All the kings men, p.1
All the King's Men, page 1
All the King’s Men
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
I
II
III
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VIII
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XI
XII
XIII
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XVIII
Bibliography
References in the Text
About the Author
Also by Robert Marshall
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To the memory of my mother
and the love of my wife
Preface
During the summer of 1943, Britain’s wartime secret service, the Special Operations Executive – SOE – suffered a major collapse of its networks in northern France. It was a disaster of monumental proportions, a disaster from which the SOE never properly recovered. The story of that collapse lies at the very heart of the history of Britain’s secret war alongside the French Resistance. It is a story that is engraved upon the memories of those who were there and survived. For apart from the terrible loss of life and materiel, the collapse precipitated a serious crisis of confidence. After the war, stories proliferated – on both sides of the Channel – of betrayal, deception and English perfidy. An official history went to considerable length to silence these rumours, and for a while it succeeded. But the passing years nurtured old suspicions. If one picks up a well-read copy of The SOE in France, it will invariably fall open at the events surrounding the collapse of the northern networks and the role played by an individual by the name of Henri Déricourt. What makes these few pages so fascinating is that they raise more questions than they answer.
In fact all accounts of the events in France during 1943 are less than satisfying simply because authors have been hampered by the singular inaccessibility of the relevant material. All SOE’s records are held in perpetual custody by the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6). Time, a little good fortune and a great deal of effort have shaken some of this material free. This development, coupled with the recollections of veterans and survivors and of many others not previously connected with the story, now makes it possible to produce a realistic, though hardly agreeable, explanation for SOE’s very worst disaster.
The research for this book began when Roy Davies, editor of the BBC’s history series TIMEWATCH, suggested I look into the subject as a possible item for that programme. In the course of its making an enormous amount of new material was uncovered – too much to be squeezed into one hour of television. This volume is, therefore, a golden opportunity to present that material in as much detail as the narrative will allow. I am indebted to a great many people who contributed much to the research and who deserve proper recognition. Daniella Dangoor, who combed the French archives exhaustively; Dr Stephen Badsey, military historian, who volunteered his time and knowledge in areas that were remote from my experience; Dr Katherine Herbig at the US Naval College in Monterey, California, an expert in strategic deception, who allowed me access to many papers unavailable in Britain; and finally – but most importantly – Larry Collins, author of Fall from Grace, who allowed me to read the typescripts of a great many invaluable interviews that were recorded with people now long dead.
The most valuable archival material that was uncovered was found in the private papers of Henri Déricourt. These contain his pilot’s log books and licences, birth and marriage certificates, letters, financial records, military records, forged documents, a manuscript for a novel together with a vast quantity of miscellaneous trivia – even a receipt for his coffin. The name Déricourt is perhaps not so well known as Burgess or Maclean, but nevertheless he deserves to be recognized as one of the most accomplished intelligence agents of all time.
The bulk of the detail contained in this book is drawn from interviews with over fifty veterans and survivors of the secret war. These included some half dozen SS and SD officers in Germany; a number of pilots and crew who flew with Déricourt over the years; SOE officers; and countless members of the French Resistance. A surprising number of retired MI6 officers have also spoken to me freely about their work, and about Claude Dansey in particular. In fact it was the character of Dansey that proved the most difficult to unravel. A great deal of unhelpful hagiography has been written about this man, a complex individual who remained an enigma even to those who worked closest with him. Trying to weave one’s way between those who thought him a god and others who believed he was the Devil incarnate proved a difficult task. Whether he was a madman or a genius is one of those MI6 mysteries that remain at best only half answered.
Robert Marshall
Perth, Australia, March 1987
I
‘The French Kid Glove…’
During the winter of 1946, locked away in Fresnes Prison in the southern suburbs of Paris was a bleak and friendless community of souls. They had been thrown together by the final scenes of an exhausting war. Down the long central gallery, dimly lit by pools of grey sunlight, hundreds of wretched Frenchmen took their regular stroll from the cells to the little cubicles where they could meet their lawyers. A disparate group of frightened and bitter men, united by a single crime – collaboration. Paradoxically, just three years before, Fresnes Prison had echoed to the sound of jackboots and the inmates who padded along the gallery then also shared a common charge. They called it Patriotism. The world had been turned upside down. Of course, not all the inmates the Germans imprisoned there in 1943 were true patriots and nor indeed were all those imprisoned in 1946 guilty of treason.
The prisoners in Fresnes were part of a larger society that was gradually steeling itself for a painful period of self-examination. France was emerging from one of the darker chapters in her long history. She had not been united by war, but shattered into a hundred fragments. The presence of the Nazi occupiers had encouraged some Frenchmen of a fascist persuasion to embrace the invader – in the name of France. Although the vast majority, faced with the reality of defeat, had quietly accepted collaboration as the prescribed antidote to national humiliation, a few, a very few, presumed to resist the invader and live as underground terrorists.
As the tide of war had turned, the ranks of the resisters swelled, the collaborators became more unwilling and the Fascists were isolated. French society was wrenched first one way and then the other.
