by Seb Spence
Vivian Adair spoke: “If the documents were fakes, why did the security forces do their best to stop us from getting away with them? It was touch and go that we were able to escape in the seaplane.”
“Perhaps the units that intercepted you weren’t under the control of MI5, or perhaps they weren’t aware at that point that the papers were fake. Alternatively, it may be that they had been given instructions to harass your group but not to stop them, but things went wrong and they shot your people by accident – who knows. The fact is that there is a question mark over the authenticity of the information your team has brought back.”
Prutzmann looked at his Luftwaffe colleague and shook his head. “I think I’ve heard enough,” he said. “We are absolutely confident that Luftwaffe Enigma communications have not been compromised at any point since the start of the war. In view of the misgivings we have about the quality and reliability of the information that has been brought back, I see no reason to make any change to our equipment or procedures. Unless Fraulein Adair has anything further to add in support of her report, I suggest we adjourn the meeting”
All heads turned towards Vivian Adair. She glared sullenly back at the faces round the table, several of which betrayed faint smirks. Idiots, she thought: there was plenty she could say, but why bother? Why should she care if they wanted to ignore the information she had brought back? Canaris had said her husband would be safe, which is all that mattered to her. She felt that, slippery as he was, Canaris could at least be trusted on this.
Yes, indeed, there was plenty she could say. She could tell them she had spent a day in Hut 6B and knew for sure the people at Bletchley were breaking Enigma on a massive scale. She could tell them that whatever they thought of Carrington’s drinking habits, he knew his job and understood the importance of the work they were doing at Bletchley Park. He was a technical specialist and, despite his drink problem, was good at his job. He was a gifted engineer who believed passionately that the electronics work he was involved with would revolutionise code breaking. From what he had told her in his drunker moments, she also knew that the ‘bombes’ mentioned in her report really did exist.
And as for that cretin, Prutzmann, she thought, fixing him with a cold smile. His assertion that the Luftwaffe communications were totally secure was laughable: once, when totally inebriated, Carrington had let slip that the Luftwaffe Enigma had been the easiest to break because their signallers were so slack in using the procedures. BP had been breaking the Luftwaffe codes on a daily basis since the start of the war.
She broke off these thoughts to address the meeting: “Naturally, I’m disappointed to hear the Brigadier’s message. John Elliott was convinced that the material we had obtained was genuine and of major importance. The information was procured at great cost to us: as well as the Brandenburgers, four members of our team died in the process of bringing it here. However, at the end of the day, we only procure the information – you are the experts at analyzing it. If you say it’s of limited value, then I have to accept that.”
“I think that is a fair assessment, Fraulein Adair,” Canaris said. “Of course, this in no way detracts from your personal achievement in this mission. You have shown considerable daring, ingenuity and professionalism. In one way, certainly, the mission has been a success – it has demonstrated that the Abwehr and SD can carry out joint operations effectively.”
Although his tone of voice seemed sincere, Vivian Adair was certain that behind this last remark he was secretly mocking Hauser and the SD. Canaris looked at her expectantly, waiting for a word of polite agreement, but at first she could not bring herself to respond. She suspected that it was due to Elliott and the other incompetent amateurs working for the Abwehr that the cell had been discovered by MI5, and if Elliott had not provoked those two RAF men, his set of documents would not have gone up in smoke at Kielder. She was also still convinced it was the Brandenburgers – acting on orders from the Abwehr – who stole her own set of papers at the farmhouse. It seemed to her that far from cooperation between the Abwehr and SD, there was intense rivalry, and she felt sure it was this that had derailed the mission and led to these accusations of failure. It was clear to her now that the main purpose of this meeting had not been to assess the information but to humiliate the SD. Still, what did it matter to her?
“Of course, Herr Admiral,” she replied eventually.
Canaris continued: “If that is all, then, I think we can conclude the meeting.”
Rasch, the officer from the SS Signals School, interrupted: “Wait! Aren’t we at least going to recommend a tightening up of the operational procedures for using the Enigma machine?”
“Of course, Sturmbannführer, that can be arranged. Jenke, make a note to send out a memo to the heads of signal communications for all services, saying that Enigma operators must follow exactly the procedures that have been laid down.”
#
Vivian Adair left the meeting accompanied by the two SD men. As they emerged from the building into the sunlight on the Tirpitzufer, Hauser addressed her before getting into the black BMW 335 limousine that was waiting for him and Altner at the kerb: “That old dog Canaris! He’d rather die than give the SD credit for a success. I have to hand it to him, though, it was neatly done: getting his stooges round the table to shit on us so that it didn’t look as if it was all coming from the Admiral himself. Still, we’ll get even with him.” Hauser got into the back seat of the BMW, but before shutting the door, he fished out a small document from the breast pocket of his uniform and passed it to her. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said and then slammed the door shut. Immediately, the car sped off.
Vivian Adair flicked open the document: it was a forged identity card for a German Red Cross auxiliary nurse. It had been made out with her details, including a picture of her. Thoughts of her mission began to fade rapidly from her mind as she started to think about her forthcoming reunion with her husband.
