The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  The aircraft which transported Rosamund, Thierry and Eric took off from Newmarket – the short stretch of even ground that passed for a runway was situated alongside the racecourse and ranked as one of the smallest and most secret of the airfields used by the RAF.

  It was the Lizzie’s ability to take off and land in a restricted space which made it suitable for the transfer of agents into occupied territory, but it still presented an easy target for the German Luftwaffe, and many were shot down. In May and June of 1940, of the 175 Lysanders that were used in operations over France and Belgium, 118 were lost.

  The pilot, equipped only with a map and a compass, would be guided in by no more than half a dozen torches held by members of the French Resistance positioned on the ground. If touching down proved impossible, then he would fly exceptionally low – another of the Lizzie’s traits was that it could fly at low speed without stalling – almost hovering in the air, while the passengers stepped out from the aircraft in special padded suits and rolled across the soft earth, to be picked up by a ready-and-waiting ground crew.

  It was a risky and dangerous operation, but one which offered a greater chance of the valuable Lysander being able to return to base without being brought down or captured. Competition for their use was eagerly contested by both the SOE and MI6 – the number of aircraft available at any one time was limited and would affect greatly the frequency and effectiveness of vital operations.

  Eric and his radio transmitter would be the only passenger in the first of the two aircraft, which would set off ten minutes before that carrying Thierry and Rosamund. Care would be taken to make sure that each Lysander would take a slightly different route from the other.

  The flight would take just over two hours, and for Thierry and Rosamund in the cramped and noisy rear cockpit, in their padded suits, movement was restricted and conversation all but impossible.

  So this was it, thought Rosamund. All the talking, all the preparation and what was most likely to prove misplaced bravado, had led here. She was bundled into the back of a small and noisy aeroplane, which seemed to vibrate like a gigantic bee. Soon she would leave behind quiet, rural Surrey to be set down in a country she had never visited and which was occupied by enemy forces. Was she mad? How foolhardy was this? It had seemed the right thing to do, but now she was not so sure. Muffled up in her bulky flying suit, helmet and goggles, her pack by her side, she lay alongside a Frenchman she hardly knew, preparing to be dumped far from home among people who were just waiting to catch her out. And when they did? She shook her head, the better to clear it of unprofitable thoughts, as the Lizzie taxied briefly towards the end of the makeshift runway and with a roar, took off at precisely 1900 hours into the darkening skies. The aircraft tilted slightly on take-off, and she felt herself roll towards Thierry, who playfully pushed her back into position.

  The time seemed to drag. She kept her eyes looking forward at the pilot – a map on his lap and a compass mounted in front of him. He glanced frequently at these two flying aids as the flight progressed and, once they were across the English Channel, never stopped looking to left and right, aware that there was a distinct possibility they would be attacked.

  Rosamund was convinced that at any moment they would be shot down, but tried to be positive. Every minute that went by was a minute nearer to their rendezvous – a place known only to Thierry. More would be revealed to Rosamund and Eric on their arrival, but as the Organiser, Thierry was the one entrusted with the most information. The less his compatriots knew, the better for security should they be captured. But soon all that would change, and Rosamund knew that the moment would come when she would be forced to test her own courage to the limits. She thought of Aunt Venetia, and Celine and Devonshire, hopeful that such positive memories might strengthen her resolve.

  They were descending now from their 8,000-feet flying height; the Lizzie’s engine was making a different sound – a lower growl that indicated a lessening of speed and a reduction in altitude. Still Rosamund could see nothing. The pilot looked round and indicated to them that they should make ready to disembark. Would he be able to land, or would he simply slow down and force them to jump clear of the aircraft?

  Raising her head slightly, Rosamund caught sight of a small cluster of lights – pinpoint beams that would guide the pilot in. The hatch was opened, she and Thierry released their straps, the pilot gave a thumbs up and Thierry tapped Rosamund on the shoulder. As the plane appeared almost to hover in a slow glide just a few feet above the ground, she stepped out and, remembering all she had been taught, rolled into a ball and came to rest after two neat somersaults on the soft, thick grass below them.

