In Youth, In Fear, In War

By David Longridge

Working as a courier for an escape line over the Pyrenees early in the Second World War, Françoise is approached by the British Secret Service. Is what they propose – involving leaving her family and entering the lethal game of wartime espionage – reasonable for a young woman only two years after finishing her schooldays in Bordeaux? 
Françoise’s best friend, Justine, enters the glamorous world of haute couture, which is still thriving in occupied Paris. Justine has a past that, should it be discovered, could mean deportation to the camps in Eastern Europe. Justine’s sister, Claudia, a brilliant mathematician working in Berlin on a top-secret project for the German High Command, is faced with the nightmare of betraying her country if she is to save her life. Powerful and emotional, the close relationships between Françoise, Justine and Claudia are tested by their conflicting wartime allegiances as they struggle to take possession of a secret that can alter the course of the war... David Longridge takes inspiration from Alan Furst, Nella Bielski, and Sebastian Faulks. 
In Youth, In Fear, In War highlights the way in which certain women played as important a role in espionage as their male counterparts played in fighting at the front, and at least as dangerous in terms of the personal risks they ran. The novel will appeal to fans of historical thrillers, particularly those set during World War Two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781785897825

David Longridge

David Longridge lived and worked in Paris, and worked in Algiers and the Sahara in 1960’s, He has a strong interest in French political and military history, this being the foundation for the four novels, including Fracture, that he has written to date.

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Author

1

Arcachon, September 1941

All is normal until she gets off the train. Across the tracks, she sees a cordon of police and soldiers between the station exit and the goods yards nearby where a train is offloading a mass of people. Suddenly, shouts in a language she doesn’t recognize, neither French nor German. Two men break away from the crowd and run in her direction, apparently heading for the station building.

‘Halt, or we fire’, shouts a voice in German. They go on running. Gunshots, but still they keep running. They reach the station area where Françoise is standing, frozen to the spot. The first man is through the archway and now protected by the wall. The other is almost there, and then staggers. Somehow he plunges on, and then drops a few metres from her. Instinctively, she leaps towards him, beside the body in a flash, pulling at his working jacket as he pushes with his feet. Now he’s behind the cover of the wall, lying at her feet.

The soldiers are running towards them. A hand from behind her sweeps her up, saying urgently in French, ‘Get back, they’ll kill you.’

She is half pulled, half thrown into a ticket office, and then out through a door on the other side. She looks back, sees the first soldier arrive and put his boot on the wounded man’s head. Then another, this one in black uniform and probably an officer, pistol in his hand. She feels the shock of a loud crack, as he shoots the man in the back of the neck.

‘Follow me’, says the man who pulled her out of the way, and together they lose themselves into the watching crowd of onlookers.

‘Who are these people, where are they from?’ she says to him.

‘Take this bicycle and follow me. We must get out of here’, he says, as he pulls two bicycles from a rack. ‘Then I’ll tell you. Have you got the package?’

‘Yes. How d’you know about that?’

‘Later’, he says. ‘Follow me.’

She pedals hard, struggles to keep up. Soon they are out of town, and turn up a lane and into a farmyard. They put the bicycles in a building alongside the house, and go through a side door and into the kitchen. A woman who seems to know him, stands there, hands on the apron around her broad hips.

‘Madame, sorry to barge in on you, we just had a brush with the Boche’, he says, breathing heavily.

‘Oh’, says the woman, ‘then you’ll both need a glass of rouge.’ And she pours wine from a flask into two glasses, pointing at chairs for them to collapse into. The man drinks his wine in one go, and Madame refills the glass. He turns to Françoise.

‘Mademoiselle, that was a bit impetuous, but I admire your courage.’

‘I couldn’t just stand there while he lay bleeding on the platform. Anyway, who are they, what nationality?’

‘They’re Poles’, he says almost to himself. ‘Forced labour, going to work on the new bunkers for U-boats in the Bordeaux docks area. There’s a holding camp for them near here, so as not to attract attention. Not long ago, they were France’s allies’.

