by Noreen Riols
Before their departure the following day, Colonel Woolrych received every student in his office. All the reports from the various schools they had attended were in front of him on his desk, and, having thoroughly studied them, it was up to him to give his opinion as to whether the prospective agent should be infiltrated or not. The final decision did not rest with Woolybags, but was the prerogative of the head of his country section. For those leaving for France, it was Buck who decided their fate: but Woolybags’ report carried a lot of weight.
If the student had ‘talked’ during our dinner together, at one point during the interview the door would open and I would walk in. ‘Do you know this woman?’ Woolybags would ask. Mostly they took it well, shrugged and realized that they had been fools and made a stupid mistake, thereby putting in jeopardy their chances of leaving and carrying out their mission, the mission for which they had undergone such a long and arduous training. But this Dane was different. I shall never forget his face. He looked at me, stunned, then disappointment, I would almost say pain, clouded his eyes, to be quickly replaced by a terrible anger. He half rose from his chair and spat: ‘You bitch!’
No woman likes to be called a bitch. I didn’t. And I was upset. But it was then that I discovered Woolybags’ compassionate side beneath his stern exterior. ‘It’s no good your upsetting yourself,’ he said kindly to me afterwards. ‘If he can’t resist talking to a pretty face over here, he most certainly won’t once he’s over there. And it won’t be only his life he’ll be risking, but the lives of many others as well.’ I knew he was right, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor young man. He had survived six months’ strenuous training, eight or nine months if he were destined to be a radio operator, learning escape tactics, how to rid himself of handcuffs, react under torture and during an interrogation, handle explosives, make bombs, live off the land, shoot at a moving target. And Beaulieu was far from being a holiday camp. This young Dane had survived all that yet, because of one stupid slip on a moonlit evening, he might not be allowed to carry out his mission, that mission he had worked so hard to achieve.
When confronted with this dilemma, Buck, taking into account all the other reports on the student’s capabilities from the different schools he had attended, sometimes said: ‘They’ve learned their lesson. They won’t make the same mistake again.’ And he allowed them to go. But I don’t know whether the other section heads were so understanding.
After leaving Beaulieu every agent had to go on an exercise lasting ninety-six hours simulating a situation similar to those he would probably encounter once behind the lines. He would be given a temporary English ‘cover story’ – as opposed to his real cover story, to be used when he was in the field – and told to go to a certain place and carry out different tasks. Harry Rée had to ‘clock on’ at a factory for a few days and glean as much information as he could from the conversations going on around him while he worked. Another had to spend a couple of days in a hotel with some mission or other to accomplish, without being told that a beautiful young woman, sent for the purpose, would do her best to pick him up on the first evening and try to discover what he was up to. His task was to resist her charms, which were apparently considerable. He said he did!
Yet another agent faced with the same temptation reported on his return that on the evening he arrived in the town he’d been sent to he had wandered into the bar of the hotel where he was staying to be greeted by a beautiful woman who had turned round on her bar stool as he approached, smiled and addressed him by his real name. He had affected not to hear, but she had pursued him, whereupon he had explained that she must be mistaken and introduced himself using the false name with which he had signed the hotel register. They had spent that evening, and perhaps even that night, together. In fact, they were inseparable during the few days he was in the town on his mission. But on his last afternoon, during a passionate embrace in a wood where they had gone for a romantic meander, he had pretended to strangle her. When she was in extremis, her eyes bulging and her face blue, he had released her. Once she had regained her breath he told her to be sure to mention in her report to Colonel Buckmaster that she’d been murdered in an isolated wood by an unknown man! Realizing that her ruse was up, she had confessed that she had been sent to trap him and that she was, in fact, the sister of the commandant of one of the schools where he had trained. In spite of her close shave with death, they parted friends. But, all the same, she must have denounced him to the police because, as he was leaving the hotel later that afternoon to return to London, the police were waiting for him. He was apprehended and taken into custody. Seeing the black Maria waiting outside, a group of middle-aged housewives had gathered at the hotel entrance. When he was led, in handcuffs, to the waiting police van the unfortunate student was obliged to submit to their jeers and abuse. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ they cried. ‘Why aren’t you in uniform? Our brave boys your age are risking their lives to keep criminals like you safe.’ The jeers rang in his ears as he was bundled inside the black Maria. Proof that one shouldn’t always judge by appearances!
Chapter 11
One Saturday afternoon I accompanied a young major, a future agent, to London. The major’s false address, where he was supposed to have a flat, was in Ashley Gardens, near Westminster Cathedral. Since he wanted to be sure he could answer any questions about his ‘home’ accurately, off to Ashley Gardens we went. It was there that I think I lived the most terrifying half-hour of my life. The Blitz was peanuts in comparison. I had imagined we were going to stand on the pavement and gaze at the flat from the outside, or perhaps venture up to the fourth floor in the lift and take note of the front door. We had no authority to do anything else, to go any further. And even doing that could have looked suspicious had a neighbour happened to pass by. But these details didn’t appear to worry him. Once we left the lift, he walked boldly to the door with ‘his’ number on it and picked the lock, then strolled inside and looked around, gazing admiringly at the elegant furnishings. Had we been caught inside the flat, SOE would no doubt have denied all knowledge of us and, temporarily at least, left us to our fate. We would have been accused of illicitly entering with intent to commit a burglary, and taken into custody.
