In the Footsteps of the White Rabbit

The heavy door softly closed behind me, eliminating the sounds of the busy Parisian street beyond. The buzz of everyday life, the honking horns, the clatter of feet, the shouts of irate drivers as someone performed a near lethal manoeuvre on the cramped roads, disappeared in an instant.

Around me the smoked glass, tall mirrors, and ornately decorated walls of the restaurant seemed to take me into another time, far removed from modern, twenty-first century Paris.

The film crew were setting up in a small side room, hushed voices echoing the silence of the interior as they decided where to place the camera. The director, a man I had briefly met the day before and whose name now eluded me, was arranging a table in the centre of the room.

My eyes drifted from his erratically busy form to the wall behind him, where a beautifully painted Art Deco woman posed surrounded by a parade of flowers. She looked across the decades with a calm serenity and I wondered who had painted her and had they ever supposed she would still be gazing out on Parisian diners nearly one hundred years later.

She drew me in with her sightless eyes and poetic timelessness. Had she once been looked upon by the man whose footsteps I walked in today? A man dead long before I was born, yet who had entered my life one unremarkable day and changed it forever.

His name was Forest Frederick Edward Yeo-Thomas, and I was a young writer looking for inspiration for my next non-fiction book. My first, a detailed look at the lives of POWs held in Britain during the Second World War, had been followed by a request from my publisher for another similar work and I was struggling for inspiration.

Sitting in London’s National Archives one grey day and thumbing through a folder of papers that held the vague possibility of holding something that would spark a new historical investigation for me, I stumbled across the story of a spy, resistance agent and saboteur. I had read about a lot of secret agents in my research into the realm of wartime espionage, but as I delved into the man who went by the somewhat uninspiring codename of ‘The White Rabbit,’ I found myself falling into another time, another place and a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Forest Yeo-Thomas was a secret agent working with the Special Operations Executive, (Churchill’s ‘Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare’ and a secret even from some within parliament). Yeo-Thomas was Anglo-French, making him a perfect choice to send to France to resist the Nazis. He ended up being a valuable co-ordinator among the fledgling resistance movements, as well as an efficient collector of Nazi intelligence. It was not an exaggeration to say he had been one of the most successful of SOE’s operatives.

From the start, I was inspired by this dashing and daring man, who defied the odds and created a persona for himself that fooled the Nazis for months. Once even going so far as to strike up a conversation with one of the most feared men in the Gestapo, complaining to him that the German Occupation forces in France were failing to keep the trains running on time.

Yet, I was not the first to be inspired by Yeo-Thomas.

Tucked away in the folder was a short letter typed on the flimsy paper used towards the end of the war. At first it seemed unimportant, a short note to let another department know that Yeo-Thomas’ latest field report had been received. That was until I read who had typed the letter.

Ian Fleming.

Ian Fleming, famous for being the creator of the handsome and devilishly charming spy James Bond, had been following Yeo-Thomas’ adventures from his position in Naval Intelligence.

Could it be I had uncovered a hitherto unknown inspiration for James Bond?

So many of the stories about Yeo-Thomas reeked of the defiant, brash bravery of 007, from his myriad disguises to his miraculous escapes from danger. He was bold, reckless, a lady’s man who refused to ever be cowed by danger.

But Yeo-Thomas’ story did not have the satisfactory good-overcoming-evil ending of a Bond film or novel.

Yeo-Thomas was ultimately captured by the Gestapo, brutally tortured and, though he survived the ordeal, was left with injuries that would shorten his life. He was a true hero who had risked everything to fight the Nazi regime and as I read through the documents both about him, and written by him, in the National Archives, I found myself drawn to this dangerous daredevil who went from being a tailor in civilian life, to ruthless killer and secret agent in wartime.

There was no question about it – I had found my inspiration for my next book.

Little could I have expected that writing his biography would end up taking me on a journey in Yeo-Thomas’ footsteps, where I had to find my own form of courage to do something I never, in a million years, would have dreamed I was capable of.

