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Last Liaison in Lyon
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
so?
Jon Smithie
Tribune
Barb's introduction to the camp at Arisaig reminded me of the movie Opposing Force in which a female Lieutenant is introduced to a SERE training camp in much the same way:
Yes, I saw that film and must admit to being at least partially inspired by that scene.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
That scene came up to me too :
And there was the delousing scene :
windar
Teller of Tales
6.
Lyon, July 1942
It was hot, even for July in Lyon. And the third floor apartment that Marie shared with her mother was right under the Roman tile roof of their building so that every ray of the sun seemed to be aimed right at them.
There was barely a hint of a breeze. Marie’s blouse stuck to her back and armpits. She thought of going out, walking on the quay by the Rhône, under the shade of the platane trees, where it might be a degree or two cooler, but she couldn’t bear to go out.
Not today. Today was the 14th, Bastille Day, and the thought of sharing the streets with the milice and other supporters of le Maréchal was just too much for Marie to bear today.
She remembered from her childhood the happy celebrations of the Revolution and la République française that had taken place on July 14 every year. Her parents used to take her to Place Bellecour, the huge square in the center of Lyon. There had been carousels and stands selling glace, and Guignols, the marionettes for which Lyon was famous. Even when money was tight, they had let her ride and eat the frozen treats until she could ride and eat no more.
But now, in L’État Français, which had replaced her beloved Republic, Bastille Day was a day of mourning. Their current rulers hated the Revolution and they hated Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité and The Rights of Man, which had inspired people around the world ever since. They thought respect for human rights had made France weak and led to its defeat by the Nazis. And now they were determined to show they could be every bit as cruel and hate-filled as their conquerors.
So, Marie stayed in her sweltering apartment. She and her mother did their best to try to cool themselves by drinking liters of thé glacé, to little effect.
Marie thought back over the last year since her fateful meeting with Robert that had led to her joining the Resistance. She had to admit that they didn’t have much to show for their efforts. Mostly, they circulated leaflets telling the population that their liberation was coming.
But where was it? The fighting was in the East, where the Soviets had slowed the German progress, but the Germans were still advancing. True, Britain had held and the Americans were now in the war after Pearl Harbor. But in France, there was nothing-no real fighting, just a few acts of sabotage in the Occupied Zone that barely seemed to make a dent in the German war machine.
True, they had helped a few Jews escape across the Pyrenees to Spain. She was glad that her colleagues had been able to get Robert’s parents out after he had blown himself up. However, this was a trickle against a flood. The vast majority of Jews in France were being deported to the East, never to be seen again, with the help of the Vichy police and other authorities.
Marie missed Robert deeply. She had felt a great kinship with him, as though they were meant for each other. A few months ago, she had started an affair with another of the Resistance members, Alain. He was older, with a wife and children. He was a good man, she supposed, but she didn’t feel the same way with him that she had felt with Robert.
They met now and then in safe houses, like she had met Robert, but it was more perfunctory, a quick relief of the tension of facing torture and death on a daily basis. Marie had never imagined she could become the mistress of a married man she didn’t really love, but the war made everyone behave in ways they would never have imagined.
Alain would tell her that important people in London were interested in their work. They would occasionally drop packages from airplanes in isolated areas, weapons and small amounts of money. But the British SOE knew that the Resistance could be infiltrated by agents of the Vichy authorities. And when it came to dropping large amounts of money, enough to make a real difference, the temptation was considerable and they weren’t entirely sure they could trust their French allies.
But perhaps things were about to change. It was towards the end of July when Marie received a note passed by a customer at the bank where she worked, in among a few hundred francs being deposited. It directed her to a café where she was joined by Alain and another Resistance member whom she barely knew, a man named Pierre.
“Our friends in London are sending someone,” Pierre said.
“Maybe something is finally going to happen,” Marie said.
“Who knows?” Alain replied. “All we know is an agent is coming. They are supposed to be very good and have the full confidence of the SOE. They will bring money, serious money, and orders from London.”
“How will they come here? The borders are impossible now,” Marie said.