He looks at her and smiles. ‘I should introduce myself. I’m called Jacques. As you know, we only use first names.’

‘I’m Françoise de Rochefort. I recognize you. You shared your lunch with me on the train a couple of weeks ago, when I was crossing into the Free Zone to make a delivery in Bergerac.’

‘I know. Just now, I was at the station to keep an eye on you and see that the package got through. I’ll help you with it, later.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Suddenly she feels vulnerable, out in the open, being watched.

‘You’ve been doing an excellent job for us as a courier for several months now. We’re part of a line down which Allied airmen find their way to the Pyrenees and back to England.’

‘Thanks. I’ve heard a bit about the escape line.’

She remembered how it all started, the kindness of the headmistress of her old school after her boyfriend was killed on the battleship Bretagne. The interest she showed when Françoise said her brother was staying in England with the Free French, and how she wished she could help in some way. Then the approach from a smart-looking woman, ‘I’ve been told you sew beautifully and that you might be interested in helping me. Would you like to start by delivering some patterns and materials?’

Françoise looked inquiringly at Jacques, who grinned at her reassuringly. ‘I’ve something to propose’, he said, turning serious for a moment. ‘Say at once if you don’t like it, no problem, and you can continue the valuable courier work.’

Françoise didn’t answer at once. She was curious, but on her guard. She knew nothing about this man, although he seemed a genuine sort. ‘What are you suggesting? she said.

‘Well’, said Jacques, helping the two of them to another glass of wine. ‘I have a friend. We’re taking photographs of the U-boat bunkers under construction in Bordeaux docks, and I’d like you to help us. Afterwards, you’d take the results to a contact in St-Jean-de-Luz, close to the Spanish frontier at Hendaye.’

‘Sounds exciting, I’d certainly help with that’, said Françoise, surprising herself, knowing one could get into serious trouble if caught doing something like that.

‘Excellent’, Jacques exclaimed. ‘Let’s get that package delivered now to the retired colonel in town, and then we can take the train back home.’

‘You’re absent from the office rather a lot lately!’ Françoise’s father caught her leaving early the following afternoon.

‘I’ll make up the time on Saturday’, she said over her shoulder, pushing her bicycle out of the front door of the building as her father returned from a long lunch.

Jacques was waiting just down the street, wearing the blue overalls of a French construction worker. ‘Come on, it won’t take us long to cycle to where Paul’s waiting’, he said. When they arrived and she shook hands with Paul, Françoise felt she had met him before. He was standing beside a truck with a canvas cover over the back, and was very friendly, as though they were off for a day on the beach.

‘Let me describe the construction site to you’, he said, as he unfolded a drawing on the front of the vehicle. ‘It’s very large, and there’ll be several hundred workers there. The submarine pens are being constructed side by side inside enormous bunkers of reinforced concrete. There’s a mass of scaffolding everywhere.’ He moved his hand across the bunkers on the drawing. ‘London wants pictures of the concrete shells and our estimate of their thickness.’

‘How are you going to get in there, Paul, to take the pictures?, asked Jacques.

‘I’ve a pass, and machinery and parts in this truck for delivery to the site. A friend of mine will be looking out for us, and will be there to receive it all. You’ll come with me and help with the unloading.’

‘And me?’ said Françoise. She was unsure now why she’d allowed herself to be drawn into a dangerous operation, spying on the Germans. She felt the war was enveloping her, drawing her deeply into the unknown. She wanted to escape it, get back to life before it all started. And yet, there was her brother Henri, fighting alongside the British, and the terror faced by Justine and her Jewish friends.

‘I’d like you to act as look-out’, said Paul. ‘You’ll come in the back of the truck with your bicycle. There’s space alongside the machinery in there. When I get close to the site, I’ll stop and you should jump out and cycle along behind the truck. Before the control point, move off the road and hide the bike.’

‘What’s the best place for me to watch from?’ she said. Her doubts somehow stepped into the background, Paul almost making her mind up for her. She was responding to his enthusiasm, his leadership.

