Finally honoured, the female spy the Gestapo dubbed 'the most dangerous of all'

She had many codenames - Diane, Camille, Marie, Philomene - but to the Gestapo she was simply the Limping Lady because of her wooden leg.

Gestapo chief Hermann Göring put out Wanted posters offering a reward for the capture of the woman he viewed as the most dangerous spy in war-torn France.

But Virginia Hall ignored the Nazi secret police, and, working for Winston Churchill's SOE, the Special Operations Executive, forerunner of MI6, she slipped back and forth between London and France, wreaking havoc behind enemy lines.

When he set up the SOE, Churchill said he wanted it "to set Europe ablaze." Virginia Hall obliged. And 60 years after her name slipped into spy world legend, and 24 years after she died, the quiet American will be honoured by the British and French for the vital part she played in Hitler's downfall.

In a ceremony at the French Ambassador's home in Washington, British Ambassador Sir David Manning will finally present the Royal Warrant signed by King George VI to Miss Hall's niece, Lorna Catling.

Miss Hall should have received the Warrant in 1943, when she was awarded the OBE. But she was unimpressed by 'gongs' - and too busy fighting the war.

Born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1906, to a wealthy cinema owner, Miss Hall was fluent in French, Italian and German when she went to work for the US foreign service before World War II.

To her anger and frustration, she was invalided out of the service after a hunting accident in Turkey.

Her shotgun slipped from her grasp and as she grabbed it, it fired, blasting away her foot. By the time she got to a hospital, gangrene had set in. To save her life, the surgeon had to amputate her left leg below the knee.

Always able to see the funny side of things, Miss Hall immediately named her wooden leg Cuthbert.

She was in Paris when war broke out in 1939 and joined the ambulance service. When the Nazis invaded France in 1940, she fled to London, and with her language skills, was soon recruited by the SOE.

After training in the clandestine arts of killing, communications and security, she went to Vichy France to set up resistance networks under the cover of being a reporter for the New York Post.

In 1942, she moved to Lyons, organising the underground network that helped downed aircrews and escaped PoWs back to England.

When America entered the war, she faced interment as an enemy alien, and went undercover, running her escape routes from restaurants and bars under the noses of the Nazis.

After the November, 1942, North Africa invasion, German troops flooded into her area and things became too hot even for her. She hiked on her artificial leg across the Pyrenees in the dead of winter to Spain.

During the journey she radioed London saying she was okay but Cuthbert was giving her trouble.

Forgetting this was her artificial leg, and knowing her value to the Allied cause, her commanders radioed back: "If Cuthbert troublesome eliminate him."

Back in London a few months later, the Americans finally woke up to the superb agent they were missing.

They claimed her for the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, forerunner of the CIA, and after more training, sent her back to France.

There, in the central Haute-Loire region, she set up sabotage and guerrilla groups, supplying them with money, arms and rations.

She was always on the move as the Nazis hunted her, operating mostly from the attics of French homes.

In Chambon-sur-Lignon, central France, weeks before D-Day, Miss Hall disguised herself as a an elderly peasant goat-herd.

She wore padding and heavy woollen clothes to hide her bad leg and make her look fat, then wandered around the country roads sending back vital reports to London of German troop movements.

As 1944 drew to a close and the Germans began to retreat from France, Miss Hall set up 'search and destroy' guerilla teams among her resistance fighters, attacking bridges, freight trains and Nazi communications.

They destroyed four bridges, derailed half a dozen freight trains, and disrupted communications by cutting telephone wires. They also killed more than 150 enemy soldiers and took more than 500 prisoners.

She moved on to Innsbruck in Austria to carry on harassing the retreating Nazis just as the Third Reich collapsed.

After the war, Miss Hall married one of the men she'd fought with in France, French-born OSS agent, Paul Goilott, and continued to work for the CIA.

She turned down an an attempt by President Truman to award her the US Army's second-highest award, Distinguished Service Cross because she said the publicity would blow her cover.

Instead she quietly accepted the award from her boss, legendary OSS chief Bill Donovan, in his office.

Attempts by the British government to track her down failed for the same reason.

A British Embassy spokesman in Washington said yesterday: "We tried to find Miss Hall for years. We even placed advertisements in American newspapers asking her to come forward.

"But she was very good at what she did and didn't want to be found. We think she probably blocked her CIA chiefs from telling MI6 where she was.

