White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  Each instructor would hang his big blackboard on the wall facing the class. After his lecture he would leave and the following instructor would remove the board and replace it with a clean one. I had a brilliant idea which was endorsed by every student. I sacrificed one of my condoms and a Canadian blew it up and tied it with a piece of string. We installed it behind the blackboard minutes before ‘Monsieur N’est-ce pas’ arrived. He was not a cheerful character. As a matter of fact he always seemed to be on the surly side. He took down the blackboard and out bounced our work of art! He turned to the class and with a look of disgust advised the person responsible for such vulgar behaviour to remove the offending object. We all looked innocent. I was in the front row and it was especially hard for me to keep a straight face.

  Halfway through his lecture the senior officer in charge of security came into the classroom, presumably to see how the lecture was progressing. As he opened the door the draught from the open window lifted up our balloon and it bounced all over the floor in front of him. The instructor carried on with his lecture, the colonel sat down as if nothing had happened, and we withheld our laughter until the lunch break. The fact that I possessed these articles would have been passed on by the parachute school, so they probably said to themselves, ‘One gone, two to go.’ I know they searched my room because I used to place little pieces of sewing cotton on my underclothes in the chest of drawers, and they were always being disturbed.

  While we were at Beaulieu a delightful instructor, Captain Clarke, taught us how to poach game if we were short of food in France. He was the chief gamekeeper at Sandringham. Every now and again he would scratch his head and say he didn’t know what on earth His Majesty would say when he found out about his lectures.

  Another instructor whom we all liked very much taught us, amongst other things, codes and how to describe or identify a person by remembering any unusual features, noticeable mannerisms or a distinct way of standing or walking. We knew him as Captain Walker. He was always pleasant to us but in our company we felt there was a certain nervousness on his part. Perhaps he had good cause, as our group led the way when any mischief was brewing.

  We were not allowed visitors under any circumstances but one of the new arrivals was a charming young officer, known to us as John, whom we guessed would have relations in England. Therefore we invited him to assist us in our next unofficial exercise. Captain Walker was to be the target. We were going to test his own powers of observation the very next afternoon. Raymond Bachelor dressed up in my clothes, with my high-heeled shoes, make-up and a silk scarf worn as a turban to hide his short hair. We were waiting in the garden for Captain Walker to give us a practical demonstration of a police line-up.

  When he arrived he saw the ‘girl’ crossing the lawn to talk to John. Instantly one could feel the ‘hackles rise on the bloodhound’! What was a strange woman doing on our lawn? I told him it was John’s sister come to visit him, which made him more agitated. One could feel that John was up for a court martial. All this time Raymond had been talking and laughing with ‘her brother’, throwing his arms around and looking straight at Captain Walker, who crossed the lawn with me by his side. Then I piped up and said, ‘Surely you recognise her, Captain Walker?’ He did not. Only when he came face to face with Raymond did the penny drop. He was a good sport, he took it well and we all enjoyed a good laugh.

  One night while an interrogation exercise was under way I noticed Captain Walker hang his forage cap in the hall, which was dark. I popped a condom in the back of it and he wore it for some time before it was brought to his attention. Not a word was spoken. However, my guess was they were now saying, ‘Two gone, one to go.’ But the third one I was keeping for something really outstanding. Besides, until the end of the course they would all be on tenterhooks.

  This course was an intense one which entailed study and hard work, but our high spirits were never dampened. The harder we worked, the harder we played. Our particular group had grown slightly and we were about ten strong, including Hubert, a British Army officer, with whom I was to parachute into France.

  After breakfast, and before activities commenced, we would stroll out into the garden and sit in the empty swimming pool, which was usually nice and sunny and sheltered from the wind. If our instructors thought we were studying our exercise books they were wrong. We were recording hundreds of risqué stories John used to narrate. He was a fantastic story-teller and had a fund of really juicy ones he never repeated except by request.

  After dinner, unless a night exercise was arranged, we would gather in our lounge and drink pint after pint of draught bitter beer. We were not allowed spirits in this school and although the British enjoyed the bitter, the French boys and I did not. But we drank it just the same. When the batman in our lounge was about to go off duty he would ask for our last orders. Generally forty pints of bitter would be lined up along the shelf which ran the full length of one of the walls. Only when they were consumed would we bid each other goodnight. When we had our mess bills at the end of the course the CO of the school said that up until that time we held the record for the consumption of bitter.

  Our security training was coming to an end. We had one more exercise to perform. We were to dress in civilian clothes, proceed to Bournemouth and carry out the instructions we had been given. Several instructors, including Captain Walker, would be placed at strategic points as observers. On no account were we to approach them or to give any sign of recognition.

  As I completed the first part of my assignment I noticed Captain Walker, wearing his greatcoat, standing in an arcade and looking anxious as if he were waiting for someone. The second time I approached the arcade I did not pass him. I went straight up to him and threw my arms around his neck, saying how happy I was to see him after all the years, and cunningly attached the last of my precious condoms to the back of his greatcoat. He stood there in full view of the passers-by until the exercise was over. At long last SOE could rest in peace!

