by Larry Loftis
“Where the devil am I?” Sleep in his voice.
Odette gazed into his eyes, almost close enough to kiss him. “While I talk my way through half a dozen Italian Control Posts, in the curfew, you’re sleeping in my bed, mon cher.”
Peter cleared his head and sat up. There was something in Odette’s face, something beautiful yet defiant. It was lovely. She was no longer an angry gazelle; more like a determined angel. His angel. He wanted to go over details of the landing field, but hearing that she had been up all night, he suggested that she get a bath, fill him in on essentials, and then sleep all day.
Odette wasn’t interested in sleep. After breakfast she brought up Arles. “It’s a peach of a field,” she said. “The surface is perfect.”
He asked about trees and she said there were none in the way.
And what was this business about driving all night? Peter asked. That should have been unnecessary.
Gontrand’s permit was no good after 11 P.M., she explained, but she had wanted to chance it to get back by morning. When the Control guard brought out the duty officer, she told him it was an emergency: she was traveling through the night to see her very sick child in a Cannes nursing home. The duty officer seemed unmoved, so she played the ace: “I turned on a few tears and that fixed him.”
* * *
ON DECEMBER 12 ARNAUD heard the BBC transmission, “Deux et trois font cinq”—London’s announcement that the Arles-Chanoines operation was moving forward. Peter contacted the landing party and they were off to the station. The December moon would peak full on the 22nd, the lunar calendar showed, so the operation would have sufficient lighting anywhere from the 17th to the 28th.
Trains throughout France were a microcosm of espionage. In addition to Control checkpoints at most stops, Abwehr and Gestapo agents, as well as German officers, were often in the coaches. The danger, though, was little deterrent for SOE and Resistance operatives. Messages were passed, for example, one circuit to another, by placing the paper inside a lavatory sign. On a seemingly innocent trip to the restroom, the receiving courier would unscrew the sign, retrieve the note, replace it with her own, and reattach the sign.
Agent rescues were almost as foolproof. When a captive was being delivered from one city to another, a rescue team would board the train and assume positions by the lavatory and behind the escorting German guards. At the appropriate moment, a team member would flash the prisoner a sign, indicating it was time for a restroom visit. Once the guard uncuffed the prisoner and escorted him to the lavatory, the ambush team went to work; the guards suddenly felt pistols poking their stomachs or kidneys, and the captive was spirited away.
* * *
THE ARLES TRIP WAS not without its own drama. At lunchtime Odette and Peter joined couriers Jacques Riquet and Jacques Latour in the dining car. As they took their seats they noticed a number of German and Italian officers around various tables. Voices low and conversation light, the SPINDLE spies enjoyed themselves as ordinary travelers. After the meal Peter paid the bill and set out eight francs—two per diner being customary—next to the children’s Winter Relief Fund tickets, a tax paid by French nationals to assist orphans of parents killed during the war.
Odette looked at the tickets. Had her family stayed in France, those orphans could have been her own children. She felt herself growing hot.
Snatching one of the tickets, she stood.
“I know the very person who should be paying for this slight offering.”
“Now, Lise,” Peter said, “for goodness’ sake don’t start anything stupid.”
Odette marched down the aisle until she came to a German general. Placing the stub before him, she said, “I think that you, who are instrumental in bringing about the need for this fund, should pay for this ticket.”
The dining car fell silent as the general glanced at it. With the snap of a finger he could have had her arrested and sent to a labor or concentration camp. He motioned for the waiter, who—thinking he had mistakenly set it before the German—began apologizing. Handing the server the ticket and a two-franc coin, the general turned to Odette with a silent, patronizing look. She said nothing and returned to her table.
Peter held his fire until they made their way back to the coach. As they passed between platforms, he said, “An admirable performance, Lise, and I understand your feelings, but for God’s sake lay off that kind of thing. It’s quite dangerous enough as it is.”
* * *
THEY ARRIVED IN ARLES without further incident and Peter, Odette, Riquet, and Latour checked into the last four rooms at the Grand Hôtel Nord Pinus. The town was crawling with occupation troops and the other rooms, it turned out, were occupied by senior German officers. To compound matters, Carte and Paul—sensing that Cannes had become too hot—had moved to Arles; Resistance agents summoned for meetings in cafes would be mingling now shoulder to shoulder with Wehrmacht soldiers.
While they waited for London’s signal, Peter and Odette decided to blend in as tourists. Arles is a city whose gates and ruins protest its modern insignificance, and even the most culturally deaf could appreciate the Roman baths, Barbegal aqueduct, and history of van Gogh’s ear. By day it’s a museum of monuments, of ancient glories past; by evening, a tapestry of cafe terraces and starry nights over the Rhône.
They visited the Amphitheater—a coliseum built for thousands to watch gladiator fights, the first-century Gallo-Roman theater, and the Romanesque St. Trophime Church. It seemed appropriate. They were, after all, fighting for their lives in the arena, wearing the masks and playing the parts, and, when the curtain fell, praying that they’d exit the stage as peacefully as they’d entered.
Days later, however, still nothing from London.