“They will be dropped by parachute. Into les Dombes.” Les Dombes was a marshy area about 30 km northeast of Lyon, a maze of small farms and villages that provided the region with excellent fish and a variety of foul.
“Where in les Dombes? And when?” Marie asked.
“It’s best you not know, my dear,” Alain said, resting his hand on Marie’s bare knee.
“Staring tomorrow, you will walk along the Quai des Célestins bordering the River Saône across from Vieux Lyon beginning at 22h,” Pierre explained. “If the drop is not that night, nothing will happen and when you reach the end, you can go home.”
“On the night when the drop is being made, Alain and I will drive by and try some pick-up lines on you. You will smile, but shake your head at first. We will keep driving, but then circle around and pull over and you will get in, as though you find us irresistible, which we are, of course.”
As Pierre spoke, Alain’s hand was creeping up Marie’s leg to her crotch. She felt a bit of excitement, more at the idea of being asked to go on this very important secret mission, than at the prospect of possible sex with Alain.
“Is that clear, Marie?” Alain asked.
“Yes, quite,” she said. The two men stood. Pierre set a few francs on the table and they left.
Marie walked the Quai for two nights, gazing across the river at the white bulk of Notre Dâme Basilica atop the hill of Fourvière, next to the Roman amphitheaters, looming above Vieux Lyon. A few men walking by propositioned her, but Alain and Pierre did not drive by.
However on the third night, about ten minutes after 22h, a black Citroën drove by and pulled in close to the curb.
“Hey beautiful, are you busy tonight?” Alain said through the passenger window. Marie kept walking.
“We have a nice bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Perfect for a warm night like this,” Pierre said.
“And a couple of nice sausages,” Alain added. Marie smiled, but kept walking. They drove off.
A minute later, they were back, pulling in just in front of Marie. “Last chance for the best night of your life, gorgeous,” Alain said. Marie stopped, shrugged her shoulders, opened the rear passenger side door and got in.
They drove through the streets of the city, past cafes filled with people escaping their stifling rooms. Through the car windows Marie caught bits of conversations, songs, the clatter of glasses being placed on tables.
They crossed the Rhône and soon reached the outskirts of the city and the Route National that led to Bourg-en-Bresse, famous for its poultry and the flamboyant Gothic Monastery of Brou, built in the early 16th century by Margaret of Austria, the Daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian I.
The road passed through woods and marshes. Every km or so, there was a sign indicating a turn-off to one small village or another. Marie didn’t know this region, even though it was close to Lyon, because her family had been too poor to afford a car.
After a while, Pierre pulled off onto a smaller road that wound around a couple of ponds. They came to a gate-Alain got out and opened it, then hopped back in the car. With the headlights out, they bumped slowly up a rutted dirt track for a few hundred meters until they came to an old house and a collection of a few out buildings.
“This is the family property of someone I know, someone who sympathizes with our cause, though if we are caught, he will deny he knows us,” Pierre said. They got out and walked into a large open pasture that had once nurtured a small herd of cows and some goats.
“Now we wait and hope for deliverance from above,” Alain said.
It was a dark night; clouds covered most of the sky, except for a few breaks, though no rain was predicted. Marie enjoyed the smells of the countryside, and the air, cooler than it was in Lyon, felt pleasant on her skin.
After some time, she heard a drone in the distance. “I hear it,” she said. The two men nodded. The sound got louder as the plane descended and circled. Pierre extracted a flashlight from his pocket and shone it into the sky, blinking it off and on four times.
The sound of the engines got louder as the plane circled lower. Then, suddenly, the engines revved and she heard the plane climbing. Soon, it was a distant hum in the sky again.
Marie wondered if the agent sent from London had jumped and was floating to earth or if the mission had been aborted for some reason. Then she saw a light blink four times at the far edge of the pasture.
“Did you see that?” she asked, pointing.
“It’s him. Thank goodness he’s landed safely,” Alain said. Pierre flashed four times then set off in the direction of the British agent, with Alain and Marie following right behind him.
Very soon, they got close enough to make out the form of the agent in the darkness, a short figure, at least shorter than Marie had anticipated, dressed in a shapeless leather jacket with a cap on his head.
