Code Name Verity(72)

Can’t think what else there is to tell about the crash. I’ve been clothed and fed and sheltered very generously considering they’ll all be shot if I’m discovered. I’m a huge risk – a danger to myself and everyone around me, probably the only shot-down Allied airwoman outside Russia. I’ve seen the leaflets. 10,000 francs reward for captured Allied flight crew or parachutists, ‘more under certain circumstances’. ‘Certain circumstances’ are bound to include a lass who can give the Luftwaffe a position fix on the RAF Moon Squadron.

And, this terrifies me and if I never tell anyone my real name perhaps no one will notice, but in addition to all that, I am Jewish. It is true that I went to a Church of England grammar school and our diet is not in the least bit kosher even in the holidays and Granddad is the only one of us who ever goes to synagogue. But I am still a Brodatt. I don’t think Hitler will let me off for being godless.

Best not think about it.

I didn’t think about anything for the first day and a half. Slept more than 24 hours, flat out, which is just as well because that was the day when the farm was simply crawling with German soldiers. The crash site was cordoned off for two days as they took photographs from every possible angle, including the air, and sifted through the wreckage. It’s still cordoned off, but apparently they have a hard time keeping out the usual vultures – small boys hunting for RAF souvenirs! A much more dangerous hobby in France than at home.

I am still unbelievably sore – not from the crash, but from holding the dratted plane in level flight all during that final hour. Every muscle on fire all the way up my arms, right from fingertips to shoulders and even across my back. Feel like I’ve been wrestling tigers. Don’t mind being able to rest really, I never quite feel fully rested even on my days off. I could sleep for a week.

Starting to nod again now. Light comes in through slats netted over with chicken wire to keep out pigeons. The platform of this loft space is halfway up the slats – if you were suspicious and counted them you would see more slats on the outside than on the inside. It’s a clever hiding place, but not foolproof. Before I fall asleep again I am going to construct some place to hide these stupid notes. If anyone reads this, court martial will be the least of my worries.

I wish Julie would turn up.





Spent all this afternoon (Thurs. 14 Oct) on the threshing floor of this barn learning to fire a Colt .32 revolver. What fun. Mitraillette and a few of her chums kept guard, Paul provided lessons and gun. The gun is part of his SOE kit, but he has got a bigger one, a Colt .38, from an arms drop and they all think I need one as I have nothing else to hide behind – no papers and very little French. As far as Paul’s concerned I’m just another SOE agent to be trained up quickly – not sure how this happened, but at any rate I am learning to be proficient in the SOE’s ‘Double Tap’ system. You fire twice, rapidly, each time you aim so you never have to take any prisoners. I am a decent shot. I think I would even find it quite a satisfying challenge if it weren’t for the noise – and Paul’s wandering hands. I remember him now, from that ferry flight in England. His hand on my thigh IN THE AIR. Ugh. Mitraillette says it is not just me, he does it to every woman under 40 who comes near enough for him to touch. Don’t know how Julie puts up with such stuff, encourages it even, as part of her work. Enjoys it more than I do, perhaps? No – I think she’s just bolder than me, in that as in everything.

Mitraillette, it turns out, is not the Resistance girl’s real name. She laughed at my stupidity for thinking it was – it is her code name. She has told me both, as it is awkward her father shouting her real name just below my louvred window when she’s supposed to come and feed the hens – it is a poultry farm. I won’t write down her real name. Mitraillette means submachine gun. It suits her.

Maman – her mother – is from Alsace and the children all speak German fluently. There is a younger sister they call ‘La Cadette’ – think it means ‘the little sister’! The brother, the eldest, is a Gestapo officer – an actual Frenchman who has been made an underling in the Ormaie Gestapo headquarters. The family, including Maman, despise the boy’s Nazi collaboration, but they fuss and cluck over him when he visits home. Apparently collaborators are so violently detested in Ormaie that anyone will shoot them, even ordinary citizens who have no connection to the Resistance, and he has to keep his head down. Etienne, I think he’s called, his real name. He does not know it, but he is quite safe. He is brilliant cover for his own family’s Resistance entanglement and there are orders out to keep him alive.