Page 13 of Tides of Resistance
She sat on a box in the tiny officers’ mess and began methodically double-checking her waterproof pouches and equipment. Soon she would be on her own, and this was her last chance to make sure she had everything organised so she could transport it safely to shore as she swam.
The precious new radio crystals, her identity documents and her pile of francs were all stashed away in her satchel for now until it was time to wear the pouches.
Lizzie watched crew members carry out their procedures, and she guessed they had done the same drill hundreds of timesbefore. As she sat there quietly, she ran through the plans for when she reached St. Malo. The plan hinged on at least her aunt still living in the same house, even if her uncle and cousins were scattered because of the war. If the house no longer belonged to the family, she would have to change her plan, and it would be even more of a risk, but her father said that was unlikely. In her mind, she ran through her imminent swim and moved her lips slightly as she repeated the instructions the trainer had drilled into her.
It was common to panic, so she internalised her orders so that no matter how terrified she became when swimming in the dark, she would function by rote.
Lizzie pulled out a large map of the medieval walled city and pored over it one last time, committing the finer details of the city’s layout to memory as she couldn’t take it with her.
The tension was building, and she checked her watch repeatedly, her heart feeling like it might burst out of her chest. She still couldn’t quite believe she would soon swim alone towards the shore of the occupied city she used to holiday in as a child. The two years since the SOE recruited her seemed like another lifetime, and the carefree girl she had been when she last visited her family in St. Malo was a different person in a new, sinister world.
A tall, razor-thin man, whose peaked cap almost brushed the ceiling of the submarine, popped his head into the room. ‘Ten minutes, miss, and then we’re ready for you.’
She nodded and stood, knowing what she must do. She carried the tin of lanolin into the tiny bathroom, the only private space on the vessel. When she had needed the bathroom earlier, she was relieved to locate the private space because she must now change her clothes and coat her skin without causing a stir with the all-male crew.
Hastily, she changed into her dark-coloured, tight-fitting undergarments. The trainer had kitted her out and explained that wool insulates and retains some heat even when wet and that she would need every sliver of body warmth.
Then she smeared a thick coating of grease onto her exposed skin, and her hand shook as the panic reached a crescendo. She covered her feet and toes to prevent frostbite in brutal water temperatures, followed by her arms and legs, face, ears and neck, hands and fingers, which was slippery work. The smell was overpowering, and her stomach lurched with fear and repulsion.
Her trainer’s voice rang in her head again. ‘Apply it thoroughly and it could give you as much as an extra fifteen minutes of vital survival time and lower the chances of hypothermia.’
Lizzie tried not to think about the fact that he couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t succumb to hypothermia. What was the point? There were no guarantees when carrying out dangerous wartime missions. If that was the reassurance she sought, she was in the wrong line of work.
Lizzie exited the bathroom, and the razor-thin submariner awaited to escort her into position.
‘It’s 2 a.m.,’ he said, his face showing the ghost of a smile. ‘We’re surfacing now but can’t stay long. Every second endangers the life of the crew.’
Lizzie fitted her pouches onto her body as she had practiced in the training. She looked at the man once more, and he mouthed, ‘Good luck.’
The only sound was the whooshing of the sea against the steel of the vessel. Voices carried on water, and she’d been warned repeatedly not to say a word once they surfaced.
Lizzie climbed up through the narrow hatch opening and the cold night wind rushed into her face, invigorating her after the stale, still air of the submarine. She stepped out onto the wetdeck, almost losing her balance but managing to right herself. Panic thudded in her ears, and she breathed through it to calm her nerves.
The deck was close to the waterline and her heart slammed as the moment arrived when she must enter the cold unforgiving sea and there would be no turning back. For a second, she regretted not parachuting in like usual, for the black rolling body of water that surrounded her looked far more ominous than any moonlit sky.
The quarter moon cast only a faint glow on the deck, but it was enough for her to see her way to grip the steel edge and then gradually lower her body into the freezing water.
The shock spiralled through her limbs and seeped through her whole being, jolting her into action.
This was the moment she’d been building up to for weeks.
Lizzie took several deep breaths and then released her hold on the deck and slipped silently away from the submarine into the deep waters of the Channel.
As she swam, she heard rushing, bubbling sounds, and she caught the whiff of diesel again as the submarine prepared for its journey back to England. Then there was a gurgling noise, and she looked back to see the hull sinking swiftly beneath the water until it disappeared.
She was on her own.
CHAPTER 8
Lizzie had swum long distances in the Channel many times, but never at night as a lone agent on a mission to infiltrate Nazi-occupied territory.
Every fibre of her being was on high alert, and she must use that power in a measured way, not burn through her energy by feeding her fear, which would quickly turn into panic. She swam breaststroke to avoid the sounds of splashing and kept her eyes fixed on the silhouette of the rocky coastline ahead. Patches of light shimmered in the sky as she swam, and she imagined herself reaching her destination.
Lizzie took smooth, powerful strokes, her legs kicking underwater, so they made no noise. She controlled her breathing and paced herself as although it wasn’t far by daytime standards, one error could prove deadly in these dangerous conditions.
They chose the deepest part of the night, when German lookouts and shore patrol were predicted to be at their least alert. The water was at its coldest, but the darkness offered the best cloak of cover for her to get to shore without anyone spotting her, whilst also providing sufficient light to navigate the treacherous coastline.
One pouch flapped against her bare skin, and she flinched and gasped. Her chest was tight, and her muscles burned as she pushed through the cold swell, and the choppy waves lifted and tossed her towards the black rocks.
