A week after the arrival of the Polish code-breakers in Oran, the British fleet appeared at Mers-el-Kébir, the port of Oran. The British were there not to enforce MI6’s offer to rescue the Polish code-breakers, but to destroy the French Navy. If Admiral François Darlan did not agree to send the French ships to British ports or scuttle them, the risk of takeover by the Germans – and the threat that would pose to the country that claimed to rule the waves – would be intolerable. The French resisted; the British opened fire. The Polish code-breakers were still in the port on the morning of 3 July 1940; by some fluke they were put on a transport to Algiers only six hours before the shelling began. The established order, who was fighting whom and for what, was turning upside-down.
While Bletchley Park prepared for invasion and evacuation, France was undergoing a revolution. The emasculated, effete, discredited ancien régime called the Third Republic had been found wanting. What France needed was something new, something tough. Most importantly, for a nation carrying the tradition of Austerlitz and Jena and countless other victories, a military leader of unsullied reputation should stand as Head of State. Such a leader could be found in Marshal Pétain: erect, immovable and slightly deaf. The hero of Verdun, Pétain was the symbol of France. His nickname was le drapeau [the flag]. Pétain was not just the symbol of the future of France, he was France. In keeping with modern zeitgeist the new régime should be authoritarian and inspire the people with stirring slogans. What the Germans had failed to do in 1914, the new French government managed all on its own, abandoning liberty, equality and comradeship. From now on it was travail, famille, patrie on coins and official symbols.
The coming weeks were taken up in adjusting to the new Vichy régime. Fortunately the thirteen pages of armistice agreed between the Germans and the French had remarkably little detail on anything pertaining to the structure of the new French State. So it was in order for the Pétain government to set up something called the Bureau des Menées Antinationales (BMA), or the Anti-nationalist Activities Office. The BMA’s job was, in theory, to inquire into and stamp out anti-patriotic behaviour; in practice, it provided a seedbed in which the acorn of a counter-intelligence service could grow anew.
By mid July 1940, the acorn had begun to germinate. Under the auspices of General Maxime Weygand – the aide-de-camp of Marshal Foch in the Great War, the liaison officer to Piłsudski in the Russo-Polish War of 1920, appointed Supreme Commander of the French Army during the Battle of France after it was too late to do anything and now Minister of Defence under Pétain – a new intelligence service was being formed secretly. The BMA would have a second division – MA2 – which would be the new designation of an old organisation, the Deuxième Bureau. Bertrand was back from Algeria, back in contact with the Vichy government, and almost back in business.5 MA2 would have a code-breaking capability; it would be just like old times. But who, among those with anti-nationalist sentiments, would the service be watching?
The French had not been supposed to make a separate peace with Germany, at least not without the consent of their British ally. Perhaps the armistice did not violate that obligation. But the attempt by the French military authorities to sweep the Poles under the scope of its ceasefire terms was certainly an offence to Poland. Poland was going to continue fighting and on the BBC General Sikorski told Polish troops to have nothing to do with the capitulation. As far as Gwido Langer was concerned, the slippery machinations of Bertrand were at best opaque, but could be downright treacherous. Langer was trying to determine the right thing to do:
Although the French have entered into a truce with the Germans, tactically speaking the two are still at war with each other, therefore the French are not our enemies. How we are treated depends on our own authorities; thus far, we have not received an order … A careless severance of relations … [could] jeopardise the results of our work not just for us but also for Y.
What he needed was orders. Bertrand, piecing together his master plan for MA2, might be the answer, but until the Polish headquarters (setting up in the Hotel Rubens in London) could focus on this small team, already under a cloud of suspicion, located on territory of dubious loyalty, there was nothing they could do but wait.
