by Leo Marks
I apologised for being late and advanced towards them clutching a single sheet of foolscap.
Nick’s eyebrows arched as I proffered it for inspection. ‘Is this the complete list – down to the last detail?’
I assured him that it was and laid the piece of paper in front of him. It was headed ‘Yeo-Thomas’. The rest of the page was blank.
‘What the devil’s this?’
‘A summary of his knowledge, sir. He knows nothing about codes – he can hardly remember his own poems, let alone other people’s. His mind’s always on something else.’ I hastily added that he had no head for security checks either.
Nick controlled himself admirably. But then he’d had plenty of practice. ‘I distinctly remember you telling me that he regularly attended briefings with you—’
‘Attended’s the wrong word, sir. He sat on the telephone while I did the briefings – he didn’t even look at the agents’ conventions. I still don’t know why he bothered to come.’
Heffer’s cigarette sighed, and ash fell like a tear on the empty page.
Nick leaned towards me, and I hoped that apoplexy wasn’t infectious. ‘I’ve lost count of the times you’ve told me about the indecipherables he’s helped you to break – including those of other country sections because “it’s all one war to Tommy”. If you’re now saying that he helped you without seeing the code conventions I’ll recommend him to Bletchley.’
I looked at him in what I hoped was astonishment. ‘That wasn’t Tommy, sir. The most he ever did to help was make fresh coffee to keep me awake. It was one of the supervisors who lent a hand, sir, and she’s gone to Massingham, I’m sorry to say.’
Heffer began lighting a new cigarette, possibly from his thoughts.
Nick put down his pen and spoke very quietly. ‘Leo, I share your respect for him – but there’s a limit to the torture anyone can take, and God knows how many agents we’d lose if Tommy reached breaking point. I’m going to repeat my question for the last time—’
‘May I ask you one first, sir?’
He nodded.
‘Didn’t you say that the whole of SOE was in his debt?’
He nodded again.
‘Isn’t the Signals directorate part of SOE?’
‘Come to the point.’
‘If we’re in his debt, is this the way to repay him? Stopping him from doing what he’s convinced he must because he might reach breaking point?’
I feared my words were dropping blind over enemy territory and pulled the ripcord: ‘There’s only one person in the world who can crack Yeo-Thomas – and that’s you, sir, if you try to prevent him from rescuing Brossolette.’
There was a long silence, especially inside me.
Nick turned towards Heffer as if he alone could break it.
The Guru obliged in mid-puff. ‘There’s only one solution from a Signals standpoint. Send Marks in with him to do the coding.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Nick. He closed his eyes, and I prayed that the Lord would open them.
A few seconds later he picked up my blank sheet of paper. ‘In the presence of Captain Heffer I now ask you formally on behalf of the Executive Council – whose poems does Yeo-Thomas know, whose security checks?’
‘His own, and possibly Passy’s old ones. No one else’s, to the best of my knowledge and belief.’
‘I question your knowledge’, said Nick, ‘but share your belief.’
He picked up his pen. ‘I shall withdraw my objections on the grounds that I was misinformed about his knowledge. You can go.’
The least one could do for a friend was help him to kill himself.
SIXTY-TWO
Without Precedent
On 12 February I was asked by Muriel if I would accept a phone call from Commandant Manuel. Knowing that he was a senior member of the Free French hierarchy and was alleged to be Signals-minded, I took it at once.
He informed me in excellent English that he would be obliged if I would call on him at Duke Street ‘at my quickest convenience’. He added that no appointment would be necessary.
Convinced it was about Tommy, I was there twenty minutes later.
He greeted me warmly, though I sensed a hint of unease. He finally said that he had some rather bad news for me: much as he admired the new silk codes, he was no longer sure that they were suitable for Free French traffic. He then produced a telegram from Archiduc stating that Circonférence had been unable to decipher any of London’s messages as her code (a one-time pad) had not been in her possession.
Looking at me apologetically, Manuel said that messages mustn’t be delayed because the right codes were unavailable due to the danger of street searches, and he was writing to Dismore recommending that agents should abandon their silks and use only their poems until it was safer for them to carry them or they could do their coding in safe houses.
‘I wanted you to hear this from myself as you have done so much to help us, and you must not think we are not grateful.’
I thanked him for his courtesy and said I shared his concern. (I didn’t tell him that a week ago the same situation had arisen with two F-section agents, as Buckmaster and Duke Street didn’t compare notes.)
Manuel gave his first sigh of the meeting (by Duke Street standards it was late in arriving) and said that one-time pads had been issued to so many agents that he felt the letter must be sent.
‘Of course.’
I noticed a few WOKs on his desk which seemed to be winking up at me and asked if the same objection applied to them.
He said he didn’t think so because they contained enough for two hundred messages on only two sheets of silk. But two hundred messages on one-time pads needed twelve sheets plus a substitution square, which made them far more dangerous to carry … Perhaps in future his agents could be given worked-out keys only?
