Druce and his fellows, in spite of the fact that some 500 German troops were camped out in the village nearby. So high-spirited and full of vitality was Mme Rossi, that Druce suspected she actually thrilled to the danger that sheltering British parachutists inevitably brought.
Her house lay at the confluence of the main valley with a narrow, V-shaped gorge. Beside it ran a path that snaked into the hidden reaches of the forest, making it a perfect hiding place for both Maquis and British soldiers. Mme Rossi was incapable of hiding how much she loathed the enemy. Mirthful and forthright, her house had been searched by the Gestapo numerous times, yet she never once suggested that Druce and his fellows shouldn’t hole up there.
‘ Oh, la! Les Boches! ’ she would trumpet, as she stood over a freshly baked quiche, beefy arms crossed and blue eyes sparkling. ‘Boh! Those filthy creatures! They’re brutes, that’s what they are.’
Then she’d dissolve into peals of laughter. If anyone ever suggested she might be a little quieter, for fear of attracting unwanted attention, she’d roll her eyes and quiver. ‘ Mon Dieu! ’ she’d cry, with renewed indignation. ‘ Les salauds! A bas les Doryphores! ’
‘ Les Doryphores ’ were a potato-infesting bug, one of her favourite nicknames for the Germans. ‘ A bas les Doryphores! ’ Down with the potato bugs! And ‘ Les salauds! ’ The bastards.
Mme Rossi was irrepressible and she would not be cowed. Right now her house offered a vital refuge for Druce and the rump of the Op Loyton force. The forests all about were being scoured by the enemy, so there was no way that Druce and party could make for the agreed RV. It was time to lie low.
‘The Germans were in and out of there all the time,’ Druce remarked of Mme Rossi’s abode. ‘But she was literally getting us hot food three times a day. She really didn’t give a damn about the Germans and she had absolutely no fear, no thought as to her own safety, her own security, and she looked after us better that you’d look after your own children. She was superb.’
With movement largely impossible for British soldiers in uniform, Lieutenant LeFranc offered to make his way to Colonel Grandval’s location to try to get a radio message through to London. LeFranc’s papers were in order, so he stood a chance of making it. Druce asked him to explain the reasons for the delay in calling in the main body of the Op Loyton force. At the same time he wanted SFHQ to stand by for coordinates for a new DZ, so those reinforcements could be parachuted in.
Nothing seemed to faze Druce, and he had far from given up on Operation Loyton. He viewed the predations of Waldfest as a temporary setback. To his way of thinking, the Vosges remained ideal for launching hit-and-run attacks, and with the influx of enemy troops it had become a wonderfully target-rich environment.
In most battlefield situations, one of the key objectives of any commander is to disrupt the enemy’s supply and communications lines, without which no army can function for long. Such attacks fall into two broad categories: either flanking manoeuvres by the main force, or long-range penetrations by small-scale, independent units. The SAS had been formed in 1941 to fulfil the latter role, hitting enemy supply lines in the North African desert.
At that time, news had been grim for the Allies on all fronts, but the SAS had helped turn those fortunes around. Enemy headquarters camps, transport convoys and aerodromes were hit by surprise, and with enormous success. With the arrival of the American jeep in theatre, such efforts were redoubled, the jeep being an ideal cross-country load carrier and gun platform, and perfect for launching the SAS’s speciality: the hit-and-run attack.
In the Vosges, Druce’s force, scattered and battle-scarred though it might be, sat astride the few road and rail routes that linked the German front line to the heartland of the Reich.
Her house lay at the confluence of the main valley with a narrow, V-shaped gorge. Beside it ran a path that snaked into the hidden reaches of the forest, making it a perfect hiding place for both Maquis and British soldiers. Mme Rossi was incapable of hiding how much she loathed the enemy. Mirthful and forthright, her house had been searched by the Gestapo numerous times, yet she never once suggested that Druce and his fellows shouldn’t hole up there.
‘ Oh, la! Les Boches! ’ she would trumpet, as she stood over a freshly baked quiche, beefy arms crossed and blue eyes sparkling. ‘Boh! Those filthy creatures! They’re brutes, that’s what they are.’
Then she’d dissolve into peals of laughter. If anyone ever suggested she might be a little quieter, for fear of attracting unwanted attention, she’d roll her eyes and quiver. ‘ Mon Dieu! ’ she’d cry, with renewed indignation. ‘ Les salauds! A bas les Doryphores! ’
‘ Les Doryphores ’ were a potato-infesting bug, one of her favourite nicknames for the Germans. ‘ A bas les Doryphores! ’ Down with the potato bugs! And ‘ Les salauds! ’ The bastards.
Mme Rossi was irrepressible and she would not be cowed. Right now her house offered a vital refuge for Druce and the rump of the Op Loyton force. The forests all about were being scoured by the enemy, so there was no way that Druce and party could make for the agreed RV. It was time to lie low.
‘The Germans were in and out of there all the time,’ Druce remarked of Mme Rossi’s abode. ‘But she was literally getting us hot food three times a day. She really didn’t give a damn about the Germans and she had absolutely no fear, no thought as to her own safety, her own security, and she looked after us better that you’d look after your own children. She was superb.’
With movement largely impossible for British soldiers in uniform, Lieutenant LeFranc offered to make his way to Colonel Grandval’s location to try to get a radio message through to London. LeFranc’s papers were in order, so he stood a chance of making it. Druce asked him to explain the reasons for the delay in calling in the main body of the Op Loyton force. At the same time he wanted SFHQ to stand by for coordinates for a new DZ, so those reinforcements could be parachuted in.
Nothing seemed to faze Druce, and he had far from given up on Operation Loyton. He viewed the predations of Waldfest as a temporary setback. To his way of thinking, the Vosges remained ideal for launching hit-and-run attacks, and with the influx of enemy troops it had become a wonderfully target-rich environment.
In most battlefield situations, one of the key objectives of any commander is to disrupt the enemy’s supply and communications lines, without which no army can function for long. Such attacks fall into two broad categories: either flanking manoeuvres by the main force, or long-range penetrations by small-scale, independent units. The SAS had been formed in 1941 to fulfil the latter role, hitting enemy supply lines in the North African desert.
At that time, news had been grim for the Allies on all fronts, but the SAS had helped turn those fortunes around. Enemy headquarters camps, transport convoys and aerodromes were hit by surprise, and with enormous success. With the arrival of the American jeep in theatre, such efforts were redoubled, the jeep being an ideal cross-country load carrier and gun platform, and perfect for launching the SAS’s speciality: the hit-and-run attack.
In the Vosges, Druce’s force, scattered and battle-scarred though it might be, sat astride the few road and rail routes that linked the German front line to the heartland of the Reich.
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