"Not many people are moving home now. Why do you want to live and work here?"
Angeline took a deep breath and launched into her cover story. "My name is Angeline Legrand. My husband was killed during the first week of the war. Since then I have been living with my mother in Paris, but she died two weeks ago, and I decided to try to find work elsewhere. Paris is too depressing, seeing the Germans in all the places I used to love to visit."
The baker nodded as though he understood. "Do you have papers?"
"Of course." Angeline nervously handed him her forged papers, but they seemed to pass his scrutiny successfully and he looked up.
"Saint Nazaire is no different from Paris, you know. The Germans are everywhere here too.”
Angeline nodded. "I know. But Saint Nazaire is not as familiar to me as Paris. I might find it easier to accept them here."
The baker smiled, a warm friendly smile, and Angeline relaxed.
"I have a spare room you can have. Three Francs a week."
Angeline nodded. "Thank you very much, Monsieur." She smiled. "I'm sorry, but I don't know your name."
"I’m Vincent Artois, but you must just call me Vincent, Madame Legrand."
"Then you must call me Angeline." She looked around the small shop. "Can you show me where to put my things, please? I must go out and find a job, or I won’t be able to pay the rent."
"Well," Vincent smiled, "I’ve been struggling here. I can manage the selling alone, but the bakery is not so easy without a helper, and I’m not willing to ask people to break curfew to help me bake during the night. If you lived here, you wouldn’t have to break the curfew if you worked for me."
Angeline smiled. "That would be wonderful!"
"Not all that wonderful. You would have to be up at three o'clock and work until about ten. Could you do that?"
Angeline nodded, hardly able to contain her excitement. Not only had she found lodgings, but also a cover job which would allow her to have time free during the day, she would be able to check the post-boxes for messages from Tony without too much difficulty.
"Thank you very much, Vincent."
"You are most welcome, Angeline. Now, if you could put your things in the corner and help me to sell my bread, then I’ll show you to your room."
81
It took two days for Jean-Paul to make contact with the other three members of their group for Claude had been out of the city collecting car parts. They finally met, in the same secluded clearing in the woods which was the scene of Tony’s first introduction to the three French nationals who were risking their lives by associating with him. He perused the small group, and smiled. Claude Corver had lost even more of his hair in the few months since Tony had last seen him, but he appeared as fit as ever. Charles Durand, much the same age as Tony, still had the light of fanaticism in his eyes, but Tony knew that he could temper this by giving the young man constructive work to do. And finally Madeleine Thibault, as slim and as beautiful as ever, seemingly more relaxed now that she had played a part in striking back at the hated Germans. The attack on the submarine pens must have gone a long way towards avenging the death of her husband and helping her to come to terms with that sad loss. As Jean-Paul and Tony stepped from the trees, the three occupants of the clearing turned towards them and smiled.
"Albert!" It was Madeleine who spoke for them all. "We’re so glad to see you fit and well again. You can’t believe how worried we’ve been about you."
Charles stepped forward and shook Tony’s hand."
"I’m glad to see you again, Albert. Now you can lead us against the Germans once more."
Tony grinned, the boyish smile making him appear younger than he was. "It sounds as though you really do need me, Charles. I’ve heard about the escapades which you and Claude have been indulging in; too dangerous for the very little advantage they give us, if you ask me."
Charles' welcoming smile wavered, and Tony laughed.
"Don’t worry, I’m not really angry; in your place I would probably have done the same. But we are now in a position where we’re able to inflict much greater losses and damage on the enemy. We must all work together. Understood?"
“Yes, Albert." Claude sat down on an old tree trunk. "What are your plans for us?"
Tony found a comfortable perch, and indicated that the others should do the same.
"Well, Saint Nazaire is an important port for the Germans, so we could do worse than disrupt the facilities."
"How?"
Tony smiled at Charles.
"That's where I need your help. I don’t want to go into the city more often than I have to I’ll need you, Claude and Madeleine to get a good look at the docks. I want to know where they store their fuel, food supplies, spare parts for ships, ammunition, and anything else you can come up with."
Madeleine frowned. "That will not be easy Albert. We were all familiar with the port before the war, but all the facilities which you are talking about are in an area where only Germans are allowed to go."
Tony nodded. "I understand, but we must know the layout before we go in there or we could be in trouble. It will be necessary to spy from the roofs of nearby buildings. It would be nice if we could get inside, but I think the danger is too great. Don't take too many risks." He looked pointedly at Charles as he spoke. "We don’t want to alert the Germans to our interest.” He sat deep in thought for a moment then spoke again. "Claude and Charles, you can give me a rough plan of the interior of the port and try to find a way in. I would like Madeleine to concentrate on the guards."
Madeleine raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Concentrate on the guards? In what way?"
Tony grinned again. "Don’t worry, I'm not asking you to give up your honour for France. Just spend a lot of time in the area, and see if you can work out the guard routine - how long are they on duty? When do they change guard? Are any of the guards less alert than the others? That sort of thing."
Madeleine nodded. "Consider it done."
“What about weapons?"
Tony turned to Jean-Paul. "I know the things we need, and I’ll get a message to London to arrange a drop."
