by Ellen Butler
Devlin, Glassman, Peterson, and I had been sitting around the dining table, playing poker, in a heated debate over the tactics for crossing the Rhine River, a barrier that seemed to have stalled the forward momentum of the Allied invasion. I’d bluffed everyone into folding and was raking up my winnings when Kincaid unexpectedly walked in. The men jumped to their feet like they’d sat on a firecracker, and I rose in deference to the uniform. Kincaid, who had been at regimental HQ, noticed my presence immediately. It would have been tough to miss me in the ridiculous dirndl alone, but that morning I’d also braided my hair in German fashion to match the outfit and give the boys a laugh. The lieutenant colonel took exception to my presence and proceeded to chew the lot of them out for allowing a Jerry call-girl into a room holding classified documents. None of the men dared interrupt the diatribe. However, I didn’t wish to have my headache flare up from the yelling, and I interrupted the lieutenant colonel mid-tirade.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Colonel ... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
His mouth hung open for a moment before snapping out, “Kincaid!”
“Well, Lieutenant Colonel Kincaid, I realize my clothing is misleading, however I am the American agent your troops rescued last Tuesday. So, you needn’t worry. I’m part of the war effort. I have the appropriate security clearance,” I blithely assured him with a self-deprecating smile.
Kincaid’s eyes bulged and he sputtered, “What in tarnation are you talking about, missy?”
The fact that Jake ever so gently shook his head, and Glassman was biting his cheek in an effort not to laugh, clued me into the fact that perhaps Kincaid had not been told about my rescue and subsequent translation services that I’d been providing his battalion for the past week. My lips flattened, unsure how to go on.
The captain came to the rescue. “Sir, I believe you were told about the film provided to us by Fleur-de-lis.”
“I heard,” his gruff voice grumbled out like he chewed rocks for dinner.
Jake nodded at me. “May I introduce Lillian Saint James?”
“You mean to tell me this dame is Fleur-de-lis?”
I offered my hand. “At your service. Please forgive the clothes. My own were ... destroyed and one of your men was able to supply this ... outfit.” For some reason Kincaid’s gruff voice and frowning demeanor put me on edge. It also made me realize I should have made my own efforts to leave the 101st days ago and reconnect with the OSS secret intelligence division.
“I wasn’t aware the agent was still here.” He begrudgingly shook my hand.
“Yes, well ... there has been a bit of recovery.” I’d been dragging out my stay because Jake had been welcoming and made me feel useful. “Then Captain Devlin asked for my help and I couldn’t very well say no.” No. I refused to lie to myself. I remained because of Charlie. “Anything for the war effort. Right, Lieutenant Colonel?”
I smiled brightly at the officer, but my revelations had the effect of turning Kincaid’s face into a thundercloud, and I realized I’d allowed myself to babble while caught up in my own thoughts.
“I see.” He bit down on the two words. “Would you mind giving me a moment with my men, Miss Saint James?”
“Not at all.”
I mouthed “sorry” at Jake before escaping the tense chamber.
A while later, Glassman found me and communicated that the OSS had officially been notified of my survival and location. I wondered who would be paying for the oversight in failing to notify leadership that they were housing an agent who’d gone MIA. I also wondered if Jake would be spending time on KP duty.
Once informed of my survival, OSS issued orders for my return. I was directed to hitch a ride with the 101st as far as Mourmelon, then continue by train to Paris, where who knew what kind of reception awaited me. My own limited belongings could be packed in a matter of minutes; they consisted of a hairbrush, bobby pins, toothbrush, nightgown, overcoat, shoes, and the dreaded dirndl. Today, after begging Peterson to scrounge up a less outlandish outfit, I wore a pair of fatigues cinched with a random black leather belt, olive T-shirt, and camo field jacket. Since there wasn’t much for me to do, I’d offered to help Karp pack up the “office.”
Three men I’d never seen before entered through the open door. One of them, a corporal I didn’t recognize, pointed at me. “There she is, gentlemen. You need anything else?”
