Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Everything that you do will be French in manner,” Buckmaster tells us. “You will comb your hair like the French. You will hold your forks and knives like the French. The way you answer the telephone or call a waiter will be, exactly, as a Frenchman”—he looks at me then—“or a Frenchwoman, would do.”

  What none of us had anticipated, however, was that he would take his commitment to authenticity to an extreme level. The morning we are to begin our coding lessons with Denis Rake, Buckmaster walks into the library.

  “I would like a show of hands as to who has fillings in their teeth,” Buckmaster says.

  Everyone but me raises their hands.

  I’ve never been more grateful to be singled out when he adds, “Nancy can stay. The rest of you, come with me.”

  John Farmer hazards a question. “Why?”

  “Because the French don’t have lead fillings. They have gold. You’ll be given away as English with a single glance in your mouth. So we’re having them replaced.”

  Buckmaster may as well have said the five of them needed to be circumcised, judging by the terrified expression on their faces.

  “Do you really have no fillings?” Farmer hisses at me as he passes.

  I open my mouth to show him a perfect set of pearly-white teeth. My mother had many faults. But her commitment to oral hygiene wasn’t one of them.

  The room grows very quiet, once Rake and I are left alone, however. I glance in his direction and he is grinning like a fox left alone in the henhouse.

  “I imagine you think you are very clever,” he says.

  “Listen, I’m sorry—”

  “All is fair in love and war, Duckie. I’ll get you back. One way or another. Just know that.”

  “I think, perhaps, that you are not hearing my apology.”

  “I don’t hear an apology.” His grin widens, and I think he is enjoying this a great deal. “Nor would I accept one, if I did.”

  “Denis—”

  “I’ve been charged with teaching you how to code messages and communicate in Morse code. And that is exactly how we’re going to spend the rest of this day, Duckie.”

  MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

  February 15, 1944

  We leave Scotland as a group. Buckmaster has gone on ahead of us without a word of what’s coming. Denis Rake and René Dusacq have joined our group but are not in our train compartment.

  “Do you think we’ll be sent back now?” I ask.

  Farmer shakes his head. “No.”

  “What could possibly be left?”

  “Well, we aren’t swimming to France, you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His mouth curls down at the corners. “Parachute school, most likely.”

  “Oh surely not.”

  * * *

  —

  Farmer is right. On our first night in Manchester we are loaded into hot-air balloons and flown over the countryside. Our instructor for this particular exercise is a battle-hardened, retired RAF pilot known as Simmons.

  “Your mother told you everything you need to know in order to survive this,” he tells me once our balloon is hovering five thousand feet above the earth.

  “I doubt that,” I tell him.

  “Elbows in, legs together.”

  My mother never once told me to keep my legs together. But then again, she never tossed me out of a hot-air balloon in the middle of the night over the English countryside either. We float in the darkness, without sound, and the instructor tightens my pack.

  “We’re going to do this,” he says, “so you may as well accept it. Do you remember the instructions?”

  “I count to five and pull the cord. I keep my elbows in and my legs together. Bend my knees on landing. Try not to snap my ankles.”

  He looks at my army boots and grunts. Then he undoes the latch in the door of the wicker basket so that it swings out. All I have to do is step over the edge. It’s a small movement. Babies do it. Anyone can do it. But I am paralyzed. The idea of stepping from a functional balloon into thin air has sucked all the breath from my lungs.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I just need a moment.”

  “You don’t have a moment,” he tells me as he grabs the collar of my shirt and forces me to the edge so that my heels hang over the rim. “If you don’t jump, you don’t go to France. And if I have to push you, I’ll take some off your score.”

  He pauses to let the next words sink in.

  “For cowardice.”

  Well, I have been called a lot of things in my life, but coward has never been one of them.

  “I really hate you.”

  “Everyone does,” he says, but the words are swallowed up by silence as I step backward over the edge.

  Absolute, utter quiet. That is all I hear as I fall, feetfirst, through the darkness toward the earth.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  I pull the rip cord and a slim silver balloon flies out of my pack. But it seems an eternity before that balloon triggers the chute itself. And I have not taken a single breath the entire time. A whoosh and tug and then the moon is hidden by the silver rectangle of my parachute. I am told it will be different when they fly us in. That falling from a balloon and hurtling from a plane have very little in common. The point of this is simply to get us used to stepping out.

  I couldn’t clamp my knees together harder if I was trying to prevent a pregnancy. It’s a perfect, clear, windless night and I drift to the ground in a field populated, below the balloon, by Buckmaster, Rake, Dusacq, Farmer, and the rest of my team who have already gone before me. They hoot and holler when I land. Slap me on the back. It is the first time I feel as though they consider me one of their own.

  Nancy Grace Augusta Wake

  One Year Later

  64 BAKER STREET, LONDON

  August 15, 1945

  “Congratulations on your promotion to colonel,” I tell Buckmaster once we are comfortably seated in his office.

