by Seb Spence
“Since January!” Barton exclaimed. “Why haven’t you been informed?”
“Their operation is highly classified, so only a few key people in other departments were notified. As you and I have been running an unofficial operation, MI18 were unaware of our involvement in the case until I put in a request yesterday to Special Branch for a surveillance team. The Branch got back to me to say there was a problem, and I’d have to get clearance from higher up. I then received a call summoning me to a meeting this afternoon with the Director of MI18. He wanted a complete run-down of what I’d been doing on the Cobalt case – every detail. I had to tell him you and Moncur were working for me and that you were both currently in Northampton.
“After I had filled him in, he said he could not tell me anything about the operation they were running, but I gleaned that they seem to have Cobalt’s cell in their sights and are just waiting for the right moment to move in. They can’t say for certain when the arrests will be made, but they expect it to be some time in the next few weeks.”
“What about Lucy Walker?”
“Yes, I pointed out to him that there was an innocent woman in prison and her release was dependant on the capture of Cobalt’s cell. He is aware of the problem but regards it is a minor consideration.’”
“A minor consideration? Surely there’s something that can be done to speed things up? Can’t you go over his head?”
“I’m afraid not, Barton. We have to accept it’s out of our hands now; we’ve been ordered to step aside. On a personal note, during the last part of the meeting I was hauled over the coals for running an unauthorised intelligence operation. He pointed out that I was guilty of several offences, not the least of which was misappropriation of service funds – those expenses I’ve been giving you were obtained by juggling the books. He made it plain that if I don’t cooperate, there will be serious consequences.”
“Surely they wouldn’t press charges?”
“It wasn’t an idle threat. From what he said, it’s clear that they regard their operation as being of the utmost importance, and they would do whatever it takes to ensure its success.”
Barton sighed but said nothing.
“While we’re on the topic of reprimands,” Minton continued, “you deserve one yourself for holding out about Miss Harrison. It’s just as well she’s on our side – if she had been a German agent, your delay in reporting her could have had serious consequences.”
“Yes, sorry about that. It’s just that she was a friend and I couldn’t believe at first that she might be working for the Germans.”
“You can’t afford to be sentimental in this line of business, Barton. How do you suppose Vivian Adair gets a lot of her information? It’s by conning chumps like you that she’s a sweet and thoroughly trustworthy girl, and then asking you casually about your work. Anyway, as we’re off the case now, there’s no point in dwelling on your transgression.”
“Incidentally, sir, how did you hear about Miss Harrison? “
“During my meeting with the Director, one of his staff came into the room to tell him he had an urgent phone call. He went out to take it and when he came back in, he asked me if I knew anything about a Grace Harrison. I told him, truthfully, that I knew nothing. He said that she was one of their operatives and that he had just had a call from her controller, an officer called Cheyne, to say that her cover had been blown by a certain Pilot Officer Barton, who had been following her around for several days. By the time Cheyne’s call came in, I had already told the Director that there was a Pilot Officer Barton working with me, so when Cheyne mentioned your name to him, he made the connection straightaway.
“From what I’ve been able to piece together, when Miss Harrison got away from you and Moncur, the first thing she did was to phone Cheyne to report what had happened. Cheyne, who was already in Northampton as part of the MI18 surveillance team, in turn phoned his boss, the Director, who was then at the meeting with me. The Director was pretty incandescent: he said you were wrecking their operation and ordered me to call you off immediately. I tried to contact you then and there at the hotel, but when I couldn’t reach you, I assume he told Cheyne to go round and see you in person.”
“So what happens to me now?”
“You should return to the hospital and finish your convalescence.”
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not go back there. I think I’m pretty much recovered. I wouldn’t mind a few days leave, though.”
“Why not, I suppose you’ve earned it. I’ll arrange for your ‘Air Ministry business’ to continue for a further week.”
“And Moncur? I couldn’t have carried out this latest investigation without his assistance”
“Very well, I’ll include him too.”
“Thank you, sir. And please keep me posted about any progress in the investigation.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know as soon as Cobalt and her crew are behind bars.”
Barton felt a sense of relief and returned to his room in a lighter mood. Although he was still worried about Grace’s safety, at least her good character had been restored in his eyes. Furthermore, it seemed that Vivian Adair and her associates were about to be rounded up, which would mean Lucy Walker would be released at last. On reaching his room, he was pleased to find that Cheyne and his associate had gone, so, feeling optimistic that the end of the business was in sight, he went along to Bronx to report on developments. Within forty-eight hours, however, he would discover that his optimism was unfounded.
Chapter 7
1.
Monday, 19th May, 1941: Government Code and Cipher School, Bletchley Park
It had been an eventful day for the occupants of Hut 6B. To start with, Madge – the Wren who operated the hut’s teleprinters – had called in sick at 7.45am, just before the start of her shift: she had a stomach upset from something she had eaten at lunch the day before, or so she said. The call had gone through to the head of the hut, Harry Morgan, who concluded from the tremulous tone of her voice that she was suffering quite badly from it. As they were currently understaffed, there was no one who could cover her work, so he arranged immediately for a temporary replacement to be sent over from the staff pool.
