by Leo Marks
Thinking she meant moon periods, I sharply reminded her that we were discussing coders and not agents.
Permitting herself a glance of disbelief, she explained that girls had ‘monthly problems’ which could well upset their concentration and that many of them suffered acute discomfort a few days before their periods began.
Having no sisters except my mother, I was obliged to ask ‘Mother Hen’ for further and better particulars and realised from the silence which followed that I’d blown my cover as a man about town.
Lifting the receiver, she informed her secretary that she wanted no calls put through for the next thirty minutes.
I wondered what could possibly take her so long to explain and waited anxiously when she began, ‘Well now, Mr Marks …’ She then gave me a birds-and-bees description of the girls’ monthly cycles, and I had the utmost difficulty in not blurting out that this was the pattern which had been eluding me.
I became even more convinced of it when she said that some girls sailed through their periods with hardly any ill effects, but that in the majority of cases the onset of their periods made them tense, erratic and depressed, even under the best of circumstances, which SOE’s most certainly weren’t.
Warming to the overheated subject, she pointed out that most of the girls had never worked before but suddenly found themselves in remote country stations where agents’ lives depended on their skill and that if their periods occurred when they were subjected to inordinate pressure it was a miracle that they were able to function at all. She was also most concerned about how the ‘monthly disturbances’ affected women agents, though she understood that in most cases their periods stopped altogether when they arrived in the field.
It was my turn to nod wisely. I thanked her for confirming what I’d long suspected and said how much I regretted not consulting her before, as it was obvious that certain measures must be taken at once.
‘Really, Mr Marks? I’d be interested to hear what they are.’
Once more the man about town, I outlined my programme for the alleviation of periods. She or someone she appointed must inform me of the relevant dates, and I would then arrange for the girls to be given tasks which wouldn’t overtax them. This would apply particularly to coders engaged in blanket attacks and to briefing officers giving agents their final exercises, when nothing less than their best would do. The sooner the information was available, the sooner we could give the Americans a model code room and ensure continuity of performance throughout the entire department.
Captain Henderson looked at me as if it were time to change my nappies, a task for which officers in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry had received no training. ‘Do you realise what you’re asking?’
She then explained that periods were a ‘most delicate matter’ which none of the girls would be willing to discuss! The relevant dates didn’t appear on their files, and the subject hadn’t once cropped up at any of her interviews, nor did she think it was ever likely to. The regimental doctor might know a few of the dates but he wouldn’t disclose them unless instructed to do so by the head of the FANY. It was essential to respect the girls’ privacy, but if I absolutely insisted, she’d arrange for me to meet the corps commander, though she’d prefer not to be a fly on the wall, as it was likely to come tumbling down.
I was forced to make a guarded admission of my total bemusement. ‘It’s clear to me that once a month even FANYs must conduct themselves like ladies – but I just don’t understand why they’re so shy about discussing it.’
‘Few men do, Mr Marks.’ She said it so forcefully that I wondered if she were married.
‘What do you suggest, Captain Henderson?’
‘Recruit more girls, increase their rest periods and send them on leave every couple of months. And above all, respect their privacy.’
I aborted a poem:
This woman in front of me
Is making a complete …
‘There’s one thing you could do, Captain Henderson – tell me some of the problems they bring to you.’
But mother hens of her calibre were seldom taken off guard, and she looked at me quizzically. ‘If you’re trying to find out whether your name crops up, it’s fair to say that it does from time to time. Sorry, Mr Marks, but that’s all I’m prepared to tell you.’ She smiled sympathetically and pressed the buzzer on her desk.
But she’d also pressed one in me and I was glad to be dismissed. She’d made me realise that by the time I’d discovered the dates of the girls’ periods they’d be too old to have them and that more practical measures were called for.
I decided to tackle the problem cryptographically and made a blanket attack on the girls’ forty-eight mistakes to establish a pattern. But even with the inventory in front of me, pinpointing their ‘trying times’ was like breaking an indecipherable with a misnumbered key phrase and a dozen hatted columns.
After several hours of total immersion I managed to establish that one thoroughly reliable girl made serious errors during the same four days of every month but at no other time. And that seven others who were equally dependable also made them at monthly intervals, though the dates varied by roughly a week. But in all cases the pattern was unmistakable.
I selected six of these girls for 53c and completed the list with a mixture of plodders and supervisors whose cycles were predictable. Nick barely glanced at the names before nodding his approval. I was anxious to tell him how the list had been compiled, but this was clearly the wrong moment to discuss the intricacies of female signals.
I was equally anxious to compare notes on the subject with Tiltman of Bletchley, but decided to postpone convening a national period conference until I knew what I was talking about, should that time ever come.
I was mercifully unaware of the other ‘curses’ which would shortly become due, one of them known as Giskes.
FIFTY-SIX
Unique in SOE
On the night of 15 November the White Rabbit returned to England by Lysander with a female member of the French Resistance sitting on each knee (accommodation was strictly limited).
