Code Name Diane

The extraordinary limping lady

Photo by Oleksandra Bardash on Unsplash

When I speak about ordinary women becoming extraordinary through circumstance, what I mean is this woman: Virginia Hall, the most highly decorated female civilian of World War II.

I don’t know how many little girls dream of becoming a diplomat, but that’s exactly the story of Virginia Hall. Born in 1906 Baltimore, her family expected her to marry well and carry on the family money. Virginia had other ideas. Her early years showed an affinity for language and a deep sense of adventure, leading her to set her sights on joining the foreign service. With few women foreign officers (estimates for the time were about six out of fifteen hundred with none being ambassadors), this was an uphill battle from the start.

She attended Radcliff and Barnard colleges and signed for an exciting position as a clerk for the US Embassy in Warsaw. Though she applied for diplomatic work, she was denied again and again because of her gender. Then, tragedy struck. While stationed in Turkey, she suffered an accidental gunshot wound and subsequent gangrene. To save her life, they amputated her leg below the knee.

Virginia was twenty-seven and decided not to let a wooden leg slow her down. With a wry sense of humor, she decided to name her leg “Cuthbert.” In fact, this may have been a turning point for her life. As a child she was often dismissed and belittled. Multiple applications to her field went denied. Now she’d survived a life-threatening accident. A new lease on life. What would she do with it?

As it turns out, she would become an incredible badass.

She went on to work at the consulate in Venice, asking to take the oral exam, only then discovering that an artificial limb would preclude her from diplomat work (Another ridiculous rule was no married women diplomats). This heartbreak set the stage for something bigger in Virginia’s life.

She was in France in May of 1940 when Germany invaded, so she volunteered for the ambulance service, transporting French soldiers to Paris hospitals. She found that being an American and a woman afforded her some lenience with Nazi officials, whom she needed for ration cards. As she watched fascism grow its ugly roots through France, a new Virginia emerged—one who began to consider how to undermine Nazis.

A chance encounter with a British spy would change everything.

She found herself in London, reaching out to a contact at the SOE (British Secret Service) who specialized in sabotage and propaganda. She joined SOE in April 1941 and after a quick four-month training, she became only the second woman SOE officer dropped into Nazi-occupied France, posing as a reporter for the New York Post.

She was a natural, manipulating the ignorance of Nazi officers who could never believe a woman was capable of such work. Based out of Lyon, she organized meetings, resistance members, weapon and supply drops, and led escaping Allied airmen back to safety.

The Gestapo put her on their wanted list, calling her “The Limping Lady.”

She founded the circuit named HECKLER, recruiting fellow resistors. Her collaborators included nuns, a doctor and brothel owner in Lyon. The brothel served as a safe house while their girls worked with German clients passed along information. Some of the girls with STDs would gladly welcome the Nazi officers to infect them, then drug the officers and photograph them in their uniform, sending the information to Hall. Hey, many people did their part for the war effort.

She became a chameleon, changing her appearance and code names up to several times a day.

She was careful and independent. Untrusting of her boss, she did things her own way and told the SOE to back off and let her work. Invited to a meeting of resistors in Marseilles, she declined, feeling her contemporaries didn’t take security seriously enough.

Her instincts saved her from being one of the twelve captured by the Gestapo that day.

This left Virginia as the only free agent, and the only one with a radio to communicate with London. She carried on her work with the Resistance while setting her sights on those prisoners who were now held at Mauzac Prison.

All her skills were put to the test as Germany closed in on Lyon, moving agents into the Unoccupied Zone. Time was running out. An infamous Nazi Officer nicknamed the Butcher of Lyon hung posters and called for the capture of “The Enemy's Most Dangerous Spy.” He once said, "I would give anything to get my hands on that limping Canadian bitch." He didn’t even know what nationality she was.

Virginia kept her head down and focused. She recruited the wife of one of the prisoners, smuggling messages and tools inside sardine tins. One of the tools was a key to the door. Virginia organized a full escape with safe houses, transport, and police uniforms.

They escaped on 15 July 1942, right about the time the Gestapo was closing in. Virginia recruited a priest and camp workers to shut down a security tower, rescuing the resisters from Mauzac who were being tortured for information. The twelve hid out then made their way to Lyon, where Virginia helped them return safely to England and Spain.

News of the escape reached Hitler who ordered her capture and flooded the area with SS officers.

Things were getting dangerous for her. She had been protected by senior police in the Unoccupied Zone, but the SS sent an extra five hundred agents, making any protection impossible. She narrowly escaped at the end of 1942 when she was forced to walk fifty miles over three days in heavy snow over the rugged Pyrenees Mountains.

With a wooden leg.

When she reached Spain, she was arrested due to inadequate paperwork, but released after six weeks.

