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Last Liaison in Lyon

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Barbaria1 said:

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.”
Click to expand...

I would've liked to have been one of your instructors... anything for the war effort.
 
Barbaria1 said:
4.

Saturday, 7 March 1942

Panting from exertion ... having just sprinted over half the length of a Euston Station platform to board the Royal Scot, minutes before it pulled away on its daily 10 am run to Glasgow ... I pushed my way past an older gentleman seated in my compartment, stumbling over his feet, in my rush to wave out the window to Freddie ... who spotted me at once and waved back from the platform below.

Excitedly, I attempted to open the window but the damn thing wouldn’t budge, so I had to settle for mouthing sweet nothings and making faces through the smudged glass.

Moments later the train pulled out with a jolt that sent me flying into my compartment companion’s lap.

“Kindly take your seat, Miss, and do remain there, please,” he sniffed, dismissing me as he shoved me away.

“So Sorry,” I mumbled. "Forgive me. I was anxious to ...”

The man cut me off with a harrumph and raised his crumpled copy of The Times in front of his face. There would be no conversation between us ... that was evident ... and just as well, because I had so much to think about.

My first thoughts were of Freddie. I could hardly believe it, but I had fallen for him in less than a day! What was it about him? Well, certainly his boyish good looks! And that ever present twinkle in his blue eyes, and his ease of manner ... gentility, if you will. Then there was his laugh and, of course, I absolutely adored the dulcet tones of his English upper class accent.

It had been one of those improbable whirlwind romances ... the kind you see in the movies or read about in cheap romantic novels.

It began as soon as we had left Sir Geoffrey, who had given Freddie parting orders to move me to the Savoy and show me a good time on my last night in London. We smirked as we descended in the lift and I went out of my way to intentionally drop my bag and treat the elderly operator to a generous view of my legs when I bent down to retrieve it.

Outside, Freddie joked that I simply had no right going around like that ... giving old gents coronaries. I made a face and we both laughed. Then Freddie hailed what I would have called a taxi, but he called it a hack, and went off to Paddington to retrieve my belongings. My landlady was more than pleased to see me go once she learned that she could keep what I had paid her in advance and still let the room to someone else.

Back in our hack, Freddie treated me to on an exhaustive, all afternoon and into the evening, tour of London’s sights ... from the West End to the East End, and clear down to Greenwich, and back again. We finished the day, sitting together happily in St. James’ Park, sharing fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The whole thing was lovely, although the enjoyment was tempered somewhat by the presence, nearly everywhere, of bomb damage and the fact that everything worth seeing had been sandbagged. I asked about the Blitz and what it had been like to go through the worst of it, but Freddie waved it off.

As darkness was falling, I decided it was time to remind him that I still needed to check into the Savoy, adding that I feared the hiring of the hack for an entire day might be costing him a fortune. He waved that off too, saying we had a whole evening before us and that the hack would in any case be paid with SOE funds.

Then he suggested going to Soho to take in a show.

“Ever heard of the Windmill?” he said, eyes alight.

“Pumps water,” I replied, betraying my Midwestern roots.

“No, it’s a nightspot ... a kind of theater,” he grinned, punching me playfully on the shoulder. “Famous for its reviews.”

“Oh, okay.”

“But we need some drinks first. I know a good Soho watering hole.”

“Ummmm ... I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Nonsense. Come on, let’s go!”

So we went to The Macclesfield, a pub owned by a Dutch seaman ... so Freddie confided in me ... and a meeting place for Dutch resistance exiles, in addition to being renowned for its oysters, which we sampled in its famous second floor Shell Room, where I also learned it was famous for its well-known literary and gangster patrons. In the Shell Room we met up with some of Freddie’s friends, which was a bit of a letdown because their high class, sophisticated ways made me feel like such a nobody. I compensated by drinking way more than I should have, and got a bit tipsy ... well actually, more than a bit.

In due time, Freddie suggested that we should all go see the show at the Windmill together, so off we went, with me clutching Freddie’s arm for support.

We paid for seats near the stage and were seated just in time for a performance, which consisted ... I soon found out ... of a large number of young women posing nude on an elaborate set.

“They’re naked!” I exclaimed. “And just standing there ... why don’t they move?”

