Alan Turing: The Enigma The Centenary Edition

by Andrew Hodges

  There was another section headed ‘Of Sugar and Other Poisons’, explaining the effect of carbon dioxide in the blood, causing fatigue, and the action of the brain:

  When the nerve center in the neck tastes a little carbon dioxid, it doesn’t say anything. But the moment the taste begins to get strong (which is in less than a quarter minute after one starts running hard) it telephones over the nerves to the lungs:

  ‘Here, here, here! What is the matter with you fellows Get busy. Breathe hard. This blood is fairly sizzling with burnt up sugar!’

  All this was grist to Alan’s mill, although at this point what interested him was the more sober claim that:

  The carbon dioxid becomes in the blood ordinary cooking soda; the blood carries the soda to the lungs, and there it changes to carbon dioxid again, exactly as it does when, as cooking soda, or baking powder, you add it to flour and use it to raise cake.

  There was nothing in Natural Wonders to explain chemical names or chemical change, but he must have picked up the ideas from somewhere else, for on arriving back at school on 21 September 1924 his letter reminded his parents ‘Don’t forget the science book I was to have instead of the Children’s Encyclopedia,’ and also:

  In Natural wonders every child should know it says that the Carbon dioxide is changed to cooking soda in the blood and back to carbon dioxide in the lungs. If you can will you send me the chemical name of cooking soda or the formula better still so that I can see how it does it.

  Presumably he had seen the Children’s Encyclopedia, if only to reject it as too childish and vague, and could well have learnt the basic ideas of chemistry from its multitude of little ‘experiments’ with household substances. The prophetic spark of enquiry lay in his trying to combine the ideas of chemical formulae on the one hand with the mechanistic description of the body on the other.

  Chemistry was not the Turing parents’ forte, but in November he found a more reliable source of information: ‘I have come into great luck here: there is an Encyclopedia that is 1st form property.’ And at Christmas 1924 he was given a set of chemicals, crucibles and test-tubes, and allowed to use them in the cellar of Ker Sammy, their villa in the Rue du Casino. He heaved great quantities of sea-weed back from the beach in order to extract a minute amount of iodine. This was much to the amazement of John, who with different eyes saw Dinard as an expatriate English colony of the bright 1920s, and spent his time on tennis, golf, dancing and flirting in the Casino.

  There was an English schoolmaster in the neighbourhood, whom Alan’s parents employed to coach Alan for the Common Entrance examination, who found himself plied with questions about science. In March 1925, back at school, Alan wrote:

  I came out in the same place in Common Entrance* this term as last with 53% average. I got 69% in French.

  But it was the chemistry that mattered:

  I wonder whether I could get an earthenware retort anywhere for some high-heat actions. I have been trying to learn some Organic Chemistry, when I began if I saw something like this

  H(CH2)17CO2H(CH2)2C

  I would try and work it out like this C21H40O2 which might be all sorts of things it is a kind of oil. I find the Graphic formulae help too, thus Alcohol is

  while Methyl ether HCH2 O CH2H or C2H6O

  you see they shew the molecular arrangement.

  And then a week later:

  … The earthenware retort takes the place of a crucible when the essential product is a gas which is very common at high temperatures. I am making a collection of experiments in the order I mean to do them in. I always seem to want to make things from the thing that is commonest in nature and with the least waste in energy.

  For Alan was now conscious of his own ruling passion. The longing for the simple and ordinary which would later emerge in so many ways was not for him a mere ‘back to nature’ hobby, a holiday from the realities of civilisation. To him it was life itself, a civilisation from which everything else came as a distraction.

  To his parents the priorities were the other way round. Mr Turing was not at all the man for airs and graces; a man who would insist on walking rather than take a taxi, there was a touch of the desert island mentality in his character. But nothing altered the fact that chemistry was merely the amusement allowed to Alan on his holidays and that what mattered was that at thirteen he had to go on to a public school. In the autumn of 1925 Alan sat the Common Entrance for Marlborough, and to the surprise of all did rather well. (He had not been allowed to try for a scholarship.) But at this point John played a decisive part in the life of his strange brother. ‘For God’s sake don’t send him here,’ he said, ‘it will crush the life out of him.’

