by Karen Abbott
As Commander Tranter continued, Francine listened in mounting excitement, her sun-tanned face taking on an added glow as she gradually realisied what its relevance was to her unexpected discharge from the army.
“My opposite number at Head Quarters has gone through the files and has decided that you are the best person for the imminent undercover operation,” Commander Tranter explained. “What I am about to tell you is strictly confidential and you are under stringent orders not to disclose a word of it to anyone. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, her mind still reeling.
“Good. I will just run through your credentials to make sure no mistakes have been made. You are Francine Devreux, born in 1923 on Ile d’Olèron in the Charente Maritime region of south-western France?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are a qualified radio technician and joined this regiment two years ago, since when you have been promoted to corporal, now sergeant, and have been on active service, sometimes under fire and have been commended for a ‘bravery-in-action’ medal?”
Commander Tranter looked kindly at the dazed face of the young woman who stood before her and continued briskly. “Your technical skills and the fact that Ile d’Olèron is your home territory is the reason Intelligence have requested that you are seconded to the French unit. Once there, you will be fully briefed about your mission. All I can tell you is that you are to be put ashore on Ile d’Olèron within the next few days. Since the ‘landings’, things are moving towards the ‘big push’, and, as you probably realise, Ile d’Olèron holds a strong strategic position.”
She looked up from the notes she was reading and added less formally, “No doubt you are aware that the island has been under German occupation since early 1942?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I ’ave not been back since just before that ’appened. I ’ave ’ad only two letters that the Resistance movement managed to smuggle out ... and they contained much censorship!”
She cast her mind back to her last few months on the island, now over three years ago. On the surface, life on the island had carried on as normal for the first year or so of the war but youngsters like herself, too young to join the regular army, had formed secret resistance groups. Led by the more elderly ex-combatants from the First World War … men who had thought never to be needed to use such skills again… they had learned the rudiments of guerrilla warfare.
Once the Germans had arrived, soon after her departure into the real army, she knew that many of those she left behind had continued with the work, now in earnest. How had they fared? Were they still active? Had any she knew been killed? Would any of her age group still be there?
Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of Pierre St. Clare, three years older than her, a young man who had set many female hearts on fire, her own included. But he wouldn’t be there. He’d be with the Allies on the mainland somewhere … making conquests wherever he went, no doubt! Married, perhaps? She hoped not! But, wherever he was, she hoped he was safe.
The voice of her commander once more broke into her thoughts. “Papers are being prepared for you and a colleague, Corporal Barclay, who, I am given to understand, speaks excellent French.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Yes, ma’am,” Francine murmured in agreement again. Someone had been very busy digging into their personal files. Was there anything they didn’t know?
“You must understand that, as under-cover agents, you will be out of the protection of the Geneva Convention regulations concerning the fair treatment of prisoners of war,” Commander Tranter warned. “Now, have you any questions to ask, Sergeant Devreux?”
Francine was pleased to hear the name of her companion. They had enlisted at the same time and had been close friends from their early training days. As to the rest, her mind was spinning, full of questions, but none seemed appropriate to ask right then, knowing that times of departure, details of training required and other essentials would be given as needed.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good. I will be seeing Corporal Barclay immediately after this interview. Return to barracks and pack your kit and then report back to me. The official line will be that you have been transferred to another battalion, so keep any conversations within that remit. That is all, Sergeant Devreux. Dismiss!”
Francine stiffened to attention, received her dismissal and smartly about-turned.
Life was suddenly about to change dramatically!
She was going home!
It was over two hours later when Angela Barclay joined Francine. Like Francine, she had a packed kit-bag over her shoulder and a slightly shell-shocked look in her eyes.
“Wow! How was that for a surprise?” Angela greeted her. “Don’t let anyone ever say that service life is dull and monotonous!”
“Not in wartime, anyway!” Francine amended, looking slightly anxiously at her friend. Angela’s natural complexion was fairer that Francine’s but, like her friend, the hot summer had given her a golden tan. Her features were softly pretty and feminine; her short chestnut hair curling over the brim of her army cap. Her eyes were bright with expectation as Francine continued. “Were you given the chance to decline the mission?”
“Sort of … but once I knew where we’re going, there was no way I’d have taken it! I’ve heard so much about Ile d’Olèron from you that I agreed straightaway, before they chose someone else to go in my place!”
Her tawny eyes were filled with excitement, their tiny golden flecks giving the impression of the dancing flames of an open fire. “Why is your island so important all of a sudden? I thought it was fairly small … only about twenty miles long, didn’t you say?”
“Yes … but think of where it stands, partway between the fortresses of Royan and La Rochelle! With Ile de Ré, a few kilometres to the north, it guards the estuary of the Gironde and the entire west coast along there; and now, under German control, it prevents the landing of Allied troops. Just think, if the Allies could get control of the island, they could move much more quickly inland than fighting their way down from Normandy. We ’ave to get it back!”
Their days of briefing were intense, exhausting their minds and bodies.