Whatever I want to do, I can never forget that we’re on French territory, and it is the French that are in control … We are sitting here doing nothing while others need us.6
Actually, there were some things to do in North Africa. Semi-detached from the war, the resort towns of the Mediterranean coast contrived to continue to provide a programme of entertainments and distractions for visitors just as before. Living there was cheap; food was good and plentiful, and the hotel accommodation, where the Poles were billeted, was all paid for. There were camel excursions to the desert, drinking in bars, visits to beaches and no work. Maybe it was not altogether bad, for most of them at least.7
For Henryk Zygalski, however, the experience of French North Africa had not begun well. On arrival in Algiers he began to feel feverish. His temperature went off the scale and immediately he was sent to the military hospital. It was pneumonia and complicated by an oozing abscess on his head. It would not be until 15 August 1940 that he was well enough to be discharged.8 By then, as the Luftwaffe began its assault on Britain, a new war plan was forming.
• • •
One day in the hot summer of 1940, a gentleman in middle age, rather unfit, balding, and steaming slightly in a suit which was altogether unsuitable for the weather, could be found consulting estate agents.9 The gentleman’s name was Monsieur Barsac and together with his wife Mary (who was too elegant to indulge in steaming) he was looking for somewhere to live. After some weeks of searching, a suitable country villa – rather too large for a farmhouse, not quite imposing enough to amount to a château – was offered. It called itself, rather pretentiously, the Château des Fouzes, probably because outside its front door it boasted an elegant double staircase flanked by two towers. Behind this façade, it actually was a large farmhouse, unassuming and unremarkable. It also had some special advantages. M. Barsac, being a retiring and modest sort, wanted his new property to be some way off the road and he wanted it to be outside the centre of town. The Château des Fouzes was close enough to the road to see, across the parched lawn, who might be coming, yet far enough back for security. And it was a couple of kilometres or so from the nearest town, an attractive place called Uzès located in the department of the Gard, well within the south of France. In other words, the château was in the middle of nowhere. Mme Barsac agreed, the place was wholly suitable.
Funded by a special dispensation from General Weygand, the Château des Fouzes was acquired for the secret secret intelligence service by Bertrand in his latest alias as M. Barsac. This particular secret needed to be kept secret even from those who set the bounds of secrecy. Bertrand was still working for Rivet, who was working for France. France still needed an intelligence service, but who were the targets on whom intelligence was to be gathered? There was an armistice in place, but technically France was still at war with Germany. Although France was not technically at war with Britain, the bombardment of the fleet at Oran suggested otherwise. If that were not confusing enough, it might not be safe to assume that the interests of the Vichy government were the same as the interests of France. In the end, it was a question of whom you trusted.
On 23 September 1940, Rivet was summoned to Vichy for an interview with the new minister who had replaced Weygand in Vichy’s volatile political mix. Charles Huntziger was one of the French generals who had signed the armistice on behalf of France and subsequently served as French representative to the German Armistice Commission.
Article 14 of the armistice required all French radio transmissions to cease. The clarificatory protocol added that the objective of this clause was to preclude activities which could operate to the detriment of the German war effort.10 Now Huntziger was laying down the law to Rivet:
1. General situation. France conquered … England little chance, compro
mise possible. Germany better chance.
2. No collaboration with [British] Intelligence Service given risk of reprisals … Give nothing to the English.
3. Germans accuse us of allowing the English to use clandestine radio posts in France … Seek out and close down …11
Colonel Rivet commented in his diary, ‘The general wants to play with a straight bat, without revealing his actual thinking.’ Rivet was a master of code-reading. In deciphered form, he understood that Huntziger had authorised the establishment of a new poste de commandement in the château near Uzès. The out-station would be called PC Cadix, perhaps because the old Via Domitiana – the imperial highway from Rome to Cadiz – ran through Nîmes, the nearest town of any size. This part of France is crammed with Roman remains, but during wartime there were not going to be many tourists poking their noses around PC Cadix. Gustave Bertrand had his château, he also had his own car and chauffeur, Maurice, necessary to ferry him to and from Nîmes – where he and his wife actually planned to live – and there were two other cars and two vans for the rest of his team.12 A team that would be composed of the Polish code-breakers currently kicking their heels in Algiers.
