by Leo Marks
He had a dozen WOKs on his desk an hour later with a set of instructions which I’d done my best to keep simple. When he telephoned to tell me that he’d tested the instructions and found them ‘just the job’ I felt like a guided missile.
The latest developments in Holland brought me sharply back to earth.
N section had ordered the Dutch agents to attack enemy installations, though the security of their WT links must at all costs be preserved. Their targets included U-boats, coal harbours and railway sidings, as well as goods trains, electrical repair shops and factories producing spare parts for night fighters.
N section also required information about the Luftwaffe divisions in Amsterdam, and urgently needed to know at what times night fighters were lined up on the tarmac at Venlo and Gilze in readiness for take-off.
The agents were quick to comply. According to a spate of messages from Ebenezer, Parsley, Catarrh, Cucumber and Co., freedom fighters had successfully attacked patrol boats, barges and railway carriages in Rotterdam, Amsterdam and Delft, as well as minesweepers, coachbuilding factories and storage depots, but had suffered very few casualties.
Other ‘reliable’ information continued to reach N section: Catarrh reported that the cut-out who delivered the Victory group’s message was a traitor and gave a full description of him; Broadbean was arranging for two agents to be smuggled to England and asked London to broadcast a contact phrase, ‘A better world starts with yourself’; and Cucumber was continuing his efforts to establish what had happened to Kale and his boat.
He wasn’t the only one to express concern about the missing commander. Mangold sent a message via Netball saying that although there’d been no news of Kale, he was still hoping that his old chief was safe. Meanwhile he’d continue to take Kale’s place and to carry out his instructions.
Yet despite all this traffic not a single agent had made a mistake in his coding. Nor could I see any signs in the outgoing messages that SOE had really accepted the extent of the collapse. Perhaps the new operations were part of an SOE master plan which I’d be told about when the C crisis was over. Perhaps with a capital pee…
I was about to close the books on July when I received the biggest shock of my SOE life.
Nick walked in accompanied by my former boss Dansey, who never left his main-line code department without very good reasons.
Mercifully unaware of what these were, I produced the special sandwiches reserved for welcome visitors and won a short reprieve.
Nick then informed me that he and Gubbins were becoming increasingly concerned about our Middle East traffic and had decided that Dansey should go to Cairo in August to improve the efficiency of their main-line code room and to prevent further backlogs. I was to join him in Cairo a week later to deal with the agents’ traffic and to explain the importance of WOKs and LOPs.
I neither moved nor spoke, and they looked at me as if realising rigor mortis had already set in. I managed to smile, a habit to which I understood corpses were prone, but was careful not to part my lips in case the reason for my panic slipped out.
Nick asked if I had any questions, but I was keeping them for the Almighty.
Puzzled by my silence, a rare event in his presence, Nick glanced at Dansey, who was equally perplexed. ‘I’d better warn you’, Nick finally said, ‘that the natives are likely to be hostile.’
Sod the natives, and Gubbins, and Nick. None of them knew how lucky they were.
They didn’t have to deal with my parents.
FORTY-SIX
The Club Rules
Approaching twenty-three and frequently mistaken for an adult, I was reluctant to blow my cover by admitting to my colleagues that being a member of the JOCC (Jewish Only Child’s Club) conferred many advantages, but leaving home for a week wasn’t one of them – and as for leaving this country …
I remembered the heartache which had accompanied my only other trip abroad.
At the age of sixteen I’d been allowed to visit Paris escorted by an uncle, who’d been ordered to prepare me for the throne of 84 by confining our expeditions to libraries, museums and antiquarian bookshops. Ignoring his brief, my conducting officer introduced me to a brothel which specialised in beginners.
My parents had phoned Paris several times but didn’t know the brothel’s number, and the proceedings were uninterrupted except by my ineptitude.
I now had the problem of explaining to them why the Ministry of Labour required me to visit its Cairo branch. I decided to give them time to adjust to it, but not enough to attempt to accompany me.
On 5 August I waited till our black-market dinner was no more than a rumble and announced that I was going to the Middle East for a week.
Hard of hearing at will, Mother convinced herself that I’d said the East End, and warned me that Whitechapel was a very rough district and that I mustn’t stay there after dark.
I explained that I was going to Cairo.
‘But that’s abroad,’ she said.
I was unable to dispute it.
She didn’t keel over because she had Father to support.
I explained that I’d been temporarily transferred to a branch of Intelligence.
‘They need to have their heads examined,’ said Mother, ‘sending a baby to that awful place.’
Father announced that he’d be back in an hour and left the room abruptly.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Mother. ‘He’s gone to get pissed.’
But for once Benjamin Marks had another objective, and returned an hour later clutching a large solar topi, which he thrust into my hand.
‘Swear on your mother’s life you’ll never be without it,’ he said.
‘And swear on your father’s life that you’ll never drink the water.’
‘And swear on your mother’s life that you’ll never …’
I swore twelve oaths in all, each as unbreakable as a LOP.
‘When do you leave?’ Father finally asked.
‘In about a fortnight.’
‘A lot can happen in that time,’ he said.
It was one of his rare understatements.
