Daylight rendezvous
It seemed amazing that so many people could be hidden in the little cockleshell of a boat
Operation Marie-louise was the rescue of Resistance leader Gilbert Renault (Rémy)’s family from Occupied France in 1942. It involved disguising a refugee motor trawler from Concarneau to mingle with legitimate Breton fishing vessels and achieve a daylight rendezvous. RNVR Lieutenant Steven Mackenzie, who led a crew of North Sea fishermen, wrote this account.
Third time lucky? We were growing a little sceptical of success. The delays on the French side were not, I know, of Rémy’s choosing. Indeed his position was growing desperate for his wife and children were being sought by the Gestapo and it is not easy to conceal an entire family. But to our crew, who knew nothing of the reasons behind our project, the operation seemed doomed to failure. […]
As we sailed down the Baie-d’audierne we could see the golden sands and the white villas at their edge shimmering in the sun. The great lighthouse of Penmarc’h, reputedly the tallest in the world, raised itself on the skyline, beckoning us on; beyond it lay the Glénan Isles where our business called us. On this occasion we had fixed our meeting time for 1700 and intended to reach the position by that time the day after leaving the Scillies. By keeping our appointment so late we would save a day on the whole operation but it meant we could afford no delays on the outward journey. The sense of urgency to be on time made our seven knots seem even slower; the lighthouse on the horizon was a chimera, a mirage on the horizon that never drew nearer.
It was a busy day in the air. Heinkels and Arados crossed overhead whilst two or three convoys passed us going north. They were well escorted with sweepers and armed trawlers but none paid attention to us. At length the light was reached and passed and we set course for our meeting place. Fishing boats abounded, diesel boats like our own, tunny boats and a few steam trawlers. The Glénan Isles appeared, low and rocky five miles to the eastward.
1630. We reached our position with half an hour in hand and proceeded to steam up and down as though we were trawling. All eyes turned to the islands round which Les-deux-anges should appear; we saw precisely nothing. 1700, 1800 passed while our hopes faded away. Another failure, another voyage for nothing. A little after 1800, black smoke appeared on the southern horizon, quickly followed by five German corvettes steaming towards us. We held our course, watching them anxiously, for they would pass all too close. Or was this a trap? Had Rémy been caught and our plans uncovered?
As the corvettes came on Jasper, the coxswain, nudged my arm and pointed towards the islands. A tiny white sail had appeared there, too far off to identify but clearly making out to sea. The excitement grew intense, the corvettes lent the final touch of colour to the situation. We reached the end of our run and turned, letting them overtake us to starboard. They passed us belching black smoke, the nearest less than a cable distant. We could see their captain examining us through glasses, watched by German sailors idling on deck, holding our thumbs and turning away from them. Then they were past, the casual inspection over.
We watched the white sail tacking to and fro till the corvettes had disappeared. At last it steadied on a seaward course making directly for us. We let it approach until we could identify it. Everything fitted the description we held. 9.14m (30ft) long, single mast, green hull and finally, to dispel the last doubts, the name painted in clear white letters: Les-deuxanges – C’neau. We made our signal, identified ourselves and went alongside.
One thing puzzled me; on the deck of Les-deux-anges stood only three persons, all obviously fishermen. Yet we expected to see three passengers at least, besides the children. It was not until the two ships were fast alongside, heaving up and down in the light swell, that they appeared. It seemed amazing that so many people could be hidden in the little cockleshell of a boat. They certainly had been hidden and had survived a German inspection when the vessel left harbour. Now they emerged in lengthy succession, a woman: Mme Rémy; three children ranging between 11 and five years old, a man with several suitcases and finally Rémy himself, with a bagful of papers in one hand and in the other, a six-month-old baby.
Rapidly they were helped on board, choosing the moments when the deck of Les-deux-anges heaved up to our gunwale. The stores we had brought for the fishermen were handed over, petrol, oil, and some food and tobacco. In five minutes it was all over, the warps were cast off and
Les-deux-anges turned away in a wide circle. As she passed us again to wave goodbye, the French skipper pointed to the sky and we looked up. A patrolling Heinkel was approaching from the north’ard, still too far distant to have seen us together. We made suitable gestures of contempt and headed out to sea.
M. Roulier was by my side and together we went to join the party below where Cookie Nash was serving hot coffee and rum to welcome them on board. I ordered a tot to all hands to celebrate this long-awaited moment and took my own up to the wheelhouse. I felt deeply moved by the sight we had seen; four young children and their mother helped to safety, their smile of thanks, their obvious confidence of security in our hands. Jasper was at the wheel, staring straight ahead. His voice was gruffer, his language more picturesque than usual. After a few moments I left him and went out on deck. Cookie Nash, still grasping his coffee pot, was gazing at the retreating coast, and there were tears in his eyes. This is no exaggeration; there was not a man amongst the crew who did not feel the sentimental strength of that dramatic meeting.
Once his family was safely in England, Rémy was able to build up the Resistance network Confrérie Notre-dame and many more clandestine Channel crossings were made.