by Leo Marks
Nick had strong views (which I’d canvassed) on the best way to handle the Golf team: it must be a normal briefing in every way and on no account must the agents suspect that we had any special anxieties about them. Nor must I give them code conventions or security checks which weren’t already in use in Holland, because if the agents were caught and forced to disclose them, the Germans might be alerted to our suspicions about Dutch agents generally.
He agreed that each member of the Golf team could safely be given a set of questions with prearranged answers and he would ask the Dutch section to prepare them at once so that the agents had time to learn them by heart. He would make clear that the same request was being made to all country sections in case the Dutch felt singled out. I suggested he made sure that the Golf team were not told each other’s questions.
I’d had such a rare feeling of security when he’d referred to ‘our anxieties … our suspicions’ that I’d nearly disclosed Plan Giskes to him but the Executive Council had summoned him just in time and it was still a secret between me and 84.
The briefing was to be held in Bickenhall Mansions, which was a few regrets away from Chiltern Court. Major Blizzard and Captains Bingham and Killick, the three people I most wanted to avoid, emerged from the briefing room just as I arrived. They were escorting, or were being escorted by, Colonel Elder Wills, who topped the bill at any briefing. He was commanding officer of the Thatched Barn at Barnet, where he and his gifted technicians, some of them ex-convicts, forged huge quantities of currency, travel passes and work permits so that agents like the Golf team could survive in occupied Europe until they perished by the poem-code. He and I knew each other by eye-flicks but had never spoken – an achievement we saw no reason to diminish. After a whispered conversation in which I heard him utter the magic word ‘guilders’, he left.
Captain Killick was the first to notice me and signalled the glad tidings to his colleagues. This was the first time that I’d faced them as a group, and togetherness was what they projected. Nothing could persuade them that their traffic was blown, and if I’d told them that none of their agents had ever made a mistake in his coding, they’d have sent a message to the field asking why not.
Blizzard thanked me for coming at such short notice, and Bingham asked if I’d like some coffee – a substantial improvement on the impenetrable obstinacy with which he’d responded to my countless phone calls about Ebenezer’s security checks.
Declining the coffee, as I’d sampled it before, I enquired how long they could allow me with the four Golfers. Blizzard and Killick exchanged puzzled glances, and Bingham finally explained that there weren’t four Golfers, as I’d put it. Golf was the code name for Broadbean’s WT operator, and the other two agents I was going to brief were Hockey and Tennis. They had common objectives but would operate independently.
I apologised for my mistake and continued to think of them as the Golf team. But it was Bingham who’d misled me in the first place, and not for the first time.
Without pausing for breath (for which I couldn’t blame him as it was highly unpleasant) he rattled off the code names, field names and real names of the four agents, and said that they were waiting for me in the briefing room.
This was the moment I’d been dreading. I’d prepared a special performance for the Golf team and wasn’t sure that I could carry it off. I was even less sure that I had the right to try.
Blizzard asked if I would like Bingham or Killick to attend the briefing.
If I accepted his offer I couldn’t proceed with my act, and nearly said, ‘Yes please.’ But instead I said that providing the four of them spoke English I thought I’d be better off alone with them and he agreed.
I hurried to the briefing room before either of us changed his mind, but paused outside the door to review what I was letting myself in for …
The target of today’s proceedings was not the four agents. It was Giskes himself.
Until now we’d given our long-standing penfriend no cause whatever to credit anyone in the Signals directorate with the competence to set a trap for him. We were still using the poem-code, still relying on its security checks, still sending him Top Secret information. It was essential to Plan Giskes that he continued to believe that he was dealing with incompetents, and one way of giving him the necessary reassurance was through the four agents waiting to be briefed.
I could do nothing to prevent their capture. But if they were interrogated by Giskes about their final code briefing, my conduct in the next hour could do a great deal to allay whatever suspicions he might have when Plan Giskes was launched.
In basic terms, the ideal impression they would convey to him was that I seemed inexperienced, uninspired and whatever the Dutch was for a bit of a cunt.
The high master of St Paul’s had frequently expressed this in Latin in my end-of-term reports, and I was about to demonstrate just how right he had been.
I strode in, said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, or should it be good afternoon, nice weather for coding,’ or some such inanity, then strolled to the briefing officer’s desk, brushed some dust off the chair, some more off the desk, announced that I was allergic to dust and sneezed three times to confirm it. The mopping-up operations took a few moments to complete, then I straddled a chair and faced them.
Their names were Captain Jan Kisk (Hockey), Lieutenant Gerard van Os (Broadbean), Lieutenant William van der Wilden (Golf) and Lieutenant Peter Wouters (Tennis). But for the next hour, which I would try to ensure that they didn’t forget, their activities in the field had no relevance. They had their missions; I had mine. All four seemed very relaxed and had obviously enjoyed their session with Wills. They had no idea what was in store for them.
Breaking them in gently, I made great play of unlocking my briefcase and searching inside it for something of utmost importance. They seemed slightly surprised when all I produced was a copy of The Times, which I spread on the desk with great decorum. It was a valuable prop which I intended shortly to use.
