White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Ours was quite a large convoy and we had many submarine alarms but after about ten days we approached Scotland. The immigration officers came aboard. I had no passport but I had been assured in Gibraltar that I would be expected and allowed to land without any hindrance. When my turn came to be interviewed I found I was not on the list of expected arrivals and as I had no passport or identifying papers I was sent to the back of the queue. I tried another queue but the same thing happened. This was just about the last straw as far as I was concerned, but I was determined not to be beaten. All the civilians had disembarked except me and only the officers were left. I approached the one who had originally called me Olga Polouski and asked him to send two telegrams, one to Captain Ian G. Garrow care of the War Office and the other to Garrow’s father, who was a professional man in Glasgow, informing them of my arrival. Thank goodness he kept his promise. Before long I was whisked off that ship and put into an empty train, having missed the boat one, and sent on my way to London. I was accompanied by a female conducting officer. No doubt she thought I was disagreeable. I was so angry about my treatment at Greenock I would not utter one word during the whole journey.

  The train stopped at a junction before London and there on the station was Captain James Langley, who was on the staff of the Assistant Chief of the British Intelligence Service. I was carrying a small overnight bag and he obviously assumed that was the only luggage I possessed, because as soon as the customary greetings were made he directed me to his car. He was speechless when he saw the trunks, which would not fit into the boot of his car and had to be sent separately to London. We had met in Marseille but did not like each other. He did not appreciate irrepressible high spirits and I have never admired snobs. That day, however, he was charming to me and we chatted all the way to London, where he had reserved a room for me at the St James Hotel.

  By the time I reached London I was in seventh heaven. Wilkie, one of the original group from Fort Saint-Jean in Marseille, was there with his wife Peggy. Ian Garrow took me to dinner at Qaglino’s. Bob Hodges, a young pilot officer we had helped in Marseille, took me to lunch with his mother. It had taken me months to arrive but I had made it.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the excitement of arriving in London had subsided it took me several weeks to settle down. I suppose I was suffering from some kind of reaction. My friends were all good to me and frequently included me in their family reunions and weekends. When the men I had known in France happened to be in England they introduced me to their wives and families. The hospitality extended to me was overwhelming. I went to every cinema and show in town. I had heard all about Gone with the Wind and as I had caught a glimpse of Vivien Leigh in Gibraltar, looking beautiful, that was the first film I saw. Nevertheless the days seemed to drag by. Everyone I knew was doing something except me.

  I was still hoping Henri would join me, so I began looking for a small flat in London. There were plenty of vacancies in central London and I had the choice of three in the Piccadilly and St James Street area, all at the same rental. The two I did not choose were bombed to the ground. Mine escaped any war damage. Once more I had been lucky. The little flat was dirty and had to be painted throughout, and the parquet floor sanded and polished. When that was done I furnished it the best way I could. I bought pyjamas, slippers and a dressing-gown for Henri, guessing he would arrive without any personal belongings. I remember going to Soho and buying a bottle of French champagne and a French liqueur brandy to celebrate his arrival. When I opened them after the war the champagne bottle was filled with wine and the brandy bottle contained lolly water. I was not surprised to find the wine merchant had disappeared without leaving an address.

  In the middle of October I had a terrible nightmare and woke up convinced Henri was dead. Micheline and another friend were staying with me at the time. I woke them up and told them of my fears. They both pointed out that it was foolish to allow a nightmare to upset me in this manner but the doubt I had in my mind continued for days, until at last I thought that I was being unrealistic.

  I first met Richard Broad in Marseille, when as a lieutenant in the Seaforth Highlanders he had managed to escape from the Occupied Zone with his men. We met again in London and I happened to mention that I was becoming bored with so much spare time on my hands. The only thing I wanted to do was to return to France, as I felt sure Henri would not join me in London. I cannot say truthfully whether I believed him to be dead or alive. It is quite possible that I believed in my heart that he was dead, but as I hoped this was not correct I put all thought of the nightmare in the back of my mind. In any case, it had nothing to do with my desire to return to France as I knew I would have to wait until after the war before returning to Marseille.

  The fact was that I had ceased to be amused by pub crawls, the endless rounds of clubs and the people I encountered in London. After all, being the capital of England it was where thousands of servicemen and women came on their leave passes, and it was natural they would want to enjoy themselves. I agreed with their aims, but in my case I was doing it every day.

  Many of the Frenchmen I had met in Spain were in London and they were all joining the Free French Movement and going back to France for General de Gaulle’s outfit. I did not want to return to France for the British so I requested an appointment with Colonel Passy at the Free French Headquarters. I was unaware of the intrigue going on at a high level between the British and the Free French. How could I know? I had been in the field where we helped each other. To my bitter disappointment Colonel Passy declined my services. It was a great blow, as the loyalty I felt for France was deep and sincere.

