Young, Brave and Beautiful

by Tania Szabô

  They talked on a while. Charlie told them some anecdotes about buying and selling old bangers. The wireless was playing songs sung with poignant sweetness by the young and lovely Vera Lynn. They laughed, relaxed and eventually Reine stood up, pressed her face against her daughter’s and told them it was getting late and they should retire to bed. The next day, Saturday 3 June, Reine took Tania back to Mill Hill, accompanied by Dickie, who years later remembered his mother’s anxiety and reluctance to leave her granddaughter in Mill Hill. But before that, Reine and Tania had seen Violette off at Stockwell tube station early in the morning.

  They had walked to the tube, and Tania’s grandmother picked her up just outside the station, and held her in the crux of her left arm. Tania noticed that Violette had a beret or funny pointy hat on. Violette was laughing. After a quick kiss on each cheek and a smiling farewell to her mother and Tania, Violette, in her neat dark-blue uniform, looking so smart and slim, went down the stairs into the station. They watched her go into the dark tunnel. As she descended, she turned one last time with a smile on her face and waved lightly to her mother and Tania. It was the last time. They were never to see Violette again.

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  Violette made her way to SOE headquarters, where a car was waiting to take her to one of SOE’s comfortable serviced flats for the night while they sorted out her final plans.

  Once there, Violette went over to the wardrobe and carefully checked every article of French clothing hanging there. In the chest of drawers, she found French underwear, including two pairs of silk stockings from Germany, wondering how SOE had acquired them and feeling chuffed that she was the recipient of these, for which an agent had risked his or her life. Another agent had brought back a very attractive bra, pant and suspender set in handmade Belgian black lace and another set in cream from Belgium. Then she checked the shoes. On the dressing table, she found a small bottle of Soir de Paris.

  The following morning, Sunday 4 June, the Humber rolled up and Vera knocked at her door.

  ‘Come in,’ shouted Violette, ‘The door’s not locked. Is that Miss Atkins?’

  ‘Yes, are you ready? The car’s waiting. Have you got any last messages for your mother or for Tania?’

  ‘Yes, loads and none! Can’t really think of anything specific except I love them both and miss them.’ Her mother and Tania were now locked safely away in her heart while she concentrated on the tasks ahead. Violette was sure they both knew they were in her mind – at all times and forever. She did not need sentimental messages and nor did they, she felt sure. They had said everything they needed to say and made their farewells.

  Violette and Vera sank into the plump beige leather seats of the limousine while the driver drove them to the Georgian mansion house, Hazells Hall in Sandy, Bedfordshire, which was being used as sleeping quarters and clubhouse for agents and fliers leaving for France on undercover missions. Woods and fine grounds surrounded the house. It was a peaceful place to try to relax and keep things in perspective while waiting for the right weather conditions or pilots and aircraft to wing them away to danger.

  The RAF had requisitioned this already-decaying but lovely house, so amenities were spare but adequate. There were, however, plenty of alcoholic beverages, much brought over from occupied countries, and reasonably good food. There was just enough hot water for showering or shallow baths. The bedrooms were clean and basically comfortable. Unfortunately, perhaps, the wooden floors, creaking and groaning, kept naughty activities to a minimum.

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  The final preparations for D-Day were heating up as Violette readied herself for her mission. June 5th was chosen for D-Day but the invasion had to be delayed for twenty-four hours due to bad weather. The mighty armada was to be dispatched the night of 5 to 6 June starting at 00.16 hours with the gliders to land along the Normandy coast. On this momentous Tuesday 6 June, in very poor weather, both strategic and tactical surprise was achieved, as the Germans had not expected the Allied invasion force to cross the Channel in such appallingly bad weather conditions nor along the western Normandy coast. While the forces were readying to strike on the beaches, the small team of four agents was about to fly out on an RAF Halifax and jump out over the high fields of the Limousin on 3/4 June.