  She scrambled to her feet to see Thierry land twenty or thirty feet away. Then, as the Lysander climbed into the skies, she heard the crack-crack-crack of anti-aircraft fire.

  There was no time to wait and watch. Before she could check that the Lysander and its pilot were safely out of danger, a hand grabbed at her arm, turned her around and pulled her across the field towards the low hum of a small lorry parked at the side of the road. There was no opportunity to watch the aircraft depart; all she could do was hope and pray as she and Thierry were manhandled into the back of the farm truck and a tarpaulin thrown over them.

  As speedily as its modest-sized engine and venerable age would allow, the truck grumbled away from the makeshift airstrip, now quiet and deserted, as though its previous incarnation had been no more than a dream.

  No one spoke: not Rosamund, not Thierry, and certainly not the three figures sitting in the front of the truck as it bounced and rumbled along the rough country lanes of … where exactly? It would not be long before Rosamund would discover their precise location, and the daunting task that lay ahead of them.

  I felt terrified, elated and, strange as it might seem, guilty at being part of such a covert operation – that I had not earned my right to such excitement. On reflection, I can understand that a combination of adrenalin and the will to live make a powerful cocktail, and I suppose such a cocktail acts as a kind of anaesthetic – masking the reality of a situation which, if fully understood, might lead, if not to hysteria, then certainly to some kind of breakdown or inability to function. Natural instincts produce complex states of mind, which are part and parcel of self-preservation.

  The whole episode of flying into occupied France, landing and being bundled off without a word being spoken produced in me a kind of otherworldliness. I knew that whatever happened over the days, weeks and maybe months ahead, I must not be surprised, taken aback or discomfited. I must accept every eventuality and every twist and turn of fate as it presented itself and deal with it in the most level-headed and matter-of-fact way I could, however hard that might be.

  Rosamund and Thierry were bundled out of the back of the farm lorry with as little ceremony as they were bundled in. They found themselves in an ancient barn that smelled of sweet hay and cattle feed – a fragrance that transported Rosamund straight back to Devonshire. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light cast by a Tilley lamp, she saw that their captors (for that, somehow, is what they seemed) comprised two men and a woman.

  The older man – short and portly with a plump, round face, drooping black moustache and a flat cap – seemed to be the leader of the small group and introduced himself in French. ‘I am Henri Dubois.’ He did not smile, but there was about him an air of relief, most likely as a result of their being safely landed and sequestered in the barn.

  He lifted his arm (no mean feat since it was encased in the thickest serge jacket that Rosamund could ever recall having set eyes on) and gestured to his two comrades in arms. ‘This is Paulette and Gaston.’

  His two compatriots were much younger than he – in their early twenties, Rosamund guessed – the young man slender, gauche and nervous of meeting her eye; the young woman quite the reverse. Her dark hair was tucked into a headscarf, and she fixed Rosamund with her deep brown eyes as she shook her hand with a firmness of grip that somehow transmi
tted the message that, though young and female, she was not to be underestimated.

  ‘You are hungry?’ asked Henri.

  Rosamund nodded.

  ‘Come with me.’ Carrying the lantern, he led the way to the side door of the barn, the large double doors having been closed smartly behind them. ‘Your comrade arrived twenty minutes ago,’ he informed them. ‘Your aircraft got away; his was not so lucky. We saw it come down a few miles distant. But your colleague is safe.’

  ‘And his radio?’ asked Thierry.

  ‘Safe, too.’

  Their host ushered them across a farmyard and into a house which could just as easily have been on a smallholding in Sussex or Suffolk. Piles of old newspapers lined the small vestibule, and the paraphernalia of rural life was everywhere – a broken bridle hanging from a wooden peg, spoke-backed chairs around a scrubbed kitchen table and a piebald dog that did nothing more than slowly wag its tail as they entered; the whole room was lit only by the warm glow of oil lamps once Henri had extinguished the cold, white light of the Tilley lamp.