  Alan posed a difficult problem. It was not in question that he must adapt to public school life. But what public school would cater best for a boy whose principal concern was to do experiments with muddy jam jars in the coal cellar? It was a contradiction in terms. As Mrs Turing saw it,11

  Though he had been loved and understood in the narrower homely circle of his preparatory school, it was because I foresaw the possible difficulties for the staff and himself at a public school that I was at such pains to find the right one for him, lest if he failed in adaptation to public school life he might become a mere intellectual crank.

  Her pains were not prolonged. She had a friend called Mrs Gervis, the wife of a science master at Sherborne School, a public school in Dorset. In spring 1926 Alan took the examination again, and was accepted by Sherborne.

  Sherborne was one of the original English public schools, whose origins12 lay in the abbey which itself was one of the first sites of English Christianity and in a charter of 1550 establishing the school for local education. In 1869, however, Sherborne had fallen into line as a boarding school on Dr Arnold’s model. After a period of low repute, it had revived in 1909 when a Nowell Smith was appointed headmaster. By 1926 Nowell Smith had doubled the roll from two hundred to four hundred, and had established Sherborne as a moderately distinguished public school.

  Mrs Turing paid a visit to Sherborne before Alan went there and was able to see the headmaster’s wife. She gave Mrs Nowell Smith ‘some hints about what to expect’ and Mrs Nowell Smith ‘contrasted her description with the more favourable accounts given by other parents of their boys.’ It was probably at her suggestion that Alan was put down to board at Westcott House, whose housemaster was Geoffrey O’Hanlon.

  The summer term was due to start on Monday 3 May 1926 which was, it so happened, the first day of the general strike. On the ferry from St Malo Alan heard that only the milk trains would be running. But he knew he could cycle the sixty miles west from Southampton to Sherborne:

  So I cycled as programme left luggage with baggage master started out of docks about 11 o’clock got map for 3/-including Southampton missing Sherborne by about 3 miles. Noted where Sherborne was just outside. With an awful strive, found General Post Office, sent wire O’Hanlon 1/-. Found cycle shop, had things done 6d. Left 12 o’clock had lunch 7 miles out 3/6 went on to Lyndhurst 3 miles got apple 2d. went on to Beerley 8 miles pedal a bit wrong had it done 6d. went on Ringwood 4 miles.

  The streets in Southampton were full of people who had struck. Had a lovely ride through the New Forest and then over a sort of moor into Ringwood and quite flat again to Wimborne.

  Alan stayed overnight at the best hotel in Blandford Forum – an expedient that would hardly have been approved by his father. (Alan had to account for every penny that he spent: no mere figure of speech, for his letter ended ‘Sending back £1-0-1 in £ note and penny stamp.’) But the proprietors only charged a nominal amount and saw him off in the morning. Then:

  Just near Blandford some nice downs and suddenly merely undulating near all the way here but the last mile was all downhill.

  From West Hill he could see his destination: the little Georgian town of Sherborne and the school itself by the abbey.

  For a boy of his class to improvise a solution without a fuss was not at all the expected
thing. The bicycle journey was regarded with astonishment, and was reported in the local newspaper.13 While Winston Churchill called for the ‘unconditional surrender’ of the ‘enemy’ miners, Alan had made the most of the general strike for himself. He had enjoyed two days of freedom outside the usual system. But they were over very quickly. There was a book14 about life at Sherborne, The Loom of Youth by Alec Waugh, and this described the sensations:

  The new boy’s first week at a Public School is probably the most wretched he will ever pass in his life. It is not that he is bullied … it is merely that he is utterly lonely, is in constant fear of making mistakes, and so makes for himself troubles that do not exist.

