Of War and Women

  Fig. 2 Graphic Depiction of the North African Campaign

  The next several months were a blur to Trant, as his squadrons were compelled to fly day and night in an attempt to keep Rommel’s tanks from flanking the British Eighth Army. Although they were successful in keeping Rommel in check until June, he finally managed to skirt the British at Gazala, inflicting heavy losses in doing so. In the process, Trant’s wing lost five aircraft and four pilots within a two day span.

  The British Army under General Auchinleck retreated eastward into Egypt, attempting to find a defensive position with natural protection to the south. They finally stopped at El Alamein, ninety miles west of Alexandria. If they hoped to halt the eastward advance of the Germans and Italians it would have to be soon, or before long Mussolini would be staging a victory parade in Cairo.

  Trant was by now full onto Rommel’s plan of attack. In each battle the Desert Fox attempted to drive his panzers out into the desert to the south and flank the Allies. For their part, Trant’s flyboys flew long hours and multiple sorties each day attempting to contain the flanking actions by the German panzers.

  Early July

  For Trant, it all came to a head in El Alamein. On the first of July the Allies sent out their entire air force in Africa in an effort to break Rommel’s attack on El Alamein from the west.

  Trant flew three sorties that day, taking out four panzers in his first two sorties. On his third flight of the day he was attacked by two Messerschmidts as he strafed the battlefield. He climbed as quickly as he could in an attempt to outrun the two German fighters, but it was simply not possible for a single Spitfire to outrun two Messerschmidts. He managed to reach an altitude of five thousand feet, at which point his Spitfire took a hit in the left wing. The projectile went through one of his fuel tanks and caused his wing to immediately spew smoke profusely. Confident that his aircraft was done for, the two German pursuers immediately broke off their attack in search of other more potent adversaries.

  All too aware that there was no way that he would make it back to the airfield, Trant aimed his Spitfire eastward and prayed that his aircraft would not burst into flames. Realizing shortly that he was too far west to even make it back to British lines, he made a last ditch effort to save himself by veering southwards into the desert. He managed to get thirty miles south before he was forced to make a crash landing. Unfortunately, as there was no good place to land in the soft desert sand, he augured in at a speed of a hundred knots. The plane bounced twice and, striking hard, subsequently pitched onto its nose in a large dune. The impact drove the engine back toward the cockpit, causing the control panel to impact Trant’s chest, whereupon he sustained a broken arm and several broken ribs.

  Though conscious, he was dazed from the impact, his senses slowly coming back to him. Once he began to recover he realized that he was in great pain over his entire upper body. Indeed, the pain in his chest was so profound that he didn’t even notice his broken arm. The pain clouding his senses, he slowly realized that since the aircraft might explode at any moment, it was vital that he extricate himself from within as expediently as possible.

  Surveying round the craft and observing no visible flames, he began to extract himself from the cockpit. As he did so he tossed out his emergency kit and then slowly slid down from the cockpit, striking the ground hard. Lurching in pain, he rolled over onto his back, realizing as he did so that the plane was now in flames. He forced himself to his feet with his good arm and grabbed the emergency kit, thenceforth trotting away from the plane as quickly as he could.

  Suddenly the plane erupted in a spectacular explosion, the impact knocking him from his feet. The resulting flames caused the remaining machine gun rounds to begin popping off, thus forcing Trant to quickly roll behind a small sand dune and burrow into the ground for protection. The unused rounds continued going off for several minutes, thereby forcing Trant to simply lay motionless until the popping sounds abated.

  When it was over, Trant crawled slowly from his place of safety and observed the damage. By then there was virtually nothing left of the aircraft. The raw silence of the desert now became apparent to him for the first time as, dry torpid heat encroaching from every quarter, nothing but sand dunes could be discerned in every direction. Pondering his options, he abruptly realized that he had not radioed his position before he’d gone down.

  He now took stock of the items in his emergency kit. There were medical supplies and water, together with a pistol and several candy bars. He immediately gave himself a shot of penicillin to stave off infection and, hopeful that his supplies would last him long enough for help to arrive, he settled down for a long night in the desert. He did his best to preserve his water, aware that he would be in desperate need of it the following day.

  Despite his injuries, his exhaustion allowed him to sleep soundly. Awakening at sunrise, he decided that he should stay with the aircraft. He doubted that the enemy would come searching for him this far south. The Germans and Italians likely had much more important things on their minds at the moment.