The three of them had already become closely acquainted as they’d travelled to their pick-up point in the back of a hearse. Unaccustomed to this form of transport, Tommy had prepared for all eventualities by arming himself with a Sten gun, hand grenades and a bottle of brandy. The hearse had been stopped several times by German soldiers, who examined the undertaker’s credentials but not the state of his corpses. Their final resting place was a farm a few minutes from their airfield, and when they reached it they found that the entire area was being guarded by members of the local resistance, none of whom had seen an Englishman since the fall of France. Their leader told Tommy that it was an honour to be able to protect a British officer who was such a good friend to their country.
This much, plus an explicit description of the drawbacks of travelling by hearse, I learned from my old schoolmate Lieutenant (now Captain) O’Bryan-Tear (the first to become suspicious of Duke Street’s cleartexts). But he’d had to break off when Tommy walked in.
The details of Tommy’s Marie-Claire mission came from little Kay Moore, deputy chairman of the White Rabbit fan club.
Making sure that he was out of earshot (never easy), she began by saying that although his code name – Shelley – had become part of the language of French Resistance, and a high price had been put on his head, the RAF still hadn’t confirmed the Military Cross he’d been put up for six months ago, which Duke Street believed he’d received. This meant that he was still forced to wear two tunics, one displaying his Croix de Guerre, the other displaying both decorations to convince Duke Street that helping the Free French was considered worthy of recognition.
Having vented at least some of her wrath, she said that she believed he was about to be offered a DSO for his part in mission Marie-Claire. Although the mission was by no means over, he and his partner Brossolette had achieved some astonishing results.
With Brossolette’s s
upport, he’d ‘done a Gubbins’ on the resistancemovement leaders, uniting them, revitalising them and giving them his word that he, Passy and Brossolette would ensure that London sent them everything they needed for their D-Day preparations. He’d also won the confidence of the rank-and-file freedom fighters (I wondered which girl was the rank and which the file), and the Committee of Resistance had asked for either him or Brossolette to remain in France when the other returned to London.
Having no authority to agree to this, they’d done so at once, and had promised to change places with each other at two-monthly intervals. Tommy was to be the first to leave to start fulfilling his assurances.
Kay warned me that he was already on the rampage for arms and supplies but without much success, and she’d never known him in a more difficult mood.
I hoped he’d rampage in my direction and spent several nights listening for his footsteps, but it was a week before he telephoned to say that he proposed to call round for a brief talk later that evening if I was likely to be there.
I replied equally formally that it would probably be convenient.
His footsteps had lost none of their thunder nor his eyes their lightning, though they reflected a backdrop I hadn’t seen before. The darkness of that hearse, perhaps – or some other blackness which he found impenetrable?
I greeted his return in the time-honoured way by silently proffering the Corona Corona which I’d kept for the occasion.
He seemed to be debating his right to indulge in such luxuries while his friend Brossolette was still in the field, but he finally produced a French matchbox and lit the cigar like the expert he’d become. The contentment which followed justified Havana’s existence, if anything could. But it didn’t last long.
‘I’m here to talk about WOKs,’ he thundered.
I remembered his enthusiasm the first time he’d seen them and awaited his verdict like an apprehensive parent whose child was in the dock.
He said that putting aside the security aspects, which he didn’t question, the system was a great improvement on the poem-code, as it shortened the messages and saved time and mistakes. But the silk was extremely difficult to cut without causing it to fray, and this often damaged the unused keys. He was convinced that many agents would give up trying to cut them and risk being caught with their silks intact. He then opened his briefcase and silently handed me the remains of his WOK.
The silk was as grey as he was and was so badly frayed that several rows of figures were impossible to read.
I pointed to the WOKs on the desk. ‘Pick one at random, and see if it’s easier to cut.’
He chose a WOK from the middle of the pile, took a small pair of scissors from his pocket, and a few seconds later cut away the top key as if it were a fingernail. He had a similar success with the next two keys. He then chose another WOK and repeated the experiment. Again, nothing frayed apart from my nerves.
I explained that this was the first batch of WOKs on specially sensitised silk and that they would be standard issue from now on. I apologised for the delay and hoped he’d agree that we’d finally got it right.
He nodded and, to my great disappointment, held out his hand for the return of his WOK. The Tommy of old, who understood children, would have known that I was longing to keep it as a memento.
‘You can have this if you like.’ He offered me his French matchbox, and I liked very much.
‘Thanks. How about this in part exchange?’ I proudly handed him the first draft of the Free French code book, but he barely glanced at it until I told him what it was.
He then examined it page by page and asked how the system worked.
I explained that all the code groups would be re-enciphered on letter one-time pads and assured him that they’d be on specially sensitised silk.
He was silent for longer than I’d expected, then said in little more than a whisper that the Free French ‘had every reason to be grateful for an excellent job’. He seemed to have forgotten that they had him to thank for it.
‘You’re its godfather, you stupid sod. If you hadn’t made me talk to Duke Street, there’d be no code book.’