Dansey’s departure was scheduled for the 15th, mine for the 23rd. SOE had arranged for me to spend a few hours in Lisbon en route, and all my papers were in order except for the visa known as courage. Always a nervous traveller even in a pram, I was convinced that my plane would crash and that I’d perish cigarless in the desert.
I began thinking about my successor and hoped he’d come from Bletchley. I also thought about the problems he’d inherit.
Determined to help him take over without losing momentum, I decided to leave him the fullest possible briefing, and set about preparing my last will and testament. If I spent my few remaining days doing nothing else, I’d have just enough time to finish the document, amend it and deposit it with Muriel – my most valuable bequest to him.
In the middle of my preparations a crisis occurred which few had foreseen and which could have disastrous consequences if the code department failed to achieve the technically impossible. It was the most difficult problem I’d encountered since joining SOE.
Einstein (Father’s favourite Yiddisher boy) might have known how to solve it. This one could only say his prayers.
FORTY-SEVEN
Lake Como’s Bottom
‘This is the most important commitment SOE’s ever undertaken, and it can’t succeed without Signals. So you’d better get your thinking cap on.’
Nick to author, August 1943
I was disappointed to learn that the commitment was Italy. Unable to take seriously any country which was run by Mussolini, I continued brooding about my successor while Nick explained that the Italians were preparing to surrender to the Allies and that the negotiations were being conducted by SOE.
‘… but what’s more to the point, we shall be handling the traffic.’
Mistaking my frown for a thinking cap, he explained how vital it was that the Germans didn’t learn about the ar
mistice attempt or they’d probably occupy Rome and shoot the negotiators. His summary of the Italian situation was like an excerpt from Dante’s Inferno.
Mussolini had been deposed in July after a meeting of the Fascist Grand Council, and Marshal Badoglio had replaced him as premier. A fervent anti-Nazi, he’d instructed his agents in Madrid to inform their SOE counterparts that the new Italian government was prepared to negotiate a surrender.
After preliminary talks in Lisbon with an Anglo-American team (the British were represented by members of SOE) the marshal’s deputy, General Castellano, had flown to Massingham to finalise surrender terms with Harold Macmillan and Lord Sheffield from London and two American generals (Bedell-Smith and Strong).
All the arrangements for this key conference had been made by our man at Massingham, Colonel Douglas Dodds-Parker, who was skilful enough to be our man anywhere. (Dodds-Parker was the ‘giraffe in uniform’ who’d shown me the way to Gubbins’s office on my one and only stint as night duty officer.) The Italian delegates had used Dodds-Parker’s bedroom for their private discussions but he’d had the foresight to bug it, which took much of the surprise out of the subsequent discussions.
Although the parties reached ‘agreement in principle’ after an allnight session, the surrender terms had to be ratified by Badoglio in Rome, and both sides realised that it was essential to establish a radio link between him and Massingham.
Helpful as ever, Dodds-Parker informed the Italians that one of SOE’s most reliable WT operators was in prison in Verona. His name was Dick Mallaby and he’d been captured by the Italians when he’d dropped into Lake Como. Castellano undertook to secure Mallaby’s release and to smuggle him into the Quirinale in Rome with his captured WT set. Badoglio would then be in a position to communicate with Massingham.
The Allied commander, General Eisenhower, had been kept fully informed of these developments and had given them his blessing. The traffic had been code-named Monkey and would start as soon as Mallaby was safely installed.
Monkey’s real significance, apart from shortening the war, was that C had been entirely excluded from the negotiations, and it would be a major ‘up yours’ if we succeeded without them. But there was one minor problem: Mallaby’s code.
Hardly daring to ask, I enquired what it was and was shown his file. He’d been trained in Cairo and given a novel from which to extract phrases for his double-transposition. He’d then been sent to Algiers to prepare for his drop, and the chief signals officer had given him a poem to memorise in case he lost his novel, but he’d been captured by the Italians before passing any traffic.
Dodds-Parker suspected that the novel was at the bottom of Lake Como (the best place for it) but was convinced that Mallaby wouldn’t forget his poem as ‘Dick had a most retentive memory’.
It then emerged that it was considered impossible to get a new code to him and that the armistice traffic was to be passed in his poem. I was ordered by Nick to drop everything and devise a way of making it more secure.
The first thing I dropped I’d have been happy to share with Mussolini. The only way of sending Mallaby security instructions would be to transmit them in an insecure code. But that was only the fringe of the problem.
We couldn’t be sure the Germans didn’t already know Mallaby’s poem. He’d been tortured by the Italians and might have thought he could safely disclose his poem to them as he hadn’t used it (they might even send a message with the wrong security checks), and they in turn might have passed it to the Germans as part of their efforts to impress them.
I asked Nick why letter one-time pads couldn’t be smuggled into the Quirinale.
He replied that there wouldn’t be enough time unless I dropped them in myself en route to Cairo. He was always frivolous when at his most worried and telephoned Major Roseberry (head of the Italian directorate).
A few hours later a dozen LOPs were on their way to Massingham and another dozen to Lisbon, where two Italian generals might have an outside chance of smuggling them in. (LOPs were essential for this level of traffic and Mallaby should have no difficulty understanding the instructions.)
