Chin up. We’ll meet again, as the song goes.
Please keep writing. I look forward to the day we can be together again.
With all my love from your
Jon.
I wept openly with relief. Elaine Morley, emerging from the kitchen on hearing my sobs, guided me in to the front room where I incoherently explained that I was weeping from joy not sorrow, and she disappeared in true English landlady style to make a celebratory cup of tea.
Later, re-reading Jon’s letter, I puzzled over the sentence ‘Your letters through the summer have just caught up with me.’ This was odd. I had sent them all to the same address in Cardiff. So presumably he had not been there. And not at Bury either because he said he’d recently been transferred there. But if not, where? Last Christmas he told me he was learning how to maintain army vehicles at the REME training centre in South Wales, so it seemed strange that he would suddenly disappear for the summer and not send me an address to which I could write. There was a story here that he wasn’t telling me.
12
Jon’s Story
‘Look to it and lively, Dorringham, the CO’s back and he wants to see you. Now. At the double, at the double.’
Staff Sergeant Cooper’s barked order could be heard right across the Pennines, Jon thought, as he looked to it and lively and at the double. Traversing the sloping forest of huts in the warm early September sunshine, he presented himself at Major Spencer’s hut. The outer office, sparsely furnished with a desk, a chair and a low cabinet, was unoccupied. Checking his uniform, smoothing down creases and ensuring his battledress blouse was properly anchored beneath his belt, standing on one leg in turn and rubbing the front of the other’s boot behind the leg to bring up the best shine, Jon knocked on the inner door.
‘Come.’
Jon opened the door. I might as well hear what I’ve done and get it over with.
‘Ah, Private Dorringham. Come in, come in. Sit down.’
Such familiarity from a senior officer was rare and Jon was assailed with a fear that bad news was about to be broken. He sat warily.
‘I’ll come straight to the point. You signed the Official Secrets Act when you joined this unit.’
Nodding, Jon went hot and cold, a wave of nausea rising. What have I done?
The major leaned forward, his long, angular face frowning, his voice lowering.
‘What I am about to tell you and instruct you to do is not to be repeated to another living soul. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Leaning sideways and extracting a large brown envelope from a drawer in his desk, the major opened it and removed a short sleeved white cotton jersey vest which he handed over. Jon took it and, at the major’s nod, opened it out. A large square of additional similar material was sewn across the front on the inside. The stitching was complete along three sides and partially across the top an inch or so either side. The slit was secured with three tiny buttons and equally tiny button holes.
Jon looked up. Major Spencer stood, putting his finger to his lips and moving silently to the door. Suddenly wrenching it open, he looked into the outer office and, satisfied no one was attempting to listen outside, returned to his desk, sat down and spoke, his voice soft and low.
‘Your parents have been watched and vetted. Your father’s an ARP warden, a local Councillor and a respectable businessman. Your mother does voluntary work with the WVS. Their patriotism is without question. Nonetheless, what I am about to tell you must be hidden by you from them so successfully that they will never question any unexpected appearances you make at home.’
Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice. Jon said nothing.
‘You will from time to time be given an envelope to transport in person to a contact I’ll give you in the War Ministry. You’ll meet him at an address I’ll give you immediately prior to your departure and hand the envelope to him. You’ll use a phrase as a password and you will not hand over the papers to him without the corresponding phrase from him or his assistant. If you are not satisfied that the person you’ve met is the correct one, you will not hand over the papers and you will defend them to the death. You’ve been taught counter espionage, how to spot a tail and how to lose it, how to deal with an attacker and how to resist interrogation.’
‘Yes, sir.’ This isn’t just curious, it’s plain bizarre.
‘The papers will be concealed in that,’ the major continued, nodding at the vest. ‘You’ll wear it beneath your shirt. You’ll travel in uniform. More suspicious if you travel in civvies. Plenty of chaps on leave in uniform. Once you get home you can change into civvies as any chap would. Any questions?’
Having learnt discretion in the army to be the better part of valour, Jon hesitated. Curiosity won.
‘Why me, sir?’
The major considered the question for a moment, jutting his lower jaw. ‘You showed yourself resilient and adaptable at the special training camp in Scotland and you cottoned on quickly at the AA training in Berwick. You work well with a team and you show initiative when needed. However, most crucially, unlike the rest of the privates in your unit, your home is just south of Westminster Bridge which is close to your drop off rendezvous. You’ll blend in as a local chap in a way that your taffy, highland or northern colleagues won’t. And you’ll have somewhere to bed down without having to arrange anything unusual.’
‘How do you recommend I explain my unexpected appearances, sir?’
‘Tell them the unit’s a primarily Monday to Friday outfit with some weekends free. The work that’s done here must remain top secret and as a cover story you can say your unit’s training to teach the maintenance of searchlights which can be done within regular hours. So, naturally, given the free weekends and your family being in London, you wish to visit them and your young lady there. You have a young lady from Brixton, I believe, at a Dulwich teacher training college.’
‘She’s been evacuated to Doncaster, sir.’
