Oberleutnant Meyer, at the XV Army HQ, whose task it was to monitor all B.B.C. broadcasts, excitedly and in some haste informed the Military Governor of France, and also the commanders-in-chief in Holland Belgium. He was treated with the contempt that it was felt he deserved. Important messages, indeed! Just a load of drivel about autumn. The man is obviously a cretin. Oberleutnant Meyer hunched his shoulders and went on listening.
'Ici Londres, ici Londres. We are continuing to broadcast personal messages: "Les fleurs sont d'un rouge sombre. Les fleurs sont d'un rouge sombre" (The flowers are dark red).'
'That was the signal for the Resistance network in Normandy.
'"Helene epouse Joe. Helene epouse Joe" (Helen is marrying Joe).'
The signal for the entire region of Caen. It set off a whole series of sabotage attempts, many of which were successful: bridges collapsed, railway lines blew up, telephone connexions were severed. At the XV Army HQ it was now generally accepted that something, somewhere, was very seriously wrong.
'Can you make nothing of it, Meyer?' demanded General von Salmuth, anxiously.
Meyer just hunched a shoulder and went on listening.
For three days there was silence, and then the messages .started up again with renewed vigour and inventiveness.
'Ici Londres, ici Londres... "Les des sont jetes" (The dice are cast). I repeat: "Les des sont jetes." '
And as a result, many unsuspecting German sentries lost their lives, knifed in the back and their bodies flung into rivers or into the marshes.
' "Jean pense a Rita"' (John is thinking of Rita). "'Jean pense a Rita."'
The speaker enunciated his words very slowly and carefully, with a pause between each.
Porta laughed in delight.
'What a load of bullshit! John's thinking of perishing Rita... I don't suppose the chap's doing anything of the sort. Who the hell are they, anyway? Who are this John and Rita? Sounds like a kid's story to me.'
'It's a code,' explained Heide, who always claimed to know everything. 'I was a radio operator once. They use messages like that all the time.'
' "Le dimanche les enfants s'impatientent" ' (On Sundays the children grow impatient). '"Le dimanche les enfants s'impatientent." '
That was directed to Resistance members who were|awaiting the arrival of parachutists in Normandy.
'Ici Londres. We shall be sending further messages in one hour.'
THE LAST HOUR
We wrapped the dead in canvas shrouds before burying them, and by the side of each corpse we left an empty beer tin containing the man's personal papers. Sooner or later, perhaps when the war was over, we reckoned that someone would have to see about proper cemeteries with real graves and row upon row of little white crosses, and when that time came, and they were ploughing up the decomposing dead from the ditches and the cornfields, it seemed best they should know the identity of each corpse as they unearthed it. Hence the beer tins and the papers.
It seemed to us a positive necessity for both sides to have decent graveyards filled with dead heroes. Otherwise, what could they show in the future to impress new young recruits?
'Now, you lads, these are the graves of our glorious dead who fell for their country in the last war... Beneath this cross here lies Paul Schultze, a humble private soldier who had both his legs blown off by a grenade but who nevertheless remained at his post and held off the enemy. This humble private soldier saved an entire regiment. He died in the arms of his commanding officer, a patriotic song on his lips.'
There were so many bodies waiting to be buried that we didn't have enough beer cans for all of them. After a morning's hard work as grave-diggers we were allowed half an hour for food and were then packed off on a mine-detecting expedition.
That was worse than grave-digging by far. The life of anyone working on mine clearance was generally accepted as being pretty bloody short and by no means sweet. The mines were magnetic, set to go off
'Ici Londres, ici Londres. We are continuing to broadcast personal messages: "Les fleurs sont d'un rouge sombre. Les fleurs sont d'un rouge sombre" (The flowers are dark red).'
'That was the signal for the Resistance network in Normandy.
'"Helene epouse Joe. Helene epouse Joe" (Helen is marrying Joe).'
The signal for the entire region of Caen. It set off a whole series of sabotage attempts, many of which were successful: bridges collapsed, railway lines blew up, telephone connexions were severed. At the XV Army HQ it was now generally accepted that something, somewhere, was very seriously wrong.
'Can you make nothing of it, Meyer?' demanded General von Salmuth, anxiously.
Meyer just hunched a shoulder and went on listening.
For three days there was silence, and then the messages .started up again with renewed vigour and inventiveness.
'Ici Londres, ici Londres... "Les des sont jetes" (The dice are cast). I repeat: "Les des sont jetes." '
And as a result, many unsuspecting German sentries lost their lives, knifed in the back and their bodies flung into rivers or into the marshes.
' "Jean pense a Rita"' (John is thinking of Rita). "'Jean pense a Rita."'
The speaker enunciated his words very slowly and carefully, with a pause between each.
Porta laughed in delight.
'What a load of bullshit! John's thinking of perishing Rita... I don't suppose the chap's doing anything of the sort. Who the hell are they, anyway? Who are this John and Rita? Sounds like a kid's story to me.'
'It's a code,' explained Heide, who always claimed to know everything. 'I was a radio operator once. They use messages like that all the time.'
' "Le dimanche les enfants s'impatientent" ' (On Sundays the children grow impatient). '"Le dimanche les enfants s'impatientent." '
That was directed to Resistance members who were|awaiting the arrival of parachutists in Normandy.
'Ici Londres. We shall be sending further messages in one hour.'
THE LAST HOUR
We wrapped the dead in canvas shrouds before burying them, and by the side of each corpse we left an empty beer tin containing the man's personal papers. Sooner or later, perhaps when the war was over, we reckoned that someone would have to see about proper cemeteries with real graves and row upon row of little white crosses, and when that time came, and they were ploughing up the decomposing dead from the ditches and the cornfields, it seemed best they should know the identity of each corpse as they unearthed it. Hence the beer tins and the papers.
It seemed to us a positive necessity for both sides to have decent graveyards filled with dead heroes. Otherwise, what could they show in the future to impress new young recruits?
'Now, you lads, these are the graves of our glorious dead who fell for their country in the last war... Beneath this cross here lies Paul Schultze, a humble private soldier who had both his legs blown off by a grenade but who nevertheless remained at his post and held off the enemy. This humble private soldier saved an entire regiment. He died in the arms of his commanding officer, a patriotic song on his lips.'
There were so many bodies waiting to be buried that we didn't have enough beer cans for all of them. After a morning's hard work as grave-diggers we were allowed half an hour for food and were then packed off on a mine-detecting expedition.
That was worse than grave-digging by far. The life of anyone working on mine clearance was generally accepted as being pretty bloody short and by no means sweet. The mines were magnetic, set to go off
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