White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  We were occupied day and night. Alsop and Schley were instructing men on the use of the weapons and explosives we were receiving; Hubert was conferring with the other leaders; and I was receiving air-drops every night of the moon period. I had about twenty fields scattered all over the area but I decided that in future we would use the grounds of the château for any air-drops intended for our own use.

  The men laughed when I announced this but realising I was serious they immediately volunteered to assist me to try to make the plan functional. They prepared an elaborate lighting system, using every available battery, and after a trial run we were convinced we could retire to our beds if the planes were delayed or cancelled. Should we hear them coming while we were in bed, we could switch on the lights which were already in position, hop out of bed and be on the field in time for the reception. London was informed immediately of our latest dropping zone.

  At the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive, a Canadian ready to be parachuted on our new field found the château was marked on the Michelin map and wanted to know what idiot was using it. They informed him. Apparently all he said was, ‘Oh, Nancy.’ He was the chap who blew up the condom at Beaulieu. He and his travelling companions dropped quite safely on our field. We ushered them into our château with great pride and extended our usual hospitality.

  Paris was liberated on 25 August 1944, and the whole country rejoiced; it would be hard to describe the excitement in the air. After defeat and years of humiliation their beautiful capital was free. The aggressors were now the hunted. The Germans were on the run and the French people were overcome with joy. My men were organising a surprise for my birthday and at the same time we were going to celebrate the Liberation of Paris.

  It was a wonderful party, which happily the Germans did not interrupt. All our colleagues were invited and so was our landlord. If anyone was unable to attend the luncheon, they came along afterwards. Everyone we knew helped us obtain the food and wine. It was amazing to see how many bottles of wine and champagne some farmers had been able to bury in their fields. Madame Renard and her daughter were guests. We supplied the ingredients for the marvellous dessert tarts and cakes she made for our party.

  When all the guests had arrived we were escorted to the steps of the terrace leading into the rear entrance of the château. It was a secluded spot and could not be seen from the main road, which the Germans were still using. I was presented with a magnificent bouquet of flowers and told at the same time to be ready to take the salute. That was the surprise they had been planning. I was amazed to see we had so many smart, well-trained men. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. Then suddenly I recognised a man I had already seen marching by. The penny dropped. Once they had marched past our steps they ran like the devil right around the château and rejoined the men ahead. Without doubt they were the finest and fittest body of fighters I have ever had the honour and privilege to salute.

  We gathered in the immense hall where rows of makeshift tables had been erected. Beautiful floral decorations surrounded the tables so that the emptiness of the vast room was not noticed. The speeches were endless and became more and more sentimental as we consumed bottle after bottle of the best wines and champagne France could offer.

  There was only one sad note. Madame Renard’s daughter announced at the table that Alex, Denden’s boyfriend, had been killed. She had not known of the relationship between the two. We had to console him the best way we could but I’m afraid we were all too busy to be able to sympathise with appropriate dignity.

  Everyone brought me some little gift. They must have been searching in the villages for ages as at that time everything was in short supply. My Spaniards, who had absolutely no money, had gathered all the wildflowers they could find in the forest and wrapped them in a Spanish flag, and one of the bodyguard had written me a poem. It was all very touching. The party continued until the early hours of the morning. It was a great success and the talk of the Allier for some time.

  When the Germans evacuated Montluçon, we were lucky. The château had been empty for so long and still, from the outside, looked deserted. The whole German convoy passed by without disturbing our Allied team hiding inside.

  In September 1944 the Germans evacuated Vichy. Gaspard and Hubert had prearranged to join forces and enter the town at the same time. But Gaspard had stolen a march on us and gone on ahead. We gathered our team together and hurried after him. Vichy represented everything we had been fighting against, and we were determined to be a part of its liberation.

  The collaborators seemed to have vanished into thin air and the crowds in the street went wild with joy. All through the night we were feted wherever we went.

  A ceremony was organised the following morning at the Cenotaph. All the assembled groups were to lay wreaths. I was nominated by our Allied team to represent them. When the mayor had finished his address, a woman emerged from the crowds and came towards me. She had been a receptionist at the Hôtel du Louvre et Paix in Marseille. Quite abruptly she informed me that Henri was dead. I was stunned. I do not know whether I had decided it was unreasonable to let the nightmare I had had in London influence my feelings; perhaps I had subconsciously put the dream at the back of my mind and determined to carry on as if it had not happened. But I do know that ever since my return to France I had been taking it for granted that Henri was alive. I burst into tears. Denis took me away.

  I wanted to go straight to Marseille to find out what had happened. Laurent, who was a magician where vehicles were concerned, put our car into perfect running order and the five of us raced down to Marseille—Hubert, Denden, John Alsop, our doctor friend Pierre Vellat and myself. It was a chaotic journey. The Allied Air Force had destroyed all the major bridges and the Resistance had sabotaged the targets they had been given for the landing in the south of France. Furthermore, everyone on the road seemed to be going north. We were the only ones going in the opposite direction. Finally, we arrived in Marseille.

