He had asked this question before and received soothing answers. The Enigma simply could not be broken. The wheel settings were changed every 24 hours. Even if the enemy captured one of the new four-wheeled machines, they would need years to figure out a single setting. The submarines would rust away before they could be sunk.
But the question nagged. The fortunes of the undersea raiders had shifted so suddenly. He asked his aide to contact Oberst (Col.) Jurg Lindemann at B-Dienst on the secure land line.
“Lindemann? I want another urgent review of Enigma. Our submarine losses have become unbearable, 23 in the past two weeks. Can the enemy be reading our signals?”
“Very unlikely, sir. We're overwhelmed here, trying to crack the new British naval code, but I could spare a few people for another look. Could you tell me something about our losses—perhaps going back over the past few weeks? Anything specific to suggest the enemy is listening?”
“The six lost in the Bay of Biscay certainly do—sunk before they even reached open waters. Before, we've never lost more than one or two per month in that area. Seems the enemy planes know where to look.”
“Hmmm. Sounds as though another review is in order. I'll put several of my best people on it.”
Lindemann looked over at the small sign framed on his wall: 500 billion billion. He wondered.
Dönitz concluded: “I'll send Capt. Hauser to help. He'll have details on our losses.”
15 May, 1943. 15:00 hrs. B-Dienst Headquarters.
When Hauser arrived, the meeting on Enigma security was already in progress; he was ushered in immediately. Lindemann invited him to report on recent U-boat losses.
“Unfortunately, since you spoke to Admiral Dönitz this morning, we've lost another sub—the 24th in the past two weeks.
“Nine were sunk when they located a convoy and began to radio other subs, calling them to form a wolf pack. Their transmissions ended abruptly, indicating they were under attack.
“Seven were sunk in the Bay of Biscay, before they reached the Atlantic.
“We have no information on the other eight; they simply vanished. Five failed to report after they had been on the surface at night, charging their batteries.”
Hauser paused to let the numbers sink in.
Wilhelm Stumpff had been working on the Enigma for six years; he was responsible for the introduction of the fourth wheel. He exuded supreme confidence in his creation.
“I don't think Enigma can be broken. But, for the sake of argument, let's suppose it could. We still wouldn't have any explanation for the nine subs lost while sending messages. U-boats are given areas to patrol, not precise locations. Even if the enemy could read Enigma traffic, they wouldn't know exactly where to look. And, even if they did know exactly where to look, why would so many U-boats be attacked right in the middle of their radio messages? There's only one possible explanation. The enemy must have some new technology. They've found some way to locate U-boats by their radio transmissions.”
“We've considered that,” responded Hauser. “But even if they've developed much more powerful receivers in Iceland and Britain, it would be impossible to triangulate precisely and quickly enough for an attack.”
“Impossible? Perhaps, sir,” responded Stumpff. “But that's the thing about new technology. We don't know what it will do.”
“Exactly,” Hauser countered. “And that argument cuts both ways. You say it's impossible for the enemy to break Enigma. Perhaps they've developed new technology to do just that.”
Stumpff ignored the jab and continued his argument. “Consider next the five lost on the surface at night. We already know what might be responsible. Recall our intercept two months ago—long-range bombers being equipped with radar and powerful searchlights. Unfortunately, it seems that this weapon is effective. The poor devils on the U-boats,” he added, showing empathy for the naval officers in the room. “I don't know which would be worse—to be depth charged, or to be on deck at midnight when a blinding searchlight suddenly flashes on.”
Hauser was scarcely mollified. “Granted, they may have much better radar. But the American planes apparently knew where to look. Furthermore, think of what happened early last year. We introduced the fourth wheel; then we sank many more ships. What does that suggest? The enemy had been listening in, but were stopped by the new four-wheel Enigma. If they could read the old three-wheeled machine, isn't it possible that they've now broken the new four-wheeled version?”
“Not necessarily,” Stumpff countered. “There's a simpler explanation for our successes early last year. That's when we broke the British naval code.