‘There’s a large cement plant just outside the barrier, where you can position yourself. If we’re not back in an hour, get the hell out, and go back to my apartment where someone will be waiting.’

‘Understood’, said Françoise. ‘I could take notes of movements in and out of the site, if that helped?’

‘Yes, I was going to ask if you could observe everything going on. The more information we can pass to London, the better. Keep us in view as long as you can, and signal if the police and Germans act suspiciously.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘Jacques will keep an eye out for you. I’ll work fast, with a special camera. Then we’ll drop off the cargo, leave the site, and pick you up.’

They piled into the truck, Françoise at the rear with her bicycle. The vehicle stopped after twenty minutes, and she climbed out and cycled behind it as they approached the entrance to the site. It halted again, and she could see the barrier ahead. Her heart was racing as she jumped off the bike and parked it alongside an old building.

She saw the cement plant nearby, walked over to it, and climbed up a short ladder to a platform. There she crouched against lines of piping, from where she could look along the length of the security fence. She could only marvel at the sheer scale of the construction. Literally hundreds of workers were crawling over the scaffolding, for nearly half a kilometre ahead of her.

Paul was now through the barrier and driving on, with no trouble from the guards. She thought about where she’d met him before. Suddenly she remembered. Could it be possible? Her grandparents had taken her to the old Regency town of Cheltenham, when she was staying with them in England, and ran into Paul and introduced him to her. Extraordinary that they knew him. However, there was now no sign he recognized her.

Nearly an hour elapsed, and she was expecting the truck to appear at any moment. All seemed well as the barrier pole went up. Suddenly, something made her turn around. One of the cement plant workers was a few feet behind her, looking towards the notes she’d made. She nearly fainted with fright, then held herself steady, thinking quickly.

‘Are you Polish?’ she said in French. He nodded.

‘I have something for you’, she said, smiling at him and putting a hand in the canvas bag beside her.

‘Now, Françoise’, said Paul, showing her four rolls of film when the three of them were back in his apartment. He placed them inside a loaf of bread. ‘Take great care of these. Do you have the notes of your observations while waiting outside the site?’

‘Yes, and they’re in English’, she said, proudly handing them over.

‘Really comprehensive, that’s excellent’, Paul exclaimed after studying the notes. ‘Give them to the contact, with my report, when you deliver the films.’

‘I have to tell you something that happened when I was at the cement plant. One of the workers there caught me writing my notes’, she blurted out. ‘But don’t worry, I fixed him.’

‘You what?’ said Jacques.

‘I asked him if he was Polish, and he nodded. I then offered him that unmarked English chocolate bar Jacques gave me and, I don’t know why, a beautiful crucifix my parents presented me with for my first communion.’

‘And?’ said Paul.

‘He took the gifts, smiled at me, turned around, and disappeared.’

‘Lord, you’re a cool customer’, he exclaimed. ‘Well done.’

‘Thanks. Can we go through the delivery arrangements again, please?’

‘Of course’, said Paul. ‘The passphrase to give the contact in St-Jean-de-Luz is No bullfighting today. You’ll find him in the Brasserie de la Gare across the station yard. He’ll be drinking a pastis and reading a Spanish newspaper.’

‘Yes, I understand, and know how to handle a contact in that situation.’

‘All is fixed for you to spend the night at the Convent. Waiting a day before you catch the train back should avoid questions at the station. Any doubts, avoid making the contact and bring the package back here.’

She took the early train, entered a compartment and sat down in a window seat. Shortly afterwards, a priest sat down in the place opposite and removed his biretta.

‘Good morning, my child’, he said, noticing the medallion of the Miraculous Medal around Françoise’s neck. It occurred to her that he would be a useful companion to be speaking with if the police or Germans came on board to inspect identity cards.

She smiled back. ‘Where’s your parish, Father?’

‘I work for the Bishop, and travel around the diocese. I’m on the way to see the priests in St-Jean-de-Luz. What about you?’

