The Lady Is a Spy

by Don Mitchell

  In June 1942, Virginia submitted a story about the plight of European Jews and how they were being treated as second-class citizens under the new regime. She noted, “The Jews in Paris, meantime, are wearing the badge of their race—a five [sic] pointed yellow star.” Another topic was the improvement in treatment of French prisoners in Germany, and how Vichy French officers took on some of the administrative duties of overseeing their countrymen in these camps. She had earlier noted that it was “a heavy responsibility for they must answer for each escape that takes place in their camp.” Virginia also wrote about the Vichy government’s appeal for scrap metal to support the nation’s industry, and about the government’s assurance, in the face of great skepticism, that “the metal collected will not go to the Reich.”

  Virginia (right) in front of a statue in Europe with a woman and child.

  Virginia also addressed more obscure aspects of French life in her articles for the New York Post, including the imposition of harsher measures against counterfeiters; the Vichy regime’s efforts to reactivate its economic coordination with the continent; and a woman and her daughter traveling to the “Forbidden Zone” in northern France, which was occupied by the Germans. Virginia even wrote about the return to France of mange, a contagious skin disease caused by parasitic mites.

  A covert intelligence officer wasn’t immune to maladies though. As Virginia wrote a friend, “I still retain my rotundity, shingles. It isn’t really shingles. It’s ‘lichen’ [any of several skin diseases] a purely nervous disease says the doc. I hope he’s not kidding as it’s g.d. awful looking—anyhow it isn’t mange.”

  In April 1942, Virginia discussed how French morale seemed particularly low. She observed that “the French have got the habit of meekly accepting during the past year. They have accepted stricter and stricter rations, lessening of rations, restrictions on wine, less bread, less alcohol, no beer, until finally they have arrived at the state of eating rutabaga for supper, washed down with mineral water—no beer or wine is served in the evening with meals (or without for the most part) meekly and without a murmur. It is incredible but true.”

  She expanded on this theme in an October 1941 article entitled “Odd Bits,” in which Virginia talked about how the war had caused the people of France to change their ways and customs. “Everybody eats less than before, of course; most people wear less.” She added, “whether morals will snap back once the situation returns to normal or not is the question. For the present, practically everyone is cherishing and condoning dishonesty in some degree.”

  Virginia went on to describe her recent living situation. While her comments would appear to be lighthearted observations for her readers, they provide a glimpse into how challenging her secret life as a covert agent must have been, constantly on the search for obscure places to conduct her operations:

  I have been living for the past week in a convent of cloistered nuns on the verdant hillside rising from the Saône, just above its juncture with the Rhone. Change for me—I have to be in at 6:30 p.m.! But Lyon is so crowded with refugees from the north and south who have taken up temporary residence there that it is all but impossible to find a place to live. A couple hundred thousand extra in a town of some five hundred seventy thousand created a proper congestion as to the housing problem. So, the hotels having turned me down for lack of room, the Sisters kindly took me in and gave me a tiny room in a square tower at one end of the convent up on the hill, where I have a most magnificent view over the city and up the river, and the undivided attention of a strong north wind. We lunch at 10 a.m., sup at 5 p.m. and the gates close at 6:30 p.m.—certainly a change to my pre-war existence in France. However, I have to thank present conditions for my introduction to these Sisters who have shown me such hospitality and kindness.

  The nuns had a small farm on the convent, and Virginia reported that some milk and butter had been stolen recently. But the sisters were philosophical about the thefts: “What can you expect? People are hungry.”

  Virginia observed that the quest for food was an understandable obsession for the French at a time of great scarcity. Fishing, for example, had become “a serious matter”:

  It has changed from a sport to a means to an end. The end being dinner—God willing. Waiting in the electric [trolley car] on the side of the [Saône] the other day I was fascinated by a cheery gent with a cherry nose, a very bright eye and a lively tongue who had spread at his feet on the platform by the side of the car some black moist earth on newspapers. “Worms, worms,” he cried, “Nice, fine, dainty worms, come and get ’em.” And they did! It was Saturday and lots of men were heading for the tram with their bundles of rods and creel on their shoulders. Some stopped right away and had a nickel’s worth. Others—apparently superior—paid no attention to the luring: “luscious worms fit for the fastidious! Messieurs, have a worm!” But one old chap got in the car, sat down ahead of me, looked out the window at the worm man for a bit, then couldn’t bear it any longer and out he went. He came back with a most stained little bundle of black earth and red “dainty” worms. Another fisherman across the aisle engaged him in conversation. I listened and learned. “Fine but solid that’s the secret of fishing.” “Ah, the days when we used horsehair. Now that was something like!” (Why should horsehair disappear from a conquered country?) “He gets them in the gutters in the suburbs. In fact he has two or three others gathering worms and he does the selling.” “They’re fine ones too, and hard to get now!” (Do even worms disappear with occupation?) About this time the electric pulled out and I looked back at the cheerful seller of worms, who was calling out: “Worms, gentlemen, worms. I’ve been collecting them since five this morning just for you. Lovely worms. Come and get ’em!”

