by Leo Marks
Made her humour
A tumour
Malign and malignant
A figment and fragment
Of all that was stagnant
In the refuse bin
Of her unknown sin
At the end of her life
She ignored her food
And swallowed her knife.
‘Good God,’ whispered PITA, clearly doubting His existence.
I hastened to assure him that we didn’t inflict poems marked UFA on agents.
‘I’m delighted to hear it. I suppose you chant them to each other?’ He pushed the ditty-box aside as if it were SOE’s future and glanced at his watch.
Abandoning his course, I asked how many words he remembered of the UFAs he’d read.
‘Piles,’ he said with feeling. ‘You seem to think that Hitler gave them to his mother.’
I informed him that indecipherables were the code department’s haemorrhoids and that UFAs were the best antidote we had. ‘Do you mind if I explain why, sir?’ I then pointed out in less technical language:
a) That the speed with which the enemy could break a poem-code depended on the number of messages they’d managed to intercept (known in the trade as ‘depth’);
b) That the more ‘depth’ they accumulated, the easier it was for them to reconstruct the words of a poem;
c) That every time an agent had to re-encode an indecipherable, he was providing them with another sample of his poem.
‘Now you see where UFAs come in?’
‘If you use them as ointment for haemorrhoids, there’s only one place …’
I explained that to ram home the dangers of ‘depth’ to the girls, and to give it to them as people, I wrote a dozen transposition keys on the blackboard, all based on the same UFA, and challenged them to reconstruct the entire poem.
I added that although this extended them to their outer limits (and taught me what they were), when they found that they could reconstruct even the most unexpected phrases they worked round the clock to keep agents off the air. I added that their 90 per cent success rate had already been increased by the introduction of charts and that the RAF wouldn’t be kept waiting on D-Day for the latest reports from the field.
‘I’d now like to resume your crash course—’
‘Thank you – your time is up, and I’ve heard enough.’
He then switched off his stopwatch and accused me of wasting the best part of an hour trying to blame all SOE’s calamities on the poemcode we’d inherited from C and of giving him a lot of waffle about the precautions C hadn’t thought of taking, when all he was concerned about was hard fact and not interdepartmental rivalries, which frankly sickened him.
He seemed equally nauseated by the array of silks awaiting his inspection – ‘I’d better look at the new codes your brigadier thinks so highly of. I see you’ve set them out to their best advantage.’
‘Sorry! I’m not prepared to discuss them with you until I’ve answered your last remarks.’
I didn’t mind being addressed by him as if I were an East End barrow boy because that’s how Father’s career had started, but I could no longer stomach the contempt which blazed from his corneas, of which he appeared to have several.
I told him I was sorry if all he’d got out of the past hour was digs at C and waffle; I’d intended to convey to him the very hard fact that between now and D-Day scores of agents were likely to lose their silks and would have to arrange their dropping operations in poems. This meant that the RAF would continue to be in danger from our traffic no matter what precautions we took, and I thought he should know it.
My frankness seemed to puzzle him and I decided to explain it. ‘I was hoping that absolute honesty from me might be worth a Lysander or two from you.’
Without any warning he sprang to his feet and strode to the door.
I was convinced that I’d wrecked SOE’s chances and called out to him in despair, ‘PITA.’
He swung round so angrily I suspected that his Christian name was Peter, and that he wouldn’t tolerate familiarity from a barrow boy.
‘What was that?’
‘I was about to tell you that “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper” was a code-poem – but the agent who used it spelled pickled with two “k”s, and it took us thirty-eight thousand attempts to break his message! I thought you should know we don’t give up easily!’
He clearly considered that I was more pickled than the peppers. Backing towards the door, he gravely thanked me for my invaluable information and announced with some urgency that he had to have a pee!
‘Second door on the left, sir. The chain needs a bit of a pulling.’
‘So does my leg.’
He then went about his business, and I spent his loo-time (which was all too short) calling out suggestions for Brossolette’s indecipherable. He resumed his seat not perceptibly relieved and waited for the barrow boy to explain the contents of his stall.
Forty minutes later I was convinced that he understood as much about WOKs and LOPs as anyone I’d briefed. Although he didn’t ask a single question, I could feel his interest growing when I showed him the Jedburgh code books, which were to be used on D-Day with letter onetime pads and which the Americans had accepted.
He seemed even more interested when I told him that we’d mounted a deception scheme called Gift-Horse to persuade the enemy that WOK traffic had been passed in poem-codes ‘in the hope of wasting their bloody time’.
He still appeared to be riveted when I showed him a Gift-Horsed WOK and pointed out the indicator groups which we’d deliberately duplicated.
He then asked a question which caught me completely off guard: ‘I assume you know about the two Dutch agents who’ve escaped to Switzerland?’
His timing was brilliant, and I realised that I’d been handled by a master.
‘Well, do you know about them or don’t you?’
I admitted that I did.
‘Do you accept their statements that almost the whole of the Dutch Resistance is in enemy hands and that your codes and passwords are completely blown?’
‘I haven’t read their statements, sir.’ It was true. Nick had read them to me, but I needed time to think.
