A Fire Sparkling

by MacLean, Julianne

  “Goodness. It sounds like an important job.”

  I had no desire to be away from Edward, but we all had to do our part.

  Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I wondered if I might gain access to information about the activities of the German Army divisions in Europe. Perhaps I could learn something about Ludwig. I’d been living without any information for so long. If I could just know if he was dead or alive . . .

  Major Odell regarded me with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows, and I considered the logistics: Edward would be fine. He had a full-time nanny and two doting grandparents to look after him. And I would have an excuse to avoid Clara for a few weeks.

  “When would you need me to start?” I asked. “If I were to accept.”

  “Today, if possible. You could come with me now.”

  “Golly. No time to sleep on it, then.”

  “Ideally, no.”

  “All right, then. Let me go and get my handbag.”

  And so, it began.

  The so-called Inter-Services Research Bureau was located in an ivy-cloaked Elizabethan manor house a few miles from Grantchester Hall, in a little hamlet called Wanborough. In fact, I had ridden past the house on my bicycle more than a few times, never knowing what actually went on there.

  What I discovered upon my arrival and a quick interview with the conducting officer—who told me not to tell anyone where I worked—was that it was a preliminary training facility for secret agents who would be sent to France to work with the Resistance against the Germans. Its real name was the Special Operations Executive—or SOE—and its agents were trained to gather intelligence and perform sabotage operations, such as blowing up munitions factories and bridges and derailing trains, to slow the advancement of the German Army across France and destroy their supply lines. They were covert operations, and the agents began at Wanborough Manor for basic military training.

  I had been told that my job for the next three weeks was to perform translations and administrative tasks, but the conducting officer informed me that my real job was to help a female French-Canadian candidate smooth out her accent—to sound less Quebecois and more Parisian. Her name was Marie LeBlanc, and she was only twenty-three years old. From dawn to dusk, I would be required to be at her side for every aspect of her training. It was not at all what I’d expected my job to be.

  “What exactly do you do there all day long?” Catherine asked a few days later when I arrived home on my bicycle after dark and asked for a light meal before bed.

  “I translate French documents and memos and do some filing and answer phones,” I told her. “Boring stuff, mostly.”

  She patted my shoulder sympathetically. “It’s too bad it wasn’t more interesting for you. But we all have to do our part, I suppose.”

  She left me alone to devour my toast and ponder the fact that I now knew how to pick a lock and rid myself of handcuffs, which might come in handy if anyone ever discovered who I really was—especially the top brass at Churchill’s secret spy school. Imagine what they would do if they knew that one of their employees was not who she said she was, and she was secretly in love with a Nazi officer in charge of a panzer division somewhere in occupied Europe. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  I was passing through a corridor at Wanborough Manor, on my way to lunch with some agent trainees, when we were caught behind a cart loaded with boxes. Pausing to wait, I glanced into Major Odell’s office and saw a man in an RAF uniform seated across from him. They both looked relaxed, lounging back in their chairs on opposite sides of the desk, laughing about something. I recognized the man as Jack Cooper, the pilot I’d met at the dance.

  He glanced out at the commotion in the hall and our gazes held for a few seconds before he returned his attention to the major, without ever acknowledging our acquaintance.

  My first reaction was one of relief, because I was pleased to see that he had returned safely from his flight across the Channel that night.

  Later, I saw him pass through the mess hall and pick up an apple on his way out. We spotted each other again. This time, he gave me a wave that resembled a salute. I nodded in return.

  That was not the only time I saw Jack Cooper while I was at Wanborough. The second time occurred a week later, late at night, when I was cycling home after a long day at the training facility.

  “Hey, baby!” an American GI shouted at me from an open-topped Jeep as it swerved alarmingly on the dark road. It was near midnight, and I wished I’d arranged for someone to pick me up in the car, but with petrol rationing, I always hated to ask.

  Keeping my head down, I hoped the rowdy servicemen would continue without stopping, but they skidded to a halt up ahead, shifted into reverse, and backed up to drive alongside me.

  “Whatcha doin’ out so late?” one of them asked. “Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

  “I’m on my way home,” I replied. They were obviously drunk, so I pedaled faster.

  “What’s yer name, sweetheart? Mine’s Patrick.”

  I ignored them and continued pedaling.

  The one behind the wheel leaned toward me and nearly lost control of the vehicle as he shouted, “She’s the Unattainable!” He swerved back the other way, and the Jeep fishtailed and raised a cloud of dust on the road. I hit my brakes.

  When he realized I’d stopped, he backed up again and turned the Jeep at an angle on the road to block my path. Its shaded headlights, due to the continued blackout regulations, provided very little light, and there was a low cover of cloud that night, so it was particularly dark.

  “Want to come to the pub?” one of them asked. “Lots of room in the back seat. We can throw your bike in the . . . what do you call it? The boot?” They all laughed.

  “No, thank you. I just want to be on my way.”

  There were four of them and only one of me. I didn’t like the feeling of being trapped, and I began to perspire.

