“I know. But what is your real name?”
“Tsk-tsk.” He held a finger up to Didi’s mouth. “We don’t want these lips to sink any ships.”
She took a step back. “I shall call you Archie, then.”
He didn’t appear to hear her, so intent was he on staring at the spot where his finger had just been.
She’d never kissed a man before, but for whatever reason, she didn’t feel shy when Archie leaned in. His lips touched hers for just a second before he pulled away. “I couldn’t help myself,” he said softly. His eyes held an inquisitive look as he waited for her reaction.
She stepped closer and reached up to entangle her fingers in his hair.
They kissed again, longer this time, until a loud voice said, “What do we have here?”
Didi broke from Archie’s embrace to see Yvonne standing next to them, her hair darkened with sweat from dancing.
“We were just getting to know each other a little better,” Archie stated casually, his hand back on the wall.
“Is that so?” Yvonne’s voice was full of amusement as she turned to her roommate. “I never knew you had it in you.”
“She was just indulging me in one last kiss before I come face to face with Hitler,” Archie said, shooting Didi a conspiring grin.
Yvonne grabbed Didi’s arm. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back before curfew.”
“Bye, D.M. it was nice meeting you. Keep your eyes out for that message!” Archie called at their retreating backs. Didi wanted to run back to him and demand his real name, or at least ask for more than the promise of a personal dispatch that would never be aired, but she knew that both were impossible. She settled for giving him a sad little wave before Yvonne pulled her out of the pub.
“Who’s D.M?” Yvonne asked once they were outside, the cool night air a relief after the humid bar. “And who was that guy, anyway?”
Archie—obviously not wanting to let on that Didi had told him her real name—had shortened Didi Mary to D.M. “I don’t know who he was,” she replied honestly. But I hope to meet him again, someday. She took one last peek at the Spread-Eagle Pub before they turned the corner and headed back toward Fawley Court.
Chapter 8
Odette
Odette’s training took place at a country house near Guilford called Wanborough Manor, a grandiose, Elizabethan-style house mansion on a hilly ridge known as ‘the Hog’s Back.’
Odette was greeted at the door by a beanpole of a man with dark hair and a wiry moustache, who introduced himself as Major Roger de Wesselow. He led her into the oak-paneled ballroom, where lemonade and sandwiches were being served.
She sat on a threadbare loveseat and took a bite of sandwich before casting her eyes around the room. The black-out curtains had been pulled aside to let the daylight in, the sun casting dusty rectangles onto the brick-red carpet.
“Hallo,” a bright voice called. Odette looked up to see a tall woman extending her hand. “Name’s… er, I suppose you’re supposed to call me Claudine.” She spoke with a thick Irish accent and appeared to be in her late 30s or early 40s. “That’s Adele,” she gestured to a dark-haired woman with gray streaks in her hair sitting in a nearby chair. “She escaped from France in the nick of time, before Hitler’s jackboot squashed every hope of getting out of there.”
The woman named Adele waved at Odette, who couldn’t help noticing how shrewd her blue eyes were.
“And now here we are, trying to get back in,” Claudine chuckled.
“Pardon?” Odette asked.
“That’s what we’re here for, ain’t it? So the SOE can send us back to France to stir up trouble?”
“All right now, ladies.” Major de Wesselow held up his hands. “It’s time to get down to business.” He began pacing across the floor in front of the fireplace, and Odette marveled how his spindly little legs could manage to hold up the rest of his body. “From now on, I only want to hear French out of you. No English is allowed—if you wake up screaming from a nightmare, I want to hear only French curses.”
“Merde,” Claudine helpfully provided.
“Exactement,” Major de Wesselow said, pointing at her. He resumed his pacing and began to ramble in poorly accented French. “You happen to be the first women’s training group. From here on out, your class will be known as 27-OB-6. There will also be several male classes here. You will refer to all of your instructors by their proper military titles and afford them their due respect. They are here to challenge you, work you out to the limits of your prowess, and then some. You will be watched throughout your month-long stay, and then a report will be made to help the SOE decide how best to employ you going forward.” He paused as Miss Atkins and another woman, a fragile, doll-like creature with porcelain skin, entered the room.
“Forgive our lateness,” Miss Atkins stated. “This is Jacqueline Nearne.”
“Code-name?” Major de Wesselow barked.
“Jacqueline,” Miss Atkins’ companion unexpectedly replied, meeting the major’s steely eyes. Odette was impressed that the young woman could be so bold.
A muscle played out in de Wesselow’s cheek as he waved Jacqueline toward an empty chair so he could continue his lecture.
Miss Atkins and Major Buckmaster hosted a reception that night in the ballroom. Most of the male recruits were hulking fellows with bulging muscles, and looked as though they could single-handedly take out a squadron of Nazis. This contrasted greatly with Odette’s slender female classmates, especially the frail Jacqueline. There must have been another reason for hiring women like us, she mused, but she wasn’t sure how to tactfully query the rationale of Buckmaster and Miss Atkins at the dinner table.