Isolated from the great social upheavals, there inevitably flourished a few who cared nothing for the politics of the thing, but who saw the whole great conflict as nothing more than a fabulous game, to be played either for profit or glory – or just for the thrill of it. And if they found themselves on the wrong side of the wall at Fresnes, it was often no reflection on how well they had played the game.
Prisoner Déricourt – number 13.181 – spent hours at his tidy little desk in cell 1/459, agonizing over the words to address to his uncomprehending wife. The monthly letter had become something of a struggle between what he would have liked to have said and what she needed to hear.
My beautiful chicken…
I’ve just received your letter of Wednesday. My poor chicken’s nerves are having a hard time. And as you say, when will it end? For myself I don’t know, for it’s not me who decides. But they will have to release me for I have done nothing wrong.1
On 22 November 1946, he and his wife had been sitting down to their dinner when three officers of the DST (Département de la Surveillance du Territoire), the French equivalent of Britain’s MI5 (the Security Service), arrived to arrest Henri Eugène Alfred Déricourt on a charge of treason. They apologized for having called at such an inhospitable hour, then splayed themselves across the armchairs and waited for the couple to finish their meal. Occasionally they made an attempt at conversation but Déricourt was utterly taciturn and gave the impression of a man absorbed in his meal. His wife, Jeannot, or his ‘little chicken’, as he called her when trying to comfort, was temperamentally a different person. Petite and somewhat nervous, she had tried but failed to disguise her terror and so Henri had leant across the table, taken her hand in his and held it there.
When he had finished, Déricourt packed a small bag with toothbrush, soap and towel. Then he was driven to Fresnes.2 On 29 November he was taken to DST headquarters and before the Commissaire de Police, René Gouillaud, he was charged with having had ‘intelligence with the enemy’, for which the punishment was death. Twelve months later, he was still awaiting trial.
My affair will have to come to an end and I will have to be released. I have many great projects to do and many good things in store. Perhaps we could just pack our bags and go to that little corner and breed ducks. I send you kisses and caresses.3
France was still divided, suspicious, resentful and in the mood for revenge. Behind their flinty walls, the prisoners of Fresnes knew very little about the political currents that were flowing around them. This man in particular, isolated in his little cell, was drifting unaware towards the centre of a storm that threatened relations between Britain and France. The entente cordiale was being chilled to the bone. But Déricourt knew nothing of that, he was no more in control of his ‘affair’ than he was in control of Jeannot’s nerves. His fate was being shaped by stealth, by the silently grinding wheels of an organization far beyond the reach of the DST. Behind his presence in Fresnes lay an ex traordinary history of intrigue and deception within the British secret services.
Who was Déricourt and how had he come to be at the centre of that storm? The man whom an officer in the DST once described as the ‘French kid glove over the hand of Albion’4 was the subject of a vivid array of stories.
…the son of a respected French family related to nobility. At the Lycée he excelled in mathematics and science and set his heart on becoming an aviator. He was trained as a civil airline pilot and in 1933, at the age of 24, held the post of captain-pilot with Air France.5
…he had worked during the 1930s as a trapeze artiste in Germany, there he made contact with a number of useful people…6
…he had been to America on secret business, having escaped from France by crossing the Pyrenees…7
There was only one consistent theme in Déricourt’s own account of his background: he never told anyone the truth about it. Once he had escaped his roots, he proceeded to bury them thoroughly. He cultivated a vaguely romantic air about his home and family and when pressed about his origins he would feign a pained silence, glance away and whisper ‘Château Thierry’. It was terribly effective.
Henri Eugène Alfred Déricourt was born at twelve-thirty in the morning of 2 September 1909, in the little hamlet of Coulognes-en-Tardenois, near Reims in the département of Aisne, some 100 kilometres north-east of Paris. South of the fields of Picardy the country rolls gently between the rivers Aisne and Vesle before running into the industrial outskirts of Reims. It is country that has periodically seen the arrival and departure of foreign invaders since the time of Julius Caesar, and they would come twice more during Henri’s lifetime.
The tiny community into which Déricourt was born worked under the feudal patronage of the local aristocracy. His father, Alfred, had been a peasant labourer until a stroke forced him off the land and into the Post Office. His mother, Georgette, was a domestic servant most of her life and worked as a concierge on the Thierry estates. Henri was the youngest of three boys. The eldest, Felix, was an ebonist – a craftsman skilled in working thin ebony veneers into cabinets or tables. Marcel, the second son, became a decorator.
