Chapter 23

RAF Tangmere.

29 April 1944

D ressed and ready to go, I clambered into the car, wedged between Vera Atkins and Hubert. The drive to the airfield was quiet—sombre, perhaps—but my spirits were high as thoughts of France and Henri filled my mind. Four months of SOE training had flown by. Yes, it had been tough, but equally great fun. I was now Ensign Nancy Wake, F.A.N.Y., having signed up under my maiden name. To London, my code name was Hélène; to the French Resistance, I would be Madame Andrée.

At Tangmere, the security officer insisted on searching us, starting with Hubert. Then he turned to me. ‘You don’t need to search me. Besides, I’m wearing too many layers. It’ll take ages.’ There was no way I was undressing at this stage. I glanced at Vera, who merely rolled her eyes, her red lips twitching as she stifled a smirk.

Despite the man’s protests, Vera remained tight-lipped, glancing at the papers on her clipboard. ‘Look here. I’m not carrying anything I shouldn’t. My money is French, and my false papers are in order. There’s nothing British on me whatsoever.’ She waved him away with a flick of her manicured hand, then took him aside and muttered something that seemed to calm him down.

As I waited, minor thoughts raced through my mind, and then I remembered—I’d forgotten to arrange for my rent to be paid on my flat. Darn. I sat down at a small pine table, grabbed a pen and paper, and hurriedly scribbled a note to my bank manager, asking him to organise the monthly payments.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The security officer peered over my shoulder, his eyes bulging, a scarlet flush creeping up from his neck to his forehead.

‘Writing a note to the Germans to let them know I’m on my way.’ I shot him a tight-lipped stare.

‘You can’t do that.’ He turned to Vera, flustered. ‘She can’t do that.’

‘Here.’ I thrust the note into his chest. ‘Post this when you get a moment.’ He shot me a fierce glare, one that could have felled a German.

‘Take a seat, Nancy,’ Vera said, exhaling. ‘You need to have your ankles strapped for support.’ She gestured to the security officer, who frowned, muttered something incomprehensible, and then produced bandages for the job.

I swear he pulled those bandages as tight as possible. My legs felt as if they might balloon under protest, but I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.

At ten o’clock, we tramped across the grass to the waiting Liberator. I cast a glance at the full, gibbous moon, which hung large and low in the east. An aircraft droned at the far side of the field, and I watched as it lunged forward, hurtling along the runway, slipping by blazing orange lamp markers. The sweet smell of aviation fuel hung in the air, and I blew out a breath, wispy silver vapour curling like a ribbon in the cool breeze. Vera embraced both of us in turn, casting me a Mona Lisa smile. She had been good to me, but I found her so hard to read.

The bulky parachute sat awkwardly on my back, slapping the backs of my legs with each step as I struggled to climb into the Liberator. Then, I felt a shove against my backside as someone thrust me inside and I landed on all fours, scrambling to get up onto the seat—not that there was much of a seat taking into consideration the damn chute—but I squeezed myself on somehow. Hubert clambered up and sank down beside me. The engines roared and thrummed, the thunderous noise drowning out all attempts of ordinary conversation.

The dispatcher, a young man who surely couldn’t be any more than eighteen, climbed in and closed the door. ‘We’re about to take off now, so settle back and hang on. We have some calm weather on our side, so it ought to be a smooth flight.’ He smiled reassuringly, leaning in towards me. ‘Say, are you really Witch?’

He was so skinny, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. ‘Yes.’ I raised an eyebrow, tickled by his intrigue. ‘Rhymes with…’ I grinned at the lad. It was only a code name after all, and you’d think he’d be used to that by now, flying agents out of England. His American accent was familiar, southern perhaps.

‘Gee, we ain’t never dropped a woman before. You sure you wanna go?’ His eyebrows furrowed as he sucked on a pencil.

I smiled. The sweet boy looked so worried. ‘Quite sure, thanks.’ I couldn’t wait to leave, to return and rid France of those bastards. I’d trained for this and was a damn good shot, and I could kill a man with my bare hands. Not that I’d done that, of course. Not yet.