#
The memo to the heads of signal communications was never sent. Korvettenkapitän Eicke, however, reported the committee’s deliberations to his superiors at the Kriegsmarine Communications Service: as a result, a recommendation was submitted to Grossadmiral Raeder, C-in-C Navy, that a fourth rotor should be added to Naval Enigma machines without delay.
3.
Saturday, 30th August, 1941: Stanmore, London
Barton was surprised to receive a phone call bidding him to report to his CO. He was also made uneasy by this, for, like a call to the headmaster’s office, a summons to the CO was unlikely to result in a happy ending: either he had done something wrong and was to receive a reprimand, or else he was to be given some tedious or unpleasant task.
As he walked over to the headquarters block, he tried to recall if he had made any blunders recently, but nothing major sprang to mind. He then began to consider what chores the CO might be intending to dump on him. He hoped he was not going to be assigned to a balloon recovery unit again. Perhaps he was going to be transferred, he thought. By the time he reached the office, he was feeling distinctly apprehensive. After pausing outside the door for a moment, he knocked and entered.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
The CO, an irritable looking man with a thick moustache, was seated behind a desk. He looked up from the file of papers he was reading through and regarded Barton with an annoyed expression.
“Yes, Pilot Officer. A missive concerning you arrived half an hour ago.” Picking up a typed letter from the desk and holding it out to Barton, he continued in a sarcastic tone: “It appears His Majesty’s Government are once more in need of your advice and expertise.”
Barton took the proffered sheet and read it. The letter was headed ‘Air Ministry, 73-77 Oxford Street, London W1’ and he noticed that the filing reference at the top included the acronym ‘DMWD’, just as did the letters that Colonel Minton had sent when calling him away to his counter-espionage sorties.
The initial sentence stated “ … Pilot Officer Ba
rton is to report to Camp 042, Carnforth, Lancashire at 13.30 hrs 31/8/41 for special briefing.” It went on to give travel arrangements and confirmed that a car would be waiting at the local railway station to take him to the camp. The letter finished by emphasising the importance of arriving punctually the following day.
The CO continued, obviously displeased: “So, Barton, it looks as if you will be off on your travels again. I hope that once you have given the Air Ministry the benefit of your experience you may honour us by assisting once more with the humble work we do here.”
“Of course, sir, I’d be delighted.”
“That’s all, Barton. Get out.”
#
This covert directive from Colonel Minton stirred up depressing memories for Barton: GK’s murder; his own narrow escape from death at Kielder; the grisly business at Loch Carran … and, of course, Grace Harrison. Grace had been much in his thoughts since the previous day, when he had remembered that it was the anniversary of their first meeting, the meeting that afternoon when she helped Roy Miller perform his magic turn in the village hall at Bramlington. It seemed so long ago.
His most recent memory of Grace was seeing her being lifted, sodden and blood-soaked, from the waters of Loch Carran and hauled into the seaplane. A week or so after this, he had been visited by Colonel Minton, who told him, in strict secrecy, that it was believed she was alive and recovering somewhere in Germany. More than that, Minton couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say.
Barton was in a pensive mood when he returned to the billet in Stanmore that evening. He hoped that Minton would have further news of Grace, and prayed that the news would be good. He found Bronx lounging on the sitting room sofa: he was smoking his pipe while listening to Arthur Askey on the radio. The aroma of pipe-smoke, mixed with the odour of some pungent foodstuff, filled the room.
Moncur greeted him jovially: “Home is the hero, home from the war! Or at least, home from a hard day at the office – Per Ardua ad Asterisk, eh Barton?” He jabbed the stem of his pipe towards a large brown cylindrical object on the table. “Help yourself to some garlic sausage. It’s the real thing – knoblauchwurst. I got it off one of my, er, ‘contacts.’
“You mean one of your black market chums in the mess. Where on earth did they get that from?”
“There was a raid on Bradford last night; this specimen of the butcher’s art was found in a Heinkel one-eleven that crash-landed in Sussex on the way home afterwards.”
“Don’t tell me the Germans are now dropping spiced meats on us as well as high explosive.”
“I expect the crew took it along for a snack – must be hungry work, bombing cities to the ground. You have to hand it to the Germans, though, they are masters of the sausage. Have a slice.”
“I think not. In my book, enjoying German victuals would be akin to fraternising with the enemy.” Barton slumped down in the armchair and continued after a pause. “My CO got another one of those ‘Air Ministry’ letters this afternoon – Colonel Minton wants me to go up to some place in Lancashire tomorrow.”
“God! I thought all that stuff was over. You don’t want to get mixed up with those MI shenanigans again.”
“I’m hoping he will have news of Grace, but whatever it’s about, I’ve got to go.”
“I suppose so. Call of duty and all that.”
“The train leaves at 6am tomorrow, so I’ll have an early start.”
Moncur pulled on his pipe thoughtfully. “Lancashire, eh? See if you can bring me back some tripe.”
4.