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  The westerly winds were the strongest they’d been since 1917. Although it was dull, no rain fell. Violette, Philippe, Jean-Claude and Bob finally met up at RAF Tempsford. Violette was looking forward to parachuting once again. Although tense at the thought of the danger, she found it relatively easy to push it all to the back of her mind. Here she was again, about to jump out into the sky after a noisy but exciting flight in an English bomber. More exciting than the movies she wanted to be in: this was stark but endlessly seductive reality – no props; the real thing.

  ‘Let’s go and have dinner over at the hall,’ announced Vera Atkins in her clear ringing tones. As they arrived at the entrance, she came up alongside Violette and said quietly: ‘You’re the only girl going across.’

  ‘Oh? Lucky, aren’t I, to be surrounded by such a fine group of men?’

  ‘Judging from their expressions, I think it’s they who are lucky.’ There were many men in the dining hall of the mansion, with what seemed like a colony of Jedburghs from the Special Arm Service. A group of men turned to look at Violette. Surprise, admiration and disapproval flitted in quick succession across various faces. It was still a time when many felt ‘a chit of a girl’ was in need of protection, not going out under the nose of the enemy.

  ‘These boys are embarking on perilous operations so there’s a great deal of tension,’ commented Vera quietly to Violette as they relaxed after dinner. ‘But you are perfectly calm and composed. I’m astonished.’

  ‘Not really, Vera. I’m looking forward to it.’ As Violette said this, she suddenly understood: these fellows knew they were going into battle, whereas she was not. Yes, what she was doing was just as dangerous – the idea of being caught, questioned and tortured, even killed, was still at the back of her mind, but she thought it did not have the same immediacy that going directly into battle would.

  Most of the Jedburghs had left in groups. At last, Violette, Philippe, Jean-Claude and Bob set off in separate cars to the airfield. They pulled down the blinds in the cars as they left so ground staff could not see them. None of them was in uniform. Philippe, Bob and Jean-Claude were in velvet corduroys and jackets while Violette wore a French-cut leather jacket and slacks. As was the essential custom of strict security, each had had their clothes, pockets and suitcase thoroughly inspected for anything even slightly suspiciously English, but they were French from head to toe, inside and out, looked it, smelled it and sounded it.

  The Halifax was standing ready with its crew of British fliers. ‘Suits on please,’ ordered Philippe. ‘And don’t forget to load those zipper pockets with your essential gear. Small arms, ammunition, compass, maps and rations!’ Violette and her team struggled into their parachute suits while the pilots were completing their checks.

  ‘Just double check, if you would, you haven’t inadvertently placed anything not entirely French in with those things. No English cigarettes or matches. No photos. No keepsakes,’ ordered Vera Atkins in a cold military voice. ‘No room for sentiment. Could kill you.’

  Jean-Claude took the admonition calmly, Violette with a grin followed by a sad moue at having no photo of her family, Bob frowning impatiently at Vera, and Philippe just got on with it. By their varying cool reactions, they each revealed something of themselves.

  ‘Time to move,’ came the command.

  Vera shouted ‘Merde’116 in time-honoured salute of farewell as they all climbed aboard while Vera moved off to her waiting driver and car to whisk her back to London.

  The bomb racks at the back of the plane did not hold their usual complement of bombs but containers filled with arms and explosives. The four were sitting behind the racks, cramped, along with the rear gunner and dispatcher who would control their jumps.
It was already loaded with the larger airborne-troop parachutes like the ones Philippe and Violette had used in April, rather than the standard service ones. As the Halifax taxied forward, the team tried to make themselves comfortable.

  Ground crew removed the chocks. The aircraft’s engines revved up. Imperceptibly, it began to move and slowly taxied towards the runway. The pilot looked out to check for unexpected obstacles. He saw a member of the ground crew waving his arms as he ran across the apron.

  ‘Message just came in. Stormy weather ahead has already closed in. Orders to return to base.’

  ‘Bloody fucking arseholes!’ roared the pilot.

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell!’ said one of the crew at the back.

  ‘Nothing we can do about it. Bad weather, better drinks, hey mates?’