  Aware that his best chance of survival was rescue by air, he determined to make a large sign in the sand before the heat of the day became unbearable. Despite his crippling injuries, he managed to construct a large sign in the desert sands. The completed sign simply relaying ‘SOS’, he then took several pieces of the undamaged portion of the fuselage and made a small cover to protect him from the rapidly approaching midday heat.

  Through the course of the day he watched and waited for the sound of an aircraft engine. Unfortunately, he heard not a single sound, aside from the wind sweeping across the dunes. He therefore passed a second night in the desert, and this time the pain from his injuries made it impossible for him to sleep. The second day passed in much the same way, and by the third morning his meager supply of water was completely gone. He was now suffering from dehydration, and he was certain that his medical supplies would no longer stave of infection from his injuries. He was now in dire straits. He knew that he wouldn’t last much longer.

  During the hottest part of the day he began to hallucinate. In his half-conscious state he began to imagine himself back home, at Wharton Manor. In his imagination, he was playing tennis with a gorgeous blonde-haired woman. No matter how well he struck each shot, she returned it with ease. She seemed to be wearing a mask, but he couldn’t be sure, because the sun seemed to be in his eyes. He struggled to get a closer look at her, but each time he attempted to do so, she flitted lightly away from view.

  Late in the afternoon of this, his third day in the desert, he was aroused from his delirium by a sound. Instantaneously aware, he scanned about for a glimpse of the woman, but she had scampered effortlessly into the burgeoning desert. Abruptly realizing that he had regained consciousness, he propped himself up on his good elbow, concentrating on the sound. It was indeed something familiar, and within moments he was certain that it was the sound of an aircraft engine.

  He crawled out of his small shed and searched the horizon and, hearing a sound over his shoulder, he turned just in time to see a Hurricane fly low overhead. As it passed him by its wings rocked, the signal that he had been spotted. He promptly dropped prone to the ground in exhaustion, aware for the first time that he was going to survive. An hour later a rescue plane landed and airlifted him out of the desert.

  Alexandria – Three Days Later

  Trant awoke slowly, an intense throbbing forcing him painfully to consciousness.

  “How are you feeling?” a voice said to him.

  His eyes remaining tightly closed, he managed to croak only the single word, “Alive.”

  “That’s good,” the voice replied.

  “That may be, but right now it hurts like hell,” he whispered.

  The voice responded, “That’s normal, you took quite a spill, Squadron Commander Sutherland. I’m Doctor Finch. You had some internal damage, and there has been some infection due to your bro
ken bones. But we’re treating you, and at this point it appears that you will make a full recovery. You’re in the hospital in Alexandria.”

  Still unable to rally his senses, he whispered, “Thanks.”

  “You’re a very lucky man, if I do say so myself.”

  His eyes still clinched shut in a vain attempt to ward off the pain, he murmured, “I sure as hell don’t feel like it at the moment, doctor.”

  “You just rest. You’ll feel better in a couple of weeks. We shall airlift you out when you’re well enough to travel.”

  Suddenly opening his eyes, Trant blurted, “Wait a minute, doctor. Who won the battle?”

  “Oh, no one knows, Squadron Commander. They’re still fighting. That sorry hellhole of El Alamein has become the center of attention in all of North Africa. Both sides are having one hell of a time. This could well be the decisive battle of the entire North Africa campaign.”

  “Thanks, doctor,” Trant mumbled woozily.

  The doctor then patted him on his good arm, suggesting, “Get some rest, Squadron Commander,” at which suggestion Trant immediately drifted off to sleep.

  The Battle of El Alamein persisted for another three weeks, finally grinding to a stalemate in late July, both adversaries having become completely exhausted by the effort. The only good news for the Allies was that they still held Egypt.

  London - October, 1942

  Felicité met her at a small shop near St. Paul’s Cathedral. Lady Sutherland rushed in from the drizzling rain and, spotting Felicité ensconced at a corner table, she traipsed over and offered, “My dear, tis so good to see you. How have you been since last we met? That must have been nearly two years ago. My, how time flies.”

  “I’m doing well, thank you, Lady Sutherland. General de Gaulle keeps all of us quite busy at his headquarters.”

  Taking a seat opposite Felicité, Lady Sutherland responded, “Yes, I can imagine. I hear he is a real stinker!”

  “Yes, he can be quite a challenge. The other day one of my fellow British officers said that the last Frenchman to behave so arrogantly on British soil was William of Normandy, and he conquered Britain in 1066.”

  “Yes, and wasn’t that a disaster!” Lady Sutherland responded, thereby deriding the French as only a British aristocrat is able.

