Chapter 28

The Drop

T he moon was full and white, rising high in a cloudless sky. I stood at the edge of a field on the plateau above Chaudes-Aigues, the scent of pine drifting from the trees, trapped in the fresh evening breeze. I tucked my .45 revolver into the waistband of my trousers, aware of the metal blade of my knife, pressing flat against my leg inside my boot. The drop could be anytime between half past ten and four in the morning. The men carried torches, their rifles slung over their shoulders.

My breath, a silver ribbon, danced on the air, and I was thankful for the woollen jumper and jacket I’d dragged on before leaving. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a black beret, and slipped it on. The ground was drenched in dew and glistened beneath the moonlight. The sounds of the night filtered in: the echoing hoot of an owl, the rustle of long grass, and the protest of crickets, their sweet rhythmic chirp a lullaby. My belly fluttered. Our first parachutage and Hubert would miss the fun. We’d manage. I’d planned it to perfection, and it would go like clockwork, provided everyone pulled their weight.

‘Madame?’ Fournier waved a packet of Gitanes in front of me.

‘Merci.’ I plucked one and leaned in for a light, watching as he flicked a glance at the sky.

‘Will they definitely come tonight?’ His dark eyes, like granite, turned to me.

‘Oui.’ Unless something goes wrong. ‘We just have to wait.’ I drew on my cigarette and glanced around at the others. Always waiting! Fournier reached for his hip flask and took a swig, and then, with a look of satisfaction, he offered it to me. I didn’t wish to drink after him, but a refusal might offend, so I took a good mouthful, the fiery warmth tingling on my tongue and in my throat. He looked surprised. I could hold my own when it came to alcohol, and I handed the flask back to him. ‘Merci.’

The faintest drone from the west cut through the low rumble of gruff voices. ‘Shush.’ I strained to listen. A twig snapped. One of the men coughed.

‘What is it?’ Fournier glanced up.

‘Hear that?’ The droning grew, and soon the thrum of many engines filled the air. Dark crosses silhouetted against the sky glided into view. The maquisards grinned and pointed at the aircraft. I counted fifteen Lancaster Bombers. Several aircraft dropped our containers on the first pass; dark bullets sailing down to earth beneath black parachutes. The aircraft circled and came back for a second pass, releasing the remaining containers from their bellies. I raced to the nearest one, unclipped the chute and opened it. Bren guns. The others did the same, working quickly to remove the chutes and fold the silk for reuse later. Containers were rounded up and carried to the edge of the field, beneath the cover of the trees, all one hundred and fifty of them.

‘Jon-Luc, bring the trucks,’ Fournier instructed. ‘Madame Andrée, we will load up the arms.’

The last container lay at my feet and was marked ‘personal for Helénè’. I opened it and gasped, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. ‘C’est beau!’ Reaching in I pulled out Elizabeth Arden face cream, face powder, bars of chocolate, stockings, and a pair of black leather heeled shoes. I picked up a shoe and, by the light of my torch, checked the size—a six, exactly right. ‘I can hardly believe it. Bless you, Vera.’ A small cream manila envelope addressed to me sat tucked between my goodies, and I slipped it inside my jacket to read later. One of Fournier’s men helped me carry my container to the gate, where two trucks waited. ‘Careful, these things are for me.’ He nodded.

For a moment, I stood looking out to the northwest, where across the cold waters of the Channel, England lay. A warm glow suffused me from the inside out. Knowing that people were thinking of us and had acquired these items solely for me meant so much. My eyes misted over, and I sniffed. Smart shoes for non-field duty days, stockings, and cosmetics—what a treat. I smiled to myself as memories of the first time I met Vera resurfaced.

My interview at Orchard Court had been so strange. The doorman had led me to a bathroom to wait, of all places, and I’d perched on the side of a jet-black bath. Several people came and went, and then I was ushered into an office where I met the chief—Colonel Maurice Buckmaster. After an initial chat, I followed him to another office, where he introduced me to a stern-looking woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with blue-grey penetrating eyes. ‘Miss Atkins will look after you from now on,’ he’d said, and how right he’d been.