"Do we use the same place as before?"
Tony nodded. "It’s remote enough, and we know it now, as do London. We can use it at least one more time before we have to think of another site."
"When will the drop come?"
"It will probably take about a week, Claude. I’ll let Jean-Paul know, and he’ll get a message to you all to meet us at the site at 10p.m on the night."
"Will you want our information then?"
Tony shook his head. “No, Charles. When the drop comes I want us to hide the stuff and get away as quickly as possible, in case the plane is spotted. Let's arrange to meet here again on Saturday at the same time. All right?"
The others nodded. "We should have some information by then."
"Good. Then let's get going. The less time we spend together, the less danger we are in. Goodnight, and good luck."
With a chorus of good wishes, the five people disappeared into the trees, leaving the clearing deserted once more.
Tony spent part of the next morning encoding his message for Angeline. It would be a long one, longer than he liked, but it was necessary. With his request for a drop, he included the co-ordinates where he would be waiting and a list of the items he needed, including gammon grenades, limpet mines, plastic explosives, pocket incendiaries, Sten guns and thermite bombs. He was glad that the signal which would be given over the radio on the night before the drop had been arranged before he left England so he would not have to take time sending that too. Late in the morning, he borrowed Jean-Paul’s bicycle and set off through the misty rain for the outskirts of the city.
There were few people about, the damp air driving them from the streets, and Tony felt conspicuous. He pedalled on, not so fast as to draw attention to himself, but fast enough to appear as though the rain bothered him and he wanted to get to his destination quickly. Shoulders hunched and head do
wn, he turned into the road where the church was situated, only to find a German checkpoint. Swallowing nervously he stopped his bicycle and dismounted.
"Papers."
The young German soldier looked wet and fed-up. He took Tony’s papers and perused them. He frowned, and Tony’s heart caught in his throat. Was there something wrong with them?
"Name?"
"Albert Fouquet."
"Address?"
“22 Rue Blanc."
"Occupation?"
"Labourer on the de Thierry estate."
"What are you doing here then? Should you not be working?"
Tony shrugged in typical French fashion. "The rain was interfering with my work so I took a couple of hours off."
"What for?"
Tony indicated the bunch of flowers in the basket attached to the front of the bicycle. "I’m going to pay my respects at the family grave."
The young soldier nodded, his face softening. "You may not think we Germans have a heart, but we do. We too have families. We would love to spend time with them, or caring for their graves as you are able to, instead of standing here in the rain, fighting for a man like Hitler." He handed the papers back to Tony. "On your way."
Tony put the papers back in his pocket, mounted the bicycle and rode away. He was frowning as he rode. Since Dunkirk, he had thought of the Germans as little more than vermin which needed exterminating, but now he saw just how naive that attitude was. The young man who had checked his papers was obviously unhappy in Hitler’s army, probably a conscript, and his longing for home was obvious. Tony began to realise that the war was not quite as black and white as he had thought. There were probably many Germans who opposed Hitler but could do nothing about it. Young men like that soldier probably had no choice but to join the army if they wished their families to remain safe. Tony found himself sympathising with the young conscript, who was obviously in uniform against his will, and felt his hatred of the German becoming tempered with compassion. It would make no difference to his job, however. The war must be won, and if innocent Germans died as well as innocent British and French, then that was the price to be paid.
Tony cycled along to the church, then dismounted and propped the bicycle against the railings. Taking the flowers from the basket he went through the gate, turned left and stopped at the second grave he came to. Stooping, he placed the flowers on the grave then stood for a moment as though deep in thought, in case anyone was watching. Then he turned and made his way up the path and through the door of the church. It was dim inside, lit only by the candles in front of the altar and the muted light which came through the stained glass windows. Tony made his way slowly up the aisle and into the third row on the left. Moving along the row, he sat down in front of the fourth prayer book along. He knelt down as though in prayer. Taking the prayer book in his hands, he carefully slipped his message to Angeline inside its front cover. After a few moments’ contemplative silence Tony found that he was really praying; praying for Angeline, that she would not be caught when she set the message, praying for his group, that they would not be hurt in the planned attack, praying for his parents and Sarah back in England. Tony had rarely been in a church since childhood, but now he found it calming and peaceful. He wondered why he had not tried praying before.
Rising from his knees, Tony made his way out of the dimly lit church. It had stopped raining and a weak sun was peeping out from behind a cloud. With a smile, Tony retrieved the bicycle and set off in the direction of his grandmother’s estate. With the weather brightening up, Jean-Paul would need his help on the farm.
82
Angeline settled quickly into life at Vincent Artois’ bakery. To begin with, she found it difficult to rise at three in the morning to help Vincent light the ovens and mix the dough, but she soon got used to it. Indeed she found that she enjoyed the tasks he set her, particularly the kneading of the dough. She used it as a release for her pent-up emotions. Kneading and pulling at the dough calmed the nerves she sometimes felt, being in enemy held territory and without personal contact with her own people. The isolation forced her closer to Vincent, who appreciated Angeline’s help in the house as well as in the bakery and shop. A close friendship was developing between the two, like uncle and niece, and Vincent was surprised to find that life was more enjoyable for him than it had been at any time since the spring of 1940. He had not realised just how isolated he, and other people, had become under German rule, how lonely it was for someone alone at a time when families were moving closer together, and he thanked God for bringing Angeline to him.