  I went straight to my butcher’s shop, which was closed, so I went around to the back entrance and tapped on the kitchen window. They recognised me and I could see the look of alarm that passed between them as they wondered whether I was aware of the bad news. I put them at ease at once, then asked about Picon. The Ficetoles had taken him when Henri had been arrested, but their home had been destroyed in one of the air raids and no one knew if they were dead or alive.

  After spending hours searching for them we were directed to a little place outside Marseille. There was no answer when I knocked on the door but Picon was inside and started howling. After twenty months he had recognised my voice. He was so excited when he was let out after the Ficetoles returned that our doctor, Pierre, had to give him tranquillisers.

  Henri had been arrested by the Gestapo in May 1943. He had been imprisoned until his death on 16 October, five months later. It was in the middle of October that I had had that nightmare in London.

  We returned to the château. Picon, who would not let me out of his sight, came too. We found dozens of invitations waiting there for us from all the towns and villages where we had been known.

  I think that somehow I’d been subconsciously mourning Henri since the dream in London nearly a year before. Nothing was going to bring him back, and in spite of my grief I could not be unhappy knowing I’d contributed to the Liberation of France.

  Our group of men at the château was preparing to go home. The Americans returned to London. We left the château in good order, thanked the landlord and caretaker for their kindness, and the three of us dawdled back to Paris. All along the route the French were celebrating the Liberation and it seemed to be one glorious party after another. We thought we might be the last ones to report back to Paris, where SOE had opened a branch, but a few more stragglers were still enjoying French hospitality.

  Paris had been liberated in August 1944, but it would be another nine months of fighting across France before the German surrender in May 1945. After Paris was freed,
Tardivat joined the army and kept fighting. Tragically, after all his adventures as a Maquis leader, he lost a leg in the fighting at Belfort Gap.

  As there was a long waiting list for seats on an Allied Transport plane, we proceeded to enjoy ourselves in Paris. Denden spent a whole day at the hairdresser and came out looking ten years younger. Hubert disappeared for days. It transpired he had been looking after his future and organised himself an interesting position in a government department. I tried to trace old friends. Some were dead—some, including Stephanie, had disappeared and others had not returned from the country areas where they had taken refuge.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We returned to England on 16 October 1944. It was a terrible flight and the cabin was bitterly cold. We were sitting on the hard floor, leaning on the side of the plane. Another ten minutes in the air would have made me violently air-sick.

  Five of us were travelling on the same military document issued by the British authorities in Paris. We presented ourselves to the immigration authorities only to be told that we three were not expected. I couldn’t believe it. The year before Gibraltar had slipped up—surely SOE could not be guilty of such an oversight. I was all for making a fuss immediately but Hubert said we should sit down and wait patiently while the immigration officer telephoned SOE headquarters. I agreed to wait one hour and not one minute longer.

  Shortly afterwards we were informed that our headquarters had never heard of us. When the hour was up I waited another fifteen minutes and then I exploded. I informed them I was going to London immediately and if they were thinking of detaining me they would be well advised to enlist the assistance of the police. By this time all the immigration officers involved were running around in circles. Denden was delighted. Hubert was just sitting there looking glum and not doing one single thing to help.

  As I caught the first transport, followed closely by Denden, one of the officers asked for my address in London in case Colonel Buckmaster wished to contact me. I called out, ‘Why? He doesn’t know me.’ At the last minute Hubert decided to brave the wrath of the immigration officers and come with us but we were so cross with him we ignored him all the way to London. The next day at our office I was not surprised to be assured by SOE that they had not received any enquiries from the immigration authorities. I will never know what possessed them to act as they did.

  Some time later we were back in France, accompanying Colonel Buckmaster on a tour of the Allier and the Auvergne. We introduced him to as many leaders as we could, and as always, the French hospitality was unsurpassable. I said goodbye to the many friends I had made in the Maquis and returned to Marseille where I guessed I would find many problems.

  It was a depressing time for me, tidying up the loose ends of my marriage and attending to neglected business matters. I remained in Marseille until the German surrender in May 1945. While I was in Marseille, a padre, who had occupied the same cell as Henri, returned from a German concentration camp and went out of his way to trace me. With great sorrow I listened to the story of the last few days of Henri’s life, and of how he’d been tortured.

  His father had contacted one of his close friends who was also a collaborator in Marseille and enlisted his help in trying to bargain with the Gestapo. He informed his son that if he divulged my whereabouts to the Gestapo they would release him immediately. Henri told his father to leave him in peace and to be sure to look after Nancy.

  Henri’s doctor friend invited me to lunch one day before I left Marseille. I imagined he was going to express the normal sympathy one would expect for the widow of an old and close friend. To my surprise he had something else on his mind.

  Apparently when he had discovered Henri was suffering from uraemia in 1941 he warned him he would have to give up drinking altogether or he would not live much longer. I had never seen Henri really affected by alcohol but he did love all the good things in life, especially French liqueur brandy, which he drank after every meal.

