D-Day: What Was Operation Tarbrush X?

General Eisenhower and the architects of D-Day knew that the Allied landings would only be successful if they had up-to-the-minute information about the German coastal defenses.

They already had French spies working on their behalf—and we’ll get to more of this a little later—but they also needed to smuggle daring agents across to the beaches of Normandy in order to undertake close inspections of the enemy fortifications.

It was not for the faint-hearted. It was highly dangerous, with the certainty of death at the hands of the Gestapo, if captured. So who on earth would volunteer for such work?

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Step forward George Lane, whose undercover mission to Nazi-occupied France proved the most extraordinary of them all.

Lane’s addiction to risk had driven him to join the elite British commandos; it had also led him to volunteer for a perilous undercover mission codenamed Operation Tarbrush X. In the second week of May 1944, he was to smuggle himself into Nazi-occupied France using the cover of darkness to paddle ashore in a black rubber dinghy. His task was to investigate a new type of mine that the Germans were believed to be installing on the Normandy beaches.

Lane had the air of a quintessentially British adventurer, but he was actually Hungarian. His real name was Dyuri Lanyi—and he was a member of the elite X-Troop, a British-led commando unit consisting of foreign nationals whose countries had been overrun by the Nazis.

It was not for the faint-hearted. It was highly dangerous, with the certainty of death at the hands of the Gestapo, if captured.

His undercover mission occurred just a few weeks before D-Day. It got off to a flying start. He and his commando comrade, Roy Wooldridge, crossed the English Channel in a motor torpedo boat and then paddled ashore in a the dinghy. The elements were on their side. It was raining hard and spray was being flung across the beach.

Lane soon found one of the new German mines and took a photograph of it. But as he did so, he was spotted by German guards. Seconds later, they began firing wildly into the driving rain.

Lane and Wooldridge scraped themselves into the sand and waited until the shooting stopped. Then, having had quite enough adventure for one night, they clambered back into their dinghy and prepared to put to sea.

But as dawn broke the sky, they realized they’d been spotted. A German boat was coming after them and they soon found themselves with very little option other than to surrender. They were in serious, grave, danger.

Soon after they landed, a Gestapo officer arrived to interrogate them. “Of course you know we’ll have to shoot you,” he said, “because you are obviously a saboteur and we have very strict orders to shoot all saboteurs and commandos.” He added: “What were you doing?”

Lane refused to answer any questions: his silence led to him to a locked cell for the rest of that day and night. He was always cool under pressure but he got the fright of his life when at dawn his cell door opened and standing there was a doctor in a white gown. “My God, what’s going to happen now?”

He and Wooldridge were blindfolded and the two of them were bundled into a car and driven off at high speed. Lane asked where they were going. He got no answer.

Eventually the German military car came to a halt in a private drive; the doors opened and Lane’s blindfold was removed by one of the sentries. When he looked up, he blinked in disbelief. “What a strange place! Just look at it!” A fortified château stood bolted to the rock; a one-time feudal castle that had been converted into an eighteenth-century pleasure palace. There was little time to admire the view for he and Wooldridge were led inside and locked into two separate rooms.

“After a little while,” said Lane, “a very elegant officer came in and, to my amazement, we shook hands.” He spoke perfect English and gave Lane fresh chicken sandwiches and coffee.

As Lane ate, the officer said: “Do you realize you are about to meet someone very important? I must have your assurance that you’re going to behave with the utmost dignity.”

“I happen to be an officer and a gentleman,” said Lane, “and cannot behave in any other way.” He paused and added: “But who am I going to meet?”

The officer stiffened as he snapped out his reply. “You are going to meet His Excellency Field Marshal Rommel.”

Lane was knocked sideways. Rommel, the Desert Fox, was one of the big names of the Third Reich—the man who Hitler had entrusted with defending Normandy.

“I’m delighted,” he said, “because in the British army we have great admiration for him.” This was true enough: his conduct during the North Africa campaign had earned him a reputation for fair play and chivalry.

Lane was now led towards the galleried library, where his gaze was immediately drawn to the figure seated behind a writing desk. It was Field Marshal Rommel, with his glacial eyes and sharply cleft chin.

“He got up, walked towards me and said, ‘Setzen Sie sich’—’sit yourself down.'” Lane, who spoke perfect German, pretended not to understand: it would give him more time to prepare his answers.

