NONE DARE CALL IT TREASON - Book review

Catherine Gavin’s 1978 novel None Dare Call it Treason is the second in her three books about the French Resistance. The first is Traitors’ Gate (1976) and the third is How Sleep the Brave (1980).

It’s 1942 and Britain’s new allies, the Americans, are landing in vast numbers to fight in Europe and North Africa. General Charles de Gaulle is a particular thorn in the planners’ sides. An abrasive character, de Gaulle is not greatly liked. De Gaulle ‘stands condemned to death by a military court for desertion – in absentia’ (p76). Roosevelt called de Gaulle ‘unreliable, uncooperative and disloyal to both our governments’ (p121). In fact, de Gaulle was kept in the dark about the North African landings – much to his embittered chagrin. ‘De Gaulle’s favourite word was Non’ (277).

A French barrister, Jacques Brunel, is running one of several networks that operate in Occupied France and Vichy France. He gets lumbered with Polly Preston, an eighteen-year-old woman, half-American, half-French who needs to get to America and reunite with what is left of her family. That in a nutshell is the plot. However, once you get past the initial chapter set in London, which is mostly exposition, you get involved in the story and the characters. Gavin’s descriptions of the people and the places put the reader in the scene.

Brunel has a response to the charges against De Gaulle: ‘If and when the Allies bring de Gaulle back to France, nobody will dare accuse him of treason. They’ll be too busy incriminating the collaborators’ (p77).

The point of view is omniscient. The main reason for this approach is that there’s a great deal of narrative relating to the real events from a historical context.

There are many descriptions that bring the scenes to life. ‘they slept until lunchtime in a brass bed with a white honeycomb spread and a red satin quilt which kept slipping down to the carpet as the little hotel shook with the passage of the trains’ (p222).

There is tension aplenty, betrayal, rivalry between different resistance cells, politics, threat, torture, death, and passion too. Gavin was a British war correspondent in France and the Netherlands and she knew the places she describes, and it shows.

The book title is from Epigrams by John Harrington (1561-1612), a two-line poem:

Treason doth never prosper: what's the reason?
Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

PS – An Army lieutenant appears, his name is Morton (p257).

JACKDAWS - book review

 

The prolific Ken Follett’s Jackdaws was published in 2001. His output is varied and broad in theme and place and time. Here, he returns to the Second World War and spies – some twenty-three years after his WWII debut novel Eye of the Needle.

The story covers the nine days before D-Day, June 6, 1944. Twenty-eight-year-old Felicity 'Flick' Clairet, an SOE agent is leading a Resistance assault on a French chateau in the village of Sainte-Cecile, the German communications hub for the area. But it goes wrong and she and her French husband barely manage to escape. Some of their team are killed and others are captured.

The German interrogator is Colonel Dieter Franck who, while not enjoying inflicting pain on his victims, is good at it. The Germans are aware that an invasion is about to occur soon and that will entail the rising up of many Resistance cells. He is certain that if he can break the will of his captives, he can learn details about the various groups.

Flick returns to England and is given permission to try again to crack the chateau communications hub. She recruits the Jackdaws, a ‘dirty half-dozen’ – all-female team to infiltrate in place of the regular cleaners. Not all of them will survive...

This is a typical Follett page-turner with characters you soon come to know and care about. Even Franck evokes a measure of sympathy. The interrogators, the invaders, considered the SOE agents as terrorists. Both sides were ruthless. In these sensitive times perhaps some readers will find certain aspects of the violence depicted as distressing; yet this kind of thing – and worse – happened. I’ve read a number of nonfiction and fiction books about the SOE and Follett’s research seems very accurate – and never slows the pace.

If you want an involving fast read, this suspenseful thriller will fit the bill.

Editorial comment:

Blame the editor. On p312 a coded message mentions Friday 1 June. Yet on p315 we’re told that Friday is 2 June. Oops. [Hopefully it has been amended since my 2002 edition].

Writing - Background to historical stories (4)

For those readers who are interested in the background to stories, here are a few notes on the short stories in my fourth collection, Codename Gaby. The printing history for the stories ranges from 1975 to 2011.

            In the late 1950s and early 1960s, I read a lot of true war stories – The White Rabbit, Carve Her Name With Pride, Odette, The Naked Island, Boldness Be My Friend, The Colditz Story, Commando Extraordinary, and Ill Met By Moonlight, among many others. I always hankered after writing a French Resistance novel. I have still to do that, but I have compensated a little by writing two stories on the subject: ‘Codename Gaby’ and ‘Hammer and Honey’. The former won a writing competition and the comments gleaned are here:

                ‘(Codename Gaby) is a tale of betrayal and extreme courage in the face of overwhelming adversity, written with great insight and sensitivity. The emotional conclusion is well crafted, leaving the reader bruised but relieved, just as it should for such an intense period of wartime history.’ – Award Organiser’s comments

            ‘This short story captures suspense, drama and wonderful character depiction. In less than 2,500 words, we know and relate to our heroine, the period and her situation. The story is complete and compelling. It is a remarkable achievement and demonstrates this author’s outstanding writing skills.’ – Kate Cavendish, Book Awards reviewer

            The earliest story represented in this collection is ‘The Trilby Hat’, which was originally broadcast on British Forces Radio, Malta, read by Reverend Ray Jones, November 1975. For the time transition, the production team used incidental music which proved effective. I’ve still got the recording from the radio. I jiggled the date-time for the printed version some years later. It grew out of an evening visit to a Portsmouth pub in the early 1970s when I was propping up the bar and an old gent wearing a battered trilby hat came in…

            ‘Tealeaf’ is slang for ‘thief’. Society rightly frowns on thieves. Theft is despicable, and even more so in a closed community, such as a ship or submarine. Servicemen were sent to detention if caught thieving; I used to type up the warrants. This story extrapolates.

