In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  Trixie grinned. “I really must come and visit you with all those yummy soldiers on the premises. Speaking of yummy men, did you see the delicious Jeremy Prescott?”

  “I did.”

  “And how is he? Is he—um—fully recovered?”

  “Still a little pale and thin, but well on the road to recovery, thank God. He looks a little like a Romantic poet, you know, like Keats on his deathbed. But recovering rapidly.” An image of Jeremy in the car, trying to pin her down, flashed across her mind. “Yes, making a remarkable recovery.”

  “So did you have an absolutely divine time? Confess all. Tell Auntie Trixie.”

  “We had family around most of the time,” Pamela said. “We did go out to dinner at a pub, and then he drove me home.”

  “Oh God, I remember going home in a taxi with him once, after a deb’s ball,” Trixie said. “My dear, I had no idea you could get up to that sort of thing in the back of a taxi. Nobody had mentioned he was NSIT.”

  “What?” Pamela asked.

  “NSIT. Not safe in taxis, darling. It was a common code among debs. Did you grow up in a nunnery?”

  “No, but Farleigh was almost as bad. My parents are horribly prudish, and I knew nothing until I went away to finishing school in Switzerland.”

  “Where I’m sure you learned more than how to curtsey and hostess dinner parties. I know I did.” She gave a knowing grin. “My dear, those ski instructors. So virile.” And she pretended to fan herself.

  Pamela laughed, a little nervously.

  “So did Jeremy pop the question? Or did you already have an understanding, as they used to say so quaintly?”

  Pamela felt herself flushing. “Jeremy thinks that one can’t think of marriage until this horrid war is over.”

  “Quite right,” Trixie said. “And who would want to get married when clothing is on ration? You won’t see me getting married in a frumpy two-piece. I want the twelve-foot train, the veil, and yards of glorious silk. And a yummy trousseau, too.”

  “You’ll be wearing white, then?” Pamela asked, raising an eyebrow and making Trixie giggle.

  “My dear, if the only brides who wore white were virgins, you’d have very few white weddings,” she said. As she talked, she was pulling on the second stocking. Then she stood up, studied the result in the mirror, and nodded approvingly.

  “Are you going somewhere nice?” Pamela asked.

  “Probably not. A chap from Hut Six I met at the concert last night invited me to the pictures. He’s a bit serious and brainy for my taste, but then who isn’t at this dump? Nobody exactly comes here to have fun, do they? So I thought the pictures would be better than staying in and eating Mrs. Entwhistle’s cottage pie. And by the way, the food has been particularly drear this week. Boiled cabbage, mashed spuds, and a slice of Spam three nights in a row. I kept thinking of you, eating real food. Did you have some good meals?”

  “I did, actually,” Pamela said. “Especially one at the Prescotts’. Oysters and roast pork and chocolate mousse. And all the right wines for each course. I thought I’d die from happiness.”

  “Where did they get their hands on all that?”

  “Black market, by the sound of it. Sir William seems to have fingers in a lot of pies.”

  “Then you’d better force Jeremy to marry you before some other girl snaps him up, if you want to live in luxury for the rest of your life.” She applied a generous coat of lipstick. “So when will you see him again, do you think? It’s rather too far to pop down to Kent on a day off, isn’t it?”

  “Well, he’s moving to his parents’ flat in London this week,” Pamela said. “He starts work at the Air Ministry. Oh, and he’s planning a party a week from Wednesday—a sort of flat warming. I just hope I’m not still on night duty. Maybe I can trade shifts.”

  “A party? How divine. Can I come?”

  Pamela hesitated. Trixie would be only too anxious to get her hands on Jeremy again, she was sure. But she saw no reason to decline. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “If we can both get a free evening. I told Jeremy I might still be working the night shift, and it might be hard to get time off.”

  “Maybe not,” Trixie said. “I was handed a note from Commander Travis on Friday. He wants you to report straight to him as soon as you come back.”

