Babs Dahlman, my Mom, wrote many stories about her life. She grew up in England, and was an operative for Special Operations Executive during World War II. She married my Dad, Don Dahlman, during the War and they moved to the United States. Our family heard many of those stories growing up. After Mom’s death in 2011 and Dad’s in 2016, the stories went into the files.
As the last of their generation passes, I feel it’s important to share the life and words of my parents. For those who knew them, it’s a reminder of nights around the dinner table, the remnants of dessert on the table but wine glasses still filled. For those who didn’t have the opportunity, here’s their story.
Note: My mother had a degree in English Literature from the University of London. I have dared to edit her works only very lightly, and almost always for typos that got through her rigorous writing process. Besides that, these are her words.
January 1946
Dawn broke, and I awoke and realised that this was the day that would change my life completely. I looked around my room with all its years of familiarity – the oaken chest, the green oriental rug, the cream walls, the latticed windows, the souvenirs of years gone by—the faded pictures. I quickly put on my fleecy dressing down and slippers and went across the hall to the bathroom. It was chilly, but the bathroom was warm for the hot water heater. I took my undies from the top of the hot tank in the linen cupboard where I had placed them the night before. They were warm, and I ran my bath. The water soon ran cold, about four inches of warm water, then cold. I took my bath, dressed warmly, and crept downstairs.
The house was quiet. I walked slowly around, caressing the brass bell that had summoned me to meals for all my life, and then came to the carved oak hallstand. I opened the seat of it. Yes, they were still there; my old rubber Wellington boots. A tear dropped and washed some mud from them. The door under the stairs was ajar. I looked in: this was where we sometimes took refuge in air raids. A doll or two sat there – I fingered them lovingly. I went out through the kitchen to the garden, past the green house. Then the tears came pouring down. The steps – my Dad made them – one for each of his children and grandchildren, our names and dates of birth inscribed. I stroked my step. I outlined my name with my finger. My whole life was pictured in that outlining. I was saying my goodbyes – it was hard.
Back in the house, my mother was preparing breakfast and I could hear my father up in the bathroom, humming as he shaved. My mother enfolded me in her arms, speechless. What could be said – a parting, mother-daughter –a love so strong. Then she went about preparing breakfast and I went into the dining room and hugged and wept with my Black Labrador Danny. My Dad came down. He adored me and I him. We said nothing, just looked. He was the dearest man in my life, and I was leaving him for another dearest man in my life. We ate breakfast rather silently, and then it was almost time to leave. The taxi man rang the doorbell. The moment had arrived. I hugged my mother silently.
My father and I took the train to London to meet my husband, Don, who was going to accompany me to the boat for my voyage to the U.S.A. We talked softly during the train trip of our love for each other, of our hopes for the future. It was a very emotional half-hour that I will never forget. Don met us at London Bridge Station and we made our way to Euston, my Dad accompanying us. The next hour was indescribable. How many thoughts went through my mind? I knew I loved this American boy, but could I give up everything for him? Yes, I knew I could. We settled ourselves into the railway carriage. The whistle was about to blow. There was a final hug, a rush of tears, and the disastrous look on my father’s face as he ran along side the fast moving train. Tears streamed down this strong man’s face. Thank God I had Don with me. He silently comforted me.
We arrived five hours later at a little town called Lostwithiel in Cornwall, my port of embarkation. Where was the ocean liner one always sailed to America? What was that shabby fishing-like vessel in the harbour? Had we come all this way for nothing? No we were told, that Liberty Ship is the boat you want, the “Francis D. Culkin”. It was the fishing boat vessel, or so it looked to me.
Don escorted me onto the boat, and then it was time for our farewells. He was to leave from Wales on a similar boat, and we were to travel one hundred miles apart across the ocean. After he left, I went up and sat on the deck. There were only six passengers and as yet I had only become acquainted to one. As I sat there I realised there was nobody to wave goodbye to me. I thought of the poet Rupert Brooke, who on leaving England paid two little boys sixpence to wave their handkerchiefs goodbye. But I didn’t need this, England herself was saying goodbye. The rain started: it was as if my mother country was showing her sadness at my departure. I sat there in the rain and though about my life.
