The Wolves at the Door: The True Story of America's Greatest Female Spy

by Judith L. Pearson

  The course work continued seven days a week, although the schedules varied and recruits worked at their own pace. The SOE discovered that pushing someone too hard to learn something he feared did not accelerate the process. In fact, it often had the opposite effect. Furthermore, instructors were constantly evaluating the recruits on their physical and mental stamina and their overall attitudes. The instructors met on a weekly basis to assess the recruits. And as they saw a personality emerging, they paired that person with a particular job in France.

  With each passing day, the recruits’ skills improved. Their shots became truer, the lipstick smears deadlier, and the hikes and runs livelier. Even the Morse buzzer tapped more accurately.

  The recruits lived two to a room at Wanborough. Virginia’s roommate, Delphine, said she joined because her husband was in North Africa and she was home by herself. Her brother had been an RAF pilot and was killed a few months ago. That, she said, pretty much pushed her over the edge. Her goal was to be a radio operator.

  Radio operators were the only agents who routinely carried around physical evidence of their job. It was the most dangerous of all positions, but Delphine said she wasn’t worried. She was getting the hang of Morse code and was almost up to receiving the required twelve words a minute. Then came the question Virginia had now explained multiple times. What was she, a Yank, doing in British intelligence?

  Virginia smiled and gave Delphine the same answer she’d given de Guélis and others who had asked. Virginia’s determination and loyalty amazed Delphine. She told Virginia she thought she was very brave and hoped she didn’t wash out, as she was just the kind of person Britain and the rest of Europe really needed. Flattery made Virginia uncomfortable, so she changed the subject and suggested they quiz one another on stripping down their guns and then rebuilding them.

  The two worked for several hours before lights-out was called. But night did not mean that training stopped. One of the most important elements for the agents in the field was their cover story—who they were, what they were doing, where they had come from. They couldn’t walk a single step in enemy territory without a series of lies that could flow out of their mouths as naturally as if they were the truth. And the lies had to be ready, regardless of time of day or circumstances.

  Instructors routinely stormed into recruits’ rooms banging pans and flashing on the lights. Recruits had been told repeatedly they couldn’t jump up and scream, “Bloody hell!” The correct response was “Nom de Dieu!” And once they’d taken the Lord’s name in vain, they had to be able to answer questions.

  There were other true-to-life lessons as well, including “dead drops.” The recruits dropped into nearby towns to leave and pick up messages from one another without being detected. The messages were left in mailboxes, under newspapers on café tables, and among produce at the fruit stand. But again, speed and stealth were of paramount importance.

  Training involved every facet of the recruits’ lives. They were taught that agents should never travel together in the same compartment on a train, and that meetings between them and other agents had to be kept to an absolute minimum. Since they couldn’t write anything down behind enemy lines, they were given extensive memory tests to sharpen their recall. They had to burn any received messages if they could do so without arousing suspicion, or tear them into small pieces and scatter them over a large area. These seemingly insignificant acts, they were told, could very well be the difference between life and death for themselves and others.

  At the end of the three weeks at Wanborough, Virginia felt as though she’d been in training for months. Just after dinner one night, while she and Delphine were washing out a few things in the bowl, a two-man team of instructors knocked on their door. The men told them that they had both passed the preliminary phase of their training and that they would leave first thing in the morning for the second phase.

  They left at 6:00 AM, heading north into Scotland. Virginia and Delphine joined two other women who had also passed the preliminary courses. That’s a pretty stiff attrition rate, Virginia thought. Twelve women had arrived at Wanborough three weeks earlier and now there were only four of them left who arrived at their destination, Arisaig, near Inverness.

  This phase of training was to last four weeks. “Group A,” as it was called, consisted of a variety of country houses, scattered throughout the wild and beautiful Scottish countryside. The activities were much stiffer, dealing with in-depth paramilitary training: more knife work, pistol and submachine-gun training on British and enemy weapons, map reading, and advanced raiding tactics. Some days they worked through the night, executing railway demolitions with plastic explosives and a great deal of cross-country hiking.

  As the second phase of training drew to a close, Virginia, who had always been confident in all that she did, felt certain that she could take down an enemy, male or female, by surprise. She had no doubt that she could ward off an attacker with a variety of judo moves. Only she and Delphine remained of the four who had come to Scotland together.

  Delphine was headed next to Ringway Airfield, near Manchester in central England, for parachute training. But Virginia broke from the normal regimen. She wouldn’t have to drop into France, nor would she have been able to with her wooden leg. She would be entering legally as an American citizen. So she was off to the Group B schools near Beaulieu, an estate very near the English Channel. She and Delphine wished one another Godspeed and went their separate ways.

  I wonder if I’ll ever see her again, Virginia thought as she boarded the train. They’d been warned in the first phase of their training that friendships and romances among agents were dangerous on several levels and therefore strongly discouraged. But living in such close quarters and enduring the demanding training had created a need in all of them for companionship on some level, even if only to complain about their aches and pains.