“But I also grant a point,” he continued. “The Bay of Biscay losses are hard to explain. But which is more likely: a breaking of Enigma, or some new enemy gadget? Bombers with the new radar might be the culprit, or some other new technology. For example, they may be locating U-boats with airborne infrared detectors. For reasons we've been over repeatedly, such technology is much more plausible than a breaking of Enigma.”
Within a week, the group presented a preliminary report, preliminary only because Hauser insisted on further study. Once more, the report reassured Dönitz. Enigma could not be broken. The sudden change in fortunes was most likely the result of new enemy technology. But B-Dienst would keep an open mind; they would continue to look for weaknesses in Enigma.
Admiral Dönitz could not wait. At the end of May, with U-boat losses averaging two per day, he ordered his wolf packs withdrawn from the Atlantic. The Allies had won the second battle of the Atlantic.
There would be no third round. By early June, a prototype American bombe was running. An early problem—rotors overheating and warping because they were spinning at 2,000 rpm—had been solved. But the machine ran so fast that the rotors could not be stopped immediately when a decryption was registered. To deal with this problem, the machine had a novel and ingenious feature: it automatically rolled the rotors back to the decryption setting.
Enigma would never again be secure; there would be no more happy hunting for U-boats in the Atlantic.
19
The Last, Fleeting Hope
In anguish we uplift
A new unhallowed song:
The race is to the swift;
The battle to the strong.
John Davidson (1857-1909)
War Song
22 June, 1942. With the British Eight Army,
West of Alexandria, Egypt.
Kaz and Jan had become hardened to bad news: the fall of Poland; the collapse of France; the rapid advance of Hitler's legions into the vast expanses of the Soviet Union.
But they were unprepared for the gloom when they arrived in North Africa. After a siege of scarcely one week, the heavily-fortified port of Tobruk had just surrendered to Rommel's army.
“Defeat is one thing; disgrace is another,” was Churchill's depressed and caustic comment.
The Desert Fox, who had been struggling with extended supply lines, now possessed not only the port but also huge quantities of British materiel. His panzers were moving inexorably east toward El Alamein, only sixty miles from the Nile River. Mussolini had already flown to North Africa, strutting and preening in preparation for a triumphant entry into Cairo.
The British were hurriedly fortifying and mining a defensive line near El Alamein—the best hope of preventing Rommel's troops from reaching the Nile. To the north of the line lay the Mediterranean; to the south the impenetrable Qattara Depression. If the Germans broke through, their tanks would fan out across the desert, threatening the whole allied position in Egypt.
Alarmed, Churchill visited Cairo. The main result: Gen. Bernard Montgomery was given command. The stage was set for a desert showdown. To bolster Montgomery, his American allies agreed to send several hundred of their new Sherman tanks by the only safe route—around the Cape of Good Hope and through the Suez Canal.
Kaz and Jan were part of the Polish advanced party, preparing for the main force. As more Poles arrived, they
would be quickly organized into a reserve unit, to be committed in case of a threatened German breakthrough.
But there was none. In a final push, Rommel lost 50 tanks, most victims to dense minefields. He then withdrew to defensive positions, laying equally dense minefields of his own. Gradually, as new equipment arrived, the balance of power tilted toward Montgomery. But he had no intention of blundering unprepared into the German minefields; the Qattara Depression blocked any classic flanking move by his tanks, just as it had blocked Rommel. His army began a period of intense training and preparation for a fall offensive.
As the dangers of a renewed German assault faded, Kaz and Jan received new orders. They were to report to the Polish authorities in London.
The Polish Government-in-exile was housed in three adjacent large townhouses. The dull October drizzle made them seem even more drab and nondescript than usual. Two nearby buildings were gutted; they had been hit during the Blitz. But now, as Allied power grew by the day, air-raid sirens had become a rare event. Nevertheless, the signs of war were everywhere. Traffic consisted of olive-drab military vehicles. Almost all the men, and a goodly proportion of the women, were in uniform.