            The early days of Australia have been of interest since I read The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes. I’m also fascinated by myths. So I was drawn to write ‘Creation Myth’.

            In my Tana Standish psychic spy series, I have introduced a number of secret agents, friends of Tana. I wanted to write some short adventures about them and when the writing circle prompt was ‘turkey’ I came up with ‘Cold Turkey’. Another prompt was ‘leather’ so ‘Hell for Leather’ was the result. In keeping with the Tana series, both stories blend fact with fiction. I’ll probably attempt a number of slightly longer stories about these agents in the near future. The events involving Alan Swann occur before he acquired a limp and a glass eye, as revealed in Mission: Prague and explained in Mission: Khyber.

            The reconstruction required in the aftermath of the Second World War must have been daunting. Reading about it, I was inspired to write ‘One day we’ll walk through’, which was also intended as a celebration of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

            When my wife and I saw the rather small pyramids on Tenerife, I conjured with the idea that certain craftsmen could have travelled there from Egypt in the prehistoric past. Certainly, having seen the pyramid of Altun Ha in Belize, I find that Heyerdahl’s theory that reed boats could have travelled across the Atlantic most compelling. This story is an attempt at visualising that ancient journey. The title is taken from Matthew chapter 11, verse 7.

            In my research for other work, I’d come across John Dee (1527-1609) and found him a fascinating character. I wanted to attempt realising his life and the best way to do that was for him to reminisce in writing. An occultist, mathematician, philosopher, astrologer and possibly spy for Queen Elizabeth, he was hoodwinked by an ex-criminal Edward Kelley into believing that angels communicated through Kelley. Dee died in poverty under the care of his daughter ‘about’ 1609. What drew me was the accusation of ‘calculating’ being a heinous crime! And we thought we had problems with the PC crowd finding offense at the drop of an innocent word or two…

            I wrote ‘For Valour’ expressly because I was inspired by the Help for Heroes campaign and it coincided with the time of commemorating the first awards of the Victoria Cross.

            ‘Born of Joy’ was written for Remembrance Day and its explanation is in a dedication note at the end.

            Another period that intrigues me is the English Civil War (1642-1651). I recalled the 1950s comic series featuring Cavalier Claude Duval (though in fact the real Claude Duval was a gentleman highwayman who came to England after the Civil War; he was sentenced to hang by Sir William Morton in 1670). ‘The Reckoning’ is a nod to a period I’d like to return to at greater length.

            ‘The Proper Thing to do’ evolved from reading about the ill-fated HM Troopship Birkenhead. I wanted to experiment and write this with a single person speaking, present tense. This was the birth of a tradition, too: women and children first. The story gained an ‘honourable mention’ in a competition before being published a couple of years later.

            ‘When the flowers are in bloom’ was inspired by the true tales of survivors from the war being discovered on tropical islands years after hostilities ended. Also, I wanted to attempt a detective quest in a strange land. I’d been to Japan in the late 1960s onboard HMS Zulu, but didn’t get the opportunity to travel far. The story was a runner-up in an international writing competition and published in the organisation’s anthology. The story was the title for an anthology of my short stories published in the US, now out-of-print.

            ‘Day of the Unicorn’ was written from another writers’ circle prompt – ‘unicorn’. A fun piece, mixing humour with myth, it sadly didn’t find a home in any of the limited number of magazines I deemed suitable.

            Having attempted to transport myself into the mind of a child in 1803, I fancied empathising with a tree – or rather all trees for ‘A Shared Experience’. This can be construed as whimsy, fantasy, an ecological or a religious piece.

            Finally, a sort of bonus: ‘Angel’s Trumpets’ is based in Tenerife, an island my wife and I have visited often; it is the first chapter of a planned novel in Victorian times concerning a detective duo, Bradbury & Hood. Tenerife features in my novel Blood of the Dragon Trees, which has been republished as An Evil Trade.

Codename Gaby - Collected short stories volume 4

Available as a paperback and e-book from Amazon here

Other books in this series are:

Gifts from a Dead Race – Collected stories vol.1 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)

Nourish a Blind Life – Collected stories vol.2 (science fiction, horror, fantasy, ghost)

Visitors –  Collected stories vol.3 (westerns)

I Celebrate Myself – Collected stories vol.5 (crime and adventure) 

Saturday Story - 'Codename Gaby'

 

Fresnes prison - Wikipedia commons

 

 

CODENAME GABY

 

Nik Morton

Missed it! Elaine saw the train moving out just as she reached the station. She was only a few seconds too late, but they were going to be the most important seconds of her life. A life she must now end.