“It’s a tableau,” explained Freddie. “They’re supposed to hold perfectly still, like statues, in order to avoid running afoul of the public decency laws. Nude statues cannot be deemed morally offensive, you see.”

“Well, that’s silly,” I slurred, “They’re buck naked and everyone here is staring at them.”

“Have another drink, Barb.”

Two drinks and four tableaux later, I tugged on Freddie’s arm. “Let’s leave, Freddie. I’m bored.”

“Sure, anything you say.”

We said our goodbyes to his friends, and stepped out into the cool night air.

“Kiss me, Freddie!” I announced suddenly and brazenly.

“Not here,” he replied in a hushed tone.

Taking me by the hand, he ushered me into a narrow side alley. It was dark in there, and as we made our way into the shadows we kept bumping into couples, embracing against the walls of the buildings flanking the alley.

“Some of them are copulating!” I exclaimed, and started to giggle.

“Shhhhh, Barb. This is wartime London. It’s what people do ... any chance they get.”

“Us too?”

“Shhhhhh, not so loud,” hushed Freddie as he backed me up against a vacant spot on a wall.

I threw my arms around him, closed my eyes and kissed him hard on the mouth. His response was immediate, kissing me passionately while sliding his hands up and down my back under my jacket. We held that kiss until we were forced to come up for air.

Freddie took advantage of the pause to nuzzle my neck, giving me the shivers.

As we resumed kissing, his hands were busy pulling the back of my blouse free from the waistband of my skirt. Shortly thereafter I felt the warmth of his hands moving up my bare back and moments later the telltale little tug that went with undoing my bra.

“Oh my God” I gasped as he pulled away from me enough to unbutton and open the front of my blouse and free my breasts from my bra.

Then he went down on me, kissing and sucking my nipples, left then right, and back and forth, again and again, teasing them inside his mouth with quick little flicks of the tip of his tongue.

That drove me crazy. I moaned, leaned forward and kissed the top of his head.

Kneeling before me, he gathered my skirt in his hands, and raised it to my hips.

“Go on. You want it, Barb. Take down your knickers,” he breathed huskily.

“No, Freddie, you do it. And where I come from we call them panties.”

“Suit yourself,” he chuckled as he lowered them slowly down my thighs ... the damp fabric at my crotch clinging momentarily before pulling free ... and then dropped them to my ankles.

I stepped out with one foot and groped for the front of his trousers as he stood. But he already had it out.

Giggling I grabbed him by the shoulders and drew myself up high against him, wrapping my legs around.

“Do it!” I shouted. “Now!”

“Shhhhhh ... Right!”

I felt his rod demanding entrance, pushing against my lips, bending slightly, then slipping deep inside me.

“Yesssss” I hissed.

He began to move, thrusting powerfully with his hips, pressing my bare ass against the roughness of the brick wall.

I gasped and held on tighter as we began our little dance ... rocking rhythmically ... my juices in full flow ... in and out ... in and out ... slowly at first ... then faster and faster ... harder and harder ... until I lost it, climaxing with a scream so loud and shrill that it drew titters from the other couples in the alley.

“Whew!” he said, lowering me to the pavement.

“Whew yourself!”

“Come on, Barb. Get yourself together and let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t want to do it again?”

“Of course I do, but not here.”

“How about at the Savoy?”

“I’ve a better idea. We’ll go spend the night at my club.”

“But I thought they didn’t allow women.”

“Don’t worry I know how to get around that.”

And he did. He snuck me in and ‘shagged’ me ... repeatedly ... all night long ... unbelievable ... and I also came away having learned a new word for it.

So, there I was on the Royal Scot, nose to the window, watching the English countryside go by. My companion had finished his newspaper and had started smoking a smelly cigar. I gave him a disapproving look. He didn’t care.

Countryside, towns and villages flew by. I sagged against my seat. Freddie was gone and I was off to Scotland to endure three months of training, filled with hard work and unknown humiliations, assuming Sir Geoffrey was right about my prospects as a woman. And he probably was. But if I made it, and returned to London, I wanted nothing more than to be shagged by Freddie again ... and again ... and again.
Click to expand...
So, Barb... Is the bit about everybody having sex in the alley true? Is that from your research? (Great work, BTW - looking forward to more!)
 
