languishing glances and mount their bicycles again. The whole elaborate process was about to be repeated.
The field was chosen, inspected and eventually approved. The British agent, the Joe, who was to be set down in France, was taken to a large country house in the Tempsford area, there to eat admirable meals, drink a little admirable claret and wait for the night of the operation with what patience he or she could muster.
In and around about Tempsford, the unhurried life of farming seemed to go on. Within the aerodrome, the camouflaged briefing room was unobtrusively guarded by sharp-eyed men for twenty-four hours a day. No unauthorised person has ever been known to enter its doors, until a mild morning in March, 1942.
The whole of one wall was covered by a large scale map of France, showing the Channel coast li ne of both England and France, extending South to take in the Dijon area. The room was strictly utilitarian. At a deal table sat a middle-aged man in the uniform of a Flight-Lieutenant R.A.F. He was the station's Intelligence Officer, a worried looking man with plenty on his plate. A Wing-Commander in battle-dress came briskly into the room. The Intelligence Officer rose to his feet.
"Good morning, sir."
"And good morning to you, Peter. What's the programme for tonight?"
The Intelligence Officer rubbed his chin.
"There's quite a lot on. I've just had details from the Air Ministry. We've got our usual quota of parachute jobs but there's a special pick-up as well. Looks quite interesting."
The Wing-Commander picked up the sheet of paper and read aloud, frowning.
"Let's see. Operation TROJAN HORSE. Target position 47-10 North 05-30 East." He turned to the map on the wall and pointed unerringly with his finger. "Hmm. That's just a little south of Dijon in this area. Between two rivers. No difficulty in finding that. Take one Joe out and bring another Joe back. I take it that the passenger is all lined up."
"Yes, the Joe's ready. How about routing,
Jean and Jeanette, therefore, set off on their bicycles. In the event of their being stopped by the Germans and asked to explain their presence in an unfrequented place, the answer was an obvious one. It had little to do with the war. Jean and Jeanette had to be prepared at a moment's notice to assume a position in a haystack that would leave no doubt whatsoever as to their purpose in visiting these lonely , private fields. These reconnoitring expeditions were very much sought after and it is on record that full dress, or rather undress-rehearsals, in case the Germans came, were not infrequent.
The field having been chosen on paper and inspected in person, its map-reference was signalled in code to Baker Street. There it was checked against an identical Michelin road map. Its location was then passed on to a certain section at the Air Ministry who looked at its own more detailed maps and pondered the physical features of the area from the point of view of their specialised knowledge of the requirements of a good landing field. Only when they were absolutely satisf ied with the preliminary survey did they assent. If there was the slightest doubt, aerial photographs would be taken while an aircraft was ostensibly en route for somewhere else, and the site would again be studied in minute detail. If these meticulous gentlemen were still in any uncertainty, the field was rejected. Baker Street was asked to contact the group and to request that another location be submitted.
Jean and Jeanette would exchange languishing glances and mount their bicycles again. The whole elaborate process was about to be repeated.
The field was chosen, inspected and eventually approved. The British agent, the Joe, who was to be set down in France, was taken to a large country house in the Tempsford area, there to eat admirable meals, drink a little admirable claret and wait for the night of the operation with what patience he or she could muster.
In and around about Tempsford, the unhurried life of farming seemed to go on. Within the aerodrome, the camouflaged briefing room was unobtrusively guarded by sharp-eyed men for twenty-four hours a day. No unauthorised person has ever been known to enter its doors, until a mild morning in March, 1942.
The whole of one wall was covered by a large scale map of France, showing the Channel coast li ne of both England and France, extending South to take in the Dijon area. The room was strictly utilitarian. At a deal table sat a middle-aged man in the uniform of a Flight-Lieutenant R.A.F. He was the station's Intelligence Officer, a worried looking man with plenty on his plate. A Wing-Commander in battle-dress came briskly into the room. The Intelligence Officer rose to his feet.
"Good morning, sir."
"And good morning to you, Peter. What's the programme for tonight?"
The Intelligence Officer rubbed his chin.
"There's quite a lot on. I've just had details from the Air Ministry. We've got our usual quota of parachute jobs but there's a special pick-up as well. Looks quite interesting."
The Wing-Commander picked up the sheet of paper and read aloud, frowning.
"Let's see. Operation TROJAN HORSE. Target position 47-10 North 05-30 East." He turned to the map on the wall and pointed unerringly with his finger. "Hmm. That's just a little south of Dijon in this area. Between two rivers. No difficulty in finding that. Take one Joe out and bring another Joe back. I take it that the passenger is all lined up."
"Yes, the Joe's ready. How about routing,
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