            Her mouth was dry, so dry, as her fingers fumbled in the lining of her jacket. A sickening sinking feeling swamped her as she realised the cyanide pill wasn’t there. The fabric had been neatly cut, the pill removed. She felt the blood drain from her face as she grasped that she’d been betrayed. Tears of frustration and exhaustion blinded her. She pulled the Luger from her pocket and raised its snout to her pulsing throat.

Abruptly, her hand was jerked away and the weapon fired harmlessly. A leather-gloved hand clasped her jacket’s padded shoulder. “Fraulein, come with us now. My friends in Paris await you.”

            His face was a blur, as was the forbidding black uniform with the armband’s hated symbol. Black predominated.

Cursing herself for being so weak and slow, she attempted to maintain her balance as the surging sounds in her head became louder, like wind-rush under a parachute. She tried to turn away, but the man’s steely grip tightened. Pain lanced up her arm and the gun clattered to stone at her feet. She cried out something about Let me go with him, please! A distant part of her curled inwardly in disgust, not believing she would beg anything of these people.

He was speaking, but the blood-rushing sounds in her mind blacked out meaning. Her knees buckled. The dam of consciousness was breached and absolving darkness flooded in.

#

Even after all the hours of F Section training and the constant worrying preparation for this moment, the elation Elaine felt when the parachute’s canopy opened was overwhelming. Eyes accustomed to night since their Lysander crossed the coast of Occupied France, she now scanned the cloud-filled sky, the occluded gibbous moon bathing the land in a calming purple hue.

Yes, Claude was over there, to the right, his ’chute billowing. Then she had needed all her concentration to prepare for the landing.

            Exhilaration changed to annoyance with herself as she limped to the edge of the field, through the tall ears of wheat, careful not to break a noticeable trail. She had buried the silk and lines in the middle of the field, using the shovel from her backpack, whose weight threatened to topple her. God knows how Claude was going to manage with the radio suitcase.

            The evening was so still: a mist seemed to be rising, enveloping their activities, covering the fields. Night and fog treatment: she shuddered, brushing her auburn fringe back. – Nacht und Nebel, Ruckkehr Unerwunscht. Their damnable euphemisms! Night and fog, return not required. She wiped tears from her cheeks. Labelled thus, the last of the Prosper network had been taken away to Buchenwald.

            In her mid-twenties, Elaine was familiar with Marseilles and had some trusted childhood friends there, particularly Jean Bousquet who maintained contact between Skepper’s headquarters in Rue Morentie and Steele’s radio post at Mme Goutte’s villa. Though in her sixties, Clotilde Goutte carried coded signals on many dangerous journeys.

Now, in the run-up to D-Day, Elaine, codename Gaby, was tasked with organising many receptions of arms and ammunition in the Vaucluse and Gard.

            A surge of relief filled her as friendly hands clasped hers at the field’s edge. She bravely dismissed the slight sprain in her ankle, and hobbled to the waiting cart. They quietly left as it started to rain, soaking them all.

#

Her head was immersed in foul-smelling water for long periods till she almost choked. She’d already expunged any remnants of food from her stomach. Now, she gagged and gasped for air.

The rubber hoses that beat her neck and bare shoulders made wet slapping sounds, but she was too intent on grabbing her breath to heed the pain.

            “Answer my questions and all this will stop, I promise you!” the seductive voice intoned.

She stilled her tongue. She wasn’t sure if this was the Gestapo HQ in Rue des Saussaies or the SD HQ in Avenue Foch. It didn’t matter. Both harboured interrogation rooms with men who enjoyed their inhuman work.

She mustn’t divulge Paul’s hideout. For all she knew, he might be dead. Elaine considered herself dead already, so nothing they could do to the husk that was her body would change that.

#

“You’ve changed so much!” It was a moving reunion, Clotilde seeing no longer a child but an attractive young woman. Clotilde embraced her and tears ran freely; at least tears were free, and, sadly, there were plenty of them these days. But soon, Elaine told herself, soon all Europe would be free. She – and Clotilde, and all the others who listened to the illegal broadcasts – believed that. The veiled messages sang of hope.

            Businesslike, over the next six weeks, Elaine built up the new Abbey network. Acting as courier, she passed her information to Claude who ran probably the greatest risk of all, transmitting from a nearby barn. To be caught in possession of a transmitter meant certain death. A risk he knew and laughed at.

            Paul Steele and Elaine were encoding a particularly long message in the attic when Clotilde called up from the hallway. “There’s been a raid at Rue Morentie!”

            Oh, God – Skepper’s HQ! Elaine’s heart hammered faster and louder. She eyed Paul. “Safety first,” she said. He nodded. Stomach churning with a terrible foreboding, Elaine carefully clambered on the chair, on to Steele’s broad shoulders and concealed the transcription coded silk in a dark crevice of crossing joists.

He helped her down and seemed reluctant to release his hold. His dark brown eyes could not hide the sombre hammering of fear, like a palpable thing between them. “Gaby, if Skepper’s been taken, we must get out on the next train. Every minute counts. They’ll be watching the roads and stations…”

            She gently placed fingertips on his lips. “No, Paul,” she said, despite the tremors of rising anxiety in her body. “We mustn’t cut-and-run while our network has a chance.” Yet common sense told her to get out now. She wanted Paul to go on holding her. Then she thought of Skepper, Julien and the two resistance leaders at Rue Morentie.

Elaine broke the embrace and they climbed down from the attic.