On December 23 Peter began to worry; the moon would provide sufficient light for only five more nights. The following day, he received news of the apparent obstacle: antiaircraft batteries. One of Carte’s men had collected details on the locations of batteries and night fighter squadrons throughout France, and the problem for the Chanoines operation—which London might have heard—was that an AA battery had been installed less than twelve hundred yards from the landing site. Peter sent the information just in case.
As Christmas approached the mood was festive. December had brought heavy snow and the town—locals, visitors, occupiers, and saboteurs—seemed to harmonize in the holiday spirit. On Christmas Eve the reception committee gathered at the hotel to celebrate. Someone brought cake and a dozen bottles of Côtes du Rhône, but one thing was missing, Odette felt: a piano. She inquired with the hotel proprietor and was told that the Germans had moved it to their dining hall. She went there and found three officers eating.
“Bon-soir, Mademoiselle,” a major greeted as he stood.
“Gentlemen, please forgive this intrusion. The fact is that it is Christmas Eve and, though this terrible war has separated many friends and families, I am fortunate enough to have around me tonight some of the playmates of my childhood. If you are indeed as generous as one occasionally hears, you could do us a very great service tonight.”
The major said the German Reich sought to be friends of France and asked how he could be of assistance. Odette noted the piano in the corner and said that among her guests was a pianist. It would give her group great pleasure, she said, if he could play songs of Christmas and France.
The major bowed. “Mademoiselle, my colleagues and I will be very pleased for your friend to play the piano—in view of the German policy of cooperation and because it is Christmas Eve.”
Not exactly what Odette had in mind. She politely explained that her friend would not experience the appropriate nostalgia unless he played only to his compatriots.
“You wish the piano to be moved upstairs, Mademoiselle?”
“Please.”
“Very well, Mademoiselle. Though it would have pleased us to hold the concert in this Mess, the piano may be taken upstairs—provided it is returned by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
The major stiffened. “Am I to understand, Mademoiselle, that you wish to suggest that my brother-officers and I carry the piano upstairs?”
“Gentlemen, you are more than kind.”
The Christmas party of the Resistance saboteurs—complete with piano accompaniment—began moments later.
Grand Hôtel Nord Pinus, Arles, 1943. SUDWALL SUPERFORUM
* * *
ON CHRISTMAS DAY THEY waited for London but heard nothing. No word came until the 27th, when they heard “Deux et trois font cinq” on two of their three radios. The cars did not have enough space for Odette to go, so she said good-bye to Peter at the hotel. She asked that he deliver presents for her daughters, and he agreed.
“And you will come back, as you promised, won’t you, Michel?”
Odette’s words echoed back to her. They were at the bridge of the river of love, she knew. The passion in her own marriage had expired long ago, but she remained a married woman. Yet it was clear—if Peter took her hand and they crossed, there would be no turning back.
Peter said he would return, and that she should take care of herself meanwhile. “I want to find you here when I get back, so don’t go out of your way looking for trouble.”
“I promise you that, Pierre.”
Peter noticed the subtle change; it was the first time Odette had used the French translation of his real name. He wanted to kiss her, but that would have been highly inappropriate for a commanding officer. But he couldn’t walk away. Not with Odette’s overture . . . I promise you, Pierre. Never had his name sounded so sweet. It was a bouquet of promise and more, much more, and it demanded a reciprocal token of love.
Seconds hung as he wondered how to respond. Unconsciously, he reached for Odette’s soft, elegant hands and gazed into her eyes. Immediately he was swimming—swimming in her love, in the embrace that was there, in the promise that if he returned, she would be his.
He had to leave. Now.
He brought Odette’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and walked into the moon-swept night.
* * *
THE FLARE-PATH TEAM AND generals were waiting at Carte’s house when Peter arrived, but there was an eerie silence. A German motorcycle unit of forty men and machines, Paul Frager said, had just camped down two kilometers from the Chanoines landing spot. Coupled with the nearby AA flak post, he said, this made the operation too dangerous.
The men looked at one another, all trying to determine the odds and the next man’s resolve.
Captain Roland, a French infantry officer, countered that the speed of the pickup would catch the Germans off guard and that the line of retreat would be into the Camargue, where they could spend the remainder of the night. Peter objected, saying that he couldn’t risk an aircraft in such harrowing circumstances; the chances of getting ten men and their luggage away would be slim.
Carte was unmoved. “I have listened to all points of view,” he announced, “and my decision, despite all the dangers is that we must tackle these heavy odds. We can’t expect to glide through this war with all our cards in our favor so will all those who agree raise their hands?”
All hands went up other than Peter’s and Paul’s.
Peter relented and they crammed into two cars and were off for Chanoines, flak battery and motorcycle unit notwithstanding.
By 10:20 P.M. Peter had everyone in place. Once again they huddled silently in the cold waiting for the drone of a Hudson. The hours passed and they heard nothing. At 2:00 A.M. Peter suggested to Carte that they give the plane another half hour. Carte agreed, but by 2:35, they still had heard nothing and left.
When they were just over a mile away, they heard a faint hum. It was the sound of an aircraft. Could be a German plane, Peter thought. In any case, they were too far away to race back and realign the lights. Moments later they watched as the aircraft flew directly toward the field.
