Chapter 1

RAF Tempsford, Bedfordshire, England. May 5th 1944

“Remember, Goldfinch, your job is to track and report on the Das Reich SS Division’s progress towards the landings, when they occur. Your radio is in place and your reception party will link you up.”

Elise nodded. “Understood, sir.” She was surprised: keeping her voice neutral against her growing tension was easier than she expected.

He smiled, grimly. “The French Resistance, the Maquis, are not a regular fighting force and some elements, particularly the communists, are ... shall we say ... a bit hot-headed?” His smile had disappeared. “Once the landings happen, they will probably want to engage the Nazis everywhere, with predictable results.” His gaze was commanding. “You are not to become involved in such activities. Delaying tactics for Das Reich are being organised but they are not your concern; just report where the various units are, their strength and speed of travel.” He raised a querying eyebrow.

Elise nodded again – she knew all this. Why doesn’t he just let me get on with it?

“Very well. Good luck.” His accompanying look was searching, probing her resolve.

She gazed back, steadily. “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded and left the room.

Elise went through the rigmarole of undressing completely, putting everything in a box to await her hoped for return and redressing from the skin out in clothes appropriate to a young Frenchwoman. She did not put on the skirt, donning instead a boiler suit. Her skirt went into her suitably battered, old case with the spare radio parts carefully padded amongst her other clothes. The case looked old, but she was assured it had been designed for parachute drops. She went through her papers one last time before storing them safely inside her boiler suit and checking her small pistol, loaded but on safe.

Then out to the Halifax, its black shape looming against the fading sky. The pilot smiled somewhat distractedly at her. “Right ho, Miss. Looks like a nice night for a trip to France.” He turned away, waving a hand at another half-seen figure. “The nav here will sort you out.”

No names, of course. Elise wondered grimly how many people this crew had dropped in France and how many were still alive.

Enough of that. She chided herself.

Elise was shown to a pad on the floor beside the navigator’s desk. Secured in the aircraft’s bomb bay were several containers of supplies to be dropped after her.

The flight to her drop-point east of Laroque-Timbaut was long, boring and cold. Curled round her case, Elise was glad of the boiler suit. She dipped in and out of an uncomfortable, cramped sleep as they detoured down through the Bay of Biscay, crossing the French coast south of Bordeaux. Eventually the navigator roused her, yelling in her ear they were about 20 minutes out. He helped her into her parachute, securing the case to her leg and the static line to her chute.

He pressed his mouth up to her ear again. “Once you’re out, pull this tab.” He pointed to a yellow canvas tag above her right knee. “Your case will drop to be suspended below you.”

She nodded; this had been part of the briefing. She had even practiced landing by jumping from the rear of a slowly moving truck, learning to take the shock by rolling along her side. Would it be that easy tonight?

The aircraft droned on and then the engine note changed as they descended to drop height. The navigator checked her parachute and the static line. The aircraft made several turns and then the navigator opened the rear door, yelling in her ear again. “OK ... when I smack your shoulder like this,” his hand landed heavily on her right shoulder. “Out you go – don’t delay or you’ll miss the drop zone.”

Elise nodded, glad the noise meant she didn’t have to speak.

There was more manoeuvring and the engine note changed again as the Halifax slowed for the drop. Through the door, all Elise could see was darkness. She swallowed.

“Come on. You can do this.” She murmured to herself.

Slap.

Almost convulsively, she hurled herself out of the plane. There was moment of falling then a strong jerk. She swung wildly for a couple of seconds before settling down beneath the chute.

“That was better than any fairground ride.” She laughed out loud, looking down, trying to see the ground.

She gave herself a mental slap. Concentrate. You’ve a job to do. Her case dropped away to swing below her when she pulled the tab. Elise reached up and grasped the webbing above her head as she had been taught, then searched below for any indication of her welcoming party.

As she descended, the ground appeared out of the gloom and accelerated towards her. Elise drew her legs together and bent her knees slightly, bracing for her arrival. The jar as she hit the ground was strong, but she rolled and then lay there, pulling in the parachute, hearing running footsteps approach.

“Chardonneret?” (Goldfinch).

“Qui?” (Who?)

It had been drummed into her never to admit to an identity until there was proper confirmation.

“Ahh ... je suis l’homme à la jambe verte.” (Ahh ... I am the man with the green leg.)

“Mais les pattes de chardonneret sont jaunes.” (But goldfinch legs are yellow.) She replied.

“Bien. I am Michel. Quick, come with me.”