"Finally we tracked down her niece, her only living relative, and that's why the ceremony is being held now." Mrs Catling said: "My aunt always seemed kind of glamorous and mysterious, but she made light of her war-time experiences.

"One time she told me she and Paul found a deserted chateau with a full wine cellar. She said they had a wonderful evening enjoying that."

The old woman bent her gray head against the frigid wind blowing in from the English Channel as she struggled along the rocky Brittany seaboard. The French province had 750 miles of coastline, all of it inclement during the month of March. And on this particular March day in 1944, the wind seemed set on toppling her over. She was determined to stay her course, however, and shuffled on. The old man traveling with her also struggled. He appeared less steady than she was and occasionally took her arm to regain his footing. It was obvious from his gait, even to the most casual observer, that his left leg was painful. To make matters worse, the wooden sabots they wore were not suitable walking shoes for hiking along such a rutted road. Each carrying a battered suitcase, they struggled against the cold wind for a little more than five miles before finally arriving at their destination: the port city of Brest. There the elderly couple made their way to the railroad station and purchased two second-class tickets for Paris. When the time came to depart, they sat in adjoining seats, her bulky woolen skirts taking up a great deal of room on both sides. The train ride took nearly six hours, and it was late when they arrived at the Montparnasse station on the southwestern edge of the city. Paris looked nothing like it had when the old woman had been there on a previous visit. It had been the spring of 1940; national spirit ran high and the tri-color flew proudly from many buildings. Even the spring sun made an effort at encouragement, shining resolutely through the smoke of burning structures and exploding shells. The French army was fighting furiously to repel the better trained advancing Nazi forces. Under the leadership of 72-year-old General Maxime Weygand, the French had hastily prepared defenses. The old woman had done her part for the war effort - she had transported wounded French soldiers as an ambulance driver. But the Germans had no intention of being deterred and just before they dealt their sledgehammer blow on June 5, the old woman left the city. The French line soon crumbled and by June 14, Paris had been declared an "open city," a request to the enemy to cease fire upon it. On the 21st, Hitler himself was at Compiègne, located a dozen miles outside the capital, and the precise spot where the Germans had been forced to surrender to the French at the close of WW I. The Führer had malevolently chosen the same location to dictate his harsh terms for this surrender. Now, nearly four years later, blackout curtains kept the "city of lights" in the dark. Signs of war were everywhere: burned out buildings, abandoned military vehicles, shops whose contents had been looted. Even the sun was absent on this day, obliterated by steely clouds. But nowhere was the war more apparent than on the faces of the occasional passersby the old couple encountered on the streets. Fear and mistrust, borne out of the hell of brutal control under the Nazis, was common among French citizens. The old woman did not feel fear. Rather, she was repulsed by the ravages of war that had destroyed the city. The further she and the old man trudged, the more that repulsion festered into anger and determination. She drew her shabby valise closer in an unconscious effort to guard its precious contents. Despite their appearances, the feeble, elderly couple's true identities couldn't have been further removed from their current personae. He was Peter Harratt, code named "Aramis," a thirtyish American agent of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). She was Virginia Hall, code named "Marcelle," the accomplished, thirty-eight year old spy who had built a reputation among colleagues and enemies alike while working with the British Special Operations Executive (SOE). Now also a member of the OSS, Hall was returning to France despite a price on her head and a Nazi pledge to "find and destroy her." Together with other OSS agents, they were to assist the newly formed French Forces of Interior in coordinating resistance efforts. The couple's elaborate disguises had been created out of a necessity to camouflage Hall's more recognizable features. Her soft brown hair had been dyed a shade of dirty gray and was pulled into a tight bun, giving her young face a severe appearance. Her slender figure was disguised under peplums and full skirts, topped with large woolen blouses and a shabby oversized sweater, to give her a look of stoutness. However, Hall's most identifiable feature, the limp caused by her artificial left leg, couldn't be eliminated. But it could be altered. An accomplished actress, Hall taught herself to walk with a shuffle, a gait suitable for a woman of her assumed age. The couple spent the night at a safe house, resting and enjoying a fairly substantial meal, considering the scarcity of food in Paris. The next morning, they made their way to the St. Lazare train station, passing numerous Nazi soldiers who paid them little, if any, attention. What, after all, would be the purpose of harassing an impoverished, elderly French couple? Still, Hall's heart fluttered slightly at each encounter; a combination of trepidation, knowing the fate awaiting her should she be caught, and exhilaration, knowing the damage her work would wreak on the Nazi war machine. Their train journey northward to the city of Amiens took a little over two hours. After walking the three miles to a nearby village, Hall located a farmhouse belonging to Eugene Lopinat. Monsieur Lopinat was not a declared member of the growing French Resistance, but neither was he a Nazi sympathizer. He had been chosen by the Resistance for his reputation of being short on conversation and had been asked to find the old woman lodging. He had chosen a one-room cottage he owned at the opposite end of the village from his farmhouse, a shack with no running water or electricity. Harratt had orders to install himself similarly further down the road and departed soon after Hall settled into her cottage. She was glad to be free of him. She thought he talked too much and was somewhat indiscreet, two qualities that could bring a quick and painful end to an OSS agent. In exchange for rent, Hall was to work at Lopinat's farmhouse cooking meals for the farmer's family, taking their cows to pasture in the morning and retrieving them each evening. It was then that Hall's real work began. The suitcase she had carried since landing in Brittany contained a Mark TR3 radio set. Hall used the set to transmit messages to the London OSS office, giving coordinates of large fields she had located during the day while moving Lopinat's cows to and from pasture. The fields were to serve as parachute drops of agents and materiel in support of the French Resistance. The work carried high risks: Hall had to be vigilant of Nazi direction finders, instruments used to zero in on radio transmissions. She would need to relocate quickly if it became apparent that the Gestapo was moving in. During the day, Hall kept the worn suitcase and its valuable contents hidden in the woodbin next to the fireplace of her cottage. Its location was imperceptible to a casual observer, although she had no visitors. Trained Gestapo agents, however, would tear the cottage apart for even the slightest suspicion of collaboration with the Resistance. Each time Hall returned from her day with the Lopinats and their cows, she carefully surveyed all sides of the cottage from a distance to make certain she would not be walking into a trap. For several weeks, all seemed secure. Hall's feeling of security came to an abrupt end. Making her way to the Lopinat farmhouse one morning, she saw a small crowd gathered. Curious, she shuffled toward them until an appalling tableau came into view. Three men and a woman, all dead, hung from iron fence posts, spiked through the neck. The Nazi soldiers who stood guard over the grisly scene held the villagers at bay with their rifles, insisting that the bodies remain as a reminder to all who dared resist the Führer. That night, Hall sent her last message to London from the little cottage. Its meaning would be understood by the few with a need to know: "The wolves are at the door."