His eyes searched mine and then, with a nod of his head, he shuffled to the back of the aircraft to check over the cargo.

France wasn’t as bleak as they all thought, and I wasn’t afraid of the Germans or the Milice. I reached into my pocket, my hand brushing against the cold, smooth silver compact given to me by Colonel Buckmaster. ‘A going-away present,’ he’d said before kissing me goodbye in the French fashion, a waft of sweet pipe tobacco drifting from his tunic jacket. His last words resonated in my ears. ‘Merde!’

The engines roared, vibrating through the entire aircraft, making my jaw quiver and filling my head with noise. The heavy smell of oil and rubber hung in the air, stirring waves of nausea that I fought to suppress. I shivered in the cold, thankful for my warm, camel-hair overcoat. Beneath it, I wore a smart French outfit, silk stockings, and a pair of overalls for extra warmth. My ankles, tightly bandaged, felt bulky and uncomfortable and I couldn’t wait to be in France, free of all this cumbersome gear.

In my breast pocket, I carried my treasured red Chanel lipstick, a reminder that even in war, a lady should look her best. At my feet sat a large bag containing our plans, nearly a million French francs, and a pair of heels—because in France, blending in meant dressing well, even if you were on the run. Beneath my tin hat, my hair was neatly styled, and two revolvers rested in my pockets. I was prepared for whatever lay ahead, yet as I sat there, I wondered who I really was—Nancy Wake, SOE agent, Nancy Fiocca, French housewife, or just the girl from Oz?

I knew I was angry, frustrated, desperate to give the Nazis hell. Henri hadn’t shown up, and I hadn’t heard from him, but I clung to hope. As Garrow had once said, ‘No news is good news.’

The dispatcher settled next to me and smiled. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

I nodded, though the thought of parachuting into occupied France again terrified me. This time, there would be no round of drinks after the jump. I’d made wonderful friends during training, especially Violette, and we’d gotten up to all sorts of mischief. Now it was time to be serious, and there was nothing more serious than dropping into enemy territory as a special agent, dressed as a civilian. If the Germans caught you, the consequences were grim.

The engines thundered as the Liberator taxied to the end of the runway, then surged forward, lifting us into the night sky. My stomach lurched as we climbed steadily. From the small window, I watched the ground disappear into darkness, swallowed by the blackout.

The dispatcher handed out tea and Spam sandwiches. ‘This’ll help with the cold,’ he said. I took the sandwich despite the queasiness. Who knew when I’d eat again? Hubert, calm and collected as ever, sipped his tea and closed his eyes. Nothing ever seemed to worry him. He was self-assured, slightly younger than me, twenty-five, tall, athletic, handsome with cropped sandy hair and blue eyes, and incredibly annoying at times.

My heart raced. I longed for France, for Henri, and for our home together. As I screwed my eyes shut for a few seconds, the image of Vienna flashed through my mind. I gritted my teeth.

‘We’re over the Channel now,’ the dispatcher called out over the noise of the engines.

The thought of the dark, icy waters below made my stomach twist even more. I leaned back, taking deep breaths to calm the rising nausea. Next to me, Hubert dozed off, his head slumping onto my shoulder when the aircraft hit turbulence.

‘Flak. The weather ain’t too good either,’ the dispatcher announced as the Liberator shook and bucked in the sky. Through the window, I saw a flash of orange as anti-aircraft fire exploded near the wings, rattling us around. Anti-aircraft guns. The Loire snaked through the valley below, a silver ribbon beneath the light of the moon, luring us deeper into France, and elation zipped through me, lifting my spirits as home whispered. What a long way I’d come from the immigrant who had arrived in Paris years ago, young, eager for excitement and a new life away from my mother. I’d forged a new path, found love, lived the dream before the enemy ripped it away. As I waited to touch down on French soil, I realised I’d gone full circle.