The major frowned. ‘Don’t know how that was missed.’ He brightened. ‘Find a young lady in London instead. Have every reason a young man might have for haring off home at the first opportunity. It won’t be every weekend, but when required you’ll travel down on a Friday afternoon and deliver the envelope. You may or may not be told to report back to the delivery address, or some other address that will be given to you, on your way back on a Sunday in time to collect any response to bring back to me.’
The major leaned forward, lowering his voice even further. ‘To me personally and to no one else. If you’re told to report back to collect a response on a Monday morning you will do so, even if that means you’re disciplined here for returning late from leave. I shall leave you to invent an excuse for your lateness. I’ll see to it in the long run your army career’s not blighted, but meantime you’ll take your punishment and see it as part of the war effort. You’ll need to say you’ve applied for a travel warrant and you can tell your colleagues here that you’re visiting family and a young lady. You must not do anything to raise suspicions here or at home as to the purpose of your journey. Careless talk costs lives. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Check it fits you first now, then probably best to keep it under lock and key in the bottom drawer here. You can pop it on when you come to get your orders. Report to me on Friday at thirteen hundred hours.’
‘What, here, sir?
‘Yes, of course you’ll report to me here.’
‘I meant, putting on the vest, sir?’
Major Spencer nodded impatiently and returned to the papers on his desk. Retreating to a corner of the office and divesting himself of his battledress blouse and shirt, Jon pulled the peculiar garment over his own vest to avoid the buttons rubbing his skin, moved his shoulders up and down and then removed and folded it and returned it to the brown envelope, re-dressing hurriedly.
Interrogated by his unit mates as to the reason for his unexpected summons, Jon smiled self-deprecatingly.
‘A bit embarrassing, really,’ he said truthfully. Showering naked with his contemporaries was one thing, stripping down to accommodate the vest in front of the major was quite another. ‘He heard I’m applying for a travel warrant to London for my next leave and wants me to call in to his tailor in Savile Row with some instructions and measurements.’
‘Fookin’ toffs,’ sniffed Bob, hands on the hips of his stocky frame. ‘Still think they fookin’ own the fookin’ country. Fookin’ errand boy now are yer?’ On each ‘fookin’ he jerked his dark head sideways and up.
‘Watch yerrr fuckin’ language, young Bob,’ from Graham ironically, and, raising an auburn eyebrow to Jon, adding, ‘Soo yorrull noo his inside leg measurement, Dorrris,’ ending with a mocking flop of his hand at the wrist.
‘Ha, ha, very funny.’
‘What’s this about leave?’ Bertie interjected.
‘I gather now we’re settled in we’ll be mostly working on a Monday to Friday basis so most weekends are ours. But,’ Jon added hastily, ‘that’s only an impression I’ve got, it’s not been confirmed yet.’
It was confirmed that afternoon, the news being given by the major himself in a post-lunch briefing, the staff sergeant first checking the perimeter of their classroom hut then standing on guard by the door. The major added,
‘May I remind you all that the work you do in your special unit here is top secret. If you go out of the camp you are to tell no one what the unit really does. I would also remind you that even within the camp you do not discuss the work of your unit with the other School of Electric Lighting units operating here. They’re all pukka training units for the operation of anti-aircraft and searchlight equipment in conjunction with the current Kerrison predictors. Your unit’s been convened as part of the push to create a new generation of electromechanical analogue computers. There are scientists elsewhere working theoretically on the same project but you’re hands-on with the actual equipment and your practical as well as intellectual contribution will be invaluable. With the information we got out of Peenemünde before it was destroyed last month we know Hitler’s developing a form of robotic pilotless bomb which we anticipate will be even more difficult to bring down than their fighters and bombers. Yes?’
This to Bob who, fearing no one, had his hand up.
‘I thought Peenemünde were aboot the Boche’s radar, sir, not robots?’
‘What I’ve just told you is strictly top secret. The RAF’s often not even told why their target’s important, just that it is. On this occasion they were told knocking out Peenemünde would destroy a radar and radio factory, to encourage the chaps in the RAF to give it their all. Which they did. Most successfully. But you need to understand that what we’re dealing with in reality is a largely unchartered danger we first heard about only earlier this year. We have to increase the computing ability of our predictors tenfold. The speed at which the predictors currently compute is little more than when they were invented for knocking warships out a mile away travelling at only a few knots. With the most modern weapons we may only have one or two seconds’ interval between receipt of the information and using the computed instruction for firing. Further, we have to be able to take variants into account and assume that whatever the Jerries throw at us will be different and new. As you know, our current predictors assume a certain constant height and a certain constant speed. What we need to develop is the ability to instantly predict the future position of a diving target. Fortunately, the Peenemünde raid is believed to have set their secret weapon programme back by six months. They’ll rebuild elsewhere but that has bought us time. It’s vital Jerry doesn’t get wind of the work your special unit’s doing here. We want them to think we’re as incompetent as they thought us in the early part of the war. Oh, and watch out for pillow talk with the ATS stationed here.’