“Welcome to France, monsieur,” Pierre said, in lightly accented English, extending his hand.
Marie almost fell over in shock when a woman’s voice responded, “Bonsoir, je m’appelle Barbara Moreau. Je viens de Londres.”
Lyon, July 1942
It was hot, even for July in Lyon. And the third floor apartment that Marie shared with her mother was right under the Roman tile roof of their building so that every ray of the sun seemed to be aimed right at them.
There was barely a hint of a breeze. Marie’s blouse stuck to her back and armpits. She thought of going out, walking on the quay by the Rhône, under the shade of the platane trees, where it might be a degree or two cooler, but she couldn’t bear to go out.
Not today. Today was the 14th, Bastille Day, and the thought of sharing the streets with the milice and other supporters of le Maréchal was just too much for Marie to bear today.
She remembered from her childhood the happy celebrations of the Revolution and la République française that had taken place on July 14 every year. Her parents used to take her to Place Bellecour, the huge square in the center of Lyon. There had been carousels and stands selling glace, and Guignols, the marionettes for which Lyon was famous. Even when money was tight, they had let her ride and eat the frozen treats until she could ride and eat no more.
But now, in L’État Français, which had replaced her beloved Republic, Bastille Day was a day of mourning. Their current rulers hated the Revolution and they hated Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité and The Rights of Man, which had inspired people around the world ever since. They thought respect for human rights had made France weak and led to its defeat by the Nazis. And now they were determined to show they could be every bit as cruel and hate-filled as their conquerors.
So, Marie stayed in her sweltering apartment. She and her mother did their best to try to cool themselves by drinking liters of thé glacé, to little effect.
Marie thought back over the last year since her fateful meeting with Robert that had led to her joining the Resistance. She had to admit that they didn’t have much to show for their efforts. Mostly, they circulated leaflets telling the population that their liberation was coming.
But where was it? The fighting was in the East, where the Soviets had slowed the German progress, but the Germans were still advancing. True, Britain had held and the Americans were now in the war after Pearl Harbor. But in France, there was nothing-no real fighting, just a few acts of sabotage in the Occupied Zone that barely seemed to make a dent in the German war machine.
True, they had helped a few Jews escape across the Pyrenees to Spain. She was glad that her colleagues had been able to get Robert’s parents out after he had blown himself up. However, this was a trickle against a flood. The vast majority of Jews in France were being deported to the East, never to be seen again, with the help of the Vichy police and other authorities.
Marie missed Robert deeply. She had felt a great kinship with him, as though they were meant for each other. A few months ago, she had started an affair with another of the Resistance members, Alain. He was older, with a wife and children. He was a good man, she supposed, but she didn’t feel the same way with him that she had felt with Robert.
They met now and then in safe houses, like she had met Robert, but it was more perfunctory, a quick relief of the tension of facing torture and death on a daily basis. Marie had never imagined she could become the mistress of a married man she didn’t really love, but the war made everyone behave in ways they would never have imagined.
Alain would tell her that important people in London were interested in their work. They would occasionally drop packages from airplanes in isolated areas, weapons and small amounts of money. But the British SOE knew that the Resistance could be infiltrated by agents of the Vichy authorities. And when it came to dropping large amounts of money, enough to make a real difference, the temptation was considerable and they weren’t entirely sure they could trust their French allies.
But perhaps things were about to change. It was towards the end of July when Marie received a note passed by a customer at the bank where she worked, in among a few hundred francs being deposited. It directed her to a café where she was joined by Alain and another Resistance member whom she barely knew, a man named Pierre.
“Our friends in London are sending someone,” Pierre said.
“Maybe something is finally going to happen,” Marie said.
“Who knows?” Alain replied. “All we know is an agent is coming. They are supposed to be very good and have the full confidence of the SOE. They will bring money, serious money, and orders from London.”
“How will they come here? The borders are impossible now,” Marie said.
“They will be dropped by parachute. Into les Dombes.” Les Dombes was a marshy area about 30 km northeast of Lyon, a maze of small farms and villages that provided the region with excellent fish and a variety of foul.
