White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

There was great excitement amongst my friends in Sydney who gave me a farewell party. We could almost visualise the story on the big screen. There was just one problem—we couldn’t agree on the actress who would play my part! I flew off to California, dreaming of the exciting days ahead. I had never remained for any length of time in California and the following weeks were fantastic ones and I enjoyed every minute.

  The production company had reserved a magnificent suite for me in a central hotel in Los Angeles. The hotel management hoisted the Australian flag in my honour which created a lot of interest in the immediate area. My arrival at Los Angeles airport was filmed by the camera crew who had been engaged to make a documentary as a forerunner to the movie. Talk-back shows on radio and television had been organised, plus endless interviews.

  The next evening the Australian Consul-General had arranged a press conference in my honour at the consulate, and immediately afterwards he and his entourage were invited to a lavish dinner at my hotel. John Alsop and Reeve Schley had been invited. They flew over from the East Coast with their respective wives whom I had not met before. I was in seventh heaven. I adored the activity and found it exhilarating—but then I have always loved the hustle and bustle of the American way of life.

  One journalist at the press conference appeared a little belligerent towards me. I gathered he had no time for the French and, in particular, the Resistance. He had also had some unhappy experience in Melbourne and made a few cutting remarks about that city.

  When he interviewed me the next day he was pleasant enough. I had not bothered to contradict any of his statements as I knew the production company was hoping for good coverage in his newspaper. He invited me to the opening night of a club that evening. I refused his invitation but when he told me he would introduce me to Lee Marvin and Robert Stack I agreed to go along with our publicity agent.

  We met as arranged. He was with his wife and another friend, and after a few drinks I announced my intention of going back to my hotel as there was no sign of the actors he had mentioned. Whereupon he insisted on taking us to the Hideaway Bar in the Beverley Wilshire. I had been drinking whisky all the evening—now he tried to persuade me to drink tequila. By this time he was getting on my nerves although I managed to remain diplomatic. Finally, I guessed his object. He had heard about my capacity for consuming large amounts of strong alcohol and he was anxious, not only to challenge me, but to drink me under the table.

  I knew I was having coffee at the City Hall the following morning, lunching with a nice Australian from the Australian Consulate and leaving that afternoon for Carmel. It promised to be a pleasant, relaxing day so I decided to play along with him and teach him a lesson. At the same time this would have the effect of avenging the honour of the French, the Resistance, the city of Melbourne and womanhood in general.

  I announced I would join him in a glass or two of tequila but I refused categorically to have the rim of my glass dipped in salt. The tequila tasted absolutely ghastly, especially as I had been drinking good Scotch whisky. To his obvious delight I was lagging with three full glasses in front of me. Suddenly I remembered my first experience of drinking neat vodka. I used to toss it down and hope for the best. I adopted the same method and before long he was the one with the full glasses in front of him.

  After we had consumed two bottles I became aware of the silence around our table. This man was apparently the ‘doyen’ of the drinking journalists in Los Angeles. An unknown woman was beating him at his own game. I had him exactly where I wanted him. We continued for hours. Finally I rose and said it was time I went home as I had an early morning appointment. I thanked the barman for the ‘delicious’ drinks, said goodnight to everyone in the bar, somehow walked out to the car and, ultimately, to bed. I had heartburn for hours; my head ached so much I was unable to move it and arrange my hair as I was dressing to keep my appointment. I only had one hat with me—a lovely French silk beret—but I had a matching frock so I wore that outfit. I looked presentable but I felt absolutely ghastly.

  To my horror I was not only having coffee at the City Hall, it was followed by a special presentation, and with my hangover I wondered if I could stand up for any length of time. The usual official proceedings were suspended. A man appeared and in front of the audience he unfolded a scroll which he read out in a voice loud and clear. To me it seemed as if he would never stop. But then I was only concentrating on standing up.

  As he handed me the scroll, cameras were flashing left, right and centre. Then came the second shock of the day—I was expected to say a few words.

  I have no idea what I said. People who saw the ceremony said I looked so shy and demure. How looks can deceive! Maybe I did look shy but that was only because I couldn’t lift my head. I signed a big book and lots of people came over and congratulated me. When I read the scroll, which was beautifully presented, it was full of compliments and touched me deeply. As I write this I can see it hanging on the wall—it is one of my most precious possessions. I will always feel humble but grateful for the honour the Council of the City of Los Angeles bestowed on me that day.

  While I was standing up at the City Hall, on the other side of town a great drama was taking place. The ‘challenger’ was flat on his back with an ice-pack on his head. For the first time in his career as a journalist he was unable to go on an important assignment at 9.30 that morning. I was given this piece of news as I was on my way to the Australian consulate to call for my luncheon host. Fortunately he suggested a Chinese meal and some cold beer, which put me on the right road to recovery.

  Eventually I heard the whole story from our publicity agent who had been in the plot with the journalist. Actually I must confess I didn’t admire either of them—the journalist was much younger than I was (I was sixty at the time)—but as I have a sense of humour I could see the amusing side. Nevertheless, I was happy I had won the contest.

