sir?"
"Usual route to the West of Paris, down to the Loire at about Orleans and then bang into the target area." Again, he frowned. "We'll have to keep our eyes skinned at Dijon.
There's a highly efficient German fighter base there. Too damned efficient. And there's bound to be bags of light flak as well."
"Moon's good tonight."
"Yes. Rises late. Means that we won't be on the target until well after midnight. Met. seems O.K, so you can count it 'on.' You'd better warn the Air Ministry straight away to lay it on. Got any photographs of the landing strip?"
The Intelligence Officer handed him the photographs. While the Wing-Commander studied them, the Intelligence Officer picked up one of two telephones on the deal table. "Air Ministry, please. Oh hullo, Monk Street? That you, John? Peter here. Can you scramble please? Right. Over we go." Now using his secret line, he could talk freely. "Tonight's ops. TROJAN HORSE is on. The code words for our French friends are 'The moon is full . ' Can you get that over to Baker Street for onward transmission to the B.B.C. THE MOON IS FULL. Right. Good-bye."
He put down the telephone. The Wing-Commander was deep in the photographs, translating every darkness, every shadow, every indentation, into terms of the physical ground. At last , he put them back on the deal table.
"Right. The field looks O.K. Barring accidents, should be like the runway at Croydon. Briefing will be at 1400 hours and we'll fix the details at the planning conference. See you then, Peter."
The Intelligence Officer stood up. "I'll be there, sir."
He sat down again. It all sounded all right and, bless his soul, he was used to these jobs by now. But the feeling persisted in the marrow of his bones that this particular TROJAN HORSE - or more suitably TROJAN MARE - was going to drop a premature foal.
The routine had long been established. The news that TROJAN HORSE was indeed now ‘on’ reached Baker Street from the Air Ministry. It was then told to a young woman, unknowingly unaware of its significance, who included the code phrase ‘ The moon is full’ with a number of other equally mysterious messages and took it down to the French Section of the B.B.C. The B.B.C. undertook to relay it at the time appointed and the young woman sat down with earphones to listen and to check the second of the minute of the hour when the message would be told to those who awaited it so eagerly in France.
God knows what happened to the French men and women who took part in this operation. These words are meant literally. God knows - for there is nobody left who can tell in human words. Those who could have told are dead.
Jean and Jeanette set off on their bicycles. They arrived at the alternative field which had been chosen by their group. Arrived there, they parted. Jean paced one side of the field, counting his steps in terms of metres. Jeanette paced the other side, counting. She even made allowances for the fact that her stride was shorter than Jean's. They met at the south end of the field by a haystack (an essential prop) and agreed that it was perfect. Epatant ! Overjoyed, they were about to mount their bicycles when the Germans arrived. These were not the loutish members of the Wehrmacht whom the French despised. These were the Abwehr , the counter-espionage section of the German General Staff, and, for these expert observers, nothing was too trivial to notice.
Jea n and Jeanette made for the haystack and prepared to perform the usual routine. But their simulated transports failed to convince. They were questioned and blandly allowed to go. They were wholly unaware, when they rode away with many bashful apologies for their inexcusable behaviour, that they, and the field, were under the strictest and most professional surveillance.
Jean and Jeanette returned to the group. They related what had happened, dismissing the incident with a snap of the fingers. The Germans had been fooled. But the Germans had not. With
"Usual route to the West of Paris, down to the Loire at about Orleans and then bang into the target area." Again, he frowned. "We'll have to keep our eyes skinned at Dijon.
There's a highly efficient German fighter base there. Too damned efficient. And there's bound to be bags of light flak as well."
"Moon's good tonight."
"Yes. Rises late. Means that we won't be on the target until well after midnight. Met. seems O.K, so you can count it 'on.' You'd better warn the Air Ministry straight away to lay it on. Got any photographs of the landing strip?"
The Intelligence Officer handed him the photographs. While the Wing-Commander studied them, the Intelligence Officer picked up one of two telephones on the deal table. "Air Ministry, please. Oh hullo, Monk Street? That you, John? Peter here. Can you scramble please? Right. Over we go." Now using his secret line, he could talk freely. "Tonight's ops. TROJAN HORSE is on. The code words for our French friends are 'The moon is full . ' Can you get that over to Baker Street for onward transmission to the B.B.C. THE MOON IS FULL. Right. Good-bye."
He put down the telephone. The Wing-Commander was deep in the photographs, translating every darkness, every shadow, every indentation, into terms of the physical ground. At last , he put them back on the deal table.
"Right. The field looks O.K. Barring accidents, should be like the runway at Croydon. Briefing will be at 1400 hours and we'll fix the details at the planning conference. See you then, Peter."
The Intelligence Officer stood up. "I'll be there, sir."
He sat down again. It all sounded all right and, bless his soul, he was used to these jobs by now. But the feeling persisted in the marrow of his bones that this particular TROJAN HORSE - or more suitably TROJAN MARE - was going to drop a premature foal.
The routine had long been established. The news that TROJAN HORSE was indeed now ‘on’ reached Baker Street from the Air Ministry. It was then told to a young woman, unknowingly unaware of its significance, who included the code phrase ‘ The moon is full’ with a number of other equally mysterious messages and took it down to the French Section of the B.B.C. The B.B.C. undertook to relay it at the time appointed and the young woman sat down with earphones to listen and to check the second of the minute of the hour when the message would be told to those who awaited it so eagerly in France.
God knows what happened to the French men and women who took part in this operation. These words are meant literally. God knows - for there is nobody left who can tell in human words. Those who could have told are dead.
Jean and Jeanette set off on their bicycles. They arrived at the alternative field which had been chosen by their group. Arrived there, they parted. Jean paced one side of the field, counting his steps in terms of metres. Jeanette paced the other side, counting. She even made allowances for the fact that her stride was shorter than Jean's. They met at the south end of the field by a haystack (an essential prop) and agreed that it was perfect. Epatant ! Overjoyed, they were about to mount their bicycles when the Germans arrived. These were not the loutish members of the Wehrmacht whom the French despised. These were the Abwehr , the counter-espionage section of the German General Staff, and, for these expert observers, nothing was too trivial to notice.
Jea n and Jeanette made for the haystack and prepared to perform the usual routine. But their simulated transports failed to convince. They were questioned and blandly allowed to go. They were wholly unaware, when they rode away with many bashful apologies for their inexcusable behaviour, that they, and the field, were under the strictest and most professional surveillance.
Jean and Jeanette returned to the group. They related what had happened, dismissing the incident with a snap of the fingers. The Germans had been fooled. But the Germans had not. With
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