  “Golly,” Pamela said. “I hope it’s not a reprimand.”

  “Why, you haven’t blotted your copybook, have you?” Trixie asked. “Given away state secrets? Talked about your job here, God forbid?”

  “No, of course not. Although it was rather hard at home. They all think I’m doing some boring office job in a faceless ministry, and I couldn’t tell them that what we are really doing is important.”

  “Is it?” Trixie asked. “Sometimes I wonder. All I do is a boring office job in a faceless ministry, but I suppose your job must be more exciting than mine.”

  “Not exciting,” Pamela said hastily, “but at least I know I’m a small cog in a long chain that does make a difference, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Is this where I stand up, wave a flag, and sing ‘Rule Britannia’?” Trixie said, laughing.

  Pamela gave her a friendly shove. “Shut up and go off to your pictures. I suppose I’d better go downstairs and face Mrs. Entwhistle’s Spam and spuds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At Bletchley Park

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Pamela parked her bike outside the big house and headed for the imposing front door. It was a glorious day. The sun sparkled from the lake where swans glided. Pigeons fluttered and wheeled in the sky. The air smelled of roses and honeysuckle. It was the sort of day to take a picnic to a riverbank. Pamela’s thoughts went to lazy summer days at Farleigh before she wrenched them firmly back to the present and entered the gloom of the front hall. She couldn’t think of what she might have done wrong, except for fainting. Maybe she was about to be told she wasn’t up to the task here and would be sent home in disgrace. But then she wasn’t the first person who had fainted or even had a nervous collapse while working here. The long hours, the dreary conditions, and the constant pressure got to other people, she knew.

  The receptionist popped out of her cubby when she heard Pamela’s feet on the tiled floor.

  “Ah, Lady Pamela,” she said. “Do go up. I’ll telephone Commander Travis and tell him you are coming.”

  She had sounded bright and cheerful, which was encouraging, but maybe receptionists knew few details about visitors. She went up the ornate wooden staircase and tapped on the commander’s door.

  “Lady Pamela,” he said jovially. “Do take a seat. Did you have a good week’s rest at home?”

  Pamela perched on an upright chair, facing the commander’s mahogany desk. “I did, thank you, sir. A few nights’ sleep and good food, and now I’m right as rain.”

  “Splendid,” he said, “because I’ll need you to be on your toes. I’m giving you a new assignment. It’s a little out of the ordinary, even for Bletchley, and nobody else is to know about it. Do you understand? I know you are used to secrecy by now, but in this case, it is especially important.”

  “I see, sir,” she said.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “What do you know about the New British Broadcasting Corporation?”

  “Isn’t it a radio station broadcasting from Germany, purporting to be British and giving bogus news?”

  “Precisely.” He wagged a finger at her, emphasising the point. “Designed to put fear and despair into the hearts of the British people, to break down their will to fight, and to welcome the Germans when they invade.”

  “I don’t think many Britons are taken in by it, sir,” she said.

  “You’d be surprised. Some people believe anything the radio tells them. They all are not as sophisticated as we are. But that’s beside the point. You may also have heard that there are fifth columnists working inside Britain. Not necessarily foreigners, but English men and women who for reasons of their own are in sympathy
with Germany and would like to assist Herr Hitler in any way they can.”

  “Surely not, sir?” Pamela asked. “I mean, one hears about fifth columnists, but one always thinks of dubious Russian émigrés and, of course, Oswald Mosley’s fascists.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people would welcome the invasion,” he said. “Even people that you and I know. In fact, we think there is some sort of plot going on at this very moment. We’re not sure what it is, but we suspect it may well be to remove the royal family and bring back the Duke of Windsor in their place. We know he has strong pro-German sympathies. He has already demonstrated that.”

  “Gosh, that would be awful,” she blurted out, realising she sounded like a schoolgirl.