Hoping against hope that the owners wouldn’t suddenly appear from the bathroom or come up in the lift, I stood trembling on the landing outside the door, ready to bolt in a cowardly fashion, and wait for him outside on the pavement, should such an eventuality arise. But he turned round and waved his arm in my direction. ‘Don’t stand there dithering,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’
‘But. . .’ I stammered.
‘No buts,’ he said firmly. ‘Just come in and shut the door.’ So I did! It was terrible. Instead of a quick peep, he bounced on the beds, opened kitchen cupboards, turned on the bathroom taps, examined the lining of the curtains and the chintz covers to find out where they came from. ‘Ah . . . Sanderson’s,’ he said, turning to smile knowingly at me. ‘I thought so.’ I didn’t care if they’d originated in the flea market, I just wanted to get out. In the sumptuous drawing room, while the perspiration poured down my back in torrents, he played a chord or two on the beautiful baby grand piano cluttered with photos in silver frames of exotic people wearing trailing ball gowns and tiaras, clutching fans made of feathers, and military gentlemen with twirling moustaches, their chests bristling with medals, lethal-looking swords hanging at their sides. Every time the lift rose I shut my eyes and prayed, convinced that we were both headed for Wormwood Scrubs.
After what seemed at the time to be about ten years, but couldn’t have been more than half an hour, he turned to me with a smile, saying: ‘Right. Now I’ll take you to the Bear Garden. It’s where I used to go with the rugger team on a Saturday night when I was at Cambridge.’ By that time I was in shreds and felt that the only place I was fit for was the casualty department of the nearest hospital. He may, or perhaps he may not, have sensed my imminent collapse. Taking me by the arm, and ignoring
the lift, he raced me down the four flights of stairs, perhaps to strengthen my wobbly legs or to get the blood, which had certainly stopped flowing, thrashing about in my veins again.
But I was young and once out in the street I soon recovered. When we got to Piccadilly Circus he bought me a bunch of violets from an elderly flower-seller wearing a shawl and a black straw hat. She was sitting, with a large basket full of the dainty flowers on her knees, on the steps of the statue of Eros, which was now boarded up. ‘Lovely vi’lits,’ she called, as we passed. ‘Buy a bunch for the pretty lady, mister.’ So he did. It was all very romantic. And I enjoyed the Bear Garden which, in spite of its strange name, turned out to be a delightful basement pub somewhere near Piccadilly Circus. I got back to Beaulieu very late that night because, in order to make up for my earlier terrifying experience, he took me to the theatre.
I don’t know what mission this particular agent had been assigned. All I know is that he had to go down to Wales for the weekend. While there he was arrested by the police and locked in a cell for the night – until HQ had him released. He had made a silly, but understandable, slip. His real name was Wilson, but his temporary cover name was Wilmot. When signing the register at the hotel where he was to stay, the first three letters being the same, he had made a fatal mistake and automatically written ‘Wilson’.
The local police were always warned, in a roundabout way, to be on the lookout for these prospective agents facing their final test, without any details being revealed as to their real identity or mission. I believe the police were warned to look out for enemy agents whom the authorities suspected to be in the area. In this case the police only had to ask to see the agent’s identity papers and check them with the signature in the hotel register in order to be suspicious and arrest him. Throughout the war we were all obliged to carry identity cards. They were as much a part of our daily apparel as our gas masks. We would never dream of going anywhere without first hitching over one shoulder the cardboard box holding the gas mask which most people – certainly most women, I’m not sure whether men were so fashion-conscious – encased in an attractive cover. Identity cards were usually carried inside the gas-mask case, so as to be sure to always have them on hand.
There had certainly been other reasons why the police had been able to arrest this future agent. Perhaps he also had succumbed to the charms of another ‘Mata Hari’ working for F Section who had been sent to seduce or trap him, and had then denounced him. Perhaps he had been given a mission to break into a building, retrieve documents or seek information and been caught in the act. All these suppositions were possible. Whatever it was, he was arrested and spent a night in a police cell, furious with himself for being caught. But, even so, he must have passed the test, because he was parachuted into enemy territory two months later.
Chapter 12
Time and distance must take away the edge of pain because, as I look back, I cannot help remembering the ‘good’ times: and there were some good times. There was the unity we felt during those traumatic years, when we were all together fighting for the same cause, a unity which sadly evaporated with the end of hostilities. And the wonderful people I met. These memories weave together to make up the tapestry of my life.
I think the war brought out the best and the worst in all of us. It certainly brought out the best in those young men and women who were so ready to sacrifice their lives in order that we might be free today. But it also changed those who remained behind. The war honed us, burned away the dross, made us realize and value the things in life which were really important, often the simple things which today in our world of plenty many take for granted, or ignore.