  Recruits attending the Group B schools lived and worked in the eleven buildings on the Beaulieu estate. The soon-to-be-agents were allowed to abandon the commando mentality they had acquired in Scotland and adopt one of a clandestine existence. They were required to do extraordinary things, all the while looking as though they were carrying on an ordinary life. As one of Virginia’s instructors put it, “Remember, ‘He that has a secret to hide should not only hide it, but hide that he has to hide it.’”

  It was at this point that each of the recruits’ cover stories were developed based on their skills and their situation. Virginia’s story was that she was a French-speaking American newspaper reporter, Brigitte LeContre, sent to write articles to keep the Americans apprised of the situation in Vichy France. It was a feasible story and it wasn’t too much of a stretch. Virginia had done some freelance writing off and on mingled in with her State Department clerking. But she needed to land an actual job with an American paper without divulging the work she would really be doing—helping downed pilots and escaped prisoners out of enemy territory as well as keeping close tabs on the comings and goings of the Germans in her area. For this, Virginia called on an old family friend in the editorial department at the New York Post. Her cable to him was responded to almost immediately in the affirmative. Certainly she could have a position, the response read. However, was she certain she would be comfortable in such a dangerous part of the world? His words made her laugh out loud.

  She’d been dodging bombs for two years and was about to become involved in espionage, and this dear man wondered if a little reporting in France was too dangerous. She sent one more cable assuring her new employer that she would be careful, and she had the job.

  As the days passed, Virginia decided that her training at Beaulieu was the most rigorous of all. It was no longer about physical agility, but mental agility, which culminated in a rough mock interrogation. The recruits had had a single message burned into their heads on the subject of arrest and interrogation. “If you are arrested, particularly by the Gestapo,” they were told, “do not assume that all is lost.
The Gestapo’s reputation has been built upon ruthlessness and terrorism, not intelligence. They will always pretend to know more than they do and may even make a good guess. But remember that it is a guess; otherwise they would not be interrogating you.”

  In the middle of the night during her third week at Beaulieu, two German soldiers rudely awakened Virginia from a sound sleep and dragged her from her bed to a basement interrogation room.

  “What is your name?” a disembodied voice asked from the darkness. Virginia was standing in her nightgown under a bare lightbulb. She had been allowed to fasten her wooden leg, but was not given any other concessions. The room was cold, damp, and dark.

  “My name is Brigitte LeContre.”

  “And what is your business in France?”

  “I am a reporter for the New York Post. I write stories about Vichy France.”

  “Are you trying to help those who would resist against the Germans?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “But you were seen with someone we suspect of doing so. How can you explain that?” The voice had become progressively louder and was now shouting. The two soldiers appeared from out of the darkness and forced what looked like electrical wires into each of Virginia’s hands.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I simply write stories; I told you.”

  “And what kind of stories do you tell?”

  “True ones.”

  At that somewhat smug answer, an immense shock traveled the length of her body. She couldn’t believe they were actually electrocuting her, and a split second later she realized they weren’t. It was the shock from a bucket of ice-cold water that had been thrown at her.

  The voice continued, ever more threatening. “What kind of stories do you tell? Are you trying to convince the Americans to enter the war?”

  “I’m only a reporter, a civilian,” Virginia gasped. “Our citizens are interested in what’s happening overseas, including here in France.”

  “Do you work for the American government?”

  “No, I’m a reporter.”

  Another shock wave from another bucket of cold water.

  “Stop lying!”

  “I’m telling you the truth!” she panted. “I have no reason to lie to you. You have my papers. You can see they’re all in order.”

  Silence followed. Virginia was frozen to the bone, but stood firm. A bucket of cold water was mild compared to the techniques the Germans might use.

  Suddenly more light filled the room. She saw the source of the voice: a mild-looking, bespectacled man seated at a table. Several of her instructors surrounded him.

  “Very well done, Germaine,” one of the instructors said. “You’re free to go now.” Someone handed her a blanket, which she wrapped around her shoulders and then made her way out of the basement and up to her room. She later learned via the Beaulieu grapevine that professional interrogators, policemen, and ex-policemen, had volunteered to come in for these exercises. They were good, Virginia thought. Damn good.

  Virginia was once again sitting opposite Vera Atkins in the dingy Northumberland Hotel room. She had returned to London earlier in the day from Beaulieu and found a message waiting for her at Mrs. Tipton’s to come to the hotel at her earliest convenience.

  Vera was pleased to see the reports and that her intuition about Virginia was right. The American was clearly everything she and Jacques thought she was. A rap on the door was followed by it opening, and Jacques de Guélis strode in.

  De Guélis shook Virginia’s hand congratulating her on her success in SOE training. Virginia smiled inwardly Much of what she’d done in training wasn’t too different from what she and her brother did during childhood summers at Box Hill. Hunting, camping, hiking … all of it had come flooding back. Not that her training hadn’t been difficult at times, but it was certainly nothing more than she expected the real thing would be.