  It was impossible to fly. Winds were gusting up to sixty-six miles an hour. Worse, over Dorset, Dartmoor and Somerset, there were thunderstorms and torrential rain more than 200 times the average for the time of year.

  It had been decided higher up that they would instead go the next night, the night of 5/6 June. They piled out of the plane, the feeling of anti-climax and disappointment making them edgy and bad-tempered. A return to Hazells Hall was the only ride they would get that night.

  Vera, who was informed by the guard at the gates that the flight had been postponed, sympathised, saying that she had arranged accommodation for them back at the Hall.

  They traipsed into the Common Room. Violette was unperturbed. A damned nuisance, but no use going on about it, she thought. Enjoy the company, food and perhaps an outing somewhere tomorrow. She suggested they go for a drive the next day as Jean-Claude had probably not seen much in that area. She wondered if they could drive to Cambridge as it was such a lovely old city to which Philippe agreed.

  Vera bade them all farewell again, but this time with an ordinary ‘goodnight’, and said she would be with them tomorrow to go through the procedures all over again. She returned in the black Humber to London.

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  On the next morning, Monday, 5 June, in the pouring rain, with gusts sending swirls of water into faces and trickling down collars, the Famous Four borrowed a car and drove the twenty miles into Cambridge for a day out. They were going to enjoy themselves and forget all about the flight planned for that night.

  ‘It’s a pity they’re not holding the college balls because of the war,’ said Violette. ‘They put on these marvellous balls in the gardens of the colleges and punt down the Cam – for that alone, I would have chosen Cambridge above all other universities.’

  ‘No punting and no dancing on the grass. That’s war for you. I’m cold, so let’s get to a local pub and have a decent lunch for Chrissake,’ growled Bob, sounding just like the thunder overhead and still just as gloomy as the sky.

  ‘No, let’s all go on the river, as it’s almost stopped raining,’ said Violette. ‘First, we are to go boating!’

  ‘Punting’s been stopped. Don’t you ever listen?’ grumped Bob.

  ‘Bet we can.’ And they did, Violette laughing as she showed she could punt just as expertly as any of the men.

  After the first half-hour of frantic punting to outdo each other, they gave themselves up to the peace of the river. It was utterly relaxing. Now that the rain had completely stopped they could have done nothing better. They took it in turns to punt while the others leant back comfortably in the flat-bottomed boats, watching the banks drift by. The fragrance of wildflowers caught the wind as the current moved them along.

  Later, Jean-Claude pointed out a very traditional-looking pub and said: ‘That’s where we should go. Real English ale and – what do you call it – “hangers and bash”?’ He smiled in anticipation while the other three burst into laughter.

  ‘No, Jean-Claude, bangers and mash – not hangers and bash – although you could hang an overcoat on some, and bash them with a hammer, they’re so large and tough.’

  They went in and were hit by the warmth coming from an open fire. Sheer bliss. The food, as Jean-Claude had endeavoured to inform them, was indeed bangers and mash, and the men drank pints of decent ale – Jean-Claude the French-American agent was polite about the fact that it was lukewarm. Violette ordered just one half-pint to keep them company. They sang and chatted about everything except war. They asked for a pot of coffee while they all smoked.

  As they came out into the grey mid-afternoon they continued to sing as they strolled down the ancient streets.

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  Note

  116 Merde = shit, but it is a much less offensive sound than in English, and Vera used it in the way of Theatreland ‘break a leg’ knowing, and they all knew, they were going into a nasty place.

  27

  Flight to Sussac

  Monday 5 June to Thursday 8 June 1944

  (D-Day was Tuesday 6 June)

  Violette and the team returned from Cambridge refreshed and in good spirits. When night fell, they had a light snack at the Hall, made final checks on luggage and plans, then back to Tempsford airfield – sure, this time, their flight was on. The weather had eased somewhat and a second RAF Halifax waited. Salesman II was authorised to prepare again.