  “Come on, sweetheart. We’ll be fighting the Jerries soon. We could use a little encouragement.”

  “A proper send-off!” the one named Patrick added.

  A motorcycle came around the bend just then. It slowed to a crawl as it approached and came to a full stop. The rider put one booted foot on the ground and revved his engine. “There a problem here?”

  Though it was dark, I recognized his voice. It was Jack Cooper. I exhaled with relief at his timely arrival as the GIs took note of his uniform and rank. “No, sir. We’re just making sure the lady’s all right.”

  “She looks fine to me. I suggest you move along now, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tires tossed up some gravel as they sped off.

  Jack removed his helmet. “Are you okay?”

  I wiped the perspiration from my brow. “I’m fine now. Thank you for stopping.”

  He watched me for a moment, then glanced down at my bicycle. “Why don’t you leave that here? I’ll take you the rest of the way home.”

  I took a quick study of his motorcycle—I’d never been on one before—and thought about it for a few seconds. “I need my bicycle to get back to work in the morning. I start at eight.”

  “I can take care of it,” he replied. “I’ll make sure it’s on your front doorstep by sunrise. Hop on,” he said again. “I’ll feel better if you’re with me.”

  I admit I was shaken from the unpleasant encounter with the GIs and exhausted from a long day at the school. Thoughts of pedaling the rest of the way home in the dark didn’t exactly fill me with merriment, so I wheeled my bicycle into the tall grass at the side of the road, left it there, and climbed onto the back of Jack’s motorbike.

  As soon as I wrapped my arms around his waist, he revved the engine and pulled a slow U-turn toward Grantchester Hall.

  It was a quick ride back and surprisingly enjoyable to speed along the country road and up the long sloping driveway in a matter of minutes.

  When we arrived at the front door, he shut off the engine and removed his helmet.

  “Thank you again,�
� I said.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the house, hoping Clara wasn’t spying on me from a dark window somewhere. I was sure she’d have something rude to say in the morning about my midnight arrival on the back of an American serviceman’s motorcycle.

  “Good night.” I turned to hurry inside, but he spoke my name in a quiet voice.

  “Vivian . . .”

  I stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  The question caught me off guard, and I stared at him for a few seconds in astonishment. “I really shouldn’t . . . I can’t.”

  “Why not? Are you working?”

  “Probably.”

  But he made no move to leave. “What about another time? Friday?”

  “I’m sorry. I . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say to him. “I just can’t.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, then at last, seemed to accept my answer. “I understand. No worries.” He put his helmet back on. “Have a good night, Vivian.”

  He pressed firmly down on the kick-start lever, started the engine, and turned his bike around.

  After I watched him disappear into the darkness, I remained there, listening to the sound of his motorcycle grow faint in the distance. Only when I could hear no more trace of it did I turn around and go inside.

  The following morning, my bicycle was outside the door, leaning against the front of the house, just as he’d promised.

  I went to work at Wanborough Manor that day, but I never saw Jack Cooper there again. We did meet elsewhere, however, at a later date, in very different circumstances.

  “I’m surprised they let women into this program,” I said to Marie one overcast afternoon as we walked back from a self-defense training exercise on the back lawn. “There are so few things they let us do when it comes to actual combat.”

  “They don’t let us do everything,” she said. “We can be radio operators, but only because they’re so desperate for them. But we don’t get to be circuit organizers or saboteurs. That’s still considered man’s work. They just want us to be couriers and deliver messages between cells, because we’re less conspicuous than men. It’s nothing unusual for a woman to be walking down the street with a basket full of bread from the market, but a man with a case would be questioned.”

  “So, is that what you’ll do? Be a courier?”

  “Yes, but I hate riding bicycles. I’m a clumsy fool. Don’t tell the major that, though, or he won’t let me graduate, and I’ll go mad if I have to sit behind a desk. I want to be part of the action.”

  She was so young and hadn’t seen what I’d seen in Paris, just before I was forced to leave Ludwig. Part of me wanted to educate her and tell her a few dark tales about the SS and how ruthless they could be, but I didn’t want to cause her to lose her nerve—nor could I reveal anything about my true identity anyway—so I kept my mouth shut.

  Over the next few weeks, I stood with the conducting officer for all the training exercises. The most challenging ones were the impromptu arrests, during which officers would burst onto any scene and escort a candidate to a room where he or she would be interrogated. By then, all the candidates had been given elaborate false identities, which they were expected to memorize, and the slightest hesitation when answering a question was a mark against them. These were the most stressful training exercises, and those who couldn’t perform under the pressure were immediately removed from the program. Marie always did well. Partly because when we were alone, I offered her advice about her mannerisms or expressions when she was being questioned. I spoke to her about the importance of truly believing, deep down, that you were that person. She understood and caught on quickly. Her only weakness was an occasional pronunciation error with her French, and she was self-conscious about it. Sometimes, it threw her off.

  One day, Major Odell called me into his office. He sat forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. “It’s been three weeks. How does she sound? Any improvement?”

