Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ****

  Later that day, several hundred miles away in England, Marie’s radioed report reached a listening station and was passed on to the Citadel – that huge mass of concrete at the foot of the Admiralty Arch off Trafalgar Square. Her message was just one of 8000 incoming signals received that day at the Admiralty’s bomb-proof communications centre. These had generated 100,000 sheets of paper. Just one of them was passed on to Lieutenant Commander James Bosanquet in Room 40 at Admiralty House.

  Room 40 – which was actually a group of rooms – was the heart of the Royal Navy’s intelligence department. Here, every incoming intelligence report was assessed before being forwarded to the office best able to make use of its contents. The atmosphere of the room where Bosanquet worked was a cross between a London club and an Oxbridge college. Beyond its walls everything that was discussed was secret. Within those walls everything was open to debate and argument – often around the grand marble fireplace. It was there that Marie’s message first came into the open.

  ‘This is an odd one,’ said Bosanquet as he lent on the mantelpiece, signal in one hand and the inevitable cigarette in the other. ‘It’s from the Defiance network. They don’t usually send us anything useful, but listen to this. “Loading here. Cargo sub with 250 tons high explosive. High priority operation supervised by vice-admiral. Target not yet known.”. What do you think?’

  ‘Obviously it’s something special – with a vice-admiral taking an interest,’ responded Lieutenant Commander Henry Oakland, a colleague and a close friend of Bosanquet.

  Oakland’s ready response pleased Bosanquet. He may not have been the most diligent of intelligence officers, but he never lacked enthusiasm. Like Bosanquet he was attracted by the intrigue of intelligence work. Unlike him, he had no desire for promotion. All he asked of the war was a few years of excitement and fun. Then he would follow his life-long ambition to be a painter. Meanwhile, he was still capable of making astute observations on intelligence:

  ‘It’s a bit of an odd message. What would Jerry do with a U-boat full of explosives? And where?’

  His remark was seconded by the more junior Stanley Tucker: ‘Well, it can’t just be a delivery job – anyone could supervise that,’ chipped in the lieutenant.

  ‘And,’ said Lieutenant Vernon Mason, ‘the message does say “target”, so presumably the Defiance network has got far enough to know that there is an intended target.’

  Bosanquet was pleased at the interest that his colleagues were taking in the signal. He was, though, disappointed that they did not read more into it.

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s just a matter of one target,’ he said. ‘Look at it this way, we’ve never heard of anything like this before. Agreed?’

  One or two members of his audience gave a grudging nod. They didn’t really agree, but they wanted to hear Bosanquet’s latest flight of fancy.

  ‘All this is going on at an Atlantic U-boat base. So I reckon it’s a new type of naval warfare. A new weapon or something.’

  ‘James,’ said Oakland, ‘you do come up with some daft ideas. Feet on the ground, old man! Here we operate on facts.’

  ‘That’s news to me,’ said Bosanquet. ‘It’s hunches most of the time.’

  ‘Okay, hunches – plus facts,’ replied Oakland. ‘But never plain hunches.’

  This was not the first time that Bosanquet’s colleagues had ribbed him about his vigorous imagination. They put it down to his unusual upbringing. His father had been a diplomat at the embassy in Paris in the 1920s and had wanted his children to absorb as much French culture as was possible. So Bosanquet had attended French schools until he went to Osborne Naval College as a cadet, aged thirteen. His early ideas of his motherland came from reading British spy and adventure stories when in France. Throughout his childhood he day-dreamed of being Richard Hannay or Bulldog Drummond. He had joined the intelligence branch in 1941. Ever since then he had revelled in schemes to deceive or thwart the enemy. He loved nothing better than a mysterious signal or a significant intercept.

  Many of his eccentric schemes never got beyond a sheet of paper. Others would go down in the annals of naval intelligence for years to come. He had initiated raids on German radar installations, the seizure of code books and the planting of secret agents for special missions.