I began the coding cabaret by enquiring if they had enough squared paper, though there were reams of it in evidence; whether their pencils were properly sharpened, which they clearly were; and whether the light was good enough, which it obviously was. I then asked them to encode a message 250 letters long – no, let’s make it three hundred, why not? – waited until they’d started and then told them not to use squared paper as they might not have any in the field, might they? They glanced at each other as they ruled their own.
I was already familiar with their coding, as I’d sent to the training school for their practice messages. These showed that all four were above-average coders, and that William van der Wilden usually started his key phrases with a word from the beginning of his poem and Peter Wouters with a word from the end. Kisk and van Os had not developed any pattern I could spot. One in twelve of their messages had been an indecipherable and I uttered a silent briefing-room prayer that they would continue to send indecipherables when they reached the field.
They glanced at me with a hint of amusement as I grimaced my way through The Times crossword, and were only slightly distracted when I started doing it aloud. I asked for their help with one across, ‘just to get me started’, but none was forthcoming. I then enquired if they were any good at anagrams, as I was hopeless at them myself. Van Os muttered something which sounded like ‘Anna who?’ and started his transposition again. I apologised for interrupting them, ‘But you’ll have to get used to it in the field, you know,’ and resumed my struggle with one across. I wasn’t quite as stuck as I hoped to appear because I’d set the puzzle myself, a paying hobby I’d indulged in at St Paul’s as a substitute for homework.
With my incompetence at anagrams hopefully established for Giskes’s benefit (a cryptographer who can’t anagram is a motorist who can’t steer), I rose from the desk and broke a fundamental rule of briefing by peering over their shoulders, making clucking noises of approval and encouragement, while they were still involved in the co
ding process.
These noises, so alien to me, were interrupted by the telephone. It was the Signals Office supervisor to tell me that two messages had just been cancelled, one to a Belgian agent, the other to a Dane.
William van der Wilden was the first Golfer to reach the eighteenth hole, followed shortly afterwards by van Os, Jan Kisk and Peter Wouters.
I collected their work, told them to check each other’s messages because if I checked them myself, we’d be here all night, and carefully redistributed them. Remembering that the great Spencer Tracy always underacted, I showed no surprise at all when we discovered that I’d ‘accidentally’ given each agent his own message to check! When this was finally resolved, one message was found to be missing. I’d ‘accidentally’ dropped it on the floor.
I apologised, saying that I hadn’t got the hang of things yet as I’d only been head of Codes for a week or two (vital for Giskes to know he was dealing with a new boy) but was sure that I’d soon catch on.
Finding that I had a few clucks left, I walked behind them checking their checking. They’d have been good coders, given the chance.
All that remained was the grand finale, which was unlikely to leave the audience wanting more.
I announced that I was going to read them a list of security rules, though they would have to be patient, as some of them were new to me. I then produced two sheets of foolscap paper from my briefcase and proceeded to inflict on them an elongated version of the normal security patter, apologising now and again for the difficulty I had in deciphering my handwriting.
As soon as I’d finished I offered to read the list again and, before they could refuse, was racing through it. This time I stressed all the points they’d need to know if they were free to do their own coding when they landed in Holland – pausing at an appropriate moment to say that I’d solved one across.
I’d already kept them there an hour and ten minutes and said how quickly the time had passed.
I finally enquired if they had any questions. Looking at me in silence, they shook their heads, but their expressions showed what they were longing to ask. It was the oldest question known to man. ‘Whose arse did you kiss to get this job?’
I said a cheerful goodbye to them and walked to the door.
It may have been my most successful briefing.
*
A fairly full day was not quite over.
I was determined to find that bastard Nicholls and legitimise him. On behalf of every agent using a poem-code I was going to demand a WOK decision, and if the Messiah still refused to tell me who was going to make it he could prepare himself for the Second Going.
But when I returned to my office I found a message on my desk instructing me to report to him immediately.
He was seated behind his desk studying a grey folder. His complexion matched it. He at once asked how I had got on with the Golf team’s briefing, and I assured him it had been as normal as I knew how to make it.
He looked at me quizzically and told me to sit down. It was as well that he did because I couldn’t believe what I now heard him saying.
Tomorrow I was to discuss the future of WOKs with Colonel Tiltman of Bletchley Park.
The Colonel Tiltman of the Bletchley Park. The cryptographic supremo.
I was to keep the whole morning free for him.
No problem! – I’d keep my whole coding life free for him if he had any use for it.
I tried to thank Nick for what he’d achieved but the deep brown melter wouldn’t function and all that emerged was the last of my clucks.
He pointed to the door and ordered me to go home immediately. I was in for the longest night of my life in repayment for what I’d done to the Golf team.
NINETEEN
Summit Meeting
Dear Bletchley wizard
On this of all nights
You must not become
One of sleep’s walking wounded
Trapped between the day’s achievements
And tomorrow’s bereavements
And if a wet dream
Would help you
To awake fair-minded
To judge the merits
Of the codes you will see
Then with all my fearful WOK-filled heart
I wish you one!
Or two!
Or three!
With the compliments, dear Bletchley wizard
Of the whole of SOE.
