by Nancy Wake
It always amuses me when I look back on those days with Denden. I often wonder why London decided to send him with us. Did they think our mission so hopeless it did not matter whom they sent? Did they think I was some kind of ‘Den Mother’? This much I do know. Not many heterosexual men from SOE headquarters would have cared to go into the midst of 7,000 full-blooded Maquisards with a self-proclaimed homosexual. They owe us a special debt of gratitude that, because of our understanding and handling of the affair, there were no court cases after the war, and that Denden was not torn to pieces or, alternatively, shot to death by an irate father.
Apart from that particular problem we were a happy team with Fournier, when he could get away from his nagging wife. We would laugh about the antics of the would-be politicians and others seeking power after the Liberation. For my part I always admired the men, so many of whom had been forced to leave their families unprovided for, either to escape the relève or the Germans. To me they will always represent the true spirit of the Resistance.
More and more recruits were joining Gaspard on the plateaux. The numbers of men assembling within the one area was getting completely out of control and our team felt it was courting trouble. Readily we agreed with Hubert’s suggestion that we move further north. Unfortunately we had an air-drop that night and the next, plus our first daylight parachutage, in which we had been promised 150 planes. It had been so hard to organise and the arms would mean such a lot to the Maquis that we decided to postpone our departure for a few more days.
We came down from the plateau just before dawn, we were all exhausted and suffering from lack of sleep. Chaudes-Aigues has natural hot water springs so I went over to the public baths and soaked myself before popping into bed to snatch a few hours’ sleep. It was not to be. The sound of gunfire made me leap out of bed. Hurriedly I dressed myself and raced down to the hall of the hotel where we lived.
The Germans were attacking us. Our look-outs came into the village to report. The whole area surrounding the mountains was literally swarming with Germans. When it was all over we learnt that they had been 22,000 strong, supported by over 1,000 vehicles, including tanks and armoured cars, trench mortars, artillery to back up the infantry, plus ten planes.
Several weeks previously I’d met Graham Buchanan, an Australian who’d been shot down near Nevers and rescued by a Maquis group. He was just as surprised as I was to meet another Australian in the French mountains.
From Nevers he and several other Allied airmen had been sent to Chaudes-Aigues where they were billetted in our hotel. I assured them there was nothing to worry about as I wished them goodnight. But a few hours later I had to tell them there was lots to worry about, that we were being attacked and would have to withdraw. Despite the panic and confusion which followed, all of this group eventually got back to England safely. (Graham Buchanan now lives near Murwillumbah in New South Wales, where he’s a farmer.)
We packed as much as we could in our cars and raced up to Fridfont on the plateau to join the Maquis, which was 7,000 strong by now. Hubert left to confer with Gaspard who was on the other end of the plateau. He refused to consider withdrawal and stated he would fight to the death with his own group. I coded the message while Denden tried to contact London, not an easy thing to do when an operator’s call is not expected. He persevered for hours and eventually received an instruction to transmit in one hour’s time. Our message cancelled all our drops and requested Gaspard be ordered to withdraw.
Many of the containers had not been opened the night before as the planes had arrived late. I went along to the dropping zone and finished unpacking and putting the weapons in working order. Then I drove to all the positions where I could see our men, and once the arms and ammunition had been distributed I went back to Denden. We were the only two people not fighting. The men were holding back the onslaught and displaying outstanding bravery and enthusiasm as they defended the plateaux.
By now I was so exhausted I could hardly move. I was thirsty, hungry, sleepy and every bone in my body ached. As I could not help Denden until he received the final message from London I told him I was going to have a little kip and to wake me when I was needed.
I went to bed in a farmhouse where we had been authorised to take refuge. Just as I was dropping off to sleep Fournier came in and made me get up as he said it was too dangerous to stay inside. I was so sleepy I didn’t care what happened. The only thing that would have wakened me completely was if I had come face to face with a German. I slept for a couple of hours under a tree which I thought was just as dangerous and less comfortable than in the bed.