In the meantime his poem had to be strengthened, but my thinking cap was several sizes too small.
The problem seemed insoluble until I suddenly remembered Dodds-Parker’s comment that ‘Dick had a most retentive memory’. If it was as reliable as Douglas believed (his own was photographic), we might be in sight of a short-term solution: we could transmit a message to Mallaby in his blown poem, giving him the words of a new one. These would consist of intimate details of his private life which the Germans couldn’t possibly know.
He’d be instructed to memorise the new words (there’d be twenty-six of them) in the order in which we’d encoded them, and to use five different ones for each message. He could show Massingham which five he’d selected by using his normal indicator system. He’d also be instructed that his messages must never contain less than three hundred letters (which with the voluble Italians was hardly likely) and to ensure that his transposition keys were at least twenty letters long.
I took the idea to Nick, and stressed that it was only a short-term answer but it might be better than none.
He took a long time considering it, then studied me in silence. ‘Dodds-Parker was right to code-name the traffic Monkey,’ he said finally.
He then asked Roseberry to examine Mallaby’s records and consult his colleagues in J section (the Italian directorate) for the information we needed, and sent messages to Cairo and Massingham urging anyone who knew Mallaby well (instructors, briefing officers and friends) to provide London with personal details, which must be absolutely accurate. He didn’t disclose why they were needed.
Sifting the data until I knew his foibles by heart, I selected the twenty-six words which were to become his new poem. They included: his mother’s maiden name, his father’s Christian name, the brand name of his favourite beer, the title of his favourite film (Metropolis), the surname of the actress he most wanted to sleep with (Jean Harlow) and the make of his first car. I then took the package to Nick and Heffer.
Nick’s only reservation was the inclusion of Jean Harlow, but Heffer thought she’d be excellent security and asked me to let him know next time one of her films was shown in London. The blonde bombshell (as Miss Harlow was popularly known) was allowed a part in the armistice traffic.
Our next job was briefing the head of Signals at Massingham (Bill Corbett), and Nick sent a message to him in main-line cipher, which he was to decode personally. The message explained how the new code worked, and then instructed Corbett to lock it in his safe until it was required and to allow no more than three coders to use it. Each of them must be warned that under no circumstances was she to discuss the code or the traffic with anyone but Corbett. The texts of the messages would not be subject to normal distribution procedures. Incoming messages would be collected by Colonel Dodds-Parker or by someone he’d appointed, and outgoing messages handed to Corbett personally. If Mallaby transmitted any indecipherable messages the code groups must be sent to London in main-line cipher, and we would assist in breaking them. (It would be impossible for Massingham to mount a blanket attack when only three girls were allowed to know the code.)
Corbett confirmed that he fully understood Nick’s telegram and would take the necessary steps.
I was still hoping that the Italians in Lisbon would find the Quirinale easier to penetrate than Gubbins’s mind was to me and that the silks would reach him in time. SOE’s telepathic system was on red alert, and I received a call from the general within seconds of the thought.
‘Damn good Monkey business,’ he said, and replaced the receiver.
But I knew the truth. I’d produced a flashy idea with little merit because Mallaby’s poem couldn’t stand up to heavy traffic and would have to be changed as frequently as possible.
I set about preparing the reserve poems. I had plenty of material left, including the age at which he’d lost his virgi
nity (he’d repeatedly maintained that he was nine), but some details of his early life were contradictory, and I had to be careful which I selected.
Three hours later the new poems were on their way to Massingham. I said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be used and retired to my own Quirinale to prepare my last will and testament.
FORTY-EIGHT
‘I hereby bequeath …’
Most of the information my successor would need was fully documented, and my first task was to ensure that he knew where to find it without having to depend on third parties.
The records which I kept in my safe and updated weekly would give him a compendium of the strengths and weaknesses of every member of the code department except its present head and provide him with the coding idiosyncrasies of every agent. They also dealt with the foibles of our country-section clients and the vulnerabilities (or otherwise) of our suppliers.
But none of these would give him the insights he needed and I’d have no peace (if the luxury existed where I was likely to be going) unless I disclosed certain malpractices I’d committed which were nowhere on record.
I confessed to intercepting all messages from the field in secret French code, breaking the indecipherables and re-encoding them accurately so that the agents wouldn’t be instructed to repeat them, and hoped he’d continue the malpractice with the utmost caution. I also admitted to launching Plan Giskes without authority and referred him to my Dutch and Belgian reports to help him evaluate the results.
The crime sheet was so long that I decided to leave it to the last as it was more important to brief him about two recent events which were likely to need immediate attention and which had complicated backgrounds.
On 12 August Bodington returned from France.
His request to be picked up by Lysander had been transmitted by Noor Inayat Khan, who’d been wandering around Paris with her set in a suitcase. Although he’d been reluctant to entrust his message to her, he’d found he had no option as the Prosper, Chestnut and Bricklayer circuits had completely collapsed, and ‘Madeleine’ was the only one of Buckmaster’s WT operators still at liberty in Paris.