Written on the eve of the supremo’s visit
On the morning of Tiltman day an event took place which silenced everything in Norgeby House but the teleprinters, caused Nick to believe that Hitler was using hallucinogenic chemicals and gave our stunned workforce an even greater shock than a kind word from a country section. Heffer arrived early.
Having demolished the one stable factor in our Morse-bound world by appearing before noon, he drifted into my office like an ominous sea mist – caught me in the act of concealing secret French messages, Mother’s illicit provisions and whatever else might detract from Tiltman’s WOK benediction – and made history twice in one morning by coming straight to the point.
There were certain aspects of Tiltman’s visit which he felt he should discuss with me. But before doing so, was there anything about the meeting which I would like to ask him?
I admitted that three things puzzled me. Why had it taken Nick since December to set the meeting up? Why had he told me at Xmas that Tiltman had read my coding report and approved it in principle, and remained silent ever since? Had Tiltman changed his mind for some reason?
He patted me with a smile and said that nobody could anticipate Tiltman’s mind, including Tiltman, and that the reasons for the delay would become all too clear to me when I understood Nick’s relationship with Tiltman and Tiltman’s with C. There were also one or two other matters which he felt I should be aware of.
The one-man education board began his disclosures over a shared breakfast, and by the time he’d asked me to present his compliments to the chef I’d lost my appetite altogether.
Listening to Heffer’s account of the Nick–Tiltman relationship was like turning the pages of a wedding album.
They’d first met when they were subalterns in the Signals Corps. Nick specialised in wireless, Tiltman in codes. Their careers advanced in parallel with equal distinction, and their combined talents helped to make MI8 the force that it was.
When Nick gave up gainful employment to join SOE his first major decision was to get Tiltman’s reactions to my coding report. His second was to repeat them to CD and Gubbins. But although they were impressed by what Tiltman had said, his verbal approval wasn’t enough for them. They needed his official endorsement of such radical changes in case C attacked them as a matter of principle. Moreover, because of my age and inexperience they felt that an expert of Tiltman’s standing should supervise any other innovations I might try to introduce and had formally invited him to be SOE’s adviser on codes.
‘Then, by God, Heff, we’re safe!’
‘I’m afraid’, he said quietly, ‘that it isn’t quite as simple as that.’
Of course not! Why else would he be here at eight in the morning?
Choosing his words as carefully as a chancellor with a shaky budget, he explained to the now hushed house why the conflict between C and SOE placed Tiltman (‘a very decent chap by all accounts’) in a most awkward position.
Bletchley was controlled by C and before committing himself to helping SOE Tiltman decided to discuss his position with Brigadier Gambier-Parry, C’s head of Signals. Gambier-Parry was convinced that he’d already given SOE all the advice that it needed (he’d recommended the poem-code) but after a great deal of reflection (presumably his own in a mirror) he’d agreed that it would be in everyone’s interests if Tiltman did what he could to keep SOE’s codes on the right lines so long as it didn’t interfere with his more important commitments. Tiltman had then notified CD and Gubbins that he was prepared to act as SOE’s code adviser.
I
let out a whoop of delight that could have been heard in Bletchley but suddenly noticed Heffer’s expression. He was looking at me as if I’d mistaken a condemned man’s breakfast for a mid-morning snack and, after a thought-pause which broke the existing record, asked for another cup of tea. There was something he was clearly reluctant to say, and I was careful not to prompt him.
Eventually he pointed out that though Nick and Tiltman were experts in their own field, like all professional soldiers they were hopeless at Intelligence politics. But Gambier-Parry was a past master, and was certain to question Tiltman about everything he learned here. It wouldn’t matter what Tiltman reported about Codes, but it could do untold damage to SOE’s chances of a directive if he told Gambier-Parry about the muddles we’d got into in Greece and Yugoslavia and the operational problems we were encountering elsewhere. It was essential therefore that I limited my conversation with Tiltman strictly to codes, without referring to any particular country section’s traffic or indeed to any particular country section.
It took a long time dawning. ‘You mean I mustn’t tell him about the Dutch?’
He confirmed that this was precisely what he meant, then looked at me suspiciously. ‘You’ve kept very quiet lately about Holland. That either means that you’re no further forward or that you’re up to something. Which is it?’
I assured him that I still hadn’t thought of a way of setting a trap for Giskes, and realised that the temptation to tell the truth to Tiltman would be more than I could cope with. ‘If I can’t discuss Holland of all countries with Tiltman of all people I’d rather not meet him.’
He stared intently at my desk. ‘I was under the impression’, he said quietly, ‘that the future of WOKs was your top priority.’ I’d placed one in the centre of the desk where Tiltman couldn’t possibly miss it and surrounded it with poems to point up the contrast. It was the first table I’d ever laid.
Gently now, because his point was made and he knew I was impaled on it, he told me that Tiltman’s schedule had been rearranged. He would be arriving at ten for a short session with Dansey on mainline codes and after that he was mine. And since he’d expressed a preference for seeing me alone, my two room-mates would be spending the whole day in the Signals Office – a fringe benefit Heffer was sure I would welcome. He urged me not to forget for a single moment that whatever I said to Tiltman I would also be saying to Gambier-Parry.
