Into the Fire

by Into the Fire (retail) (epub)

  Into the Fire

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Postscript

  Copyright

  Into the Fire

  Alexander Fullerton

  To Priscilla – again – with love

  1

  As the train slowed for some halt, she was remembering her farewell interview with Maurice Buckmaster in his flat in Portman Square, earlier in the day; how in her mind when he’d set the ball rolling with a cheerful ‘Ready for the off, are you, Rosie?’ had been the thought that it was only when they gave you the cyanide pill you could really say you were ‘off’.

  She hadn’t got it yet. Marilyn Stuart – blonde, smartly uniformed as a 2nd Officer in the W.R.N.S. – would be handing it over to her later on. Together with a few other items, and after searching for and confiscating any giveaways such as an English railway ticket or ten-bob note, English cigarettes or book of matches – items which, if you had the bad luck to be searched and they came to light, could be enough to get you shot or hanged. After, as likely as not, some period of incarceration and torture. Images of which sprang all too readily to mind at the thought of the little pill which had to be reposing now in that locked briefcase… She’d also have some French pocket money for her – as well as a package containing a very much larger sum – and identity papers and a ration card in the name of Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre; and French cigarettes and matches, probably also a few extra props of the kind Marilyn specialized in producing at such times: a love letter for instance, or a scrap of one, some crumpled tram or Metro tickets. She’d already checked that Rosie’s clothes bore only French labels and laundry marks.

  Last time – her first mission, last September – September ’42, that was, two days after her twenty-fourth birthday – she’d left from Tempsford in a Whitley of the R.A.F.’s Special Duties squadron and landed by parachute near Cahors, en route to join the network in Toulouse. At Tempsford there was an S.O.E. hut in which all such final checks were made, and she could remember all too clearly how she’d felt standing there with the suicide pill in its little postage-stamp-sized packet in the palm of her hand, asking herself in a suddenly overwhelming conviction of personal inadequacy as well as sickening fright, Am I strong enough for this? Fit for it? Am I, Johnny?

  But would he have been? Johnny – who’d been her husband and was dead – and had cheated on her – whose image in her thoughts of him was no longer of his dark good looks and strong, muscled body, only of a Spitfire burning, falling, trailing smoke, exploding into the blue heave of the Channel – how about his powers of self-control? Or might there be no connection between inner moral strength and the kind attributed to heroes?

  Exeter, this was. She’d pulled back the edge of the window blind to peep out, just as a whistle blew and the train gasped and thumped into motion. While they’d been stopped the catch on the compartment’s door had been tried several times, but it was locked, she and Marilyn isolated in their own secret, tight-nerved world. Avoiding strangers’ questions, however innocent or well-meaning, or eyes that might be less innocent, sharp enough to retain a visual memory; and of course to allow for exchanges of conversation, last-minute queries or reminders, reassurances either way. All of which according to the rules should have been in French, at this stage – getting her back into the habit of it. The train was rolling again now, anyway, accelerating back into its former pounding rhythm and in a long haul round to the left. Turning south, she realized, visualizing the coastline where it curved down towards Torquay: and recalling again those moments of panic at Tempsford, thankful that having been subjected to her baptism of fire, seven months of it – hectic months at that, culminating in the réseau – network – being penetrated by Gestapo agents so that it had had to be closed down – she’d got out through Spain and Portugal three months ago, but out of Toulouse initially only by the skin of her back teeth. Having weathered that, she had fewer self-doubts than she’d had that night at Tempsford.

  Still scared stiff, of course. As was natural, and – as she now knew – didn’t have to be hidden from Marilyn; hadn’t, for that matter, had to be denied in Buckmaster’s flat this morning. Anyone who was not scared at such a time would have to be so bone-headed that she’d be useless. You did your best not to advertise it, that was all. Not to shake, or visibly sweat.