During the war hardly a day passed without our hearing of someone who had lost a loved one. We lived so closely with death that every new day was precious, a gift from God. We had so little, we were willing to share. People left the tube stations and air-raid shelters in the early morning to discover that the row of shops they always went to for their meagre weekly rations had disappeared under a pile of bricks in the night. The local hospital had been reduced to a heap of rubble. They no longer had a home, a school, an office. Then those whose homes were still standing usually said, ‘Salvage what you can from the rubble and come to us. We’ll fit you in somehow.’ I’m sure the war hastened the beginning of the breakdown of the rigid English class system. There was an atmosphere in London at that time which I had never felt before and sadly have never experienced since. A closeness, a togetherness. The barriers of race, colour, religion and class seemed to have disappeared. We were all united, fighting together for the same cause.
Life went on. It had to. The war lasted nearly six years. People married. Those agents married. In this age of opulence, it might be difficult to believe that the best present anyone could give a girl who was about to be married was a few clothing coupons. What a change from the lists we receive with our wedding invitations today!
On the day before her wedding, I remember asking a friend of mine what she was going to wear. ‘Oh, Mother’s lent me a dress and a hat she wore to a wedding in the summer before the war. My aunt gave me coupons to buy a pair of shoes, my cousins have used theirs to offer me gloves and a handbag. And I’ve cashed in mine for a nightie and some underwear.’
‘But it’s January,’ I exclaimed. ‘You’ll freeze to death in a summer dress.’ She laughed.
‘No, I won’t. Grannie’s lending me her fur coat. I’ll be fine.’ She was marrying an agent who was about to leave on a mission. He was supposed to have three days’ leave, but in the end they only had twenty-four hours.
‘Oh, Sally,’ I cried, putting my arms around her when she returned to the office the day after her brief honeymoon ended. I was almost in tears, knowing how she must feel. ‘It’s so hard to have to say goodbye after only twenty-four hours, isn’t it?’ She smiled, but only with her lips. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, which reflected a deep sadness and the trace of recently shed tears.
‘You can live a lifetime in twenty-four hours,’ she said quietly. Then, shaking off her melancholy, she dimpled and added with a mischievous grin: ‘Provided you don’t sleep.’ The slight tension electrifying the air between us abruptly disappeared, and we burst out laughing.
Anyone who has ever been in love knows that wonderful feeling of gently floating on a cloud to another world where the sun always shines, the grass is always green and life is perfect. It must be difficult to imagine nowadays what it is like to be terribly in love and know that all you have is twenty-four hours. I think those wartime marriages were as God meant marriage to be. They were truly marriages made in heaven. The moments they shared were so precious that each one sought only the other’s happiness. They wanted a cameo of a perfect love which they could carry with them during the long months, perhaps years, when they would be apart.
After the war some people said that it was selfish of agents to marry, knowing the dangers they faced. But I can’t agree. We all faced dangers during the war, from the blackout, the air raids, the lack of food and medication, etc. Admittedly those agents’ chance of survival was infinitely less than it was for most of us. But I think marriage gave them a stability they might not otherwise have had, preventing them from doing foolhardy things and taking unnecessary risks. They knew they had someone who loved them, who was waiting for them, that there was a future for them once the conflict was over. They had a reason to survive, and return.
Many women working in SOE had their hearts broken, and I was no exception. On the eve of my nineteenth birthday I fell madly in love with an agent who had just returned from a mission. Oddly enough, he fell in love with me. I never understood why or what attracted him to me. He was charming, handsome and twelve years older than I: he must have met many more attractive, more sophisticated, more elegant women than I. But it was love at first sight, an irresistible pull one towards the other. I’d read about it, every young girl had, but I didn’t believe it ever really happened except in Hollywood or between the page
s of glossy magazines. Yet it happened to me. Our idyll lasted three months. Then he left on a last mission, assuring me that he was a survivor and would come back and we could be together again: grow old together.
The day Bill left we had lunch together in a Chinese restaurant in Soho. Just the two of us. It was the first time I had tasted Chinese food. Although we both knew that it would be our last meeting for perhaps a very long time, the last time we would be together, it was not an emotional lunch. We carefully kept emotion out of it. Bill talked about his family. He told me about his mother, who had died of a sudden heart attack when he was on his last mission – he had arrived back just in time to attend her funeral; of his elder brother, who had been killed at Dunkirk – and produced snapshots of his two young orphaned nephews, of whom he was very fond. I thought what a good father he would make. Among the snapshots was one of him with a beard, his blond hair almost down to his shoulders, taken when he came out of hiding. I asked him if I could have it. He seemed amused by my request. He smiled and gave it to me. I cherished that photo and kept it at the back of my wallet until one afternoon on Interlaken station a few years ago when my wallet was stolen out of my handbag. I only discovered it was missing when we were approaching Basle, the frontier town between France and Switzerland, and the inspector came to check the tickets. I was left to cross the border with no ticket and no identity papers. It took some explaining. I had hoped that whoever stole it would keep the money and return the wallet, or at least its contents. But they never did. It was the only photo I ever had of him.