Finally, the message came through. We were all ordered to withdraw and a personal message for Gaspard ordered him to follow suit. Knowing how stubborn he could be, I asked Denden to sign the message as if coming from Konig, de Gaulle’s General who led the Free French Forces of the Interior. I think the signature of a genuine General did the trick as Gaspard was as meek as a lamb when he took delivery of the signal.
Several planes bombed Saint-Martial as I left the village, and as my car became visible on the road to Fridfont one pilot of a Henschel left his group and started to chase my car. I could see his helmet and goggles as he banked to continue the pursuit, and I could hear the bullets whizzing as his aim got closer and closer. Suddenly a young Maquisard who was hiding in some bushes signalled me, shouting at the same time to jump. We flung ourselves into a culvert by the roadside as the plane flew overhead. The young man explained that Fridfont was being evacuated and that Bazooka was waiting for me further down the mountain. We dashed from cover to cover as the German pilot kept up the chase.
By the time I regained Fridfont everyone had been evacuated. Denden had already left with a group, Hubert with another. A young man who had waited for me conducted me to where my group was hiding and where I was delighted to find Bazooka. He always looked after me when he was around.
The withdrawal from the plateaux was a credit to the leaders of the Maquis. When the Germans arrived there was not a soul left. They must have felt very frustrated when, after the fierce fighting and their huge losses of life, they reached the top of the mountain only to find the entire Maquis had evaporated.
We had been formed into groups of fifty to 100, each one being led by one or two men familiar with the terrain we would be covering. Our leader had been a non-commissioned officer in the French Army. He originated from Alsace but although he was not a local man he was an experienced tracker so we had no qualms about getting lost in the tough mountains we would have to cross.
The Germans were patrolling all the bridges over the river Truyére which was deep, rapid and dangerous in most parts. They were also guarding closely any part of the river they thought we might attempt to cross. Thanks to Fournier and his men, we were able to cross the river in all the most dangerous places.
When Hubert and I first went to Chaudes-Aigues we were a little dubious about Fournier’s suggestion that we use the plateaux as dropping zones, mainly because we were afraid we could get trapped by the Germans, without an escape route. It was then he showed us the ingenious scheme they had devised for crossing the river well away from bridges and secluded by heavy foliage.
They had installed layer after layer of heavy slabs of local stone on the river-bed and covered them by secured dead tree-trunks. They were not visible from above as they were at least 45 cm below the level of the water. All we had to do was remove our footwear, release the logs, balance ourselves with a walking stick or the branch of a tree, and cross in absolute safety. It worked perfectly.
Our destination was Saint-Santin, north-west of our present position. We headed south, crossed more mountains and gradually proceeded north in a round-about fashion. All the groups were taking different routes and we aimed to keep well away from each other whenever possible.
It took us about four days to reach Saint-Santin. It was tough going all the way. We were miles from the German infantry but their planes circled the entire region for days. They
criss-crossed the area where we had been, dropping bombs, then systematically bombed all the surrounding mountains and forests hoping, presumably, to flush out the Maquisards, who luckily were not there.
After two days we were all thirsty and starving. We were out of immediate danger so we approached a prosperous-looking farm asking for water and a little food. They offered milk and food to ‘L’anglaise’, which I did not accept as they treated the bedraggled-looking men as if they were lepers. The poorer farmers and their wives gave as much food as they could spare and let us sleep in their barns overnight. I could not help thinking of the old saying, ‘The rich get richer and the poor get poorer’.
At last we reached our destination. We ran into Gaspard and his group. I will always remember this meeting with him. He looked at me and said, ‘Alors, Andrée’, took my arm and walked the rest of the way with me and Bazooka. I do not know what he was thinking at that moment but for my part it was something special, as if from then on we would understand each other. He was a man of few words, and I knew from those two that he respected me as a comrade-in-arms.
