Judith in Hell: WRNS Officer Judith Burroughs, P.O.W.

Foreword

Judith in Hell is a prequel to the epic World War II espionage novel Overlord / Underhand, the fictional telling of the true story of the most successful double agent of the Second World War.

Judith in Hell is the dramatic back-story of one of that novel’s principal characters, its heroine, WRNS Superintendent Judith Tracy Burroughs. Judith in Hell follows her early adventures, and misadventures, during the spring and summer of 1940, a time when the Allies suffered a number of crushing defeats and Nazi Germany was ascendant, bent on world domination, and Hitler seemed unstoppable. Her personal hell in war begins with the British retreat and evacuation from Dunkirk.

Judith in Hell is a complete novel in itself, and the reader need not already be familiar with Overlord / Underhand to enjoy it.

Although the characters in this book are fictional, the historical events described or mentioned are real. The cruel sufferings and abuse witnessed and endured by Judith Burroughs as a Nazi prisoner of war in France did happen, as described, to many real women.

Indeed, the Nazis perpetrated terrible war crimes and brutal atrocities on untold thousands of captive women, inflicting many horrors far worse than are depicted in these pages – one reminder that not all war heroes are found on the battlefield.

But fair warning: if Judith in Hell were a film, it would likely earn an R-rating for strong violence, nudity, and disturbing sexual situations – all of which takes place in the reader’s imagination.

Judith in Hell is the first part of a larger tale.

It is my hope that the reader will find Judith’s story intriguing, and become interested enough to pick up Overlord / Underhand in order to follow the rest of her story among the team of spies she joins. It is in that novel, after all, that WRNS Superintendent Judith Burroughs makes her most important contributions and completes her personal journey as a British serving officer in wartime.

Enjoy.

— RPW

Chapter One

Chance Meeting

Breathe! Come on, Judith—breathe!

She knew straightaway she had not been winded by the hurried rush down the long flights of stairs leading to the sub-basement bomb shelters deep beneath the British War Office, driven by the loud blare of air raid sirens.

Sitting quietly in the shelter, a thrill of fear swept through her as she realized what was really wrong – a new panic attack was hitting her.

Judith Burroughs, a Superintendent with the Women’s Royal Naval Service and Intelligence specialist, instantly recognized her rising symptoms. At the same moment she felt a shock to know she was helpless to prevent it.

Please God—no! Not again!

It had been a long time since her last attack, many months in fact.

But immediately, the frightening memories of her old sufferings flooded back, along with her fear of the agonies of intense stress now beginning to seize her, pressing on her lungs as if a careless giant were squeezing a rag doll.

Her rising dread of anticipation added to her misery, hastening panic’s ill effects.

Breathe! Breathe! Come on, get a grip!

The morning air raid had caught her off-guard. Superintendent Burroughs had just finished her Intelligence meetings in the War Office; and she was walking through the high-ceilinged foyer toward the exit when the alarm sounded.

The high banshee’s wail of the sirens made her flesh creep, as it always did; and Judith, along with dozens of other people around her attending to His Majesty’s war business, had looked up like a rabbit scenting a fox, surprised and alert.

But she was not afraid – disturbed by the sound, yes. A little excited by the sudden scramble of people around her, yes. But not frightened. And she had turned to join the crowd of military personnel and a sprinkling of secretaries and other civilians quickly making their way downstairs to safety following the Shelter signs.

What’s wrong with you? Breathe!

At first Judith had believed the sirens were a false alarm.

It all seemed unreal to her. Night raids by the Luftwaffe were still common enough; but a raid on the heart of London in broad daylight seemed to her improbable.

Not now, not these days – too risky.

She recalled silently agreeing with the middle-aged RAF colonel walking just ahead of her as the throng made its way below ground amid the thunderous clatter of many hard shoes on the wooden stairs.

The colonel was accompanied by a young WAAF officer, a girl barely out of her teens who was nervously hugging a sheaf of papers in front of her with both arms.

Her tight grip and darting glances around and behind her showed her anxiety, and Judith overheard him comforting her:

Bad show, what? If the alarm isn’t a ruddy mistake, Wendy, it’s probably just a few reconnaissance planes, photographing new targets along the docks, or in the city. I can’t imagine the bloody Jerries would test us in force in daylight now. Miserable conditions for it anyway.

His companion had flashed an appreciative smile at him, and nodded.

Let’s hope so, Wendy had replied. But she had looked and sounded doubtful.

Now Judith was seated next to Wendy and the gray-haired RAF colonel with the sharp blue eyes. Wendy, hip to hip with her on the hard bench, had turned away from Judith as she huddled together in murmured conversation with the colonel, Wendy chattering nervously, the colonel listening, mostly, and leaning in protectively.