But it was still unclear what Bertrand’s team would actually be doing – on whom they would be spying. Gwido Langer went to see the Polish consul in Algiers in early August to get his orders. His reception was unsympathetic. Langer himself was uncomfortable. Algiers was far too cushy for discipline and Bertrand’s MA2 plan had divided the Polish team. With the seat of Polish government now established in London, it was not obvious why any of them should be working for Bertrand any more, under the terms of the armistice and the eyes of Vichy. Rejewski, Różycki and another code-breaker, Henryk Paszkowski, all wanted to get to Britain. Zygalski was in hospital. Others were content to go with Bertrand. Langer, at least, thought he knew Bertrand well enough, and concluded that the fight against Germany could be carried on under him. The time for debate was over, and good order and discipline should prevail.
Then Bertrand himself arrived in Algiers on 30 August 1940 and promptly began to dismantle the fragile unity which Langer had achieved. Against Langer’s wishes, Bertrand asked every one of the Polish team individually if they wanted to return to France.13 This was part of Bertrand’s plan, divide and conquer, to establish himself as the chief and to trim down the size of the party. ‘Plenty of buzz ensued within the team’. Even on the eve of departure there was still one dissident.14 At last, on 26 September 1940, the whole group boarded a ship called the Lamoricière, bound for Marseilles.
Even that was not the end of it. On arrival, Bertrand had another go at cutting back the list of names to join his PC Cadix operation. The team was too large. Bertrand still had his Équipe D of seven Spanish code-breakers as well as fifteen French personnel, and unless he could reduce the numbers there were going to be fifteen Poles.15 This time Langer put his foot down. On 8 October 1940 he obtained an order from General Juliusz Kleeberg, who was officially Polish military attaché at Vichy but in practice the acting commander-in-chief of the remnants of Polish forces still in France, to the effect that the movement of the intelligence group to PC Cadix was approved by the London government. Langer made all his group countersign it.16 On 16 October, the Polish government in London sent out further instructions: the Polish team were to obtain intelligence on German, Italian and French forces and troop movements, orders of battle, and navy, army and air force dispositions. They would monitor German police networks, to find out what was happening in Poland. This was all to be done in secret as far as possible; the gathering of material on the French could be dropped if Bertrand was controlling them too closely.
• • •
During the autumn and winter of 1940, a new web was spun across Europe by the re-exiled Polish Intelligence Bureau. Outposts were set up in France, Lisbon, Berne, Stockholm, Jerusalem and many other cities. All strands led back to London, but the best place of all for gathering intelligence on Germany was France. Polish servicemen had mustered there in 1939 and many were ready to stay behind, notwithstanding the occupation of half the country. Ekspozytura F – Outpost F for France – was to be the most significant piece of the new fabric. It would be run from Marseilles by Major Wincenty Zarembski, cover-name Tudor. Various other branches of the network channelled their reports through Ekspozytura F, notably the sub-network in the Zone Occupée headed by Captain Roman Czerniawski (cover-name Armand), and the sub-network Ekspozytura AFR in French North Africa, headed by Major Mieczysław Słowikowski (cover-name Rygor).17
Into this complex knot of intelligence and spying one further strand was woven: Ekspozytura 300, run by Langer in his cover-name of Wicher, would report direct to London but liaise closely with Ekspozyturas F and AFR. As if things were not yet sufficiently confused, Ekspozytura 300 was to be funded and housed by their old ally Bertrand. Bertrand was to be allowed to imagine he also controlled it. Wicher, the cover-name for the now-defunct operation at Pyry, had now been adopted by Gwido Langer personally, while Ekspozytura 300 was known to Bertrand as Équipe Z.