From the information London had been able to give us at our briefings we got the impression that the German garrisons in the Auvergne were manned by elderly men and puny boys. I don’t know what happened to them, perhaps they were too tired or too weak to take part in the conflict. We only saw crack German troops plus some mighty tough Mongol warriors who cared for little else but slaughter and plundering. Some of them were found lying on the battlefields with their pockets full of watches and human fingers with gold wedding-rings still on them. Nevertheless, hundreds and hundreds of the enemy lay wounded and over 1,400 were dead. The Maquis lost over a hundred and about the same number were wounded. What a glorious victory for Gaspard and his Maquis d’Auvergne, but from then on the Germans would be all out for revenge.
About thirty of us installed ourselves in an unfinished house on the outskirts of Saint-Santin. It belonged to the parents of a good-looking young man in our group on whom Denden had designs. Therefore, Bazooka, who was never without his Colt .45, was detailed to watch over this young man’s honour.
For several days groups of men kept arriving with exciting tales of their long cross-country hike. Denden turned up, footsore and weary, without his transmitter, which he had buried, or his codes, which he had destroyed. We were back to square one, out of contact with London and useless to everyone. From that day on until the end of the Occupation I don’t think I ever stopped for more than two or three hours. If I wasn’t walking or riding a bicycle, or fighting, or being chased by the Germans, or the Vichyites, it just wasn’t a normal day.
Fortunately, through contacts I learnt of the whereabouts of a Free French radio operator living just over the adjacent mountain. It was hoped that he would co-operate if I mentioned the name of our mutual acquaintance. Someone lent me a man’s bicycle which I half pushed and carried up the mountain but literally flew down the other side. The bike was getting up such speed that the brakes were useless, and I fell off several times. I pedalled about twenty kilometres only to find that because of all the German activity in the region, the Frenchman had left the day before. The mountain lying between me and Saint-Santin did little to lift the disappointment I felt.
Denden knew there was an SOE radio operator in Châteauroux because that is where he had spent his idyllic week while we were waiting for him in the Auvergne. He gave me as much information as he could remember and it was decided I would leave as soon as I could make myself presentable, even though it was 200 kilometres away.
We had been given the address of a friendly tailor in Aurillac but I had to wash and mend my slacks and blouse before I could appear anywhere without raising suspicion. Just then Laurent drove up in a car of all things; he had driven right around the Germans without any trouble. We were so happy to see him but livid when we thought of his comfortable trip, whereas we were all exhausted.
Laurent wouldn’t give me a car to drive to Châteauroux as he said that since our battle the Germans had tightened up all regulations, and road-blocks had been installed all over the entire region. Furthermore any identity cards issued in the Cantal were suspect and by law had to be exchanged at the local police stations under the supervision of the Germans. As my identity card was from the Cantal I would have to travel without any papers. Added to which he doubted that I would get to Châteauroux on a bicycle, let alone return, and he strongly counselled Hubert to prevent me from continuing with my plan. Laurent thought that quite apart from the problems with identity cards, papers and tighter regulations, 200 kilometres was just too far to cycle. But, as I pointed out, we were useless without our radio, and this was our only immediate hope.
Once Laurent accepted the fact that I would make the trip irrespective of all the obstacles he put in my way, he lost no time in doing everything he could to make my journey less dangerous. Men were sent in all directions to collect local information about German movements and then when he had studied all the details he mapped out the route he advised me to take. I would have to cycle about 200 kilometres of the roundabout route, without an identity card or a licence for the beautiful new ladies’ bicycle a Maquisard had been able to purchase for me ‘under the counter’. If I reached Châteauroux safely I would have to return by the best way I could.
While all these preparations were going on I was busy trying to get my wardrobe together. I needed an entire new outfit plus some walking shoes. I cycled into Aurillac where the tailor agreed to make me a costume in twenty-four hours, with one fitting in two hours’ time. He also gave me the name and address of a cobbler who could supply me with shoes without a coupon. When I arrived at the cobbler’s shop I was dismayed to hear the tailor had phoned to warn me not to return for the fitting as the Milice who were next door to his shop had already been enquiring about the woman in slacks.