Once Judith and the others had entered the bomb shelter, they had followed drill procedure and made their way to the back of the garishly lit, cavernous room, looking around at its red-brick walls decorated with yellow safety warnings and large posters relaying emergency instructions.

They had found places in the back corner on a long wooden bench set against the left-hand wall. Judith sat at the end, furthest from the reinforced blast-proof doors.

The shelter had reached capacity quickly, filling up back to front, until it was standing room only.

Most of the people milling restively there before her – chiefly officers of various ranks representing all branches of the Fighting Services – remained alert, hushed, and tense.

They looked at their neighbors with expressions of curiosity about what might be happening above; or they stared up at the reinforced concrete ceiling, anxious, awaiting the ominous low rumble of airplane motors, the distant popping of ack-ack, the rolling thunder of bombs.

They stared as if looking upward was an essential part of the listening process.

At first, so did Judith.

She strained to listen closely for droning engines overhead and the shriek of bombs on their way down to their targets, then for the bass crump! of bomb blasts further off in the city. She awaited the feel of subterranean tremors rumbling through the earth from some distant point of impact. She watched the bright, bare light bulbs hanging from white wires overhead, lights that would sway if the ground above them shook.

They remained still.

Judith felt safe here, well below street level.

But then a heavy metallic banging rang out. The two soldiers assigned to this shelter had pushed shut and bolted the blast-proof doors. The noise of the sirens dimmed as the doors closed, and hushed conversations grew quieter still.

And the room immediately began to feel stuffy to her, warmer.

It was only then, when they had all been sealed in together in close confinement, that she felt an oppressive, unnamable panic strike suddenly and seize her in its powerful grip.

Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!

As her pulse raced Judith soon felt dry-mouthed and light-headed, and her feelings of physical illness grew with every strong pulse. Her arms trembled and her fingers tingled, and the nauseous sensation of dread stabbed through her like a large, dull blade.

Judith’s heart was hammering in her chest now, and her eyes held the wild look of a cornered animal. As her shallow breathing continued, quick and hard, she tried to will herself to slow it down in a vain effort to master her unexpected terror.

Count to four breathing in, count to four breathing out!

But her panic grew. Judith glanced around quickly and scanned the faces nearest her in the room, worried that people could see she had turned clammy and pale, afraid they might notice the light dew of sweat beading on her brow and upper lip, or dampening in her upturned palms, her hands quaking faintly in her lap.

What’s wrong? What are you afraid of? Think!

She tried to remember the mind-body exercises that Dr. Cunningham, her Navy psychiatrist, had taught her in therapy to help her regain self-control at such moments. Therapy ended many months ago, and she tried to think back, hampered by her feverish distress. What had worked for her?

Deep breathing exercises: that was it. She was doing that already.

Or try to displace bad memories by picturing tranquil scenes, recalling happy memories. "Or you might exam rationally the possible sources of your fears," the doctor had advised.

Do I fear the air raid?

She dismissed the idea straightaway, certain the Luftwaffe did not worry her.

She refused to believe she was in any true danger, not this far underground, shielded by earth, thick concrete, heavy wooden support beams, steel doors like a bank vault.

And she still believed the air raid warning was probably a false alarm.

Judith worked at a top secret base north of London near Milton Keynes; and in her experience, Nazi bombing raids at night had rarely come close enough to present a real sense of danger. She never truly felt threatened by them there. Not like before, not like in Belgium, not like at Dunkirk. Even now, even here, in the vulnerable heart of London, her illusion of immunity persisted still.

No, she reasoned, she was not frightened by the idea of falling bombs, guided by random chance, unlikely to find and reach everyone hiding here.

Fear of dying in an air raid had not sparked her attack.

She was panting now and the stabbing pain in her stomach was stronger, and tears began to fill her eyes. Her vision blurred.

She grew angry at herself.

Oh come on!

But as she continued to breathe hard and concentrate on controlling her panic, Judith became dimly aware of a male voice above her, calling her name. The voice sounded familiar.

Judith? the voice asked. Judith Burroughs?

Focused on her distress, Judith had not noticed a civilian had pushed his way through the crowd of military men, murmuring apologies as he shouldered closer, until he stood in front of her, looking down.

"Judith—I thought that was you!" the man exclaimed.

He sounded very happy.

The stinging tears in her eyes made it hard to see clearly, and she looked up slowly as she blinked them back.