Weaving seamlessly through the complexity of Vichy politics, the main difficulty faced by Bertrand was technical in nature. The intelligence officers of Ekspozytura 300 spent the month of October 1940 engaged in the war-winning activities of ‘cutting down trees, chopping wood, peeling potatoes, preparing vegetables and, from time to time, plucking poultry.’18 The fifteen woodcutters had, most of them, rather bad French and incomprehensible accents. Every single one had a fake name: Louis Lange (Langer), Mathew Muller (Ciężki), Antoine Balande (Palluth), Pierre Ranaud (Rejewski), Julien Roget (Różycki) and Henri Sergant (Zygalski), to name those we have met before.19 It was primitive, too: ‘We can’t take a bath on site and the nearest toilet is 27km away.’20 At least they were being paid by the French and – in view of the challenge with plumbing – someone did their laundry. But this was hardly the intellectual challenge the dramatis personae of Polish actors had signed on for.
Without listening equipment, they could not snoop. That was remediable, with the help of the BMA’s handy budget. But much more significantly, they could not get the Enigma settings. They had carefully extricated one of the precious reconstituted Enigma machines from the débâcle which was the fall of France, but an Enigma machine will only decipher intercepted messages when you know how to set it up. There were no longer any Zygalski sheets – not that they would have been any use following the change in German operating procedures in May – and the other methods they had used during the Battle of France were haphazard. Furthermore, the radio networks which the Germans were using actively in the post-armistice period were different, so it would have been much harder to find settings than it had been in May and June. By contrast, the British at Bletchley had answers to these problems. If PC Cadix was going to be a success, it would be necessary to revive the old international co-operation between X, Y and Z.
On 9 October 1940, Colonel Rivet went to General Huntziger’s office once again.21 There was a thaw: the needs of PC Cadix could constitute an exception to the rule against dealings with MI6. The condition was that PC Cadix should also try to glean intelligence on the British themselves. The way was now open for Bertrand to try and re-establish contact with Biffy Dunderdale. Bertrand probably didn’t know that Langer was also trying to reopen the same channel himself via the Polish government in London.22
The reaction in Britain to Bertrand’s approach was nervous and confused:
C.S.S. [Chief of the Security Service], the F.O. [Foreign Office] and the Service Departments set store on the intelligence derived from cryptography in general, and in particular the E traffic, and are concerned to guard the security of this source …
The French and the Poles are quite aware of this, and in the last telegram from the French in July they undertook to safeguard us. This they have done in some unexplained manner. It is clear from our recent results that nothing has been divulged …
We must ask them:- Who are their master
s? (i.e.) If they are officially paid by a Government which may join the Nazis at any time, it is too risky for us. (Or) If they are aiming for continuity so as to be ready for a French ‘come back’ …
45000 [Dunderdale] and his party are so pro-French that they may have difficulty in putting our point of view in this question of collaboration with a party, who cannot really help us at present, but whom we wish to retain as friends and future allies.23
Dunderdale was briefed accordingly. Meanwhile, Bertrand had prepared for the negotiations and had an unexpected gift, providing the British were willing to engage more concretely than just talking about friendship and a future alliance. Bertrand was offering intelligence on Italian naval movements, gleaned from an agent. Moreover, his interceptors had stumbled upon some Double Playfair messages his Z team had also begun to decoct.24 Double Playfair was horribly difficult to decipher: it was a transposition cipher used by both the Luftwaffe and the German police. From the British point of view, having a flow of this material was a real temptation: all the more so since radio-interception coverage had been cut back after the fall of France.
Although attracted by Bertrand’s offer, the British continued to debate anxiously what they could and could not do with him. Just where did his loyalties lie? Ultimately, like Gwido Langer, they needed to look into the whites of his eyes. A meeting in Lisbon might be arranged? Or Tangier?25 ‘I hope that Dunderdale will assure himself that Bertrand is really working in conditions of absolute security. I consider that he should not expect all the keys we have worked out since July … I consider that Dunderdale’s mission will really consist in finding out why Bertrand wishes to reopen the co-operation and under what conditions.’ Dunderdale’s deputy wired back: ‘Date between March 15th and March 20th only possible for Bertie [Bertrand] … He would be grateful if Doli [Dunderdale] could bring all keys E found since July, all indications on method employed to found them … All this because begin work now in complete security … Is Den [Denniston] interested for cypher machine of Swiss Army which is used for sending meteograms.’26
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