From judithlpearson.com

The old woman bent her gray head against the frigid wind blowing in from the English Channel as she struggled along the rocky Brittany seaboard. The French province had 750 miles of coastline, all of it inclement during the month of March. And on this particular March day in 1944, the wind seemed set on toppling her over. She was determined to stay her course, however, and shuffled on.

The old man traveling with her also struggled. He appeared less steady than she was and occasionally took her arm to regain his footing. It was obvious from his gait, even to the most casual observer, that his left leg was painful. To make matters worse, the wooden sabots they wore were not suitable walking shoes for hiking along such a rutted road.

Each carrying a battered suitcase, they struggled against the cold wind for a little more than five miles before finally arriving at their destination: the port city of Brest. There the elderly couple made their way to the railroad station and purchased two second-class tickets for Paris. When the time came to depart, they sat in adjoining seats, her bulky woolen skirts taking up a great deal of room on both sides. The train ride took nearly six hours, and it was late when they arrived at the Montparnasse station on the southwestern edge of the city.

Paris looked nothing like it had when the old woman had been there on a previous visit. It had been the spring of 1940; national spirit ran high and the tri-color flew proudly from many buildings. Even the spring sun made an effort at encouragement, shining resolutely through the smoke of burning structures and exploding shells. The French army was fighting furiously to repel the better trained advancing Nazi forces. Under the leadership of 72-year-old General Maxime Weygand, the French had hastily prepared defenses. The old woman had done her part for the war effort - she had transported wounded French soldiers as an ambulance driver. But the Germans had no intention of being deterred and just before they dealt their sledgehammer blow on June 5, the old woman left the city. The French line soon crumbled and by June 14, Paris had been declared an "open city," a request to the enemy to cease fire upon it. On the 21st, Hitler himself was at Compiègne, located a dozen miles outside the capital, and the precise spot where the Germans had been forced to surrender to the French at the close of WW I. The Führer had malevolently chosen the same location to dictate his harsh terms for this surrender.