The man was wearing black Oxford brogues, light brown slacks, a rich green tartan sweater-vest over his white shirt and plain Navy blue tie, and a well-tailored dark forest green sports coat with leather elbow patches.

He also wore a long white scarf loosely draped over his shoulders, ready to wrap under his chin against the cold outside. She recognized the scarf a split-second before she knew the man himself. She had not seen him in a long time, and here, out of context, it took her a second to place him.

Eddie! she gasped up to him, and a broad smile broke on her face. Eddie Harrison!

The Christian name of the man grinning down at her was really Eduardo. But all his friends, Judith among them, called him Eddie.

"So, it is you—you elusive scamp! beamed Eddie. His eyes were bright with pleasure, and he had an expression of delight on his face. I thought I spotted you ahead of me, heading for the stair— oh, hello."

Eddie stopped short as Judith, by instinct, leapt up and threw her arms around him and buried her face against his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut, hanging on to him for sheer joy.

Oh, Eddie! she mumbled into his scarf, as feelings of relief began to flood through her. "I’m so…so very glad to see you again!"

She had pinned his arms with her tight hug, but he reached up as best he could from the elbows and briefly gripped the back of her shoulders.

And I’m thrilled to see you too, he replied, happily surprised by her strong show of affection.

Eddie Harrison was Judith’s oldest male friend. Their fathers had been close friends for many years – most of her life, in fact – and Judith had known Eddie since she was five years old. Eddie was the older brother she never had, and she trusted him with her life. She felt safe again, clutching his warm body. Her breathing slowed, her nausea and its pain began to subside. The longer she stood clinging tightly to him, the better she felt.

But as her feelings of panic drained away, she wobbled, suddenly dizzy, and took a half-step back to steady herself.

I’m not feeling well— she started to say, but then she sat back down hard. Her head went forward, and she cupped her face with both hands, as much to wipe away the tear-stains as to get control of herself. She had to catch her breath again until her wooziness passed.

Eddie quickly squatted down in front of her, his head tilted a little as he regarded her with earnest concern.

I say, are you all right? Are you ill? Was it something you ate?

Worry etched his face. He reached out a consoling hand to touch her arm.

She felt his hand and looked up at him and shook her head.

I don’t think so.

But she still looked ill, flushed around the edges, and she seemed ready to throw up on his shoes.

Maybe it’s claustrophobia? he guessed, eyeing her cautiously. I sometimes find myself afraid of the idea of being trapped down here, the building brought down on our heads and the fallen rubble sealing us all alive in this packed bomb shelter to die of suffocation. I hate the idea of perishing like servants in some ancient pharaoh’s tomb.

A shocked expression crossed Judith’s face as she recoiled in alarm.

She did suffer from mild claustrophobia.

This fear became particularly acute when she stood in crowded lifts, or sat in water closets as narrow as upright coffins, or entered other enclosed spaces with no easy exit – like this crowded shelter.

"Well, I hadn’t considered that until this second, she reproached him, frowning. Thanks awfully."

Glad to be of service, he said, smirking.

His legs began to cramp from the squatting position, and he straightened up.

Then he reached down, took both her hands, and drew her up standing again in front of him.

As they stood there, Judith did not move or speak at first, as if she now felt embarrassed by her emotional display in public on greeting him.

There was an awkward pause as she looked at him expectantly.

Eddie looked her in the eye, and then he gave her another broad grin.

Oh, come here, old thing! he said; and he tugged her shoulders to pull her close and give her a warm hug.

He gave her a kiss on both cheeks before he stepped back a little to admire her, as far back as the narrow space between him and the officers standing close behind him would allow.

Judith felt herself relax in his brief embrace. She pecked him on both cheeks in turn.

"Good heavens, Eddie, it’s been ages! she observed, returning his smile. So how are you?"

Never better, Judith, never better, he beamed. "And you? My God, I haven’t seen you in, what, years—not since the fall of France in June of ‘40," he said, quickly calculating the length of time that had passed since they had last met.

No, that sounds right—a long while, she agreed, and she saw him frown as a troubling thought raced through his mind.

But it soon passed, like a small cloud briefly shading the sun, and he resumed smiling at her again.

Her color had returned, her breathing was even, and her voice was stronger. She looked and felt normal again; and, as the ill effects passed, it was as if her panic attack had never happened.

You’re looking splendid, I’m glad to say—fit and well, he observed with a jaunty air, Lovely as always, really, quite excellent—better than I’ve ever seen you. Being a captain in the Wrens must agree with you.

Judith dropped her gaze briefly in a bashful way at the compliment.