Henri never had the slightest intention of labouring for his living. He showed some academic promise in his early years, which led his mother to cherish a dream that her favourite son would eventually become a teacher. But Henri had nothing so bourgeois in mind. Either by accident or design, Henri spent a lot of time in his mother’s company at the Thierry estates, and from behind her apron, so to speak, he glimpsed the world of the local aristocracy. It was a world he liked very much. At ‘Thierry’ he found a sort of second family who seem to have adopted him as a kind of mascot. At any rate he began to absorb something of the culture of that society and to develop a view of himself as someone separate from the ‘little people’ of the world. By ‘little people’ he meant anyone whose life was ruled by others, like his family and their neighbours. This view of himself as an individual divorced from his origins was perhaps the most important early development in what was to become a complicated character. Eventually he would distinguish between two kinds of ‘little people’: those who were vulnerable, who relied on him and somehow deserved his affection – like his mother; and those who had failed to improve themselves, deserved to be where they were and consequently barely figured in his view of the world – like his father.8
Every evening Henri and his mother would return to their very humble house and to a man who was, at least in Henri’s eyes, the very worst type of time-server – a postman, a minor functionary of the state, a failure. Déricourt despised him. For some unknown medical reason, his father developed a bizarre and unfortunate complication after his stroke – he became appallingly obese. Henri, who always took a great pride in his own appearance, found his father’s physical disintegration repulsive.
At the age of 16 he sat his baccalaureat, but his mother’s hopes were dashed. Too indisciplined to cope with the necessary study, he failed his first exams, threw the rest in and left home for Paris. The only influence his father managed to exert on his youngest son was to ensure him employment by getting him a position with the PTT (Postes Télégraph et Téléphone). Henri started at the very bottom – ‘supernumerare’, literally a supernumerary. From this he progressed to the dizzying heights of ‘clerk’.9
On 26 May 1927, in the company of nearly a hundred thousand of his countrymen, Déricourt went to Le Bourget airfield to cheer the young American, Charles A. Lindbergh, who had just flown non-stop across the Atlantic. It’s difficult today to imagine the kind of prestige that was enjoyed by the pilots of the 1920s. In fact they were not pilots, they were aviators – flyers. They commanded the respect of presidents and kings – and the adulation of millions. The following day, outside the Hotel de Ville, Déricourt again watched as the President of France shook hands with Mr Lindbergh, and the postal clerk hit upon his first avenue of escape.
Déricourt liked to say he’d won a scholarship to a pilots’ school, but in fact it was his mother’s employer who had engineered his admission. Henri was privately sponsored to the Farman Air School at Toussus le Noble near Paris, the training school for the Military air service. On 10 May 1930 Déricourt had his Baptême de l’Air.10 He flew for six minutes. By the end of the month he had clocked up over four hours’ flying time and had already shown himself an uncommonly good pilot. By 1931 he had progressed to the rank of Corporal second class, then to Chief Corporal.
In 1932 he left the military to take up the life of an aerial showman. With a group of like-minded flying-fools he established the Aéro Club de Paris. From their base at Toussus le Noble, they moved about the countryside in a peripatetic fashion, producing impromptu ‘Fêtes Aeriennes’.
In each new town they would land in a nearby field, distribute a few posters, then for six francs entertain the local country folk to a display of wing-walking, parachuting, dare-devil dives and, of course, the opportunity for a Baptême de l’Air. The glamorous twenty-three-year-old flyer developed a reputation as a witty, self-confident and extremely persuasive charmer, particularly with the ladies. It was really his talent on the ground that kept the Aero Club in the air, long after flying circuses had become passé.11
By 1935 the Depression put an end to their barnstorming. After trying to make a living as a salesman for a company that sold scientific instruments, Déricourt finally settled down to what he would have called a steady job. A new airline was created specifically to transport mail over the vast distances of France, a task previously dealt with by Air France. A fleet of silver-grey Caudron Simouns, the new fast monoplane, and some six or eight pilots and radio operators were gathered at Le Bourget to form Air Bleu. Déricourt was not a person who fitted easily into an organization. He had virtually no respect for authority and little patience with procedure. Air Bleu employees were required to wear a uniform of navy blue trousers, a white shirt and a navy blue tie. Déricourt turned up for inspection on the first day wearing white trousers, a navy blue shirt and a white tie.12
Unfortunately, within just a few months of getting financially off the ground, the airline almost crashed. In May 1936 the Renault family prematurely removed their investment and the pilots and crew were forced to stand down and await possible government help. It was during this hiatus in the airline’s history that Déricourt first demonstrated an art for which he later became quite famous, the art of disappearing. Air Bleu had come to value him as one of their best pilots and were keen to keep in touch, should the company suddenly become solvent again. Throughout August and September, there was a steady stream of Air Bleu correspondence to all of Déricourt’s known addresses, each letter a little more anxious than the last as the company grew more alarmed by his absence. Air Bleu never received any explanations.13 On this particular occasion, he was secretly down at Chambéry, near the Italian border, doing a bit of aerial photography.
In the spring of 1936 Déricourt had made the acquaintance of André Borrie, an officer in the Deuxième Bureau – the French intelligence service. At that meeting Borrie had approached him with an offer of some easy cash in return for taking some documents to a contact at Déricourt’s destination. The contact would give him a similar sum on receipt. It was the start of an unofficial relationship with the Deuxième Bureau that eventually extended to flying Borrie over sensitive military sites in neighbouring countries. For instance, during his absence from Air Bleu they did some aerial photography over Italian naval docks and were held up by bad weather. On other occasions they flew over German territory to photograph stretches of the famous Siegfried Line.14