  It was Colonel Buckmaster’s custom to invite agents to what was known as the ‘briefing flat’ for a final chat before their departure for the field. ‘Buck’ had had the command of ‘F’ Section of S.O.E. – Special Operations Executive – since the autumn of ’41. A tall man, spare, slightly stoop-shouldered, with a humorous look about him and a great deal of charm. After Eton he’d lived and worked in France for a number of years – first as a tutor, then as a reporter on the newspaper Le Matin, finally as assistant manager of the Ford Motor Company, with its headquarters in Paris. Prior to transferring to S.O.E. he’d been serving as Intelligence Officer of the 50th Division.

  * * *

  In Portman Square this morning – it was an easy stroll from ‘F’ Section’s headquarters at 62-64 Baker Street – he’d had Rosie’s file on his knee, but had opened it only after his butler – Park, who pre-war had been a bank messenger in Paris – had brought coffee and biscuits, and withdrawn. Marilyn Stuart had been with them too: from here they’d be going straight to Paddington.

  ‘I see we’re calling you “Angel”, this time. Whereas actually you’re Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre. War widow. Visiting your former mother-in-law near Brest – leaving the child with her. Yes, that’s good… Golly, what a lot of money. Million and a quarter – strewth… Of course, the quarter-million’s for – what’s her name—’

  ‘Jacqueline Clermont, alias “La Minette”.’ She added, ‘It’s a bulky package, all those francs. I’m hoping it’ll cram in with the transceiver.’

  He’d stared at her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Because if they found one or other they might as well find both. Would, no doubt. But—’ reaching to touch wood, he shook his head. ‘Please God…’ He glanced at Marilyn: ‘She’s taking the new Mark III, did you say?’

  A Mark III transmitter/receiver was the latest to become available, and until now it had only been available to field agents of S.I.S. Its provision to Rosie for this mission was obviously not unconnected with the fact that she’d be doing some work for them, as well as her own job.

  The essential difference being that S.I.S. were intelligence gatherers, and S.O.E. agents were not. This trip, she would be.

  ‘Now. This private brief of yours, Rosie. Colonel – what’s his name…’ Flipping a page over, nodding. ‘Colonel Walther. The Clermont woman being his mistress, we’re told.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But whether that means she hasn’t placed her final bet – do we have a view on that?’

  ‘I’ll have to form one on the spot. The impression meanwhile – down the road – is that she’s a good-time girl with a sharp commercial instinct. Likes men, too.’

  ‘Including Germans, evidently.’ He’d sighed. ‘I can’t say I like it much.’

  ‘No. Well…’

  ‘What I was leading to, though – you’re expected to keep the whole thing to yourself, I gather. Not letting even César in on it.’

  César was to be her boss, organizer of
the new réseau that was to be built up now in Rouen. If all had gone as planned he’d be setting up shop in Rouen at about this time, taking under his wing – initially – a courier-radio operator codenamed Romeo, sole survivor of the previously blown réseau.

  Buckmaster suggested, ‘If you did find you needed help, César would be your man. Especially since at this stage Romeo’s a doubtful quantity. Nothing conclusive about it, but – well, you’ve got to face this, Rosie – if he’s a traitor, your cover’ll be blown the minute you contact him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She’d talked this out with the other people. And knew that Buckmaster needed to have her in there anyway because Romeo had been told to stay off the air – for obvious reasons – and until she arrived with her own transmitter there’d be no line of communication at all, to or from César. You had to take some risks.

  ‘César, thank God, is gilt-edged. A rock of a man. And as experienced as anyone we’ve got. Give him my personal regards, will you, when you see him?’ She’d nodded. Buckmaster added, ‘I’m stressing his reliability because you may well find you need his help – with your private brief, I mean. They want you to play it solo—’ he’d jerked his head, pointing it vaguely in the direction of St James’, and referring to S.I.S. – ‘and understandably, quite properly, I suppose – but they know as well as you and I do, Rosie, that that whole area is a minefield now. Our doubts of Romeo, and those other arrests – and the para-drop leak… Incidentally, why have S.I.S. asked us to do this job for them, do you imagine?’