Francine was perturbed to hear that the Resistance movement on Ile d’Olèron had been discontinued since early October of the previous year and was only just being reinstated, hence the need for some radio transmitters and receivers and people who were able to use them. Many people she knew could have been drafted in to operate the radios—but none, it seemed, with her knowledge of the island.
“We will take the transmitters with us?” she asked at one of the briefings.
“No. It would be too dangerous for you,” the NCO replied. “We’ll get some over there as soon as we can by other couriers.”
“But, it will be just as dangerous for them, yes?”
“If they’re caught! But they are more practised in guerrilla warfare than you are. If you’re caught empty-handed, you may be able to bluff your way out of it—but, if you were caught with radio transmitters and receivers, you would be shot immediately. We need you there to be ready to assist in using the transmitters when we get them out there.”
It was an awesome thought to Francine that her knowledge and skill could help to win back the island and, possibly, cut short the war for the liberation of Europe.
Their heads bursting with information, codes and plans, it was with some relief that, six days later, Francine and Angela snuggled down in the shallow bottom of the small dark sailing boat that was to slip them ashore under the noses of the enemy.
Gone were all signs of their military connection and modern living style. They were sombrely dressed in the hard-wearing but simple skirts, blouses, jackets and shoes of the island’s female population. To Francine, it was a matter of stepping back three years—to Angela, now given the French form of her name, Angèlique, it was more like forty or fifty years, to the days of her grandparents.
A hand on their shoulders
alerted them that they were nearing their destination.
Francine breathed in the fresh salty air as deeply as she could without bursting her lungs. She peered through the darkness. Where were they? It was inky black. There was no moon; not even any stars. All were hidden by the thick cloud that had made this an ideal night for their silent journey.
The shallow-bottomed craft crept silently along the inland channel, its mariners carefully measuring the depth. It was a low tide, making their skills more needful as they moved into the shallow waters.
Francine was breathless with anticipation. She knew where they were now. They had passed the mainland town of Marennes ... and Bourcefranc Le Chapus, where the small ferry linked the mainland to the island, was slightly ahead. Any moment now they would swing westward towards the island into one of the main channels that led into the salines, the old rectangular, man-made salt lakes of Le Petit Village and La Giraudiere where the oyster farmers made their living amongst the marshes.
She smiled in satisfaction as she felt the craft swing beneath her and the mariners adjusted the black sails. Francine felt safe in their hands. She was almost home.
She glanced towards where she knew Angela’s … ‘Angèlique’s’ she corrected herself … blackened face would be as watchful as her own … though her friend was blissfully unaware of the danger from the sands and sea. Her attentive ears were listening only for sounds of man-made danger from any alert German sentries.
There were none.
They were now in the shelter of the salines; the sails were silently lowered and the craft moved by poles driven down into the water, punting slowly forwards.
The low sound of a pewit cut through the air, answered in kind by the mariner in the bows. The boat shuddered to a stop as it grounded on the sandy bottom of the inlet and blackened hands reached out from the dry bank, holding fast the boat whilst Francine, Angela and one of the mariners carefully stepped ashore.
With a low, “Bon chance!” from both parties, the small craft immediately melted back into the blackness of the night, leaving them in a seeming vacuum.
Angela, especially, felt disorientated in the inky darkness. She could hear the faint lap of water at her feet but couldn’t see it. She felt a stab of fear. What if she fell in? A curfew was in force every night. They mustn’t be seen or heard. Defaulters were shot on sight, no questions asked.
A light touch to her arm and a murmured, “Put your hand on my shoulder and follow me,” stirred her into action.
Silently, half-crouched, they threaded their way through the maze of the salines, thankful for the ragged growth of vegetation that provided some sort of cover against an over-keen vigilance of enemy eyes.
Angela followed blindly, her mind now working on automatic pilot. She could feel her heart thumping painfully against her ribs, the sound in her inner ear as loud as the beat of horses’ hooves. Was she really cut out for this? It was one thing crawling through rough terrain with a rifle slung over your shoulder on training exercises—and another thing altogether doing it for real!
The ground beneath their feet was firmer now. They were on a track of some kind. A hand reached backward pressing onto her shoulder and she instinctively crouched to the ground, her heart racing. The two behind her crouched also.
At first she couldn’t hear anything … then the steady hum of a motorised vehicle, its headlight’s slicing through the darkness, drifted through the night air. It had to be a German patrol vehicle. No friendly vehicles would advertise their presence like this.
The light seemed to hover above them. They held their breath. Had they been seen?
It seemed not.
The vehicle and light passed.
They waited until the hum faded into silence once more and then continued their journey. Soon, they were amongst a number of small buildings. They flattened themselves into the walls, hands linked in a chain.
Angela bumped into the leader, hearing a quietly tapped tattoo. Her trained ears heard, ‘merle’ and she smiled. Their code-name, ‘Blackbird’! With their blackened faces, it was appropriate!