  I appreciated the doctor’s confidence and I knew why he was doing it. He guessed how much I would be reproaching myself over Henri’s death and, furthermore, he knew that my father-in-law had accused me publicly of having murdered his son.

  Henri had never informed me of the serious side-effects his imbibing would have. In any case, I doubt if it would have made any difference. He always said he’d rather be dead than change his way of living. He worked hard and he played hard. He was a bon viveur. I think I made him happy. He certainly laughed with me more than he did in anyone else’s company. He always said I was like a breath of fresh air.

  I was pleased to leave Marseille and return to Paris. I hadn’t had a happy time there.

  One of the first things I did back in Paris was to visit O’Leary and Tom Groome. They had both survived Dachau concentration camp and although frail, they were recuperating at the Palais Royal, a hotel requisitioned by the British Government.

  The British unit at the Palais Royal was called IS9 (AB). It stood for Intelligence School 9, but was also used as a cover for Military Intelligence (escape and evasion). The AB stood for Awards Bureau. Amongst other things they looked after any returning political prisoners who had worked for them. They gave financial assistance if possible and also compiled lists of the British awards that were to be given to their helpers in France.

  They had a modest mess and bar and were anxious to obtain reasonably priced champagne, which was extremely difficult to buy. An RAF officer and I were given the task of finding the champagne. We set off in a jeep for Reims. We were able to procure small quantities from several firms well liked by the British and Americans but then I suggested we approach Krug which was the only champagne we served in our home in Marseille when it was available. In those days it was not well known outside France.

  The manager was perplexed to see a British outfit interested in his firm’s champagne. However, when I explained I was the widow of a Frenchman and that it had been our favourite champagne, he opened the doors wide and we were able to buy as much as we could afford. I was absolutely delighted with our success but my delight was short-lived when we returned to Paris and I heard the bitching and moaning about the ‘unknown’ Krug.

  I was so disgusted I went off to have a drink with a restaurateur friend and told him my sad story. Being a connoisseur of French champagne he immediately offered to swap the Krug with other champagne suitable for British palates. Everyone was happy except the Third Secretary at the British Embassy who had been informed of my so-called disastrous choice. The story told against me misfired as all he said was, ‘My God, don’t tell me she found some Krug. I’ll buy the lot.’ However, it was too late. I didn’t hear anymore criticisms of my knowledge of French champagne.

  Donald Darling, who had been my host in Gibraltar, was the CO of the British Unit at the Palais Royal. We had never had very much in common and although there were some happy and hilarious occasions at the Palais Royal, I was like a fish out of water. As far as I was concerned, the most amusing incident during the months I was there was the night Donald Darling fell flat on his back having been punched on the jaw by O’Leary.

  Over the years I have heard a variety of stories about myself—some were true and others were complete fiction. Many of the stories were true except for one detail: they were about other people and had nothing whatever to do with me.

  It was common knowledge that I could behave in a very unorthodox manner when I felt I had a point, so perhaps certain people with nothing better to do than gossip, felt sure that I was bound to be the ringleader of any juicy tale that happened. One day in London an air attaché, sitting at my table, regaled the other guests about the day I punched Donald Darling on the jaw. Not one word about the real culprit! I was speechless! It is true that I did punch a man on the jaw in Paris, but mine was a question of national loyalty whereas O’Leary and Donald Darling were having a sordid argument about a female.

  My KO happened in the British Officers’ Club in Paris just after the Liberation of France
. It had previously been the German Officers’ Club. Kathleen Hampson and I were dining at the club, sitting at a table near the waiters’ servery. She was a good-looking English girl—quiet and distinguished. (She married my brother several years later.) She did not speak French and tended to be slow when ordering her meal. Our waiter was not only impatient, he was also discourteous, and when our order was not forthcoming he muttered under his breath, in French, that he preferred the Germans any day to the rotten English. That was too much for me. I followed him into the servery and delivered a few well-chosen words, followed by a mighty punch on the jaw. He fell flat on his tack, unconscious. I returned to our table and discussed the menu with Kathleen (in English of course).

  Then all hell broke loose. Every available waiter arrived on the scene, yelling at me in French, which by this time I pretended not to understand. All through the drama, Kathleen, by the way, didn’t turn a hair or give any indication that she had witnessed anything unusual! She just sat there quietly studying the menu!

  Suddenly the head waiter arrived and to my horror attempted to revive the waiter with a glass of vintage Bisquet Dubouche (a brandy to which I was very partial). I dashed into the servery, snatched the glass out of his hand, saying ‘Ca alors, mon!’ and drank the contents. Once more I returned to our table and refused to say another word.

  By this time the manager, appeared accompanied by the Third Secretary of the British Embassy who took one look at me and Kathleen and the groggy waiter, and turned on his heels and disappeared.

  Kathleen and I dined, served by another waiter, and ambled off to the American bar where it was obvious everyone had been told about the incident. The service was impeccable and then out of the blue Kathleen piped up and said, ‘Duckie, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with the waiters!’