            Streetlights slanted through the lace curtains into the dark hallway and made the place seem claustrophobic.

Clotilde cupped trembling bony fingers over the black telephone mouthpiece: “Marie – she’s in the quincaillerie across the road. She was going to visit, hoping to get word of her English pilot... They’d just returned from the Vaucluse with the parachuted guns. She saw the Gestapo burst in...”

“At least they haven’t got the weapons,” Paul said.

            Elaine shrugged into her raincoat. “Clotilde, where will they take them?” She checked her Luger’s magazine and looked up.

Paul blanched and there was horror in Clotilde’s eyes.

            “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he said.

            “To – the – the prison,” Clotilde broke in, and lowered the handset. “Les Baumettes...”

            Thrusting the Luger into her coat’s deep pocket, Elaine smiled. She placed her red beret aslant on her auburn hair. “Then we must intercept them, don’t you think?”

#

Paul had broken all the streetlights along this stretch. The only illumination came from the vehicles’ headlights: an armoured carrier followed by a sinister black sedan.

At least the cache from the last airdrop was still intact, Elaine thought. Clotilde was now marshalling helpers to transfer those weapons elsewhere.

            Heart thumping, Elaine stepped from the shadowy shop doorway as the carrier began to pass. She lobbed a grenade and smoke canister into the midst of the troopers.

            The explosion was deafening.

Paul emerged from the other side of the street and ran up to the Mercedes, firing his revolver into the windscreen, killer the driver.

Elaine withdrew her Luger and ran to the other side.

The whole street seemed to light up like a Roman candle. 

She froze as Bousquet scrambled out of the car with Skepper held in front of him as a shield: the traitor turned, seeing the advancing Paul. Elaine fired once, accurately, surprised at her steady aim, her cold detachment. Bousquet toppled to the ground.

            “Split up,” Paul said. He took Skepper and Julien, while she shepherded two very scared young resistance leaders, Alfonse and Marianne. Darting down side streets, along back alleys, over disused land and rubble.

The next fifteen minutes were exhilarating, frightening and exhausting. Her lungs threatened to burst. The two resistance leaders hardly uttered a word, apart from repeating Merci, ma cherie, merci...

            Despite the inevitability of awful repercussions for tonight’s action, Elaine found a friendly house. She telephoned Clotilde. The arms movement was confirmed, and Elaine breathed a sigh of relief. “Jean Bousquet is an infiltrator,” she said. “I’ll get Claude. You warn the others and move out.” She hung up.

She gathered her two escapees and they ran on. Next stop, the train.

#

Elaine clamped her lips together. A young man gripped a pair of pliers and pulled out her toenails, one by one. Her head swam. The pain was excruciating.

The Gestapo officer said, “Your Colonel Buckmaster at 64 Baker Street probably told you to hold out for 48 hours, to give your friends time to get away.”

She was sure her heart missed a beat.

            “You might like to know, you’ve been in this interrogation room just one hour.”

            An hour? It seemed like days…

#

“It will be here in two minutes,” Elaine told them. The pair shivered with delayed fright in the dank gloom of the tunnel. “Board as it slows to negotiate the bend in the tunnel.” She briefly flicked on her torch. “There.”

            “Right,” Alfonse grunted.

Marianne whispered, “What about you?”

            “I have to get our codes, inform our friends.” Baker Street must be told about the infiltrator, one of how many more? And told of the demise of the Abbey network.

            Elaine was almost deafened as the freight train rumbled past, air blasting her clothes, the tunnel wall vibrating against her back. She flashed on her torch: Alfonse and Marianne leapt for the handholds. She thought she heard a hastily shouted “Adieu!”

As the sound of the carriages thinned into the distance, the rails growing silent again, she turned and trudged back along the cindered track, towards Clotilde’s house.

            No lights showed. Stealthily, she crept over the back garden wall, across the vegetable patch. The back door wasn’t locked.

Luger ready, she edged the door open and heard the familiar night sounds of the house settling. Nothing unusual. Thank God, Clotilde had made a run for it. The traitor Bousquet knew of her involvement, so the warning might have been in time.

Each stair tread creaked ominously loud as she walked up, keeping to the edges where there was less give.

Finally, she reached the landing and lowered the attic ladder. She climbed up.

It took quite a balancing act on three chairs to retrieve the silk codes, and then the pyramid toppled.

She landed on her hip, bruised but intact, and wryly recalled a bare two months ago when she’d twisted her ankle beneath the parachute. She could shrug off these little pains; they were nothing compared to the monthly curse, anyway.

            Limping a little, Elaine left the villa.

Her stamina was flagging, yet there was still so much to do. A chest-constricting dash across a field, and then the barn loomed up, silent, huge, a dubious but welcome haven.

Tiredly, she pushed through the huge creaking door. “Claude!” she called in a harsh whisper.

            Hay rustled above. “Up here, Gaby!” Of course, he was still waiting for the report Paul and she were compiling an age ago.

She clambered up the ladder, rungs digging into the instep of her shoes. “This is our last message, Claude – make it quick!”

            His face reflected resignation more than surprise, as if it had only been a matter of time...

            Time passed, time during which they sent the message, warned about Bousquet, destroyed the transmitter and burned the coded silk.

They hurried from the barn, in the railway station’s direction.