  The main training courses were over but there were still a couple of three-day ones to come. The first one taught us how to make home-made explosives with ingredients readily available in France, either at a chemist’s or a hardware store. It was at this school that I met Violette Szabo, whose story was later told in both the book and the film Carve Her Name with Pride. Not only was she very beautiful, but she was great fun. We never lost an opportunity to get up to some mischief at that school. Our greatest achievement by far was to de-bag an instructor and hoist his pants on a flagpole. Violette and I became very friendly and saw a lot of each other in London. A couple of the boys in my group fell madly in love with her and the four of us would enjoy the night life in London whenever we were free. Violette was later ambushed in France and executed at Ravensbruck. I was very sad when I was told this after the war—but by then I had lost so many friends.

  The last exercise was probably planned to give us the confidence to travel with false identity cards. We were given a false British identity card which our headquarters assured us would be accepted by any routine police inspection, together with a return railway warrant from London to whatever city we were assigned, plus £10. We were to imagine that England was occupied by an enemy and we were organising resistance in that particular city. There were a few stipulations. As soon as we had chosen our accommodation we had to telephone a certain number and say, ‘I’m so and so and I’m at. . . .’ At a given time we were to keep an appointment, holding in our hand a Penguin book. We were required to find out what a certain factory was manufacturing. We had to visit a man discreetly, the name and address of whom we had been given, with a view to enlisting him in the Resistance.

  I prepared myself a good, simple cover story. I was supposed to be married to a British Army officer but since the fall of Singapore I did not know his whereabouts or whether he was dead or alive. I had one small boy, whose photograph I always kept on the dressing-table. We lived in London but he was afraid of the air raids and I was going to buy a smal
l house in a quieter part of the country.

  I went to Chester. It did not take me long to realise the local police were watching me. The telephone call had given them a head start. The appointment, which was in a pub, did not materialise so I left after ten minutes, guessing that someone was watching for any sign of nervousness on my part. Outside the factory that had been assigned to me was a notice ‘Women Wanted’. I obtained a job immediately but left at lunch time without claiming pay. It was only making nails.

  The man I had to interview was an important business executive. I had a valid reason for phoning him in his office. That was the only contact I made as I had to be careful not to compromise him. Remembering Henri and the way he found it impossible to look after his particular line of business and accept any regular or continuous resistance work, I resolved to be prudent in the way I used this man. He would be a tremendous asset to my organisation as long as I took every possible precaution not to compromise him, as he was well-known in Chester with excellent contacts and a good social standing. I discussed the matter with him and he said he would be delighted to fall in with my plans, and looked forward to being informed of the details at a later date.

  I paid three guineas to an estate agent and became a registered would-be house buyer, stating I would be willing to pay up to £2,000 for a small house somewhere on the outskirts of Chester. I feel guilty every time I think of that poor man chasing all over the countryside trying to make a sale.

  The local police were hot on my tail but I managed to keep one step ahead. I knew someone was searching my room as all the little traps I placed in various spots were disturbed. The night before I was due to return to London a policeman called at the hotel, asking that I meet him downstairs in the lobby. I refused point blank and informed the messenger that if he wanted to see me he would have to come to my room. I was questioned at great length and he appeared to be satisfied with my cover story. As he left he said he hoped that I would find a suitable house. I never knew whether or not this particular policeman was in on the secret, although the Chief of Police obviously was.

  Back in London I was delighted to find that the rest of my group had not been so fortunate. They had all been whisked off to the police station, where after a short interrogation they had been released once they had given the police a certain telephone number to ring.

  Our training was over, and Hubert and I were busy preparing for our mission to France. Personal codes (mine was an unsavoury limerick) to be registered, safe houses, contacts and cover stories all had to be memorised. This was no easy matter. I was to be Hélène to London, Andrée to the French, and had at least three other names for emergencies. At long last the day of our departure was confirmed and from then on it was one party after another with our little group.

  We spent our last night at the Astor night-club in Park Lane. At four o’clock in the morning we did parachute rolls along Piccadilly to my flat, singing at the top of our voices ‘Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die’.

  It was sad to leave our friends, especially for me because I had been with them for so long and we had become so close. There had never been one moment of dissension in all that time, just deep, sincere friendship, with each one helping the other. As I said goodbye, I realised how fortunate I had been.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hubert and I were parachuted into France near Montluçon, and were taken to the nearby village of Cosne-d’Allier, where I did my meet-the-people in the village square.

  I did not meet the farmer on whose property we had landed. Had the Germans made any enquiries regarding the activity so close to his farmhouse on the night in question, he wanted to be able to say he had gone to bed early and had not heard any strange noises.

  Although we would have been happier and felt safer away from Cosne-d’Allier, we were waiting for someone called Hector to contact us, as he was our only link to Gaspard, the leader of the Maquis d’Auvergne. This was the group we were to work with, but we had to be taken to them by an intermediary.