It was not flattery. Judith Burroughs was not just pretty, but a beautiful woman. Eddie stood just over five foot ten, and Judith was only shorter by a couple of inches – tall, slim, with an athletic carriage and graceful movements, although her stolid Wren officer’s uniform disguised much of her physical allure.

Her face was oval in shape, with high cheekbones; and she had small, elf-like ears. Her creamy complexion was flawless. Her thin eyebrows arched slightly above penetrating violet eyes, her most striking feature; and her warm eyes complemented a delicate nose that tilted up a little at the end, as well as her small rose mouth with full, voluptuous lips. She wore her wavy, strawberry blonde hair parted on the left and down past her shoulders – a little beyond regulation length for the Wrens.

In other circumstances, Judith could have been a model for a fashion magazine, or a statuesque film star in the mold of a Vivien Leigh.

Judith thought Eddie was looking well too.

She had always thought him handsome, in an exotic way, even when she was a child and he was a teenager. Eddie was half-English and half-Spanish, and the Spanish side dominated his appearance. He reminded her of the good-looking Latin actors playing bullfighters in the film Blood and Sand.

His Andalusian mother, in addition to insisting that her son Eduardo be given a Spanish first name, had bequeathed him a mane of thick, wavy black hair that he combed straight back from a low forehead. He also had his mother’s pale olive complexion, high cheekbones, and round, soulful hazel eyes beneath heavy straight eyebrows – eyes that often seemed to be narrowed in a merry smirk.

Eddie also had a sensuous mouth, which just now, uncharacteristically, did not have a small, dark Spanish cigarette dangling from the corner of it.

But she saw he still had tell-tale chestnut-colored nicotine stains in the corner of his mouth and on the forefingers of his right hand. Most of her memories of Eddie usually had him wreathed in blue-white cigarette smoke.

You’re looking fighting fit as well, she remarked carefully, Although I see you’ve escaped serving your country. Or are you on holidays from the war? she teased.

Not at all, my dear girl, he said, wagging a mischievous finger. Don’t be too quick to judge. Still waters run deep, he intoned with mock-solemnity.

"So you’re too old for active duty, is that it?" she prodded, returning a mischievous smile.

Born in 1908, Eddie was ten years her senior, and he would turn thirty-five in April, a couple of months hence. She knew he would have to be over fifty to be exempt from all active service; but it pleased her to make fun of him. Old habits.

Careful there, youngster, he warned, with comic menace. "I may be too old for the trenches, but I still serve at His Majesty’s pleasure. And I hold the rank of captain, thank you very much."

Judith raised a quizzical eyebrow at him in expectation.

Happily for me, the dress code at MI5 is more relaxed than in the Fighting Services.

"MI5?" she exclaimed, louder than she had intended. Judith’s surprise was genuine, and astonishment registered on her face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wendy turn her head from the RAF colonel and look up at them.

Yes, military intelligence. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.

He straightened his posture a little, and his tone grew slightly defensive.

What? Don’t you think I’m bright enough for that? he asked, still grinning impishly.

"Yes, of course— I’m just…well, I wouldn’t have expected MI5. But now that you say it, it has a plausible ring to it—just barely, but, yes, it does seem plausible."

She smiled back, still teasing him.

Eddie exhaled a short laugh.

Oh, I know it’s a stretch, he agreed. An undisciplined soul like myself…

He stopped and scanned her face earnestly for a moment. Just then he noticed the young WAAF officer sitting next to Judith give him a curious look, and then she glanced away hastily as Eddie caught her staring.

Listen, Judith, why don’t I tell you all about it later? Have you finished your business here? he asked, tilting his head up toward the War Office above them.

Yes, my meetings are done, and I’m headed back to my base.

I’m free now too. So, can you spare half an hour to have a cup of tea with me? I know a serviceable little café just down the road from here. And now that I’ve found you again, you must tell me everything you’ve been up to lately. Sylvia will have a great many questions for me; and I’d jolly well better have some answers for her this evening when she asks.

Yes, alright, Judith nodded.

She was glad to hear him name his wife Sylvia again, a hopeful sign that her old life with these cherished people might still be available to her. It was a life she had loved, a life she missed. She had recognized Eddie was wearing the white scarf Sylvia had hand-knit for him. Before the war and its disruption of everything, before its harsh dislocation of life as they had known it, Eddie and Sylvia Harrison had counted among her dearest friends.

That certainly would be nice.

Tea with her oldest friend sounded very agreeable to her. And she had to admit she was quite curious to know what had happened to him in the last few years that could have led him to MI5.

Good. Good, yes—right-o, that’s excellent! he grinned.

His great pleasure at their chance meeting showed in his bright smile.