“No, Corporal. Thank you,” said a short, bald man wearing a dapper brown suit.
My hands paused their work, assessing the newcomers as they raked me with their eyes, taking in my odd clothing. Karp, too, stopped what he was doing and seemed stymied by their appearance.
“Lillian Saint James?”
The singsong lilt surprised me; I hadn’t met any Irish RAF pilots. But my gaze was drawn to his companion. His appearance could best be described as unassuming; someone you wouldn’t notice in the crowd.
“Private Karp, I bet you’re wondering what a Royal Air Force Pilot and an SOE agent are doing at our doorstep.” I said.
The agent hardly batted an eye. It was the pilot who confirmed my suspicions. “Well, there you go, mate. Sniffed out by one of your own kind.” He guffawed and clapped the brown-suited man on the back.
“Private.” The suit adjusted his little round glasses. “May we have the room?”
Karp’s eyes zinged back and forth between the men and me.
I nodded at him. “Go ahead ... and close the door behind you, please.”
“Have a seat.” I indicated the sofa. “May I offer you a drink? Sherry? Schnapps?”
Both men declined, so I folded into my favorite red chair, crossed my hands decorously in my lap, and waited.
The RAF pilot cleared his throat, but it was the soft-spoken agent who began, “There is a situation and we’d like your help.”
“Anything to help the cause. By the way, I’m Lily Saint James, but you already know that ... and you are?”
“Captain Fitzgerald, ma’am.” His chilled hand folded firmly around mine. “And this is Mr. Blaus.”
Mr. Blaus, whose name I sincerely doubted, made no move to do the niceties; instead he carried on the conversation, patently ignoring the introductions.
“We have received word of a missing RAF pilot who was able to find sanctuary outside of Sankt Blasien, in the Schwarzwald.” Blaus spoke in the dulcet tones of the British upper class.
Captain Fitzgerald unfolded a well-worn map, marred by coffee rings and ink blotches, and put his long finger on a tiny town about seventy kilometers north of the Swiss border.
“I am vaguely familiar with it. I believe there is a monastery there, which has been converted into a hospital. There is also an Adolf Hitler Gymnasium. Your pilot did not land in an auspicious location. I’m surprised he could find someone to hide him. The Jesuits were run off in thirty-eight? Thirty-nine? Hmm ... he’s not far from the Swiss border. Why hasn’t he tried to make a dash for it?”
“He does not speak German, he has no papers, and ... he’s injured,” Captain Fitzgerald replied.
“How bad?”
“We are unclear, but ‘making a run for it’ doesn’t seem to be an option at the moment.” The pilot rubbed his elbow.
“Why haven’t you sent one of your agents to bring him over the border? Or sent one of your network of sympathizers to help?” This I aimed at Mr. Blaus.
“We haven’t an agent in that area, and we are afraid the network has been compromised. There have been some unexplained arrests recently.”
“In other words, you don’t know who you can trust.”
“Nor an agent we can use without compromising other delicate operations.”
“How did you obtain this information?”
“Third-hand.”
In the espionage business, it wasn’t unusual to gain information through the proverbial grapevine; it was always a risk that someone in the grapevine was feeding misinformation or working for the other side, hoping to entrap an agent or entire ring of age
nts. “How do you know it’s not a trap?”
“We are certain. It’s our man.”
“What do you want from me?”
“We understand you made it through the forest.”
“Yes, but I started in a different location than your pilot, farther north, not so close to the Swiss border. I had some knowledge of the area, speak German, was clothed like a native, and had help getting across the Rhine. None of which your man has, and in the end, I still got caught. It is only by the grace of God, and the 101st, that I sit here before you. He’ll never be able to get across without help. I can tell you what I know, but unless you send someone in, I don’t like his chances.”
Fitzgerald nodded in agreement during my monologue. “That is precisely why we are here, to get him help.”
“You mean help from the 101st?”
“Not exactly,” Blaus replied.