  He called me this morning and asked me to come in. I returned to London nine months after the liberation of France, after we had chased the Germans from all their dingy little holes. I brought Picon with me. And I have done my best to begin life anew.

  “Thank you,” he says, “and welcome back.”

  I shift in the chair. “It feels strange. I don’t know what to do with myself now that I’m not busy every moment of every day. I haven’t learned how to be alone.”

  He winces. “I am sorry about your husband. Truly, I am. If we’d only known, maybe we could have…” Buckmaster lets his words fade away, unwilling to speak something we both know would be a lie.

  “Even if you had known, there’s nothing you could have done.” I look him square in the eyes so that he won’t have the opportunity to feel guilty. “I’d do it all again. Every bit of it.”

  “It’s a loss, though, and a terrible one.”

  “One of millions. Henri just happens to be mine.” I am still surprised at the sudden waves of grief that threaten to drown me. I take a deep breath and give Buckmaster half of a smile. “Henri once told me that when the war was over, we would remember our friends and count the dead. That time has come due, I suppose.”

  There is a flicker in Buckmaster’s eyes then, just a flash of mischief, but it does not escape my attention.

  “It is rather hard to count amidst the chaos, though. People slip through the cracks.” He holds up one finger and reaches for the phone on his desk. Dials, waits a beat, then says, “You can send them in now.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I told you on the phone this morning that I had news.”

  I turn in my seat as the door to his office swings open
and Hubert enters, followed by Anselm, Denis Rake, and Ian Garrow. I haven’t seen them in months, not since we arrived back in London. We’ve all gone our separate ways, trying to rebuild new lives on old foundations.

  “What’s this about?” I ask, rising from my chair.

  “Your friends thought it was high time you all celebrated together,” Buckmaster says.

  I am about to hug them each in turn when I see a man in full military regalia standing in the doorway. He is walking with a limp and leaning on a cane. His beard is full and dark, peppered with silver, but neatly trimmed. He is smiling at me, as though we are old and dear friends. The man takes off his cap and tucks it beneath his arm.

  “Good to see you, Nance,” he says.

  And then I recognize the warm brown eyes. The strong, straight nose. I step forward and mean to throw my arms around him, but he looks a bit unsteady on that cane—his left leg is badly misshapen, and he is quite thin. So I stand in front of him instead, cover my face with my hands, and begin to weep.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  Patrick O’Leary pulls me close with his free arm and says, “No. Just delayed.”

  “The Americans liberated Dachau in April,” Buckmaster tells me. “We made contact with him as soon as we could.”

  I turn an accusing stare to Garrow. “Did you know?”

  “We wanted to surprise you,” he says.

  “I’m so sorry—” It’s all too much. I let the tears flow freely.

  O’Leary sets a hand on my shoulder. “Enough. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I should have—”

  “You did the thing you needed to do. And so did I.”

  I pull away. Dry my eyes. Dry my nose. Look him over. He looks positively distinguished. There is no sign of the reckless Belgian soldier whom I traipsed across France with.

  Once I’ve composed myself I say, “You know, there is one thing I have always wondered about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your real name.”

  The man I know as Patrick O’Leary laughs so long and so hard that Buckmaster and the others join him. And I stand in their midst, swiveling my head, as though I have been left out of some great joke. And I suppose I have. When O’Leary gets control of himself he straightens his body, snaps his heels together, and salutes me. Then, very gently, he extends his hand like we are meeting for the first time.

  I take it and he says, “Major General Comte Albert-Marie Edmond Guérisse. I am pleased to officially meet you, madame, and I remain, eternally, at your service.” Then he turns my hand over, brings it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles.

  I can think of only one thing to say. “You big Belgian backhander! You never told me you were a count!”

  Hélène

  SOE HEADQUARTERS, LONDON, 64 BAKER STREET

  February 20, 1944

  “What’s this?” I ask as Buckmaster hands me a small, wrapped present.

  “A gift,” he says. “For completing training. Go on, open it.”

  I peel back the paper to find a small box, and inside that a silver compact with mirror. It is lovely. Too nice, in fact, and I am overwhelmed. I press it against my chest and look at him, blinking back tears.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’ve earned it. And besides, I know you like nice things. I can’t imagine sending you back to France without a token of my respect.”

  Maurice Buckmaster’s office is as spare and unassuming as the man himself. It is only a few blocks from where I first interviewed on Orchard Court, and I look around the room trying to find any personal items. Nothing. I know he got married a couple years ago because Rake mentioned it in training. But there are no pictures. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring. There is nothing to identify him as the man as opposed to the officer.

  “You’re sending me back? So I passed?”

  “You did. In spectacular—if not unconventional—fashion. Put all the men to shame, as a matter of fact.”

  “When do I leave?” I ask.

  “Soon,” he says. “All you have to do between now and then is memorize the details of your mission.”

  “Which are?”