She offered a warm smile back to acknowledge the same feeling of happy discovery.

Just then the All Clear sirens sounded, and everyone stopped and looked up.

The air raid came to an abrupt and uneventful end after only eighteen minutes.

Judith almost let out a spontaneous shout of relief at the welcome signal. But she stifled her joyous cry at the last second, realizing how foolish she would appear, how weak.

A false alarm after all? Whatever the reason for so short a disruption to their busy Monday, the anxious and quiet assembly of military personnel in the bomb shelter visibly relaxed and seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief.

Eddie turned his head at the clanging sound as the two soldiers re-opened the shelter doors.

That act let in a cool draft of air; and the murmur of quiet conversations grew louder as people stood up, shook off their tension, and shuffled forward to make their way to the exit and up the stairs to the world again.

The shelter began to empty, rapidly and noisily.

And in a flash, at that moment, Judith recognized the real source of her terror.

She realized with creeping horror that it came from her deep fear of the crowd itself. She had felt trapped with strangers in that tightly-packed space, surrounded, cut off, sealed in. It struck her like a sidelong blow that this and not a healthy fear of death by bombs or suffocation was the real reason she had suffered another panic attack.

Despite the fact that this attack was milder than her worst ones in the past, it had struck her out of the blue – sudden, intense, and, worse, wholly unexpected. She felt betrayed, and out of control, a depressing feeling she had not experienced in a long while.

And it shook Judith to her core that she had suffered this relapse. Alarm registered on her face as she realized she had not yet recovered from her deep-seated insecurities.

She was still a thrall to the sharp-edged, crushing fears she believed she had conquered.

She knew now she had only suppressed her terrors all this time. And it distressed her beyond words to realize she was not really better after all, however well she masked her subconscious feelings of dread most of the time.

A shudder made her body quake as her spirits sank. She grew agitated, enough that Eddie frowned as he noticed her lose color and turn for the worse again.

Are you sure you’re all right, old thing?

Let’s just get out of here. And quickly, please.

Eddie continued to frown but said nothing as he took her arm and led her toward the bomb shelter exit. They were among the last to leave.

How could this happen to me again, after all these months?

Judith trembled again momentarily as they started up the stairs, afraid now she would never return to normal. She stumbled, and she seized Eddie’s arm with both hands, briefly, to steady herself.

The dread possibilities of an endless return of sudden panic appalled her – the idea that uncontrollable fears would lurk inside her forever, ready to rear up and disable her at an instant’s notice, like the unbreakable spell of an evil sorcerer.

It squeezed her heart to realized she still had not shaken her powerful feelings of distress and discomfort in the company of strangers – a distrust of people that lay somewhere past the point of paranoia.

Climbing the stairs in Eddie’s comforting presence, she understood she was still deeply afraid of strangers, of unknown men.

The shock of recognition pounded through her, and her nausea surged momentarily again.

And it horrified Judith to remember that although she had buried it deep, she had felt this way for a very long time, ever since she had escaped from Dunkirk with the broken remnants of the British Expeditionary Force almost three years earlier.

Chapter Two

Tea for Two

So, Superintendent Burroughs, said Eddie, moving his eyebrows up and down like a silent screen villain, Alone at last.

Deliberately melodramatic for comic effect, Eddie smiled mischievously as he took his seat opposite her at a small, square window table at the back of the café, the Dew Drop Inn. It was a quiet corner from which they could view the bustling street.

Judith smiled. She was feeling much better after their short walk down Whitehall from the fortress-like War Office to the café. She had regained her composure, calm again and happy to be in Eddie’s cheerful company.

A light dusting of snow fell earlier but had stopped, and the patchy weather was clearing. She felt reinvigorated breathing in the cold late-February air; and it had comforted her to look up and see London’s huge anti-aircraft barrage balloons hanging under the broken gray cloud cover, at varying distances and at different heights, riding at anchor over the city, tethered on their metal cables.

Eddie had offered her his arm once they were out on the sidewalk in front of the War Office, setting off for the café.

So, if you’ll come with me, please, I’ll show you the way. The snow has made the footing a bit treacherous. It’s hidden some patches of black ice underneath.

Thank you, she replied, taking the crook of his elbow as they started forward. That’s kind of you.

Not at all, he said, chuckling. "In case I slip, I’ll have you to cushion my fall."

Judith had burst out laughing, for the first time in a long while.

She had almost forgotten how good it felt to laugh.

And the teasing felt familiar, comfortable. It set the tone for their reunion.

Now, as they settled down and picked up their menus from the table, a teenaged waitress wearing a long red-and-white checked apron over her drab gray-blue dress drifted toward them to change their tea-stained tablecloth.