            Aching and breathless, she needed to rest. Yet the fear that coursed through her veins kept her going. He faltered in the marshalling yard, waiting for her to catch up. “Run on!” she called

Claude ran ahead.

As she reached the station, the train pulled out.

Missed it!

Claude ran, grabbed a handrail and leapt, hung on. He looked back, his face pale.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Her heart sank. Menacing dark uniforms converged.

            As she heaved in great gulps of air, her chest burning, the dark snake of the train blurred. This, she knew, was the end for her. But at least Claude, Alfonse and Marianne might get away, carry on the fight against the Nazi darkness. She reached for the suicide pill...

#

Elaine didn’t talk. She was escorted back to Fresnes prison, hobbling on her heels, and lay in solitary confinement, hugging her bloody toes. After a while, she was able to walk again.

The torture sessions diminished in frequency. She assumed they had fresh captives to question.

She had no idea how long she was kept in Fresnes but eventually she was taken with a group of other women prisoners to a crowded railway carriage destined for Ravensbrück.

They left Paris in the morning. The journey was long and tedious, filled with the stink of women denied basic sanitation. Some cried, others whimpered, but most maintained an eerie stoic silence. The train stopped at Alsace-Lorraine – the clock said 4pm. Here, they changed trains, but were too well guarded to risk escape.

Later, another stop occurred, but this time Red Cross representatives boarded with special passes and parcels.

            “For you,” said a nurse, thrusting a package at Elaine. “Open it,” she added.

            Inside was a folded Red Cross nurse’s uniform. She glanced fearfully around her at the other women prisoners. A few watched, envy in their eyes; others didn’t seem to care; most didn’t notice.

            Hastily, yet taking care not to blemish or bloody the fresh clothes and shoes, she donned the uniform. She buttoned up the blouse while the nurse’s hands rake through her hair, straightening and tidying it. Sensing this concern and tenderness for another human being, Elaine almost broke down.

            Steeling herself, however, she clambered down from the carriage and showed her pass to a soldier. He gestured her away.

She strode towards the waiting vehicles. She felt eyes on her and waited for some voice to betray her and bullets to pound into her back.

Legs shaking, Elaine climbed up into the Red Cross truck and sat on a hard wooden bench.

“Gaby,” whispered the nurse, “Paul and the others are safe.”

            The truck drove off. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. 

 

* * *

 

This story won a writing award in 2010 and was published in When the Flowers are in Bloom (2012) - an anthology that is now out of print. Copyright Nik Morton, 2014.

 

My other French Resistance story can be found here

 



 

‘I Was The Cat’

During the Second World War there were many brave individuals fighting with the French resistance to combat the invading forces of Nazism. Perhaps one of the most complex characters to emerge was Mathilde Carré, known by friends and enemies alike as ‘The Cat’.

Mathilde-Lucie Belard was born in June 30 (my birthday) in 1908. Dainty, with dark hair and staring green eyes and a broad sensual mouth, she had a succession of boyfriends at the Sorbonne, but, according to her own story, remained a virgin until twenty-three.

She secretly married a schoolteacher, Maurice Carré, and they went to North Africa and taught. Here, at Ain Sefra, she embarked on an affair with an aristocratic Muslim, a friend of her husband. In 1939 Maurice was posted on active service in Syria and left her behind, their marriage over.

She made her way back to France and trained as a nurse. During the French retreat from the invading Germans, she met, nursed and fell in love with a tank corps captain, Jean. She became pregnant, Jean was transferred away and she miscarried, then contemplating suicide in the River Garonne. Instead, she determined to join de Gaulle and fight for France; however, the British consul in Toulouse advised her to remain in France. She met an escaped POW, Polish airman Roman and agreed to join him in German-occupied Paris. This was what her restless and passionate spirit had craved – glamour, adventure and danger.

Meeting with the undercover Deuxieme Bureau agents, she was given elementary training – codes, recognition of German Army and Air Force formations and the use of invisible ink. She spent her evenings in the bar of the luxurious Hotel Ambassadeurs where the American newspapermen made their HQ. She curled up in a big armchair, her black hair bobbing and her long talon-like fingernails nervously scratching the leather side of the chair, just like a cat. Some wit called her ‘The Little Black Cat’, and it stuck, and in the network she was thereafter known as ‘The Cat’. Their espionage network was known as Inter-allie, and at this period it was successful, providing much-needed information to the British. She began wearing her trademark clothing, a black fur coat and a little red hat. Roman’s mistress was recruited into Inter-Allie and her presence seemed to cause tension, though Mathilde vowed she’d never had an affair with Roman.

Two days after the first anniversary of the network’s birth, Mathilde was on her way to her studio when she was picked up by the Abwehr; she was identified by Roman’s mistress. Apparently, the German Command in Paris had suspected a major Allied spy ring operating in the area, due to the precise timing of the RAF attacks.

She spent a night in a cold dank cell and seemed to suffer a complete moral collapse due to the sudden reversal of her fortunes. She was taken to a warm room fed breakfast and informed by Hugo Bleicher, an NCO who later penetrated several clandestine British networks, and arrested Odette. Bleicher told her she was too intelligent and interesting a woman to remain in prison; if she co-operated, he would set free that evening…

 
Over the next few days she systematically betrayed the remaining members of the Inter-allie network. With Bleicher’s aid, she used a captured British radio to get in contact with London, advising them that though she had escaped the network members in Paris were all captured; and she was believed.