The WOKs on his desk nodded, but I pointed out that the system had one disadvantage. Every WOK message had to contain at least a hundred letters for security reasons. But one-time pads were so safe that they need contain only ten letters and the agents could then get off the air. I added that the enemy’s direction-finding units cost almost as many lives as their cryptographers and that WT operators had the most dangerous job in the field.
Manuel gave another sigh, this time garlic-flavoured, then silently handed me a sheet of paper. It was a message to Archiduc instructing him to tell Circonférence that she must use her poem from now on and that London would do the same.
‘As it concerns your department, I need your agreement to send it.’
I reluctantly gave it.
‘You are not happy about this?’
I tried to imitate his sigh but it came out like a hiccup. ‘Commandant Manuel, nothing to do with the poem-code makes me happy. The damn thing should be used only in emergencies – and bloody great ones at that.’
He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘May I be allowed to ask a stupid question?’
I was convinced he was incapable of it, but encouraged him to try.
‘Why has it not been possible for you to give us a better system?’
Delighted that he’d asked (no one else had), I rattled off a few hundred reasons why it was technically difficult to produce a safe code which had to a) be memorised, b) be used frequently and c) pass messages which enemy cryptographers could not anticipate. ‘I’ve been trying for two years to find a solution.’
‘But you have not given up.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘It’s just possible I’m in sight of one. I’m still working on it.’
‘I am sure you will succeed. But is there any chance it will be ready for our friend? It may be dangerous for him to carry silks.’
I didn’t know the French for knife, though the one which sliced through my intestines was in a universal language. ‘No, mon commandant – it will not be ready for Tommy.’
I decided to ease the ache of failure by admitting the extent of it and hoped that the novelty would help: �
�We have great trouble teaching agents double-transposition, though it’s basically quite simple. But this new code’s so damn complicated it would be easier to teach ’em calculus. In its present form I’m not even sure that I understand it myself.’
Manuel smiled sympathetically. ‘I am sure you will find a way to simplify it. Would it be a help to your instructors if we allowed our agents to have longer code-training periods?’
This was an extraordinary offer – most country sections did their best to reduce them.
‘It would be a very great help indeed.’
‘You have only to ask me.’
There was a finality to his tone, and I realised that I’d been with him for an hour and there was nothing more to be said.
He stood up and thanked me for coming at such short notice and for being so understanding about his letter. He then held out his hand in silence, and we both shook Tommy’s.
I hurried back to my office to make the new system simpler, but soon put down my pen.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy.
Five minutes later I made my first contribution to the ditty-box since
Christmas Eve.
Make the most of it
A coast to coast
Toast of it
For what you think
Has been God-sent to you
Has only been lent to you.*
The country sections never informed the Signals directorate of agents’ cover stories, rightly regarding them as strictly their business, but a grateful Dismore set a precedent and told Nick of the precautions Tommy had devised to reduce the risk of identification and torture. They were unique in the history of SOE.
He’d decided to tell the Gestapo that he was entitled to be treated as a prisoner of war as he was a member of the crew of a British aircraft which had been shot down over France! Knowing that the Germans had a copy of the air-force list and could check the names of all air crews, he’d asked the Air Ministry to put him in touch with any RAF officer who’d a) baled out over France in the past six months, b) returned to England and c) been excluded from further operations, and they’d quickly produced one.
His name was Squadron Leader Dodkin, and Tommy visited him to learn his serial number, the operations he’d taken part in and his personal history. He then acquired a duplicate disc bearing Dodkin’s name, which he intended to keep ‘suitably concealed about his person’ to confirm his identity in case he was searched.
But Tommy’s cover story was no more unique than his new terms of reference. He was the first Englishman to be allowed to go into France on Duke Street’s behalf without being accompanied by a Free French officer. He would also be representing SOE’s interests and was virtually an Anglo-French mission of one.
He’d been code-named Asymptote (a line that continually approaches a curve but never meets it), and his brief caused no more than a hint of dissension between Dismore and Manuel, who’d jointly prepared it. The far-sighted commandant warned Dismore in writing that Asymptote’s ordres de mission must in no way be regarded as a precedent, as the Free French had only agreed to them because of Asymptote’s ‘exceptional personality’.
In the short time remaining to him, all the exceptional personality had to do was absorb the details of his new mission, learn his new cover stories (Dodkin was only one of them) and ensure that he remembered how to jump. I knew he hadn’t forgotten his coding but he spent several hours with a FANY instructress.
He telephoned me shortly afterwards to thank me for choosing such a patient one (she wished it could have lasted a week), and added that he wasn’t going to wait for the next moon period but would leave for France as soon as the weather permitted. ‘I’ll drop in this evening for my final briefing, if that suits you?’
I assured him that his codes and cigars were ready for him.
I wished that the same could be said of me.
