by Lee Jackson
It was the second element of a decoder’s skill, identifying messages from specific enemy coders, that had prompted Claire to request a meeting with Commander Denniston. Prior to doing so, she had brainstormed with Welchman for a sanity check. Now, as the appointed time approached, an hour before teatime, she glanced at the clock incessantly and dried moisture from her hands with a handkerchief.
At just before three o’clock, she took a deep breath and knocked on the commander’s door. With her, she carried a tall, thin book and a sheaf of papers in a file folder. She waited for Denniston’s response, and hearing it, she entered.
He sat behind his desk, pipe in hand. Rising, he greeted her warmly. A slender man of medium height, he looked elegant in his navy uniform. Claire could not help noticing that despite approaching his fifties, he retained boyish good looks including dimples on both cheeks and minimal gray in his dark hair.
When they had taken their seats, Denniston started the conversation. “How have you been getting on, Miss Littlefield. That last meeting we were in together was a bit rough.”
“I’m doing fine, sir, but Brigadier Menzies was exactly correct in admonishing me. I had not seen the bigger picture.”
Denniston chuckled. “I suppose that’s why he’s the head of MI-6 and we are two lowly beings still learning the ropes in his organization. But you were right in raising the issue to a higher level, and you came through me, so I have no qualms. He was stern, but your analysis spurred action in the right places and helped save the Boulier network.” He tamped and drew on his pipe while gathering his thoughts. “The major point he made that I hope you took away is that we are purveyors of information. What is done with it belongs elsewhere. That said, if not for your fluency in the German language and your analytical mind, that situation might have been missed.”
“You’re kind, sir. I know my brother, Jeremy, went on a mission to France and returned safely, so I assume he was successful. I have not asked about it, and he has volunteered no account of it.”
“Good, and things should stay that way until this bloody business is behind us.” He puffed on his pipe. “What can I do for you today?”
“I might be out of line again—”
“You weren’t out of line before,” Denniston interrupted. “I’m interested in what you have to say. Go on.”
Claire reminded him of the ability decoders had developed of recognizing individual senders and establishing the locations of military units. Denniston signaled that he grasped the context.
“So then, we know that Field Marshal Reichenau is the man who led the German 10th Army on the assault into France,” Claire went on, “and he is assigned to plan for Operation Sea Lion, Hitler’s intended invasion of Great Britain. For that purpose, Reichenau established his headquarters at Dinard, along France’s Atlantic coast.”
“I’m with you so far,” Denniston said, but his face took on a firm quality. “Do I need to remind you of Menzies’ remonstrance that you are a decoder, not a translator or analyst.”
“I understand that, sir, but something unusual is going on inside that HQ, and it won’t be apparent to either the official interpreters or the analysts. What I’m seeing won’t show up in the black-and-white transcripts or translations of the original messages.” She hesitated. “I ran this by Gordon Welchman before coming to you. He thinks I might be on to something.”
“Then let’s have it.”
“I think there is a new personality inside the headquarters, and she’s causing quite a stir.”
“She?”
“Yes, sir. And I think I’ve pinned down who she is. She could be either a collaborator or represent an opportunity to have someone on our side inside the headquarters.”
Stunned, Denniston leaned forward. Then he sat back, fixed his eyes on Claire, and signaled her to continue.
“This is going to sound a bit crazy at first,” she said. “My first inkling was a message with the words, ‘Ou la-la.’”
“Ou la-la?”
Claire nodded. “I had the same reaction when I first saw the reference, but then I saw repeated use of it by various coders. You know they can be as mischievous and playful as anyone else, and if they can share a joke with their cohorts, they do—if they think no one’s listening. Anyway—” Her face broke into an expression between concern and amusement. “I started realizing that the coders referred to a woman, a particular one they thought to be unusually beautiful, and they were passing the word to each other of sightings.”
“I see.” Denniston sounded skeptical. “I wonder if we have a similar situation among our people.”
“I don’t think so,” Claire said, slightly alarmed. “We’re defending against invasion. Our people know the stakes. The Germans think they’ve got the war won. They get careless.”
“That makes sense, but checking our own procedures won’t hurt. Continue.”
“Bear with me,” Claire said, squirming at the thought of having brought scrutiny from above onto her fellow workers. “It’s been several weeks since I first noticed this strange phenomenon in Dinard, so I’ve had a chance to watch the pattern.” She broke into an amused smile. “I can almost trace this woman’s movements through the headquarters by the frequency of references to her—”
“As ‘Ou la-la?’”
“That, and”—she chuckled—“it’s as if I’m tracking the coders’ pulses. Suddenly, wherever they’re keying in ‘Ou la-la’ in Morse, they also tap faster.”
Denniston’s skepticism deepened. “That’s a funny story, but are we to take this seriously? Have you ascertained who this woman might be?”
“I think I have, sir. In addition to Ou la-la, in some instances they refer to her as Jeannie and in others as Rousseau, and she works directly with the field marshal.”
Denniston inhaled sharply. “Now that is interesting. Go on.”