From the Beginning
I was born in London, England, the youngest of a family of five. My father was a strong, dark-haired man of Irish descent; hot tempered, loving and loyal. I adored him and he adored me. My mother too was a strong-willed woman, beautiful, fair haired and blue eyed, with a passionate love for her children. My brother Leslie was thirteen when I was born and already away at boarding school. He was brilliant in every way, sports, academics, languages: even at that age. My brother Stan was carefree, loving, equally brilliant but never caring to apply himself to anything else but sports. To round the family out there were two sisters, Eileen and Doris, whom I loved very much. However, because there was eight years difference between my sisters and I, I was brought up almost as an only child.
We lived in a townhouse in London until I was six, when we moved to a beautiful suburb in Surrey, ten miles south of London. There I attended a girls’ preparatory school – a day school. Then, at nine years of age, I went away to boarding school. This was the aim of every upper and middle class family – to send their children away to school. Now I look back and wonder why parents made such sacrifices to send their children away. It wasn’t because they wanted to get rid of them – it was always considered the best education and the best thing for them. For me it was hard, at first and the first week I cried myself to sleep every night. I knew my mother was doing the same thing.
But I soon got into the swing of things and became excited about being away at school, meeting so many new friends and adjusting quite well. Also, my parents picked my up every Saturday morning and took me home until Sunday night. They always had wonderful things planned for the weekend, visits to museums, picnics, day-trips and always with the family.
A typical day at school was this. Awakened at 6:30 by a nun walking through the dormitory with a large clanking bell (the school was the Sacred Heart Convent, Roehampton, one of England’s finest girls’ schools). We immediately jumped out of bed, more out of shock than obedience, washed, dressed and lined up to be inspected to see if our shantung silk collars and cuffs on our navy blue dresses were crisp and clean and that our black lisle stockings were pulled up neatly. Then the cod liver oil would be spooned out and off we went to breakfast. We were only allowed to speak French at meals, no English. After breakfast Mass in the chapel, yes, every morning.
Our classes started at nine and finished at two with a break for lunch. All afternoon we had outdoor sports – hockey, lacrosse, squash racquets. A break for tea, then two hours of homework, break for supper, more homework, and bed by nine o’clock. This sounds like a pretty stiff regime, but it worked well and we all seemed to be extremely happy. The nuns were all very kind and loving and it was a fairly relaxed way of living. I had friends from all over the world and the last year Kathleen Kennedy, yes, the (future) President’s sister, was my roommate. Her father was going to be the ambassador to England at that time.
In the summer our family had a house at the seashore for two months and my father would commute to London. They were marvellous holidays. All vacations were special because our family was all together. Christmas was very special to us all and we always had a big gathering. Then after Christmas was Boxing Day and I remember my mother had an open house and all the tradesmen – the butcher, the baker, the fishmonger, the vegetableman, etc., would come by with their wives to receive their Christmas presents and have a glass of sherry or gingerwine. It was a rosy world and I loved every minute of it.
At seventeen I matriculated and went to Liege for a year to the Loretto Convent to “finish” my education and polish up my French. My French became quite provincial however, with a mixture of Flemish. It was an interesting experience and I enjoyed it very much. My eldest brother was then living in Brussels and I spent many weekends with he and his wife and they took me on a lot of trips.
Back to England
When I came back to England I was ready for very little, but was interested in joining the Diplomatic Corps – my time with the Kennedys had started me on that trend. However, I needed a college degree for that and in those days in England, whatever your social or financial status; college was not too common for a woman. I decided the best thing to do was to get a job and go to the University of London part time. This I did. I took an exam and became a junior executive in the Ministry of Health, a fine title, little pay, and short hours. It worked out well and I finally got a degree in History and English Literature.
Social life in London pre-war was dazzling: parties, theatres and balls. It was the “last convertible” era. I was still looking at life through rosy coloured glasses, but my politics were getting to be a little pink too, and I became interested in causes of all kinds. Meanwhile I met the boy – a golden haired Apollo – in his second year at Oxford, and we became engaged. My parents gave a large engagement party – twenty boys and twenty girls. Within two years not one of those boys was alive – all killed in the Battle of Britain or at Dunkirk.
In 1938 a cloud came over Britain. Mr Neville Chamberlain came back from Berlin with a year’s reprieve but we all knew what was in store for us. Air raid shelters were built, and England’s young men were asked to volunteer – and they did. All my crowd left universities and volunteered, most of them with the Air Force.
