THE LONDON STREET called Whitehall was lined on both sides with grandiose buildings that embodied the magnificence of the British empire as it had once been, a hundred years earlier.

Inside those fine buildings, many of the high rooms with their long windows had been subdivided by cheap partitions to form offices for lesser officials and meeting rooms for unimportant groups.

As a subcommittee of a subcommittee, the Medals (Clandestine Actions) Working Party met in a windowless room fifteen feet square with a vast, cold fireplace that occupied half of one wall.

Simon Fortescue from M16 was in the chair, wearing a striped suit, striped shirt, and striped tie.

The Special Operations Executive was represented by John Graves from the Ministry of Economic Warfare, which had theoretically supervised SOE throughout the war.

Like the other civil servants on the committee, Graves wore the Whitehall uniform of black jacket and gray striped trousers.

The Bishop of Marlborough was there in a purple clerical shirt, no doubt to give the moral dimension to the business of honoring men for killing other men.

Colonel Algernon "Nobby" Clarke, an intelligence officer, was the only member of the committee who had seen action in the war.

Tea was served by the committee's secretary, and a plate of biscuits was passed around while the men deliberated.

It was midmorning when they came to the case of the Jackdaws of Reims.

John Graves said, "There were six women on this team, and only two came back.

But they destroyed the telephone exchange at Sainte-Cecile, which was also the local Gestapo headquarters." "Women?" said the bishop.

"Did you say six women?" "Yes." "My goodness me." His tone was disapproving.

"Why women?" "The telephone exchange was heavily guarded, but they got in by posing as cleaners." "I see." Nobby Clarke, who had spent most of the morning chain-smoking in silence, now said, "After the liberation of Paris, I interrogated a Major Goedel, who had been aide to Rommel.

He told me they had been virtually paralyzed by the breakdown in communications on D day.

It was a significant factor in the success of the invasion, he thought.

I had no idea a handful of girls were responsible.

I should think we're talking about the Mi!itary Cross, aren't we?" "Perhaps," said Fortescue, and his manner became prissy.

"However, there were discipline problems with this group.

An official complaint was entered against the leader, Major Clairet, after she insulted a Guards officer." "Insulted?" said the bishop.

"How?" "There was a row in a bar, and I'm afraid she told him to fuck off.

saving your presence, Bishop." "My goodness me.

She doesn't sound like the kind of person who should be held up as a hero to the next generation." "Exactly.

A lesser decoration than the Military Cross, then-the MBE, perhaps." Nobby Clarke spoke again.

"I disagree," he said mildly.

"After all, if this woman had been a milksop she probably wouldn't have been able to blow up a telephone exchange under the noses of the Gestapo." Fortescue was irritated.

It was unusual for him to encounter opposition.

He hated people who were not intimidated by him.

He looked around the table.

"The consensus of the meeting seems to be against you." Clarke frowned.

"I presume I can put in a minority recommendation," he said with stubborn patience.

"Indeed," said Fortescue.

"Though I doubt if there's much point." Clarke drew on his cigarette thoughtfully.

"Why not?" "The Minister will have some knowledge of one or two of the individuals on our list.

In those cases he will follow his own inclinations, regardless of our recommendations.

In all other cases he will do as we suggest, having himself no interest.

If the committee is not unanimous, he will accept the recommendation of the majority." "I see," said Clarke.

"All the same, I should like the record to show that I dissented from the committee and recommended the Military Cross for Major Clairet." Fortescue looked at the secretary, the only woman in the room.

"Make sure of that, please, Miss Gregory." "Very good," she said quietly.

Clarke stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

And that was the end of that.

FRAU WALTRAUD FRANCK came home happy.She had managed to buy a neck of mutton.

It was the first meat she had seen for a month.

She had walked from her suburban home into the bombed city center of Cologne and had stood in line outside the butcher shop all morning.

She had also forced herself to smile when the butcher, Herr Beckmann, fondled her behind; for if she had objected, he would have been "sold out" to her ever afterwards.

But she could put up with Beckmann's wandering hands.

She would get three days of meals out of a neck of mutton.

"I'm back!" she sang out as she entered the house.