  The next day I received a call from an official in the Intelligence Service (he was known to me) who asked me bluntly what I had been doing at General de Gaulle’s headquarters. I denied the charge but when he described the clothes I had worn and other particulars of my appointment I agreed that he was correct. Everything fell into place. The British were spying on the French, who were probably taking me for a British stooge.

  In the meantime Richard had suggested voluntary work in the canteen of the Combined Operations Headquarters in Whitehall. They were short of staff so I agreed to give them four hours a day. It was a mistake. I think I was the only commoner in my section. It was definitely not the place for someone with my background, my down-to-earth views and forthright manner. All the titled ladies would come in and have long chats about their mutual friends before doing one scrap of work. I kept my temper, and my place, because I liked Richard and did not wish to embarrass him as he had recommended me. I heard ‘darling Dickie’ (Mountbatten) had left Europe and ‘darling Bob’ (Laycock) had taken over. The way these women gushed made me positively ill. I was relieved when I had a good reason to leave.

  It was either Richard Broad or Ian Garrow who put me in touch with Special Operations Executive. SOE was secretly formed in 1940 especially to work with the Resistance forces in German-occupied Europe. I went for an interview and in due course I was accepted and started my training. At last I was on the way back to France. First of all we were sent to a school outside London for three days. I was not surprised it was called ‘The Mad House’ by all the students. I suppose there was a good reason for doing some of the exercises they invented. The obstacle course was confusing, as each student, unknown to the others, had different instructions. It was no good to try and cheat by following the leader.

  Searching an imaginary room for hidden imaginary papers has never been my forte, so I probably failed that test. But it was the psychiatrist who really got on my nerves. After all, the profession was not as popular in 1943 as it is today. He showed me a piece of paper with a big blot of ink on it and asked me what I could see. When I said I saw a blot of ink he got quite agitated and tried to put words in my mouth. He was a New Zealander. I told him he should be doing something constructive instead of wasting his time and mine. A fellow student told me afterwards that she had told him she had seen dragons
instead of ink blots. She had got this piece of advice from a previous student. I suppose I failed that test too.

  We were to leave for a course of six weeks in Scotland. Richard took me to lunch at Monseignor’s after which I reported back to Welbeck House, ready to leave that evening. A Frenchwoman going on the same course was having a row with one of the instructors, Denis Rake, and tried to enlist my support. Denis had worked in the field in France, so naturally I took his side. I liked Denis but could not be bothered with petty squabbles, so I refused to be involved. One thing led to another, most of the problems being caused by the Frenchwoman, and before long I was in trouble with one of the staff. Unfortunately his approach was all wrong. He was not a good judge of character, otherwise he would not have spoken to me the way he did. I told him what he could do and where he could put it, and he fired me on the spot. His name was Selwyn Jepson. We did not like each other. He was so sarcastic I decided he either had an ulcer or was constipated.

  I rang up Richard to tell him I had already been sacked. He remarked on the brevity of my employment but took me out to dinner to cheer me up. The next morning I resolved to find out some way of joining the Free French. I had two friends in London working on the General’s staff. I confided in them and we put our heads together and planned our course of action. Unfortunately, or fortunately, before they had time to get any results, I was re-employed by SOE. I never knew what went on behind the scenes.

  I was sent on the next course to Scotland. No other females, just men. Weeks later, Colonel Buckmaster, the head of the French Section of SOE, told me I had been lucky to have been taken off the previous course as it had been subjected to one friction after another. I could well believe it. That particular French girl was a born mischief-maker.

  As for me, I determined that from that moment on I would keep to myself as much as possible. I would remain aloof from my fellow students and the staff. It was a bit of a strain and only lasted a few days, because the men I was with were all so pleasant and friendly. Our group consisted mainly of French, with several French Canadians, two Poles and myself. Most of them were just as fun-loving as I was. The house we lived in was in a lovely part of Scotland, Inverie Bay. Although we had to work hard we always found time to relax. We were a good team.

  We were instructed in the handling of explosives and grenades, weapons and silent killing. I had never held a revolver in my hand, let alone a Bren gun or a grenade, so this expert training was essential for me. We had day and night manoeuvres; it rained most of the time and we came back soaking wet and covered in mud. There was always plenty of hot water, and dry clothes waiting for us. The instructors were patient and the staff pampered us.

  We were taken over to ‘Eilean n’a Breac’ (The Island of the Sea Trout). An experienced deep-sea fisherman had been detailed to teach us how to retrieve parachutes and containers that had fallen in the water. This man was still alive several years ago when some close friends of mine were trout fishing in the area. He was reminiscing about his forty years at sea and said with good-humoured disgust that he’d never fallen in the sea until he met me!

  I’d fallen overboard and when the chaps tried to pull me out of the water I laughed so much I eventually overturned the boat. It was a case of swim or drown for everyone, including the poor fisherman.

  That’s definitely one course I didn’t pass.