  People lining up at a grocery store in a small French town in hopes of getting groceries during the food shortage.

  As part of her work as an undercover intelligence agent for SOE, Virginia traveled a great deal: meeting fellow agents, members of the Resistance, and their supporters; scouting fields for airdrops; and assessing and acquiring safe houses in which to conceal individuals fleeing the Germans and Vichy authorities. When she wrote about her travel experiences, it was also an insight into the challenges facing an intelligence agent in unoccupied France.

  Of one trip in unoccupied France, Virginia noted that “travel is no longer a pleasure but a grim undertaking not to be embarked upon lightly. It is devastating for the weak and exhausting even for the strong. Trains are crowded beyond belief and look like a Walt Disney brainstorm, with passengers filling all the windows of compartments and corridors alike and packed into the entrance platforms so that often the doors cannot close.”

  Because of the war, train service was sharply curtailed, with trains departing “at discouragingly inconvenient hours” in the early morning or in the late evening, making connections extremely challenging. There was little travel by either private automobile or bus because of a lack of fuel. This tended, she noted, “to suppress all but the most imperative travel.” But even travel for business or urgent family reasons caused the few available trains to be filled to overflowing with passengers. It was often a battle to squeeze oneself onto a crowded train. Virginia observed, through firsthand experience, that “it’s dismal to be left on the platform, ticket in hand, all dressed up and no place to go.”

  With secondary railway lines being largely eliminated, travel to the countryside was dependent on buses that ran sporadically, were poorly serviced because of wartime shortages, and therefore frequently broke down. Because of the overall unreliability of transportation, Virginia argued that “one should not expect to make a connection, but to spend the night at the connecting point and get the next day’s conveyance, road or rail and then, if by chance you can and do make a close connection, it is truly cause for triumphant rejoicing.”

  On another occasion, Virginia made a brief trip to the Midi, or southern, region of France “to see the countryside.” The first part of the trip was on a crowded bus.
She stayed overnight at Avignon, planning to take a bus to Marseille, which only ran once a day, leaving Avignon at 9:00 a.m. Virginia rose early and was at the station at 8:00 a.m. in the hope of being able to get a seat. Other prospective passengers had the same idea and were already waiting when Virginia arrived, and more came as they awaited the bus.

  When the bus finally pulled into the station at 8:30 a.m., Virginia was squashed by the crowd surging to get on. The driver tried to bring order to the chaos by asking that the first to board be those with priority tickets (e.g., those who were ill or wounded). Then, those who were going farthest on the trip were to get in next. The result was that Virginia was relegated to standing in the back of a bus that was crowded with other standing passengers.

  By 9:00 a.m., the bus was crammed with passengers, and bicycles, baby carriages, and a wide array of baggage were piled on top of the vehicle. The bus then took off for four long, hot hours lumbering along the dusty Midi road. Several hours into the trip, one of the men standing next to Virginia said to his companion, “Eh, old chap, I think our partridges are a bit dear this year.”

  Astonished, Virginia said to him, “You think of going shooting after this trip?”

  “That is what we’re going for,” he replied with a grin. “The larder’s pretty empty, you know, and I have a daughter in Marseille who needs food. It will be precious game she gets, if any. Still, it’s needed.” Virginia and the man continued their conversation until she finally got off the bus, and she bid farewell to her travel companions.

  After the first leg of her trip, Virginia had to stay over in the local town for several days because of infrequent bus service and the crowding on the few buses that were operating. Finally, after three days, she was one of three people to get on a bus, but it was “standing room only.” She said of the experience, “I was beginning to learn and to appreciate the difficulties under which France and her people are laboring.”

  When the bus reached the next town on the way to Marseille, two or three more passengers came aboard. A tremendous amount of freight, however, was added to the top of the bus: “baskets of grapes, sacks of vegetables, a wicker basket with a chicken in it, a baby carriage, boxes, crates, bags, suitcases.”

  Witnessing the produce that went on top of the bus gave Virginia greater appreciation of the food shortages experienced in French urban centers. The bus moved on in this fashion to Marseille, passengers getting off and getting on, and the overburdened vehicle sagging as it moved along the road.

  Finally—and perhaps somewhat miraculously—the bus arrived safely at its destination. Virginia concluded that “you can well imagine how this state of things paralyzes the life of the country and how anyone who has the slightest excuse will gladly postpone even an important trip.” But in Virginia’s real work as an intelligence agent, postponing important trips could mean the difference between life and death, so she did everything she could to complete her missions as quickly as possible.

  By October 1941, Virginia was based in Lyon, which was a better operational base for her than the city of Vichy. At the time, Lyon was the third-largest city in France, and the center of the Resistance. Virginia said, “I can go and see things from there. Travel being slightly less horrible than from Vichy.”

  Virginia also noted that she had made valuable contacts in assessing the situation for British intelligence, and she had “… made such a lot of friends, doctors, business men, a few newspaper people (they are so daft I don’t like them though), refugees, professors.” At this time, the United States had still not entered the war and Virginia developed a close working relationship with George Whittinghill, the US vice consul in Lyon who represented British interests as well.