Juan1234 said:
So, Barb... Is the bit about everybody having sex in the alley true? Is that from your research? (Great work, BTW - looking forward to more!)
Click to expand...
It was called a "wall job":

The Royal Air Force might have ruled the skies, but the blacked-out streets of 1940s London belonged to the "Piccadilly Commandos," British girls dolled up in nylons and garters and looking for a good time. For a nominal fee or just for fun, they would take you by the hand to a doorway or alley for a brief encounter taken standing up against the nearest masonry — the infamous "wall job." "We weren't really being immoral, there was a war going on," protested one British lass. https://anthropologist.livejournal.com/814770.html
 
windar said:
It was called a "wall job":

The Royal Air Force might have ruled the skies, but the blacked-out streets of 1940s London belonged to the "Piccadilly Commandos," British girls dolled up in nylons and garters and looking for a good time. For a nominal fee or just for fun, they would take you by the hand to a doorway or alley for a brief encounter taken standing up against the nearest masonry — the infamous "wall job." "We weren't really being immoral, there was a war going on," protested one British lass. https://anthropologist.livejournal.com/814770.html
Click to expand...

And there you have it ... never doubt the veracity of our story details! :p
 
RacingRodent said:
Under torture you should reveal what they think they want to know and try to avoid giving them what they actually need to know as long as possible. Always assume you will break though, so time and misdirection are typically the best you can hope for.
Click to expand...

You sound like one of my SOE instructors. I don't recall any of them having a bushy tail, though. ;)
 
8.

July-August 1942, Lyon

“But…but…but, you’re a woman?” Alain exclaimed when he heard the unmistakably feminine voice of the SOE agent who had just parachuted into the field in the countryside outside Lyon.

“You figured that out, did you?” Barbara replied, in flawless, clearly enunciated French. “I can prove it if you’d like,” she said, unbuttoning her leather jacket and beginning to shuck it from her shoulders.

“No, no, madame, please,” Pierre intervened, trying to salvage a difficult situation. “It’s just that, you see, well, London didn’t mention anything ‘unusual’ about the agent they were sending, so this comes as a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”

“Is there something unusual about women?” Barbara asked.

“No, it’s just that most of the agents are men, so we assumed,” Pierre replied, nervously.

“And you see this is a very dangerous place, madame,” Alain said. “You could be arrested and, well, our Vichy police are none too gentle with suspected spies. And if they were to decide to turn you over to the Germans, that could be too awful to contemplate.”

Barbara looked at him with a withering stare. “You should know that I have been through months of training, held to the same standard as male agents, if not higher. Part of that training involved being subjected to rigorous interrogation. I would bet that I can hold out as long as any man could and maybe longer.”

“Besides,” she continued, indicating Marie, “Isn’t she a woman? Yet she is risking everything in your cause, is she not?”

Alain looked a bit nonplussed. Marie spoke up. “Yes, we woman are brave and ready to face any danger, Alain. You should have more respect for your female colleagues.”

“Of course, you are very brave, Marie,” Pierre said. “And I’m sure Madame Moreau is, too.”

He turned to Barbara. “You have some gifts from London, perhaps?”

“I do,” she replied, “But it is dark out here and it is dangerous to stay too long, in case the airplane was tracked, don’t you think?”

“An excellent point, Madame. Please follow me.” He set off quickly through the field, followed by Barbara and Marie, with Alain trailing behind.

The men got in the front seat of the Citroën, and Barbara climbed into the back with Marie. They sat in silence on the ride back to Lyon, but Marie stole some furtive glances at her seatmate. She was curious about this woman, who was trusted by important people with a mission of such significance, who had been through very demanding training.

The Resistance barely let her do anything, Marie knew. Passing out leaflets was hardly in the same league as parachuting from an airplane into a foreign country in wartime. Even on this night, she suspected Pierre and Alain had only brought her along as cover, so they could say they were on a tryst with their girlfriends if they were stopped by the police.

She wondered who this Barbara-or whatever her real name was-was and what kind of life she had led that had brought her to this assignment. She looked perhaps several years older than Marie, but still young. And, from what she could see beneath the cap and jacket, she was attractive.

Soon, they had entered the city, which was much quieter now at this late hour. They drove through La Croix Rousse and Pierre pulled over on a side street. “Barbara, you come with me,” Pierre said. “You two follow in five minutes.” This was a standard precaution in case they were being watched.