“Everyone’s so pretty here,” Odette stated instead. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Of course they are,” Miss Atkins replied. “Pretty women can elicit information from any man, not to mention their looks can be a layer of protection should the Gestapo get ahold of them.” She said something else under her breath that Odette couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like, “hopefully.”
Odette didn’t necessarily see the logic, but maybe in time, all that physical endurance de Wesselow claimed they’d experience would carve them into brawny mercenaries like their male counterparts.
Although the alcohol was flowing freely, the atmosphere in the room was guarded. Odette didn’t drink more than a glass of sherry; she was afraid this was one of Buckmaster’s tests to see if their tongues became looser after consuming liquor. The other girls, except for Claudine, seemed as reluctant as Odette to talk about themselves.
As Odette sat, pretending to listen intently to the piano music, she saw a few men look toward Jacqueline with an admiring glance. One or two even looked Odette’s way—she had taken off her wedding ring since her alter ego Céline wasn’t married—but none of them approached any of the women. The males spent their time comparing boxing scars and football injuries in boisterous voices while chugging beer. Apparently they have no qualms about drinking in front of Buckmaster, Odette decided.
Odette was awoken the next morning by a loud knocking on her door. An older woman entered and set a cup of tea down on the nightstand. “If you please ma’am, your presence is required on the tennis court.”
Odette raised herself sleepily. “The tennis court? What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. You have half an hour to get ready. May I suggest shorts and gym shoes?
Odette threw the covers back with a sigh.
After a few minutes of batting a ball back and forth with a handsome man in a white sweater, while a bespectacled man with a clipboard looked on, Odette was sweaty and fully aware of muscles she’d previously forgotten about.
The Greek Adonis, who was quickly turning into Odette’s personal torturer, finally paused his relentless racket swinging. “It’s time for a breather.” He wiped his face with a towel as he walked toward her. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Céline?”
Odette gulped water from a
bottle.
“Céline?”
She realized he was talking to her. “Yes?”
“Suppose a burly SS man came for you. What would you do?”
She was too distracted by her aching muscles to recall what SS meant. “How big did you say?”
“Over two meters.”
She considered the problem. “I would probably run away in the opposite direction as fast as I could.”
“Judging from your performance just now, I don’t think that would be overly fast. What if he caught up to you?”
“I would pinch him.”
“Pinch him?” The Adonis’s face broke out into a wide grin. “Anything else?”
“Pull his hair?”
The grin, if possible, grew even more extensive. “Well, I do have to say that I’ve never heard that before, though if they insist on letting women into the F Section, I might hear it more.” He set his water bottle down. “I’m going to teach you a better way to disable a would-be aggressor than pinch him and pull his hair. The average time an agent survives in France is three months. My job is to extend that.”
Odette, unsure how to reply, held up her water bottle in mock salute.
The recruits were treated to a full English breakfast, including pickled herring—known to the Brits as “kippers”—eggs, toast, and marmalade. Afterward they were each given a vest with a number on the front and back.
“What’s this?” Odette inquired, sniffing the foul-smelling vest. It had obviously been used before.
“Probably more P.T.,” Claudine answered.
Odette apparently wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what she meant, as Jacqueline asked, “What is P.T.?”
“Physical training,” Claudine said loftily as she headed outside.
They were taken on an arduous run along the grounds of the mansion. Odette thought she’d keel over as she passed the entrance gate guarded by armed Field Security police.
“Do you want to trade places?” she breathlessly called to one of them who had just come off duty.
He held up his rifle. “You wouldn’t be able to handle this.”
“Not yet, but maybe next week.” Odette suddenly got a second wind, and managed to even pass Jacqueline before the run was finished.
The training got progressively harder as the week went on. Instead of what Odette would have now considered a leisurely morning tennis game, the women, along with the men, were forced to go on ten-mile runs through the surrounding woods fueled by nothing but a cup of tea.
Adele was the strongest, her short but powerful legs carrying her faster than the other women. Odette was the second fastest and made it her goal to pass the slowest man before her training finished. When she changed into her pajamas, she noticed how shapely her calves had become. While somewhat pleased and proud of herself, she found it ironic that, when they went to France, they were supposed to blend in as ordinary civilians. Yet here they were, getting their muscles ready as if they were going to swim across the Channel to get there.
After lunch, the exhausted women trainees were taken into the sitting room, where the afternoon’s instruction consisted of coding messages, identifying the different German uniforms, and ways of escaping if they were caught by the enemy.
“When are we going to learn how to shoot?” Claudine asked their instructor one day.
“Shoot?” He looked taken aback, as if he’d never heard the likes of women agents aiming a gun. He rubbed at his chin. “I’m not sure that’s strictly necessary.”
“You can’t possibly want us to supply guns to rebels when we don’t even know how to use them, can you?” Claudine demanded.
He waved his hand. “I’ll look into it.”
The most relevant lesson thus far, in Odette’s opinion, had been on how France had changed under Nazi rule. They had to learn about rationing and which bread and meat tickets were available to use on certain days. They were also taught the distinctions between the German secret police, the Schutzstaffel, or SS, and the Vichy Gendarmerie. Jacqueline had nodded her head throughout that particular lecture, having obviously been in France far more recently than any of the other women.