“I’ll tell you what I can.” I shrugged. “But your intelligence runs deep and probably knows far more than I. My own ring of intelligence in Oberndorf was limited, and at least one of them is dead.”
“Miss Saint James, how would you recommend we stage a rescue if you were in this situation?” the captain asked.
“It’s a particularly snowy winter if you haven’t noticed. Does he ski? If so, tell him to strap on and let fly.” My levity was met with blank stares. Ah, the British sense of humor was lacking these days. “First, he needs proper clothes to disguise his ... Englishness, if he hasn’t already been provided with some. I would send in an agent to pass him the clothes and appropriate papers. Do you have a letterbox set up in the area? Since his injuries seem to hinder his mobility, trotting him across the border may be difficult. I would suggest you get him to the nearest train station and out through Switzerland. It’s the easiest way to move. You could always try a car, but acquiring one legally could be tricky, and an illegal vehicle would make an escape nerve-racking, to say the least. There is also the petrol consideration; you know it is severely rationed nowadays. The train is definitely safer. It was my original exit plan.”
I turned back to Blaus. “And undoubtedly the exit plan for many your agents in that area. The key will be papers and visas that pass muster, an appropriate cover story, and the ability to get this to him. If he doesn’t speak German, he’ll need some sort of help getting across the border.” I fingered the compass and mused, “There are so many displaced foreigners in Germany these days. Does your pilot speak any languages, Flemish, Dutch, Serbian?”
“He’s fluent in French,” Fitzgerald volunteered.
“With an English accent, no doubt.”
Both men nodded.
“Your ideas have merit,” Blaus said, seeming to assess my simple plan.
My gut was telling me that they weren’t here to listen to the ideas of a recently disgraced agent. “However, I’m sure I am not telling you anything you haven’t already thought of, so let us speak frankly, gentlemen. What exactly are you doing here, or more to the point, what do you want from me?”
“Our assessment of the situation is similar to yours, and we’ll need to send in an agent ... or two in order to rescue the man.”
Something didn’t add up, and I tapped my lips with a finger, evaluating the two men in front of me. “Why ... would you risk two agents to save this one pilot? Why not leave him hidden until the Allies break through into Germany? It can’t be much longer.”
The men shared a look.
“The risk of leaving him there is too much, and allowing this man to get caught is simply not an option,” Fitzgerald replied.
“Why not? Hundreds of planes have gone down behind enemy lines. POW camps are full of Allied troops captured by the enemy. Who is he?”
Again the look and no response.
Gears grinded in my brain and clicked like a bolt sliding into its pocket. “Wait a minute, he’s royalty, is he not? Lord something-or-other has put you in this position.”
Blaus didn’t blink, but Fitzgerald tugged at his collar.
“Does the family know?”
Nobody moved.
“Never mind, ‘need to know.’ You’re probably keeping it under wraps until he’s either rescued or confirmed dead. And if the Nazis get ahold of him and realize who he really is, they will use him.” I shuddered. “So, are you asking me to train the unlucky chap going on this suicide mission?”
“Not precisely.” The captain again tugged on his collar.
Blaus stroked his chin and studied me with an inscrutable stare.
I raised my brows, waiting for an explanation. It took a moment for realization to hit, and I released a bark of disbelieving laughter. “You’re proposing I do it?”
“We requested help from our counterparts at the OSS, and your name came up. Stories abound about the lovely Miss Saint James. You are a skilled agent who has taken on many a nom de guerre and still managed to get out of sticky situations. I am told the information you have provided the cause has been invaluable.” Blaus’s voice slid over me, slippery as a snake, in an effort to play to my vanity.
“Gentlemen.” I crossed my legs and sank farther back in my chair. “I don’t think you understand the situation. My cover is blown, nonexistent, shot down like your man. The Germans call me Das Kindermädchen, the Nanny. I’m sure the Gestapo has provided my photo to every border guard from north to south. Going back in is not only a suicide mission for me but also an ugly death for your man if we are captured together. The cuts and bruises from my last mission are still healing.” The bandages had been removed from my wrists, and I pulled back the cuffs to reveal the remnants of the rough scabs and brown bruises left behind from the cords.