Uh-oh, I spoke too soon, said Eddie, glancing over Judith’s shoulder at her approach.

The girl smiled at them. I’ll just be a jiffy.

When she had reset the table and removed the dirty cloth to the kitchen, she came back and pulled out a pad and pencil from her apron pocket to take their order, licking the pencil lead first.

Standing there expectantly, the waitress looked quite gaunt.

Judith would have been surprised to learn the thin girl was the daughter of the café’s stout proprietress, busy with accounts behind the glass counter and its tempting display of baked goods at the front of the shop.

The girl was so lean and her mother so heavy they seemed to be from different species, never mind the same family.

The waitress cleared her throat, her preamble to a rote apology, and patiently she explained a common fact of wartime life: due to rationing, the café could not offer scones with butter or Devon cream, or butter-rich pastries such as croissants, or honey or jam. But their guests could choose from a variety of teas, taken black or with evaporated milk, but no sugar, to drink with fresh breads, or what passed for crumpets, spread with a little margarine.

Judith simply shrugged when Eddie looked at her quizzically.

We’ll have the crumpets with Darjeeling tea, he ordered. He remembered Judith favored Darjeeling, with Earl Grey running a close second.

That’ll be fine, sir. Back in a tick.

The young waitress nodded, jotted on her pad, and returned to the kitchen.

As she turned to leave them Eddie was already reaching into his coat pocket for a small pack of dark brown Spanish cigarettes and his elegant silver lighter.

He looked up at Judith and asked, Do you mind if I smoke?

She smiled faintly, and shook her head.

No, go right ahead. As I remember it, you can’t live without them; and I wouldn’t want to cause you any undue stress.

Not at all, not at all, protested Eddie mildly.

He gave a quick, good-humored laugh as he lit the cigarette and snapped shut his lighter to pocket it again, and he leaned back to blow the smoke up overhead, dangling his right hand down at his side, holding the cigarette away from her.

Then he declared: I can give up smoking whenever I want to. I know: I’ve done it dozens of times.

He offered an impish half-smile as Judith raised a highly skeptical eyebrow.

I see you doubt me, but it’s true! he insisted. Yet I must say— he paused to take another puff, and sighed out more smoke, a satisfied grin on his face, "—that does feel better."

Judith returned a gentle smile and she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together.

On the street a few moments earlier, as they had strolled slowly toward the café, speaking about family, Judith had asked Eddie how his wife Sylvia and his three daughters were faring, two of whom she calculated were now in their early teens. She had always thought it funny that Eddie was vastly outnumbered by females at home. Yet he had always considered himself lucky for the same reason.

Judith knew each of his daughters had been graced with an exotic Spanish first name, as their father had – Juanita, Esmeralda, and Violetta – names that each of the girls hated because it made them stand out as different from their peers.

They are too young to appreciate the advantages of distinction, he had told her once, before the war, commenting on their collective displeasure. But they’ll come around. Mark my words.

So she had asked if his daughters had come to see the wisdom of his view yet, and he shook his head in mock sorrow.

Alas, no, he laughed. They still think they’re being punished for something.

Then Eddie had assured her My girls are all brilliant, blossoming well, he had smiled, confirming, They’re taking after their beautiful mother more and more. And he spoke with pride about how well his children were doing at school.

He had also mentioned, with a deliberately mysterious air, During the hours they’re at school, Sylvia comes to work with me at MI5 in a secretarial capacity.

Truly? Judith had asked, surprised again, her curiosity piqued. "That’s…unusual, to say the least. You must tell me how this arrangement works, Eddie. This must be a rare exception to MI5 security protocols. How did you manage it?"

But Eddie had put her off with a sly grin.

Thanks to the Official Secrets Act, for the most part, he had replied evasively, raising one eyebrow to heighten the mystery. But I’ll tell you more about it when we have hot cups of tea sitting between us.

Judith knew Eddie loved secrets. She understood that he loved being in the know and in possession of inside information. MI5 would suit him well, she decided.

And now that they were sitting alone together, she could ask him about it.

So, Eddie—MI5, she began, her head tilted slightly to show her curiosity. "How did that happen? How long have you been working with our Secret Intelligence Service?"

Let me see, he said with a thoughtful look, calculating back from 22 February 1943, today’s date. I joined MI5 in early December of 1940—so just over two years now.

But how did you join the SIS? Did someone recruit you?

Yes…well, in a way. It was more like an opportunity arose, and I seized it, he said.

He leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring her posture, his forearms against the table, wisps of bluish smoke curling up from his cigarette held upright between his nicotine-stained fingers.