“I knew you might be doubting all of this, and rightly so. I took the liberty of searching all the directories I could find that had listings on the west coast of France anywhere in the vicinity of Dinard. I also searched the pre-war diplomatic lists and found a Jean Rousseau who had been in the French foreign service. He retired to Saint-Brieuc, and just before the war started, he moved to Dinard.”
Claire saw from Denniston’s expression that he was now fully engaged; intrigued even. “Go on.”
“I went through everything I could find on him, including bios of French foreign service officers. He and his wife have a daughter by the name of—”
“Jeannie Rousseau?” Denniston murmured. “That would be unbelievable.”
“There’s more. In one of Mr. Rousseau’s later bios, mention is made of his daughter having gone to the Paris Institute of Political Science.” She paused a moment. “We have women at Bletchley roughly the same age. Several graduated from there. I found one who attended at the same time as Miss Rousseau. I got her to bring in her yearbook.” She opened the book she had brought and handed it over. “As you can see, she is exquisitely beautiful. Look what it says about her—that she is brilliant, a dedicated student, can be coquettish, and speaks five languages fluently, including German.”
Denniston’s jaw dropped. He pulled his pipe from it and scrutinized the photo. “Welchman was right. You are onto something.” He leaned back, thinking. “Several questions pop up,” he mused while staring at the ceiling. “Is she friend or foe? How do we confirm one way or the other, and in either case, what do we do about it? If she’s collaborating, that’s something that the French Resistance will want to deal with. On the other hand, if she could be convinced to bring out intel, she could be a treasure trove, but that would be incredibly dangerous for her.”
He glanced at Claire. “You’ve done a marvelous job. That’s two in a row. We might need to review where your talents are best applied. That said, if you had not been fluent in German and so diligent as a decoder, we would have missed both entirely.”
Noticing a look of dismay cross Claire’s face, he inquired, �
�What’s wrong?”
“I hadn’t considered what the French Resistance might do to Rousseau, or how dangerous spying for us could be for her.”
Denniston stood and crossed to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “That’s nothing for you to worry about.” He indicated the file and the yearbook she had brought with her. “Leave that with me. I have some ideas on how to put this information to work.”
Claire stood and started toward the door. “Thank you, sir. I hope I was helpful.”
“Superb work, Miss Littlefield, though I must caution that you probably will not hear back on this. You know, hush-hush and all that. I’ll try to get word back to you, but that could take time.”
“I understand. I just wanted to do my part.”
“You’ve certainly done that.”
As soon as Claire had left Denniston’s office, he called Lord Maurice Hankey, currently organizing SOE. “I think I might have something for you.”
He related all that Claire had told him. “You might recall Miss Littlefield from that meeting we had with Menzies and the success that came out of it.”
“I remember,” Hankey said. “She’s good. Too bad we’ve got her sequestered at Bletchley. We could use her talents in the field.”
“That wouldn’t do us any good,” Denniston retorted. “If you put all the good ones in harm’s way, we won’t have anyone to uncover these nuggets.”
“Good point. I’ll see what I can round up. SOE is still in the formation stage, but the Alliance group in Marseille should be able to handle this without our sending anyone in. I’ll have them notified.”
“Not the Boulier network?” Denniston queried.
“I shouldn’t think so. Not at this point. They’re good for bringing people out of France, but they’re still developing their systems. Besides, Boulier falls under Crockatt over at MI-9. Alliance was organizing before the Huns flanked the Maginot. Its reach goes into high places, and their contact is with my group. They’ll know what to do.”
“Fair enough, old chap. I leave it in your hands.”
5
Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire, England
Is it possible to be elated and chagrinned at the same time? Claire left Denniston’s office pleased with a job well done and dismayed that she might be the cause of someone being put to death. She had learned something of Jeannie Rousseau. Claire knew the woman’s face and that she was more than a lascivious object referred to as “Ou la-la.” She had heard that the French Resistance brooked no collaboration with Germany. Its members had made examples of those caught by slicing the miscreants’ throats and leaving signs that read, “Collaborateur!”
It’s a war. Don’t dwell on it. She shook off both senses and smiled in anticipation of her evening with the tall American pilot. She took the special bus chartered by Bletchley into Stony Stratford, nine miles away, and then walked the remaining distance to the guest house she rented with Jeremy, Timmy, and the nanny.
The little boy’s eyes lit up and he squealed in delight when Claire came through the door. She laughed, picked him up, and held him close, his head resting in the crook of her neck. “I love you so much, Timmy.”
She lowered him to the floor and sat down to play. He brought toy cars and trucks and colorful farm animals to show her. While they played, the same odd sense of elation and dismay gripped Claire. What will become of you, Timmy? No one should be orphaned, certainly not at this young age, and never because of war. She hugged him.
An hour later, she put Timmy to bed and cleaned up. Then, she heard a car rolling up the driveway and the crunch of tires on gravel. The engine cut off, and moments later, she heard a knock on the front door.
When she opened it, Pilot Officer Eugene “Red” Tobin stood before her with a broad grin. Over six feet tall with a shock of red hair over a wide face and a long dimple on his left cheek, he bowed and held out a bouquet of wildflowers. “Am I doing this right?” he quipped. “This American never went out with aristocracy before and I don’t want to blow things right off. Here.” He handed her the flowers. “I picked ’em myself.”
