Colette
Copyright© 2022 by Iskander
Chapter 5
December 1940 – November 1941
That set a definite trend: the weeks I spent at Airsaig were marked by insufficient sleep. At every opportunity I wedged myself into some corner and catnapped. After the regular morning physical jerks and runs at Wanborough, I thought I was fit – but a day at Airsaig proved me wrong. By the end of the first week, I had blisters on my feet together with scrapes on my knees, elbows and hands from the scrambling in and around the rocky hills and along the coast as we raced to complete another obstacle course. They followed these ‘races’ with a session of personal combat – with a knife or unarmed. I learned that, in spite of my small size and light weight, I could – sometimes – win against larger opponents. And for me, everyone was larger.
Christmas came and went ... and then New Year.
I learned about British and some German weapons – shooting them, stripping, cleaning and reassembling them blindfold. I was no crack shot, but I learned to hit the target with whatever weapon given me. Always the emphasis was on pointing the weapon and the ‘double tap’ – two shots with a pistol or two quick bursts with the Sten or equivalent. We also trained with explosives. Despite the risk of blowing myself up, I found this fascinating. I had a knack for assessing the smallest amount of explosive set in the perfect place to drop a telegraph pole or destroy a rail line. It pleased some strange, internal aesthetic and the explosions satisfied an unexpected destructive urge. But even with all the training, I remained uncertain about killing anyone with a gun and had a nightmare about trying to kill with a knife.
Could I do this?
Days blurred together – until the interrogations started. Classes had discussed withstanding interrogation, but we learned the ugly truth that almost everyone breaks. We had to convince the interrogation team that we couldn’t be broken before they succeeded in doing so – or break in such a way that they believed the rubbish information we spilled.
Implied was the execution following either outcome. Stories circulated in whispers about agents who had disappeared into the Nazi’s maw...
My uncertainty increased and fear – of failure, of lack of courage – grew inside me.
Then we went ‘in the cage’ for real. Despite the sleep deprivation, humiliation and physical abuse, I wondered if they treated me gentler than the men. A small miracle happened during the process – I detached from my body; I could see everything they did, but it didn’t matter, even when half-suffocated by a wet cloth over my face or left naked, wet and shivering in isolation.
After three intense weeks at Airsaig they sent me off to learn about operating a radio behind enemy lines – reading and sending Morse at ever higher speeds, codes and cyphers, radio fault finding and repair. We had to pick – or create – a short poem and commit it to memory. That was the basis of our coding scheme. I chose Verlaine’s Song of Autumn – in French, which I’d learned in school: I felt its tortured melancholy suited the purpose. This caused a bit of a stir as they weren’t used to foreign language poems, but they allowed it after a discussion.
All the while, the physical fitness regime continued with time on the firing range. As the end of the course approached, the tension rose amongst us: the time approached for us to go to France and my self-doubt deepened.
When the course finished, I was told to report to Bletchley Park. Everyone else headed to Manchester for parachute training. I was not going to France.
What had I done wrong? Had they smelt my fear?
Bottling up my tears, I knocked on the CO’s door.
The captain glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Yes?”
“Sir ... please, why aren’t I going on to parachute training?”
“Umm ... Roberts?”
Yes sir.”
He surveyed a stack of files in his out tray and then back at me. “Roberts ... let me assure you that you passed the course.” He smiled. “Your performance rated excellent in every part of the training.”
I stood in confused, dejected silence. “So, why didn’t they send me to the parachute training?”
The captain shrugged. “I don’t know.” He glanced again at the files in his out tray. “When I reported the list of passing students, they posted you all to parachute training. But then a signal came through instead posting you to ... er...” He turned a questioning face towards me.
“Bletchley Park, sir.”
“Ah yes, quite so, Bletchley Park.”
“But ... why, sir?”
“I have no idea, LAC Roberts, because I don’t need to know.” I heard the exasperation in his voice. “Your job is to shut up and get on with it.” His eyes fell to the papers spread on his desk. “Dismissed.”
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