“So you are one of these gangster commandos, are you?” said Rommel.

Lane waited for this to be translated into English before answering. “Please tell His Excellency that I do not understand what he means by gangster commandos. Gangsters are gangsters, but the commandos are the best soldiers in the world.”

Rommel seemed to appreciate the answer for a brief smile swept his face. 

‘Perhaps you are not a gangster,” Rommel said, “but we’ve had some very bad experiences concerning commandos.’

This much was true. Over the previous months, Lane’s fellow commandos in X-Troop had staged a series of hit-and-run raids on the coastline of France.

“Do you realize,” said Rommel, “that you have been taken prisoner under very strange circumstances?”

“I hardly think they were strange,” said Lane. “More unfortunate and unhappy.”  

“You are in a very serious situation.” This bald statement of fact was followed by a piercing stare: Rommel accused him of being a saboteur. Lane considered this for a moment before answering. “If the Field Marshal took me for a saboteur,” he said, “he would not have invited me here.”

Even Rommel was taken aback by the boldness of Lane’s response. “So you think this was an invitation?”

“Naturally, yes, and I take it as a great honour. I’m delighted to be here.”

Lane knew he was halfway to winning the game when Rommel’s face broke into a broad smile. The conversation now developed into something more akin to banter than interrogation.

“How’s my friend Montgomery?”

“Unfortunately I don’t know him,” said Lane, “but he’s preparing the invasion so you’ll see him fairly soon.” He added that he knew little more about Montgomery than what appeared in The Times. As an afterthought, he told Rommel that it was an excellent newspaper. “I think you ought to read it.”

“I do,” said Rommel. “I get it from Lisbon.”

“Well then, you’ll see that he’s preparing the invasion and they’ll be here shortly, fighting you.”

Rommel scoffed. “Well that’ll be the first time that the English do any fighting.”

“I beg your pardon!” Lane spluttered offence. “What happened at El Alamein?”

“That was not the English,” said Rommel. “The English always get other people to do their fighting for them. The Canadians, the Australians, the New Zealanders, the South Africans.” Lane—a Hungarian Jew fighting for the British—found it hard to keep a straight face.

Rommel soon returned to the subject of the Allied landings, asking Lane where he thought the soldiers would land. Lane retorted that he was only a junior officer: he was not privy to the invasion plans. “If it was up to me,” he said, “I would probably go for the shortest crossing.”  

There was a lengthy pause and Lane surmised that the interrogation was coming to an end. “I was enjoying myself tremendously,” he later said, “so I asked the interpreter if, as the Field Marshal had asked me so many questions, I would be permitted to ask a few of my own.”

Rommel scoffed at his impertinence but nodded nonetheless.

“What I’d like to know is this,” said Lane. “France is being occupied by you. How do the French people react to being occupied?” His question led to Rommel telling him how the French “had never been so happy and so well organised.”  


“My goodness!” said Lane. “I’d love to see that!” “You can see it for yourself,” said Rommel, “as you travel through France.” Lane laughed in scorn. “Every time I travel with your boys, they blindfold me and tie my hands behind my back.” At this, Rommel turned to his aide-de-camp and asked if this was strictly necessary.

“Oh yes,” he said. “These are very dangerous people.” 

These ominous words signalled the end of the interview. The meeting was over. Lane was courteous to the end, thanking the Field <arshal for his time. He was hoping for a stay of execution, but as soon as he was outside he was blindfolded once again. He and Wooldridge were then driven off at high speed to Gestapo headquarters in Paris, arriving early that evening. “It frightened the life out of me when I realized where I was,” admitted Lane, who was even more terrified when he heard the screams of prisoners being tortured.

He was hoping for a stay of execution, but as soon as he was outside he was blindfolded once again.

Yet his own Gestapo interrogation was conducted in such dilatory fashion that he couldn’t help wondering if Rommel had “interceded on our behalf and prevented both Roy and I from being executed.” This was indeed the case. Neither man was shot, nor were they tortured. Instead, they were sent to Oflag 9/AH, a prisoner-of-war camp in central Germany.

Lane would later escape, by which time the Allied armies had made their successful landings in Normandy and were busily pushing inland. It was the end to a remarkable story.

I hope you enjoyed this episode of Unknown History. In the next episode, we’ll be meeting Howard Vander Beek, the young man entrusted with leading one of the mighty fleets across the English Channel towards the beaches of D-Day.