“Where in les Dombes? And when?” Marie asked.
“It’s best you not know, my dear,” Alain said, resting his hand on Marie’s bare knee.
“Staring tomorrow, you will walk along the Quai des Célestins bordering the River Saône across from Vieux Lyon beginning at 22h,” Pierre explained. “If the drop is not that night, nothing will happen and when you reach the end, you can go home.”
“On the night when the drop is being made, Alain and I will drive by and try some pick-up lines on you. You will smile, but shake your head at first. We will keep driving, but then circle around and pull over and you will get in, as though you find us irresistible, which we are, of course.”
As Pierre spoke, Alain’s hand was creeping up Marie’s leg to her crotch. She felt a bit of excitement, more at the idea of being asked to go on this very important secret mission, than at the prospect of possible sex with Alain.
“Is that clear, Marie?” Alain asked.
“Yes, quite,” she said. The two men stood. Pierre set a few francs on the table and they left.
Marie walked the Quai for two nights, gazing across the river at the white bulk of Notre Dâme Basilica atop the hill of Fourvière, next to the Roman amphitheaters, looming above Vieux Lyon. A few men walking by propositioned her, but Alain and Pierre did not drive by.
However on the third night, about ten minutes after 22h, a black Citroën drove by and pulled in close to the curb.
“Hey beautiful, are you busy tonight?” Alain said through the passenger window. Marie kept walking.
“We have a nice bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Perfect for a warm night like this,” Pierre said.
“And a couple of nice sausages,” Alain added. Marie smiled, but kept walking. They drove off.
A minute later, they were back, pulling in just in front of Marie. “Last chance for the best night of your life, gorgeous,” Alain said. Marie stopped, shrugged her shoulders, opened the rear passenger side door and got in.
They drove through the streets of the city, past cafes filled with people escaping their stifling rooms. Through the car windows Marie caught bits of conversations, songs, the clatter of glasses being placed on tables.
They crossed the Rhône and soon reached the outskirts of the city and the Route National that led to Bourg-en-Bresse, famous for its poultry and the flamboyant Gothic Monastery of Brou, built in the early 16th century by Margaret of Austria, the Daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian I.
The road passed through woods and marshes. Every km or so, there was a sign indicating a turn-off to one small village or another. Marie didn’t know this region, even though it was close to Lyon, because her family had been too poor to afford a car.
After a while, Pierre pulled off onto a smaller road that wound around a couple of ponds. They came to a gate-Alain got out and opened it, then hopped back in the car. With the headlights out, they bumped slowly up a rutted dirt track for a few hundred meters until they came to an old house and a collection of a few out buildings.
“This is the family property of someone I know, someone who sympathizes with our cause, though if we are caught, he will deny he knows us,” Pierre said. They got out and walked into a large open pasture that had once nurtured a small herd of cows and some goats.
“Now we wait and hope for deliverance from above,” Alain said.
It was a dark night; clouds covered most of the sky, except for a few breaks, though no rain was predicted. Marie enjoyed the smells of the countryside, and the air, cooler than it was in Lyon, felt pleasant on her skin.
After some time, she heard a drone in the distance. “I hear it,” she said. The two men nodded. The sound got louder as the plane descended and circled. Pierre extracted a flashlight from his pocket and shone it into the sky, blinking it off and on four times.
The sound of the engines got louder as the plane circled lower. Then, suddenly, the engines revved and she heard the plane climbing. Soon, it was a distant hum in the sky again.
Marie wondered if the agent sent from London had jumped and was floating to earth or if the mission had been aborted for some reason. Then she saw a light blink four times at the far edge of the pasture.
“Did you see that?” she asked, pointing.
“It’s him. Thank goodness he’s landed safely,” Alain said. Pierre flashed four times then set off in the direction of the British agent, with Alain and Marie following right behind him.
Very soon, they got close enough to make out the form of the agent in the darkness, a short figure, at least shorter than Marie had anticipated, dressed in a shapeless leather jacket with a cap on his head.
“Welcome to France, monsieur,” Pierre said, in lightly accented English, extending his hand.