The door opened just wide enough for them to slip inside, once again into total darkness, and the door quietly snicked back into place. Only then did a dim light begin to glow, revealing half a dozen figures … five men of varying ages and a woman of middle years, her face and hands weather-beaten, her clothes rough spun.
The woman lifted her hands and cupped them about Angela’s face, kissing her and then Francine, saying over and over, ‘Welcome, my little ones!” leaving the men to slap each other’s backs as they shook hands.
“May I present my friend Angèlique, Madame Naud, messieurs?”
Francine swung her glance over the men, vaguely recognising a couple. “Bernard! Georges!”
Only then did she look closely at the blackened face of the man who had guided them through the salines. His eyes were full of merriment and she felt a surge of pleasure tingle through her.
“Pierre!”
Chapter 2
The man stepped forward, his arms outstretched, a rueful smile now playing upon his lips.
“Je regret, Francine. I’m afraid you must do with his younger brother. Hopefully, you will notice that I have grown up since you last saw me.”
He made an extravagant bow and took hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips, his dark eyes dancing. “Charles St. Clare, at your service, Mademoiselle Devreux. Your delightful face is truly enchanting, as usual!”
His eyes were fixed on her face. Even covered with smears of black oil, her striking beauty touched his heart and made it thud painfully inside his chest. No, she wasn’t beautiful, he amended candidly … but she was striking—in his opinion, at least! But then, he was biased. He had always been in love with her, even though he knew her heart and hopes lay with his older brother.
Francine laughed, now at ease. It was true … he had grown up! Get that black stuff off his face and he would be every bit as good-looking as Pierre!
“I don’t need a mirror to disprove your words!” she said lightly, as she stepped into the fond embrace his outstretched arms offered. They had romped the local countryside together until teenage hormones had turned her heart to his handsome brother. But he was still her friend … a dear one, at that. She pulled free and reached out a hand to draw Angela forward.
“Angèlique, come and meet Charles, a lifelong friend.”
Charles paid Angela a similar compliment and had the pleasure of seeing a pink blush creep into her cheeks under the black grease.
Francine’s heart leaped. Angela and Charles; herself and Pierre! Something good might yet come out of this ghastly war!
“Hey, daydreamer! Where are you?” Charles’ teasing voice reached her.
Pulled back to the present, she smiled happily. Oh, it was good to see him again! And the others! She quickly asked about her parents and was thankful to be assured that they were well and still managing their family bakery in the small market town of Le Chateau. They had been told that she was coming to the island and she would see them tomorrow.
But, enough of family matters! They were here on official business and time spent together needed to be used wisely and efficiently. Francine snapped her mind into gear as they settled themselves around the kitchen table and she began to pass on information from the mainland. One of the men then placed a local map on the table and gave a detailed briefing of the work ahead, as they pored over the map. There would be dangers to face but the team was trained well and risks cut to a minimum.
There were so many questions Francine wanted to ask, especially about Pierre. Where was he stationed? And why was Charles here? Surely he should be on the mainland with the allied army!
But she knew the questions would have to wait until another time. Their gathering was strictly illegal and, should they be detected, the rebirth of the Resistance would be delayed.
Their business for the night completed, one by one, the men slipped out into the night leaving Francin
e and Angela to spend the night with Madame Naud.
Madame Naud took a blackened kettle off the fire and poured some hot water into a bowl. Francine and Angela washed themselves down and prepared for bed. Although their adrenalin was running high, neither girl spent more than a few minutes thinking things over before they drifted off to sleep, lying top-to-toe on a feather mattress in a narrow bed.
They awoke to the exultant cry of a cockerel and the more gentle sound of doves cooing high up in the trees. Weak rays of early morning sunshine streamed in through the curtains, even though it was not yet five o’clock … and the delicious smell of freshly baked rolls of bread wafted into their bedroom.
“Heavenly bliss!” Angela decided. “Let’s get up.”
Madame Naud apologised for the lack of coffee and anything other than homemade butter to put on the rolls.
“It is the war,” she shrugged. “We are fortunate to have this. If the Germans knew …” She left the sentence hanging in the air.
“It’s better than what we’re used to,” Francine assured her, thinking of the dark rye bread and cheap margarine that had been their main breakfast fare for so long that they had forgotten what anything else tasted like.
As they spoke, a farm cart pulled by an ox lumbered to a stop outside the cottage. Its driver was Charles again. Whistling the ‘Marseillaise’, he knocked on the door and entered smiling broadly.
“Bonjour, mes amies!”
As he saw the girls, he made a show of great surprise, accompanied by an elaborate bow. “Mesdemoiselles! What beauties!” and began to look behind the chairs and into the corners. “Where are those miserable-looking wenches I fetched here last night?”
“Miserable-looking wenches, indeed!” Francine retorted. “Who are you to talk? I can’t think why I thought you were Pierre last night!”
Charles spread out his hands in mock defeat, directing his reply to Angela.
“Alas! She is correct! I live in the shadow of my handsome brother! All the girls swoon at his feet and they trample over me as they rush to his side … even my old playmate here! I am disconsolate!”