Okay, now things get really interesting.

Virginia wasn’t done. She wanted back in France, and America—now with their sights set on France—desperately needed her help. How would she do this with the Nazis on the lookout for a limping female spy?

Disguise.

She found a makeup artist to draw wrinkles on her face and a hardened London dentist to grind down her teeth to resemble an elderly French milkmaid. And back to France she went. She wore tattered dresses and shawls and carried a pail, adjusting her gait to conceal her limp. Dressed as an old woman, she once sold cheese to German soldiers who had no idea they stood before one of their most wanted spies.

Her second tour lasted from 1944-1945 in an organizing role for the Americans, creating her own spy network. She called in airdrops, blew up bridges, and sabotaged trains. Her group was responsible for bringing German industry to a halt to prepare for the Allies D-Day invasion. At one point, her SAINT network of fifteen hundred people reclaimed villages even before the Allies arrived.

One of those soldiers, Paul Goillot, became her husband years later.

When she returned home she became a founding member of the newly-formed CIA, where she remained for fifteen years, though she longed for the adrenaline of field work. In May 1945, the head of the OSS presented her with the Distinguished Service Cross. President Truman wanted to give her the award in a public ceremony, but she declined, concerned this would make her non-operational in the future.

It was the only Distinguished Service Cross awarded to a civilian woman in World War II.

She retired in 1966 and never spoke about her career. As she said once, "Many of my friends were killed for talking too much."

It should be noted that espionage officials didn’t like her during her time in WWII. Working as a woman spy wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t understood. Her intensity and energy that made her excellent at her job also made her a target for the male-centered world she lived in.

Her story is on display at the CIA museum inside the spy agency headquarters in Langley, VA. More information can be found on the CIA website and the UK’s National Archives.

Virginia Hall

Code Name Diane (among others)

1906-1982

Please enjoy this short story companion piece:

A Land of Regret

November 1942

Haute-Loire, France

The volcanic stone pillars of Chambon fade into the golden sunset as I trek south onto Protestant Mountain with less than sixty minutes to complete my mission. The straps of this damn prosthetic are rubbing my thigh raw. No time to complain. RAF. Twenty-two. Brown hair. Downed spitfire, radio signal coordinates confirmed.

Our unoccupied zone is now overrun with Germans. The Vichy government was one thing—feckless bastards—but since the Nazis have infiltrated the village, these rescues have become nearly impossible. Yet here I am.

By the time the sun slips into darkness, I count the minutes I have left knowing I have one shot to get this right.

“Ouch.” I’ve scraped my knee after tripping on an exposed tree root, my hands scraping the wet earth to gather myself before I stand. Once up, I startle at attention. A noise in the distance. I turn in a circle slowly, silently. The air carries a hint of disruption. Someone is here.

Back pressed against a trunk, I lift my skirt and unclip my knife from its holster on my prosthetic. Cuthbert, though frustratingly wooden with leather and metal, does serve his purposes.

Footsteps.

It’s too far from his coordinates. My contacts aren’t out here tonight. If he’s German out on patrol, I’m fucked. They’ve been looking for the limping lady for months. They don’t know I’m American, I remind myself. I can play dumb better than most. A silly woman out to meet a German soldier for a midnight tryst. I pull up my stockings to hide my prosthetic and settle into character. Barbara, American barkeep ready to flirt. And ready to slash a Nazi’s neck.

Closer.

Faster.

I step out. “Liebling?”

His hands are on me. I’m thrown to the ground but I hook my foot to his stomach and kick him off me. I’m over him, straddled, knife to his neck. Ready to cut.

RAF insignia. I slap his arm. “You idiot!” I grab his Irvin jacket with both hands and yank him up. To let the adrenaline calm, I lean back against the tree again, grateful I didn’t need to enter a knife fight.

His voice is a whisper when he speaks. “Are you the resistance?” Poor thing is terrified. Eyes wide. Hair a mess full of dried leaves.

I hold my hand up. “Quiet.” One minute to breathe, then we move. “What are you doing this close to the village? You’re supposed to stay put.”

“I heard something.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, trembling and jerky. “I’ve heard stories. I’ve got a girl back home. I can’t—”

These guys have been in the sky dropping bombs and hoping to never find themselves face to face with a dark forest crawling with Nazi assholes. The unlucky ones have to adjust to reality right quick. “Take a breath. Where’s your parachute?”

“Buried it under leaves back, well, somewhere.” He looks over his shoulder. Bright red cheeks over baby fat. Children tasked with war. What a waste it all is.

“Fine.” I hand him a flask of brandy. “Calm down. Take a swig and some deep breaths. It’s only getting more stressful from here.” Once the excitement settles, my body buzzes. Heightened. Alert. Alive.