  “I heard that your son was injured in North Africa. How is he?” Felicité queried with genuine interest.

  “Trant is doing much better, thank you. His plane went down on the first of July, at the height of the battle. He was marooned out in the desert for three days before they found him, and by then he was in pretty bad shape. He was airlifted home in late July, and he’s been recovering since then. He returned to service in late September, and he is working with the RAF Headquarters on air planning at the moment. I suppose that’s good. I’d rather he didn’t get into another aircraft for the duration of the war. Too many of our pilots have been killed or captured.”

  “Tis a relief to hear that he has recovered,” Felicité uttered.

  “Oh, he’s recovered from his wounds, but he’s not recovered from you at all, my dear.”

  At this Felicité arched one eyebrow and inquired, “And just what does that mean, Lady Sutherland?”

  “My dear, surely you know that you hurt him badly the last time you saw him.”

  “Yes, well, he hurt me as well, if you must know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, my dear. Perhaps it is better to let sleeping dogs lie, at least for the moment.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you are correct, Lady Sutherland. I had entertained hopes that he might get beyond certain events, if you follow me, but I’m afraid he is quite stubborn.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Delacroix. Perhaps someday he shall change, but not yet. In the meantime, please be aware that I remain your friend.”

  “Thank you, Lady Sutherland, and I yours,” Felicité responded sadly.

  Shortly thereafter, the two said their mutual goodbyes and departed.

  London – December 14, 1942

  Trant wended his way among the assembled mass, all the while wondering at how some things never changed. Here they were, engaged in the most horrific war in the history of mankind, and Downing Street had arranged for an enormous party to celebrate the King’s birthday. Such things seemed incomprehensible to him, but there it was nonetheless.

  Surveying the crowd, he noticed Sir Winston Churchill himself and, momentarily stunned, he suddenly realized that there was absolutely no one in the whole of England who could afford to back out of such an invitation.

  Unexpectedly, he felt a jostle from behind, and turning to apologize, he exclaimed, “Why, I say, it’s Miss Fletcher, is it not?” and observing the gorgeous vision before him, he stammered, “I say, I’m so sorry to run into you.”

  Observing his rather injudicious self-introduction, she responded, “Well, that’s a bit impolite, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Trant exclaimed, “What I meant to say was – Sorry to have jostled you, Miss Fletcher, but absolutely delighted in every other possible way to see you,” and, positing his most gracious smile, he hoped that his belated attempt at supplication had righted the course.

  For her part, she replied, “Well, since you put it that way – apology accepted, Mister…or should I say, Wing Commander Sutherland,” and now she was smiling as well.

  Immediately jostled yet again by a much too overwhelming throng, he offered, “Miss Fletcher, er Annabeth, if I may. It’s been quite too long since last we met. I must apologize most abjectly.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir,” she observed politely, “We’ve all been busy, what with the war and all.”

  “Yes, of course,” he mumbled aimlessly, but then, an idea striking him, he suggested, “I say, you’re not here with anyone are you?”

  Suddenly appearing to show a spark of interest, she responded, “Just my father, but why do you ask?”

  “Well, I was just thinking, I don’t know about you, but there is absolutely no one in this world that would miss me at all were I to disappear from this ghastly affair…” his voice suddenly trailing off in fear that he had made yet another gaff.

  Staring at him a with one eyebrow raised haughtily, her demeanor suddenly changed to one of geniality and, surveying her surroundings, she observed, “Yes, I’m afraid I do see what you mean, Wing Commander.”

  “Well then?” he inquired hesitantly.

  Apparently intent on making him grovel further, she murmured, “Well then what?”

  “Well, er, perhaps you wouldn’t mind having a drink with me somewhere a bit less, er, overbearing,” he suggested.

  “You know, against my better instincts, I believe that is exactly what I should like to do, sir,” she replied directly and, presenting him with her most attractive smile, she thenceforth turned and led him toward the exit.

  Wharton Manor – Christmas, 1942

  Trant was delighted to be home for the holiday. The manor was always particularly welcoming at Christmas, but this year stood out for him due to the fact that he had spent the better part of the previous two years away.

  A short time later, Lord Sutherland pulled his automobile up to the entryway and his two traveling companions stepped out into the cold winter air of Christmas Eve. Felicité and Maryann were struck speechless by the pristine beauty of the manor and the surrounding countryside. Despite the fact that they had both visited there previously, it was nonetheless quite beyond belief to see that it remained just as their memories had recorded it, nearly everything else in the world having changed so irrevocably. Indeed, their arrival was as in a dream, the reality incomprehensible to both of them.