  Eric sat at the table, nodding acknowledgement as they entered. On the other side of the room with her back to them, her hands in the sink, stood a small woman in a floral print dress. She turned to greet them, her facial expression betraying a wariness that would come to be customary in the days ahead.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said, without real feeling and, after drying her hands on a length of rough cloth, shook those of both Thierry and Rosamund. ‘Sit down. I will bring you some soup.’

  A russet-glazed earthenware bowl of crusty bread stood on the table, and Eric’s cheeks were flushed, most likely on account of the half-empty glass of beer that stood in front of him as much as the thick, nourishing soup.

  Henri motioned them to sit and removed his cap, revealing a thick thatch of dark hair. ‘This is my wife, Madeleine, and these are our children.’

  Thierry sat down and completed the introductions: ‘I am Thierry; you’ve met Marcel’ – he gestured in Eric’s direction – ‘and this is Christiane.’

  Rosamund nodded a greeting, being unsure of the form at this early stage, and decided to leave all the talking to Thierry.

  The conversation that followed was brief and desultory. Thierry and Rosamund ate their bread and soup, both declining a glass of beer. Both Gaston and Paulette nodded their goodnights and left the kitchen through a primitively planked wooden door which presumably led upstairs, and once the two new arrivals had finished their soup, the table was cleared and a map unfolded by Henri and laid across it.

  ‘You will be here tonight and all day tomorrow,’ he said, having taken a large gulp from his own tankard of beer. ‘Tomorrow night we shall take you to the place where you will stay. This is a small village where newcomers are easily noticed. Your accommodation is on the edge of a town where you will be able to move around without causing comment. Is that what you were expecting?’

  Rosamund looked across at Thierry, who nodded his approval. She could feel her body warming up now; the wholesome nature of the soup was taking effect.

  Madeleine asked, ‘You are tired?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. The flight was not too long.’

  ‘We are close – as countries,’ added Madeleine. She seated herself at the table and picked at a small piece of bread. Rosamund noticed that in spite of the solicitous conversation, there was a pinched look about Madeleine’s face. It was a characteristic that would become all too familiar over the weeks ahead.

  ‘You two were lucky,’ muttered Eric. It was the first sound they had heard from him since they’d arrived; he had clearly been shaken by the fact that his aircraft, along with its pilot, had been the first casualty of their operation.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Thierry. Then he turned to Henri and pointed at the map.

  ‘Can you explain exactly where we are, and what is our situation? In terms of the local … er … population?’

  ‘Germans, you mean?’ asked Henri.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They come and go. There is a strong Gestapo presence in Montbéliard …’ he pushed his plump finger into the middle of the map, ‘and also around Sochaux, where the factory is situated.’

  Thierry looked thoughtful.

  ‘You will be based at a house here,’ continued Henri, moving his finger to point to a small town three or four kilometres distant, ‘in Fesches-le-Châtel. It was my brother-in-law’s.’ He glanced at Madeleine, who looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘Was?’ asked Thierry.

  ‘He was killed. Last summer.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  Henri shrugged. ‘We are in war; casualties are expected. Even if …’ his words faded away.

  Rosamund glanced at Thierry, who said nothing.

  ‘But it is late,’ said Henri, folding up the map. ‘We will discuss things in more detail tomorrow. Now you must sleep. There is no haste to rise in the morning.’ He lit the Tilley lamp once more and motioned all three of them to follow him through the same door the younger members of the family had used. Behind it was a steep and narrow staircase, which they climbed one behind the other, negotiating the sharp corners with their packs held in front of them – something that presented a particular challenge to Eric with his angular transmitter. They passed a door which led presumably to Henri and Madeleine’s bedchamber and carried on upwards to another door at the very top where Rosamund assumed Paulette and Gaston slept. Alongside it was a narrow section of tongue and groove panelling, its once-white distemper peeling away. Henri put his shoulder to the panel which, with some persuasion, swung back on hinges to reveal a loft space directly beneath the hipped roof. Throwing his portly body forwards, Henri climbed up into the space, before turning and pulling each of them up and over the ledge in turn. No one looking at the wall would have guessed that it held a secret; it was simply the end of the staircase.