  Part of his success was due to his extraordinary range of contacts, many dating back to the time when he was a naval attaché to the embassy in Paris shortly before the war. He always knew the ideal man to phone or the right person to have a drink with in White’s. His colleagues admired him for this, while his superiors were suspicious and considered him a little wobbly about security. He talked too much. In fact, unknown to Bosanquet, he had been turned down for service in Station X, as Bletchley Park was then known.

  Bosanquet’s confidence was unlimited. But – and this was a big but for him – proud as he was of these operations, he longed to be in the field himself. And when he read Defiance’s message he began to think that his services might be needed at last.

  ‘Is that the time already?’ said Mason, glancing at the office clock. ‘Lunch!’ and he slipped away from the group. His departure signalled that the discussion was at an end. Soon Bosanquet was talking to himself. He looked at the signal one more time: “Target not yet known.” He tantalisingly tried to imagine a group of Frenchmen in leather jackets and black berets desperately searching offices and tapping phone lines to try to find the target. If only he could be there …

  After lunch at White’s, Bosanquet ambled back to the Admiralty building, his mind gripped by the mysterious signal. It was time to pay a visit to the Registry to take a look at the Defiance network’s file. The clerk handed over a disappointingly thin folder. What little there was did not encourage Bosanquet. In the last few months Defiance had messed up a drop and vital supplies had fallen into German hands. Then they had lost an agent, who had been parachuted in and needed their support. And, quite recently, they had bungled a derailment operation. The file officer’s succinct summary was damning: ‘A lot of resource gets wasted in this network, if you ask me.’

  A less imaginative man would have left Defiance to its fate and closed the file. Bosanquet, though, rated the signal too important to be ignored. He thought of Hannay. No, Hannay would not have given up. He would have taken the challenge. If Defiance was not up to the job, he, Bosanquet, had to ask what he could do to help them succeed. It was time to talk to the admiral.

  10

  Admiral Julian Forster was Director of Naval Intelligence. As a lieutenant he had been in Room 40 during the First World War. Those years, working under its legendary director, Captain ‘Blinker’ Hall, had shown him how vital intelligence was to naval warfare. Now in the top intelligence job himself, he had staffed his department with the best brains he could find: code-breakers, wireless experts, geographers, linguists and masters of deception. There was not a field of human endeavour that was not at his disposal. At sea he had been a brusque, no-nonsense commander. At the Admiralty, he had learnt to tolerate the eccentrics and individuals who were so essential to intelligence work. (He may have had the title ‘director’ but he had quickly learnt that intelligence men had to be nurtured, not directed.) One of his smartest men was Bosanquet. In private Forster might bluster about Bosanquet’s Boy’s Own imagination. In public he praised his coups. So when the commander asked to see him on a matter of urgency, he readily assented.

  Bosanquet was soon in Forster’s high-ceilinged office with its tall west-facing windows which looked out onto Horse Guards Parade. The Admiral was sitting behind his huge desk, his back to the windows, a silhouette against the bright daylight. To one side, was the desk of his personal assistant – a man who, although only a lieutenant commander, knew more naval secrets than anyone except Forster himself. In contrast to the easy-going rooms where the intelligence specialists worked, Forster’s room exuded a disciplined calm. Now and again the rumble of military vehicles entering and leaving the parade ground belo
w reminded visitors of the on-going war. Forster’s own demeanour was cool composure personified.

  As Bosanquet crossed the floor towards Forster’s desk, the Admiral, without any opening courtesies, asked crisply:

  ‘Something come up, eh, Commander?’

  ‘I would say so, sir. It’s an unusual report from the Defiance network.’

  ‘Aren’t they the people who messed up a drop recently?’

  ‘They are, sir.’

  ‘So, should we be bothering with them? Seemed like a weak bunch to me. Easy prey for the Gestapo, I’d say.’

  ‘I understand your reservations, sir. They may not be top class. Even so, the fact remains that this sounds like an important bit of intelligence.’