He swigs then winces but repeats three times, shaking off the burn in his throat. “What did you say back there? The German word?”

“It means darling. I have characters to play out here.” I’ve been a hundred different women since the onset of this invasion. Pre-war Virginia remains buried deep among memories of raising lambs in Baltimore and longing for adventure out here in the big, beautiful world. How I can still see this place as beautiful is a damn miracle. “You ready?”

“You’re American.” Stating the obvious. This is good. Shock is wearing off. He’s adjusting to the moment. Taking in his surroundings.

I check my watch. “Take off your jacket.” I hand him a tattered coat and hat. Scuffed boots. “Better. Do you know any French?”

He shakes his head.

They don’t prepare these kids. “Did you complete your target?”

The hint of a smile. “A German train carrying supplies.”

I hold up my hand. “Not a word more, you understand?”

He straightens his shoulders. Lifts his chin. “Yes.”

“Good.” At thirty-six I have an edge he doesn’t. Fear lessens the longer you’re in danger. Or maybe we live in hell long enough that death becomes a welcome possibility. I stuff his jacket and shoes under a pile of roots. “You’re a French Protestant who cleans the school. Act dumb and smile.”

“Yes, okay. I can do that.” He lunges forward to stop me from walking away. “Why do I need to have a story?”

“Because we’re walking into a tavern full of Nazis.”

***

Danger. I longed for it in my early ears and craved it while I worked a desk at the consulate in Warsaw. All those years begging for someone to let me work as a diplomat. Taking exams, reading rejections, balling my dress in my fist as men sat across from me smiling as they insisted women weren’t fit for such a demanding role.

I run my hand along Cuthbert. He got me kicked out of the running and sent me straight into war as the Gestapo’s most wanted spy. I owe him thanks. It’s funny how a bird hunting accident steals your leg, devastates your dreams, and nudges you along the road you were always meant for.

All things I have time to ponder as we wait in a barn with a hidden printing press underfoot. Part of my network to help these downed airmen navigate the gauntlet to safety. I’m an addict. Organizing spies and sticking it to the Nazis is my drug.

“I can’t.” The pilot shakes his head, finally realizing he must come face to face with the ugliest disease the world has ever known—Nazis.

“Yes, you can.” I grab him and shake. No time for softness. “You don’t have a choice, you hear me?”

“My name is—”

I slap my hand over his mouth and bring my face close. His eyes widen, shining like glass orbs in the flicker of lantern light. “Don’t tell me your name.”

He melts into the wall of the barn but forces a firm nod, so I lower my hand. For safety, I don’t want names. Secondary benefit, he remains an asset, which is more useful than a scared Brit who ejected himself from a spitfire. A no name pilot is more tolerable to me than someone’s child back in London who has a girlfriend and a favorite food. Once I see him for the human he is, all soft and patriotic, hopeful and brave—I can’t do what I need to keep him safe.

“Here you are.” The man we’re here for climbs out from under the floor and presents a ration card and ID. “Raid likely coming through soon. Get that kid out of here.”

I nod. “Thank you, Henri.” We both know Henri is not his name and I do him the favor of never asking for the real one. Truth is a luxury unknown in wartime. We all live in lies and secrets, breathing them like air.

I grab the pilot’s sleeve and tug him forward. “We’re going to the tavern to deliver paperwork to the Germans. I’ll cover for you. Just don’t say anything. If they hear your accent, you’re done. We both are. I haven’t come this far to lose now.”

“Why do I have to walk in there? Can’t you just send me up to Geneva? I can hike.”

“You’ll hide out with my friend for the night. There will be a raid at midnight. When they meet you at the tavern first, they’ll leave you be. It’s safer to control the narrative than to leave it to the Gestapo to craft.”

“Who are you?” he asks, exasperated.

“You can call me Diane.”

Virginia is in me, somewhere protected. The girl who roamed the woods outside Box Horn farm knew that someday, she’d fade into the darkness of the trees and emerge as someone new. Here, I am Diane, informant for Vichy, a smiling American woman who Nazis could never imagine being a wanted spy.

“Diane?” Tears gather in his reddened eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

“I’ve only lost three airmen. I don’t intend on tonight being the fourth.” I nudge him outside and point down the road toward the most dangerous moment of his life. After all this time rescuing Allies, I’ve learned not to warn him what he’s about to see. Led by a cloud of warm air against the crisp beautiful night, I imagine the blight of Nazis like blackened spores infecting this town of rebel souls.

What they don’t know is that Le Chambon-sur-Lignon is a thriving bed of resistance. Founded by Huguenots who fled in the seventeenth-century, they’ve led refugees and built trails to help Protestants escape Catholic persecution. This lives in the bones of their descendants who grew up on stories of broken limbs and burnings and beatings.

