by Leo Marks
I had just enough strength to enquire what quantities this would involve.
‘It’ll make no difference! Nick’s agreed that we’ll do it.’
He watched my face slither (it hadn’t the vitality to fall), and smiled. ‘There’s a bright side to it – you’ll have the authority to supply Captain Astor with the codes you’d agreed to send him anyway. His CO took the trouble to phone Nick to tell him in detail how helpful you’d been. But you needn’t worry about the consequences …’ He assured me that I was reasonably popular with SOE at the moment because the request couldn’t have come at a better moment for Gubbins and Selborne and was a kick in the balls for C.
‘But Heff, we can’t even cope with our own requirements, let alone the whole of Special Forces.’
‘Try telling that to Nick – he’s waiting to see you.’
I reached his office in twenty-five seconds, an in-house record.
Nick was far too elated by his directorate’s popularity (WT sets, signal plans and variable call-signs were also in demand) to be disturbed by trivia such as shortage of silk. He pointed out that I’d solved previous production problems without much difficulty by talking to George Courtauld and Tommy Davies (the ‘hard men’), and instructed me to approach them immediately. He added that they already knew of the War Office’s request as Davies was on the Executive Council, which had endorsed his decision to supply Special Forces with everything they needed.
The ‘hard men’ weren’t at all pleased to see me. They listened with growing impatience as I explained that we’d get no help with the new commitment from our present printers and photographers as they were already pushed to their outer limits.
‘So are we,’ snapped Tommy Davies.
‘Indeed we are,’ echoed George Courtauld.
I assured them that I didn’t take their help for granted and knew how difficult it would be for them to find new firms for us. I added that it wasn’t just the codes themselves which had caused them to catch on but the quality of the printing and photography for which they alone were responsible. I then admitted that I’d recommended to my colleagues that signal plans and variable call-signs should also be printed on silk, which would increase the workload still further.
Davies stared out of the window as if wondering if it would be a suitable exit for me. ‘We’ll do what we can, but I don’t hold out much hope.’
‘Very little indeed,’ echoed Courtauld.
Three days later four new firms of printers and photographers were put at SOE’s disposal. They began work at once with silk supplied by the ‘hard men’ and made far fewer than the usual quota of beginners’ mistakes.
The War Office’s first demands arrived a day later. They wanted five hundred LOPs on silk or waterproof paper, and three hundred WOKs.
We promised to supply them within a fortnight at the latest and delivered them in less than a week.
Only one thing marred our new role in the code war.
No one was able to press a magic button for Tommy – not even Gubbins, Selborne or the ‘hard men’.
Tommy’s friends Brossolette and Bollaert had never been in greater jeopardy. They’d been waiting since December to be picked up from France, but the first Lysander which had been sent to collect them had been forced to turn back due to bad weather, and the replacement had been shot down. Since then no further aircraft had been available to SOE, and the two agents were still hiding in a Breton seaport.
Tommy had urged them to wait for the January moon, when another attempt would be made to pick them up by Lysander. But the RAF had been unable (or unwilling) to mount a third operation, and Tommy was convinced that his friends wouldn’t wait any longer and would risk boarding a ship.
The latest news from the field caused him even greater anxiety. Dozens of Free French agents were being arrested daily, and he was convinced that the secret army and the Maquis would be wiped out if they didn’t receive the arms and supplies he’d promised them (the maquisards had one rifle to every eighteen men and were equally short of food and clothing). He’d besieged the Whitehall ministries, but had emerged with nothing but promises or outright rejection, and his failure to keep his word to those who trusted him had made him unapproachable; I had to telephone Kay Moore to ask how he was.
She was concerned about his state of mind and puzzled by his recent behaviour.
He’d begun spending whole days away from the office without saying where he’d gone and had warned her that at the beginning of February he was likely to be completely unavailable but hadn’t explained why.
She was convinced that he was up to something but had no idea what. She wondered how the strain was affecting Barbara.
From 20 January onwards the Rabbit (now more grey than white) began calling at my new office as he had at my old, and I knew then that it was officially open.
On 25 January he came in at midnight as he ‘just happened to be passing’ and sat in silence, clutching an unlit cigar. More out of habit than inclination, he picked up one of Mother’s sandwiches and allowed it to nibble away at him.
We spent a few minutes discussing the Free French code book but for once his mind was elsewhere, and I knew that there was nothing I could say to him which would ease his sense of failure.
Turning towards the window, he stared at the iron bars (the room’s brightest feature) and spoke to himself (and the maquisards?) as if there were no one else present: ‘It’s the only step left open to me …’
He turned sharply towards me, but I pretended not to have heard him and offered him a match for his cigar.
Two days later the Rabbit took that ‘only step’. He went to Downing Street and had a meeting with Churchill.
Note
* Some fifty years later Anne typed the whole of this book, probably on the same machine.
Sixty-One
A Mere Squadron Leader
‘I don’t put much beyond our Tommy if it helps the Free French. But to have gone all the way to the Prime Minister on his own initiative defies belief … The whole of SOE is in his debt.’