This’ll be the first time I’ve lied to a priest, thought Françoise. ‘I’m delivering some drawings and patterns for a dress designer.’

He looked at her. She thought she detected some doubt in his eyes.

‘Travelling in the Occupied Zone is not fun’, the priest said. ‘One never knows when the Germans are going to turn up.’ He paused before adding, ‘At least they’re polite.’

Françoise glanced around the compartment. The two others didn’t seem to be paying them any attention. She just smiled at the priest, as the train rumbled on its way.

‘Have some of this’, he said, just the other side of Arcachon. She was thinking about the happenings there a couple of days ago. He was pulling out a saucisson, and started to cut off some slices with a pocket knife.

‘Thank you, Father.’ She thought about mentioning the Polish workers, but thought better of it. They were now the only two in the compartment. Her thoughts drifted to her friend, Justine, now in Paris.

‘What do you and your friends think about life in the Occupied Zone?’ the priest suddenly said. He almost seemed to be reading her mind.

‘All seems to go on much as before’, she said. ‘Then there are odd things, I hear about. My best friend, her name is Justine, upset me with what she said the other day. She’s a Catholic like me, but because she has two Jewish grandparents, the authorities now treat her as a Jew. She told me that if her family fell into the hands of the Nazis, they would be deported, even murdered as they didn’t have French nationality. You know, there’s now the law banning Jews from government service and teaching.’

‘It’s very concerning’, said the priest.

The train started to slow, and she looked out at the fine port with its brightly painted fishing trawlers moored alongside the wharves. She heard the cry, ‘St-Jean’. She stuck with the priest as they got off the train and approached the ticket barrier, saying a few words to him as she showed her ticket and identity card. They said goodbye, and she walked across the station yard to the brasserie.

That’s got to be him, she said to herself, a dangerous-looking individual and presumably a Basque. She looked around before advancing towards his table over on the far side of the room. Nothing unusual, so she walked over and held out her hand.

He rose. ‘No bullfighting today, Mademoiselle.’

‘I understand, Monsieur Troubador’, she replied.

During the trip back to Bordeaux the next day, Françoise read a few more pages of the novel she had with her, but her mind started to drift. Her official job in Bordeaux was in her father’s firm of experts-comptables (chartered accountants). It was relatively easy for her to take time off for quick trips, for delivering packages. Her aunt lived in Bergerac, which gave her an excuse for crossing into the Free Zone. She knew she could do more than just deliver packages.

The first sign of trouble came a week later when Jacques failed to keep to a pre-arranged rendezvous.

Françoise went to the fallback meeting place, the Poste in the city centre, twenty-four hours later but there was still no sign of Jacques. Just as she was about to give up and go home, Paul was suddenly there in front of her, signalling that she should go with him. They covered about one kilometre, Paul then turning right into the tenement building where he lived, and she followed him up to the apartment. He went straight into a kitchen area off the living room and after a few minutes of encouraging gurgling, came over to the table where she was sitting, carrying a metal jug of something she had not smelt for months, real coffee. He poured her a cup, which she sipped with delight.

‘Don’t be concerned by the disappearance of Jacques, he’s had to move away as a precaution. There was concern that the Vichy police were getting too close.’ Françoise nodded her understanding.

‘I did remember you from Cheltenham’, he said. ‘It was that restaurant in the Promenade, the Cadena, where your grandparents introduced us.’

‘I know’, said Françoise, with a laugh. ‘You certainly have a good memory for faces!’

Paul continued. ‘I was living in England at the time. Although I’m French, my mother lived with her family in England until it was time for me to go to the Lycée, when we moved back to Paris. You see, my father was killed in the first month of the last war.’

‘Oh, you’ve been without a father since you were young, that’s really sad’, she said.

‘Even when back in France I still kept my links with the family’s English connections and ended my education at Oxford University. There I made certain friends who were involved in activities which eventually led to me being recruited into my present role.’