  I’d been thoroughly enjoying myself during those weeks in Scotland, except for the first days when because of that creep Selwyn Jepson I had been pretending to be prim and proper. Then we overheard that some big brass were coming up from London to see how we were getting on, and the school’s CO was preparing our reports. Remembering all the mischief I’d been up to with some of the group, I was immediately filled with remorse and began to worry about my report card. I decided that by hook or by crook I had to see it before the big brass did.

  My friend Raymond was all for my plan (which obviously had to be done by crook!) but he didn’t relish the idea of being caught red-handed. As I was desperate, we decided that Raymond would be the lookout, I’d do the rest, and as a reward I’d also read his report card.

  Soon afterwards I ambled into the office with a query, and when the clerk’s back was turned I made an impression in plasticine of the key I hoped was the right one. Raymond and I made our duplicates. We’d been taught to do all these things at the school, so why not make the most of it?

  That night, when everything was quiet, and with Raymond mounting guard, I found that the key fitted. I glanced at our reports. Raymond’s was good, and there was nothing in mine which upset me; on the contrary—I read with surprise that I had been ‘good for morale’.

  From then on ‘Miss Prim and Proper’ vanished forever and ‘Miss Exuberant’ resumed her rightful place.

  I have no idea what I would have said had I been caught, but when I was young I never believed in crossing bridges before it was time.

  After six weeks we made our way to Ringway, near Manchester, to be instructed in the art of parachuting.

  At the parachute school there were dozens of groups of students, of all nationalities, emanating from a variety of training courses and destined for service with different organisations. The groups were not encouraged to intermix socially for obvious security reasons. We always kept very much to ourselves.

  I hated the pre-parachuting exercises. To my mind it was an excellent way of breaking some bones which would prevent the much more important parachuting jump into France. My fellow trainees kept me up to the mark. They had noticed a French girl in another group and they were determined I should outshine her at all costs. I certainly did not have the faith in myself that they did, but when they threatened me with a fate worse than death I did my best to justify their confidence.

  All our meals were served in a huge dining-hall. The commanding officer and his staff sat at a long table running the full width of the room, with their backs to the wall and facing their students. The students were seated at both sides of several long tables running lengthwise, from the top table to the other end of the room. Thus the staff were in a position to observe everything that occurred in the dining-hall.

  One morning at the breakfast table an American sergeant sitting opposite me passed me a small packet, saying that it was a present. Although Raymond Bachelor sitting on my right whispered in French not to accept it, I did so, thinking it was chewing gum or chocolate. I knew what a French letter meant in English, just as I knew the French name for it, but I did not know what a condom was until I opened the packet and saw three of them lying there together with the instructions.

  I don’t know what reaction the American expected, especially at a breakfast table. There was silence all round me. Then I proceeded to read out the instructions, much to the amusement of everyone at our table except the American who, red in the face, left the table. I put them in the pocket of my battle dress and continued eating my breakfast. As we left the dining-hall the CO called me to one side, apologised for the behaviour of the American and offered to disembarrass me of the unmentionables. He was surprised when I declined his offer, adding that they might come in handy later on. We never saw the American again. He vanished. I feel sure he was reprimanded.

  We did our parachute jumps and the first one was the worst. The others were exhilarating, but when the weather was too bad for the planes and we jumped from a static balloon, I swore I would never do it again. Unfortunately, the bad weather continued and we had one more night jump before the course finished. We were given the choice of waiting for the weather to clear or jumping from a balloon. I was all for waiting for fine weather but my group wanted to have a weekend in London. Threatening me was no good; this time they bribed me, each one promising me a double whisky in a club in London. Jumping from a balloon on a pitch-black night, when all is silent and the parachute takes longer to open than it does from a plane, will never be my favourite pastime. As I glided down I thought I should have stipulated trebles.

  We enjoyed a w
eek’s well-earned leave in London. By now so deep was our friendship we spent nearly all our waking hours together. I introduced them to all the pubs and clubs where I was known and they were able to appreciate the hospitality of the genuine Londoner and the people who lived there normally, whose courage and humour never faltered during those perilous years and was to become a legend. Naturally there was a seamy side to the city, but we only patronised the establishments where everything was above-board where we could enjoy good clean fun.

  Our next course was the security school. It was held at Beaulieu in the New Forest near Bournemouth. Here we were joined by other students although I was still the only female. We were there for three weeks. It was a worthwhile course and we learnt a great deal of valuable information. Unfortunately one instructor, who lectured on matters pertaining to the German forces, was hard to follow. He had a habit of saying ‘N’est-ce pas’ in every second sentence during his lecture of forty-five minutes. We found ourselves listening for the phrase instead of learning how to identify German tanks and military vehicles, the ranks of officers and the divisional flashes on their uniforms.

  Eventually we ran a guessing competition. During his next lecture every student in the room looked at him attentively, at the same time noting surreptitiously the number of times he said ‘N’est-ce pas’. After his lecture we added up our strokes. He had said it over 180 times and was known afterwards as ‘Monsieur N’est-ce pas’.