Tommy sat opposite me with a cigar in one hand, a pencil in the other and a plate of Mother’s finest beside him. Pushing the plate aside, he instructed me to treat him ‘like any other agent’, and I spent the next twenty minutes making him practise his conventions, though it was only a formality.
He was to use a LOP to keep his messages short, with a WOK in reserve. The LOP was to be concealed in a chess set, but he hadn’t yet decided where to hide his WOK (next to Dodkin’s disc, perhaps?). Conceding the possibility that his silks might not always be available, he asked if ‘just for luck’ he could use his old Sea-Horse poem in emergencies, and since he’d need all the merde alors he could get, I raised no objections. Nor did I ask him to repeat it.
‘That’s it then.’
He lit his cigar, helped himself to a sandwich, and I knew that he’d made time for a chat.
Looking at me quizzically, he said he understood from Manuel that I’d finally produced a system which was safer than the poem-code.
‘Tommy, it’s still in its infancy …’
‘Then it’s in the right hands. Show me how it works.’
‘I’m not sure that it does …’ I wanted to change the subject but knew that if I did so the godfather of WOKs would almost certainly conclude that I no longer trusted him with the details of new codes.
‘It’s called a MOP.’
He looked at me in astonishment.
‘Short for mental one-time pad.’
‘It’s also short for Marks is an old piss-pot.’
He asked for further details.
I warned him that agents would go mental if I couldn’t find a way to simplify it and began outlining its principles, but he soon held up his hand.
‘Thank God I won’t be around to use it.’
I noticed that he was wearing a signet ring which I hadn’t seen before and was about to comment on it when I realised that it was a receptacle for his L-tablet.
He caught me looking at it. ‘That reminds me, I have a question for you! What mustn’t I tell them if I crack?’
No other agent had asked me this, and it stunned me.
‘Well?’ he said impatiently. ‘What mustn’t I tell them?’
‘Where I get my cigars and your security checks – in that order.’
He glanced at the pile of WOKs and LOPs on the desk. ‘Nothing else about codes? They can be very inquisitive.’
‘You can tell them whatever you like about codes – they know it all anyway. Besides, nobody’s going to catch you except Barbara, and the sooner she does the better.’
His face clouded over, and I’d have bitten my tongue out if I’d known where to find it.
‘I hope my friends will keep her informed of whatever news comes in.’ He stressed the word ‘whatever’.
‘You know bloody well they will.’
He glanced at his watch, and I realised that it was time for the closing ceremony.
I took one of Father’s finest Corona Coronas from my cigar case and held it up for his inspection. ‘It’ll be here when you get back. Unless Buckmaster takes up smoking.’
‘The most he can do is smoulder. Thanks, it’s a beauty … and I’d like to say thanks to your father. Does he still think that you work at the Labour Exchange?’
‘Yes. He thinks I use ’em to bribe a supervisor.’
‘So you do.’
To my surprise, he glanced at the ditty-box. ‘If I do pass any traffic, would it be safer if I scrapped my Sea-Horse poem and memorised one of those damn things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why haven’t you tried to persuade me?’
‘I did for your Arquebus mission. You weren’t exactly receptive.’
‘I am now. Have you got one you’d like me to use?’
I opened the ditty-box, extracted my last entry and held it out to him. ‘This might do.’
He made no attempt to take it. ‘Poets enjoy reading their works. Say it.’
‘I’m not a poet.’
‘And put that card down. If you don’t know the bloody lot by heart, then my name’s Buckmaster!’
He looked at me in amusement. ‘There’s no need to be bashful. I’m not expecting Shakespeare.’
‘Neither was Anne Hathaway.’
‘Who’s she – one of your coders?’
He repeated his request, this time more firmly.
I held the card in both hands, as it was suddenly very heavy, and pretended to be reading from it:
They cannot know
What makes you as you are
Nor can they hear
Those voices from afar
Which whisper to you
You are not alone.
They cannot reach
That inner core of you
The long before of you
The child inside
Deep deep inside
Which gives the man his pride.
What you are
They can never be
And what they are
Will soon be history.
He took the card from me and read it carefully. ‘Can I have a copy of this?’
‘You can keep that card – we have a duplicate.’
‘I’ll let you know if I have time to remember it. To be on the safe side I’ll continue to use my Sea-Horse poem, but if I ever send a message in this one you’ll know I’ve been caught … Would it need a special prefix?’
‘Your Sea-Horse prefix would do.’
He nodded at the card in his briefcase and closed it abruptly. He then took a final glance at the pile of WOKs and LOPs waiting to be despatched. ‘Keep ’em coming, and merde alors with MOPs – but for God’s sake keep ’em simple.’
‘I’ll tailor them for you.’
We both stood up. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me in silence.
I couldn’t read what his eyes were saying as mine weren’t altogether in focus.
On 24 February he dropped into France.
Note
* Issued in February 1944 to Denise Bloch (Ambroise), an F-section WT operator. She was executed at Ravensbruck in 1945.