‘So you’re a real spy’, said Françoise. ‘Not just in the Resistance.’

Paul just smiled at her. ‘London needs military intelligence from this part of the world. Bordeaux’s very important for the Germans because of its large port, and access to the Atlantic.’

He waited for Francoise to say something, but she just nodded.

‘Another factor in the importance of this part of France is that it’s the gateway to Spain. It’s critical for the British that General Franco doesn’t join the Axis powers. If German forces were to enter Spain, that would be the end of Gibraltar and of the supply routes to Malta and North Africa.’

‘My father was on about that, explaining why Bordeaux and this coastline is in the Occupied Zone.’

‘Yes, and Churchill has to perform a balancing act, staying friendly with Franco on the one hand, but with the Royal Navy blockading Spanish ports on the other, rationing oil supplies and essential imports. So Franco knows what will happen if he doesn’t remain neutral.’

‘That must be how politics and warfare come together’, said Françoise.

Paul grinned. ‘What makes you so willing to take risks to help the British?’

‘Well, my mother’s English, and my father was a pilot in the Armée de l’air in the last war. Pétain’s new Vichy state made him mad, especially his message to the French people that our future lay with Germany, forming a new Europe.’

‘Dead right’, said Paul. ‘Does he say anything about fighting back?’

‘He says everyone will see the light when the real nature of Nazism becomes known, and that there are many of his fellow officers from 1914 who are biding their time and ready to take on the Boche when the moment comes.’

‘I understand’, said Paul. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Well, my brother came back from Norway and decided to stay in England and join the Free French. Then there’s my close friend, Justine Müller’, said Françoise.

‘Oh, tell me about her, if you feel able to.’

Françoise told him about Justine, how different she was compared with herself, and yet they got on so well together. A serious thinker, was Justine, very musical.

‘The boys seem to go after both of us, but fortunately not the same ones! I’m impatient, I want to dive in and sort something out. Justine’s more reserved, and intense.’

‘You must be quite a pair’, said Paul, grinning.

‘I worry about her.’ She explained that Justine was actually German, her father a Christian but her mother Jewish. How she was brought up a Catholic, like her older sister Claudia. Both did well at school, Justine in languages and music, Claudia in mathematics. The family lived in a smart Berlin suburb.

Paul nodded, as though he knew what was coming next.

She went on to describe the family’s decision to seek a new life after the Nazis closed in on the Jews in Germany, the need to get away. The family business was in wine shipping and Justine’s father had strong connections with the great chateaux of the Bordeaux region.

‘So France was the obvious place to head for’, interjected Paul.

‘Yes, when Hitler became Chancellor, they finally took the decision to move to Bordeaux. Justine’s older sister Claudia was married to a German army officer, and so she stayed behind in Berlin. She’d completed university with an outstanding mathematics degree and joined a Berlin firm making telephone equipment.’

Françoise hesitated, wondering if she should add something. Paul smiled, reassuringly.

‘Now that I’ve mentioned Claudia, there’s something about her work I think I should tell you.’

‘Oh, what’s that?’

‘She was in Paris in the summer, visiting the sister company of the one she works for in Berlin, and came down to Bordeaux to see her parents and Justine. I’d met Claudia before, and went round to the Müllers to join them. We talked about the war and the threat to them since they’re now classified as Jews. Claudia said she was exempted from deportation because of important work she was doing for the German war effort.’

Françoise noticed Paul was now still, alert.

‘She said what she did was top secret, that it involved encryption and, I think inadvertently, added that it used teleprinting technology to transmit messages. I don’t know anything about teleprinters, but in this case it seems the messages are sent by wireless rather than down a line, and without using Morse. In other words, in plain text.’

There was a long silence.

‘I don’t know much about teleprinters either’, said Paul. ‘But it sounds as though Claudia knows something Germany’s enemies would do anything to get hold of.’

Françoise looked gravely at him, holding his stare. From Paul’s reaction, she now realized that what she’d learnt from Claudia was even more important than she’d thought.