  As if on cue, the front door opened and Smithers surged down the steps to greet them both. “Greetings, ladies! Happy Christmas. Welcome!” Smithers bubbled uncharacteristically.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smithers,” the pair responded simultaneously, their collective mirth unmistaka
ble.

  Taking Lord Sutherland’s outstretched hand, Smithers inquired, “How was the drive, sir?”

  Lord Sutherland blurted, “Too much traffic! What with the holiday upon us, it seems that everyone is in a great rush to escape London, if only for a day or two.”

  The preambles having now been completed, the four surged into the manor to escape the December cold.

  Once inside, they were met by Lady Sutherland. She embraced her husband, and then turning to the two young ladies, she volunteered, “Happy Christmas, ladies! I’m delighted you could join us for the holiday,” at this there were further shared embraces.

  Lady Sutherland now announced, “Trant and Walter shall be along shortly. Believe it or not, they are quite engaged in a game of chess in the library at the moment. Accordingly, I suggest you accompany Smithers to your assigned rooms and join me in the sitting room when you are comfortably ensconced.”

  The Library – A Short Time Later

  Felicité descended the staircase and, hearing voices emanating from the library, she made her way in that general direction. Arriving within she found Walter and Maryann chatting, the two of them apparently making up for more than two and a half years of lost time. As she came forward she heard him say, “My, Maryann, you are all grown up. You look stunning!”

  Maryann blushed noticeably, responding, “Yes, well, tis because I’m no longer disguised as a barmaid.”

  Walter chuckled at her response, subsequently responding with lighthearted sarcasm, “I suppose one shouldn’t expect such luxuries on every outing to Wharton Manor. I shall simply have to buck up and enjoy you dressed properly,” thus eliciting yet further mirth between the pair.

  Seeing Felicité, Lady Sutherland rose from her seat and announced, “Ah, here you are, Miss Delacroix. You of course remember Trant,” and so saying, she gestured his way. At this Felicité approached him and diffidently took his outstretched hand.

  “Miss Delacroix,” he volunteered distantly, “I trust you are well.”

  “I am quite well, Wing Commander Sutherland,” she replied, “And you, sir, I trust you are well?”

  “Never better,” he answered noncommittally.

  Now turning toward Trant’s companion, she said, “And here you are, sir, after such a long time. I trust you are also well, sir?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Delacroix,” Walter responded, “And, may I say how lovely you look tonight.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is most kind of you,” she replied and, the introductions having now been completed, she took the seat offered by Lady Sutherland.

  Walter now announced, “It is such a great pleasure to be here with all of you this evening. The last opportunity I had to visit Wharton Manor was, as all of you must know, on the occasion of the masquerade party, shortly before the Battle of Britain. I must tell you, that was such a memorable party, but I for one find both of you ladies to be infinitely more attractively adorned on this joyous occasion!”

  At this compliment both ladies smiled brilliantly, Trant adding, “Well, let’s hope my mother has no more special events planned for our visitors.” At which the group broke into uneasy twitters.

  Lord Sutherland, perceiving his son’s gaff, deftly diverted the direction of the conversation, revealing, “They say that a snow storm may be coming. Wouldn’t a white Christmas be quite the perfect thing!”

  “My, I’ve never seen snow at Christmas,” Maryann observed, “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Sutherland. I’m so looking forward to the holiday here at Wharton Manor.”

  Now rising, Lady Sutherland commanded, “Please, we must all go to the sitting room. We’ve prepared hot toddies by the fire, and dinner will be served in due course. Please, follow me.” At this the entire entourage made their way to the sitting room, where a roaring fire provided just the toastiest mood to take the chill away.

  Everyone having received their toddy and found a seat, Maryann broke the momentary silence, inquiring, “So, what have you been up to since last we met, Walter?”

  “I’ve moved up to Squadron Commander of the 93rd, Trant’s old position, before he moved on to bigger things.”

  “Oh, so how does that go with you?”

  “Oh, we miss him of course, but we get on just fine without Trant. The 93rd stays quite busy, you know.”

  “I’m curious,” Maryann said, “How many boys who attended the party that weekend in 1940 are still with us?”

  “Interesting you should ask that, Maryann,” Walter responded. “I’ve somehow been made the person in charge of keeping track since the war began. We still have a total of more than fifty in the squadron, but of the original forty who were at the party, only nineteen are still in the squadron.”

  “Heavens!” Maryann responded. “Do you mean that twenty-one of them are now dead?”