Her relationship with Bleicher was not always smooth; on one occasion he teased by asking her what requests she would make if they decided to shoot her. ‘To have a good dinner, to spend the night in bed with a lover, to listen to Mozart’s Requiem, and to be shot while it was being played.’

While she worked with Lucas, one of the first SOE agents dropped into the area, London discovered that she was a double agent. When Lucas suggested that Mathilde go back to London with him, the Abwehr and Bleicher went along with the idea, believing she would be useful to them in the heart of the SOE.

 
An MTB picked up the pair in February 1942. When they docked at Dartmouth, she was taken to a luxury flat in Bayswater Road, where she was to make herself comfortable; the place was ‘lousy with microphones’. She was de-briefed (interrogated), but also escorted to well-known tourist sights, restaurants and even night-clubs!
 
Lucas returned to France, was captured and questioned by Bleicher; as a result, Bleicher was convinced that the Cat still functioned as an Abwehr spy in London. After some harsh mistreatment, Lucas was eventually sent to Colditz POW camp.
 
Mathilde was sent to Aylesbury Prison and Holloway and then in 1945 she was repatriated. In 1949 she was tried in France. Two of her former chiefs in the Deuxieme Bureau spoke up for her, but she was sentenced to death; it was later commuted to life imprisonment. Late in 1954, she was released. In 1959 she published her own account, I Was the Cat (revised 1975). She died in Paris in 1970, aged 62
 
- Some of the above was gleaned from The Real World of Spies by Charles Wighton (1962).
 
Also of interest:
Mathilde Carré, Double Agent by Lauran Paine (1976)
Gordon Young, The Cat With Two Faces (1957)
 
In the late 1950s I saw a French film The Face of the Cat which was a chilling movie of the French Resistance starring Francoise Anoul; I often wondered if the film was inspired by the above Cat.

It’s interesting that David Cornwell chose the penname John le Carré. He was probably aware of Mathilde Carré’s story. Le Carré is French for ‘the square’.

 
Of course my Cat heroine is not a double agent; she’s simply someone obsessed with destroying a company and its CEO: it begins with Catalyst.

 
The first in ‘The Avenging Cat’ series
 
Catalyst, a person that precipitates events.
 
That’s Catherine Vibrissae. Orphan. Chemist. Model. Avenging Cat.
 
She seeks revenge against Loup Malefice, the man responsible for the takeover of her father’s company. An accomplished climber, Cat is not averse to breaking and entering to confound her enemies. During her investigations, she crosses the path of Rick Barnes, a company lawyer, who seems to have his own agenda.
 
Ranging from south of England to the north-east, Wales and Barcelona, Cat’s quest for vengeance is implacable. But with the NCA hot on her tail, can she escape the clutches of sinister Zabala and whip-wielding Profesora Quesada?
 
… and continues with Catacomb (due for release Autumn 2015).

FFB - THE SIXTH LAMENTATION

My Friday's Forgotten Book for today. The Sixth Lamentation by William Brodrick is a 2003 mystery novel. It takes place in 1996 and features Father Anselm, a monk at Larkwood Priory, Suffolk; he used to be barrister. For some reason Schwermann, a fugitive war criminal, seeks sanctuary here. Nearby, Agnes is dying and before she breathes her last she gives her granddaughter Lucy some notebooks, diaries that reveals secrets and hopes from Agnes’s days working in the French Resistance. Lucy’s interested in Pascal Fougeres, who seems connected in some way with Schwermann.

‘I wish he’d left the past alone. It’s not a safe place while it touches on the living.’

Threads that connect to the past, to tragic events in France in 1942. When there was betrayal and death. Apparently, the Church was involved in the cover-up of two escaping Nazi sympathisers who were responsible for the collapse of the resistance group called the Round Table – Agnes’s group. One of the hiding war criminals is discovered in Whitley Bay, my home town! There’s love and tragedy and forgiveness.

‘But it was too late. Certain things, once said, can change at a stroke the interior workings of love, leaving the outside architecture untouched.’

This is an interesting, intriguing and convoluted story about history and the truths disguised as falsehoods – and the reverse. Brodrick’s characters come across as ordinary flawed people, some with mysterious pasts, others ignorant of their connections with bloody events. The writing style is eloquent, the words moving.

‘Lucy, you’ll find as you get older you start seeing yourself from the outside. Particularly your childhood…’

Brodrick used to be an Augustinian friar then left the order to become a barrister.
Different. Recommended.

Hammer and Honey

For many years I’ve wanted to write a WWII Resistance thriller. It seems that I’m gradually working up to it. The recent short story win with ‘Codename Gaby’ is my second story of that period of heroism and betrayal. My first was published in the Coastal Press in 2007 and was inspired by the fact that in France old soldiers are afforded respect and gratitude by the populace.

HAMMER AND HONEY


Smart and imposing in their blue uniforms, two traffic policemen stood on the small concrete island in the centre of the congested Paris crossroads. Suddenly, the elderly gendarme saluted an old man who shambled past on the western boulevard’s pavement. The old man didn’t acknowledge the mark of respect. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

‘Emile,’ the younger gendarme asked, ‘why did you salute that old guy? Was he an ex-Commissioner of Police?’