The plane suddenly climbed sharply, throwing Hubert to the floor. My stomach tightened with fear. ‘Oh strewth, what’s happening?’

‘Don’t worry,’ the dispatcher said, trying to reassure us. ‘German fighter, but the captain’s lost him.’ He pulled me to my feet as the aircraft levelled out. ‘This ship’s brand new. The captain won’t let anyone take her down but him.’

I managed a faint smile, but the tension didn’t ease until we were steady again. I grabbed a paper bag, just in case. Moments later, it was no use. I retched, the tea and Spam sandwich making an unwelcome exit. I leaned back against the fuselage, catching the dispatcher’s sympathetic gaze.

‘If you don’t wanna go, ma’am, we can easily take you home,’ he offered kindly.

‘Just get me to the drop point and shove me out. Give me a kick if you have to.’ I glanced at Hubert, who had dozed off again. ‘Bloody typical,’ I muttered.

Time passed slowly, the engines droning on and on as we flew over France. I spun around on the bench seat and gazed out the window. The night sky was clear, moonlight capturing the rooftops of buildings below. Almost three hours had passed.

Eventually, the dispatcher shook Hubert awake. ‘Time to get ready.’ He tightened our parachute straps and hooked us up to the static line. The Liberator slowed, tilting slightly as the pilot searched for the signal below—a flicker of torchlight in the dark. A red light flashed in the rear of the fuselage.

‘Get into position,’ the dispatcher instructed.

He opened the hatch, and icy wind rushed in, slapping me in the face. I dangled my legs through the Joe Hole, the ground speeding past beneath us. The silhouettes of trees and fields flickered by, while lights from a nearby village loomed closer.

‘Once you jump, your chutes will automatically open,’ he shouted.

My heart raced as I thought of England—my cosy flat, Vera’s kind smile as she saw me off. What if Henri was in London, searching for me? But no, it had been too long. I was certain he was still in France. I had to believe that.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the jump, ready to return to the fight. A rush of icy wind hit me hard, biting my face, suffocating, leaving me gasping for breath. I made out the silhouettes of trees, and a silvery patchwork of fields interspersed with winding roads.

The plane banked, turning to make one last run. The wait was excruciating. Beneath us, bonfires blazed, torches blinked, and the faces of some of the welcome party were visible as they gazed up at the belly of the Liberator. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. They were bloody mad. No security measures.

The plane lurched as it slowed further, and the dispatcher slapped me on the back. The red light blinked green. ‘Okay. JUMP!’

My stomach churned, my mouth dry, and my heart pounded against my ribcage. It was time—the part of the mission I dreaded most. Falling through darkness, falling through uncertainty. This was no dress rehearsal. For a moment, I froze, mouth open in a silent scream, paralysed by my fear of heights. But then, Henri’s face flashed in my mind, and the thought of him ignited a fierce resolve. The dispatcher’s firm hand pressed against my back, and suddenly I was out in the icy darkness, buffeted by the slipstream, panic clawing at my chest as I plummeted. Then I realised I was screaming.

An old joke from training surfaced. ‘If your chute doesn’t open, go back and ask for a new one.’ It had seemed funny back then, but now, hurtling through the night sky, the humour was lost on me.

The instructor’s words echoed in my mind. Elbows close to your sides. Legs and knees together. Just like your mother taught you. I muttered the mantra repeatedly, trying to steady myself, recalling how I’d laughed during practice jumps. Then, a sharp jolt as the chute deployed, the harness straps biting into my thighs and groin. I exhaled, relief washing over me. The night air whistled past as I descended rapidly. Overhead, the Liberator droned away, its engines fading into the vast midnight sky. I wondered if this was the moment when others regretted jumping into occupied France. But not me. I couldn’t wait to hit the ground.

I took a deep breath as the sky fell silent, except for the whoosh of wind from my descent. I marvelled at the sparkling galaxy above, feeling closer to the stars than ever before. But that wonder quickly turned to dread as I plunged through a greyish white cloud, its icy breath trailing over my skin, chilling me to the bone. My whole body prickled as I shivered, dangling in the night sky, my chute billowing like a white silk balloon above me. As the ground rushed to meet me and the clouds smothered the moon, everything below slipped into darkness.

