The Mysterious Broadcast That Changed Everything

On July 18, 1943, as the evening news concluded, the BBC’s French service transmitted a cryptic message to overseas listeners: “The Trojan War will not take place.” To most, it was an incomprehensible fragment—but for two men listening intently, it carried life-altering significance.

This was no ordinary broadcast. The BBC regularly sent hundreds of “personal messages” to occupied France, encrypted communications for Resistance operatives coordinating sabotage missions. But this particular phrase held unique weight. For British operative Harry Rée, hiding in the Jura Mountains, it signaled the end of a near-fatal week. For French industrialist Rodolphe Peugeot, scion of the famed automobile dynasty, it marked the beginning of his dangerous collaboration with the Allies. Together, they would orchestrate one of WWII’s most audacious industrial sabotage operations.

From Pacifist to Saboteur: The Unlikely Hero

Harry Rée defied every stereotype of a wartime operative. A Cambridge-educated conscientious objector, he had signed the Peace Pledge in 1939 and joined the National Fire Service, preferring to fight flames rather than Nazis. But the atrocities of the Third Reich—particularly its persecution of Jews (Rée’s father was half-Jewish)—transformed his convictions. “The concentration camps and the treatment of the Jews convinced me,” he later wrote. “Because the Nazis were racist, I had to do everything to oppose them.”

His journey to becoming Britain’s most effective saboteur was improbable. During training in the Scottish Highlands, instructors found him alarmingly inept—a poor marksman, forgetful during transmissions, and prone to dozing during lessons. One instructor’s damning assessment: “Very disappointing.” Yet Rée possessed an intangible quality that Special Operations Executive (SOE) chief Colin Gubbins valued above technical skill—an extraordinary ability to inspire ordinary people to extraordinary acts of resistance.

The Prize: Peugeot’s War Machine

The industrial town of Sochaux, home to Peugeot’s sprawling factories, represented a crown jewel for the Nazi war effort. Occupying forces had converted the advanced automobile plants to manufacture tank components, aircraft engines, and—most alarmingly—parts for Hitler’s terrifying V-1 “doodlebug” missiles. By 1943, the factory fell under the control of Ferdinand Porsche, creator of the Volkswagen Beetle and ardent SS supporter, who intensified production for the German military.

The Peugeot family had initially attempted subtle resistance—sabotaging production quality while maintaining operations to protect workers. But when British bombers devastated Sochaux’s residential areas during a botched raid on July 15, 1943 (killing 125 civilians while barely scratching the factory), Rée saw an opportunity. He contacted Rodolphe Peugeot with a radical proposition: collaborate on precision sabotage to spare further civilian casualties.

A Faustian Bargain

Their first meeting crackled with tension. Peugeot, suspecting a Gestapo trap, demanded proof—hence the cryptic BBC message. When it aired as promised, the industrialist faced an agonizing choice: allow continued Allied bombing or help destroy his own family’s legacy. Rée’s argument proved irresistible: “Either way, the factory will be destroyed. If we do it, there’ll be less damage, and we can place bombs where they’ll cause maximum disruption to production with minimum harm to the infrastructure.”

Peugeot provided detailed factory blueprints and recruited trusted workers, including Pierre Lucas, the chief electrician. For months, Rée’s team prepared—smuggling in plastic explosives disguised as lunch pails, studying machine vulnerabilities, and waiting for the perfect moment. That moment came on November 5, 1943—Guy Fawkes Night, Britain’s traditional celebration of explosive rebellion.

Operation “Caesar” Unleashed

The sabotage unfolded with cinematic precision. Disguised as workers, the team placed “limpet” mines on transformers, turbine compressors, and the factory’s crown jewel—an 8,000-horsepower centrifugal compressor. One operative squeezed through narrow ducts to plant his charge, emerging just before synchronized detonations lit the night sky. The resulting inferno destroyed irreplaceable machinery while miraculously sparing most structures. Subsequent attacks crippled replacement equipment before it could be installed.

German investigators, initially suspecting the Peugeot family, soon focused on “a tall Englishman named Henry.” Rée narrowly escaped capture in a dramatic shootout with an SS officer—taking a bullet before swimming to safety across a rain-swollen river. Evacuated to Switzerland, he continued directing operations from his hospital bed.

The Ripple Effects of Resistance

The Sochaux sabotage achieved more than halted production. It validated Gubbins’ belief in precision sabotage over area bombing—a philosophy that would shape D-Day preparations. Most remarkably, it pioneered what trainer George Rheam called “blackmail sabotage”—co-opting industrialists into targeted destruction to avoid worse alternatives. Winston Churchill himself recognized its brilliance: one factory owner with insider knowledge proved more effective than an entire bomber squadron.

For Rée, the operation marked a profound personal journey from pacifism to becoming one of Britain’s most decorated agents. His story—like that coded BBC broadcast—reminds us that history’s most pivotal moments often hinge on ordinary individuals making extraordinary choices in the shadows. The Trojan War did not come to Sochaux—because one man ensured its battles were fought on his own terms.