  “Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to mislead you. Twelve of the original forty have been killed. Four were wounded badly enough to be discharged, and five are now in positions elsewhere, including Trant, who has bounced about ever since he left the squadron.”

  “So most of them are at least still alive. That’s good news,” Maryann replied with obvious relief.

  At this, General Sutherland put in, “Yes, well, the war isn’t over yet, but the 93rd has done better than most squadrons in the RAF.”

  Lady Sutherland now interjected, saying, “And if I may be so bold, there are two honorary members of the 93rd with us tonight – Felicité and Maryann – and our own Felicité has gone over to the dark side, voluntarily joining the British Army, of all things!” And this last was put just in the right tone for everyone to get a hardy laugh from it.

  Glancing mischievously toward Lord Sutherland, Felicité now added, “Trust me, kissing up to a French General is not an easy assignment,” to which there was still further laughter.

  There was a short silence, Trant subsequently putting in, “Tis quite impossible for me to believe that we held that weekend party here only two and a half years ago. So much has transpired since then. Somehow, it seems like it must have been decades ago.” At this, the entire group sat contemplatively for a few moments, wistfully recalling that time when they were all so young and naïve.

  Lady Sutherland now broke the silence, adding, “Ladies, you will surely recall when I suggested that night that you would one day understand what I was getting at. And here we are. What say you now?”

  Maryann responded first, offering with endearing respect, “Lady Sutherland, I am ashamed to say that I doubted you that night, but I do understand now exactly what you were getting at.” At this, the entire group turned reflexively toward Felicité in anticipation of her reaction to Lady Sutherland’s comments.

  “What are you looking at me for?” Felicité responded defensively. At this, Trant chuckled, but he was the only one to do so.

  Lady Sutherland eyed him severely and, chastising him accordingly, she murmured, “That will do, Trant.”

  But her remonstration was completely unnecessary, as Trant had already realized his gaff, saying, “I’m so sorry, Miss Delacroix. Please forgive my shallow reaction. I apologize.”

  Felicité glared at him for a moment and, gathering herself, she thenceforth responded, “I hadn’t realized it until now, but I’m afraid that I’m still smarting from the events of that weekend. I’m so sorry that I reacted the way that I did to your question, Lady Sutherland. The truth is, I have now done my homework, and my thoughts are much the same as those of Maryann.”

  Lady Sutherland answered her with, “My dear, I’ve never been more impressed with a young woman in my life than I was with you that weekend. You were and always will be my heroine for what you did for those young men, many of whom I needn’t remind you are no longer with us today.”

  “Well, er, we should all feel a measure of satisfaction for the sake of our soldiers,” Felicité replied evasively.

  Maryann now interjected, reiterating to Lady Sutherland, “Subsequent ev
ents have certainly proven you right, Lady Sutherland.”

  At this point Walter joined in, exclaiming, “I know the men of the 93rd all feel that way.”

  Lord Sutherland volunteered, “I’m sorry that I cannot put forward my support, for the simple reason that I was not present. But I will say this – war has changed us all, and I believe it has somehow rather done so for the better.”

  The group recognizing that Lord Sutherland’s comments were meant to close this subject of discussion, the interchange moved on to lighter topics, from whence the evening progressed admirably.

  The Following Morning

  Felicité peeked from her bedroom window. The dawn revealed a light coating of snow on the grounds of the manor, thus presenting everyone with the perfect Christmas.

  According to Sutherland custom, the day commenced with a festive late morning breakfast, and on this occasion the manor staff members who had not been released from duty on holiday were invited to join in dining with the family and guests. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and happy event that rang in the holiday on just the perfect note.

  After breakfast Trant and Walter agreed to meet Felicité and Maryann in the library for a literary discourse on an as yet to be determined subject. It developed that the young ladies had chosen the subject ‘novels by Jane Austen’, at which both gentlemen proved to be well out of their depth when challenged by Felicité and Maryann on such a difficult subject. Accordingly, the ladies were declared the winners in short order.

  But not so fast. Walter now suggested a rematch and, the ladies having chosen the first topic of discussion, he insisted that the gentlemen be allowed to choose the topic for this second match. Accepting Walter’s challenge, the ladies were apprised all too soon that the topic would be ‘The World at War’. Under normal circumstances the ladies might have succeeded in challenging such an obviously unfair topic, but they after all had selected the previous one, a subject that any sane person would agree was quite over the heads of their competitors.

  Accordingly, the match was forthwith begun in earnest and, though it was hard fought, the men eventually eked out a narrow victory.