You’ve probably forgotten, because you’d recently returned from France with our battered army; and frankly, Judith, you were a wreck then—

She frowned slightly, and glanced away as if dodging an accusation.

"—But when we last met, he continued, I had just been accepted into the S.O.E. That was late in June, about the time the defeatist French government chose to capitulate to Hitler rather than fight on from Africa."

Sorry, I don’t remember, Judith confessed, returning his gaze again. The S.O.E?

She raised a curious eyebrow at the idea Eddie had once belonged to the clandestine Special Operations Executive.

"Yes, I was one of the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ for a time. I’d volunteered then for a new S.O.E. sabotage unit, and we prepared to greet Hitler’s troops when they invaded. That prospect seemed very likely at that time—you do remember that, surely?"

She shrugged and nodded. Of course.

"Right, well, as you know, the BEF had to abandon so much of our armor, artillery, munitions, and other equipment in their evacuation from Dunkirk that our Home Guard was bally well obliged to improvise. We were tasked with finding ways to slow the Jerries down when they came ashore, by whatever means possible."

A satisfied smile returned to his face.

"My Sylvia was part of that unit too, did you know? That’s how she has the clearance now to work with me at MI5."

Judith looked startled, and shook her head.

Truly, is that so? she asked.

She had not meant to make her question sound so doubtful, so challenging.

Yet she wondered how anyone could entertain the idea that her dear friend Sylvia – the sweet, innocent-looking, mild-tempered mother of three – could be a saboteur. She guessed Sylvia would have been a spotter, or message runner, or some other kind of look-out or scout. To look at her guileless face and honey-blonde curls and her child-like eyes as blue as a robin’s eggs, no one would ever suspect her of anything duplicitous.

"Yes, that’s so, Eddie went on, looking serious. At any rate, you’ll remember we’d won the Battle of Britain by that September; and Hitler postponed his plans to invade us. So our sabotage unit was disbanded."

Judith nodded her understanding, recalling this straightforward turn of events.

But about then I ran into an old friend from Cambridge, Richard Brooman-White. Perhaps you’ve met him at dinner at our place? No?

Judith shook her head doubtfully. I don’t think so.

Well, never mind. Dickie had been obliged to resign from active duty with the Royal Artillery because of ill health. In lieu, he’d taken a desk job at MI5, in counter-intelligence; and he soon found himself heading up Section B-One-g, MI5’s Iberia team.

Judith continued to wear a quizzical expression.

He was in charge of monitoring the espionage activities of Nazi spies originating from Spain, Portugal and North Africa, Eddie expanded. He remembered that I spoke Spanish like a native and that I knew the region well, so he asked me to join him. And about a year later, when he went off to head up Section Five-D for MI6, I took over the Iberia Section in his place. I’ve been at MI5 ever since, spying on Nazi Germany’s secret agents lodged in these sunny neutral countries. And all this while, through them, we’ve attempted to feed the Jerries plausible lies about us, and at the same time confound their every scheme.

He paused to chuckle, and tap cigarette ash into the plain white ceramic ashtray centered on their table beside the salt and pepper cruets.

He saw that Judith looked rather confused at his detailed explanation involving obscure divisions of the SIS. He recognized it was a lot for an outsider to take in and sort through, so he took another drag on his cigarette as he waited to see if she had questions.

Sounds…interesting, she said hopefully, unsure what she could ask next, since his job at MI5 was classified Top Secret.

"I think so, he affirmed. We’ve enjoyed some important successes this past year, cozening the devilish brutes."

Then he frowned once more, in the same manner he had when he first met her this morning, remembering again what fragile shape Judith had been in on her return from Dunkirk, after she had been rescued with bulk of the British Expeditionary Force escaping destruction in France.

Judith, he began softly, kindness in his tone of voice, "You look splendid, really top-shelf now, and I couldn’t be more delighted. But when I saw you last, you were…hmm, let’s just say you weren’t doing at all well."

Judith again looked down and away, embarrassed, afraid of her memories.

I expect that’s true, she admitted softly, returning his concerned gaze.

He hesitated, then pressed her further.

"When you last came to one of our Sunday soirées that summer, you seemed to be…I don’t know…grieving—listless and morose, depressed, all locked up inside. I remember we talked a little, but mostly you kept to yourself; and you hardly spoke a word after the other guests arrived. You had this distant look in your eyes, sad, like some haunted sleepwalker. And then you disappeared after that. We knew that Dunkirk had been a terrible experience for everyone involved; and Sylvia and I were both very worried about your emotional recovery. And we tried to do something to help, too. But then you were transferred suddenly, all very hush-hush, we didn’t know where to find you."