  “This is where you come in, Lady Pamela,” Commander Travis said. “I have had good reports on you from your team leaders. You are quick and you spot things. So this is your assignment. We have a nearby radio receiving station where WRAF workers listen and transcribe all German radio broadcasts. You will receive daily transcripts from this New British Broadcasting Station, and your job will be to pick out anything that might be a message in code to sympathetic souls. It might be a repeated phrase that announces the next sentences will be a message. I can’t tell you what to look for, because I don’t know. But you’re sharp. I think I’m right to put you up for the job.”

  “Will I still be working in my old hut, sir?”

  “No, of course not. As I said, this is just between the two of us. Nobody else must know. It’s quite possible there are sympathisers here, at Bletchley.”

  “Really?”

  “One can’t be naïve, Lady Pamela. The Abwehr is not stupid. They will attempt to infiltrate sympathisers wherever they can. So you see the need for complete secrecy.”

  “Of course. But what am I to say to the chaps I was working with if I meet them in the cafeteria? What about my roommate?”

  “You tell them you’ve been seconded for a special assignment with Commander Travis because he says he likes to see a pretty face doing the filing.”

  She had to laugh at this. “So I’ll be working here?”

  “You will. I’m making a room on the top floor available. And you report to me and to me only. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I hope I can live up to your expectations,” she said. “I’m to be working alone, then?”

  “No, you will have one colleague working with you. A very bright young man who will be checking out other German broadcasts for possible coded messages. I hope you’ll help each other in discovering possibly coded messages among the harmless ones, and then being able to break those codes.”

  When Pamela said nothing, he added, “I have full confidence in you. I think you’re the right person for this job.”

  “When do you want me to start?” she asked.

  He smiled, making his severe face look positively human for a second. “No time like the present, Lady Pamela.”

  Pamela left his office and went up another flight of stairs to the designated room on the top floor. This had clearly been a servant’s quarters. The hallway was not wood-panelled, and it had a disused feel to it, dusty and stuffy. She opened the door, then let out a little gasp because there was a movement to her right. A tall, gangly fellow jumped up from the table at which he was sitting.

  “Golly, you made me jump,” Pamela said, laughing now. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here. You must be my partner in crime.”

  He came around the table, holding out his hand to her. “Froggy Bracewaite,” he said. “And you’re Lady Pamela Sutton.”

  “Correct,” she said. “I take it your name isn’t really Froggy.”

  “To the top brass, I have to answer to Reginald,” he said. “But I was dubbed ‘Froggy’ at Winchester, and it has stuck. And you may not remember, but we’ve met before. I believe I danced with you at one of the deb balls during your season. You probably still have the bruises to prove it.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” she said. “And I’m sure you weren’t the only partner to tread on my toes during that season. They give girls dancing lessons but never think of doing the same for their partners. Speaking of which, I’m so glad we’re to be working together. This whole thing sounds horribly daunting, and I wouldn’t have liked to tackle it alone.”

  “You must be really bright, or they’d never have asked a woman to do this,” he said. “In case you haven’t noticed, the men get all the plum jobs here, and the women are stuck with the clerical stuff, even though they are often better qualified.”

  “I was one of the lucky ones,” Pamela said. “I was doing something quite interesting. But not actual code breaking. I’ve no idea how to even start doing that. You’ll have to teach me.”

  He pointed to teleprinter printouts on the table. “The first batch of transcripts have been sent over from station Y,” he said. “Let’s have a look together, and I may be able to show you what we might be looking for.”

  They stood together at the table. Pamela’s eyes scanned the first page.

  Dear friends in Britain. We are sorry that your thoughtless government is making you suffer needlessly. The invasion will go ahead as planned and there is nothing you can do to stop the might of the German Wehrmacht. But those who assist us, who make us welcome, will find that it will be a smooth transition and life will quickly return to normal. Lights will come on again, pubs and cinemas will reopen. There will be plenty of food again.