The Germans had, meantime, placed road-blocks on all the main roads leading into town. I escaped by crossing several fields and heading north between two main roads until I could cross one of them and regain Saint-Santin, which lay to the west. All the way back I had been trying to think of a way to go back for my fitting. I had to find a disguise. But what? Then I had an idea.
The parents of the handsome young man in whose house we were hiding lived in the village. I went to see them and asked if they had any old clothes I could borrow. His grandmother had an old trunk with an amazing array. I borrowed a long white piqué dress which must have been fashionable before World War I. They introduced me to a farmer who was taking his horse and cart to the market in Aurillac early the next morning. I became secretive about my plans as I knew Hubert, and Denden in particular, would rag me if they saw me in my disguise. I crept out of the house early and waited for the farmer. Unfortunately, just as I had installed myself in the front of the cart beside the farmer with a pair of his trousers on my lap, which was my reason for the visit to the tailor, Denden appeared and alerted everyone else. Of course they had a good hearty laugh at my expense. Who wouldn’t? There I was sitting up in the cart surrounded by fruit and vegetables looking like a real country bumpkin, wet hair pulled back tight, no make-up, an old-fashioned dress, and wearing a pair of the farmer’s old boots.
Our cart and the produce were inspected several times by the Germans as we entered Aurillac; they did not give me a second look, even their first glance was rather disdainful. I did not blame them. I did not look very fetching. The only thing that boosted my morale that day was when the tailor failed to recognise me as I entered his shop. My costume was delivered the following day, and I set off for Châteauroux the day after.
On the eve of my departure Laurent sent several men on ahead to warn as many villages as they could in the Cantal and the Puy-de-Dôme to look out for me and to warn me if trouble lay ahead. In the Allier he had not been able to make any contacts so I just had to trust to luck. I had company as far as Montluçon. A Maquisard was going to visit his wife, who was ill. When we had to take the National Route we
pushed our bikes instead of riding them in case any Germans approached, in which event we would have time to dive into the culverts by the side of the road until they passed.
I by-passed Montluçon and was heading for Saint-Amand. It was getting dark and I wanted to make a few enquiries. I went into a bistro and had a simple meal and a glass of wine. Listening to the conversation of the other customers, I gathered that the Germans in the area were quiet for the time being. I found a barn not far away, removed my costume and slept until the sound of an air raid awakened me.
At Saint-Amand I stopped for a coffee and overheard that Bourges had been raided the day before. When I arrived there I thought the place was quiet—not a soul in the streets and all the shutters were closed. It was only afterwards I found out that the Germans had shot some hostages that morning. I passed two groups of Germans but they made no attempt to stop me.
At Issoudon I stopped for a black-market meal, cleaned myself up and entered into conversation with the owner of the restaurant, who shared some of my wine and brandy. The dangerous part was yet to come and I needed all the local information I could obtain. There is nothing like brandy to loosen the tongue! I cycled to the local markets and filled my string bag with all the fruit and vegetables I could buy without food coupons, hoping that I would pass for a housewife out shopping. I was still making good time although my legs were beginning to ache because of the mountainous terrain I had crossed. I had cycled 200 kilometres.
There were continuous streams of German vehicles leaving Issoudon for Châteauroux so I cycled west to Brion then south-west to Villedieu-sur-Indre, and entered the city without any trouble. One German patrol was checking on the opposite side of the road but they waved me on when they saw me hesitate. I pedalled round and round the town and was just about to give in, with much despair, when I came across the bistro I was looking for. It was exactly as Denden had described it. But when I called at the SOE house they refused to help me; they refused to send a message to London. Actually their performance was completely stupid because if I had been a German or one of their agents, they would have been arrested on the spot. I left the house in disgust and returned to the bistro.