Nick to author, 3 February 1944
Astudent of human nature, provided it wasn’t his own, Nick spent several minutes trying to determine how a mere squadron leader had managed to gain access to England’s most sought-after ear – despite the high-level competition for it and despite its owner’s antipathy to de Gaulle. The quality which eluded him was chutzpah.
Using his own contacts to bypass official channels, our Tommy had stated the case for supporting the Free French to the only man in the country in a position to sanction it. Their encounter gave SOE’s grapevine its busiest time since Hambro’s resignation.
Some believed it had lasted ten minutes; others all day. Some were convinced that Churchill had treated him coldly, others that he’d listened carefully to his account of the secret army’s potential and had assured him that he wouldn’t be penalised for bringing it to his attention by unorthodox means. But there was no disputing the outcome of their meeting.
The Air Ministry had been instructed by Churchill to supply SOE with a hundred aircraft capable of flying 250 sorties over France every moon period and had already put twelve Liberators, two Halifaxes and sixteen Stirlings at RF section’s disposal. The other recalcitrant ministries had been given similar instructions, and large quantities of weapons, equipment and clothing had also been delivered, with the promise of more by the end of the month.
I waited for the announcement that Tommy was now prime minister and that Churchill had joined the Maquis.
I also waited for the sound of Tommy’s footsteps and, as soon as I heard them a few midnights later, hastily concealed an aide-mémoire marked NQAC (no questions about Churchill).
I expected him to be elated by his shopping expedition, but he’d seldom been more truculent as he advanced towards me brandishing two small artefacts for concealing silks. Slamming them on the desk, he pointed out that no attempt had been made to age them and that they’d be danger
ous for agents to carry, as leather goods of this type were no longer obtainable in France. Or hadn’t I heard there was a war on?
His complaints were justified (they usually were), but I suspected that he was venting his anxieties about Brossolette and Bollaert and that he’d been scouring the Signals Office for news of their whereabouts. (I knew that there was none.)
Accepting one of Dad’s cigars (I was hoping he’d brief me about Churchill’s), he instructed me to give the Camouflage Station ‘a real bollocking’ unless I preferred him to do it for me, an offer I declined with thanks.
Finally sitting down, he suggested it was time I got off my arse and gave the poor bastards who relied on me for codes a bit of service.
‘Oui, mon général. Vous avez raison.’
‘Translate that! I don’t speak German!’ His eyes hardened as he uttered the word, but a new thought seemed to occur to him and he looked at me intently.
I waited for another bollocking, but his expression had changed and I thought I glimpsed a hint of concern.
‘Is anything wrong? I don’t mean with your work, there always is! …I mean with you personally …’
‘I’m a bit tired, that’s all. Too many Free French indecipherables.’
‘You’re sure it’s nothing else? Are your parents all right?’
I assured him that they were, and that I was simply a bit tired.
‘Then pack up and go home to them – or to whoever else is waiting for you.’
Sensing my reluctance, he stood up abruptly and switched off the lights. ‘If I come back in ten minutes and you’re still here, there’ll be hell to pay. Is that understood?’
‘Ja, mein Kommandant.’
In the silence which followed I wondered what else the squadron leader had to do before they promoted him – arrest Hitler in person?
He glanced back at me as he reached the door and once again took me by surprise. ‘I was shit-scared of meeting him … Never encountered such a mind. Every word was pure Havana. Tell you more when you’ve obeyed doctor’s orders … thanks for asking no questions.’ He closed the door quietly.
I obeyed his instructions ten minutes later and had my worst nightmare since Christmas Eve.
I dreamed that Churchill was in danger of dying and that Tommy was stating his case to God. Tommy offered the Lord a WOK, and then a LOP, and then himself, if Churchill could be spared. Christ and Moses were present as members of the Executive Council. Barbara was taking notes, and I was holding a copy of the FFI code book in case Jehovah wanted that too. ‘No,’ said Barbara, ‘Tommy’s life will be enough,’ and a tear fell on her notebook. A heavenly choir began chanting ‘Hosanna’ in Morse.
Twenty-four hours later a message from Brittany reported that Brossolette and Bollaert had been arrested. No details were known except that they’d tried to escape by sea.
A subsequent message reported that on 3 February their boat had been shipwrecked off the coast of Brittany. They’d managed to reach shore but had aroused the suspicions of a Feldgendarme as they tried to make their way inland. They were now in a local prison being questioned by the Germans.
It was the worst news for RF section and Duke Street since the death of Jean Moulin. But it was even worse for Tommy.
He knew that the dye which disguised Brossolette’s famous white forelock would soon wear off, and that when it did the Germans would identify him immediately and his torture would begin. (His own already had.) He also knew that he was the only person in SOE in a position to continue his joint mission with Brossolette, on which they’d spent eight weeks together establishing a new chain of command and preparing the resistance groups for D-Day.
He informed his colleagues that he intended to return to France in the next moon period. He also informed them (though he had no need to) that he would try to rescue Brossolette before his dye wore off.