Angeline found it easier to settle into life in Saint Nazaire than she had expected. She had a good safe house, a cover story and a cover job which seemed to hold up well under scrutiny, while giving her time to continue with the activities which were the real reason for her being in France. She finished working in the bakery and shop each morning sometime after ten o’clock, then always went out for a cycle ride to 'clear her head’. Vincent thought nothing of it, unaware that she cycled to a small fishing village to check for messages from a British agent. After lunch, she would shop for their meagre rations, making sure that her route passed the small church in the suburbs.
Life had quickly settled into the routine that was a wireless operator’s life. Called on only infrequently to pass on messages, it became necessary to focus the concentration on living a totally French life, so that no action would give her away. Angeline had settled into this way of life so quickly and so well that it was almost a shock for her to see the small bunch of flowers on the grave, bright colours caught by a ray of weak afternoon sun, as she cycled past the church. She stopped, leant her bicycle against the railings and carried her basket of groceries up the path and into the church. The building was empty. She made her way slowly up the aisle and slipped into the pew which Tony had occupied an hour earlier. She placed the basket on the seat beside her. No-one in occupied France would be silly enough to let their food out of their sight even in the hallowed precinct of a church. She knelt down as though to pray, lifting the prayer book down and opening its front cover. There, as she had expected, was the small piece of paper with Tony’s message. Her heart was beating rapidly as she slipped the piece of paper deep into her pocket, not daring to read it where she knelt in the church. The palms of her hands were wet with sweat, and she wiped them on her skirt before smiling ruefully. Whoever would have thought that an ordinary looking woman like her would find herself in such a situation.? At least she did not look like a spy, or her idea of what a spy should look like, which was of some comfort to her as she nervously replaced the prayer book.
Angeline heard a door close somewhere over on her right, and had to fight to stop herself jumping at the sound. Taking a deep breath, she slowly lifted her head to see the local priest, who must have been working in a room adjoining the main body of the church, make his way to the altar, his black robes swishing against the stone floor. At the altar rail, he genuflected and knelt to pray. Angeline let her breath out in a slow sigh, she had been unaware that she had been holding it, then rose to her feet, picked up her basket and slipped out of the church. By the time she had secured the basket to the bicycle, her hands had ceased their trembling. She was feeling much more in control of herself. The sight of the priest had been a shock; she had thought herself alone in the church. But the experience reinforced for her the fact that she should be on her guard at all times. With a deep breath, and a mask of confidence, Angeline mounted the bicycle and made her way back to the bakery.
Angeline spent the afternoon and early evening in her room, reading and restlessly pacing back and forth. Her contact time with London was not until five minutes past midnight, still hours away. It would only take her thirty minutes to reach the bombed out warehouse she had chosen to send her first message from. Allowing time for hold ups en route, she would not need to leave the bakery until eleven fifteen. She glanced at her watch. Only seven p.m. What was she going to do for the next four hours? Her stomach was
a knot of excitement and fear, closely entwined like the roots of a tree. Aware that her restless pacing might alert Vincent to the fact that she was up to something, Angeline forced herself to sit down on the edge of her bed. But she could not relax. Finally she rose and went downstairs to talk to Vincent, trying to keep her mind away from the fact that she was planning to break curfew and send a radio message to England. Either of those on its own was enough to mean death at the hands of the Germans. Vincent noticed her nervousness, but said nothing. In war-time one did not pry too closely into someone else's affairs.
At nine o’clock, the Frenchman and his lodger retired to bed as was their custom. It was only six hours before they needed to rise to light the ovens and bake the meagre ration of bread for their neighbourhood. Vincent went to bed and immediately fell asleep while Angeline, alone in her room, gazed out over the dark city of Saint Nazaire, the blackout giving it the appearance of a brooding monster. From time to time she saw a German patrol in the streets, or the dark shadow of a cat slinking from rooftop to rooftop, but there was no other movement. Once night fell and curfew took effect, Saint Nazaire was like a city of the dead. The slow minutes and hours ticked by until, at last, it was time for Angeline to leave. Dressed in dark sweater and trousers, she picked up the case containing her radio set, and slipped quietly from her room.
As Angeline crept down, it seemed to her over sensitive ears that every tread of the stairs creaked, that every movement she made would give her away. But she had been well trained, and soon found herself out in the delivery yard behind the bakery, without alerting Vincent to her movements. Now came the difficult, and most dangerous, part. Stealthily she crept from shadow to shadow, sticking to narrow alleyways and the deep cover provided by the piles of rubble in the bombed-out warehouse district. Her progress was slow. Twice she had to crouch deeper into the shadows as German patrols approached, her mouth dry with the fear that she might be discovered, but each time they passed by without being aware of her. Finally, at ten minutes to midnight, she slipped into the bombed-out warehouse, one of six sites she had selected to send from, and moved deeper into the piles of rubble, until she was so far from the road that there would be no chance of anyone overhearing her signals.
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