  Henri cast an eye over the room in the manner of a B&B owner seeking approval for his accommodation. ‘You will be comfortable, I hope. And safe, too, until we can move you tomorrow night.’

  ‘Thank you. It looks fine,’ commented Thierry reassuringly, looking around at the sparsely furnished space, which contained three camp beds, each with a blanket laid over a thin mattress, and a pillow whose linen cover was crisp and white. They might be itinerant visitors, but Madeleine had standards that were maintained for all.

  A washstand, a floral ceramic basin and a water-filled ewer stood against the wall below the apex of the roof, and on each bed was a different coloured towel. The lavatory on the floor below would be shared. Rosamund could not help smiling at this primitive but perfectly acceptable form of housekeeping.

  Henri wished them goodnight, then turned to close the door, adding, ‘We shall be up early – animals to feed – but you need not rush. We will speak later in the morning. There will be breakfast for you when you come down.’ And with that he nodded politely and closed the panel.

  ‘Well,’ said Thierry. ‘Here we are.’

  Eric was already kneeling at his radio equipment. ‘Better send a message,’ he murmured, turning a dial and flipping a switch or two before tapping out in Morse code a brief missive that Rosamund was too tired to translate.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ asked Thierry.

  It was the first time that Rosamund had ever detected a note of unease in Thierry’s voice.

  Eric nodded. ‘Fine, if we’re brief. I checked with the farmer before you got here. And I’ll change location every time I send a message so that we are more difficult to pinpoint.’

  ‘Mmm. Let me know each time before you transmit. I don’t want to take any risks. Now that The Outfit know we’re here, they won’t expect any more contact for a while, and that’s just as well.’ He turned to Rosamund. ‘Better get some sleep.’

  Rosamund was taking off her jacket. They would be sleeping in their clothes, but the loft was surprisingly warm and she discarded as much as was decently possible. Slipping between the rough blankets, she
asked, ‘You know what we are going to do, then?’

  Thierry had taken off his own jacket and was unlacing his boots. ‘I know what we are going to try to do, yes.’

  Rosamund looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Get some sleep. I’ll brief you in the morning.’ And with that, he turned off the Tilley lamp, which Henri had left behind, and bade both his roommates a goodnight.

  Rosamund slept surprisingly well, and was woken around 7 a.m. by the sound of animals in the yard below, the bright sunlight glinting through a high narrow window at the apex of the end wall of the loft, and the smell of frying sausages – something she had not experienced in a long while.

  Thierry’s bed was empty and he was nowhere to be seen. Eric was invisible under a mountain of grey blanket, which rose and fell in synchronisation with the gentle snores that emanated from beneath it. Rosamund smiled, threw her towel over her shoulder and walked over to the washstand, splashing the water on her face and neck and rubbing herself dry with the coarse towel, which erased any remaining traces of sleep or torpor.

  Folding the towel and replacing it at the foot of her bed, she pulled on her boots, pulled back the panel and, after making use of the communal facilities, descended the steps to the kitchen.

  The sight that greeted her warmed her heart. Madeleine was standing against the window, which was flooded with early morning sunlight, pouring hot water into a coffee pot. The kitchen door was open, and through it Rosamund could hear the rustic vocalisations of chickens and pigs, a distant lowing cow, the sound of a broom on cobblestones and a shovel on a stable floor.

  The table was covered with a blue gingham cloth and sported several plates and covered bowls. At one end, seated behind a generous helping of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, a steaming mug beside him, sat a beaming Thierry. ‘Good morning, mam’selle!’ he said. ‘Look at this!’ He opened his arms wide to indicate the early morning feast.