Between Silk and Cyanide (26 page)

These noises, so alien to me, were interrupted by the telephone. It was the Signals Office supervisor to tell me that two messages had just been cancelled, one to a Belgian agent, the other to a Dane. William van der Wilden was the first Golfer to reach the eighteenth hole, followed shortly afterwards by van Os, Jan Kisk and Peter Wouters.

I collected their work, told them to check each other's messages because if I checked them myself, we'd be here all night, and carefully redistributed them. Remembering that the great Spencer Tracy always under-acted, I showed no surprise at all when we discovered that I'd 'accidentally' given each agent his own message to check! When this was finally resolved, one message was found to be missing. I'd 'accidentally' dropped it on the floor.

I apologized, saying that I hadn't got the hang of things yet as I'd only been head of codes for a week or two (vital for Giskes to know he was dealing with a new boy) but was sure that I'd soon catch on.

Finding that I had a few clucks left, I walked behind them checking their checking. They'd have been good coders, given the chance. All that remained was the grand finale, which was unlikely to leave the audience wanting more.

I announced that I was going to read them a list of security rules, though they would have to be patient as some of them were new to me. I then produced two sheets of foolscap paper from my briefcase, and proceeded to inflict on them an elongated version of the normal security patter, apologizing now and again for the difficulty I had in deciphering my handwriting.

As soon as I'd finished I offered to read the list again and, before they could refuse, was racing through it. This time I stressed all the points they'd need to know if they were free to do their own coding when they landed in Holland—pausing at an appropriate moment to say that I'd solved one across.

I'd already kept them there an hour and ten minutes and said how quickly the time had passed.

I finally enquired if they had any questions. Looking at me in silence, they shook their heads, but their expressions showed what they were longing to ask. It was the oldest question known to man. 'Whose arse did you kiss to get this job?'

I said a cheerful goodbye to them and walked to the door.

It may have been my most successful briefing.

A fairly full day was not quite over.

I was determined to find that bastard Nicholls and legitimize him. On behalf of every agent using a poem-code I was going to demand a WOK-decision, and if the Messiah still refused to tell me who was going to make it he could prepare himself for the Second Going.

But when I returned to my office I found a message on my desk instructing me to report to him immediately.

He was seated behind his desk studying a grey folder. His complexion matched it. He at once asked how I had got on with the Golf team's briefing, and I assured him it had been as normal as I knew how to make it.

He looked at me quizzically and told me to sit down. It was as well that he did because I couldn't believe what I now heard him saying.

Tomorrow I was to discuss the future of WOKs with Colonel Tiltman of Bletchley Park.

The
Colonel Tiltman of
the
Bletchley Park. The cryptographic supremo.

I was to keep the whole morning free for him.

No problem!—I'd keep my whole coding life free for him if he had any use for it.

I to thank Nick for what he'd achieved but the deep brown melter wouldn't function and all that emerged was the last of my clucks.

He pointed to the door and ordered me to go home immediately. I was in for the longest night of my life in repayment for what I'd done to the Golf team.

'Dear Bletchley wizard

On this of all nights
You must not become
One of sleep's walking wounded
Trapped between the day's achievements
And tomorrow's bereavements
And if a wet dream
Would help you
To awake fair-minded
To judge the merits
Of the codes you will see
Then with all my fearful WOK-filled heart
I wish you one!
Or two!
Or three!
With the compliments, dear Bletchley wizard
Of the whole of SOE.'

(Written on the eve of the Supremo's visit)

On the morning of Tiltman day an event took place which silenced ig in Norgeby House but the teleprinters, caused Nick to bat Hitler was using hallucinogenic chemicals, and gave our work-force an even greater shock than a kind word from a section. Heffer arrived early.

Havingg demolished the one stable factor in our Morse-bound world iring before noon, he drifted into my office like an ominous sea-mist—caught me in the act of concealing secret French messages, Mother's illicit provisions and whatever else might detract from Tiltman's WOK-benediction—and made history twice in one morning by coming straight to the point.

There were certain aspects of Tiltman's visit which he felt he should discuss with me. But before doing so, was there anything about the meeting which I would like to ask him?

I admitted that three things puzzled me. Why had it taken Nick since December to set the meeting up? Why had he told me at Xmas that Tiltman had read my coding report and approved it in principle, and remained silent ever since? Had Tiltman changed his mind for some reason?

He patted me with a smile and said that nobody could anticipate Tiltman's mind, including Tiltman, and that the reasons for the delay would become all too clear to me when I understood Nick's relationship with Tiltman and Tiltman's with C. There were also one or two other matters which he felt I should be aware of.

The one-man education board began his disclosures over a shared breakfast, and by the time he'd asked me to present his compliments to the chef I'd lost my appetite altogether.

Listening to Heffer's account of the Nick-Tiltman relationship was like turning the pages of a wedding album.

They'd first met when they were subalterns in the Signals Corps. Nick specialized in wireless, Tiltman in codes. Their careers advanced in parallel with equal distinction, and their combined talents helped to make MI8 the force that it was.

When Nick gave up gainful employment to join SOE his first major decision was to get Tiltman's reactions to my coding report. His second was to repeat them to CD and Gubbins. But although they were impressed by what Tiltman had said, his verbal approval wasn't enough for them. They needed his official endorsement of such radical changes in case C attacked them as a matter of principle. Moreover, because of my age and inexperience they felt that an expert of Tiltman's standing should supervise any other innovations I might try to introduce, and had formally invited him to be SOE's adviser on codes.

'Then, by God, Heff, we're safe.!'

'I'm afraid,' he said quietly, 'that it isn't quite as simple as that.'

Of course not! Why else would he be here at eight in the morning?

