by Ariel Lawhon
Women. Hubert doesn’t say the word aloud, but I can see him shaking his head in consternation. Well, let him try to shave his legs a single time, much less every two days for the rest of his life, and see how he feels about the process. Or the analogy.
Our orders were to rendezvous with Gaspard because his group is the largest in the area. We could have never known in London that it is also the most arrogant, overconcentrated, unintelligent, and ill-prepared group of men in the entirety of France. I don’t like having to shift to an alternate plan any more than Hubert does, but there are other groups, all of whom need assistance as well. And having been rejected by Gaspard, we move on to the next name on our list. A list that is stored well within the folds of my own gray matter. Hubert might have exceptional hearing, but I have fabulous recall. Names. Dates. Facts. Locations. I can remember all of it with uncanny skill. However, I have only two details regarding our next contact. His name is Henri Fournier, and his group is based near the town of Chaudes-Aigues.
“What do you think is wrong with the French?” I ask.
“A great deal,” Hubert says. “But you must be more specific.”
“Not a single one of them can seem to name their sons anything but Henri. Here an Henri, there an Henri, everywhere an Henri, Henri,” I say in singsong voice. “I’ll have to call our new contact Fournier. It’s too confusing otherwise.”
“I don’t care what you call him. We just need to get there.” Hubert drags himself off the stone wall and begins to stretch, but no sooner does he have his arms over his head than he freezes. He looks as though he’s surrendering to an enemy force. Very slowly Hubert turns his head to the south and stares down the lane.
“What?”
“A car is coming.”
I squint down the road but cannot see a thing other than dirt and shadows. “A German patrol car?”
“Probably.” He gives me a single nod and then vaults over the low stone wall and squats down behind it.
We have a bit of time, so I ready myself. I drop my purse and backpack behind the wall next to Hubert. Set both revolvers in my lap and cover them with my coat. Sit up a bit straighter. Put on my “pretty face,” as my husband calls it. Cross my legs. And wait.
Before long a little Renault sputters into view, weaving this way and that to avoid potholes. It’s headed toward us at an urgent clip and a cloud of dust blows up in its wake. I know the driver has seen me when the car begins to slow. And then it’s screeching to a stop, spitting bits of gravel against the wall beside me.
The driver rolls down his window and sticks his head out. “Choosing a suitable grave, are you, Duckie?” he says in the most perfect, aristocratic English.
“Good God, I hate you. You shameless piece of shit!” I jump up from the wall and wave my revolvers in delight. Denis Rake, our radio operator, has finally decided to make an appearance.
Rake unfolds his long, limber body from the car, looking every bit the ballet dancer. “I would have it no other way, Duckie. What an odious world it would be if you actually liked me.”
The nickname he’s given me stems from our first meeting, in England, and Rake has never once called me by my given name. He looks at my raised weapons without the slightest bit of concern. “It’s not as though I deserted. There’s no need to gather a firing squad.”
I set down the revolvers and launch myself into his arms, giving him a hug and then a sloppy kiss on each cheek. There are no words to describe my delight at seeing him, so I don’t attempt to find any.
“About time you got here,” Hubert says as he scrambles to his feet from behind the wall.
“Ah, there you are. Letting our girl do the work as usual.”
I gather my stuff and begin loading it into the backseat of the car. “Where have you been? We thought you were dead.”
“My dear, swarms of Germans were chasing me everywhere. It’s a miracle I got away.”
A cock-and-bull story if I’ve ever heard one. Rake has a lover somewhere in the country, and everyone knows he flew in a few days early for a rendezvous.
“Hogwash,” Hubert mumbles under his breath.
“The real question,” Rake says, “is why the bloody hell the two of you are out here, in the middle of nowhere? Tardivat told me to meet you at Gaspard’s compound at Mont Mouchet.”
I let Rake know what happened with Gaspard as quickly as I can, along with my feelings toward the man and where we’re headed now.
He shakes his head and turns to Hubert. “You should have let her kill him.”
Hubert tosses his bag into the backseat beside mine, then climbs in next to it. “I’m sure she’ll get her chance. I have a suspicion Gaspard isn’t going anywhere.”
CHAUDES-AIGUES PLATEAU, CANTAL, FRANCE
Château de Couffour
I decide immediately that I like Fournier. He and a number of his men have taken up residence in the Château de Couffour, a home so old it makes Gaspard’s residence look like new construction. It is situated outside Chaudes-Aigues, a large town in the mountainous Cantal region that sits at the bottom of a winding river valley and is surrounded by imposing hills and plateaus for fifty kilometers in every direction. At any other time, the region would be considered scenic. The sort of place you’d spend a long holiday at the peak of summer. As it stands, under German occupation, it is difficult to traverse and remote enough to keep the enemy at bay. Crisscrossed by deep rivers, heavy with snowmelt, and not easily accessible by any major roadway, it is the perfect location from which to wage guerrilla warfare. Perfect for hiding from enemy forces and—most important to us—clandestine airdrops from London.