Marie almost fell over in shock when a woman’s voice responded, “Bonsoir, je m’appelle Barbara Moreau. Je viens de Londres.”
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
The 'Etat Français' replaced Liberté-Egalité-Fraternité by 'Patrie-Travail-Famille' (fatherland, work, family), emphasising on these conservative values.
It is true that Pétain and his government blamed French society, weakened in their eyes, by human rights, democracy, Front Populaire, etc..., for the defeat in 1940. Society, rejecting authority, had left down the army, so defeat had been unavoidable. The ordeal France had to go through after 1940, including the absence of ten thousands of men, husbands and fathers, kept prisoner as POW in Germany, was deemed as the necessary sacrifice and purification, the country had to go through.
Here was a difference with De Gaulle's viewpoint. De Gaulle was also conservative (his father had had royalist sympathies), but he blamed the defeat in 1940 not to French society, but to the army itself, with its obsolete organisation, tactics and strategy.
What was he expecting? A James Bond?
'Barb fwom the wresistaunce!"
"Ecoutez bien! Je ne vais le dire qu'une fois!"
windar
Teller of Tales
A brief word on why the Resistance might have driven a Citroën. The founder of the company, André-Gustave Citroën, was Jewish. He produced armaments for France during the First World War and decided after the war to make cars. Citroën developed the Traction Avant in 1934. It was the first mass-produced car to have a unibody frame and front wheel drive, features still used today. Unfortunately, the development costs bankrupted the company and they ended up being taken over by Michelin. André Citroën died shortly afterwards in 1935.
During the Occupation, Citroën refused to collaborate with the Germans. The company, under their President, Pierre-Jules Boulanger, sabotaged the trucks they built for the Wehrmacht by putting the notch on the oil dipstick in the wrong place, which resulted in engine seizure. By contrast, Louis Renault visited Hitler in 1938 and collaborated with Vichy and the Germans during the occupation, and was arrested after the Liberation and died shortly afterwards.
During the Occupation, Citroën refused to collaborate with the Germans. The company, under their President, Pierre-Jules Boulanger, sabotaged the trucks they built for the Wehrmacht by putting the notch on the oil dipstick in the wrong place, which resulted in engine seizure. By contrast, Louis Renault visited Hitler in 1938 and collaborated with Vichy and the Germans during the occupation, and was arrested after the Liberation and died shortly afterwards.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Indeed, Pétain's Presidential flag
Had an homage to the fasces of the Fascists. The axe is a francisque, spuriously modelled on the Franks' francisca
; the Franks' (Note: Germanic) being considered as the founders of an alleged, ethnically pure, French nation.By the way, the milice was founded 30 January 1943 - six months after this episode.
(Or perhaps founded earlier in the Urals? )
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7.
28 July 1942
I was taken from the hut, where I had been impatiently waiting for hours, and escorted out onto the tarmac of Tangmere RAF station. It was dusk. Waiting for me was a single engine Westland Lysander, or ‘Lizzie’, as they were known by the ‘Moon Squadron’ pilots who flew them. Just rising in a clear but rapidly darkening sky was the full moon required for successfully navigating over an occupied and blacked-out France.
I wore a fleece-lined airman’s jacket over a jump suit and an RAF airman’s cap, carried a parachute on my back, and a canvass pack strapped to my chest ... filled with the tools of my trade, including two sets of pills: Benzedrine to keep me awake and the ‘L’ tablet, which was a suicide pill. If I bit down on it I would be dead in 15 seconds, assuming my captors gave me sufficient time to do it and assuming that I actually would. There was also a change of clothing, guaranteed by the experts at SOE to look much like that which any French woman my age might wear on the streets of Lyon ... and two large bundles of currency.
On reaching the Lizzie, I was greeted by ground crew who helped me clamber through the small hatch leading to the passenger compartment in the belly of the plane, which was barely large enough to accommodate me and my equipment.
“Welcome aboard, Joe,” called the pilot over his shoulder from the cockpit.
