Chapter 1

RAF Tempsford, Bedfordshire, England. May 5th, 1944

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

“Understood, sir.” Elise surprised herself: keeping her voice neutral against the growing tension.

“Remember, the French Resistance, the Maquis, are not a regular fighting force and some elements, particularly the communists, are ... shall we say ... hot-headed?” He smiled to soften the remark. “Once we invade, they will probably want to engage the Nazis everywhere, with predictable results.” His gaze locked on mine and his voice hardened. “You are not to become involved in these activities.”

“Sir.”

“Delaying tactics for Das Reich are being organised but they are not your concern; report where the various units are, their strength and speed of travel. That’s it.”

Elise nodded again – she knew all this.

Why doesn’t he let me get on with it?

“Good luck.” His eyes were searching, probing her resolve.

“Thank you, sir.” She returned his gaze.

He awarded her a miniscule nod of acknowledgement, followed by a sniff as he walked out of the room.

Elise breathed out, glad to be alone for her final preparations.

She undressed, all her English clothes and possessions went into a box awaiting her return. The clothes appropriate to a poor Frenchwoman were laid out on the table. She redressed, apart from the skirt, donning instead the waiting jump suit over her clothes. The skirt went into her battered case with the well-padded spare radio parts amongst her clothes. Closing the latches on the case, she hoped it performed as designed; if it burst, her clothes would be scattered but the spare radio valves were likely to break. She went through her French papers. These went into an inner pocket along with the silk coding sheet. She made the final check of her pistol – loaded and on safe, secured for the jump in a buttoned pocket. Then out to the Halifax, its shape black against the fading sky.

The pilot’s confidence shone through his voice. “Okay, Miss?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Looks like a nice night for a trip to France.” He turned away, waving a hand at a half-seen figure. “The nav here will sort you out.”

No names – her or theirs. Elise wondered how many people this crew had dropped in France and how many remained alive.

Enough of that.

The navigator guided Elise to a pad on the floor beside his desk. Secured in the aircraft’s bomb bay below them were four containers of supplies for the Maquis to be dropped after her.

The flight to her drop-point east of Laroque-Timbaut was loud, long, boring and cold. Curled round her case, Elise relished the additional warmth 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. The navigator roused her, yelling in her ear they were about twenty minutes out. Elise struggled into the parachute harness with some help from the Navigator, who strapped her case to her leg.

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 knee. “Your case will drop to be suspended below you.”

Elise gave him a thumbs up; this had been part of the briefing.

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 turned and then the navigator opened the rear door, yelling in her ear again. “OK ... when I smack your shoulder like this,” his hand landed on her shoulder. “Out you go – don’t delay or you’ll miss the drop zone.”

Another thumbs up, glad the noise meant she didn’t have use her dry mouth. She could feel the aircraft turning and the engine note changed as the Halifax slowed. The door filled with rushing darkness as she took the ready position. She swallowed, trying to summon some saliva.

Slap.

She hurled herself out: a moment of falling and a strong jerk. She swung in reducing arcs for a couple of seconds before settling beneath the chute.

“Wilder than any fairground ride.” She laughed, looking down, trying to see the ground.

Her case dropped 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 in the gloom and accelerated towards her. Elise drew her legs together and bent her knees, bracing for her arrival. The jar as she hit the ground surprised her, but she rolled and then lay there, pulling in the parachute, hearing running footsteps approach.

A dark shape spoke in French. “Goldfinch?”

“Who?” Never admit to an identity; insist on confirmation.

“Ahh ... I am the man with the green leg.”

The correct code phrases. “I am Goldfinch.”

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

Elise freed the parachute straps and opened her case, retrieving her skirt. Two men joined Michel, one finished gathering up the parachute and carried it away.

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 at her for a couple of seconds before raising an eyebrow and waving to the men. “Turn round. She wants to preserve her modesty.”

Elise heard the undercurrent of amusement in his voice. But the men turned away and she removed the boiler suit and pulled on her skirt. The pistol, for the moment, went into the purse that now held her papers and money.

“Thank you.”

Michel turned. “Excellent. 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 after her, but Michel directed her 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 before crossing a sealed road. After about half an hour they reached a solitary cottage.

Michel opened the van door. “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: perhaps the stress of being in the Maquis? A silent, unnamed woman showed her into the basement where a cot with a straw mattress awaited her. The door closed behind leaving her 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 and retrieved her torch by feel careful of the radio spares. She put her pistol under the mattress on the side away from the door and loosened her clothes. For a while she lay still, going through her priorities for the following day.

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

She had to contact the network that would feed her information and the landings could come any day. Once they happened, Rommel would not leave one of his best assets on holiday in the south of France, even if that ‘holiday’ involved supressing the Maquis and generally terrorising the population. He would want them to sweep the Allies into the ocean. To stop them, the allies needed her information.

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

In the house, the woman gave Elise a drink of water and pressed a slab of bread and cheese into her hand. Michel hustled her 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.” His voice was flat, worried.

Elise 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, remaining impassive as a thought occurred to her.

Is he trying to get information out of me?

With the truck rattling over the country road, Michel had to concentrate on driving allowing Elise to scrutinise him. She would live with the fear of betrayal in France.

They joined a main 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 and her case from 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 German soldiers were staring at her. One started towards her. Best to get this over with now, than to wait for a senior Nazi to quiz her. She picked up her case and walked across to them.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for 4 Rue du Bayle.”

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

“Ausweis. Papiere.” (Identity card. Papers). Every French citizen knew those German words. Elise spoke German fluently having grown up in Alsace; but keeping that hidden provided a useful edge.

She pulled out her forged papers and handed them over. Despite the SOE’s vaunted reputation as expert forgers, 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 poor, well-mended clothing. His face dismissed her: she was not worth chasing. He returned her papers. He pointed at the Mairie, “Registrieren.” He thought for a moment, adding in butchered French, ”Register.”