And what a replacement it turned out to be: the tall, slim, green-eyed blonde who arrived might have stepped out of the pages of Vogue magazine. Looking smart and military, she was a complete contrast to Morgan, who was wearing his customary creased grey flannels and cream coloured shirt, open at the neck.
The bailiwick of Hut 6 was decipherment of Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe Enigma traffic. In the spring of 1941, German operations had expanded into the Balkans and North Africa, and accordingly the number of staff in Hut 6 had had to be increased to deal with the growing number of intercepted messages. This had put severe pressure on the space inside, so a large new hut had been built to accommodate the overspill, and though it was located nowhere near Hut 6 it was designated Hut 6B to reflect the fact that it was part of the Hut 6 domain.
6B was of wooden construction and divided into three parts: at one end were offices used by the code-breakers and engineering staff; in the middle section was a large open plan area where the routine tasks necessary for the code breaking were carried out; and at the other end were offices for staff dealing with administration – pay, equipment, telephones, transport, furniture and everything else needed for the smooth running of the decoding activities. Harry Morgan’s office was a large square room in the admin section; to enter it, you first had to pass through a small anteroom where the hut’s four teleprinters were located. At three minutes to nine, the new woman from the staff pool passed through this anteroom and appeared at the door of his office.
“Wren Gray, sir, reporting for duty.”
Morgan looked up from his desk and stared at her. She was in her mid twenties he guessed, about the same age as himself. Her blonde hair was done up in a tight bun at the back of her head, and she looked stunning in her dark blue WRNS uniform and black s
tockings. He seemed lost for words.
“I was told you needed a teleprinter operator,” she prompted, smiling at him.
“Yes, of course,” he said, snapping out of his trance and standing up. “I’m Harry Morgan, head of hut.” He came out into the anteroom and shook hands with her. “I suppose I should say something about your duties – show you the ropes, as you naval people like to say. Have you been working long at the Park?”
“No, this is actually my first day working here. I arrived yesterday but had to go to a security talk in the morning and sort out my billet in the afternoon.” Morgan noted that she was a well-spoken girl; there was no trace of a regional accent.
“I see. In at the deep end, eh? I suppose you do know how to operate the things? It wouldn’t be the first time the staff pool have sent me someone with no experience at all of what they’re supposed to be doing.”
“Yes, I’ve operated them before. I was sent on the TPO course at Westfield College in London.”
“Excellent, you’re a real ‘teleprincess’, eh? Well, basically there are two parts to your job: the first is to keep the teleprinters running. They are a vital part of our operation here. So, you’ll need to do all the usual stuff: load them with paper, change the ribbons, do any low level maintenance that’s required. If there are any malfunctions, get one of the technicians to have a look – they’re in a room at the other end of the hut; I’ll show you where in a minute. If you need to look at the manuals, they’re in there,” he said, pointing to a four-drawer filing cabinet in the corner of the anteroom.
“The second part of your job is to collate the messages that come in and put them in the different trays on the shelf outside where we are now. I’ll ask one of the other Wrens to explain to you exactly what has to be done. You’ll also be required to send messages via the teletype, and I must emphasise the importance of absolute accuracy in typing them – lives may depend on it.”
It was a general principle at the Park that, for security reasons, ‘rank-and-file’ should be told as little as possible about what went on there and about the system that was being used to intercept, distribute and decipher the German military signals. Strictly speaking, Morgan was supposed to tell his subordinates only what they needed to know to do their jobs. However, he realised that to build an effective team it was important for people to understand how they fitted in. In addition, much of the work done in 6B was boring and repetitive, so it was good for morale for staff to see exactly how their particular job – though seemingly pointless or trivial – contributed to the overall effort.
“The columns of five-character groups you see being typed out by the teleprinters are Enigma messages. They are relayed to us from the intercept stations and arrive continuously on the machines,” he went on, pointing at a sheet that was at that moment being typed out by the nearest teleprinter.
Wren Gray glanced down at the print head moving methodically across the page, printing out letters in neat groups of five:
CVETA ELPRI ROWHE ERSNA IDETP NJREC ITREN TCOTE ECPEO ...
“Doesn’t make much sense,” she said looking up and smiling at him. Morgan noticed that she had a light dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and below her eyes.
“Yes, it all looks like gobbledygook, but you don’t need to worry about that, or where the messages come from. You’ll spend most of your time at the teleprinter station, but I’ll take you on a tour of the hut now just so you know where everything is.” He led her out into the open plan area and stopped. The room lights there were all on as very little daylight was coming through the windows.
“It’s a bit dingy, I’m afraid: they’ve built a blast wall round the outside of the hut in case there’s a bombing raid – it blocks out most of the daylight.”
