Branksome Hall - Slogan Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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The Branksome Slogan 21 Mission Completed I am known in Europe as Gaston Richer. My real name is of no importance. During the early years of the war I was an agent working for the governments of the allied countries. My story begins on May 31, 1940. Two of us were flown from England to Belgium. There we parachuted, with little equipment, into an open field remote from any village or habitation. We both had separate instructions to carry out after burying our parachutes. We were dressed in civilian clothes and carried no weapons. The authorities had supplied us with new names and citizenship papers. I knew nothing of my comrade ' s mission, nor he of mine. We parted without a word or glance, not expecting to see each other again for a long time, perhaps never. My first problem was to get away from the open field without being discovered by a German patrol. My instructions were to go to a small village, whose name I am unable to disclose, about five miles from the field. Once there, I was to saunter casually to the village inn and there await further instructions. These were to be given me by a contact who was, as yet, unknown to me. I arrived at the inn with- out incident, and sat in the comer of the dingy, smoke-filled room, watching the sombre faced peasants whisper together in isolated groups and draw quickly apart when they felt the penetrating eyes of the German soldiers, who were sprinkled around the room. The room was filled with tension. Only a few of the village girls showed any signs of friendliness toward the soldiers. My attention was drawn by loud laughter coming from a table close to mine. A beautiful, young Belgium girl was perched on the knee of a Nazi officer, gaily teasing him, much to the amusement of the other soldiers and the loathing of the peasants. At that moment the door was flung open by the German Commandant of the village. The girl was shoved roughly aside as the officers sprang to attention. The Commandant harshly ordered us all to go to the village square to witness the execution of an allied prisoner, found hiding outside the village. My heart seemed to stop functioning; for one terrible moment I was filled with cowardice and a desire to save only my own life. It passed. I watched the soldiers bring the prisoner to the centre of the square. It was my comrade. His clothes were torn to shreds and

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20 The Branksome Slogan was married at an early age to a much older man, a prosperous neigh- bouring farmer. She had led a lonely, hard-working life, for her husband was taciturn and miserly, and his temper did not improve throughout the long years of their marriage. He had died recently and she had inherited a few thousand dollars for which she had paid with the best years of her life. Now at last she was free to enjoy her- self. She bought a gaudy new wardrobe and a ticket to the West Coast. She had always wanted to travel and this would be her adventure. On the train she was instantly attracted to the kind young man who spoke pleasantly to her. Soon she was telling him all about herself . . . her lonely life, and her sudden new wealth with which she would now live comfortably. He was so sympathetic. They were engaged a very short time afterwards. In Vancouver they were married and lived quite happily — until her silly grin began to irritate him more and more, and her thrifty ness increasingly infuriated him. He used a hatchet and with one blow she was quite dead. The ending I worked out for the story shocked me. I was dis- gusted with my melodramatic imagination — for it was only imagina- tion that had prompted my inquisitive mind. I was infinitely more shocked some time later when I glanced through a Vancouver newspaper. The headlines, telling of a grue- some hatchet murder, blazed up at me. Underneath them was a picture, that of a familiar grinning woman. The article told of her unhappy marriage to an older man, a farmer in her neighbourhood, at whose recent death she had inherited a few thousand dollars. She had married a young soldier whom she had met on the westbound train, and had settled in Vaucouver . . . I realized doubly how poor my psychology had been . . . She had murdered her husband . . . with a hatchet! JEANNE ROSCOE, Form IV.

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22 The Branksome Slogan blood was still flowing from his wounds. His interview with the Gestapo had been a lengthy one. Our eyes met for a moment but no sign of recognition crossed his face. I knew no information had been ' divulged by him. In that brief glance his eyes conveyed a message of strength and determination to me. With my heart full of anguish and pain, I helplessly watched the firing squiad execute my friend. Hatred and desire for revenge surged through my veins, followed by a feeling of complete num ' bness. In the Office of Strategic Service we had been trained to think and act as machines. Death and brutality was a part of our schooling. I realized then that I was not fighting for myself as an individual, but for my comrades who had died for world democracy and freedom. I vowed that I would do my part. My thoughts were interrupted by a soft pressure on my hand. At the Ball Game Looking up I saw the Belgian girl from the inn disappearing into the crowd. She looked back only once and raised her hand in the tra- ditional thumbs up greeting. Into my hand she had slipped a small, white paper containing instructions. I read them carefully and then destroyed it. I left the village immediately, as I had only half an hour before the German supply trucks would be crossing the bridge outside the village. My instructions were to blow up the bridge when the trucks were on it. I foun d the place where my comrade had hidden the explosives. He had done well. I placed the explosives under the bridge and waited by the switch.