  Upon failing on the final question, Felicité stomped one foot in disappointment, claiming, “Tis grossly unfair. You two cheated!”

  “Oh? How so?” Trant inquired apprehensively.

  “You’re both in His Majesty’s service!” Felicité protested effusively.

  “Ha! As are you, Miss Delacroix!” Trant rejoined rancorously.

  “Yes, but Maryann isn’t!” she shot back, even more offensively.

  “Anything is better than Jane Austen,” Trant countered dismissively.

  “What! Why?” Felicité demanded.

  “Why, wars are quite apropos, whereas Jane Austen is so terribly out of date,” Trant observed smugly.

  “Pshaw!” she spat out. “Out of date! I should think that her works are more timely than ever!”

  “I’m sure I have no idea to what you are referring,” he responded ambiguously.

  “Have you ever examined ‘Persuasion’?” she suggested sternly.

  “No, not at all,” Trant replied patiently, “I’ve been quite busy fighting a war, if you must know.”

  “Right. In my view, you shall never arrive at the heart of the matter until you have studied those books carefully. And from my viewpoint, ‘Persuasion’ is especially important.”

  Trant responded diffidently, “Why is ‘Persuasion’ so important to you, Miss Delacroix?”

  “Us!” she responded tersely.

  “What? Us what?” he replied in complete confusion.

  “It is important to we two!” she answered with obvious exasperation.

  “I’m sure I have no idea to what you are referring,” he answered abrasively.

  “Touché!” she replied with palpable curtness.

  “We’re no longer playing a game, are we?” he continued, and not bothering to await the obvious answer, he added, “So let me get this straight. If I understand correctly, you believe that one or more of Jane Austen’s novels describes certain attributes of our relationship or lack thereof.”

  Eyeing him with a mixture of both irritation and pleasure, Felicité exclaimed, “Exactement!”

  The remainder of the Christmas holiday at Wharton Manor was anticlimactic, as nothing could compare to the sparring match that had been fought within the library. Some said it was a draw, others gave the nod to Felicité, but all agreed that it had hit the spot. Indeed, their mutually purposeful inattention to one another was apparent to everyone over the course of the subsequent two days.

  Somehow, the electrified atmosphere was infectious, as Walter and Maryann commenced demonstrating entirely the opposite instinctive behavior. For her part, Lady Sutherland was so moved that she trapped Lord Sutherland in her boudoir and plied her feminine wiles voraciously upon her own husband, thus resulting in nothing less than a perfect Christmas for all involved.

  When it came time for everyone to depart, there were tears shed all around. Maryann had gained the promise of adventure with a fascinating military hero. Walter had reconnected with the woman who had seduced his heart more than two years earlier. Lady Sutherland had executed another of her perfect plans. Lord Sutherland had for the first time in his memory been seduced, and by his own wife. Trant had finally succumbed to the importance of reading Jane Austen, and he was now perhaps even inclined to do so. And last but by no means least, Felicité had taken one more tiny step towards capturing the heart of what she confessed to herself might just be the man of her dreams.

  London – Late January, 1943

  Felicité and Maryann were perched at the bar in the King’s Arms Pub drinking a pint of ale, when a familiar voice exclaimed, “I say, what a surprise. If it isn’t Miss Fifi the Feline and her friend Amy the Barmaid.”

  Felicité turned to see Trant Sutherland smiling pleasantly at her. “Hello, Wing Commander Sutherland. How are you?” she responded nonchalantly.

  “Fine, and you - how’ve you been, Felicité, or should I say, Lieutenant Delacroix?”

  “I prefer Felicité, if you don’t mind,” she responded in an attempt to mitigate a bit of the air of formality.

  “Yes, of course,” he replied and, turning to Maryann, he proffered, “Nice to see you again, Maryann. What brings you to London?”

  “Same as everyone else - the war effort. I’m working for the American Red Cross.”

  “Good show! With your newfound connections, perhaps you can inform President Roosevelt that we need more yanks over here, and quite soon, if you ask me!”

  “I’ll be sure and tell him the next time I see him,” she deadpanned, and at this all three of them laughed convivially.

  “And you, sir, how are you getting on?” Maryann put in inquisitively.

  “I’m doing fine now. I’d like to get back in the air, but they’re saying I have a disability, so I’m working for RAF Headquarters at the moment. How about you, Lieutenant Delacroix?”

  “Me? I’m still kissing that mad French general’s arse, which isn’t difficult, considering how big an arse he is!” At this all three giggled yet again.