  “What rubbish,” Pamela exclaimed, making Froggy chuckle. “Surely nobody can believe this?” she asked.

  “You’d be surprised,” he replied. “Especially when you hear news items like this.” He pointed lower down the page.

  The Bank of England is perpetuating a giant fraud on the people of Britain. The pound note has actually become worthless and the government is printing . . .

  They read on. Reports on the number of British ships sunk. Cargo ships that would never reach British shores with food supplies. Britain would soon face starvation. And yet there was a secret store of food in the cellars under Whitehall so that the members of the government and those in power still eat well, while the average worker has to exist on bread made from sawdust.

  After the depressing and deceptive news bulletins, there came purposed messages from British servicemen held captive in German stalags.

  From Sergeant Jimmy Bolton, RAF Hornchurch, and now a prisoner at Stalag sixteen. To his wife, Minnie. “Don’t worry about me, old girl. I am in good health and being fed and taken care of here. Chin up and I’ll be home soon.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was his wife,” Froggy muttered.

  Pamela nodded. “All very insidious and depressing,” she said, “but I don’t see anything that seems like a coded message. There is nothing like ‘The hedgehog comes out at midnight’ that I had expected to find.”

  He laughed. “The Germans are quite sophisticated with their codes. Let’s see if the first letters of any sentence spell any useful words.”

  They did that, but drew a blank. They tried similar combinations—the second sentence of every bulletin. Proper names of the purported prisoners.

  “I suppose Bolton is a place,” Pamela suggested.

  Froggy shook his head. “But Sims and Johnson aren’t, are they? I must say that nothing leaps out at me so far. No repeated words or phrases. We might have to see several days’ worth of transcripts to determine if phrases are repeated at the same time each day.”

  By the end of the first day, Pamela felt that they had overestimated her capabilities, and she would soon be found lacking and sent back to her unit in disgrace.

  When she arrived home, Trixie was waiting for her. “So what was it all about? Do tell? Did Commander Travis give you a slap on the wrist?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Pamela said. “It was just to move me to a new division. We were overstaffed where I was, and they needed extra help with the office work at the big house. As Commander Travis put it, he likes to
see a pretty face around the place.”

  Trixie shook her head. “Men!” she said. “Wouldn’t it be funny if a woman said ‘Hire a young man, I like to see rippling muscles around the place.’”

  Pamela laughed. “I’m sure some women in positions of authority do think that way. But I have to say I’m glad to be out of that hut. If the big noises work in the main house, you can bet that it will be heated properly in winter. And I’m close enough to the cafeteria to pop over during my breaks.”

  “But still only doing the boring stuff, like me,” Trixie said. “When will they realise that we women are capable and could quite easily take on code breaking like the men?”

  “Only if they ever become desperate, I suppose,” Pamela said. “Actually, there are some really brainy chaps here, so I understand. Absolute maths whizzes. I wasn’t bad at mathematics, but there was no way I’d ever daydream about new ways to solve algebraic problems and have numbers dancing around in my head like some of these boys.”

  “Some of them are half-barmy, if you ask me,” Trixie said. “That chap who took me to the pictures. He made a weird sort of humming noise at the back of his throat and kept tapping his foot nervously, and he never got any farther than sliding his arm around my shoulder. We’re probably the only normal people here.”

  Pamela was about to say that she was working with a chap she’d danced with as a deb, but then remembered that even such trivial matters had to remain secret.

  A gong sounded. “I suppose we’d better go down and face the supper,” she said. “I’m rather afraid I smelled fish boiling.”

  “Oh no, not her dreaded boiled fish,” Trixie said. “At least she couldn’t overcook Spam. Do you think we dare sneak out and go have a sausage roll and a pint at the pub?”

  “What, and incur her wrath and be served the most gristly bits of stewed meat forever? Have you noticed that she always gives that creepy man, Mr. Campion, the best bits?”