agent leaving, sometimes three, but there were generally two of them. Rarely did more than three agents leave on one flight.
Before they left, Buck always gave each agent a present: a gold pen, cigarette case or cuff-links for a man and a gold pen or powder compact for the women. ‘Just to let you know we shall
be thinking of you,’ he used to say, adding with a smile, ‘you can always hock it if you get yourself into a tight hole and need money in a hurry.’
The despatcher, the only member of the crew actually in the cabin with the agents, was on board to attend to their needs. During the flight, the despatcher liaised constantly with the pilot and
the navigator, discussing their position and the distance left to fly, so as to know when to rouse the agents. The men often slept soundly: the women usually only dozed. The despatcher was kept
busy arranging the containers full of supplies which would be dropped to the reception committee waiting on the ground, after the agents had left the plane. These containers were very heavy
cylinders, sometimes requiring three or four men to carry them to the waiting lorries or farm carts. The supplies they held included grenades, Sten guns, revolvers, machine-guns, batteries, wire so
thin it was invisible to the naked eye, which was used for tripwires – and sometimes as a weapon – and bicycle tyres. People did an awful lot of cycling during the occupation, and tyres
were not only in short supply in France but virtually unobtainable. Unless they were lucky enough to get new ones from SOE, when tyres wore out, people just cycled on the uppers! There were also
drops of tea, coffee, cigarettes, chocolate, clothing, boots, money and whatever other supplies the organizer might have requested.
When the plane approached the appointed landing ground, the pilot pressed a button and a red light would appear in the cabin. The despatcher would then wake the agents with a cup of coffee and
sandwiches, help them out of their sleeping bags, hook their parachutes to a static line and open the trapdoor in the floor of the plane. The agents would sit opposite each other on either side of
the trapdoor, their legs dangling in mid-air. They were told not to look down at the ground rushing by beneath them, but to fix their eyes on the despatcher s raised arm. The despatcher s eyes
would be glued to the red light and the second it turned to green his arm would come down and he would shout ‘Go’, although the noise of the plane invariably drowned him out, and, one
after the other in rapid succession, the agents jumped from the plane, each one destined, after landing, for a different
réseau.
If they hesitated, the despatcher would give them a
kick, because otherwise they might arrive kilometres away from their scheduled landing zone. Unfortunately, even those who jumped to command sometimes landed some distance from the reception
committee and were obliged to find their own way back to the dropping zone. Others dropped into a stream or a bog or were left suspended in a tree and had to be rescued. It was almost impossible to
gauge the exact moment at which to jump in order to land at the feet of the waiting reception committee. Mind you, most of them did. The moment they jumped was probably the worst moment of all for
the agents because in order to avoid being sucked back into the plane’s slipstream they had to do a freefall, counting to twenty or twenty-five before opening their parachutes.
The agents soon started circulating silly stories about the drops, some of them rather macabre. In one an agent who had supposedly counted up to the required twenty-five pulled the cord to
release his parachute, but the parachute failed to open. ‘Blast,’ he said. ‘The problems are already starting. I bet when I land the bicycle they promised would be hidden in the
bushes won’t be there either!’ The agents also joked that the inside of every parachute carried a number and a note from
Before they left, Buck always gave each agent a present: a gold pen, cigarette case or cuff-links for a man and a gold pen or powder compact for the women. ‘Just to let you know we shall
be thinking of you,’ he used to say, adding with a smile, ‘you can always hock it if you get yourself into a tight hole and need money in a hurry.’
The despatcher, the only member of the crew actually in the cabin with the agents, was on board to attend to their needs. During the flight, the despatcher liaised constantly with the pilot and
the navigator, discussing their position and the distance left to fly, so as to know when to rouse the agents. The men often slept soundly: the women usually only dozed. The despatcher was kept
busy arranging the containers full of supplies which would be dropped to the reception committee waiting on the ground, after the agents had left the plane. These containers were very heavy
cylinders, sometimes requiring three or four men to carry them to the waiting lorries or farm carts. The supplies they held included grenades, Sten guns, revolvers, machine-guns, batteries, wire so
thin it was invisible to the naked eye, which was used for tripwires – and sometimes as a weapon – and bicycle tyres. People did an awful lot of cycling during the occupation, and tyres
were not only in short supply in France but virtually unobtainable. Unless they were lucky enough to get new ones from SOE, when tyres wore out, people just cycled on the uppers! There were also
drops of tea, coffee, cigarettes, chocolate, clothing, boots, money and whatever other supplies the organizer might have requested.
When the plane approached the appointed landing ground, the pilot pressed a button and a red light would appear in the cabin. The despatcher would then wake the agents with a cup of coffee and
sandwiches, help them out of their sleeping bags, hook their parachutes to a static line and open the trapdoor in the floor of the plane. The agents would sit opposite each other on either side of
the trapdoor, their legs dangling in mid-air. They were told not to look down at the ground rushing by beneath them, but to fix their eyes on the despatcher s raised arm. The despatcher s eyes
would be glued to the red light and the second it turned to green his arm would come down and he would shout ‘Go’, although the noise of the plane invariably drowned him out, and, one
after the other in rapid succession, the agents jumped from the plane, each one destined, after landing, for a different
réseau.
If they hesitated, the despatcher would give them a
kick, because otherwise they might arrive kilometres away from their scheduled landing zone. Unfortunately, even those who jumped to command sometimes landed some distance from the reception
committee and were obliged to find their own way back to the dropping zone. Others dropped into a stream or a bog or were left suspended in a tree and had to be rescued. It was almost impossible to
gauge the exact moment at which to jump in order to land at the feet of the waiting reception committee. Mind you, most of them did. The moment they jumped was probably the worst moment of all for
the agents because in order to avoid being sucked back into the plane’s slipstream they had to do a freefall, counting to twenty or twenty-five before opening their parachutes.
The agents soon started circulating silly stories about the drops, some of them rather macabre. In one an agent who had supposedly counted up to the required twenty-five pulled the cord to
release his parachute, but the parachute failed to open. ‘Blast,’ he said. ‘The problems are already starting. I bet when I land the bicycle they promised would be hidden in the
bushes won’t be there either!’ The agents also joked that the inside of every parachute carried a number and a note from
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