Sunday, 31st August, 1941: Carnforth, Lancashire
By this stage of the conflict, Barton had become inured to the miseries of wartime rail travel: the crowded compartments and the endless delays. After a seven hour journey that was worse than usual, he arrived at Carnforth Station just after 1pm. As promised, a car was waiting for him. He was surprised to find the driver was a Frenchman, a tall Mediterranean-looking fellow in FFL uniform. Despite clearly having a good grasp of English, the man was not very talkative and gave terse answers to Barton’s polite queries. Following a few attempts at making conversation, Barton gave up and instead studied the view out of the car windows.
After heading into the town centre, the car turned right at a crossroads and proceeded south along a main road lined with slate-roofed buildings of weathered yellow stone. As they turned into it, Barton noticed, on the left, a street sign bearing the name “Lancaster Road”. On the opposite side was a small hotel with a verandah in front and, fixed on the wall above, an enormous board advertising “Yates Manchester Ales”.
Soon, they were beyond the town limits and into the countryside. Through the hedgerows on their left, Barton caught an occasional glimpse of a narrow river that ran alongside the highway. A little while later, they turned off onto a back road that took them across the river on an old cobblestone bridge that was only just wide enough for the car. Less than fifteen minutes after leaving the station, they were pulling up in front of a large country house, built from grey stone and with an ivy-covered, crenellated tower at one end.
The driver led him to the door of a ground floor room at the back of the house, knocked and entered. “Your visitor, Colonel,” he announced, holding the door open for Barton to enter. On walking into the spacious, well-appointed room, Barton first noticed the floor-to-ceiling bookcases along two of the walls and deduced that this was the house’s library.
Minton was sitting behind a desk with his back to a wide leaded window that looked out over the garden. “Thank you, Émile,” he said as the Frenchman withdrew and then got up and came over to shake hands with Barton. He seemed genuinely pleased that his visitor had arrived. “Barton, it’s good to see you. I’m sorry I’ve had to drag you all the way up here, but I’m tied to this place at the moment. I hope your trip hasn’t been too uncomfortable?”
“Much as you’d expect these days. At least I’m not late.”
Minton looked at his watch. “Yes, it’s just as well; we’re on a tight schedule. I asked you to be here by 1.30 as this will have to be a flying visit – I’ve a meeting to attend at three. Can I get you a drink?” He went back to his desk and pulled out two tumblers and a bottle of malt whisky from one of its bottom drawers. “Not much of a selection, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll like it.”
As the Colonel poured out two stiff measures, Barton looked through the window behind the desk and noted that immediately outside was a flagged terrace with a stone balustrade along its edge. On the other side of this, there were a variety of neatly trimmed bushes set in a wide herbaceous border, beyond which lay a well-kept lawn. “So this is Camp 042. Not exactly what I expected – there’s not a Nissen hut in sight. This is quite a place.”
“Yes, it’s a 16th Century manor house. Impressive to look at, but they say it’s very cold and draughty in the winter. As you’ve probably spotted, this is the library we’re in. I’ve taken it over as my office.” Minton passed him one of the tumblers and, indicating an old leather Chesterfield nearby, invited him to take a seat.
Barton sat down on the sofa and sank back into it, while Minton perched himself on the edge of his desk and raised his glass in a toast: “Confusion to our enemies!”
“To confusion!” Barton echoed and took a drink of the whisky. It was smooth and sweet, with a faint vanilla taste – very pleasant. “So, do you expect you will still be here when winter comes?”
“Probably. This posting is, of course, subject to the whims of my superiors, but it looks at the moment as if I’ll be here for the foreseeable future.”
“I don’t suppose I should ask what goes on here?”
“True, the less you know about the activities at Camp 042 the better, so we should probably change the subject.” The Colonel paused and, with the trace of a smile, regarded his visitor, before continuing: “I’ve had to call you up here because I have some important information, information that I would prefer not to give out over the phone. It’s about Miss Harrison. What I am about to tel
l you is absolutely confidential, Barton – you must not repeat this to anyone. I’m breaking all the rules by giving you this information, but I feel we owe it to you: I can confirm that Miss Harrison is alive and well.”
“You’ve had news of her?” Barton responded excitedly.
“Better than that, I have met with her. She was parachuted into Norfolk four days ago by the Germans. It seems she managed to maintain her cover while with the Nazis and persuaded them to send her back. They believed she was working for them, but, of course, as soon as she landed, she went to the nearest phone box and called MI18.”
“Where is she now?”
“That, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Will I be able to see her?”
“Officially, no. Unofficially, ... well, you might happen to meet up with her at some point, who knows.”
“Can I at least send her a message?”
“You’ll have to be patient, Barton. I’m really going out on a limb telling you all this. If any of this got back to the Germans, it would seriously compromise our operations and could even put lives at risk. I’m telling you because you went through the wringer over Miss Harrison, and you deserve to know at least that she’s all right.”
Barton recalled the unpleasant company with whom she had been involved. “Was Grace alone when she parachuted in?”
“Yes, she was dropped by herself. She said the Germans didn’t think she needed anyone with her as she is a native of the country.”
“So what happened to Vivian Adair and all that information she took back to the Germans?”