I crashed through a thicket, branches clawing at me until I came to an abrupt halt, suspended about eight feet above the ground. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I muttered, hanging there for a moment, my body aching from the impact. An owl screeched overhead, adding to the eerie stillness. I tried to release my harness, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘Shit!’ I cursed, frustrated and cold. I listened for signs of Hubert but heard nothing. The sharp snap of a twig nearby made me catch my breath. I spotted movement—a man striding toward me, his black beret tilted jauntily. Moonlight illuminated his face, revealing a playful grin as he looked up at me, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

‘Bonjour, Madame Andrée. I did not know that trees bore such lovely fruit this time of year,’ he said with a cheeky smile, bowing slightly.

Yup. Definitely Maquis. ‘Don’t give me any of your French shit!’ I snapped, tired and desperate for warmth. ‘Help me down.’ Cold and tired, all I wanted was a place to rest and a warm drink.

‘Here.’ He reached up and hit the harness release, and I dropped to the forest floor with a thud that knocked the wind from my lungs. ‘I am Henri Tardivat.’ He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet.

I looked around for my colleague, but we were alone. ‘Where’s Hubert?’

‘Do not worry. He is with the others. We saw you drifting.’ He scooped up my chute, folding yards of white silk into a tight bundle, tucking it beneath his arm. Was he keeping it?

‘I have to bury that.’

‘Non, it is silk. It is so useful.’

I shook my head. Security definitely was a major issue.

Suddenly, men’s voices drifted through the night, and I froze. Stories of agents dropping directly into German camps flashed through my mind. A dark figure ran toward us, and I instinctively reached for my revolver. Tardivat placed a hand on my arm. ‘It’s okay, he’s one of us.’

‘Bonjour. I am Francois. Welcome to France,’ the young man said in hushed tones, shaking my hand. Hubert traipsed behind.

‘You landed all right?’ Hubert said, eyeing my bag.

‘No. Got caught in the trees, but luckily, I’m in one piece. And don’t worry. The money and the plans are safe.’

‘Hurry, please,’ Tardivat urged, leading us across a field and onto a lane. A light breeze drove fresh scents of pine from the dense cluster of trees on the forest edge.

We turned down a narrow path. ‘Where are we?’ I glanced at Tardivat.

‘Just outside Montlucon,’ he replied with a grin. ‘There is a car waiting beyond the trees.’

I shot a glance at Hubert, who mirrored my concern. We weren’t supposed to ride in cars. ‘Isn’t that risky?’

‘Non, Madame Andrée. It is a gazogene; besides, we stick to the minor routes and drive without lights. Then, if we see lights up ahead or behind, we know it is the enemy.’

When we reached the car, Tardivat introduced us to the driver and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Reynard. ‘They will take you to a safe house,’ he said.

‘When will we meet with Hector?’ Hubert asked.

Tardivat looked puzzled. ‘Who?’

Hubert cast me a glance but shrugged it off. ‘No matter.’ He climbed into the back of the car and took my bag for me.

‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Tardivat said, casting me a reassuring nod.

‘Merci.’ I climbed into the car, and Tardivat closed the door behind me. As we drove off, Madame Reynard began chatting non-stop about their lives under occupation and how excited they were that we’d arrived. Apparently, our arrival had caused quite a stir. I felt a flicker of joy, a beat of hope that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It reminded me of my first trip to Paris, that rush of excitement and possibility.

But as quickly as it surfaced, sadness washed over me as swift as the fall of an axe-blade. I couldn’t run back to Henri, couldn’t even check if he was safe. The mission and so many lives depended on me doing my duty. Torn between hope and despair, I sat in the car, half-smiling, half-fighting back tears, while Madame Reynard’s cheerful chatter filled the inky darkness.