2.
Friday, 6 March 1942
I was early as usual. Thinking it terribly inappropriate and unprofessional to present myself at SOE Headquarters before the appointed time, I wandered into nearby Regents Park and found myself a bench on which I might sit and wait.
It was a typically gray London morning, but at least it was relatively warm for early March. Low clouds hung over the city, pregnant with threatening rain. Yet all was peaceful. Several white swans graced the far side of the arm of the man-made lake. Nearer to me, a pair of ducks paddled by, side by side like young lovers.
I’d been in London for three days since arriving from the States. There had been some time for sightseeing and shopping, and I’d bought myself a new outfit, just the day before, at Harrods' ... a dark blue A-line skirt sporting a hemline just above my knees, as was the latest wartime fashion ... and topped by matching jacket with exaggerated shoulder padding over a plain white button-front blouse.
I amused myself watching people pass by, but tiring of that I yawned and stretched my legs, turning them from side to side to admire my expensive new peep-toe high heeled shoes, and to check the calves of my legs for the seam on my stockings.
I desperately wanted to make a good impression. I hoped my assignment to SOE would be my big break ... my chance to do my bit to bring Hitler to his knees.
Consulting my wristwatch for the umpteenth time, I decided it was time to go. So, I rose from the bench, paused to straighten my skirt, crossed out of the park onto the north end of Baker Street and, following along its west side, began looking for number 64.
I was nearly there when I was approached by a tall, slightly built, young man wearing a well-tailored dark pinstripe suit. On his head was a fedora, pulled low over his forehead.
“Miss Moore, I presume?” he whispered in my ear as he slid his arm deftly under mine and grasped my forearm.
“Uh, yes.”
“Good, please allow me,” he continued as he propelled me down the street.
“And who are you?”
“Frederick Bartholomew Pickford-Smith at your service, but you can call me Freddie,” he replied, grinning boyishly.
I laughed.
“And where, Freddie, are you taking me?”
“To see the Section Deputy Director. You have an appointment, but the entrance is not marked, so I was sent out to intercept you and bring you in.”
We swept past Number 64, and continued on for half a block before entering a building through an unmarked doorway. Inside, we crossed a small foyer and took the lift ... which had a top speed, as it turned out, of next to nothing. Standing close to Freddie as the cage rattled its way slowly upward, I could smell the cologne he was wearing. I suspected it was expensive. I wondered if he noticed my perfume, but he looked straight ahead and never relaxed his firm grip on my arm until we reached the top.
“Third floor, here we are!” he announced cheerily when the lift finally shuddered to a stop. He let me exit first while casting an exaggerated wink in the direction of the aged lift operator, who’s eyes had been glued on my legs the whole way up. I rolled my eyes, to show my annoyance, and I’m sure Freddie saw me do it.
From there I was escorted down a long corridor, heels clicking on the polished tiled flooring, until we came to a door marked ‘Deputy Director, SO2’.
Freddie come to a full stop before the door and rapped twice on the clouded glass.
“Enter!” boomed a hearty voice from within.
Freddie opened the door and ushered me into a well appointed, wood-paneled office. Still, the place immediately struck me as a bit dingy. Heavy draperies blocked any window light. The only illumination came from a pair of small electric bulbs set in sconces over a cold fireplace, and from a hooded reading lamp resting on the enormous dark mahogany desk that dominated the room. The air was stuffy and heavily laden with the acrid smell of cigar smoke, which immediately assaulted my nose and stung my eyes.
Seated behind the desk was a distinguished looking gentleman, wearing an outdated Victorian era suit and high starched collar. He looked up from the file folder he held in his hand, removed his pince-nez, laid his cigar on an overflowing ash tray, and scrutinized me intently as Freddie deftly steered me to a straight back chair facing the desk.