  By now I had given Hubert a watered-down version of my social début in the village and he was even more anxious to find another place to live. We discussed the pros and cons fully and agreed we would wait another day, but miraculously Hector arrived the next morning. Trouble in his own area had been the cause of his delay.

  There was no bathroom in this old house and I had been washing myself from neck to knee in a tiny cabinet de toilette. I was tired of standing up in the cramped roomette, so I got a big basin, filled it with water, took it back to the bedroom, sat down and started to wash my feet, at the same time discussing our immediate plans with Hubert. My revolver was by my side.

  In walked Hector, who took one look at me, my feet and my revolver and laughed for at least two minutes. Actually neither of us thought it was very amusing but perhaps the long delay we had experienced had made us lose our sense of humour. Every time he recounts this tale my feet get bigger and the basin gets smaller, and the last time I heard the story I had a Bren gun by my side!

  We were greatly relieved to see him in spite of the fact that he did not have the information or addresses we required, but as he promised to send them with his courier in two days’ time we were both happy to think our troubles were over.

  Our happiness was short-lived as the courier did not arrive. And we did not see Hector again until after the war. He was arrested, survived Buchenwald and now lives on the outskirts of Paris. Sadly we had to face the cold truth. For the time being we were up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Hubert and I both decided we would have to forget all about security and confide to a certain extent in our host Jean and his wife. This done, he thought he might be able to find Laurent’s hideout. Laurent was one of the leaders of a local Maquis group, and he would be able to take us to Gaspard, who was in charge of all the separate groups of the Maquis in the area.

  We started out early in the morning in Jean’s gazogène (a charcoal-fuelled car). He seemed to know all the secondary roads extremely well and assured us there was not much danger of running into the Germans. We looked at each other in silence as we had been briefed in London only to travel by bicycle or train, or better still on foot. Hubert was white in the face; as for me, once again I decided I was going to play it by ear.

  Jean drove from one contact to another until, when it was late evening, we found Laurent. I was always grateful to Jean and his wife for delivering us into the safe hands of Laurent, who was a tall, handsome man. When I knew him better we became great friends. I respected him, too, because he was a man who knew no fear. He conducted us to an old château near Saint-Flour in the Cantal and went to inform Gaspard of our arrival.

  The purpose of our mission was to meet Gaspard, who was believed to have three to four thousand men hiding in the departments of the Allier, Puy-de-Dôme, Haute Loire and Cantal. We were to make our own assessment not only of the leader Gaspard, but also of the manner in which his considerable army had been formed and was now being operated and controlled. If we felt reasonably sure that he and his Maquis would be an asset to the Allies when and after they landed on D-day, then the French Section of SOE, commanded by Colonel Buckmaster in England would assist them with finance and arms.

  Laurent had been gone for days before Gaspard arrived at the château and our meeting was not a happy one. He maintained he had no knowledge of Hector and had therefore not been expecting any assistance from SOE. He did not inform us that he was hoping for the support of an Inter-Allied team, a fact that London, for reasons of their own, had failed to mention in our briefings.

  If Hubert and I had possessed all the cards in the pack we would not have wasted the time we did when we first landed. It was also unfortunate that, owing to the arrest of Hector, we had not received the detailed local information promised to us in London. The fact that our wireless operator chose to spend some time with a friend before joining us did not diminish our problems.

  Hubert and I had the good fortune to overhear the group discuss
ing us while they were sitting in the big kitchen where they congregated all the time. They seemed sure we had some money and they were plotting to relieve me of it and get rid of me at the same time. At a later period when Gaspard and I had more respect for each other he assured me the men had been joking. That could be true, but when I am stranded in an old, empty château, many kilometres from civilisation, surrounded by a gang of unshaven, disreputable-looking men, I tend to be cautious and take things seriously.

  Without any radio contact with London we were not in an enviable position, so when Gaspard suggested he would send us to Chaudes-Aigues in the Cantal, where a man called Henri Fournier was in charge of the local Maquis, we readily agreed.

  In retrospect I can guess why Gaspard adopted the attitude he did. He was banking on the support of the Inter-Allied group but in the event it did not materialise he did not want to antagonise us irreparably. We were of no use to him without a radio and the money, which we said (quite untruthfully) we did not possess. He would kill two birds with one stone. He would dispatch us to a man he disliked who would have us on his hands if we failed to become functional. When many years had passed, after reading information that was gradually coming to light, I concluded that Gaspard had been under the misapprehension that an elaborate military scheme involving a French airborne force being dropped in the Massif Central area but D-day would become operational. It did not materialise, probably another case of the left hand not letting the right hand know what it was doing.

  In normal times Henri Fournier was an executive in hotel management. He detested the Germans and he and his wife had come to live in Chaudes-Aigues for the duration of the Occupation. He was puzzled by our arrival but when we explained the situation I think the mystery was clarified because, when we became friends, he admitted to me in confidence that he heartily disliked Gaspard.