My book not only delighted my publishers, but quickly drew interest from the media in a way I had not anticipated. The spotlight fell uncomfortably on me after it was published. Most writers are introverts, and I am no different. I like to let my words speak for me. Stepping into the limelight was well outside of my usual comfort zone.

Yeo-Thomas was about to change all that. The first indication I had that I had written something special was when I was contacted by various international news channels for interviews about my work.

Germany called first, then Ukraine and Russia.

One cool, sunny day in Spring I found myself walking along the promenade of my hometown, looking out across the grey-blue sea as I was interviewed by Russian news presenter Evgeny about Yeo-Thomas. In-between informing me how beautiful I was and buying me a cup of tea, Evgeny asked the slightly chilling question of whether I had been contacted by the British Secret Service for revealing wartime secrets?

Only later did I discover that Evgeny was the London Correspondent for the Russian military-funded television channel.

These adventures had been daunting, as I had to speak on camera and become the centre of attention for a brief time, but they were nothing compared to the adventure Yeo-Thomas was about to lead me on.

The White Rabbit was the reason I was stood in a Parisian restaurant whose décor spoke of the opulence of the period just before the Second World War, with a British television crew setting up a few metres away.

I had arrived in Paris the day before, coinciding with the terrorist attack in Notre Dame Cathedral that had the city on high alert. That morning I had been briefed on what to do if there was a terrorist threat while I was filming, which mainly involved hurrying back to the car and the driver supplied for escorting me around the city.

Our driver, Benny, was a trained professional who had chauffeured high-level politicians and diplomats. He walked around looking as if he owned the small piece of Paris he currently occupied and had such an aura about him that people unconsciously gave him a wide berth.

One time, on a narrow street, Benny became concerned careless passing motorists might scratch the paintwork of the Mercedes he was in charge of. He quietly positioned himself on the far side of the car, leaning nonchalantly against the passenger door. His presence alone caused a man on a moped to veer erratically away from the car, as if he feared for his life if he made a ding in it.

Despite Benny’s comforting presence, my nerves were shredded as I moved into the restaurant, seeing for the first time the man I was to film alongside. My stomach ached and it had taken every ounce of my courage to make this journey – right until the last moment I had been thinking I would have to back out.

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but I just felt sick to my core, completely out of my depth. Not only had I travelled from the consoling sanctuary of my home in the UK, but I was to be introduced to a man who I had grown up watching on television.

Sir David Jason is a British legend and icon, famous for his voice acting and for being the star of the television series Only Fools and Horses and A Touch of Frost. Every Christmas as a child I could recall watching the Christmas special of the classic comedy Only Fools and Horses, watching Sir David playing the role of the loveable rogue ‘Del-boy.’ It seemed impossible I was meeting him in person because of my book on Yeo-Thomas, a surreal experience that I dreaded messing up.

I had barely eaten and was a nervous mess as the French soundman politely threaded a microphone through my outfit. Sir David Jason was nearby, watching. He smirked and made a joke about the soundman touching me, causing the poor man to wince and almost panic.

Turned out Sir David Jason was an awful lot like his character Del-boy and though his humour was sometimes a little close to the knuckle, it was also very British, and I immediately liked him.

He made me feel at ease as we began our scene together. We sat at a restaurant table, the Art Deco woman on the painted wall looming over us as we began a semi-scripted interview sequence. He was to ask me questions about Yeo-Thomas, I was to give honest responses, though it quickly became clear this was not like the interviews I had been part of before.

There were to be multiple takes, with me repeating information and trying to keep it as lively and spontaneous as the first time. Then there was a short sequence where I had to pretend to nudge a suitcase over to Jason as if I were secretly giving him information. That was the hardest part of the whole thing as I was repeatedly asked to nudge the suitcase over, told I was moving my foot too fast, or too slow, to the point I wanted to scream in exasperation.