Protestant Mountain will always be a home for resistance. As Jews sleep in attics and basements and dot the woods at night, the rest of us smile at Nazis and hold invisible hands to guide them to safety.

“Bonjour,” the kid says. Yes, I know he’s twenty-two, but he belongs back home planning a wedding and drinking with his buddies. He’s a kid. Not the hardened soul I’ve become. I belong on a battlefield—a civilian disruptor. I’ve long ago given up on the promise of love so that young men like this one can have it all back home.

“You know one word.” I force a smile. My job is not to coddle him, it is to deliver him safely out of France. Still, if he gets rattled, it’s over for us both. At night you say, “Bonsoir.”

“I’m doomed.”

At the tavern door, I hand him a basket. “Remember, no words. Just smile.” He swallows. If he doesn’t faint, we might make it.

Through the door, the server nods. “Lovely evening.”

English. A sign all is well tonight. No trouble brewing. I hold the heavier basket in my left hand to cover my limp. They never notice the way I hold furniture and deliberately carry things. I’m a silly American woman barely worth their time.

“Bonsoir, gentlemen!” I approach the table of Nazis as easy as if I am one of them. An asset to any spy is the ability to make the enemy feel important. “I have papers for you. We’ve brought you cookies as well.”

The one German who speaks English smiles and lifts the basket from me. “Your allegiance is appreciated.”

The Americans funnel money to Britain and fight in the Pacific, but aren’t involved in this mess in France… yet. My accent helps me. Protects me.

He glances at the man behind me while slowly standing from the table. “Who is this?” He steps closer to examine him as the young airman’s cheeks burn bright red. It isn’t worry that lights his skin, it’s rage. He wants to kill them all. “Henri. He’s just arrived from Lyon to be a janitor at the school. He’s a quiet one. We’re off to find him a bed for the night.”

Henri nods, his eyes fixed on the man’s military dress. The skull and crossbones above a braided detail demarks an SS officer—nothing this Englishman could have imagined seeing up close. He was supposed to drop bombs from twenty-thousand feet. Anger doesn’t help me now. Methodical lies. That’s my currency.

The officer hesitates long enough to make my heart skip a beat. “I do hope they are feeding you well,” I say. He breaks his concentration enough to glance at me. I lower my voice to a whisper. “You know those Vichy officials are worthless. I don’t think anyone can trust them.”

He nods. There is mistrust everywhere with worry rippling through the occupied forces. Rumors of sympathetic officers grow by the day. “Quite right.” He knocks his heels together and throws a Sieg Heil.

I match his arm thrust. A gesture that boils the hate in my blood. I know the truth and still, nausea spreads through my gut. A master of disguise does not make me a monster. It makes me an actor. He turns to the young man who freezes. I shoot him a look, indicating to do it or risk being shot right here.

A British pilot downed after bombing a German supply chain forced to pose as a simple Frenchman and salute true evil. Why didn’t I warn him? Too much time to sit in the despair of it all. Better to hit him with it in the moment and pray his desire to fight another day overtakes his morals.

He stands tall, eyes bored into the Nazi officer. My stomach seizes, prepared to deal with the aftermath of a mission gone wrong, when the young man painfully lifts his arm. “Sieg Heil,” he whispers with a passable French accent.

The hurt seeps from his soul in such an honest way only those with empathy would notice.

I lead him out the back of the tavern and into the cool night. We walk toward the brothel where my friends wait. Here he will sleep in the guest room downstairs. There will be a raid to look for hidden Jews or Catholics or Poles. They don’t suspect an RAF pilot, but here he will be. They will ask for his papers and look past him because they met him earlier tonight. The brothel owner, the girls who welcome the Germans to their beds, the contacts along the route that will carry him to Geneva—they are all part of my network. Over a thousand people willing to risk their lives to save this one young man. It’s enough to make me believe in goodness despite, well, all of it.

But this young man doesn’t see that yet. We will offer him a night with one of the girls to help him forget what he had to do to survive. But God willing, he will live. I look over my shoulder, lips frozen from the cold night, to find him weeping silently, eyes straight ahead and body moving but lost somewhere in a land of regret.

I turn to face him as he knocks into me. He drops his head, chest sunken.

I place my finger under his chin and lift until his swollen, red eyes meet mine. “What is your name, soldier?”

He swallows, clearing room to breathe. “George.”

I straighten my shoulders. He could be my child. They are all someone’s child. The pain of knowing his name whittles through my core, leaving a trail of weakness. One look at his broken pride reminds me that one moment of humanity is forgivable. “I’m going to get you home, George.”

We walk silently through the night down a dirt road lit with silver moonlight. Moments like this make me ache for peace. A softness I cannot tolerate for how deeply it makes me feel.

George.

Written by Kerry Chaput

Edited by Sayword B. Eller