  Bosanquet handed the signal transcript to the Admiral and waited for a response. Forster’s eyes passed so quickly over the intriguing message that Bosanquet wondered if he had even read it. After this cursory perusal, the Admiral put the signal down on his desk and, with one forefinger, slowly pushed it back to Bosanquet.

  ‘Hard to know what to make of it,’ said Forster. ‘‘‘High-priority target” … could mean anything. Whose words are those? Defiance’s or the Kriegsmarine’s? And “target not yet known” – perhaps there isn’t a target. It’s all a bit nebulous.’

  ‘You aren’t suggesting that they dreamt up a cargo U-boat are you, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, Commander. That bit seems credible. It’s their interpretation of its presence that bothers me. Just how much of it is to be trusted? And, in any case, how much damage can one cargo U-boat do? It could never penetrate one of our harbours. Frankly, Commander, it’s a mass of unknowns. The message just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘And what if it turns out to be a major attack, sir? One with serious consequences for us?’

  ‘Commander, you could ask that of every scrap of intelligence that comes in here. In fact, I hope you do. All the same, we just don’t have the resources to chase after every wild rumour from those over-excited Frogs. We work on facts, Commander. Hard intelligence. That’s what we need. We can hardly pull a squadron of destroyers off convoy work or call in the RAF on this scrap of information. No, Commander. You must keep a sense of proportion. File that one. Or, if you must, pend it. There’s just not enough there for us to work on.’

  Disappointed as he was, Bosanquet managed a polite ‘Thank you, sir’ as he left the room.

  ‘Do come back if you hear anything more definite,’ Forster responded.

  11

  Back at his desk, Bosanquet brooded on Forster’s rejection of the signal. Two things led him on. First, that the cargo U-boat operation was sufficiently important to interest a vice-admiral. And second, the mystery of its target. All his boyhood enthusiasm for the lone man whose ideas and warnings are dismissed by others came to the fore.

  Later that day he telephoned all the major British naval installations – the ones where there were enough ships or facilities to form a high priority target. Could a cargo U-boat penetrate their defences? One by one the replies came. Some respondents were indignant at the question itself. Some laughed at the ludicrous nature of his question. Others gave lengthy accounts of the marvels of their defence systems. Bleary-eyed and with his left ear pulsating from long hours of being pressed to an earpiece, Bosanquet closed the file and locked it in the safe.

  He was just about the last to leave that night. Already the Admiralty House corridors were echoing with the clanging of the charladies’ pails and the air was filled with the smell of carbolic soap. Spatters of grimy water sullied the smart shine of his immaculately polished black shoes. He passed the anonymous stooped forms propelling mops, and the kneeling shapes attacking the sopping stone floor with scrubbing brushes. The walls resounded with the cheerful chatter of the women. Bosanquet, though, understood not a word of their harsh Cockney banter.

  George Roberts was on duty at the door that night. Long since retired and now brought back for the war, George had sat in that same cubbyhole throughout the First World War. He was short – not much more than 5ft. Nevertheless, his erect bearing showed, even when he was seated. He knew that, to many a visitor, he was the face of the Admiralty. He proudly wore his peaked cap over his now almost bald head. A few wisps of errant silvery hair escaped around the sides.

  Like any of the lower orders in that sprawling edifice, George jealously guarded his masters’ reputations. Anyone who failed to acknowledge their grandeur was sharply brought to heel. A reference to “Alexander” was met with a ‘That’s “The First Lord” to you, sir.’ (However, he had given up challenging those who referred to Churchill as ‘Winnie’.) George had no trouble from Bosanquet, though. There was a man who knew how to show the respect due to those who laboured in the bowels of a ship. And what was more, how to extend that respect to the lesser orders at Admiralty House.

  ‘How’s the wife today, George?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, sir. The doctors say she might be moved to a convalescence home next week.’

  ‘Damned Blitz! You’d think the Jerries could leave your better half alone. How are you managing?’

  ‘Can’t complain, sir. Camping with my sister. There’s worse off than me.’

  The two men paused, not quite sure whether their brief conversation sufficed to fulfil the needs of courtesy. George, who saw so much and was told so little in his humble role, was tempted by Bosanquet’s failure to step away.