  After I had left the bar and gone home the journalist had found it impossible to get up from his seat. He had been lifted up and taken to his transport in a sitting position—rather as if he had been frozen. When they reached their home his wife and friend had been unable to remove him from the car as he was still in this ‘frozen’ position. They telephoned the PA who had to get dressed and drive to the other side of the city and lift the man into his bed. The PA had just returned to his home and gone to bed, when the wife phoned again for assistance. Her husband did not appear to be breathing. Once more he dressed, drove to the other side of the city and confirmed that the journalist was not really dead—just dead to the world. When he mentioned the fact that he had not slept much that night I told him it served him right for having conspired to play such a dirty trick on a poor defenceless old woman.

  During the afternoon the PA went to see how the journalist was faring. He had regained consciousness and said in a feeble voice, ‘I don’t think I won that one, buddy old man.’ When the PA agreed with him, he asked, ‘What happened to her?’ On being informed of my much-publicised appearances at the City Hall, he said, ‘That goddamned son of a bitch!’

  The story of our mad contest spread like wildfire around Los Angeles. The production company thought the interview might not appear in the newspaper, but it did, although it was nothing like the original one. His wife was a journalist. Perhaps she helped him in his hour of need. One thing is sure and certain, Al Stump will never forget me.

  Then suddenly it was time to return to Sydney. I was convinced that those energetic weeks in California would lead to something constructive. The last thing the company asked me to do when I left Los Angeles was to look for some suitable terrain in Australia where part of the movie could be filmed. I was given a bottle of tequila as I left the airport. It remains unopened in our kitchen cupboard.

  Months went by and the first script arrived. By this time they had scrubbed the idea of a musical and were going to make a straight movie. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. My lovely wire-haired terrier Picon had been transformed into a Mexican
Rat who drank gin. Picon loathed the smell of all alcoholic drink and used to turn his back on me when I had been drinking.

  The scriptwriter had decided that in the film the evaders would travel from safe house to safe house on a new bicycle. I had never read such trash. I worked it out that if we had only had four evaders at a time, and four safe houses (a very conservative figure), we would have needed twelve new bicycles. Four would leave the first house, four the second and third, but who would bring the bikes back from the last house?

  I had a mental picture of the administration such a scheme would have involved in real life. I had found it difficult to buy one new bicycle in Marseille; twelve would have been impossible. Would we have been responsible for teaching the aircrews to ride bicycles or would this have been part of their curriculum in England? How would we cope with fifty evaders? How could we have prevented neighbours from being curious to see so much activity and so many new bicycles? But there was more to come.

  In the script I had escaped from Spain in a rowing boat and arrived safely in England. It did not mention the route I had taken but presumably they didn’t intend to send their heroine through the Straits of Gibraltar. Therefore I must have commenced my arduous sea voyage from the northern part of Spain and rowed straight through the Bay of Biscay. I imagine the writer had never looked at a map of the world. I had to read all this ridiculous nonsense several times to make sure I was not going mad. I gave up all hope of seeing the film on screen.

  More months passed and I received a phone call from London. The action had gone to England and I was invited to go over and meet the new producer. I knew of his father and felt sure he would not be a party to anything underhand.

  A room had been reserved for me at the Churchill Hotel for eight days but as soon as I arrived I was invited to stay a further week. I came back from lunch the day the first week was up to find I had been put out of my room. The man responsible for paying the hotel bill was asleep and had asked not to be disturbed. I was absolutely livid and went to stay with friends in the country. I rang the producer that night to explain what had happened and said if they wanted to interview me they would have to come to the country and if they wanted me in London they could send a Rolls Royce.

  The producer came to the country the next day (none of this was his fault) and two days afterwards a Rolls Royce was to pick me up and take me to London. I was already waiting for the car when the phone rang. They were finding it difficult to get a Rolls Royce; would a Daimler be acceptable? I said it would.

  Not long afterwards my host called out, ‘Well, you haven’t got your Rolls Royce, Nancy, but there’s the biggest bloody Daimler coming up my drive and he’s got to keep reversing to get in.’ It was a huge limousine and I felt like a dowager duchess as we drove to London.

  Through the British producer I was invited to lunch at the Connaught Hotel in London by James Mason and his wife. It was a happy occasion for me as I had long been an admirer of his acting. He was probably pulling my leg when he enquired whether I would prefer Australian wine to the French. I replied that as far as wine was concerned I was not a great nationalist.

  When the interviews with the scriptwriter and producer were finalised I spent a few weeks in France looking up old friends before returning to Sydney. A long silence followed all that activity in London to be broken at long last by a letter from the American company stating that the British producer had let them down and the project was abandoned. I didn’t believe the excuse they gave; this American crowd always blamed someone else for their failures. They hadn’t even had the decency to apologise to me for having forgotten to reserve my room for the second week. I gave up all hope of seeing my story on the big screen and concentrated on more mundane matters.

  Several months later another film company in England expressed an interest in the book which led to them taking up an option for twelve months with a possible renewal for nine months. This time, however, there was no feeling of excitement on my part. Enough was enough.