‘Marks, I’m going to cut this short …’ He didn’t specify which part of my anatomy he meant. ‘What do you believe the position in Holland and Belgium really is?’
A fucking disaster, sir.
‘Well?’
The honest way to answer him would be to show him my Dutch and Belgian reports but I still didn’t know if I was supposed to let him see them. I knew that I was going to and decided I’d need a cover story to protect me from the charge of wilfully disobeying orders.
I’d maintain that he’d asked me for a report on security checks, but the bastard had so flustered me that I’d shown him the wrong documents and he was halfway through them before I’d realised my mistake, an explanation so improbable that SOE might believe it. But I’d need PITA’s co-operation and didn’t know how to get it.
‘Take your time, old chap. I want your considered opinion.’
His use of ‘old chap’ could only have come from the old chap upstairs, as it was Father’s way of comforting me from childhood onwards. I started considering what Dad would do if he had PITA to deal with.
He had one trick for which he was infamous. Whenever he was ready to bid for a library he’d conceal two pieces of paper with a different offer written on each. He’d then invite the vendor to write down what he thought his library was worth while he pretended to do the same. As soon as he saw the vendor’s estimate, he’d produce whichever piece of paper was closest to it, and the deal was done.
I decided to adopt his technique in a worthier cause.
‘I’d better show you these, sir.’ I unlocked my centre drawer and produced three folders. ‘These will give you an analysis of every Dutch and Belgian agent’s security checks from ’42 onwards …’
They were in fact m
y Dutch reports, and I now had to persuade PITA to insist on seeing them.
‘Oh Christ, sir! I’ve just realised I’m not allowed to show these to anyone! SOE has some very strict rules.’
He bridled at being considered anyone. ‘I suspect Brigadier Nicholls would make an exception, but we needn’t trouble him. You don’t have to show them to me – you can summarise them.’
‘I really think it would be better if you read them, sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Summarise them.’
I need a cover story, you prick. If I show you something I’m not supposed to it’s because I made a mistake. Mea culpa, SOE, mea maxima culpa (another Latin phrase I had good reason to know).
‘I wish you would accept my judgement, sir, if only on this. It really would be better if you read at least one of them.’
‘I’ve already told you my decision. Now kindly get on with it.’
Although I outranked him, being a civilian, I couldn’t force him to read what he didn’t want to and had only one hope left.
The folder I most wanted him to see ‘slipped’ from my fingers and fell open at page one, which was headed ‘Plan Giskes’ (I admitted in the first paragraph that I’d no authority to launch it).
He glanced at it perfunctorily, then stiffened slightly and picked the folder up. He read the whole of page one, then looked up at me with a glimmer of understanding. ‘I must insist on reading your reports on Dutch and Belgian security checks. Shall I contact Brigadier Nicholls?’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir – but may I leave them with you while I go next door to help with that indecipherable?’
His abrupt nod concluded the deal.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Black and strong, please.’
He put the folder face downwards on the desk when Muriel arrived with her tray. Staring at the selection of cream cakes she’d reserved for the occasion, he informed her that they’d help him to digest ‘Mr Marks’s reports on security checks’.
She knew at a glance what I’d given him to read but left without comment.
PITA picked up the folders and weighed them by the ounce. ‘Come back in an hour.’
‘Right, sir, but if you need me for any reason, just press that intercom.’
‘I’ll try to avoid it,’ he said, and began sipping his coffee.
The indecipherable was waiting on Muriel’s desk.
Dispossessing her, I completed two new sets of blanket attacks and despatched them to the station and to the Norgeby House coders with instructions to the supervisors to monitor the girls’ progress as the procedures would be new to them.
I made a dozen attempts myself and by sheer luck discovered Brossolette’s mistake. He’d chosen one key from the first line of his silk and the other from the third instead of using them in pairs the way they were printed. I telephoned Tommy to tell him the message was out and cancelled the blanket attacks.
The indecipherable forced me to accept that even with silks no mistake was so improbable that our agents wouldn’t make it, and I began preparing a new series of blanket attacks for WOK malefactors.
I was startled when Muriel warned me that the air commodore’s time was up.
I wondered if the same could be said of SOE’s.
PITA was staring at my favourite patch of ceiling. The folders were as tightly closed as his face. He waited until I was seated before acknowledging my return.
‘How’s the indecipherable?’
‘The girls broke it after eight hundred attempts.’
He made no comment and continued staring at the ceiling. ‘I have only one question,’ he finally announced.
He relapsed into silence he showed no signs of breaking.
A sliver of panic began crawling up my spine. He should have had a spate of questions. One sounded ominous.
To ease the tension, I laid odds on what it was: 2–1 it was about the results of Plan Giskes, 5–1 it was about the ‘Heil Hitler’ call sign, 10–1 it was about the Dutch agents who’d been allowed access to the Belgian escape lines …
But PITA had something more important on his mind: ‘Where did you get those incredible cream cakes?’
I saw that two had disappeared and was spared the embarrassment of answering him when he patted his stomach and said it would be a kindness to his tailor if I withheld the information.