  ‘Because a search for rocket-launching sites rather overlaps with our prospecting for arms-dropping ones. There’s also the usefulness of our links with Maquis and local French réseaux. It does seem to be up our street, or so I’d have thought.’

  ‘That end of it – yes, I agree. But the top end – the apex, if one could so call it – Colonel Walther and his little – er – hairdresser… He shook his head. ‘Rosie, I’m telling you, and I’m going to tell them, that these are my personal orders to you. One, unless “La Minette” is prepared to cooperate, and you’re certain she can be used safely – don’t push it. Back off, look for answers in the deep field. Coincide rather better with your normal S.O.E. activities anyway, wouldn’t it? Two, don’t tell Romeo a damn thing – don’t let him guess you have any sideline. And three, if you find yourself in trouble you’d be well advised to take César into your confidence. All the more so because it is a matter of such huge importance – as well as urgency. Effectively, in fact, I’ll be offering them César as a backup – to be brought in only on your say-so, of course. All right?’

  * * *

  The train had stopped again; there was shunting in progress. Marilyn said, ‘Newton Abbot. Our part gets detached here for the Paignton and Kingswear line.’

  ‘Not far, then.’

  ‘No.’ A smile. ‘Not far.’

  Rosie thought, Like going back to school. Mummy saying ‘Be a brave girl, now…’

  Thinking again then about this morning’s talk with Maurice Buckmaster, and the fact that some of his observations might have seemed contradictory. On the one hand, ‘It’s vital and urgent’, and on the other, ‘If the going’s hard, lay off.’ What he’d really been saying, she guessed, was that he’d had to agree to S.O.E. taking on this job – against his own judgement, therefore as likely as not under pressure from some higher level – and that he fully understood how important the task was, but was deeply concerned that Rosie might find herself out of her depth.

  He tried to take care of his own, that was the thing. He liked to get his agents back: and all three of them this morning had been well aware that he sometimes did not.

  Which took one’s mind back to the cyanide pill: and to the final stages of S.O.E. agents’ training, techniques of resistance to interrogation and torture. The basic aim, as taught on the course, was to hold out for forty-eight hours, the period regarded as minimal but adequate for other members of the réseau to go to ground.

  Could be the longest forty-eight hours of one’s life, she imagined. Especially as one knew that once they decided you’d be of no further use to them – either that you weren’t going to talk or that you had no more to tell them – their standard practice was to send you to the concentration camp at Ravensbruck. Or Dachau, or in some cases Buchenvald, but more usually to the women’s camp at Ravensbruck. The French called it L’Enfer des Femmes.

  The train was rolling again, on the branch line now. End of the line, where they’d disembark, would be Kingswear, the terminus for Dartmouth, on this side of the Dart estuary. There’d be a boat of some kind to meet them and take them out to an old paddle-steamer, the Westward Ho!, which was moored there as a depot-ship for the 15th Motor Gunboat Flotilla.

  She met Marilyn’s thoughtful gaze, and smiled. ‘Please God it’ll be calm tonight.’

  ‘Not a good sailor?’

  ‘Lousy!’

  Marilyn held up a hand with two fingers crossed: slender fingers with nails lacquered blush-pink. Totally unlike Rosie’s, which were not only unpainted but rather short: not exactly stubby, but – well, it was the physical difference between the two of them in more general terms as well, Marilyn being taller, slimmer – and blonde, almost ash-blonde, in contrast to Rosie’s middling brown, naturally wavy locks…

  A rough crossing was the very last thing she wanted, tonight: even when it was calm, the sea was anything but her natural habitat, and a motor gunboat did sound like a very small craft in which to cross to Brittany.

  It would be a fast trip, she’d been told. A dash of something over a hundred miles, in this moonless period. They only made the crossing when there was no moon.

  She glanced up at Marilyn. ‘Quoi?’

  Marilyn repeated – in French – ‘Your name?’

  She swallowed: and became the French war widow…

  ‘Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘September the tenth, 1918.’