Then, just as suddenly, it was over, and we had completed the first part of the interview.

It had whooshed by in moments, though my mind had been largely on my churning stomach and a vague fear I would have to throw up in the middle of filming. Now there was a brief pause as the crew dismantled their equipment ready to relocate to our next location.

I was offered a cup of tea and just for a moment I could sit still and really think about where I was.

What would Yeo-Thomas make of me sitting in this French restaurant telling his story and doing so in a manner that felt slightly disrespectful. I had told of him speaking to a dreaded Gestapo agent on a train in a humorous fashion, encouraged by the director, but I had to wonder if the man who had actually gone through that event would have approved.

I couldn’t help feeling I was stealing his story for my own benefit, twisting it to suit a modern audience and the needs of the television performance. It felt dishonest. It felt as if I was mocking his heroism.

Had Yeo-Thomas ever set foot in this particular restaurant? There was no doubt it must have been the scene of many strange encounters during the war. Its architecture and décor demonstrated it had been a restaurant long before the Nazis invaded and occupied Paris. Had Wehrmacht soldiers entered this place and dined at the tables? Had a Gestapo or SS officer sat beneath that same Art Deco woman and laughed over a bottle of wine? What conversations had she witnessed? What madmen, murderers and brave resisters had she cast her cold, painted gaze over?

For just the shortest time I travelled backwards, into that past. Into another place and time. It was not a perfect transformation for I could hardly conjure up the strong emotion, the fear, anguish, and heartache that must have existed in the city during those dark years. Had the owner of this restaurant been pro or anti-Nazi? Had they collaborated, or had they aided the resistance? Or were they like the majority of Parisians; simply keeping their heads down and hoping for the best?

I could hear the distant clink of glasses, the quiet chatter and laughter of people eating a meal. Maybe there was music. Maybe the voices that rang out spoke German. Maybe the tables and walls sometimes shuddered with the sound of distant gunfire, or the rumble of a tank.

Afterwards, had British and American voices filled this place? The saviour soldiers stepping through the doors to replace stormtroopers and torturers, being greeted warmly as the men who had freed Paris from her Nazi yoke?

Yeo-Thomas had brought me all this way to encounter the past and to develop a deeper, stronger connection to a man who had I only knew through old documents and black and white photographs. This was the Paris he had been desperate to save, and for which he had nearly given his life. I could only find myself feeling a deeper sense of respect and awe for him. Walking in his footsteps, I could truly appreciate the man he was, the bravery he had shown, and in response, I found myself wondering if I could ever have been so courageous.

Me, the writer who had been afraid to get on a train and travel through the Channel Tunnel to reach this place. Who had barely slept the night before filled with dread about the coming day, who had nearly been faint with nerves as I began my interview and who now was only filled with a sense of relief it was all over.

Comparing that to the determination and courage Yeo-Thomas had shown felt like an exercise in self-abasement. He was far braver than I, far stronger, far more determined. He was an exceptional man, and I was merely fortunate to have been able to walk in his shadow.

My time for reflection was short.

Tea drunk, I was ushered off again. We needed to be at our next location swiftly, no time to waste. The restaurant was left behind, Yeo-Thomas was left behind. I was broken from the spell of history I had briefly sunk into, but I would never forget.

Yeo-Thomas faded behind me, but he would always be a part of my experiences, my ethereal guide leading me on this strange adventure.

I wished I could thank him. I wished I could apologise for using his story for my own glory. I wished, merely, that I could speak to him and really know the man who had fought so hard in terrible circumstances for freedom.

When this was over, I never wanted to be centre stage again. That belonged to the people whose story I was telling. I was merely a conduit and quite happy in that capacity.

As I departed the restaurant, heading for the car, I silently wished Yeo-Thomas goodbye. Whether he could hear me or not, it felt only fitting to wish a fond farewell and an honest thank you to the man who had changed my life forever in the most unexpected of fashions.