In 1939 war was declared and my rosy coloured world was no more. The first day of war was terrifying – the air raid alarm went off and we all donned our gas masks and sat in shelters, thinking this is it. But no, it was a false alarm and actually there were no raids for six months. The Ministry of Health loaned me to the Admiralty and I worked in their code room, then I went to the Air Ministry to their chart room. I often slept underground in Whitehall, even in those days.
As the months went by the raids started and my father built an air raid shelter at the top of our garden. He bragged about it being panelled and carpeted, but it was really a miserable covered trench. The siren would go at 7 pm until the all clear at 7 am, and the raids would go on all night. We soon got tired of sleeping in the trench and moved into the house where a room was reinforced with a metal box placed in the middle. It was about eight foot square, and called a Morrison Shelter. We all slept there every night.
We lost every window in the house and most of the ceiling came down, but our reinforced room remained intact. My Air Force friends would return from their missions and victory-roll over our house to let me know how many enemy planes had been shot down. Sometimes I would watch them leave in formation and count them when they came back. I would often find several missing and wonder whom it was that didn’t come back. I had so many friends in the Fighter Squadrons and they were all stationed fairly near us. My fiancé was stationed at Grantham, and I would go and visit as many weekends as possible. We were always aware that there may never be a tomorrow and we made the most of today. Too soon I got the fatal words – killed in action. My whole world collapsed. It was a sad time.
Special Operations Executive
Although I was working at the heartbeat of the war in Whitehall I became anxious to get more involved and wondered how to do this. I didn’t wonder very long, because quite soon I got a call from a Colonel Richardson. He asked me to meet him in an old Government office near Westminster in an out of the way place. He asked me many questions – he knew all of the answers – he knew me better than I knew myself. He then asked me to take the Official Secrets Act oath. He was setting up a secret agent organisation in France and they decided to use some women. I was picked – was I interested? It would be very dangerous – was I willing to risk my life?
I was willing to do anything to retaliate – my generation was being wiped out before my eyes. He said I should think about it carefully – nobody must know – my family included. I was terribly excited and wanted to say yes right away, but I had to be sure and he had some more investigating of me to do. I could hardly get the whole thing out of my mind and finally he phoned four days later and arranged to meet me at yet another strange place. I then became part of Combined Operations Special Operations Group – SOE.
A week later I went to another meeting in London, where I met more people involved like me and we were told of the aims of the organisation and the purpose of training. We were each allotted a distinctive Christian name by which we were to be known. My name was Virginia. Later we were taken to an old Manor House in Surrey where our training began. We underwent vigorous training both physical and mental – the memory course was the worst but happened to be the one in which I excelled.
I was amazed to see some of the men I had known at Oxford and Cambridge and some I knew through the Chart Room and the Air Ministry. I was taught with photographs, charts and diagrams. I learned the German military and espionage system and the uniforms of the Nazi Army, Air Force and Police. I also memorized German division signs and even truck registrations and what ever had been discovered of the methods of the Gestapo, the Abwehr, and other organisations that wore no uniforms.
We were told that passing messages could be done in a variety of ways. Word of mouth was the most usual, but to supply a diagram or location you sometimes scribbled on the margin of a newspaper in a disguised manner and left it on the table for a recognized agent to pick up. Much of the training was done on the English streets trying to recognize the right contacts and pass on information without being detected. Other English comrades, unknown to me, would be the Gestapo. It was a game we played – but a game that if not played well would eventually mean death. This stage of training took about two months.
The initial training was mostly brainwork although we were able to take long hikes through the countryside, swim, and some played tennis. The food was exceptional as most of us were living on rations. In the evening we played parlour games – lots of charades and many memory games such as enumerating a tray full of numerous articles after just a brief glimpse – as simple as that. We were also taught a special memory course in which I excelled.
At the end of the six weeks we were allowed to go home. Then it was difficult to evade and lie to my parents about where I had been or what I had been doing. Luckily my cover job at the Ministry of Health protected my explanation, but I hated the deception. Later I had some more training in Scotland at a small farmhouse on the coast. This was of a more physical nature and included rock climbing, long hikes, parachute jumping and more. There were other training camps of this nature in the area. I can remember one evening our group decided to have a lark. We trudged ten miles at night, and raided another group by taking their supply of gin. We did it so successfully they had no idea it was gone until the next morning. Our problem was dragging it back the ten miles in the dark – I think a lot of it was consumed along the way. Our raid was successful – and we were told that the other was a “very superior” group.
