Page 71 of Tides of Resistance
It was just after 6. a.m., and the light was sufficiently bright for Lizzie to take photographs, but it was still early enough for no one to be around. Her grandparents had revealed that activity on the grounds rarely began until later.
Her aim was to check if the plans she and her uncle had witnessed to transform Portelet Bay into a key observation post and formidable piece of the defence fortifications were real. The Nazis planted false facts to throw spies who had infiltrated their operations off the scent, and for that reason she was trained not to trust anyone or anything until it was verified.
She must validate the construction plans for Portelet so the War Cabinet didn’t plan the invasion based on German deception. If they were to act on her intelligence, she must prove it was accurate.
Lizzie crept back along the route she had come the previous night, melting into the shadows of the trees, close to the wall, thinking of Jack and the many spycraft lessons he had insistedshe undergo. She wondered what he was doing now and wished she could let him know she had successfully infiltrated the island.
Then Seagrove stood before her, and she was as nervous at finally seeing her home in daylight as she was about being seen by a guard. The first thing she noticed as she approached the house, which was bathed in the glowing yellow light of early morning, was the radio antenna swaying in the breeze on the rooftop. That confirmed her suspicion that the Germans were preparing Seagrove as a military base and not just using the main house as billets for troops.
From her sheltered spot by the wall to one side of the house, she spotted two military trucks parked on the drive. As she drew level with the house, a blood-red Nazi banner flapped in the wind, and she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight.
They had turned her beautiful home into a German base, and there was nothing she could do about it. The breath caught in her chest, and she sank against the wall, her stomach churning. After a few minutes, Lizzie pressed on, telling herself the way to liberate Seagrove was to gather all the intelligence she could. Only then could the Allies plan for the reality of how the enemy was preparing to block their invasion.
The immaculate rose garden her mother had so lovingly pruned and tended over the years was overgrown, roses choked by weeds gasping for life, whilst others had completely shrivelled on the tall canes. It would break her mother’s heart, and she wouldn’t tell her even if she could. The chaotic garden symbolised how all their lives had been throttled by the war, and the forlorn sight was almost too much to bear.
She shook her head, choking back the rising pain within her. This was not the time or the place to lower her guard and let sentimentality take charge.
There were survey stakes and coloured ribbons in the front garden, and she recognised similar equipment to what they used in St. Malo. There were several heavy tripods, the tops covered by canvas tarpaulins, dominating what used to be the immaculate lawn. Chains, string and other measuring equipment was stuffed into large canvas bags, spilling out onto the grass in one corner of the garden.
The equipment gave every sign that the construction plans for Portelet were underway. Until that moment, a tiny part of her had dared hope it had all been a cunning sleight of hand, and the house and surrounding area would remain just as they were before the Nazi occupation.
The smell of cigarette smoke, followed by a cough, alerted Lizzie to someone at the front of the house. A soldier appeared on the lawn and stooped to pick up a stray measuring tape. He drew on his cigarette and marched off across the patchy grass in the other direction.
Lizzie let out a long, slow breath. This was her window to get the photos, and then she would hide near Secret Cove and wait for Alain to collect her after his night fishing. It was too great a risk to stay in the grounds during the daytime, and as much as she would love to steal another precious hour with her grandparents, it would be reckless and endanger them all.
She’d found Nan and Pops. It was more than she’d hoped for when she set out from Portsmouth on the submarine, and even though she’d fantasised about reaching Jersey, it had seemed like nothing more than a whimsical wish.
Her sturdy shoes gripped the cliff path as she moved cautiously through the bushes and undergrowth that led down to the bay. The Boche were turning her childhood playground into their Jersey headquarters. Without her intimate knowledge of every foot of the area, she wouldn’t stand a chance of making it out alive, but that was her secret weapon.
Pushing her head through a gap in the undergrowth, so her body was still camouflaged but her vision was unobstructed, her heart seemed to stop beating as Portelet Bay stretched before her in all its wild beauty. The tide was just coming in and the curling white edges of the waves frothed and foamed at the base of the Martello Tower where she had spent so many hours of her life idling away the time at low tide, playing in the rock pools with her siblings and pretending they were pirates.
At first look, nothing had changed, and she longed to run down the path with careless abandon and feel the golden sand between her toes as she waited for the tide to rise for her to swim.
Her eyes swivelled from left to right, scanning the area from her concealed spot. Gun emplacements and ugly concrete installations caught her eye in the distance, just like at St. Malo. Her spirits sank, and the last vestige of hope dissipated as what she saw confirmed the construction had begun. The gun batteries would affect the Allied naval fleet’s ability to approach the Channel Islands and, even more importantly, the Brittany coast.
During mission prep, Val had explained that the War Cabinet was evaluating invasion scenarios, which was why the intelligence she would gather could prove so critical to the liberation of France.
Lizzie extracted her mini camera and snapped photographs of the gun emplacements, early construction sites and installations. She photographed formations of stakes which, based on her work with Uncle Charles, showed future gun positions. Her eyes ran over the cleared areas of vegetation along the cliff paths overlooking the bay that suggested they would be firing lines. The marked positions were extensive, and as well as taking photographs, she studied the area and committed the details to memory.
After she’d photographed all that seemed relevant, Lizzie peeked out of the bushes and prepared to retreat to the safety of Seagrove’s treelined perimeter. With one last nostalgic sweep of the bay, the tide already swelling and coming in fast, she stepped out onto the path.
By the time she realised her fatal error, it was too late to disappear back into the vegetation. The sound of boots reverberated in her ears, and as she was about to hide, a heavy hand dug into her shoulder and spun her around.
‘Who the hell are you?’ barked the soldier, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck.
CHAPTER 41
Lizzie stumbled up the path and back towards the house, the gun barrel pressed into the small of her back. Her head was a jumble of conflicting thoughts as she rebuked herself for overreaching and thinking she could pull off such a bold move with no backup.
What had she been thinking?
Her thoughts spun faster and faster as her captor jostled her towards the house. Was this the end? She’d had a good run—the devastating statistics that most SOE agents didn’t make it beyond six weeks in enemy territory taunted her. She’d been back repeatedly and completed successful missions, and when Jack warned her—begged her, even—that it was time for her to quit and do her part in the safety of Baker Street, she wouldn’t listen.
And this was the price she would pay—the price they would both pay. She consoled herself with the fact that at least she’d seen her grandparents one last time, and there was no trail that would lead to them. Trudging towards her own house under arrest by a German soldier had a surreal quality to it, and when she stood in front of Seagrove, she had to suppress a manic laughfrom escaping her lips. What would he think if he knew she was born in this house, and it belonged to her family?
The soldier pushed her through the front door, and she gulped back a sob. This wasn’t how she’d imagined returning to her home. Her dreams and prayers to be reunited with her family at Seagrove after the war would never come to pass. She’d envisioned her wedding to Jack would take place here, and finally she would get to show him around her beloved island, and he would meet her grandparents.
Lizzie’s eyes scanned the grand entrance hall and were immediately drawn to a large portrait of Hitler in a thick gold frame that dominated the wall. The sight of his evil face staring back at her turned her stomach. Nearby was a swastika flag, and she recognised pieces of the family furniture strewn about as the soldier shunted her deeper into the house. Oil paintings of Portelet Bay, various island scenes and one of Seagrove still hung on the walls, but there were empty spaces where family portraits had once been.