“I’m Barbara,” I called back, raising my voice to be heard over the roar of the plane’s Bristol Mercury radial engine, which had just sputtered into life and begun to rev in preparation for take off.
“All our passengers, male or female, are ‘Joe’ to us. We really don’t want to know who you are.”
"How reassuring!" I shouted back.
As the engine reached full pitch, the Lizzie began to shake violently. Then with a jolt, the brakes were released and the plane surged forward, bouncing its way down the grassy runway ... eventually accelerating to the point where it lifted off. I was on my way!
Climbing and banking, the pilot set course for France. Conversation was impossible, given the roar and intense vibration of the engine. So I closed my eyes and settled into my own thoughts.
I reflected on the nearly two months gone by since I completed my SOE basic training and returned to London for my assignment ... and hopefully a continuation of my torrid affair with Freddie Pickford-Smith. In both matters I was sorely disappointed. Week after week passed in additional training before I finally was awarded this mission, and my breathlessly anticipated surprise reunion ... and unabashed sex romp ... with Freddie was dashed when I bribed the doorman at his club to let me into Freddie’s rooms only to find him in bed shagging another woman.
Needless to say I was hurt and angry with Freddie, so when I went around to Baker Street the following morning to report to Sir Geoffrey, I took evasive action the moment I spotted the cad out on the street intending to intercept me. Using my SOE training to full advantage, I managed to slip past him unnoticed, enter the building and take the lift to Sir Geoffrey’s office. The same lift operator ... the one with the wandering eye ... was on duty, but I fixed him with such a scornfully withering stare, he studiously refrained from risking even the slightest gander at my legs.
I was warmly greeted by Sir Geoffrey, who rose from his desk to congratulate me heartily for having passed my SOE basic training course, and ... with a chuckle ... for spotting the operative he had assigned to tail me on the train. As Geoffrey and I shook hands, Freddie burst into the room, looking frazzled and apologizing sheepishly to Sir Geoffrey for failing to intercept me.
As Sir Geoffrey returned to his usual place behind his dossier-filled desk, Freddie took advantage of the moment to shoot me a sorrowful look and mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” I stuck my tongue out at him, and looked away. I was not in a forgiving mood. He deserved to suffer.
Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat, showing a hint of annoyance at what he sensed was going on between Freddie and me. Reaching for a dossier, he flipped through several pages. Then he addressed me, saying ... “Well Miss Moore, now that you have completed your basic training, you will remain here in London for the foreseeable future to undergo further preparatory training for a mission that will be assigned to you in due time.”
“I was hoping for something right away,” I said, frowning unhappily.
“Patience, my dear. These things take time, and you still have much to learn ... let’s call what you have yet to complete ‘essential survival training’. Freddie here, is assigned to see you through it. Please report to him for the duration. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.”
So, Freddie and I forged an uneasy truce. Sullen, at least on my part, might be a better way to describe it. For the next three weeks I was confined to the building, where I was subjected to a lengthy series of mock interrogations, all of which took place in a cellar room set up to resemble a fully-equipped Gestapo torture chamber. I was given a false identity and cover story, which I had to commit to memory ... and then they tried, in every imaginable way, to trip me up.
Day after day, I was grilled incessantly by men who took turns questioning me. It was exhausting. I was not allowed much sleep. More than once I fell victim to the most simple Gestapo trick ... a sudden question in English. I knew better. I had been trained to expect it, but fell for it anyway.
And then, over the final three days, things got rough. For the sake of realism, they began forcing me to undergo my mock interrogations stripped of my clothing and restrained in a variety of ways ... bound naked to a chair on the first day, stretched on a rack the second, and suspended from the ceiling in various ways on the third ... first with arms overhead, then upside down, and finally bent over with arms painfully drawn back.
My ordeal by fire also included immersing me in water till I thought I would drown, face slapping and gut punching, forcing me to spend my nights straddling a v-shaped wooden horse, which thankfully featured a dull rather than sharp edge, which was uncomfortable enough. And ... worst of all ... shocking me through electric wires attached with nasty little clips to my tender private girl parts. The shocks I experienced were mild ... so I was dutifully informed ... compared to those the Gestapo might inflict on me. That revelation was quite shocking in itself, since I couldn’t imagine anything worse.