Claire laughed and immediately felt better. “I’m hardly what most people would think of as aristocracy,” she said. “Come in. I just need to look in on Timmy before we leave. I’ll fix you a drink, and then we can go. The nanny will take care of him.”
She led Red into the sitting room and directed him to an easy chair. “What’ll you have? Our landlords on the estate keep the liquor cabinet well stocked, so we’ll have almost anything you ask for.”
When she turned to face him, he was standing near the door with a look that was at once puzzled, concerned, and dismayed. “Ma’am, I’m not meaning to be nosy, but do you mind my asking about who Timmy is?”
Feeling the release of the day’s tension, Claire broke into laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “I’ll explain on the way. I can tell you now that the situation is not what you’re probably thinking.”
Red exhaled. “Whew! Then make it a double Scotch.”
Still chuckling, Claire poured the drink into a tumbler and handed it to him. He downed it in one swallow.
“Good thing we’re not going far,” she scolded playfully. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Shortly afterward, they left in the car Red had driven, a red Austin sports car with an open top. “Nice,” Claire said. “Is this yours?”
“Are you kidding me? On what the RAF pays us?” He shook his head. “Some of your well-to-do pilots take pity on us at the bottom of the economic totem pole and lend us their vehicles. They’ve taken us under their wings, so to speak, no pun intended. Real stand-up guys.”
“I take it you just paid them a compliment.”
“I’ve got nothing but good things to say about them. Now, tell me about Timmy.”
As they drove into Stony Stratford, Claire explained how her brother had rescued the toddler and insisted on keeping him until the child’s family was found. “As long as we have him,” she said, “he will never be unloved or unwanted.”
“That’s some brother you’ve got. Man! To escape France, survive a shipwreck, and save that boy?” Red shook his head in wonder. “That’s awfully nice of you folks to take him in like that.” Sadness flitted across his face. “I guess in one sense he could be thought of as lucky, but no kid should have to go through that. War is hell. At least that’s what they tell me.” He broke into a grin and chuckled, lightening the mood. “Truth is, I haven’t seen much of it yet.”
He parked near the corner of Church Street where it emptied into High Street, and escorted Claire across to The Bull, a historic hotel with a dining room. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I brought a couple of my buddies along. We came over from Canada together and we’ve hardly been out.” He glanced at her and nudged her arm. “They’re anxious to meet a real English girl, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. I dropped them here before picking you up.” He chuckled. “The squeeze in that two-seater car might have been a little too tight with all of us in it.”
“I’m eager to see your friends,” Claire replied. “They came over to fight for England. We appreciate that over here.”
When they entered the dining room, two men in British RAF uniforms, Vernon Keough and Andrew Mamedoff, rose to greet them. Red made introductions. “We call this one Shorty,” he said, nudging Keough. “You probably can’t guess why.”
The reason was obvious, and Claire blushed with a loss for words. Shorty could not be even five feet tall.
“It’s all right, ma’am.” He shouldered Red. “I tried to teach this bean-pole some manners on the way over here, but he’s hopeless. I know I’m short. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ll fly circles around him.” He jabbed Red again.
“Shorty’s one of the best damn pilots you’ll ever meet,” Mamedoff chimed in. “And Red’s one of the tallest. They call me Andy, and I’m right in the middle in height. No fuss, no muss.”
Claire’s eyes sparkled a
t the three pilots. “I’m overwhelmed. Thank you, all three of you, for coming to our aid.” She pointed at the table. “Shall we sit?”
“I saw this place as we rolled into town,” Red said as they took their seats. “It has a plaque saying it’s a historic place, but I didn’t have time to read it. What’s so special about The Bull?”
Claire’s lips turned up in a mischievous smirk that promised a bit of mystery. “Don’t ask that too loudly in here,” she remarked, and looked around conspiratorially. “I’m sure you’ve heard a cock-and-bull story once or twice?”
The pilots peered at her, not knowing what to expect. She chuckled, watching their reaction. “This is The Bull. The other half of that expression is around the corner. And clear your dirty minds—we’re talking roosters.”
“You mean that expression came from this town?” Red asked with exaggerated incredulity.
“Don’t suggest otherwise around here. The townspeople will defend their honor to their last breath.” She chuckled. “There are other explanations for the origin, but the one the good folks of Stony Stratford prefer is that as someone told a tale in one of these two pubs and re-told it in the other, it grew. As they re-visited both places over several evenings of merrymaking, the dimensions of the story expanded well past what could be believed. At that point, it became a cock-and-bull story.”
“That sounds like a crock to me,” Red chortled. Then he told Claire soberly, “Same concept,” and laughed uproariously.
They ordered rounds of ale and then a British roast dinner with beef, chicken, pork, and plenty of potatoes and gravy. While they ate, they traded stories. Claire told them about Sark Island and her brothers. Red cut in and told his friends the story about Jeremy and Timmy.
“That’s your brother?” Andy exclaimed. “I read about him. He was in all the papers.”