He studied the tip of his cigar. ‘If I’m in any way responsible for it,’ he said, ‘then I’ve helped to send the Free French at least one thing they need!’ His face was grey with the weight of his unfulfilled promises.
Seeing no arms or supplies in the office, he nodded abruptly and turned to go.
‘Can you spare a minute? I need your help with an urgent problem.’
He swung round at once.
‘What can you tell me about periods?’
It was the first time I’d seen Tommy startled. ‘Comment?’ he said in reflex French. ‘What did you say?’
I repeated the question.
‘What periods are you talking about?’
‘The monthly awkwards. Didn’t the girls at Molyneux have them when you were managing director?’
The Rabbit leaned forward, sniffing the air in the immediate vicinity. ‘Either you’ve been drinking or you’ve got some girl into trouble. Or am I being unfair to you and it’s both?’
I told him it was neither and that I was the one getting into trouble. It took me five minutes to explain the forty-eight mistakes which had led me to research periods and another five to admit that I had no idea what to do with the results.
Glancing up to ensure he hadn’t left, I noticed that at least one of his eyes held a glint of amusement and that a Corona Corona didn’t fit comfortably between twitching lips. He then sat at my desk like the Tommy of old and helped himself to one of Mother’s black-market finest. A crumb fell on his Croix de Guerre, which was as close to official recognition as Mother was likely to get.
Removing the intruder, he quietly explained that he didn’t think he was the right person to advise me, as he wasn’t an authority on the ‘monthly awkwards’, as I’d so delicately described them.
I replied that I couldn’t think of a better person: his long experience of Molyneux mannequins could surely help me use the information I’d discovered without embarrassing the girls.
He sighed with relief. ‘I thought you were asking me for a medical diagnosis. If you want advice on man management, that’s quite a different matter …’
Recalling his days at Molyneux as if they were part of his childhood, he said that mannequins were more than capable of looking after themselves and that the only signs he’d seen of the ‘monthly awkwards’ had come from the male dress-designers. In any case, didn’t I realise that his mannequins and mine worked under slightly different ‘circumstances’? Or did I make the coders change costumes several times a day and parade round the code room holding up their indecipherables?
At this point I gave up hope of being taken seriously, but should have known that he never ignored an SOS from anyone in SOE.
‘Your safest course, if there is such a thing, would be to ask a woman you can trust to talk to the supervisors in confidence without letting them know you’ve put her up to it. But you’d have to choose her carefully.’ He then listed her qualifications.
She must be considerably older than they were. She must be in charge of girls doing comparable work. She must be in a position to give the supervisor a guarantee of confidentiality and be prepared to keep it. Above all, she must have the discipline to stick to her brief, which was to convince them that she was there to ask advice and not to give it.
At that moment there was a knock on the door, and the woman he might have been talking about came in to say goodnight.
Miss Saunders knew Tommy was the White Rabbit but never expected to meet him, and when I formally introduced her she blushed like the scarlet woman I hoped to turn her into.
He chatted to her with the wide-eyed innocence reserved for those who didn’t know him and then said that he’d been away from London for a bit and would she mind if he asked her which department she worked for?
She replied that she looked after some of Mr Marks’s girls.
‘But not Mr Marks himself?’
‘Oh no, Wing Commander. I know my limitations.’
‘In that case, Miss Saunders, you’re unique in SOE, and I hope Mr Marks realises it.’ It was his way of telling me that I need look no further.
He shook hands with both of us, and I felt the remnants of his WOK pressed into my palm. ‘For your bottom drawer,’ he said.
I caught a glimpse of his Barbara-face as he hurried away.
‘What an extraordinary man,’ Audrey whispered.
‘I suppose he is. Now, Miss Unique in SOE, I’ve a delicate job for you.’
She listened in silence while I explained what was required of her, and to my astonishment she not only accepted the mission without hesi-tation but appeared to understand it.
Miss Unique left for the stations early the next morning and returned forty-eight hours later apparently intact. Seated at my desk with a large notebook in front of her, she announced that the ‘problem in question’ certainly existed, though I’d greatly exaggerated the scale of it, and that ‘various steps’ were being introduced which would help to alleviate it. However, since they were none of my business she wasn’t prepared to discuss them.
I respected her attitude but pointed out that the balance of our teams was at stake, and I badly needed to know the ‘dates’ of four key coders to ensure that they weren’t on duty together.
A long debate ensued, but Mary Baker Eddy must have been on my side because Audrey finally relented and consulted her notebook. Thirty seconds later I knew the relevant dates and enciphered them in a one-time pad the moment she’d left. In the interests of security and out of gratitude to Tommy I code-named the four girls Marie and Claire, White and Rabbit.
Eight hours later Nick summoned me to his office to discuss ‘a critical development concerning Holland’. He added that if I had any of Mother’s coffee left he’d be glad if I’d bring it with me.
I laced it with Father’s brandy and set out to hear the worst.