  Because of Virginia’s disability, some of her Resistance comrades referred to her as la dame qui boite, or the “limping lady.” She took to referring to her artificial limb as Cuthbert. Virginia had befriended a redheaded doctor who liked to go hunting, and her hunting accident from years before wasn’t far from her mind when Virginia noted that “I’m going shooting again—I shall keep Cuthbert well out of the way.”

  Several days after New Year’s Day 1942, Virginia was propped up in her Lyon hotel bed with a typewriter balanced on her knee, writing to a friend. “All things in series of three, as usual,” she typed. “A cold in the head, an ache in the thorax and mingled snow, rain and slush out of doors … The dark days are fairly abysmal and a short English word describes one’s mood. The word, you know, is written - h- -, purest Anglo-Saxon!”

  Virginia went on to relate to her friend that letters from America had virtually ceased since December, when the United States formally entered the war against both Japan and Germany. She was still waiting to receive a fruitcake her mother had sent from Maryland. Virginia’s letter was lighthearted in tone but conveyed the many frustrations she, and so many others in wartime France, had to endure.

  While she could pause to take a reflective look at her situation, the press of her duties was relentless. And other intelligence agents depended on her.

  Back in December 1941, Lieutenant Peter Churchill, a young British Army officer of the Intelligence Corps, met with Maurice Buckmaster, the head of the SOE’s France Section, in his London office. Several months prior, in September, Major Maurice Buckmaster became head of F Section, a position he held for the duration of the war. He had been a member of the SOE since March 1941, first as Information Officer, and then as the acting head of the SOE’s Belgium Section. Buckmaster recalled that he was “eager to serve Britain by helping France.”

  Buckmaster had been a brilliant student, studying at Oxford University. He would later go to Paris and work for the French newspaper Le Matin, and subsequently at Ford Motor in France and then Great Britain. With the war approaching, Buckmaster joined the British military, saw combat, and ultimately joined the SOE. The demands of his job were intense: “We worked eighteen hours a day. We slept whenever we could—if we couldn’t, we went without sleep altogether. Our life was totally devoted to SOE.” Buckmaster, along with his staff, including his personal assistant, “the indispensable Vera Atkins,” managed operations in France. Atkins was known for being helpful to agents in the field.

  Maurice Buckmaster, head of the SOE’s French Section.

  Lieutenant Churchill was reviewing his forthcoming trip where he would clandestinely infiltrate unoccupied France by submarine. After stressing to young Churchill that no one would think less of him if he decided not to undertake the mission, Buckmaster warned the lieutenant that “… if you should get caught, there is very little we can do for you.” Churchill willingly accepted the risk to take on the mission.

  Dressed as a French civilian, Churchill, who spoke French like a native, was to smuggle 2 million French francs to distribute to SOE agents in southern France in support of their operations. Half the money—1 million francs—was to be used to bribe officials to get ten members of the Resistance out of the Fort St. Nicholas prison in Marseille. Among the SOE agents he was supposed to meet in France was Virginia Hall.

  One evening in early January 1942, the British submarine P36 came within eight hundred yards of the Mediterranean shore of the French city Cannes. Peter paddled to land in the darkness in a canoe. Once ashore, he made his way through the cold winter weather to an old friend for food, sleep, and a change into dry clothes. He then took a bus to Antibes to meet his first contact. While the agent was away, Peter met with a physician who worked closely with the agent. The physician informed Peter that the local Resistance organization was in serious need of a skilled shortwave radio operator to communicate with London. They also needed additional funds in order to continue to function.

  Peter could not help with the radio operator, but he could make a generous donation to the local Resistance effort from the money belt he was concealing under his clothes. He gave the doctor 450,000 francs and asked him to send the following telegram to an address in England: “Annabelle quite recovered and sends love and kisses.” When tha
t message was received, SOE leaders would know that this part of the mission was successfully accomplished.

  The next leg of Peter’s journey took him to Lyon. Walking from the local train station, he passed the Hôtel Carlton, the Gestapo’s headquarters in the city, which was guarded by several Vichy policemen. (The Gestapo was Nazi Germany’s secret police organization, noted for its ruthlessness.) Peter walked into the lobby of the nearby Grand Nouvel Hotel and inquired at the reception desk for Mademoiselle Le Contre, the name Virginia used in Lyon at that time.

  “Mademoiselle is not in, Monsieur,” replied the receptionist. “She is usually out all day, and returns at about six o’clock in the evening.” Peter said he would come back later that night. Hungry and tired, Peter spent the rest of the day looking forward to his meeting with Virginia. He mused:

  All I knew about Brigitte Le Contre was that she was a tall American girl of about thirty-three, whose occupation was that of a newspaper correspondent. At the War Office they did not seem to know whether she was a blonde or a brunette. However, they did know that she had one brass foot owing to some hunting accident, but this fact was said to be well concealed and to handicap her walking so little that her infirmity was neither a hindrance to herself nor a help to anyone trying to find her, unless that person went to the lengths of stamping on the feet of every girl in town who seemed to be around thirty years of age.