Judith frowned again, averting her gaze, shifting in her chair uncomfortably as she listened sorrowfully.

Of course, by then the height of the Blitz had come upon us all, and we were just about to pack up the family to go to Hertford for our S.O.E. training. So—unfortunately—we lost touch with you.

Eddie looked down, frowning as he stubbed out his cigarette.

"I am very sorry about that, Judith. I am. We tried to keep in touch with your father. Not surprisingly, he was always too busy to accept our dinner invitations. But when we phoned him, he’d always assure us that you were fine, on a secret assignment somewhere. So we took that on faith."

Eddie paused, drew in a deep breath, and he looked guilty as he confessed, But still, it was selfish of us not to pursue it harder.

Talk of Dunkirk stirred a cauldron of black memories in Judith.

Flashes of distressing images surfaced, and she began to feel the first symptoms of panic return – racing pulse, shallow breathing, the vague pain of fear lancing her stomach.

She began to lose color again, and she had to fight to control her voice, trying to sound understanding when she assured him:

Not at all, Eddie—it’s…it’s alright. Really. I…I know everyone was extremely busy then, trying to save the realm.

She could not look him in the eye.

Eddie noticed her color change and her growing discomfort. She was starting to show the same symptoms of illness she had suffered in the War Office bomb shelter, and he regarded her with a renewed look of concern.

Feeling ill again?

She shook her head as she glanced up in his somber face, and made a conscious effort to soften her expression, trying to control her rapid breathing without being obvious about it.

By way of assurance, she also reached out briefly to touch his forearm, and she offered at him a serious look, forgiveness in her eyes.

At any rate, I barely remember that summer after we got back, she went on. But another thrill of fear surged through her and registered on her face as she explained, It was terrible time for me, Eddie. And for a while I was hospitalized with battle fatigue.

It was Eddie’s turn to be shocked.

"What’s that? I…I didn’t know. I am so sorry, Judith. So, are you…are you all right, now? he asked. He looked and sounded quite troubled at her surprising confession. Can you tell me what happened to you in France?"

I’m all right…yes, she tried to reassure him.

But she could see Eddie did not think she sounded convincing. She certainly did not look confident in her answer. She looked away, alarmed and feeling ill again, and shifted in her seat as if about to get up and run. All color drained from her cheeks, and she was taking shorter, shallower breaths.

I’d rather not talk about…that time—if you don’t mind, she managed to say.

Eddie saw her breathing become noticeably more labored, as if she were gasping for life as the air left the room, and she began to glance around nervously, over his shoulders, as though planning her escape.

He leaned back, and he raised his left eyebrow dubiously, fighting an impulse to fire off more questions. He ached to press her for details.

Yet he could see he must bide his time for the moment.

He gave her a half-nod to acknowledge his respect for her wishes.

My time with the BEF was quite terrible, Eddie, a very scarring experience, she admitted. Please—

She felt herself growing more distraught under his curious gaze.

Again, she averted her eyes for an instant, a pained expression of sorrow and guilt on her face. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles growing white, as she paused to catch her breath.

"It was a very rough go for me—extremely disheartening. And I’d rather not recall it just now. Please."

Eddie continued to regard her seriously, as he might study an unexploded bomb. He was afraid to push her further. So he nodded, to be agreeable, and he pursed his lips to signify he was prepared to be patient.

Of course, he said, sighing out the words. As you wish.

Immediately, he flashed an impish grin and changed the subject to get past the uncomfortable moment.

I say, you have sworn fealty to the Official Secrets Act? he asked brightly.

Judith, the pressure off, began to feel a little better straightaway.

"Yes, I am a party to it, she replied, giving him a curious look. She was almost breathing normally once more, her color returning. I’m a communications officer with the Wrens, Eddie. I hold full knowledge of our secret codes. Why do you ask?"

Right you are, of course! Good! he declared. Then let me tell you what I am able to say about my work with MI5; and then you can tell me all about what you’re doing now.

She nodded, and flashed a brief smile in return.

Eddie smiled back, and at once he began to fill her in on his recent life and times in the shadowy world of espionage.

But although Judith continued to look at him, and she pretended to seem interested in what he was saying, she was no longer focused on their conversation.

She was lost in her own dark memories, a faraway look in her eyes.

It was some time before Eddie discovered she was no longer listening to him.

Chapter Three

Volunteer

"If we thought you’d be in any danger, Tracy, we wouldn’t even consider sending you," General Brier assured her, looking earnestly across his paper- and map-strewn desk