“May I present,” said Freddie after clearing his throat, “Miss Barbara Moore, just arrived from the States and assigned, as you may recall, Sir Geoffrey, to us ‘on loan’ through the good graces of our American friend, Sam Goldman of the ‘Office of the Coordinator of Information,’ or COI. Now that the Yanks have joined the fight and have wakened to the fact that information is only half the battle ... COI liaisons with our British Security Coordination office in New York to make the best use of American and British assets to ensure the success of ongoing operations ... at least until FDR, and that fellow, Donovan, who runs COI can reorganize and make a better show or it.”
“Yes, quite.”
“And,” continued Freddie breathlessly, “Miss Moore, may I present Sir Geoffrey Cunningham, Deputy Director of our Operations Section ... which we commonly refer to as SO2, for short.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir Geoffrey,” I said flashing him my best smile to win him over. “Call me Barb.”
That was met with stony silence as he returned his attention to the dossier in his hand, presumably mine.
I waited and fidgeted as he read and frowned. He certainly was taking his time and the frowning was getting on my nerves. Freddie took note, and shot me an encouraging half-smile.
“So Miss Moore,” Sir Geoffrey grunted, looking up at last. “I see you are fluent in three languages ... French, German and Italian. Tell me. How is it that an American, a woman no less, would have achieved that?”
“Simple,” I replied. “Daddy was a diplomat. I spent much of my childhood over here as he was posted to various European embassies, and even after he returned to Washington DC I remained to complete my education at a finishing school in Switzerland. Languages come easily for me. I have a good ear, even for local dialects.”
“Quite remarkable. Would you say that you could pass as someone from Lyon?”
“Do you mean can I do Lyonnaise? Easily. My roommate in finishing school was from Lyon. I can also pass as a Parisian, Bavarian, Alsatian, Genevan or north Italian.”
“Excellent, Miss Moore. Exactly what we are looking for. Now as you know, you have been placed on loan to us by the OCI for some very dangerous under-cover work near Lyon in occupied France, work that might very likely take you to Germany and possibly other countries as well. I have been assured by Sam Goldman that you are committed, able and eager. That goes without saying, but I am nonetheless quite concerned ... you must know ... as to whether you ... a woman ... are truly up to the dangers involved in such work.”
“I’ve undergone two weeks of rigorous training at a special camp in Oshawa, Canada, Sir Geoffrey”, I assured him, crossing my legs and leaning forward for effect. I was somewhat miffed, to say that least, at Sir Geoffrey's condescension toward women, but thought it best to play on his male interests for all it was worth.
“Good, good ... but hardly sufficient, Miss Moore. The Nazis play rough, you see, and their counter intelligence capabilities are quite impressive. I must tell you that hardly a day goes by, sadly, without the loss of one of our assets in occupied Europe. One has to be a complete professional, ready to do the most ghastly things, including using ... if I may say so ... your quite enticing feminine charms when necessary ... if you ... ahem ... catch my meaning. And, if things go terribly wrong, you must be fully prepared to endure the most unimaginable tortures, especially for a woman ... even death ... without breaking.”
I nodded.
“You’ll need additional training ... tough training ... three months of it ... training that may well be, I must warn you, beyond your ability to successfully complete. The failure rate is high. Few succeed. Starting tomorrow, we will pack you off to the wilds of Scotland, near Arisaig, for a month’s training in armed and unarmed combat skills. Should you pass it ... and that means you must perform as well, if not better, than your male counterparts ... indeed, I dare say, the instructors will single you out as a woman and test you without mercy ... you’ll be sent for a fortnight’s parachute training with the RAF in Cheshire. And if you don’t break your legs ... or worse ... jumping out of flying machines, you’ll go on for security and trade-craft training in Hampshire, before returning here for mission assignment and deployment. Are you up to all that, Miss Moore?”
Again, I nodded, even though the doubts were racing like wild horses through my mind.
“Well, very good then. Where are you billeted here in London, Miss Moore?”
“I’ve taken a room near Paddington.”
“Well that certainly won’t do. Be a good chap, Freddie, and get Miss Moore a room for tonight at the Savoy, then take her out on the town and show her a good time ... but ... come what may ... see that you have her on that morning train to Scotland!”
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