My parachute training was not too successful as I messed up my ankle the second time I jumped (and this wasn’t even out of a plane). I was sent back home the rest of the time and never did finish the jump program. Luckily, but this time we were able to land small planes, called Lysanders, in blind airfields all over Europe with the help of flares placed by the Underground. I only had to use a parachute a few times.
Two weeks went by and then at least I heard that I had passed all the requirements and I was ready for action.
Tony
The first mission came up and I was ready to go with a colleague. We would not know our assignment until we landed in France. I was scared to death, but very excited. Unfortunately the mission had to be aborted. Just as we got out over the Channel, a Messerschmitt fighter appeared and began circling us. I thought that the end had come before the beginning, but our pilot just diverted his course and went back inland while the Messerschmitt went off chasing a Spitfire.
A few days later we were off again and flew high over the Channel – it was foggy – then dipped very low over France to avoid the German anti-aircraft fire. Our French Underground friends were there to meet us with flares, and led us to a farmhouse where we received our assignments. I started really scared, but then gradually gained confidence. How could one think of oneself, when there was so much at stake? Getting and giving information without using a radio transmitter was a part of this job. The network of Underground workers was immense, and they were superb.
My teammate was a young man named Tony Eldridge Graham and at this point I think I should tell you something about him, and perhaps a mission we had together. Tony was a dashing blonde, scion of one of England’s finest families, education at Eton and Oxford University (Magdalen College). He had degrees in archaeology and philosophy, and was a brilliant young man, only twenty-seven when World War II began.
We had a deep, deep friendship. For Tony, it was romantic love and for me, an everlasting friendship. He loved me enough to continue our friendship despite the rejection of romance. His sincerity and love for his family and country touched me deeply. We knew each other for three years before the war broke out. I met him at Oxford, and it was through Tony that I met my fiancé. When war broke out all my friends at Oxford joined the RAF (Royal Air Force). It was Tony who rose quickly in the ranks to Air Commodore. With his knowledge of Europe and his family’s associations throughout the continent, he quickly became indispensible to Combined Operations. He formed a network of people throughout Europe whom we could trust and rely on for help, refuge and food during our missions.
It was Tony who was responsible for my involvement. He knew of my great love for England, and that I would sacrifice the ultimate. Tony stood by me when my fiancé was killed, and brought sanity back and a will to go on living. The missions we went on together were the finest and always brought the best results.
Mission to Liege
I can remember one such mission when we were to deliver some sabotage instructions to a group in Liege. It was very dangerous because it was so near the German lines. I had the information and instructions in my head – Tony had the equipment and the know-how. Our Lysander landed and our contacts came out to meet us. The plane immediately took off and we went with our contacts to a farmhouse. Tony and I worked as a super team, and as a result an entire German troop train was blown up.
Because of the proximity to Germany we were issued German clothes from a store in Berlin. I can still remember the heavy trousers and the sweater and how itchy it was. We were supposed to be picked up at 6:30 am but we were picked up rather later than planned. Our plane hardly got in the air when it was hit and started to burn. I was terrified: we were to abandon the plane. We were taught how to do that on the ground, but now we had to do it over enemy territory. No choice – the plane was burning in the front.
My parachute was in place – I closed my eyes and jumped, wrenching the chrome stick to release the parachute. It seemed like years before the beautiful blossom appeared over my head billowing around. I dare not look down, but gliding swiftly through the air I caught sight of Tony. Our twenty-one year old pilot was not so lucky – he nosed dived the fiery plane into the earth. My body was wet the perspiration from fear, and I checked my pockets for my map, fake identity card and money. As I did my hand came in contact with something warm and sticky. I thought for a moment it was blood, but it was only those stupid Horlick malt tablets we always had to carry for energy in our escape kit. Meanwhile, they oozed all over the map. My landing was rather jolty, but safe. No time to bury the chute; I was having a Hell of a time just getting out of it. I proceeded to put it down in the bush. Who was going to fool around digging a hole? What a stupid idea that was: it came from one of our “desk” colleagues.
On looking at the map I was some way from a contact. We had friends imprinted on our minds everywhere. I knew a little about the area and eventually found the right house. Tony also found the house a little later. He landed and was finding his way to our meeting place when a German tank group that lost their bearings stopped him. In his fluent German he was able to guide them on their way. The lady of the house made us wonderful coffee and hot rolls, and gave me a lovely navy skirt and pale blue blouse. I felt as good as new.