  Vera exhaled a veil of cigarette smoke and told Virginia it was time to make her official by signing a few documents. Next to her signature, Virginia added the date, April 1, 1941. She filled in her mother’s name and address on another document that designated where her pay should be sent.

  That bit of business done, Vera told her she would begin the most difficult part of the job: waiting. Her cover was in place, but they had to wait for the diplomatic wheels to turn. She had Virginia sign the visa application for passage into unoccupied France and gave her the cover letter to the American Embassy to read over. It requested them to expedite matters by cabling the application to the American Embassy in Vichy.

  The waiting was not something Virginia was looking forward to and she asked Vera what she should do in the meantime. Enjoy London in the springtime, came the answer. But be sure to be back inside by blackout, Vera cautioned. They certainly didn’t want to lose her now.

  8

  Into the Wolves’ Lair

  “Hitler begins war on Russia, with Armies on March from Arctic to the Black Sea,” the June 22, 1941, New York Times headline screamed. The lead article began:

  As dawn broke over Europe today, the legions of National Socialist Germany began their long-rumored invasion of Communist Soviet Russia.… Adolph Hitler, in a proclamation to the German people… termed the military action begun this morning the largest in the history of the world. It was necessary, he added, because in spite of his unceasing efforts to preserve peace in this area, it had definitely been proved that Russia was in a coalition with England to ruin Germany by prolonging the war.

  Sitting in Mrs. Tipton’s parlor and listening to the BBC reports on Hitler’s advance into Russia, Virginia was exasperated. She was trained and ready. Hitler was increasing his stranglehold on the world. And yet, there she sat waiting as the appropriate paperwork for her return to France inched its way through governmental offices.

  Much to Virginia’s surprise, the invasion of Russia delivered two unexpected benefits. One to the morale of the British: they were no longer alone in the battle against Nazi Germany. The second benefit was to the SOE, which Virginia learned about from Vera. The Communists in France had remained neutral since the country’s fall a year earlier. It was assumed in Britain that they would have no interest in resistance or collaboration. But this changed drastically with the new Nazi assault. According to agents already in the field, the Communists, who named themselves Francs-tireurs et partisans (FTP) were now eagerly seeking Resistance groups as allies. A clandestine existence was familiar to them, which would make them naturals as underground participants. Although relationships between them and other French political parties were strained by years of mutual unfamiliarity, the additional manpower would indeed be a comfort to both sides. After all, their goal was the same: to obliterate the Nazi regime.

  By the end of July, Virginia thought she’d go mad from the waiting. Since her cover was a journalist, it seemed only logical that she should hone up on her writing skills, which occupied some of her time. In addition she worked with the SOE code specialists on how to get her information out of France and back to them. She would write letters that, to the casual observer, were simply chatty missives discussing the weather and her sightseeing trips. They would be sent to London via other agents. Once there, SOE cryptologists would pull certain letters out of certain words to produce the vital information.

  She kept fit with walks through the London bombing rubble and made several trips out to the Beaulieu manor where she could use their target facilities and update her identification skills. The SOE drilled their agents on recognition of German military insignias and Nazi and Gestapo personalities of note. Since new information arrived almost daily, Virginia needed to be on top of things when she finally got her traveling papers. And she kept abreast of SOE issues that were pertinent to her through meetings with Vera at the Northumberland.

  At one such meeting, Vera told her that SOE had organized the infiltration of a number of agents into France; the first going in by parachute on May 5.
The work done thus far had been good, very good, she said. And, there was an ingenious new method of communication. Those first agents realized they needed to limit the amount of time they were actually transmitting and receiving messages. German wireless interception service jammed the radios, and hunted them with their direction-finding vans. Agents were concerned about sending or receiving for longer than a minute. The solution lay with the BBC.

  Despite the Nazis’ best efforts at blocking the signal, agents could almost always raise the BBC’s powerful overseas service. SOE’s first agent in France suggested using it for communication. At the end of each evening’s broadcast, the messages personnels would be announced. This would be followed by a plethora of phrases like, Roméo embrasse Juliette, La chienne de Barbara aura trios chiots, Marcel n’aime pas le mouton. Some sounded like family notices and some were just gibberish, but they were actually code phrases. Agents in the field listened carefully each night, already having been told which coded message would pertain to them. They could receive news of new arrivals, the safe return to England of others, and even supply drops.

  To Virginia, it was one more example of one of the SOE’s greatest strengths: creating solutions to problems, quickly and efficiently. However one problem that still plagued the agency dealt with new recruits.

  It wasn’t that there weren’t enough of them. Plenty of men and women were happy to sign up when given the opportunity. But many washed out when they became security risks. They were careless, leaving delicate items, like codebooks, out in the open. Worse still, some talked too much. In one incident, a recruit told a barman at a pub near the manor that he was involved in secret government work that would win the war. The barman happened to be on the SOE payroll and reported the event immediately. The recruit’s excuse was that he wasn’t thinking, which was exactly the problem. Thinking was the number one job when working undercover. Talking too much in France would be fatal.