These maquisards are not formal soldiers. They are citizens, average men driven into the wilderness to escape either the Germans or the relève—the forced conscription of French nationals into the German workforce. They have left their homes and their families to make one last, desperate stand against Hitler’s invaders. I respect them, and I want to help them.
Like Gaspard, Fournier has considerable forces, but unlike him, they are not concentrated in the immediate vicinity. He has broken his men into groups of fifty and one hundred and settled them throughout the Chaudes-Aigues plateau. In the forest mostly, but also in small towns and villages along every roadway, in order to keep an eye on German troop movements. Fournier is no idiot, however. For himself he has chosen the remote, comfortable Château de Couffour, a fifteenth-century castle somewhat restored to its former glory. Of the seven original towers, only one remains, but it is three stories tall, is in excellent condition, and has a pointed, conical roof and a spiral staircase. There are eleven other rooms in the château, one of which happens to be an expansive and fully stocked wine cellar. He tells Hubert all this within moments of our arrival, and I get the impression that he is trying to convince us to stay. It’s not a hard sell.
“It’s brilliant!” I say, giving Fournier my nod of approval. Then I stick out my hand. “You and your men may call me Madame Andrée.”
He glances from me to Hubert. Then back to me. Then to Denis, and I see the confusion register on his face. Once again, he turns to my tall, confident partner, a man so obviously military that he must be in charge.
“Andrée is the chef du parachutage,” Hubert says. “Talk to her.”
Fournier’s eyes snap back to mine but they are narrowed slightly. “Pardon,” he says. “I did not mean to offend. We are glad to have you. And your associates.”
Hubert and Denden introduce themselves, giving the code names they’ve been assigned for our interactions with the Maquis. Fournier is the exact opposite of Gaspard. Short and bald. Diminutive in stature and voice. There isn’t a blustery bone in his body. His eyes are wide, curious, and clear as well water. Fournier listens to us without interrupting.
“Your arrival could not be more timely. I have run out of money.”
“Have
you been working with another agent?” Hubert asks. “Victor? Or Patrice, perhaps?”
“I do not know these men,” Fournier says. “I spent my own money to arm my men. Everything I made in thirty years of business. It’s gone,” he adds with a shrug. “But I do not regret it.”
It is one thing for me to hand out freshly printed francs, courtesy of the British government. But this man has spent every cent he’s earned fighting the Germans. His is exactly the kind of group we have come to help.
“Tell us what you need,” I say.
Fournier wastes no time in making a list. The group of fifty men situated in and around the château has only the most rudimentary arms and little to no ammunition. They need money. They need boots. Socks. Food. They need everything. But there is a system in place and I must abide by it. I will not distribute so much as a firework until I’ve assessed his group for myself.
“I believe we can help,” I tell Fournier. “But first we would like to meet your men.”
* * *
—
Once our tour is complete we convene back at the Renault. As ever, Hubert’s face is unreadable, but I know his mind is racing. Our starting point has been established, but it is daunting.
I turn to Rake. “All your equipment is in working order?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can get through to London tonight and let them know we’ve made contact with the Maquis. We’ll test out that radio of yours by requesting a shipment of arms for Fournier.”
God bless Denis Rake. He pulls his radio equipment out of the car and marches it right into the château. Hubert and I gather our bags and choose separate rooms in the tower. I don’t have time for a much-needed bath, so I just wash my face, apply a bit of perfume, and brush my hair. A quick nap—no more than thirty minutes—and a bit of lipstick and I’m right as rain again.
Hubert and I meet Rake and Fournier in the study an hour later. It’s nearing dusk and Rake is bent over the table inspecting a little notebook littered with markings I can’t read.
“What is that?”
“Shorthand.”
“In what language?”
“Hungarian.”
“You speak Hungarian?” Hubert asks.
“Bit of a long story, that,” Rake says, running a thick finger over the squiggly lines.
“Okay, then, rain check. What are you looking for?” I ask.
“The time of tonight’s transmission.” He taps the page, finding what he’s looking for, then stuffs the notebook back into his boot. “I am expected to come through to London at a different time on each day of the month. This is my first time radioing in, see, and I want to make sure I’ve got it right.” He looks at the clock. “It is March first. They’ll be listening for our transmission at fifteen minutes past eight.”
Rake, Hubert, and I are all startled at the sharp sound of Fournier’s clap. “Excellent!” he says. “We can eat dinner first.”
“It’s not quite as easy as that,” I say. “We have to determine our drop zones, name them, and transmit the coordinates before we can request a shipment. It’s already growing late, and I have to code the messages before Denden can send them.”
Once again, Fournier proves himself to be my favorite kind of Frenchman. He shrugs. “It’s dinner for two in the study, then.”
“Three!” Hubert drops into a chair beside the large, ornate desk where Rake has situated his radio and props up his feet.
In the end, Fournier cannot curb his enthusiasm and decides to join us, bringing in two large platters of simple but freshly cooked food: roasted rutabagas, turnips, and Jerusalem artichokes, sprinkled with a bit of salt, along with a loaf of rustic bread and—much to our delight—a bottle of wine.