Barbara got out of the back seat and Alain slid into her place. He put his arm around Marie and pulled her to him, kissing her and placing his hand on her breast. She returned the kiss-being lovers making out in the back seat of a car was an excellent cover if the police came by-but without passion.

To be truthful, Marie was angry at Alain for having been so dismissive of Barbara. What right did he have to denigrate her simply because of her sex? Doubtless she knew much more about how to operate effectively against the Nazis than he did.

After a few minutes, she pushed him away. “We must go, Alain.” They made their way down the street and to the next block, to a ground floor apartment that she and Alain had used once for an assignation. He knocked twice, then once. Pierre opened the door.

The apartment was a single room, with thick black curtains drawn tightly against prying eyes.

Inside there was a cot on the floor where she and Alain had lain and a small table with two chairs, one of which was occupied by Barbara, who had shed her cap and leather jacket. She had shoulder length brown hair and an intelligent face. Marie thought she was beautiful.

A lamp sat on the table illuminating some documents that were spread out on the table top. Marie and Alain stood over Barbara. The first was a letter on official letterhead with the seal of His Majesty, King George VI, from Sir Geoffrey Cunningham, Deputy Director of Operations Sections, SOE. “Be it known by these presents that Barbara Moreau, Swiss citizen, has been dispatched to France on my orders as an agent of His Majesty’s Government.”

Marie read the document over Pierre’s shoulder. “I trust that is satisfactory,” Barbara said. Pierre nodded. “Please destroy it.”

Pierre walked over to the aluminum sink in the small kitchen area of the apartment. He extracted a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his pants and lit the paper, dropping it into the sink. Marie watched the flames rise up and then die down.

Barbara next presented a small beige booklet with a crest with a white cross inside it. The cover was marked “Swiss Passport” in French, German and Italian. Inside was a picture of an unsmiling Barbara Moreau, born July 23, 1910 in Lausanne. The passport had been issued at Berne on October 8, 1941.

Inside were four French entry stamps at Challex, the first French town on the Lyon-Geneva rail line, the most recent from a few days ago. There were three Swiss stamps from Geneva, each dated a few weeks after the corresponding French stamp. This established that Barbara Moreau travelled relatively frequently from Switzerland to Lyon.

“They do good work,” Pierre said.

“Yes, the document people at SOE are first rate,” Barbara replied.

“They had better be,” Alain said. “For your sake and ours.”

There was a letter from Marc Rochet, Managing Director of Rochet et Fils SA, Import and Export in Lausanne introducing Barbara Moreau as authorized to transact business in France on behalf of the company. If anyone called the number listed on the letter, M. Rochet would be happy to confirm her assignment.

“What are you importing and exporting?” Alain asked.

“Mostly watches from Switzerland,” Barbara replied. “You know we are famous for our watches,” she said. Marie caught the wink in her eye. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much to import from France these days. Most of your best products go to our German friends. But perhaps I can bring back a few bottles of cognac.”

“Perhaps,” Pierre said.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” Barbara said. She stood and reached inside her shirt, shifting around a bit before extracting a thick canvas pouch, which she untied carefully. Inside was a thick wad of bills, many Swiss 100 franc notes, some larger denomination Pound notes and US Dollars. “These, unlike the others, are quite real,” Barbara said.

Marie’s eyes bulged out. She had worked at the bank for a few years now and couldn’t recall a customer bringing in a sum that large in cash.

Pierre smiled. “Most of these Vichy bastards would sell their mothers for a few of those.”

“And the Germans, too,” Alain added.

“These stay with me,” Barbara said. “When you need some, you come to me and tell me what it’s for. I have to report expenditures to London regularly. There’s enough here to expand your operations and that’s what we want, right?” Everyone nodded.

“I have rented a place for you to stay nearby here, just off the rue Jacquard” Pierre said. “It’s very simple, I’m afraid, perhaps not what an important Swiss woman of business would choose, but it’s wartime, I’m afraid.” Pierre shrugged.

“I am a simple woman, whose needs are few beyond the success of our enterprise,” Barbara replied. Marie couldn’t tell for sure if Barbara was serious, but she liked the way she handled herself.

“I can take you there and help you get settled,” Marie told her.

“That would be very kind of you,” Barbara replied, taking Marie’s arm and heading out into the darkened streets.
 
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