Code Name Verity(80)

In addition to me and the hens, our carload included Papa Thibaut’s friend the driver, Papa Thibaut for authenticity of chicken sales, Amélie and Mitraillette for authenticity of Sunday picnic, and Paul for general knowledge and execution of plan. Paul sat between the girls the whole way with Amélie purring on his shoulder. She is a wizard actress, La Cadette. Under the back seat they had hidden a couple of Stens – Mitraillette’s namesake submachine gun – and a wireless set. The field was right up at the end of a dirt track, three wooden gates to open and shut on the way – ‘guards’ of our own posted on each gate already. They’d all arrived on bicycles, hidden in the wayside shrubs now – a few of the riders had doubled up so that when the aircraft passengers left, there wouldn’t be extra cycles to take back with them. The local ‘ground crew’ set up our radio by attaching it to the poor Rosalie’s battery and sticking the antenna up a tree which conveniently hid the car from the air, as well. Reception was all right at first, though as the wind picked up later it got more and more difficult to hear anything.

We crowded round the headset as the BBC came on air, two or three of us to an earphone –

– ICI LONDRES –

THIS IS LONDON! Such a thrill, no other word for it, THRILLING, to hear the BBC – just incredible. How amazing, astonishing it is that we have this technology, this link – all the hundreds of miles between us, field and forest and river and sea, all the guards and guns, bypassed in an eyeblink. And then that moderate voice, speaking clear French that even I could understand, as though the chap were standing next to you, secretly telling you in your blacked-out European field that your rescue plane is On The Way!

Paul introduced all the lads of the reception committee – not by their real names of course. You have to shake hands with everyone. Hard to remember them all after one meeting in the dark. There was a girl who was supposed to be picked up with us, a wireless operator, they were dead keen to get her back to England as she has apparently got half the Gestapo in Paris on her tail.

‘Don’t know what we’ll do without you, Princess,’ Paul said, squeezing her round the waist.

‘I’ll come back,’ she said quietly. Not like Julie at all really – shy and soft-spoken. Must be every bit as brave though. Can’t imagine what nerve these people must have.

Then Paul pointed out to me, ‘That young fellow just coming with the last bicycle is the other pilot, the one who got stuck in the mud west of here. You probably know each other?’

I looked up. It was Jamie, JAMIE BEAUFORT-STUART. Even in tossing shadows and under a waxing moon I knew him, and he saw me at the same time. He dropped his bicycle and we leaped for each other like kangaroos. He burst out, ‘MA –’

He nearly said my name. He caught himself and stammered a little, then smoothly cried out, ‘MA CHéRIE!’ and slung me over backward in a swooning Hollywood kiss.

We both came up for air, gasping.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ he hissed in my ear. ‘First thing I thought of – didn’t want to blow your cover, Kittyhawk! Won’t do it again, I promise – ’

Then we were both overcome with silliness, giggling like gormless idiots. I kissed him back very quickly, so that he knew I didn’t mind. He swooped me upright, but kept one arm over my shoulder – they are all like that, those Beaufort-Stuarts, affectionate as puppies, dead casual about it. It’s not British! Not English anyway, but I don’t think it’s very Scottish either. For a moment I saw Paul watching us, himself with one arm still clamped round the other girl’s waist – then he turned away and said something to one of the landing team.

‘Any word from our Verity?’ Jamie asked suddenly.

I shook my head, didn’t quite trust myself to answer.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

‘I’ll tell you Paul’s long shot –’

We went to sit in the car with Amélie, who had fallen blissfully asleep on the back seat. Mitraillette was perched on the bonnet with one of the Sten guns propped on her knees, keeping a good lookout as usual. It would be a couple of hours before the plane arrived – the reception committee were laying out the flare path – electric torches tied to sticks. Nothing for us to do but wait and watch till it was time to turn on the lights.

‘The long shot?’ Jamie prompted.

‘There’s a woman in Paris who announces a radio programme aimed at the Yanks,’ I told Jamie. ‘Paul’s asked her if she can interview the Ormaie Gestapo, perhaps include some propaganda supporting them in her show – let the American boys on the battleships know how unfeeling it is of us to use innocent girls as spies, and how well the Germans treat them when they catch them. The broadcaster’s called Georgia Penn –’