  ‘Maiden name?’

  ‘Chrestien.’

  ‘Husband’s name?’

  ‘Henri. Lieutenant Henri Lefèvre. He was killed in 1940.’

  ‘Why are you on this train?’

  ‘I’ve left my daughter with her grandmother – on the farm. Near St Saveur. I’m going to Paris about a job – I need money, for the child and—’

  She’d let her desperation show for a moment, but Marilyn cut in again: ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Selling perfume. From the parfumeries at Grasse – well, a merchant in Paris who’s a sort of cousin—’

  ‘Your child’s name and age?’

  ‘Juliette. She’s three and a half. I hope to God the old woman will be kind to her. But to hold down any job that pays enough for us to live—’

  ‘No need to scream at me. We have to know who’s who, that’s all. Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil sodding Hitler…’

  Relaxing. For about two minutes she’d had no doubt at all that she was Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, a war widow. Well, she was – a war widow – and might easily have had a child; had no difficulty at all in imagining how she’d feel about it if she had.

  * * *

  The train’s rhythm was slowing again.

  ‘Kingswear coming up, Rosie.’

  Breaking out of thoughts: not idle ones, but projections to Rouen where she’d be making contact with César and with the one who was under suspicion – Romeo. He was a Mauritian, Colonel B. had told her. There were several Mauritians working for S.O.E.; it was one partial solution to the problem of finding enough suitable recruits who were completely at home in the language. The rendezvous with César would be at a certain café where he’d be sitting with two cups on his table, both spoons in one saucer. After they’d met and agreed whatever arrangements were necessary, it would be up to him to arrange her introduction to Romeo; but she did have a way of getting in touch with Romeo directly – for better or for worse – if for instance César had been arrested before she got
there. The number she had to call initially wasn’t his – Romeo’s – but an intermediary’s, so if anything disastrous had happened it would serve as a cut-out.

  Touch wood. There was a lot to remember. You needed a good memory almost as much as you needed fluency in French.

  She lifted her suitcase down from the rack. Marilyn’s only burden was a briefcase with the money, radio and other items in it. The suitcase was as scuffed and battered as you’d expect a penniless young French widow to be lugging around with her – as often as not on a bicycle, even over quite long distances.

  Sea air: there was a light breeze from the southwest. Not enough of it to make the sea rough, she hoped. Quite a few other people – mostly naval, but a handful of civilians too – were getting out; a railway official shouted, ‘Ferry leaves in five minutes! Ferry for Dartmouth town, five minutes!

  ‘We won’t need that…’

  ‘Second Officer Stuart?’

  A stocky lad – nineteen or twenty, no more – with the single wavy stripe of an R.N.V.R. sub-lieutenant on each sleeve: saluting her, smiling. Marilyn in her Wren hat managing to look officer-like as well as ultra-feminine. The sub-lieutenant was smiling at Rosie, though: ‘I’m Nick Ball, of M.G.B. 600. You must be our passenger. I’ve a boat here – motorboat—’

  ‘I’m coming too.’ Marilyn looked steely, as if she was expecting argument. ‘I take it I can be landed again before the train leaves?’

  ‘Of course. All fixed. This way… Oh, sorry, let me—’

  ‘How kind.’

  He took the scruffy case from her and went ahead of them through the ticket inspector’s barrier, waited while Rosie gave up her railway warrant and Marilyn showed hers. ‘I’m going back on this train. How long have I got?’

  ‘Oh—’ checking the time on a pocket-watch: ‘Forty-five minutes, miss. Thereabouts…’

  They followed the young officer out of the station and down to a jetty near the slipway. The ferry was just berthing, its wires scattering water like rain as they quivered taut, and a motorboat nearby – Ball led them to it – had three sailors in it who watched their approach. A leading seaman at the helm, a stoker at the engine and another sailor at the bow with a line looped through one of the iron rings. Ball passed the suitcase down, and the three of them embarked. Another, larger boat was filling up with naval people further along the jetty.