  “To finance, equip, and train the Maquis d’Auvergne. We will be sending you ahead, into the Auvergne, to help arm the French Resistance ahead of the Allied landing. They must be prepared for battle.”

  “Am I going alone?”

  “No. You will be accompanied by Denis Rake—he will be your radio operator, known to you as ‘Denden’—”

  “I bet he’ll love that.”

  Buckmaster taps the file in front of him with one long finger, then lifts an eyebrow. “He petitioned for your code name to be ‘Duckie.’ I overruled him.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Hélène.”

  “Well, he’s never once called me anything but Duckie. Good luck getting him to change now.” I draw a long breath through my nose and let it out of my mouth. “Me and Denis? I can live with that.”

  He snorts. “Another of your fellow trainees will accompany the two of you to France. I have assigned him to be your partner.”

  I hesitate. “Which one?”

  Maurice Buckmaster smiles, proving once and for all that he does in fact have a rather wicked sense of humor. “John Farmer. But to you, he will be ‘Hubert.’ ”

  BENSON MILITARY AIRFIELD, ENGLAND

  February 29, 1944

  The night is crisp and clear. The air smells of frost and diesel fuel, and the acrid scent tingles the inside of my nose. The Liberator bomber is waiting for us on the tarmac. Denis Rake was flown in by Lysander a week ago, so it’s just Farmer—no, Hubert—and myself on this mission. Somewhere, back in the hangar, René Dusacq and the others are drowning the remnants of a blistering hangover in a pot of burned coffee. We have said our good-byes. I am packed. Armed. I have memorized all my targets and coordinates. The job before us is overwhelming. The odds of success minimal. The enemy deadly and unrelenting. But out there, across the English Channel, deep in the heart of France, thousands of brave, patriotic men are waiting for our help. And we cannot leave them to fight this war alone.

  I am ready.

  Hubert goes into the belly of the Liberator first, but I turn and look at Buckmaster.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “For sending me home.”

  Author’s Note

  Reader, beware.

  As with all of my novels, the following pages are filled with explanations, backstory, anecdotes, and spoilers. If you begin this journey here, your reading experience will be altered. It will be a bit like watching a magic act after you’ve learned how the rabbit is smuggled into the hat. You’ll never see the rabbit the same way again. You also might end up disillusioned with the magician. Trust me on this, start at the beginning and let the show proceed as planned.

  But, if you choose to keep reading…

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  I first heard of Nancy Wake in October 2015. I was sitting in a hotel room in Buffalo, New York, waiting for an event, when I got an email from Sally Burgess, a woman I consider to be a second mother. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn’t write about Nancy next, we could no longer be friends.

  The thing is, I have never been good at doing as I’m told (just ask my real mother). I wrote I Was Anastasia instead. But I do know a good story when I see one. So a year later I turned my attention to Nancy Wake, and I knew, the way I always know, that I had found my next novel.

  I’d never read any story like it—much less a true one!—in which it was a woman who went off to war while her husband stayed behind to hold down the fort. A woman who stepped onto a battlefield and was not only treated as an equal, but was revered and respected as a fearless leader. A woman who killed a Nazi with her bare hands. In all my years r
esearching and writing historical fiction, I have never come across such a bold, bawdy, brazen woman. The fact that she really lived, and I had the honor of telling her story, is something for which I will always be grateful.

  At this point I have spent three years reading and writing about Nancy Wake, and I never cease to be amazed by her exploits. While I read countless articles about her, my primary research materials were Nancy Wake: A Biography of Our Greatest War Heroine by Peter FitzSimons, Nancy Wake: SOE’s Greatest Heroine by Russell Braddon, The Women Who Spied for Britain: Female Secret Agents of the Second World War by Robyn Walker, and, most important, The White Mouse by Nancy Wake.

  In these books I discovered a remarkable young Aussie expat who bluffed her way into a freelance reporting job at the European branch of the Hearst Newspaper Group in Paris. According to Peter FitzSimons, one of Nancy’s first assignments was interviewing the newly elected German chancellor Adolf Hitler. I worked for months to find that article, to no avail. As a matter of fact, I could not get my hands on a single article written by Nancy Wake in her three years at Hearst. And I don’t think I am alone in this because not a single one of her biographers quoted from her articles in their books. After reaching out to a university librarian, I was told that Hearst does not make their articles available digitally and that, were I to visit their archives, I likely wouldn’t find Nancy’s articles regardless. Apparently, at the time, Hearst did not print the names of its female journalists—or, when they did, the articles were often not filed under those names. “It’s just the way it was,” the librarian said. However, it is worth noting that I did not reach out to Hearst to confirm this. I had a looming deadline, a busy family life (four kids in four different schools across two school districts), and tens of thousands of words left to write. So I abandoned my pursuit of the articles and got back to work. It would have been incredibly helpful to have them, but it wasn’t necessary. I know that the articles exist in some dusty archive. I just don’t know if she ever got credit for them. It is quite possible that Nancy Wake was being erased from history even as she was writing it.