  When his hero wrote home at the end of his second day, ‘it did not need a very clever mother to read between the lines and see her son was hopelessly miserable.’ It was worse for Alan, for he could not even merge inconspicuously while all his belongings were stuck at Southampton by the strike. At the end of his first week:

  Its an awful nuisance here without any of my clothes or anything. … It’s rather hard getting settled down. Do write soon. There was no work on Wednesday except for ‘Hall’ or prep. And then its a business finding my classrooms what books to get but I will be more or less settled after a week or so …

  But a week later Alan was not much better off:

  I am getting more and more settled down. But I won’t be quite right until my things come. Fagging starts for us next Teusday. It is run on the same principle as the Gallic councils that tortured and killed the last man to arrive; here one fagmaster calls and all his fags run the last to arrive getting the job. You have to have cold showers in the morning here like cold baths at Marlborough. We have tea at 6.30 here on Mon., Wed., Frid. I manage to go without food from lunch to then. … The general strike had a part of it as a printer’s strike the result of that is that ‘Bennetts’ booksellers had none of the books ordered and I am without a lot of them. As in most public schools new boys have to sing some song. The time has not yet come. I am not sure what to sing anyhow it won’t be ‘buttercup’. … The amount of work we are given for Hall here is sometimes absurdly small e.g. Read Acts chapters 3 and 4 and that is for 3/4hr.

  Yr loving son Alan

  There was indeed a song-singing and another ceremony in which he was kicked up and down the day room in a waste paper basket. However, if his mother read between the lines, she subordinated sympathy to her sense of duty. Her comment on this letter was that it displayed Alan’s ‘whimsical sense of humour’.

  He was now at last being taught science, and reported:

  We do do Chemistry 2 hrs. a week. We have only got to about the stages of ‘Properties of Matter’, ‘Physical and chemical change’ etc. The master was quite amused by my Iodine making and I shewed him some samples. The headmaster is called ‘Chief’. I seem to be doing Greek and not Hellenics. …

  The master, Andrews, was no doubt ‘amused’ that Alan already knew so much. He had arrived ‘delightfully ingenuous and unspoilt’. And the head boy of Westcott House, Arthur Harris, had rewarded Alan’s cycling initiative by appointing him his ‘fag’, or servant. But neither scientific education nor initiative were exactly Sherborne priorities.

  The headmaster used to expound the meaning of school life in his sermons.15 Sherborne was not, he explained, entirely devoted to ‘opening the mind’, although ‘historically … this was the primary meaning of school.’ Indeed, said the headmaster, there was ‘constantly a danger of forgetting the original object of school.’ For the English public school had been consciously developed into what he called ‘a nation in miniature’. With a savage realism, it dispensed with the lip service paid to such ideas as free speech, equal justice, and parliamentary democracy, and concentrated upon the fact of precedence and power. As the headmaster put it:

  In form-room and hall and dormitory, on the field and on parade, in your relations with us masters and in the scale of seniority among yourselves, you have become familiar with the ideas of authority and obedience, of cooperation and loyalty, of putting the house and the school above your personal desires …

  The great theme of the ‘scale of seniority’ was the balance of privilege and duty, itself reflecting the more worthy side of the British Empire. But this was a theme to which ‘opening the mind’ came as at best an irrelevance.

  The Victorian reforms had made their mark, and competitive examinations played a part in public school life. Those who came as scholars had an opportunity to take on the role of an intelligentsia in the ‘nation in miniature’, tolerated provided they interfered with nothing that mattered. But Alan, who did not belong to this group, was quick to note the ‘absurdly small’ amount expected of him. And in fact it was the organised team games of rugby football (‘footer’) and cricket which for most boys would dominate the years at Sherborne and through which the emotional lessons were taught. Nor had the social changes of the Great War made any difference to the total, introverted, self-conscious system of house life, with its continuous public scrutiny and control of every individual boy. These were the true priorities.