  The usual checks on all issued equipment done and farewells given, the aircraft took off with a roar, curving steeply onto its given course.

  ‘Seems a pretty smooth ride,’ commented Jean-Claude over the din to whomever might be listening.

  A general round of nods while the dispatcher handed Bob a pack of cards, ‘How about a game of blackjack to pass the time?’

  ‘Jolly good idea.’ Violette cleared an area, moving aside a couple of items.

  ‘Didn’t Vera Atkins supply us with hot chocolate?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘No, crew’s canteen, and there’s plenty,’ commented the dispatcher. ‘Help yourselves, mates. It’s damn good stuff. Made with real milk, plenty of sugar, plenty of cocoa. Won’t get another chance like it.’ The rest of the crew bent down to the task of winning at blackjack.

  Three hours passed uneventfully. They chatted quite happily and heard some funny stories from the crew and each of the team.

  The morale of the team, Jean-Claude later told me, was high. There was very little tension, except, as he said, Staunton (Jean-Claude only knew Philippe as Staunton at the time, so continued to call him thus) seemed nervous. Philippe was considered a veteran and Jean-Claude, very young, was unaware that Philippe was only making his second jump. He felt reassured that his team leader showed a certain trepidation; it seems his other missions had been landings by Lysander.

  Three hours later, the navigator picked out the landmarks and confirmed they were above the drop zone. The reception committee was absent. Neither pilot nor co-pilot saw signalling lights. They circled the area ground repeatedly, but no lights signalled to them.

  ‘Sorry, folks, no landing lights, no sign of life. We’re returning to base now,’ came the pilot’s voice over the intercom.

  ‘How could they ’ave fucked up,’ growled Bob. ‘Buckmaster got all the messages transmitted to the reception committee, everything was set. What the hell happened to them?’

  ‘Any manner of things, Bob, so just calm down, will you?’ said an exasperated Philippe. ‘I’ll go find out what the bloody pilot thinks he’s doing. Maybe shed some light on the business.’

  Philippe argued heatedly with the pilot, who concluded, ‘Major Staunton, no way am I dropping your team and containers over a landing zone that could’ve been compromised. I’m sorry; we’re turning back!’ The pilot felt he had no option. He would not drop his passengers and cargo into a death trap. They turned back.

  A noisy three-hour return flight in the back of an uncomfortable and windowless aircraft was excruciatingly boring and another huge anti-climax. Philippe and Jean-Claude tried dozing the time away. Philippe found no relief whatsoever in not having to jump. His only thought was that his mission was compromised perhaps beyond recovery by these delays. It certainly would be if this continue
d. Twice foiled in their attempt to reach mid-France.

  At the same time, one of the pilots drew the other’s attention to the fantastic sight of the invasion below them. The Channel was covered in boats – all kinds – all sizes – warships – tugs – huge lumps, could be containers – landing craft. Damn well everything the Allies had must be on that strip of water. They joked that Jerry must be sleeping! They were not.

  The card players in the back of the Halifax knew nothing of this. Not the pilot, nor co-pilot, nor any member of the crew who witnessed the amazing scene told the team what was happening below in the choppy waters of the Channel. The portholes were all blacked out with reinforced material.

  Six tiring and utterly depressing hours after they had left, they landed back at Tempsford, fagged out, hungry and thirsty. Even the crew had long faces.

  It was nearly dawn. The team felt grey as they got in the cars and returned yet again to the clubhouse. They had a drink, ate a sandwich or two then climbed the stairs to the same rooms, undressed and got wearily into bed.

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  Short hours later, the door to the room the men were sharing shook to purposeful knocks. The batman entered.

  ‘Time to rise and shine, sirs! It’s now five o’clock.’ He said firmly, used to the general cursing always directed at him whenever this duty befell him.

  ‘What the bloody hell!’ Philippe jumped out of bed.

  ‘Sir,’ repeated the batman, ‘It’s your wake-up call. Five o’clock as directed. To make sure you get up immediately, sir.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, “as directed”?’ was Bob’s furious bark.