Elise struggled out of the parachute straps and opened her case, retrieving her skirt. Michel was joined by two other men, one of whom finished gathering up the parachute.

Elise inspected the men. Farmhands, perhaps? They were risking their lives but that did not permit them to ogle her. “Turn round, please.”

Michel gave her a quirky smile.

“I need to change into my skirt.” She gave him a hard look.

Michel stared back for a couple of seconds before raising an eyebrow and waving to the men. “Tournez-vous. La femme souhaite conserver sa modestie.” (Turn round. She wants to preserve her modesty.)

Elise heard the undercurrent of amusement in his voice. Nevertheless, the men turned their back and Elise quickly stripped out of the boiler suit and pulled on her skirt. The small pistol, for the moment, went into the purse that held her papers and money.

“Thank you.”

Michel turned. “Excellent. Quickly, follow me. Les Boches may have seen the plane and possibly the parachutes.”

At the edge of the field Elise saw a truck being loaded with the canisters that had followed her out of the plane, but she was directed into the back of a baker’s van, redolent with the smell of bread. This rattled and jounced along farm tracks, pausing once to check all was clear before crossing a sealed road. After about half an hour they reached a solitary cottage.

Michel helped her out of the back of the van. “Tonight, you stay here. Tomorrow, you will be taken to your contact in Laroque-Timbaut.” He scowled at her. “Stay in the basement until someone comes for you.”

Elise nodded, wondering what she’d done to earn the scowl, but perhaps being in the Maquis was enough stress to cause it. A silent, unnamed woman showed her into the basement where there was a cot with a straw mattress. The door closed behind her and she was left alone in the darkness. Using her brief glimpse of the layout and feeling her way, she descended the stairs, positioned her case beside the cot, put her pistol under the mattress on the side away from the door and loosened her clothes a bit. For a while she lay still, going through her priorities for the following day.

Eventually sleep came.

Sunlight splashing through the cracks in a loading hatch to the farmyard woke her. Dust sparkled in the spears of light brightening the gloomy cellar. Elise clambered to her feet and rearranged her clothes. Pistol in hand, she softly climbed the stairs and stood, listening at the door. She could hear voices but no words. The temptation to open the door was strong, but the instructions had been clear. She returned to sit on the cot, curbing her frustration at the wait.

There was so much to do in checking her network and the landings could come at any day. Once that happened, Generalfeldmarschall Rommel would surely not leave one of his best assets on holiday in the south of France, even if that ‘holiday’ was supressing the Maquis and generally terrorising the population. No, he would want them brought up as quickly as possible to sweep the Allies back into the ocean.

After what seemed like hours, the door at the top of the stairs opened, revealing Michel. “Come.”

In the house, Elise was given a drink of water. Then a slab of bread and cheese was pressed into her hand and she was hustled into an ancient farm truck, loaded with sacks of potatoes.

“We’re late – we had to wait for the patrols out searching for your drop to follow a false trail out of the area.”

Elise just nodded as the gears grated and the truck jerked into motion.

“I am to drop you in the town square. You know where to go from there?”

Elise nodded. Did he think she was an idiot? Elise remained impassive as a thought occurred to her: was he trying to get information out of her? As the truck bounced and rattled over the tracks, Elise watched Michel out of the corner of her eye. There was always the possibility of betrayal.

They joined a better road and after about fifteen minutes she could see a church spire rising above trees on a hill. Five minutes later, Michel almost pushed her out of the cab into the square. She watched the truck leave, glancing around to get her bearings, her case at her feet. In front of the Mairie, two Wehrmacht soldiers were staring at her. One started towards her. Best to get this over with now, rather than wait for a more senior Nazi to quiz her. She picked up her case and walked across to them.

“Excusez-moi, je cherche 4 Rue du Bayle.” (Excuse me, I’m looking for 4 Rue du Bayle.)

The soldiers glanced at one another, shrugging. Clearly, neither spoke French.

“Ausweis. Papiere.” (Identity card. Papers). Every French citizen knew those German words. Having grown up in Alsace, Elise spoke German fluently, but she was not going to reveal that skill.

She pulled out her papers and handed them over. They were SOE forgeries, of course. Despite their vaunted reputation, she waited, smothering the unease that her papers would not pass muster.

The soldier looked them over and then looked her up and down, noting her plain face and rather poor, well-mended clothing. His face was dismissive: she was not worth chasing after. He handed back her papers. He pointed at the Mairie, “Registrieren.” He thought for a moment, adding in butchered French, “Inscrivez-vous ... aujourd’hui.” (Register ... today.)