  In one respect only a token concession had been made to Victorian reform. There had been a science master at Sherborne since 1873, but this was primarily for the sake of the medical profession. It was not for the Workshop of the World, stigmatised as too mundanely utilitarian in spirit to occupy the time of a gentleman. The Stoneys might build the bridges of the Empire, but it was a higher caste which commanded them. Neither did science enjoy respect for its enquiry, irrespective of usefulness, into truth. Here again the public school had resisted the triumphant claims of nineteenth century science. Nowell Smith divided the intellectual world into Classical, Modern, and Science, in that order, and held that

  it is only the shallowest mind that can suppose that all the advance of discovery brings us appreciably nearer to the solution of the riddles of the universe which have haunted man from the beginning …

  Such was the miniature, fossilised Britain, where masters and servants still knew their places, and where the miners were disloyal to their school. And while the boys were playing at being servants, loading the milk churns on to the trains until the strike was broken by the masters of their country, the shallow mind of Alan Turing had arrived in their midst. It was a mind that had no interest in the problems of would-be landowners, empire-builders, or administrators of the white man’s burden; they belonged to a system that had no interest in him.

  The word ‘system’, indeed, was one which was a constant refrain, and the system operated almost independently of individual personalities. Westcott House, which Alan joined, had taken its first boarders only in 1920, and yet already existed as though the traditional prefects and ‘fags’ and beatings in the washroom were laws of nature. This was true even though the housemaster, Geoffrey O’Hanlon, had a mind of his own. Then a bachelor in his forties, and nicknamed (rather snobbishly) Teacher, he had extended the original house building with his own private fortune derived from Lancashire cotton. He personally did not believe in moulding the boys to a common form, and failed to instil the religion of ‘footer’ with quite the enthusiasm of the other housemasters. His house enjoyed in consequence a dim reputation for ‘slackness’. He encouraged music and art, disliked bullying, and stopped the song-singing initiation soon after Alan arrived. A Catholic classicist, he was the nearest thing to a liberal government in the ‘nation in miniature’. Yet the system prevailed, in all but details. One could conform, rebel, or withdraw – and Alan withdrew.

  ‘He appears self-contained and is apt to be solitary,’ commented O’Hanlon.16 ‘This is not due to moroseness, but simply I think to a shy disposition.’ Alan had no friend, and at least once in this year he was trapped underneath some loose floorboards in the house day-room by the other boys. He tried to continue chemistry experiments there, but this was doubly hated, as showing a swottish mentality, and producing nasty smells. ‘Slightly less dirty and untidy in his habits,’ wrote O’Hanlon at
the end of 1926, ‘rather more conscious of a duty to mend his ways. He has his own furrow to plough, and may not meet with general sympathy: he seems cheerful, though I’m not always certain he really is so.’

  ‘His ways sometimes tempt persecution: though I don’t think he is unhappy. Undeniably he is not a “normal” boy: not the worse for that, but probably less happy,’ he wrote somewhat inconsistently at the end of the spring term of 1927. The headmaster commented more briskly:

  He should do very well when he finds his métier; but meanwhile he would do much better if he would try to do his best as a member of this school – he should have more esprit de corps.

  Alan was not what Brewster called a ‘proper boy’, whose instincts, inherited from thousands of years of warfare, made him want to throw things at other people. In this respect he was more like his father, who had managed to escape games as a boy in Bedford. Mr Turing, who lacked his wife’s excessive respect for schoolmasters, made a special request for Alan to be excused from cricket, and he was allowed by O’Hanlon to play golf instead. But he made himself ‘a drip’ by letting down his house contingent at the gym with his ‘slackness’. He was also called dirty, thanks to his rather dark, greasy complexion, and a perpetual rash of ink stains. Fountain pens still seemed to spurt ink whenever his clumsy hands came near them. His hair, which naturally fell forward, refused to lie down in the required direction; his shirt moved out of his trousers, his tie out of his stiff collar. He still seemed unable to work out which coat button corresponded to which buttonhole. On the Officers Training Corps parade on Friday afternoons, he stood out with cap askew, hunched shoulders, ill-fitting uniform with puttees like lampshades winding up his legs. All his characteristics lent themselves to easy mockery, especially his shy, hesitant, high-pitched voice – not exactly stuttering, but hesitating, as if waiting for some laborious process to translate his thoughts into the form of human speech.