  ‘You’ve been very busy today, sir. Got something big on tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘To tell you the truth, George, I don’t rightly know.’

  ****

  The next day Lieutenant Henry Oakland noticed how distracted Bosanquet was.

  ‘James, do you have to keep pacing up and down the office? Can’t a chap work in peace?’ he said.

  ‘I wish I could. It’s that damned Defiance message.’

  ‘I thought Forster told you to forget about it.’

  ‘He did. But I can’t.’

  ‘How about copying the rest of us? You know: pick up file from in-tray; deal with file; place file in out-tray; repeat until in-tray is empty.’

  ‘Very funny! Okay, so I neglect the in-tray a bit—’ began Bosanquet, who was immediately interrupted by Oakland: ‘A lot … in fact completely’.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Bosanquet, ‘my neglect of the in-tray shows my refusal to be side-tracked by trivial routine. We’ve got to nose out the big leads, the decisive actions. We’re not machines. We’ve got to use our brains … imagine … dream.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me that the Defiance message deserves all that high-flown stuff?’

  ‘Bang on, old boy,’ concluded Bosanquet.

  ‘One of these days, James, you’ll get chucked out of here – if you’re not found asphyxiated under your own unprocessed files. Still, if you won’t sit down to your work, I can’t get on with mine. Let’s take a stroll.’

  The two men stepped out of an Admiralty House rear door, crossed Horse Guards Road and strode into St James’s Park, where they began to walk in an anticlockwise direction around the lake. The hungry ducks expectantly quacked after them, but Bosanquet and Oakland were in no mood to take an interest in wildlife.

  ‘So what’s it all about, old man?’ asked Oakland as the ducks retreated.

  ‘It’s the Vice-Admiral,’ replied Bosanquet. ‘Forster reckons the message is all about nothing. If it was nothing, why is there a vice-admiral involved – and so far from the Kriegsmarine HQ?’

  ‘You have to agree,’ responded Oakland, ‘that you’ve not much to go on. A bomb without a target and a vice-admiral. Admit it: that’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘True, but,’ said Bosanquet, ‘there’s one other thing: I’ve got a hunch … a feeling …’

  ‘No wonder Forster gave you short shrift. You know him: always wants the facts … hard facts.’

  ‘Damn him!’ said Bosanquet. ‘He never lets us use our imagination.’

  They walked on and w
ere soon halfway round the long narrow lake. Neither man glanced at the partially bombed Buckingham Palace as it came into view. After three years of war no one paid any attention to war damage. They rounded the west end of the lake to begin their return. Bosanquet looked down at his shoes.

  ‘Perhaps we’d be better off if we took Birdcage Walk,’ he said.

  Oakland nodded his agreement, even though he was much less fussy about his footwear. They took the short footpath to the road. Oakland waited for a lull in the noise from the military vehicles on the now adjacent Horse Guards Parade.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing – Forster and his facts. I could use my imagination as easily as you can yours.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ asked Bosanquet.

  ‘Well … try this. You can’t make anything of the facts. Nor can Forster. What if it’s just a hoax?’

  ‘Why the hell would Jerry do that?’

  ‘Doubtless to keep us from taking a close look at something else he’s up to,’ responded Oakland.

  ‘And you accuse me of wild ideas!’

  ‘I’m just trying to help you see how others view some of your wild ideas. Me? I reckon you should drop it.’

  ‘You too? Damn it! If only I could identify a target vulnerable enough to justify 250 tons of explosive in one U-boat. I’ve tried all the British bases that I can think of.’

  ‘Who said the target was somewhere in Britain?’ queried Oakland.

  12

  That evening, Roberts was surprised to see Bosanquet leaving early.

  ‘So it wasn’t something big after all, sir?’ he quipped.

  Bosanquet, deep in thought, failed to notice the look of a man who wanted to talk, and managed no more than a friendly nod in response. Roberts was left unable to tell Bosanquet that his wife had had a setback.