And the final straw ... the one they were certain would break me ... would cause me to give up and quit ... was the threat of rape. I didn’t flinch, forcing them to do it. And so they did ... but only after blindfolding me so that I wouldn’t know which one of them did it to me. I took the raping with dogged resilience and defiance. It was rough ... and repeated often, using more than one point of entry. But I persevered ... refused to break.
And through it all ... day after wretched day ... I was aware of Freddie, standing off to one side, watching ... watching me tortured, humiliated, raped! I thought at times that I detected a note of compassion in his expression, but then again ... perhaps not. Stiff upper lip and all that. Whatever there once was between us was apparently gone. I had lost him forever.
And then it was over. I was given a week to recuperate. After which I was informed of my mission. I was to be parachuted into France to meet up with the resistance in and around Lyon. My nom de guerre was to be Barbara Moreau. My false identity papers were Swiss. I was from Lausanne, and was purportedly in Lyon to represent the Swiss export firm that employed me. My mission was to bring funds to the local resistance group, establish liaison between the group and SOE in London, and to lend assistance in operations, particularly the smuggling of fugitives into Switzerland and Spain. My contact in Lyon was known simply as Pierre ... as common a name as one could imagine.
It was frightfully cold sitting in the belly of the Lizzie and the flight seemed to go on forever. From time to time I moved my stiff limbs, and studied the ‘Joe Hole’ through which I was expected to jump. I had hoped we would be able to make a landing. The Lizzie, I had been told, could land and take off almost anywhere, which is why the Moon Squadron used the plane to ferry supplies and personnel to the resistance. But in this case, the rendezvous was thought to be too boggy and no landing was deemed possible.
Then I felt the nose of the Lizzie dip. We had begun to circle and spiral downward. I checked my gear again. When the plane leveled off and the little red light over the hatch would change to green, I knew I was supposed to release a green-painted handle to open the hatch ... and jump out. This time there would be no one to throw me out. I was going to have to do it myself.
The signal came, and I did what was expected of me. As I tumbled from the belly of the Lizzie and was hit with a blast of cold night air, I felt a moment of exhilaration as well as terror. My chute opened ... thank goodness ... as it was supposed to do. And I began my floating descent, peering down at the moonlit landscape below.
Right on target, I landed in a soggy pasture, rolling on impact to avoid breaking my legs as I had been trained to do. Moments later I was struggling free of my chute and looking about for my contacts. I got out my pocket light and blinked it four times. And was gratified to see the return signal from the far edge of the pasture.
I headed across the pasture, slogging through the slippery wet grass, until I saw three approaching figures ... two men and one woman.
“Welcome to France, monsieur,” said one of the men, in lightly accented English, extending his hand.
I hope that's Pierre, I thought to myself before responding cheerfully, “Bonsoir, je m’appelle Barbara Moreau. Je viens de Londres.”
windar
Teller of Tales
One small step for a woman, one giant leap for the Allied cause!
... meaning they have no idea what they just got themselves into ....
Stay tuned, everyone!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
(sigh) The enemy has ears!(sigh) (again) From London? Why not? Hmmm!?
Better were : "I also find Pétain's moustache cute!" or something like that!After all : suppose, the next thing you would hear was :
"Wilkommen, Fraulein Moreau! Ich bin Hauptsturmführer Loxuru, Sicherheitsdienst Lyon!"
(sigh) (again) From London? Why not? Hmmm!?
After all : suppose, the next thing you would hear was :
"Wilkommen, Fraulein Moreau! Ich bin Hauptsturmführer Loxuru, Sicherheitsdienst Lyon!"
Giggle snort. Very clever!
ErikaVonHeim
Governor
Not "Hauptsturmführerin"?
ErikaVonHeim
Governor
Bonjour, Chère Madame. Je suis Hauptsturmführerin Erika
RacingRodent
Consul
But most of them are pressed to the door of Goering's bathroom so not much use
ErikaVonHeim
Governor
And I love my job! Care to join me in the Folterkammer?