Fitzgerald’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he gave another ill-at-ease tug at his collar.
Blaus didn’t deign to glance at the injuries. “The eye has almost healed and you will be provided with ample disguise, proper papers, transportation, and a partner.”
“I have orders to return to Paris. I am to depart with the 101st.” Even as I said it, I knew I had no interest in returning to Paris to have my hand slapped, or possibly to be fired and sent home in disgrace. My mind turned over the possibilities of getting back into Germany to help poor Little Lord Fauntleroy out of the situation. The thought of sneaking back into Germany frightened me.
In reality, my Oberndorf contacts were dead—possibly due to my own blunders—and I should be honored that anyone was willing to work with me again. On the other hand, it occurred to me that my past mistakes made me the perfect agent to carry off this mission. My history made me disposable, and if I failed, the reports would reflect their man’s death could be blamed on American ineptitude rather than British. It was clear the SOE had no plans to send someone else to retrieve the pilot. Either I successfully removed him or ... who knew what would happen to the chap. As much as I feared returning, I simply couldn’t find it in myself to callously refuse to help. It wasn’t lost on me either that, if successful, this mission could provide me a chance at redemption.
“Once you are out, I can fly you directly to Paris,” Fitzgerald said in a reassuring tone.
I could have laughed at his confidence. “Where are these orders coming from? SOE, OSS?”
Tug, tug went the captain. “Well, ma’am, strictly speaking, this is a volunteer operation. The OSS granted permission to contact you.”
“In other words, you’re asking me to voluntarily go on a suicide mission, and my own government sanctioned it.”
Nobody responded.
Suddenly, an unpleasant thought formed. Perhaps I was being a little too trusting. I had never met either of these two men, and they weren’t OSS, nor American, for that matter. Fitzgerald’s uniform and Irish brogue had gotten the pair into the building. Did the corporal who brought them up ask any questions? Blaus I’d immediately pegged as an agent, but for whose side? Was this entire story a setup to get me out of the comforting embrace of the Allied military and back into Germany? Were the Germans so desperate to captu
re das Kindermädchen that they’d send agents into the lion’s lair?
“Mr. Blaus, if that is your name, I’d like to see some bona fides. You too, Captain. I’ve just realized that you are asking me to go on a dangerous mission, you are not a part of my organization, and frankly, I don’t know who the devil you are.”
Fitzgerald’s eyes widened as though insulted by my insinuations, but Blaus allowed what must have been his version of a smile. Two corners of his lips rose the tiniest fraction of a millimeter. “Very good. I’ve been wondering when you would ask. We have been speaking for twenty minutes.” He reached into an interior pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Inside you will find a directive allowing you leave to take this mission. In addition, you will find the number of the local RAF command post and names of those who can vouch for Captain Fitzgerald. As for me, Mr. Smythe assures me that your favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry.”
Strawberry ice cream was a code word I’d used with my SOE contact in Stuttgart. Strawberry meant safe. I took the envelope and flipped through the two pages before tucking it beside me, to be studied and reviewed later, outside of watchful gazes.
Well, if I am disposable, at least I can try to get one more person out of the hellhole.
“Who is my partner?”
“A male, around six foot, who speaks German.”
“Don’t forget dark-haired,” said Fitzgerald.
“Hair can be changed,” Blaus blandly responded.
“Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You’re not sending an SOE agent with me? I’m supposed to dig up an OSS agent to rescue your man? You’re asking me to risk two American lives?”
Blaus cleared his throat. “At the moment, our resources are limited.”
“What is the timeline for the rescue?”
“The timeline is short.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Clarify short.”
“He must be retrieved within the next few days,” Fitzgerald emphatically stated.
“What is your plan to get me in country?”
“We were thinking a night drop.”