When Kaz and Jan arrived, they went directly to the personnel office. The time had come, they thought, to resume their real identities. Kaz also wanted his rightful rank.
“I'm Captain Kazimierz Jankowski, reporting for duty from the Eight Army in Egypt.” Kaz half expected the Sergeant at the personnel office to object; Kaz was still wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. But there was no need for concern.
On the contrary, the Sergeant's response was a pleasant surprise. “Yes sir, we've been expecting you. I'm pleased to inform you, sir, that it's Major Jankowski. You've been promoted on the recommendation of Gen. Sikorski himself.”
Jan snapped a mock salute to Kaz, asking if he would be able to see him except by appointment.
“And you, sir, are...?”
“Lt. Janusz Tomczak.”
“Good news for you, too.... Capt. Tomczak.”
It was now Kaz's turn to mock his friend. The Polish army must be desperate for midlevel officers.
“There's a reason,” interjected the Sergeant, deadpan. It was scarcely his place to explain the promotions, but he mindlessly continued. “You'll be dealing with British and American officers. You get more respect with a higher rank.”
“We are,” thought Kaz, “about to become military politicians.”
Kaz and Jan would be working with Brigadier Pawel Piotrowski, who in turn reported to Gen. Sikorski. Jan would expedite supplies going to the Polish Army; Kaz would work on strategy. Sikorski must have been impressed with the two men, particularly Kaz, during their encounter in Moscow.
The Polish Government was struggling with its role in the Allied coalition. Relations with the Soviets had gone from bad to worse. The families of Anders' soldiers—left behind in the Soviet Union—were having trouble getting out. The Soviets were harassing the Polish Embassy in Moscow in countless ways, both petty and provocative. For the hundredth time, Kaz wondered why God hated the Poles so, to sandwich them between Germans and Russians—worse still, between the two great tyrannies of the 20th century: National Socialism and Communism.
Kaz's first meeting with Gen. Sikorski and Brig. Piotrowski came after a few weeks. Only four men were present in the small conference room—the General, the Brigadier, Kaz, and one Maj. Radek Korbonski, who, like Kaz, had fought in Poland. He had escaped through Romania, thus avoiding both German and Soviet prison camps. Sikorski opened the conversation:
“Well, Piotrowski, where are we on the Home Army?”
The Home Army—or AK (Armia Krajowa)—had been established at the time of the Polish defeat, as a way to harass the Germans and prepare for an uprising.
“The British are still dragging their feet, sir. Even if we set aside the tricky question—how weapons could actually be delivered to the Army—it's not clear the British really want to. I've been nagging Col. Copplestone over at the Joint Chiefs, but he keeps fobbing me off.”
“Keep trying,” Sikorski urged. “Remind them of Churchill's threat, that he'd 'set Europe aflame'—arming the resistance and making the occupied countries ungovernable.”
“If I could, sir, I've always been skeptical of Churchill's statement.” Piotrowski was speaking. “He was most enthusiastic right after the fall of France. The British were desperate. Grasping at anything they could—anything that held the faintest hope of defeating the Boche.”
“Churchill didn't really mean it?”
“He may have at the time, sir. But he's less desperate now. He can afford to be more realistic, recognizing what the resistance can and cannot do. He's settled on a limited role for them—collect intelligence and be ready to attack when the Huns are already vulnerable. For example, when the allies invade Poland or France.”
“You may be right. But keep pushing for weapons, to build up the Army's strength. And we still face the really tough question—when should we commit the army?”
Sikorski turned toward Kaz and Korbonski. “We've been struggling with this question for months. I'd like new, independent opinions. Be prepared to give me your views the next time we meet.”
“Yes, sir,” the two majors replied in unison.
King George would be decorating Polish pilots. After the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, the fliers would be honored at the Polish Embassy.
It was a welcome break from the dreary routine of wartime London.