  “Alors, vous êtes très gentils, demoiselles, mais on droit sortir maintenant,” he now enunciated in perfect French.

  “Incroyable!,” Felicité exclaimed in complete surprise, “I had no idea you spoke a word of French, Wing Commander Sutherland!”

  “Mais certainement,” he replied politely, “At any rate, I must be going. I wish you both well,” and so saying, he turned and departed.

  Maryann then said, “I say, that was truly enigmatic. What’s going on between the two of you, Felicité?”

  “Nothing!” Felicité denied emphatically, “Nothing whatsoever.”

  Eyeing her suspiciously, Maryann posited, “Well, that’s good because the word all about town is he’s having an affair with Annabeth Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Felicité respon
ded ruefully.

  “Well, you have now,” Maryann observed.

  “She’ll be sorry,” Felicité predicted, “That guy is a lothario, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps you are right, but he is a rather cute one!” Maryann observed, “I rather think I should be quite delighted were he to lothario me!” at which the pair grasped one another and giggled uncontrollably.

  At length, Maryan pulled back and announced, “Well, I’ve got to be going. Tis a pleasure to see you, Felicité. You take care now,” and so saying she rose to depart.

  “See you, Maryann. I’ll ring you when time permits,” Felicité called to Maryann’s retreating back.

  A Few Days Later

  Lord Sutherland picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number, the voice on the other end announcing noncommittally, “Wharton Manor. Whom may I say is calling?”

  “Dear, tis me,” he said forcefully.

  “Ah, Robert! How are you, dear? And to what do I owe this unexpected call?” Lady Sutherland responded.

  “I’m fine, and I know, dear, I’m terribly busy these days, but something untoward has occurred. And I thought I should seek your input.”

  “Oh, my,” she responded with apparent concern, “What seems to be the matter?”

  “Tis Trant, Margaret.”

  “Why am I not surprised? And, pray tell, what has he done this time?”

  “He seems to have taken up with that Fletcher girl. You recall, that chit I told you about, the one from Oxfordshire.”

  “Are you quite certain, Robert?”

  “I saw him leave the King’s birthday party with her, and last night I ran into the two of them dining at the officer’s club in Piccadilly.”

  “Oh, my, this is serious,” she responded, her concern mounting.

  “Yes, I thought you might think so,” he replied, “What shall we do, dear?”

  “You leave it to me, Robert. I shall look into it and get back to you.”

  “I knew you’d say that. Thank you, dear,” and so saying, he rang off.

  London - Early March, 1943

  For reasons that were unknown to her, Felicité had not been called on by Trant since the holiday, despite her self-assurance that she had caught his eye at Christmas. That is, until one day she received an official communication ordering her to report to him at his office. She quickly put on her overcoat and, perplexed as to why she had been summoned in the line of duty rather than privately, she took a taxi to her appointed destination.

  Arriving at his office, she was ushered within, whereupon she saluted Trant and, returning her salute, he commanded, “Please, sit down lieutenant.” At this request she promptly lowered herself into the proffered chair, sorely put off by his formality. He smiled at her and said, “Tis wonderful to see you again. Let me say how sorry I am to have summoned you here so officiously. You will shortly understand why, I trust.”

  Uncertain exactly how to behave in the current circumstance, she responded curtly, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Alright then, down to business,” he commenced, “I assume that you are aware of Enigma?”

  “No, sir, should I be?”

  “Oh, well, as I think about it, perhaps there is no reason that you should have been aware, lieutenant. So let me fill you in. Enigma is the device that the Third Reich uses to encrypt messages that are sent to and from the German High Command. The device utilizes a keyboard much like a typewriter to transform messages into gobbledygook. However, if one has the Enigma device at hand and the proper sequence of encoding, the device can be utilized to transform the encrypted message back into readable text. Clear?”

  “Yes, I believe I understand, sir.”

  “Excellent. Well, as it turns out, the Poles broke the code in 1939, and they gave the solution to the Allies. We have since dramatically refined our code breaking skills at Bletchley Park, to the point that most intercepted messages can be decoded. Thus far, the Germans have not deduced that we have broken the code.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing. After more than three years, we’re still stealing their messages?”

  “Well, up to a point - that is correct. However, two problems still remain. First, we have to actually intercept a message in order to decipher it. Second, the Germans are constantly making modifications to the Enigma device, and whenever such a modification is made we find that our ability to decipher their messages suffers a setback.”

  “I follow, sir.”