‘No he wasn’t, Henri. But he deserves my respect, nevertheless. In fact, all Paris should salute Monsieur Meline. In France, we honour our old war heroes while across La Manche their government and youth mug them...’

This was Emile Girard’s last day of duty and young Henri was his replacement. Emile was due to attend his retirement party later that evening at Le Chat restaurant. ‘I don’t ask it lightly, Henri, but make sure you salute whenever you see Monsieur Meline.’

Puzzled, Henri removed his kepi and scratched his head. ‘Naturally. I only wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious.’

Pursing his thick lips, Emile blew his whistle at a frantically gesticulating Citroen driver and peremptorily stopped the traffic, oblivious of the accompanying screech of brakes and inevitable chorus of honking horns. He signed for a bent grey-haired little old lady to cross the street and while she did so he said over his shoulder, ‘Tonight, Henri, at my party, I’ll tell you all about the old man.’
***
Shoulders stooped with the weight of years and memories, Pierre Meline stopped at the wrought-iron gate entrance to the small park and glanced briefly at the noisy traffic and the aged gendarme blowing his whistle. Good old Emile, he thought, I’m going to miss him.

Slowly, his aching bones obviously causing him much discomfort, Pierre walked through the gate, the new flowers affirming rebirth in the bright and shimmering sunshine.

Ah, Paris in Spring! His spirits soared, if only briefly.

Lowering himself onto an empty wooden bench, Pierre pulled out an orange from the pocket of his careworn jacket and expertly opened a penknife and expertly peeled the fruit.

Memories peeled back, too, of a time when he had been a strong young man...
***
‘This is Miel,’ said the underground network’s leader.

Miel was her code-name, the only name they would ever know her by, which had been bestowed upon her by some wag in Baker Street in recognition of her fluent and honeyed rendering of the French language.

Pierre Meline just stared.

Apparently, she was half-French and half-English and, apart from the fact that she had been landed by Lysander earlier this evening, that was all they knew about her.

He thought that her diluted French blood still showed in her deportment and those high aristocratic cheekbones. Her ancestors obviously fled the guillotine by crossing La Manche and settling there in England. But he could forgive her even that historic betrayal as long as he could gaze on her short curling auburn hair and intelligent glinting hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

Introductions consisted of code-names only. Pierre was Marteau.
***
Lucy Hardy’s eyes met Marteau’s and her legs suddenly went very weak. He was as short as her yet carried himself so well he appeared taller. Cheeks and chin were covered in what appeared to be perpetual stubble which gave him a down-cast appearance, which would doubtless help him to melt into any crowd, which was all to the good, considering Le Marteau – the hammer – was the French Resistance’s most deadly assassin. He was very proficient, ensuring that his victims all appeared to die in accidents, thus avoiding recriminations against the local populace. Yet his dark brown eyes were gentle, belying his deadly calling. She saw pain and compassion there and her heart fluttered. She had never before experienced such a strong and instant attraction to a man.

Mentally shaking herself, Lucy stepped forward and shook hands with Marteau and the four other men.

As a member of the Special Operations Executive, she’d been sent to form two elite explosives teams to destroy railway bridges and transport in preparation for the invasion, though Colonel Buckmaster obviously wasn’t saying when the Allied invasion would happen. It might be this April, 1943 or much later. Probably much later, she thought. But the sabotage teams needed to be trained and in place and ready to go whenever they were called upon. That was her job.

Lucy had no illusions about her chances of survival. Several other women – usually wireless operators – hadn’t returned to Baker Street. But she was undeterred and more determined than ever to ‘do her bit’ against the evil menace that threatened to thrust Europe back into the Dark Ages when fear alone ruled.

Over the next few months Lucy trained two teams of men in the art of blowing up things. She had learned her skills well in the highlands of Scotland a mere eleven months earlier. Then, it had seemed unreal. Now, she was in earnest. Lives were at stake. Every day she had to be vigilant. There were passwords to be used and lookouts to be posted and contacts to be trusted.

Betrayal was their biggest fear and cost lives. Brave people of so many underground networks had been informed on; then the Gestapo had dragged them away to Avenue Foch or some other dark basement where they suffered for their country, their ideals and their friends. Baker Street experts told every agent not to talk for at least forty-eight hours, as this would give the rest of the network time to get away. Fine, in theory... Betrayal was inevitable under those dark, lonely and sinister circumstances. After all, those who resisted were not super-human – just flesh and blood.

Time and again Lucy found herself being drawn to Marteau in their clandestine meetings in barns and under bridges. She felt sure that he was attracted to her too. But there was a war to fight and this was no time to go falling in love. She had a job to do.

These sensible arguments ran through her head each night that she lay restive in bed after she had returned from a meeting with Marteau. She knew that personal involvement could seriously affect the stability of their network. She must act responsibly. Certain emotions had to be held in check. She almost weakened during one unguarded moment as Marteau had whispered, ‘When this is all over, cheri, I would like to take you to my apartment – the view is magnificent.’

‘I would like that too,’ she had replied levelly though she felt her heart hammering.

‘You honour all my countrymen by fighting with us,’ he had said, kissing the back of her hand. Then he had slid away into the enveloping darkness.

