Saint-Raphaël, is the Baroness du Montaine?”
“Yes.” Connie nodded.
“Then you will be as you are in France: your aunt’s niece. It’s a good idea, we find, to get used to your new name as soon as possible. So, are you happy with Constance Chapelle?”
“Perfectly. How long will it be before I leave for France?”
“We like to give our agents at least eight weeks’ training, but, with things as they are in France and the need to deploy our girls there urgently, it may not be that long.” Miss Atkins sighed. “We are all indebted to you and your fellow agents for being prepared to carry out such dangerous work. Any further questions, dear?”
“May I ask exactly what my duties will be once I arrive in France?”
“Excellent question. Many of the girls who come here seem to think they’re being deployed as spies, but that isn’t what F Section does. Our agents are there for both communication and sabotage purposes. Our only objective is to frustrate and handicap the Nazi regime in France. The SOE works alongside the Maquis and the French Resistance, supporting them in any way we can.”
“I see. I would have thought there were better-qualified people than me for this role?” Connie frowned.
“I’d doubt it, Constance. Your impeccable French and knowledge of both Paris and the south of the country, combined with your Gallic looks, make you perfect for purpose.”
“But surely men are more suited to this task?”
“Interestingly, that isn’t true. Any French male can now be routinely pulled in for questioning to their local Milice, or Gestapo headquarters. They can also be strip-searched. Whereas a woman traveling through France, whether by rail or bus or bicycle, is far less likely to attract attention.” Miss Atkins raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile. “And I’m sure that with your attractive looks, Constance, you would know how to charm your way out of trouble. Right then”—she looked at her watch—“if you have no more questions for now, I suggest you return to your flat, write a letter to your parents telling them what we have discussed, and then enjoy what may be your last weekend on Civvy Street for some considerable time.” Miss Atkins’s blue eyes appraised her. “I think that you will do very well, Constance. And you should be proud of your achievement: we only take the best at F Section.”
8
O n Monday morning, Connie found herself deposited on the steps of Wanborough Manor, a large country house on the outskirts of Guildford, Surrey. She was ushered upstairs to a room containing four single beds. It seemed that, so far, only one was occupied. Connie unpacked the contents of her small suitcase and hung her clothes in the spacious mahogany wardrobe, noting that, whoever her roommate was, she had a far more bohemian approach to clothes. A gold sheath evening dress hung haphazardly next to silk smoking pants and a long, colorful scarf.
“You must be Constance,” drawled a voice from behind her. “So glad you’re here—didn’t fancy going through the next few weeks being the only girl. I’m Venetia Burroughs, or should I say, Claudette Dessally!”
Constance turned around to greet the girl and was struck by her dramatic appearance. She had shiny, jet-black hair, which fell almost to her waist, skin the color of ivory, and huge green eyes, rimmed with kohl to complement a pair of painted red lips. The contrast between the girl’s wild looks and her regulation FANY uniform could not have been more marked. Connie was surprised this woman had been deemed suitable; she would naturally stand out in any crowd.
“Constance Carruthers, or should I say, Chapelle.” Connie smiled and moved toward Venetia to shake her outstretched hand. “Do you know if there are any other women coming?”
“No, when I enquired, I was told there would only be the two of us. We’re training alongside the chaps.” Venetia dropped onto her bed and lit a cigarette. “At least this
“Yes.” Connie nodded.
“Then you will be as you are in France: your aunt’s niece. It’s a good idea, we find, to get used to your new name as soon as possible. So, are you happy with Constance Chapelle?”
“Perfectly. How long will it be before I leave for France?”
“We like to give our agents at least eight weeks’ training, but, with things as they are in France and the need to deploy our girls there urgently, it may not be that long.” Miss Atkins sighed. “We are all indebted to you and your fellow agents for being prepared to carry out such dangerous work. Any further questions, dear?”
“May I ask exactly what my duties will be once I arrive in France?”
“Excellent question. Many of the girls who come here seem to think they’re being deployed as spies, but that isn’t what F Section does. Our agents are there for both communication and sabotage purposes. Our only objective is to frustrate and handicap the Nazi regime in France. The SOE works alongside the Maquis and the French Resistance, supporting them in any way we can.”
“I see. I would have thought there were better-qualified people than me for this role?” Connie frowned.
“I’d doubt it, Constance. Your impeccable French and knowledge of both Paris and the south of the country, combined with your Gallic looks, make you perfect for purpose.”
“But surely men are more suited to this task?”
“Interestingly, that isn’t true. Any French male can now be routinely pulled in for questioning to their local Milice, or Gestapo headquarters. They can also be strip-searched. Whereas a woman traveling through France, whether by rail or bus or bicycle, is far less likely to attract attention.” Miss Atkins raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile. “And I’m sure that with your attractive looks, Constance, you would know how to charm your way out of trouble. Right then”—she looked at her watch—“if you have no more questions for now, I suggest you return to your flat, write a letter to your parents telling them what we have discussed, and then enjoy what may be your last weekend on Civvy Street for some considerable time.” Miss Atkins’s blue eyes appraised her. “I think that you will do very well, Constance. And you should be proud of your achievement: we only take the best at F Section.”
8
O n Monday morning, Connie found herself deposited on the steps of Wanborough Manor, a large country house on the outskirts of Guildford, Surrey. She was ushered upstairs to a room containing four single beds. It seemed that, so far, only one was occupied. Connie unpacked the contents of her small suitcase and hung her clothes in the spacious mahogany wardrobe, noting that, whoever her roommate was, she had a far more bohemian approach to clothes. A gold sheath evening dress hung haphazardly next to silk smoking pants and a long, colorful scarf.
“You must be Constance,” drawled a voice from behind her. “So glad you’re here—didn’t fancy going through the next few weeks being the only girl. I’m Venetia Burroughs, or should I say, Claudette Dessally!”
Constance turned around to greet the girl and was struck by her dramatic appearance. She had shiny, jet-black hair, which fell almost to her waist, skin the color of ivory, and huge green eyes, rimmed with kohl to complement a pair of painted red lips. The contrast between the girl’s wild looks and her regulation FANY uniform could not have been more marked. Connie was surprised this woman had been deemed suitable; she would naturally stand out in any crowd.
“Constance Carruthers, or should I say, Chapelle.” Connie smiled and moved toward Venetia to shake her outstretched hand. “Do you know if there are any other women coming?”
“No, when I enquired, I was told there would only be the two of us. We’re training alongside the chaps.” Venetia dropped onto her bed and lit a cigarette. “At least this
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