Behind Hitler's Lines by Thomas H. Taylor Read Free Book Online

something important. He went into reverse, tossed Joe a bag, and was gone. Inside were new coveralls, called a jumpsuit, dark but otherwise the same as paratrooper fatigues. Joe was elated to have them, as his fatigues were tattered from training.
    In the stationmaster's office he saw three Americans in identical jumpsuits. They gestured and pointed him to the men's room to change. His new comrades weren't like any GIs he'd seen before—one spoke with a European accent— but on the train to Middle Wallop they brought him into their conversation, which he perceived to be that of college guys after mentioning his scholarship to Notre Dame. Like Joe, none of them had seen much of England except its woods and weeds, so they all felt like tourists for the first time. The towns en route were drab and beleaguered by war, but the Americans felt vital, confident that this war's course could be changed to their expectations. Among the passengers they seemed to be the only ones enjoying themselves as the musty coach rocked along.
    It stunned Joe when the man with a foreign accent leaned over and whispered, “You from the 101st?”
    “Can't tell ya.”
    “Hell, we saw the markings on your jeep.”
    “Where you from?”
    There was no answer, but it was the fledgling OSS, predecessor of the CIA, as Joe would learn years later.
    At the Middle Wallop station they were collected by an RAF airman, who drove them to his base. Joe wasn't sure, but it looked like the airfield where he had done his standing landing for the British. The four were received fraternally. “Ah, come in, lads,” a lieutenant greeted, and led them to a secure map room. “I'll take Beyrle first. You other gentlemen can wait in the canteen.” They departed. “Corporal Beyrle— am I pronouncing that right?” he began pleasantly. “I'm sure you've been a good American soldier. Now we'd like you to do some good work for the Allies. We have friends over in France. True friends. They perform indispensable tasks, especially in keeping us informed about what Jerry is up to. These courageous people are called the French Forces of the Interior: FFI for short. Ever heard of them?”
    Joe had not. Papers back home ran apocryphal stories of the brave French resistance but said nothing of how they were cagey polypolitical cobelligerents whose principal value to Eisenhower was real-time, on-the-ground intelligence about German forces—increasingly vital intelligence as time tolled down to invasion. In return for their services, the FFI wanted money as much as demolitions for sabotage. Money to bribe gendarmes, government clerks, truck drivers, and switchmen on the railroads—even money for select Germans whose loyalty to Hitler was tepid and who found the good life of occupying France a bit costly for their military pay.
    That thoroughly interested Joe from his worm's-eye perspective of the war. Speaking to him was this Allied officer, explaining matters Joe imagined were known only to generals. As always there was nothing like being Best Informed.
    “Yes,” the lieutenant continued, “so we must deliver rather large quantities of money to the FFI. Gold, actually. That's what they prefer. How do you suppose we deliver it?”
    “Parachute, sir?”
    “Quite. Now we'd like for you to do that. Be a paymaster, as we call it. Give it a go?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Fine fellow. Now, it's all very simple. And not much risk, I'd say. We've been doing it for years. Here's this bandolier.” With both hands the lieutenant hefted it. “It contains rather much more than you and I together will likely make in our lifetimes. So please don't lose it, will you? Just strap it on, fly off, jump out, and become an honored guest of the hospitable French.
Voila”
Before continuing, he handed Joe a receipt for the bandolier, its contents, and a .45-caliber automatic with holster. “Now, we certainly expect those who greet you to be the Frenchmen intended. To verify that, your challenge