  “Right. You doubtless know that we are planning to invade France at some point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, we are in desperate need of improving our knowledge as to what defenses the Germans are planning for us on our return to France. And we have been unable of late to decipher their transmissions to the German High Command. It seems that they have been playing games with their Enigma device in France. At this point we aren’t even certain where it is, although logic would suggest that it is hidden within German Headquarters in Paris.”

  Suddenly clutching her throat in fear, she blurted, “Uh oh, I believe I see where this is going, sir.”

  Observing her reaction, he retorted empathetically, “Yes, I thought that you might, lieutenant. It seems that General de Gaulle believes that your record is remarkable, so much so that he believes that you should make the perfect person to be placed in Paris for the purpose of providing a solution to our current Enigma dilemma.”

  “So I am to become a spy,” she observed, and she meant it in no way as a question.

  “Yes, I am afraid so, lieutenant,” he responded morosely, “I wish it were not so, for your sake and mine. However, our personal desires pale by comparison to the import of this assignment.”

  “When do I leave, sir?”

  Observing her resolve, he responded with obvious admiration, “I would have expected nothing less from you. I in fact said as much to the Home Office when they approached me about it.”

  “Why did they approach you, sir?”

  “That is a question that has a very complicated answer, I’m afraid. I shall attempt to give you the abbreviated answer. I assume that you know that the government formed the SOE, that stands for Special Operations Executive, in 1940. The SOE is responsible for conducting espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance in occupied Europe. For the past three years SOE has been deploying secret agents to perform these activities.”

  “I see,” she put in, “How many women have been sent over?”

  “That’s a good question. Officially, none. However, under the direction of Flight Officer Vera Atkins, F Section has sent perhaps ten women over, as near as I can tell.”

  “What is F Section?”

  “F stands for France. They’ve all been sent to France.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “Mostly espionage, but here is the bad news. Lately some of them have begun to disappear. We aren’t quite sure what is going on, but Prime Minister Churchill has interceded in this particular circumstance. He has decided to create a small operation that is even more secret than SOE, and here is the most important part – he has designated that it be completely separate from SOE, thus providing a heightened level of security for the agents involved. Initially, there will only be three agents, and you are one of them.”

  “My, it seems quite an honor. How did I come to be selected?”

  “Well, of course, your record is impeccable, and the fact that you speak French and German, and that you lived in France for ten years makes you ideal. And there are other reasons that have not been divulged to me.”

  Apparently nonplussed by his last remark, she responded, “I understand, sir.”

  “Now, this is where I come in. My father recommended you for the assignment. He is involved in the planning for the invasion. As you know, I was transferred to the intelligence service after I was wounded in North Africa. When they began considering you for the assignment, my father made it known that you and I kno
w each other fairly well. That, together with the fact that I am fluent in French, led to the decision that I should be your contact.”

  “I believe that I shall take that as a compliment,” she responded.

  “Excellent,” he replied, “Now, as to your question - you leave in two months’ time. In between now and then, you shall be in training for the assignment at our facility in Birmingham.”

  “Why is it going to take two months to train?”

  “Tis quite a rigorous training program. We train all of our agents for three months, but in your case, we’re going to squeeze it into two months because they want you dropped in by the middle of May.”

  Her anxiety growing by the moment, she responded, “I see, and when do I leave for Birmingham?”

  “Immediately, I’m afraid,” he responded distantly, “There is no time, you see. I’m afraid we shall not see each other again until just before you are dropped in May.”

  Sheer terror now overcoming her, she blurted, “Dropped? What does that mean?”

  “You will be parachuted in, lieutenant.”

  “Oh, my goodness! That sounds dangerous.”

  “Yes, just so. And that is only the beginning, I’m afraid.”

  “And now, if you will be so kind as to follow me, I want to introduce you to someone who is very important in the French resistance.” Felicité subsequently followed him down a hallway, and waited as he knocked on a door. Hearing a sound from within, he entered and she followed.

  “Good morning, sir,” Trant said.

  The man returned his handshake, and replied in French, “Has she accepted the assignment, Wing Commander Sutherland?”

  “Yes, I am pleased to report that she has,” and turning to Felicité, he added, “Lieutenant, I would like to introduce you to Jean Moulin, the head of the French Resistance Forces.”

  Felicité’s jaw dropped, but she managed to right herself immediately, saying, “I am honored to meet you, Monsieur Moulin. I’ve heard so much about you!”

  “The honor is mine, lieutenant,” he replied, “I should be leaving in a few days for France. I am so pleased that you have accepted this assignment, and I look forward to seeing you there in a few short months.”

  At this she stammered, “I…I shall do my best, sir.”