As Vera spoke, it became clear she knew so much about me already, and yet she had no file in front of her. She knew of my marriage to a French businessman, about our life together in France, and my involvement with the escape network. I’d already run rings around the Nazis and survived. But then Vera explained that I was on the Germans’ most wanted list. I was the “White Mouse” of whom the Gestapo had printed leaflets and distributed them in Marseille and throughout France. I’d been warned they were watching me at the time, but hearing such news from Vera had filled me with terror for Henri. ‘I’ll understand if you wish to change your mind,’ she’d said softly.

‘Do you want a lift back?’ Fournier broke my reverie. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, a pleasant, boyish tone in his voice. His haul—hundreds of guns, ammunition, and grenades—had put a spring in his step.

‘Yes, it’s freezing.’ The drive back to camp took around five minutes. The men offloaded the containers and hid them in a pit in the ground. My things were bundled into a spare box and driven back to the farm for my last night. Tomorrow, I was to join the Maquis and Denden in the woods. It was safer that way. The next task was to train the men on how to use their new weapons. How hard could that be? There were also orders from London to carry out. The truck lurched violently, and Fournier cursed as I lunged forward. What was I doing? It was madness. I’d had a life with Henri before all of this. If it hadn’t been for me, Henri would probably never have become involved. Had I forced his hand? How he’d worried—for himself and for me. The dream I’d had in England—Henri, a firing squad, gunfire. A hard thwack, the truck lurched again, almost jolting me out of the seat, and Fournier ranted in French. The Gestapo had been searching for me, and there was still no news of Henri. What if they’d arrested him?

We turned off the main road, and the truck rumbled across the rough stony track that led down to the farm, bile rising in my throat, a fluttering in my chest.

‘Thank you, Madame Andrée, for arming us,’ Fournier said. ‘My men were very restless before you arrived. Now, we all have a purpose. We have money and weapons.’

‘Yes, and your men need to learn to use them. All we need now is Gaspard.’

‘Ah, he is bloody-minded. He will stick it out alone for as long as possible.’ Fournier’s eyes narrowed.

‘Yes, but he has thousands of men, and we need them.’ I’d rather hoped that Gaspard would have come looking for me by now. Word must have reached him.

Fournier muttered something under his breath as he pulled up at the house. I went to the back of the truck for my box of goodies. Just as I was about to reach in, Fournier’s strong arms were there. ‘Allow me, Madame.’

‘Merci.’ I smiled, looking him in the eye, and saw his black glassy gaze give way to a softer stare.

‘I am sure you will have Gaspard any day now.’ He set my things on the oak table.

Madame Fournier appeared. ‘What is this?’ She pointed to the box.

‘None of your business, woman,’ Fournier snapped as he went to the stove to see what was bubbling in the pot. He sniffed. ‘Ah, rabbit stew. Let’s eat.’

Madame Fournier seemed interested in the contents of my haul, so I opened the box, reached inside, and grabbed the face cream. ‘From London, just for me.’

She took the glass jar from my hands and gazed in awe. ‘They dropped it from the sky?’ Her hazel eyes grew wide with surprise.

‘Yes, isn’t that wonderful?’ I pulled out the shoes to show her, watching as she held one, weathered fingers stroking the leather, a huge smile tugging at her mouth. Shoes were impossible to buy in France. ‘Go on, try the Lizzie Arden cream.’ She shook her head, a shocked look on her face, so I dipped my finger in and dabbed a little on the back of her hand. She laughed, all the while Fournier’s eyes darted from me to her while he shovelled stew into his mouth, slurping. Madame Fournier took the cream and dotted a little on her cheeks, rubbing it in softly, a wide smile tugging at her mouth. It’s surprising how the little moments in life persist even in the darkest of times, lighting a spark of joy, even if for only a few seconds. Smiles and laughter were so important, I felt.