The new Wren gazed around the room, taking it all in, and Morgan was pleased to see it seemed to be making an impact on her. The open plan area was divided by makeshift partitions into bays, each having a large table or group of desks. The place was a hive of activity. The tables and desks were occupied mainly by other Wrens, many of whom were typing at long-carriage typewriters. At a few of the tables there were men in civilian clothes mulling over documents or huge sheets of paper. In all, there must have been thirty or so people engaged in various tasks about the room. Here and there were sturdy benches loaded with strange equipment, and along one wall, below window height, were rows of wooden pegs with long lengths of paper tape draped over them. All over the place, there were in- and out-trays stacked with sheaves of paper, and sitting on several tables were what looked like shoeboxes, filled with 5”×7” file cards.
“Seems to be an awful lot of paperwork involved,” she remarked.
“You’re right there. That’s why you’ll hear BP sometimes referred to as the ‘Bumf Palace’.”
“This is the Registration Section,” he continued, walking on with her and waving his hand towards one of the bays as they passed it, “where we log the intercepted signals – time of receipt, length of message, call sign, frequency, direction of transmitter, that sort of thing. They also do the traffic analysis.”
“Why do you need so much information?”
“It all helps,” he said vaguely, aware that he should not give too much away. “And over there,” he continued, pointing to three men round a table in a corner, “is the Intercept Control Section – they’re in contact with the intercept stations and give them feedback on which traffic to concentrate on.” Morgan was encouraged that she was taking an interest in their activities and asking questions: enthusiasm made for better workers, and if she proved to be competent, he might ask for her to be assigned permanently to hut 6B.
By this stage, they had reached the other side of the open-plan area and began to walk down the short corridor that ran between the offices at the far end of the hut. There were four doors off, two on each side; all were closed. Morgan pointed out the rooms as they passed by: “On the left we have first of all the Machine Room, where they work out the Enigma settings, and then the Decoding Room where they do the decoding and translating.”
On the right, at the end of the corridor, was a door on which had been stencilled ‘STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORISATION’. “That’s our Research Department,” Morgan explained, turning and heading back down the corridor. “For security reasons I must ask you not to enter there, under any circumstances. And finally,” he said indicating the last of the four doors, “we have Engineering Support, where the Post Office engineers work. You’ll also find in there the technicians for servicing the teleprinters. Now, if you could just wait here a minute.” She stood at the end of the corridor, where it joined the open-plan area, and watched Morgan walk back to the door with the stencilled notice. He took out a key, unlocked the door and put his head round to speak to the people inside: “Any sign of Carrington yet? He was supposed to see me this morning.” His words were clearly audible, but not the muffled response that came from within the room. The new Wren turned and watched the activity going on in the open-plan area. From time to time, one or other of the men would look up from his work and glance in her direction.
Morgan’s voice boomed out behind her. “Well, let me know the minute he gets in.” Seconds later, he was back with her, looking annoyed.
“OK, that’s the tour over. It’s down to work now.” He led her back to the teleprinter station and called over one of the other Wrens who was nearby: “Shirley, please could you instruct Wren Gray here how to file the messages.” He looked at the new girl and pressed his lips into a smile. “Any problems, just ask Shirley,” he said finally and then went into his office and closed the door behind him.
Morgan’s mood had darkened. He returned to his desk, feeling slightly troubled about Carrington, whose attendance was becoming erratic. He had heard rumours about binges, and if the man was developing a drink problem he could pose a security risk. Morgan decided he would need to take action on this.
#
Leading Wren Shirley Johns
on, a petite brunette in her early twenties, was in charge of the Wrens in 6B. Efficient, organised and dutiful, she took her job very seriously and owing to this, though she had a pleasant enough face, she always wore a solemn expression. After instructing Wren Gray in her duties, she returned to her desk at the far side of the hut and continued with her own work while at the same time keeping an eye on the girl from the staff pool.
As the morning wore on, Johnson was vexed to observe that the new teleprinter operator was proving something of a distraction. In consequence, productivity in Hut 6B was slumping, at least among the male staff, many of whom seemed unable to apply their customary degree of concentration to their tasks. Several of them appeared to be spending their time trying to find excuses to speak to the new Wren. Evans from the Registration Section had wandered over and introduced himself as the convenor of the Hut 6B Dance Committee; he asked the girl if she would like to come to their next event. A technician had gone to enquire if the teleprinters were behaving and spent an inordinate time oiling one of them. Even the code breakers were not immune to the spell she cast: news of her arrival had spread to the decoding room and Phillips had decided to try his luck. He had gone over and asked if she played chess, no doubt hoping to find a kindred spirit. At one point, there were three men hovering around the teleprinter station. Soon, Johnson felt, they would be queuing up to chat with the new girl, who seemed to enjoy the attention and, it seemed to Johnson, even encouraged it, with her smiles and flirtatious banter. Still, it was only for a day: tomorrow, Johnson hoped, Madge would be back, fully recovered from her stomach problems.
#
Wren Gray began her lunch break just after 12.45pm. One of the technicians had brought her a mug of tea and a sandwich from the canteen, and she was consuming them while perched on a stool in the teleprinter room. Shortly after she had started her lunch, Evans and Phillips appeared at the doorway. They were each carrying a flask and a pack of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. Phillips also had a chessboard under his arm.