“Most people boil their roots,” he says, setting the platter, four plates, and our forks on the table. “But I think roasting brings out the flavor. It’s better with onions and garlic. But you can’t find such things in this part of the country until later in the spring. And then only wild ones in the forest. We make do.”
We mumble our gratitude as we tuck into dinner and after a few minutes Fournier tactfully clears his throat. “I do not mean to interfere, but I have a suggestion about where you might want to place your drop zones.”
Hubert lifts his head to meet Fournier’s gaze. “You know the area. You need the supplies. It’s not interference. By all means, tell us.”
“Let me get my map,” Fournier says.
“No need.” He spreads his map out on the table beside our plates.
Fournier studies the map, turning it around several times, before setting the tip of his index finger on our location. “We are here,” he says, then scoots his finger over an inch. “And this the closest plateau. It is elevated, flat, visible from the air, and perfectly clear of trees, brush, and debris.”
Hubert considers for a moment. Then his eyes tighten. “Yes. But it is cut off on three sides by the River Truyère. We could find ourselves trapped between rapids and plateau in the event of a German ambush.”
Fournier nods solemnly. “That would be a very real concern had I not already instructed my men to identify and prepare routes of escape at several points along the river.”
If Hubert is frugal with his words, then he is positively stingy with his smiles. But the corner of his lips does curl up at this news and he gives Fournier the nod—his very specific show of respect.
Rake and I work into the evening, nibbling on our dinner as we go. It is provincial, but not without flavor, and the wine helps tremendously. We consult Hubert’s map, identifying all the possible drop zones within a ten-kilometer radius. We name each of them after fruit—Strawberry, Lemon, Apple, Orange, etcetera—then record and code their exact map references. After a bit of trial and error we finally have our list.
We watch as the little wall clock turns to eight fifteen and Denis begins tapping out his first message in Morse code.
“Turn on the radio,” he says, after what seems like an eternity. “The BBC French Service.”
Fournier fumbles with the dials and we listen in silence to the scratchy sounds of classical music broadcast over the airwaves.
“I let London know we have made contact. And I transmitted the coordinates for our drop zones.”
“How will we know they received them?” Fournier asks.
“Just wait,” Rake says.
Our dinner is gone and our plates shoved aside when, finally, at nine o’clock, the music fades out and an announcer comes on. “And now, for some personal messages,” he says.
What follows this announcement is the most seemingly random litany of nonsense we have ever heard. Song lyrics. Nursery rhymes. A biblical genealogy, car parts, three entries from a dictionary, and then the phrase we have been waiting for: “A cricket chirps in Kent.”
“We’ve gotten through!” Rake shouts and I swear to God I think I actually see Hubert smile. Fournier looks like he might stand on the table and dance.
Now that contact has been confirmed, I hand our first message to Denis Rake and he turns back to his transmitter. He begins to methodically tap out our request in Morse code:
Hélène to London. Contact made with group leader two. Wants boots, Sten guns, ammunition, grenades, and cash for fifty men at Lemon. The cow jumped over the moon.
It was Buckmaster’s idea to use fruit. He thought it would be easier for me to name the drop zones after vegetation than vehicles, which was Hubert’s preference. The bit of nursery rhyme was my idea—just to irritate Buckmaster—and is known only to Rake and myself as a security measure. Regardless, London now knows that we are here, what Fournier’s group needs, and that the message is in fact coming from me.
Once more we turn our attention to the radio and, half an hour later, we hear the announcer say, in the most deadpan voice possible, “
A frog is croaking in the mountains.” Now we can be sure that in the English countryside, in a manor house stuffed with radio operators working on rotating shifts around the clock, our transmission has been recorded. And then a call has been made to Buckmaster’s London office. Our request has been received and approved.
They can call me a frog or a witch or a stinging nettle for all I care. Help is on the way.
“Okay, then,” Rake says, laying his headset on the table. “With any luck, we’ll have our first shipment tomorrow night.”
I don’t realize how exhausted I am until I drop into the narrow bed in my room. Sleep rushes toward me in a heavy wave, and my last waking thought is that of Henri and the fact that I am now, finally, back in the same country as my husband.
* * *
—
London comes through in spectacular fashion the next night. We wait atop the plateau henceforth known as Lemon once the sun has gone down. It is well after midnight when we hear the great lumbering engines of a Liberator bomber.
“Think it’s that same crew we had on the way in?” I ask Hubert.
“Possibly,” he says, eyes trained on the dark western sky, and I imagine he hears fifteen different things that are lost to me.
Fournier and his fifty men wait along the tree line as Hubert, Denis, and I stand beside the bonfire. A single fire is all I’ve allowed. I’ll be damned if I’ll have festival lights greeting our pilots. The ones I had on landing were more than enough. And as I pointed out to Fournier, though the plateau is the perfect drop zone, it is also visible for miles around. No need to draw unwanted attention.
Before long, the Liberator is in sight—a great black hulk against the lesser darkness of the sky. It’s all rattle and clank and bombastic noise as it makes its first pass over the airfield. Fournier’s men cheer and then they curse, thinking the plane has missed us. But it circles back a moment later and then the first silver parachute deploys. Six more follow, and below each of them dangles a massive wooden crate.