Sikorski appeared in a dashing dress uniform. He mingled easily with the crowd; he seemed to know almost everyone's name. Even when he didn't, he had a remarkable knack for pretending that he did.
“Flying Officer mumblemumble, this is Major mumblemumble.”
“Sorry, I didn't quite get your name,” said the Flying Officer.
“Starzenski,” replied Major mumblemumble.
An officer in a Flight Lieutenant's uniform approached. He was limping slightly. Kaz stepped back to let him join the group.
“I'd like you all to meet Flight Lt. Stanislav Ryk” said Sikorski, drawing him into the group. “He's been with the RAF for two years. Shot down nine German planes.”
“And was shot down twice myself,” said Ryk with a wry smile.
Sikorski went around the small group, telling Ryk everyone's name. This time, as he had heard Major Starzenski's name, he pronounced it clearly. But the Flying Officer was still mumblemumble. Again, Sikorski carried it off so smoothly that the listeners wondered if they should have their hearing checked.
When the introductions ended, Kaz congratulated Ryk on his Distinguished Flying Cross. “We all admire your courage. Certainly gives us a sympathetic hearing with the British.”
As the rest of the group drifted off, the two were left alone, comparing notes on the number one topic of the evening: how had they escaped from Poland? Kaz skipped the prison camps, and simply recounted his exit from the Soviet Union to Egypt. Ryk had managed to fly out in an old World War I contraption.
“Ryk? Ryk? We haven't met back in Poland, have we?”
“Not that I recall. Ryk is a common name where I come from.”
“And that is?”
“Fifty kilometers west of Warsaw.”
“Oh, that explains it. My wife grew up in that area.”
There was a pause.
“Lost track of her when the war started,” said Kaz sadly. “Can only pray she'll be there when I get back.”
Ryk wrestled with his conscience. But only for a moment. His conscience lost. Why should I tell him? For that matter, why should I tell Anna?
Sikorski and the three other officers met again at the end of the week. He turned to Kaz and Korbonski, picking up where the previous meeting left off. How and when should the Home Army be used? To clarify his thinking, Sikorski wanted the two to express their disagreements. Jankowski should begin. Korbonski could act as devil's advocate, raising objections as Kaz went along.
“Even when I
agree with Maj. Jankowski, sir?
“For the moment, only when you disagree. We'll get back to other objections later.”
Kaz shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His relations with Korbonski were correct, but he couldn't describe them as warm or relaxed. The two were natural rivals for a senior position. Kaz didn't want to create additional stresses by engaging in debate; he was going to have to work with this man. But he could scarcely object to Sikorski's instructions. Perhaps they had something to do with the Byzantine struggles between Sikorski and the Polish President. Korbonski reported directly to the President. His views—expressed in the heat of debate—might give Sikorski a better fix on the President's tough views toward the Soviet Union.
It might also be Sikorski's way of dealing with the curse of leadership. His officers were eager to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear—or, more precisely, what they thought he wanted to hear. By the grapevine, Kaz had learned, with more than a touch of pride, that Sikorski considered him a rare jewel. When Kaz was asked his opinion, he actually gave it. Politely, but directly and without varnish.
Kaz took a deep breath.
“If it were just a matter of fighting Germans, the problem wouldn't be too difficult. We should strike as the Red Army approaches Warsaw, when the Germans are most vulnerable.... But it's more complicated, sir. Our interests differ sharply from the Russians. We all want to defeat Hitler. But they want a Communist regime in postwar Poland. We don't.”
“Jankowski put his finger on the problem,” interjected Brig. Piotrowski. “But there's one more actor—the Polish Communists. They're gaining strength.” Piotrowski had guts, too. That would scarcely come as good news to Sikorski.
Sikorski turned back to Kaz, who picked up his story.
“The Polish Communists may try to get the Home Army to revolt too soon, in the hope that they'll be wiped out. The Commies may taunt the Home Army—what good are they if they won't fight?”
“Exactly,” said Sikorski.
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 23