The children were at school, but Dieter was at home.

She put the precious meat in the pantry.

She would save it for tonight, when the children would be here to share it.

For lunch, she and Dieter would have cabbage soup and black bread.

She went into the living room.

"Hello, darling!" she said brightly.

Her husband sat at the window, motionless.

A piratical black patch covered one eye.

He had on one of his beautiful old suits, but it hung loosely on his skinny frame, and he wore no tie.

She tried to dress him nicely every morning, but she had never mastered the tying of a man's tie.

His face wore a vacant expression, and a dribble of saliva hung from his open mouth.

He did not reply to her greeting.

She was used to this.

"Guess what?" she said.

"I got a neck of mutton!" He stared at her with his good eye.

"Who are you?" he said.

She bent and kissed him.

"We'll have a meaty stew for supper tonight.

Aren't we lucky!"

THAT AFTERNOON, FLICK and Paul go married in a little church in Chelsea.

It was a simple ceremony.

The war in Europe was over, and Hitler was dead, but the Japanese were fiercely defending Okinawa, and wartime austerity continued to cramp the style of Londoners.

Flick and Paul both wore their uniforms: wedding dress material was very hard to find, and Flick as a widow did not want to wear white.

Percy Thwaite gave Flick away.

Ruby was matron of honor.

She could not be bridesmaid because she was already married-to Jim, the firearms instructor from the Finishing School, who was sitting in the second row of pews.

Paul's father, General Chancellor, was best man.

He was still stationed in London, and Flick had got to know him quite well.

He had the reputation of an ogre in the U.S.

military, but to Flick he was a sweetheart.

Also in the church was Mademoiselle Jeanne Lemas.

She had been taken to Ravensbrueck concentration camp, with young Marie; and Marie had died there, but somehow Jeanne Lemas had survived, and Percy Thwaite had pulled a hundred strings to get her to London for the wedding.

She sat in the third row, wearing a cloche hat.

Dr. Claude Bouler had also survived, but Diana and Maude had both died in Ravensbrueck.

Before she died, Diana had become a leader in the camp, according to Mademoiselle Lemas.

Trading on the German weakness of showing deference to aristocracy, she had fearlessly confronted the camp commandant to complain about conditions and demand better treatment for all.

She had not achieved much, but her nerve and optimism had raised the spirits of the starving inmates, and several survivors credited her with giving them the will to live.

The wedding service was short.

When it was over, and Flick and Paul were husband and wife, they simply turned around and stood at the front of the church to receive congratulations.

Paul's mother was there, too.

Somehow the general had managed to get his wife on a transatlantic flying boat.

She had arrived late last night, and now Flick met her for the first time.

She looked Flick up and down, obviously wondering whether this girl was good enough to be the wife of her wonderful son.

Flick felt mildly put out.

But she told herself this was natural in a proud mother and kissed Mrs.

Chancellor's cheek with warmth.

They were going to live in Boston.

Paul would take up the reins of his educational-records business.

Flick planned to finish her doctorate, then teach American youngsters about French culture.

The five-day voyage across the Atlantic would be their honeymoon.

Flick's ma was there in a hat she had bought in 1938.

She cried, even though it was the second time she had seen her daughter married.

The last person in the small congregation to kiss Flick was her brother, Mark.

There was one more thing Flick needed to make her happiness perfect.

With her arm still around Mark, she turned to her mother, who had not spoken to him for five years.

"Look, Ma," she said.

"Here's Mark." Mark looked terrified.

Ma hesitated for a long moment.

Then she opened her arms and said, "Hello, Mark." "Oh, Ma," he said, and he hugged her.

After that, they all walked out into the sunshine.

FROM THE OFFICIAL HISTORY

"Women did not normally organize sabotage; but Pearl Witherington, a trained British courier, took over and ran an active Maquis of some two thousand men in Berry with gallantry and distinction after the Gestapo arrested her organizer.

She was strongly recommended for an MC [Military Cross], for which women were held ineligible; and received instead a civil MBE, which she returned, observing she had done nothing civil."

-M. R. D. Foot, SOE in France (HMSO, London, 1966)