Choosing his words as carefully as a chancellor with a shaky budget, he explained to the now hushed house why the conflict between C and SOE placed Tiltman ('a very decent chap by all accounts') in a most awkward position.

Bletchley was controlled by C and before committing himself to helping SOE Tiltman decided to discuss his position with Brigadier Gambier-Parry, C's head of Signals. Gambier-Parry was convinced that he'd already given SOE all the advice that it needed (he'd recommended the poem-code) but after a great deal of reflection (presumably his own in a mirror) he'd agreed that it would be in everyone's interests if Tiltman did what he could to keep SOE's codes on the right lines so long as it didn't interfere with his more important commitments. Tiltman had then notified CD and Gubbins that he was prepared to act as SOE's code adviser.

I let out a whoop of delight that could have been heard in Bletchley but suddenly noticed Heffer's expression. He was looking at me as if I mistaken a condemned man's breakfast for a mid-morning snack and after a thought-pause which broke the existing record, asked for another cup of tea. There was something he was clearly reluctant to say, and I was careful not to prompt him.

Eventually he pointed out that though Nick and Tiltman were experts in their own field, like all professional soldiers they were hopeless at Intelligence politics. But Gambier-Parry was a past master, and was certain to question Tiltman about
everything
he learned here. It wouldn't matter what Tiltman reported about codes but it would do untold damage to SOE's chances of a directive if he told Gambier-Parry about the muddles we'd got into in Greece and Yugoslavia, and the operational problems we were encountering elsewhere. It was essential therefore that I limited my conversation with Tiltman strictly to codes, without referring to any particular country section's or indeed to any particular country section.

It took a long time dawning. 'You mean I mustn't tell him about the Dutch?'

He confirmed that this was precisely what he meant, then looked at me suspiciously. 'You've kept very quiet lately about Holland. that either means that you're no further forward or that you're up to something. Which is it?'

I assured him that I still hadn't thought of a way of setting a trap for Giskes, and realized that the temptation to tell the truth to Tiltman would be more than I could cope with. 'If I can't discuss Holland of all countries with Tiltman of all people I'd rather not meet him.'

He stared intently at my desk. 'I was under the impression,' he said quietly, 'that the future of WOKs was your top priority.' I'd placed one in the centre of the desk where Tiltman couldn't possibly miss it, and surrounded it with poems to point up the contrast. It was the first table I'd ever laid.

Gently now, because his point was made and he knew I was impaled on it, he told me that Tiltman's schedule had been rearranged. He would be arriving at ten for a short session with Dansey on mainline codes, and after that he was mine. And since he'd expressed a preference for seeing me alone, my two room-mates would be spending the whole day in the Signals Office—a fringe benefit Heffer was sure I would welcome. He urged me not to forget for a single moment that whatever I said to Tiltman I would also be saying to Gambier-Parry.

'I suppose they both work closely with Y?' I said, hoping to shake him right down to his privies, though he probably kept them in his head.

'Who's Y?' he asked blandly. He then wished me the best of luck (he wasn't a 'merde alors' man), announced that it was time he had a haircut, and went in search of a barber who wouldn't charge him by the lock.

The quickest way to divert the protest march forming up inside me was to skim through the overnight traffic waiting in my in-tray. Messages had come in from Duus Hansen in Denmark, Peter Churchill in France and Boni in Holland.

Duus Hansen was pinpointing targets for the RAF to bomb—which meant that neglected little Denmark was at last considered important enough to be attacked by air, a triumph for Hollingsworth as well as for the Danes.

Peter Churchill's message contained a warning that German troops now occupying the Southern zone of France were causing his circuit great difficulties, and that he, Lise (Odette) and Anton (Rabinovitch, Joe Louis fan) were looking for new bases.

Boni was his usual informative self. He confirmed that he was recruiting new agents for the Parsnip/Cabbage organization, that Cabbage would be standing by from the llth onwards to receive a drop of seven containers, and that he and Cabbage were finding safe-houses for Broadbean and Golf. Boni ended his message with a a for more money as his group would be completely out of funds within the next two months.

Skinnarland had also made an overnight contribution—indecipherle, of course—which was being attended to by the day squad.

I put all the traffic in a drawer where even my unconscious couldn't produce it by accident, and spent the next five minutes trying to draw the Almighty's attention to the conflict of interests I was involved in. But l had a strong feeling that his line was engaged, and that C was |hdy on the scrambler.

I now had the two greatest luxuries SOE could offer—time on my hands and the office to myself. But I had a penance to perform, and could postpone it no longer.

Three weeks ago I'd stumbled on to a method of tackling indecipherables which cut the time it took to break them by half. I'd made the discovery whilst being broken in half myself by an indecipherble in secret French code which had to be broken and re-encoded before Duke Street started asking what had happened to it.

The new method, which I should have discovered long ago, worked equally well on
all
indecipherables, and although it was only minor league cryptography, it could be developed further. Even in its present form it helped us to win the race to break messages before country sections ordered the agents to repeat them.

The average indecipherable was 200 letters long but every time a new key was tried, all 200 letters had to be transposed to see if the message was broken. This cumbersome process was no longer necessary because of some charts I'd devised which did the bulk of the work.

It was now possible to select a key and allow the charts to calculate which of the 200 letters would appear in the first line of the message if that key had been used. If the letters formed words, then the rest of the message would also make sense and the right key had been chosen. If the result was gibberish, then the wrong key had been tried and it was 'on with the next'.

'Scanning,' the code-groups instead of having to transpose the whole lot of them would be invaluable to the coders of Grendon. But I'd hesitated to show it to them in case they were put off by its apparent complexity (the charts were in fact very easy to use; the difficulty lay in preparing them). I'd finally decided to give Grendon a trial demonstration.