The Royal Air Force base, located just seven miles west of Dover, had played a vital role during the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940, aiding in the emergency airlift of soldiers from the battlefield. It continued to be a crucial operations base until the 91st Squadron abandoned the site for Westhampnett. Now, it served solely as a refueling station for aircraft traveling long distances over France.
Special Agent Stanfield had landed in England two months earlier, after a risky transatlantic crossing. German submarines prowled the waters like steel sharks, ready to torpedo any prey that crossed in front of their periscopes.
From the moment Robert set foot on British soil, he had worked hard to master the French language, just one part of the intensive sixty-day training regime for his mission. Over those long weeks, his superiors thoroughly tested his aptitude. He memorized the drop zone’s geography and topography, the names of surrounding villages, and colloquial expressions he could use to charm the locals. Robert also committed key players to memory, keeping careful tabs on who could be trusted and who might be playing both sides.
The previous evening, around dusk, an officer had knocked on the young agent’s door. Robert had packed up his gear, including fake ID, transit papers, revolver, and a map of the Montauban area.
The three-hour flight would push the Lysander to the limits of its radius of action, all six hundred miles, as planned, provided the weather didn’t change along the way.
Robert’s mission was not to wage war, but rather to prepare for it. The Allied Forces were keeping their disembarkation plans shrouded in absolute secrecy. Once Allied troops had advanced into the heart of the French theater, one key condition for victory would be to supply the supporting forces with weapons and munitions. For months, the English had been airdropping equipment, which the French Resistance then had to stealthily recover and hide.
Stanfield was assigned to serve as liaison officer. His mission was to make contact with a local Resistance leader and acquire crucial intel in order to map out the warehouse locations. The mission would run for one month, at which point a second Lysander would come and take Robert back to England.
Robert’s fate had been sealed one evening at a Washington, DC, gala dinner in the winter of 1943. His parents had come to mingle with other wealthy American families being solicited for contributions to the war effort. While the Stanfields were eager to maintain appearances, at that point their riches had all but disappeared. Robert’s father, who was afflicted with an all-consuming gambling addiction, had squandered the entire family fortune. Yet the proud family carried on their lavish lifestyle, living far beyond their means and racking up crippling debts that dug them deeper into financial ruin. Robert was twenty-eight years old at the time. He was well aware of the consequences of his father’s recklessness, which strained their relationship to a breaking point. Robert harbored dreams of saving the family, restoring the Stanfields to their former glory and wealth.
That night, as Robert was scanning the faces of the guests around the table, he noticed an understated man, slight of frame, with a gaunt face and receding hairline. It was Edward Wood, British ambassador and the Earl of Halifax, who found himself sidelined by Churchill and Roosevelt’s habit of direct communication. Wood hadn’t stopped staring at Robert throughout the entire meal, including during the inaugural address. Everything that night was exquisite: the grand hall, the gleaming china, the impeccably dressed women, the heaping platters of delicacies, the magnificent address. Yet Wood was transfixed by Robert, because his own son had been about the same age when he’d died in the war one year earlier. Eventually, the two began speaking at their table in hushed tones about the war effort.
“I’m not talking about giving money,” Robert whispered to the older man. “I’m talking about devoting myself to the cause.”
“Then enlist. Isn’t that what people your age do?” Wood asked.
“Not in families like mine, not with my parents. I managed to avoid the draft due to some obscure, made-up medical issue. My father’s doing, I’ve no doubt.”
“Assuming that’s true, that he could exert such influence, you shouldn’t hold it against him. I’m sure your father simply acted out of fear of losing his son. Quite a burden to bear, watching one’s children go away to war.”
“And what of the child’s burden? Being branded a coward. Is that somehow better?”
“Ah, to be young again. Such intensity, such idealism. It is truly commendable. But do you have any notion of what war is, my boy? I railed against the march of war with every fiber of my being. I even went to Hitler personally in hopes of averting the conflict.”
“You met Hitler? The man himself?”