Clearly, he would not take advantage of her. He respected her too much. In fact, Lucy had earned the respect of all of the Frenchmen she trained. On two terrible nights she had been out on raids and risked her life to bring back injured men – well, boys, really. Neither was more than nineteen, she knew. But that was not unusual. Even schoolchildren helped the Resistance. And everyone feared the reprisals. It was no wonder that there was treachery from time to time.
***
The woman was returning from a secret rendezvous, a parcel of fresh meat under her arm, when Lucy stepped out from concealment, the leaves of the bush rustling. ‘Have you been somewhere interesting, Adele?’ Lucy asked.

‘I might have,’ snapped Adele, gazing haughtily down her nose. ‘What is it to you, courtisane?’

Adele wasn’t the only woman in the area who believed that Lucy slept with all the men she trained and fought alongside. Lucy bit her lip, ignoring the insult, and stepped forward. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t like doing what she must do, but she had suspected Adele for weeks now. The presence of the black-market meat clinched it. The best trade for food was either money or information – and Adele didn’t have any money – and sex was rarely a good bartering tool. There could be no doubt, anyway, as she had seen Adele meeting with the SS officer.

When she had finished, Lucy wasn’t proud of herself. But it was necessary to silence the woman in order to safeguard the others. She didn’t linger, either, because she knew that Marteau was meeting the leader of another network and they were scheduled to move out five British airmen tonight. And Adele had known that too...

Her heart lurching with fear all the way, Lucy hurriedly pedalled to the secret cache behind the abandoned house. Here, she unearthed a bren-gun and shoved the weapon into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle and covered it with a towel.

Praying she would be in time, she cycled towards the meeting-place.

Through the dark night Lucy pedalled across two fields and even carried the bicycle as she had to wade over a babbling brook.

Then, as clouds scudded away to reveal the full moon eerily lighting the treetops of the nearby forest, she wept with relief when she realised that she was almost there and she was going to be in time.

At that moment, motoring up the road a few yards below her was a convoy of two Wehrmacht personnel carriers and a staff car with Gestapo, army and SS officers.

Breathless now, her hands clammy with fear, Lucy grabbed the weapon and shoved her bike behind a bush. Hurriedly treading over dead branches and leaves, she moved forward and leaned against the trunk of a tree that overlooked the bend in the road. She was short of breath and her heart pounded against her ribcage. She braced herself.

Weapon safety off. Now all she had to do was pull the trigger. Simple, really. This was the first time that she had fired on real people. Do it! She told herself. For the others!

The bren’s stock kicked against her and the first fusillade went wild, smashing into trees to the left of the convoy, but she held steady and lowered her aim, peppering the wind-screens of the now swerving vehicles. The two personnel carriers crashed into roadside trees and the staff car slewed to the right and was abruptly upturned in a ditch.

As the troops jumped down from the rear of the personnel carriers and the officers hid behind their car, Lucy melted into the forest. She was quite satisfied. The gunshots would have been heard by Marteau and the others at their meeting-place. Now they would get away and be safe to fight the enemy another day.

The intensive search lasted all night.

Lucy was captured at dawn.
***
‘I don’t want to remember that time, Pierre,’ Lucy now said, sitting beside him in the park.

‘No, cheri, I can understand that.’ He glanced sideways at the bent grey-haired little old lady and handed her a segment of orange. She took it without comment. ‘I survived. That is what matters.’

She popped the segment into her mouth and smiled. ‘You know, it was years before I took for granted the wonderful taste of fresh fruit.’

‘Yes, me too.’ He nodded. ‘I heard about you. Even Ravensbruck could not quench your spirit.’

She had actually escaped from a bombed transport train en route to Ravensbruck and managed to find her way back to Britain. His underground cell was finally overrun but he got away to Spain. After the war she took a while to recover and by then the world had moved on. Indeed, they believed that the other was dead. Neither knew their real name so there was no possibility of organising any kind of trace; besides, there was still much secrecy after the war. She fell in love and married, but sadly their union was never blessed with children. Her dear husband had died five years past. She had nobody else. Then by chance a few weeks ago she had read about Pierre – her Marteau – being awarded yet another medal by his grateful country. Only then did she know that he too had survived.

‘We are old now, Pierre. We only have our memories – and our aching bones!’

‘No, cheri, we have something much greater. We have French blood in our veins.’ He looked askance at her and hunched his Gallic shoulders. ‘Well, half in your case, but it is dominant, no? And we have the honour to have fought in the French Underground Resistance.’

She smiled fleetingly and gazed into eyes that were now a lighter brown yet they still made her legs feel weak. ‘Honour, Pierre, in this day and age?’

He stood up a little unsteadily and bowed towards her, offering his hand. ‘But of course, Miel. May I have the honour of escorting you to my apartment? The view is still magnificent.’

She took his hand and got to her feet. ‘I had thought that you would never ask, Marteau.’

Arm in arm, they walked out of the park.
***
Emile the gendarme finally handed over to his replacement. As he reached the pavement he abruptly stopped and stared at the old man and woman who were leaving the park, strolling arm in arm. Paris, he thought, you still weave your magic, non?

END

If magazine length had allowed, I'd probably have used less exposition and addressed the point of view towards the end, but essentially this tale has to be omniscient POV to work. N