If learning about life in the Occupied Zone was the most meaningful lesson, Odette’s least favorite was Morse Code. The dots and dashes just wouldn’t stay in her head.
“What’s the Morse sign for L?” her instructor asked.
Odette thought for a moment. “Dot-dash dash-dot.”
“Wrong!” he shouted, spit flying out of his mouth.
She narrowed her eyes. “No, that’s it, I’m sure of it.”
“Morse code is a matter of fact, not opinion, and I know the facts better than you. You are wrong, and lives depend on you knowing the right code.”
“But I’m not going to be a coder or an operator; I’ll never need to use Morse.”
He threw up his hands, muttering under his breath about how it had been a dangerous decision to send women into the field. He turned to Jacqueline. “Do you know the answer?”
She shook her head numbly.
His arrogant manner had irked Odette and she racked her brain. “L is dot-dash-dot dot!” she shouted.
“Finally.” He walked over to the chalkboard and erased it, dust flying everywhere. “Now, let’s discuss the best method of disposing a parachute other than chopping it up into panties for your girlfriends.” He glanced over at Odette. “Er, that is to say pajamas for your boyfriends.”
Miss Atkins popped in from London that night to check on how the training was going. She’d obviously heard about the Morse faux pas that afternoon, as, after greeting her girls, she said casually to Jacqueline, “I’m told your sister Didi has quite the mind for Morse.”
Jacqueline dropped her fork. “Is that so?”
Odette glanced from Jacqueline’s stricken face to Miss Atkins’ impassive one.
“You have to promise me you won’t send Didi to France,” Jacqueline begged.
“Your sister would make a fine agent.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Jacqueline insisted. “I know my sister better than anyone. She’s too young and impetuous.” She touched the sleeve of Miss Atkin’s uniform. “Please. I told her she has to be 25 to go to France. I hoped by then this infernal war would be over. If you don’t reinforce that idea, she will beg you every day to go into the field.”
Miss Atkins nodded. “Just concentrate on your training. I’ll make sure your sister never gets to France.”
Chapter 9
Mathilde
Interallié expanded more quickly than even Armand had imagined. Just as he had predicted, each new recruit was the source of many more, and the network grew by leaps and bounds. Every time they added a contact, Armand would connect him or her to the other branches until the map of France in the living room looked like a spiderweb stretching across the Occupied Zone. Next to his map, Armand had posted a sheet he’d painted with a quote from Charles De Gaulle’s rousing speech after the Nazis had invaded Paris: ‘Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance must not, and shall not die!’
Naturally, with so many different agents in various parts of the country—both Occupied and Free France—communication became one of Interallié’s largest problems. By the time the intelligence was obtained from the letterboxes, passed to other agents to be carried over the demarcation line to Spain, and finally on to London, it was often too late for the Allies to act upon it.
The final nail in the coffin was when Uncle Marco, through his contacts in the railway, found out the exact route for Hermann Göring’s Paris-bound train. Armand sent the report as soon as Mathilde typed it out. Their courier, known as Rapidé, followed his usual itinerary by boarding a train to Marseille. Once onboard, he would unscrew the lavatory mirror in a previously agreed-upon car, and then plant the message before restoring the mirror to its proper place. After finishing his task, he would disembark and another contact would board the same train in time to retrieve the information.
Thre
e days later, Mathilde and Armand stayed glued to the radio, hoping to hear a break in the program announcing Göring’s untimely death.
At 2 pm the doorbell rang—a long ring followed by two short ones—signaling it was someone in the network.
Mathilde looked up as Armand opened the door to see their courier, Kiki, standing there, his eyes red. “What happened for God’s sake?” Kiki asked in a shrill voice as he stepped into the apartment.
Armand shut the door behind him. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I just watched Göring’s train return, an untouched shiny silver, perfectly intact train, Reichsmarshal Göring laughing as he disembarked, also perfectly intact.”
Armand threw up his hands. “Unbelievable!”
Mathilde walked over and stroked his arm. “Uncle Marco will be so disappointed.”
Armand shook his head. “Something went wrong.” He turned to Kiki. “Please inform Monsieur Marchal that we sent the message through the right channels but something went wrong.” His tone softened. “Tell him that even though Göring arrived unscathed, he wouldn’t have been laughing if he had known that our network observes most of his Luftwaffe activities in France.”
The young man’s face brightened. “So even though he survived today, his future is not looking promising, is it?”
“No.” Armand agreed, reaching out to shake Kiki’s hand. “We have our disappointments, but we don’t exactly make the Boches happy, do we?”
“And that’s why we carry on,” Mathilde said, leading Kiki to the door. “Give my love to Uncle Marco, I’ll be seeing him soon.”
Kiki tipped his hat to both of them before he left.
When Armand received London’s reply over a week later, he read it aloud to Mathilde. “Regarding the Göring train: sorry we got the news too late to use it for the RAF.” He crumpled up the message and tossed it into the fire. “Do you know what a coup killing Hitler’s right-hand man would have been?”
The Spark of Resistance: Women Spies in WWII Page 6