Showing little benevolence himself, he brusquely announced that there was nothing in the reports I’d shown him that we needed to discuss. He then patted his stomach again, and I’d have liked to help him. ‘I’ve seldom enjoyed a better cup of coffee – visiting SOE has some advantages.’
He glanced at his watch, and stood up abruptly. ‘It’s time I called on Brigadier Nicholls. Perhaps you’d point me in the right direction.’
What else have I been trying to do the whole bloody morning?
‘I’ll take you to his office, sir.’
We walked in silence down the longest corridor I’d known.
‘I’ve another question for you,’ he finally announced.
He was in no hurry to ask it, but I didn’t reopen my betting shop.
‘Was it true what you told me about Peter Piper and his peck of pickled peppers?’
‘Absolutely true, sir – but not the whole truth.’
‘I thought as much. I can manage the rest of the way, thank you.’
He nodded abruptly and I began the long trek home but he at once called me back in a coup-de-grâce tone.
I turned to face the firing squad, and perspiration was my blindfold.
‘Leo, I’ve a bit of advice for you. No matter what happens to SOE in the short term, keep your pickled pepper up and push on with your job. The code war, as you call it, isn’t over yet. Oh, and while I think of it – that security check bumph was a great help to me but I don’t propose to tell anyone I’ve seen it. Goodbye, old chap.’
Ten minutes later I discovered the meaning of Ne supra crepidum suter judicaret:
‘A wise cobbler should not judge above his last.’
A far-from-wise head of Codes had to wait twelve hours before learning from Heffer what PITA had said to him and Nick at their second conference.
He’d been very impressed by our new codes and security checks, and by all that he’d heard about the quality of our FANYs! He’d also been impressed by our new WT sets and equipment. But above all, he was satisfied that we’d learned from our mistakes and would be able to cope with the problems of the D-Day traffic, and intended to say so in his report to the ministry. He also intended to recommend that the ban on flights over Holland must continue and that in the short term sorties over Belgium must be cancelled or curtailed.
‘He’s done all he can to let us off lightly,’ said Heffer. ‘The trouble is he’s been overrruled.’ He then disclosed that, without warning to SOE, the head of Bomber Command had cancelled all our air ops over western Europe. ‘He’s been got at by C, but grounding us isn’t enough for them. They’re trying to persuade the War Office to close us down completely, and if Gubbins doesn’t catch the next plane home, they’ve a damn good chance of succeeding!’
I thanked him for the information and turned to go, but he called me back as sharply as PITA had.
‘Payne made a comment about you which puzzled us. He said that to prove some point you were trying to make, you insisted on showing him some Top Secret documents.’
I vowed never to trust another cobbler. ‘Top Secret documents, Heff?’
‘He described them as UFAs, and we couldn’t admit that we had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us when you have a moment?’
I assured him that I would.
Two days later a first edition of Peter Piper’s Practical Principles of Plain and Perfect Pronunciation, 1819 was acquired by 84.
I tried to buy it from them at cost so that I could present it to a friend, but according to Father (the biggest cobbler of us all) the British Museum had stepped
in first.
Convinced that my friend and I would never meet again, I wrote a short UFA in his memory:
Think only this of me
That there’s some corner
Of an SOE barrow boy
That is forever PITA.
The girls failed to break it.
Note
* Issued in May ’44 to an agent of D?F section, which specialised in escape routes.
FIFTY-NINE
The Invisible Presence
Gubbins had been in the Middle East for six weeks and SOE regretted every year of them. His deputy, Sporborg, had kept him fully informed about the crisis in London and expected him to fly back while we were still in business, but on 3 December Gubbins sent him a message:
… ESSENTIAL TO REMAIN CAIRO TILL CHURCHILL BACK FROM TEHERAN. AM CONFIDENT CRISIS CONTAINABLE ON LINES AGREED WITH SELBORNE OUR TELEGRAMS OF 2ND. ALSO CONFIDENT ATTLEE (DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER) WILL DEFER FURTHER MEASURES TILL ABLE CONSULT CHURCHILL. EXPECT RETURN LONDON MID-DECEMBER. FURTHER MESSAGE FOLLOWS.
Heffer, seldom a pessimist unless he was happy, was convinced that SOE would be disbanded if the Mighty Atom didn’t catch the next plane home. Nor did he share his confidence in Lord Selborne’s ability to defend us in Cabinet.
On 4 December the minister’s personal assistant was despatched to Baker Street on a fact-finding mission and was escorted into my office by Sporborg and Nick.
She was a red-haired sledgehammer named Pat Hornsby-Smith. Her manner was brusque, her figure superb and her voice had parquet flooring. She at once admitted that she knew nothing about codes and spent the next thirty minutes asking highly perceptive questions about each silk she was shown. She then made several jokes at her own expense which convulsed Sporborg and Nick, a sure sign of the importance of her visit.
An hour later she enquired with a hint of provocation if there was anything else I’d like her to look at.
The wrong person to be asked such a question, I made the mistake of producing an artefact which even Nick hadn’t seen, as it had only arrived that morning from the Thatched Barn.