It was the Hudson. The only Hudson available to SOE during the war.
* * *
WHEN ODETTE AND PETER arrived back at Cannes, a message was waiting. London wanted them to land SOE’s only Lysander during the same moon period at Bassillac, six miles west of Périgueux. Peter checked the map—it was five hundred miles to the place; they’d have to change trains in Marseille and again in Toulouse. Once in Périgueux they’d have to book a hotel, find transportation to Bassillac, and then reconnoiter the field. Either Buckmaster had downed one bourbon too many, or the operation was too difficult or dangerous for a closer, lesser team.
Marsac met them at the Marseille station and gave Odette a portable radio to pick up the BBC broadcast; the coded message for the operation was “Les femmes sont parfois volages.” In Périgueux, they took the last two rooms at the Domino Hôtel and settled in for the night. At six in the morning there was a disturbance—pounding and rumbling down the hall.
The police were arresting someone.
Peter and Odette sat tight in their rooms, surrounded by incriminating radio equipment. The voices disappeared and the danger passed, although every close call brought them one step closer to exposing their cover.
After lunch they hailed a vélo-taxi to Bassillac and, arm in arm like newlyweds, strolled through the village and around the abutting airport. Being “a couple” was their cover, yet each held the other’s arm as if it were true. Perhaps it was true. Were they a couple?
The field had only one strip, they saw, a large and small hangar, a block building—perhaps a barrack—and a control tower. On the side opposite the buildings, the open field ran some six hundred yards and was bordered by a line of trees and then a small river. In the northeast quadrant there was a bridge, beyond which the road splintered in four directions.
Odette and Jacques Latour would take the lower portion of the lighting pattern, Peter decided, close to the trees if trouble arose. Since he and Paul were boarding the craft, they would align themselves along the top of the L and clamber aboard when the plane stopped. If all went well they’d be in the air ninety seconds from touchdown.
As Peter and Odette moved about the field, they saw two or three men loitering but no aircraft activity. If the airfield was inactive, they wondered, who were these men?
They walked back to Périgueux and Odette radioed Arnaud that they were ready. Paul and Jacques met them later at the hotel and suggested that Odette join them for dinner at the Fénélon Hôtel, where Paul was staying. In the meantime, Peter would remain at the Domino and listen for the BBC broadcast. If nothing came, he’d join them; if it did, they’d be off.
That evening, Peter fiddled with the radio trying to get a clear signal, but also trying to keep the volume low. When he’d arranged the dial, he heard it: “Les femmes sont parfois volages.” Slipping the radio into a cardboard box, he grabbed his rucksack and hurried into the freezing night. Minutes later he was at the Fénélon, and by eight they were off for the hike to Bassillac. They reached the airfield at a quarter to ten and found that it was blanketed by four feet of mist; if it didn’t clear, the pilot would have to manage a blind landing.
With everyone huddling behind an embankment, Peter assigned flashlight positions and then slipped away to set handkerchiefs where he wanted each person—150 yards apart along the long bar of the L, with Jacques positioned 50 yards at the right-angle tip.
He returned and they ate some smoked ham Odette had packed and washed it down with Armagnac. Then something strange happened: the mist began to scatter even though there was no wind. Good for the pilot, bad for them. The control tower and barrack, fortunately, were quiet.
Around ten thirty they heard it—the faint droning of an aircraft—and everyone hustled into position. Odette huddled in her wool skirt as the chill seeped into her—the temperature was now in the low teens—and watched as Peter flashed the code.
The plane didn’t countersignal. Moments later, it passed overhead an
d then vanished.
Peter came alongside and told her to stay low. Moving to the end of the light formation, he told Jacques, “Keep an eye on those buildings. I have a feeling we’re in for an unwelcome interruption from that quarter.”
Peter continued on to Paul’s position and then ducked down. “There’s someone coming!” he whispered.
Across the field, Odette watched as two men walked from the direction of the tower directly toward Peter and Paul. She didn’t see flashlights, but if they continued in that line there’d be a party soon.
She held her breath as the men patrolled directly in front of Peter and Paul but apparently didn’t see them. When they were out of sight, Peter came back. The plane would return, he said, and if there was any danger from the control tower or barrack, he’d wave his flashlight and she and Jacques were to run for the trees.
Suddenly Odette heard a distant buzz. The plane was returning. Peter moved back into position and everyone waited.
After a minute or so a flash—not from Peter—swept across the horizon.
It was a trap!
Odette found the source across the field: an Aldis lamp was flashing Morse to the tower. Lights suddenly flooded the grounds and someone shouted, “Put out those lights, you imbeciles! Wait for the plane to land and we’ll grab them all.”
Peter waved his flashlight and Odette turned to take off, but she could hear the plane returning. Just then Jacques ran up and Odette suggested that they escape in different directions. He tore off to the left and Odette started to run right when she heard barking. Gazing back, she saw a German Shepherd sniffing the area she had just left.
The chase was on.
She bolted for the woods and made it past the tree line when she heard the Shepherd closing, growling and thrashing through the underbrush.