  One day I received a phone call from Canberra. The caller wanted my address as the author of a book about Denden wished to contact me. His letter arrived in due course and to my surprise the same corporation who had taken the option on my story had acquired an option on Denden’s. It seemed clear they intended to combine the two. I wished the author luck. I felt he needed it as I had read his account of Denden’s life when we were together in the Maquis and as far as that period was concerned it was full of inaccuracies which was typical of Denden’s way of recounting stories. I had found some of the chapters to be nauseating. I don’t know what happened behind the scenes, but the corporation dropped the option. If it had gone any further I would have had a great deal to say.

  I had heard tales about film companies which I had not taken seriously. Now I had to admit that most people in that line of business lived on another planet which made it difficult for an ordinary mortal to unravel their intricate system of wheeling and dealing.

  Film producers are not the only people who do not know the problems facing safe houses, evaders and escapers. When I had completed the Manual of Combat Survival at the Air Ministry a copy was sent to the Royal Air Force Air Attaché in each country concerned. We needed confirmation that the local information I had included in each Manual was up-to-date before sending it to be edited. The Air Attaché in Warsaw replied that I should advise the aircrews that as the terrain in Poland was fairly flat they should steal a horse and cart as this would be an easier way of travelling.

  I had visions of the evader arriving at the safe house with his horse and cart. Sometimes in France we had found it difficult to conceal and feed one airman, let alone a horse. On the other hand, I could picture the irate farmer reporting a stolen horse and cart to the authorities who would then be hot on the trail of the evader. Some people have no imagination but I suppose this unrealistic scheme would appeal to film producers.

  I had been toying with the idea of writing a book for some time but I didn’t think I could write well enough to make it interesting. But then I read a number of books about the Occupation of France and the Resistance—some were good and some were very bad—and I began to think I should put pen to paper. Many screen and television movies dealing with France from 1939 to 1945 have, to my mind, been full of glaring faults. Some lacked a ring of authenticity although they had apparently been produced with the help of expert advice.

  I remember in one film about an escape-route network the woman leader gave orders for a pilot to be shot simply because he had the name of a German girl in his address book. Perhaps he had been guilty of some dangerous indiscretion—or even worse—but to shoot him out of hand without first interrogating him would have been stupid. The life of an Allied pilot was valuable; it cost money and time to train them fully. Furthermore it would not have been easy to dispose of the corpse in a village inhabited by naturally curious French people.

  In another film a young one-armed man, obviously English, wanted a breath of fresh air so he went for a stroll around the busy port of occupied Marseille. He would have been the most suspicious-looking person in that area and would have been soon picked up. Another character loathed the French and kept saying so in front of his hosts at the same time accepting their hospitality. I don’t believe any airmen would have been guilty of such a breach of etiquette. They came from all walks of life and were grateful for the assistance they received.

  I have often been embarrassed when reading articles about myself. Frequently they would give the reader the impression that I myself won every battle that was fought in the Auvergne. Of course, that is all tommy-rot. When we were surrounded by 22,000 German troops Denden and I were the only two people not fighting, yet one article stated I had led my 8,000 men to victory. I had a mental picture of myself surging ahead (rather in the style of Joan of Arc) followed by the faithful 8,000.

  The truth is we all worked as a team and any success I had was because I was working in harmony with dedicated French people and cl
ose friends. I enjoyed fighting with the men when I got the chance but so often I was fully occupied travelling from one Maquis group to another, coding my messages with Roger, listening for the replies on the BBC and organising reception committees for the parachute drops. Another article said I had blown up all the targets on D-day. In fact I was upset because I missed all the fun as I had gone to collect Bazooka from Montluçon.

  Thirty-five years after the war I went back to the Auvergne. This time they knew I was coming, and it wasn’t by parachute. I will never forget that weekend. It was about eleven in the morning when I arrived at the hotel where I was to stay, in a village which had been known favourably by the Resistance. This particular innkeeper and his wife had been good to us during the Occupation. She was a fantastic cook and was already busy preparing the luncheon which had been ordered by Henri Tardivat in my honour and to commemorate the days we had together in the Resistance.

  I went into the little bistro attached to their hotel and ordered a Ricard. Every now and then a dirty face would appear through the beaded curtains hanging on the entrance door, wave a hand and disappear.

  By noon all of the men were present, faces no longer dirty, and dressed in their Sunday best. What a reunion. Most of us recognised each other. Some were fatter, some were slimmer, some bald or going bald, but the old feeling of comradeship was still there. We had been linked by our love of freedom and our hatred of the Boches. And we still admired and respected each other even though we came from different countries and walks of life.

  The lunch was superb. The odd tourists who happened to lunch there that day probably wondered about the huge table, headed by a solitary woman surrounded by dozens of men.

  About three in the afternoon some of us proceeded to the farmer’s property where I had landed so long ago. He was sitting on the steps of the kitchen door chewing tobacco. He gave a shout as I approached, stood up, took me in his arms and gave me a big hug and a kiss. Then he turned to his womenfolk who had appeared at the scene, roaring at them to get this, do that; and while they were scuttling all over the place we sat down at the kitchen table. Almost immediately the coffee pot was on the table preceded by the glasses and the pousse-café.