Within a few hours we were back in Liege and made arrangements for another pickup. We were also able to get information on several RAF pilots in the area that have been shot down, and got some help to them. A few hours later and I was back in London at my fake job checking Old Age Pensions. Mr Baker, the elderly Clerical Officer remarked on my lovely silk blouse. “Been out with an American?” he said with a leer. Little did he know the ordeal I had been through.
We had many such missions together and then Tony became more specialised. He was on his way to the Tehran Conference when his plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner. We knew he disappeared, but it was much later that we learned that he had been taken to Limburg to a mental asylum where the Nazis did many experimental brain operations. Immediately after the war I found him in the Dachau Concentration Camp.
I had to go identify him. It was the most horrible moment of my life. Tony – dashing, loving, beautiful Tony – a shell. There was no recognition in those beautiful blue eyes, no colour in that handsome face, no life in that once crispy wavy golden hair. We took him back to London and then he was flown to South Africa where a neurosurgeon was doing extraordinary operations. Unfortunately his operations were not successful. Tony was brought back to England – a vegetable – fortunately to die. I remember the last time I saw him – Tony the magnificent young man – ravaged and abused by the Germans. He was one of England’s finest, one of “the few” to die for “so many”. He had called me Virginia – my Combined Operations name. Virginia died then too.
Yugoslavia
Later on I was assigned to a Yugoslav unit and did a few missions to Marshall Tito’s headquarters hidden in the hills in a cave. To this day I don’t know where I actually was. The journey there was much more hazardous but once there the Germans were scant compared to France and Belgium. My first mission there was different and exciting. The small plane landed quickly in the rugged terrain of Yugoslavia. We were approached by four men who helped us out of the plane, refuelled it and off it went again into the darkness. We, meanwhile, were rapidly escorted through the rough undergrowth for about two miles. No sign of anyone – Thank God.
We finally came to a heavy bush like area and found ourselves in a large – very large cave area kitted out as an office with some temporary fittings and walls. There were about seven people there: English, Yugoslav and Americans. I had met most of them at one time or another in London. I was led into a temporary side room and there met this large stone like man known as Marshall Tito. He knew very little English but our interpreter did a good job of communicating for us. He asked many questions relating to our background, experiences, and loyalties. He then got up from his chair and came around – stroked my hair and said, “…So young, so intense, she will live.”
Although I saw him several times, this was the only really intimate time I had with him, but often looking across the room at him our eyes would meet and there was always a feeling of trust and warmth between us. Most of my missions involved sabotaging troop movements. The danger was not as great as France and Belgium. However, all of the British and Americans stationed at that headquarters were eventually caught and killed by the Germans. It tears my heart out to think what happened to that wonderful group.
Don
Meanwhile in 1943 I met an American from Cincinnati named Don Dahlman. He telephoned me and asked for a date saying that he was the friend of an American officer I knew. I was dubious. Americans had terrible reputations so I told him to call back later in the day. After checking and being told he was “okay”, a “gentleman” in fact, I arranged to meet him.
We had a fabulous time and to make a long story short, fell madly in love with each other. He eventually was transferred to London and we saw as much of each other as possible. He did not know where I went or what I did, although he may have had suspicions. Perhaps he even thought I had another lover? In March of 1944 we were married and were both recalled from our honeymoon – he to get ready for the invasion, and me for another assignment before the invasion.
Don went overseas with the invasion, and I did not see him for almost a year. On one of my missions I obtained permission to be picked up twelve hours later. I hitchhiked across France to spend a few hours with him – only to find out that he was out on the town for the night and no one new where. I made my way back, frustrated, lonely and MAD.
By then we were going through the V II rocket bombings in England and Don wanted me to go to the USA. I was committed to what I was doing and told him I could not leave until after the war was over. There was never any doubt in my mind that we were going to win the war and that I was going to live. How lucky I was – only three in my unit were alive at the end of the war.
So the end of the war came, and I arrived in the USA and am living happily ever after.
I have been very happy and I love America. As I would have died for England, I now feel sure I would die for America. But, I have requested that when I do die I should have a tombstone that reads a quote from my favourite poet Rupert Brooke:
“If I should die think only this of me, there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”.
Share this with a friend!