Dismore did his best to remind him that his own security was blown, as the Gestapo had circulated a detailed description of Shelley (his field name) and had put a high price on his head. He also pointed out that he mustn’t feel responsible for Brossolette’s capture, as he’d been warned not to attempt to escape by sea.
Passy used much the same arguments on behalf of Duke Street, but had no more success than his Baker Street counterpart.
The grapevine once again went into action.
I learned from Charlotte (our in-house expert on French affairs) that Dismore and Passy had met privately to discuss Tommy’s return. They agreed that his presence in France would be invaluable as he was so widely trusted and that he’d soon restore morale. Their overriding problem was the extent of his knowledge and the possibility that he’d crack under torture, though they hadn’t said so to him. They finally decided that his capture was a risk that had to be taken and that they should give him all the help they could.
Churchill (who’d written to Selborne, ‘Pray keep me informed about Yeo-Thomas’) was reported to have exhaled the view that he shouldn’t yet return to France but should be prevailed upon to take whatever decision ‘would best enable him to serve his country the longest’, but he declined to intervene.
So did Gubbins, and it seemed to RF section and Duke Street that the final decision was being left entirely to them, in accordance with standard procedure.
But they’d reckoned without the Signals directorate.
The only person in SOE capable of blocking Tommy’s return was Nick. Since joining the Executive Council, he’d constantly maintained that country-section officers who had a detailed knowledge of their agents’ operations shouldn’t be allowed to go into the field. (His prime target had been Bodington, who made frequent trips to France and then returned to Baker Street to resume his duties as Buckmaster’s deputy before going in again. Bodington had since been sent on indef-inite leave.) Although convinced that the malpractice must cease, in the debates that followed Nick reluctantly conceded that country-section heads were in the best position to evaluate the information they were putting at risk, but on one point he was adamant.
He absolutely insisted that country-section officers who had a detailed knowledge of their agents’ codes, security checks and WT conventions should under no circumstances be allowed to go into the field without the express consent of the Signals directorate. He made clear that unless this happened immediately, he’d no longer accept respon-sibility for the security of SOE’s traffic. The council had unanimously agreed to his embargo, but expressed the hope that he’d use it sparingly.
The Rabbit not only fell into Nick’s forbidden category, he was also deputy head of RF section, and Nick informed the council that, much as he admired Tommy, he would categorically oppose his return to France! He was setting a precedent to prevent one from being set.
Faced with Tommy’s wrath if they agreed and Nick’s resignation if they didn’t, the council asked Nick to put his reasons in writing in the hope that Dismore and Duke Street would accept their validity, and his green ink had already covered three pages.
I was anxious to have no part in opposing Tommy’s return, but Nick instructed me to prepare a list of all the poems and security checks which he’d seen when accompanying me to briefings, as well as a detailed report on everything he’d learned about codes from his visits to my office.
Nick had given me twenty-four hours in which to complete it.
Twenty-two of these had already elapsed, and I hadn’t begun.
In mid-February a new message from France reported that Brossolette had been taken to Rennes prison but hadn’t yet been identified (he was posing as a Monsieur Bourdet).
The moon period was imminent, and Tommy knew that it would be his last chance to mount a rescue operation. But he also knew (like most rabbits, he kept his ears close to the ground) that the Signals directorate was trying to block his return, and he came storming into my office twenty minutes before I was due to meet Nick.
I reached for my cigar case, but he was in no mood for peace pipes and greeted me with a simple annou
ncement: ‘If you try to stop me from going in I shall never speak to you again.’
Since further conversation was unlikely if he did go in, the threat was academic and I looked at him in silence.
‘I know bloody well what’s going on so don’t play the innocent with me. Do you people in Signals think I’m completely irresponsible and haven’t thought the risks through? Christ Almighty, do you think I’m not prepared for what might happen and don’t know my limitations? I trust your judgement – have some respect for mine. Enough said?’
Taking for granted that it was, he announced that he’d be leaving in a week.
I made no comment.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear I don’t expect to pass much traffic.’
I didn’t think he would either.
Glancing at a pile of silks, he said I should start preparing his codes immediately and let him have a morning with a briefing officer as he was ‘probably a bit rusty … How long will you need for my final briefing?’
‘An hour if you’re in the right mood – for ever if you’re not.’
He then asked how many agents I met in the course of a week – ten? – twenty?
‘None at all in a good week.’
‘Do you remember one named Brossolette?’ His timing was pure Tommy.
I pretended to be thinking it over. ‘The name seems familiar … Didn’t you once tell me he owns a bookshop in Paris?’
‘I’d like him to continue running it.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘Just you remember that I know sod-all about codes when you write that report …’
I was already late in delivering it and glanced at my watch.
Tommy took this personally. ‘Sorry to take up so much of your time. Shan’t for much longer.’
He left without his cigar.
Nick was studying a lengthy document, which I suspected was his report to the council. Heffer was studying the ash on his cigarette.