Waiting while the inevitable sniggers died down, he became serious again. ‘Nearly three years ago the Bury Echo ran an article about us running courses training technical chaps on the operation of anti-aircraft gunnery equipment. This was a serious breach of security and although the source was tracked down and dealt with, it goes to underline the danger to the future defence of our country if any talk of what our special unit does here gets out. To our colleagues in the other units forming the School of Electric Lighting our unit is training to teach searchlight maintenance and that’s all anyone here or at home is allowed to know. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the men chorused in unison.
On Friday after lunch instead of returning to the instruction hut, Jon veered off in the direction of the major’s office into which he was shown by a lieutenant now occupying the outer office. The major fished out the brown envelope containg the vest and a large white envelope from the drawer and handed them over, observing,
‘Good job you’re a large sort of chap. Let’s see how concealed it is when you’ve got it in.’
Partially stripping in the corner of the office, Jon drew the strange garment over his vest as before, shrugged his shirt and battledress blouse back on and slid the white envelope inside the pouch, re-buttoning the outer layers of clothing and smoothing the front of his battledress blouse. The major examined him from several angles and patted his front, but there was no revealing crinkling sound and, satisfied, the major stood back.
‘The address is 21C Whitehall Terrace. Go to the third door along on the left and knock three times, pause and knock twice more. It’ll be opened by a civil servant who’ll invite you to step inside. You’ll say something conversational to incorporate “The weather’s a bit variable at this time of year”. The other person will say, “Rain or shine it’s all the same to an office worker”. You’ll then follow him to the person to whom you’ll hand the envelope. You’ll be told whether to report back on Sunday and, if so, when and where. You may have to go to an address somewhere else in the London area rather than back to that office.’
The major paused. ‘Repeat that all back to me so I can be sure you’ve understood.’
Jon did so, and the major continued. ‘If you don’t get the correct response, make an excuse and leave immediately. Wait an hour and try again. It may be that the person deputed to admit you is only temporarily absent. I’m confident that provided you arrive somewhere between four and seven o’clock you’ll be met by the person expecting you. If you’re unable to deliver it at all, conceal it and return here tomorrow with it unopened. You’ll find me at my home in Walshaw. I’m at Orchard House at the far end of Orchard Lane. Go up past the church and keep going straight, it’s the last lane on your left just before you leave the village. If you’re successful and you’re sent back with a response, deliver that to me in person at my home also. It doesn’t matter how late. If you don’t present yourself at all I shall assume no response was given to you. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Return the vest to me in the brown envelope at the same time, or, if there’s no reply to bring me, conceal it and return it to me here on Monday morning. Well, off you go. Pick up your travel warrant from Lieutenant Sandys. Report to the guard hut for a lift into Bury.’
Jon left in a daze, convinced that a large arrow was pointing to his shirt front with Top Secret Document Concealed Here written along its shaft. Collecting the travel warrant from the lieutenant in the outer office and calling in to the accommodation hut for his rucksack, he made his way uphill to the southern guard hut at the bend in Lowercroft Road beside which a number of trucks and lorries were parked. Several army personnel were milling around and they gave an ironic cheer when a driver hoved into view, hurrying from the toilet block.
‘Got early leave, soldier?’ asked a slight, pretty brunette in ATS uniform as Jon clambered into the back of the truck behind her. ‘Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Going to see my parents, actually,’ said Jon.
‘Any chance they live in Birmingham? D’you fancy a dance tomorrow night?’
Jon, slightly shocked at the young lady’s forwardn
ess, excused himself. She turned her attention to the soldier to her right, much to Jon’s relief.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, although tedious. The train meandered into Manchester, where he changed, he thought, for a fast to London, but passenger trains invariably had to give way to goods trains and troop-carrying trains and Jon was beginning to panic as the train shunted slowly into Euston a little after six-thirty. He hurried into the Underground, relieved that the system had not yet shut down for the safety of the night’s intake of shelterers, and, emerging at Trafalgar Square, raced down Whitehall anxiously scanning the buildings. He found Whitehall Terrace, a narrow turning to the right, and skidded to a halt outside the correct door. It was now after seven. Dreading no response at all, he was relieved when the door opened and he gasped, ‘Sorry I’m running late, the journey, you know, like the weather, is a bit variable at this time of year.’
The middle aged male secretary replied, ‘Rain or shine it’s all the same to an office worker,’ and Jon, exhaling in relief, followed him along a corridor and into a small office. As Jon entered, the tall, thin balding man sitting behind the desk nodded, holding out a hand. Realising before he committed a social faux pas that the hand was extended for the envelope, not for a handshake, he fumbled at the top of his uniform and extracted the envelope.
Buttoning up and standing to attention he waited, while the man, slitting open the envelope, scanned the several pages and, after a few moments, looked up. ‘No need to report to me on Sunday. You’ll be told when to come next. A little earlier in the evening would be appreciated.’
‘Yes sir, sorry sir,’ Jon said, and followed the secretary to the main door.
The Keeping of Secrets Page 23