Now, nearly four years later, blackout curtains kept the "city of lights" in the dark. Signs of war were everywhere: burned out buildings, abandoned military vehicles, shops whose contents had been looted. Even the sun was absent on this day, obliterated by steely clouds. But nowhere was the war more apparent than on the faces of the occasional passersby the old couple encountered on the streets. Fear and mistrust, borne out of the hell of brutal control under the Nazis, was common among French citizens.

The old woman did not feel fear. Rather, she was repulsed by the ravages of war that had destroyed the city. The further she and the old man trudged, the more that repulsion festered into anger and determination. She drew her shabby valise closer in an unconscious effort to guard its precious contents.

Despite their appearances, the feeble, elderly couple's true identities couldn't have been further removed from their current personae. He was Peter Harratt, code named "Aramis," a thirtyish American agent of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS). She was Virginia Hall, code named "Marcelle," the accomplished, thirty-eight year old spy who had built a reputation among colleagues and enemies alike while working with the British Special Operations Executive (SOE). Now also a member of the OSS, Hall was returning to France despite a price on her head and a Nazi pledge to "find and destroy her." Together with other OSS agents, they were to assist the newly formed French Forces of Interior in coordinating resistance efforts.

The couple's elaborate disguises had been created out of a necessity to camouflage Hall's more recognizable features. Her soft brown hair had been dyed a shade of dirty gray and was pulled into a tight bun, giving her young face a severe appearance. Her slender figure was disguised under peplums and full skirts, topped with large woolen blouses and a shabby oversized sweater, to give her a look of stoutness. However, Hall's most identifiable feature, the limp caused by her artificial left leg, couldn't be eliminated. But it could be altered. An accomplished actress, Hall taught herself to walk with a shuffle, a gait suitable for a woman of her assumed age.

The couple spent the night at a safe house, resting and enjoying a fairly substantial meal, considering the scarcity of food in Paris. The next morning, they made their way to the St. Lazare train station, passing numerous Nazi soldiers who paid them little, if any, attention. What, after all, would be the purpose of harassing an impoverished, elderly French couple? Still, Hall's heart fluttered slightly at each encounter; a combination of trepidation, knowing the fate awaiting her should she be caught, and exhilaration, knowing the damage her work would wreak on the Nazi war machine.

Their train journey northward to the city of Amiens took a little over two hours. After walking the three miles to a nearby village, Hall located a farmhouse belonging to Eugene Lopinat. Monsieur Lopinat was not a declared member of the growing French Resistance, but neither was he a Nazi sympathizer. He had been chosen by the Resistance for his reputation of being short on conversation and had been asked to find the old woman lodging. He had chosen a one-room cottage he owned at the opposite end of the village from his farmhouse, a shack with no running water or electricity.

Harratt had orders to install himself similarly further down the road and departed soon after Hall settled into her cottage. She was glad to be free of him. She thought he talked too much and was somewhat indiscreet, two qualities that could bring a quick and painful end to an OSS agent.

In exchange for rent, Hall was to work at Lopinat's farmhouse cooking meals for the farmer's family, taking their cows to pasture in the morning and retrieving them each evening. It was then that Hall's real work began. The suitcase she had carried since landing in Brittany contained a Mark TR3 radio set. Hall used the set to transmit messages to the London OSS office, giving coordinates of large fields she had located during the day while moving Lopinat's cows to and from pasture. The fields were to serve as parachute drops of agents and materiel in support of the French Resistance. The work carried high risks: Hall had to be vigilant of Nazi direction finders, instruments used to zero in on radio transmissions. She would need to relocate quickly if it became apparent that the Gestapo was moving in.

During the day, Hall kept the worn suitcase and its valuable contents hidden in the woodbin next to the fireplace of her cottage. Its location was imperceptible to a casual observer, although she had no visitors. Trained Gestapo agents, however, would tear the cottage apart for even the slightest suspicion of collaboration with the Resistance. Each time Hall returned from her day with the Lopinats and their cows, she carefully surveyed all sides of the cottage from a distance to make certain she would not be walking into a trap. For several weeks, all seemed secure.

Hall's feeling of security came to an abrupt end. Making her way to the Lopinat farmhouse one morning, she saw a small crowd gathered. Curious, she shuffled toward them until an appalling tableau came into view. Three men and a woman, all dead, hung from iron fence posts, spiked through the neck. The Nazi soldiers who stood guard over the grisly scene held the villagers at bay with their rifles, insisting that the bodies remain as a reminder to all who dared resist the Führer.

That night, Hall sent her last message to London from the little cottage. Its meaning would be understood by the few with a need to know: "The wolves are at the door."

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