  “She’s done very well,” I replied. “She’s mastered the accent almost completely.”

  “Almost . . .” He shook his head. “Almost isn’t good enough. How close are we, Mrs. Gibbons? Because we need her to pass as a European, not a Canadian.”

  “There are only a few rough edges to smooth out,” I replied. “She’ll master it soon.”

  “But we’re out of time. We need her in France immediately. I’m sure you can understand what I’m saying.”

  I squeezed the armrests of my chair. “Yes.”

  Everything had become urgent because the Allied invasion was imminent. No one knew exactly when it would occur, or where, but there was a noticeable electricity in the air.

  “How much time do I have?” I asked.

  He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. I’d never seen him look so defeated, and I suspected he hadn’t been getting much sleep lately.

  “She needs to start parachute training tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I considered that. “What if I went with her? A few more days should do it.”

  He brightened at that. “That would be helpful. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow morning at 0600 hours?”

  I hated the idea of being away from Edward, but I said yes because I was invested now—and not only because I wanted Adolf Hitler to lose this war. I also knew exactly what Marie would be doing after they dropped her behind enemy lines, and I wanted to do everything in my power to help her stay alive. She must fool everyone into believing that she was who she said she was.

  As I rose from the chair and walked out of the major’s office, I realized that it had become a constant mantra in my own life: Wear the mask. Be someone else. Don’t get caught. I was an expert at it, and I had more practice than any of these untried agents.

  The following morning, I woke early and kissed Edward goodbye for a few days—softly, so as not to wake him. Then I slipped out of the nursery and made my way to Wanborough Manor to meet a transport vehicle.

  All the agent trainees were waiting outside. They had packed their belongings because they would not be returning. Most of them would go on to the Arisaig facility in Scotland for commando training, but SOE needed a new female courier urgently in France, so that’s why they were sending Marie for parachute instruction right away.

  “Are you nervous about jumping out of a plane?” I asked her in French as we pulled onto the main road.

  “A little. I’m not a fan of high-speed situations. It’s why I don’t like riding bicycles downhill. I’m always afraid I’m going to hit a rut in the road and fly into a ditch.”

  I studied her with curious eyes. “I’m surprised you made it through the program. They seem to weed out candidates for things like that.”

  “I know. That’s why I lied about it.” She grinned at me. “And that’s what will make me a good agent. Because I know how to stick to my cover story. I fooled them, didn’t I?”

  Yes, but I worried that she was overconfident at times. I hoped it wouldn’t lead her to take risks.

  As we drove north toward Manchester, the roads became clogged with tanks, lorries, and other military vehicles, all heading in the opposite direction—south toward the coast. They carried thousands of servicemen and crates full of weapons, ammunition, and supplies. I’d never seen anything like it. The vehicles were backed up for miles.

  “It’s finally happening,” Marie said as she peered out the car window. “Now we can show Hitler what we’re made of. Bring him down a few pegs. I can’t wait.”

  There it was again—the unshakable confidence and fearlessness. It’s strange, I thought. Vivian had always criticized me for that very thing. Perhaps that’s why I had a soft spot for Marie. She reminded me of myself. But this war—especially the Blitz—had forced me to grow up rather quickly and understand that no one was invincible. You never knew when your luck was going to run out.

  As for Marie, her lu
ck ran out on her very first drop. After a full day of instruction and practice drills in the hangar, she took off in a Douglas Dakota C-47, made the jump, and got tangled up in a tree upon landing. When she cut herself free, she fell twenty feet to the ground and broke her ankle.

  I had not gone up into the plane with her. I was waiting in the hangar with a cup of tea when a young sergeant found me and informed me that she’d been taken to the hospital.

  “She won’t be going to France anytime soon,” he said as he escorted me to speak with the commanding officer. “Take a seat.” He pointed at a chair in the hall outside the office.

  A moment later, Major Gardiner opened his door. “Mrs. Gibbons? Come in, please.”

  I stood and followed him inside, where he had a clear view of the airstrip.

  “I just got off the phone with Major Odell. He’s authorized me to offer you the chance to serve your country and spend the next few days here for parachute training. He says you know everything that Marie was taught, and he believes you would be exceptional in the field.”

  I stared at Major Gardiner in shock. “I beg your pardon? Are you saying that you want me to parachute into France?”

  “If you’re willing. But you may refuse, if you wish, Mrs. Gibbons. There would be no shame in it, because there would be risks involved, and we understand you have a son at home.”

  I most certainly did. Edward, my sweet, darling boy whom I loved more than life itself. The thought of leaving him for a few days was heart wrenching on its own, but to leave him behind to parachute across enemy lines and be gone for weeks? Maybe longer than that? And risk my life in the process? Something could go wrong. I could be captured or killed.

  “I’m not saying yes,” I replied, “but hypothetically speaking, if I were to accept, what would I tell my family?”

  “That you’re being sent to Scotland and that the work you are doing is classified, and for that reason, you can’t tell them what it is.”

  I nervously cleared my throat. “When would I be expected to leave? Hypothetically speaking?”