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FOR RON Chs 21-23
Chapter 21
Heads were downcast. It was not raining. It seemed a great burden was borne on the backs of the multitude of pedestrians. All had their gas masks round their necks or strung over their shoulders. I walked along the embankment seeing naval ships in their grey and black camouflage await instructions. The view was not dissimilar to that of Hamburg, still so fresh in my mind.
I found the Lyons Corner Tearooms and entered. Most of the tables were already occupied as the waitresses weaved their way with fodder around the seated customers like matadors. I was placed at a single table at the back of the restaurant. There was no view. I didn’t need one. My thoughts turned to what I might expect at the immanent meeting.
The soup was a thick nutritious broth which I had with two slices of buttered bread. It was filling but it was my nerves that made me order a cup of tea to follow. I saw the disappointment in the waitress’s eyes that I had not asked for a main course but my mind was four streets away from my body. Where could I be sent? I could not imagine. Perhaps a desk job with them in London was on their minds. What could I offer them? Fluent German, some radio experience, maybe even some nerves of steel perhaps? That offering might lead me into an army uniform on the coast to hold back the Hun. I am too old for uniformed service, surely? I am sure of that, I suppose.
I returned to the MI6 office, open to hear their plans for me. I was now hoping they would materialise that afternoon because I had burnt my bridges. Elgin was no longer available to me or Portugal or Hamburg for that matter but I had banked that parental cheque so I could buy some time too.
‘Come in Hilda, have a seat,’ said Dynes.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll wait for Mr Thornton. He’s got some interesting news from Portugal.’
‘You mean I might be returning to Portugal?’
Dynes laughed and was still laughing when Thornton came in.
‘Did I miss a joke, because I could certainly appreciate one right now?’ he asked.
‘Hilda wondered if she could return to Portugal,’ he said still laughing. Thornton began to smile. I remained relaxed and totally unaware why my response should have attracted this mirth.
‘You can’t return to Portugal Hilda. You see, you are dead.’
‘What, you mean they found a body?’
‘Not exactly, we received news from Lisbon today that you made the front page locally. English woman missing; clothes found on the beach. The chief of police had concluded that Miss Hilda Campbell must have drowned and stood down a coastal search to find her body.’
‘I wonder if they sealed off my cottage. If so the radio and Inka would still be there.’
‘I’m sure the German Embassy sent someone to the cottage as soon as they heard you were missing. They would have found the radio and seized it. Hard to believe otherwise. That is not our problem. I think you have been very clever. Eicke will soon learn of your demise, if he has not already been in formed. On his behalf I must tell you he cannot attend your funeral. I’m a bit busy too.’
You could have heard our laughing all the way to Nelson’s Column.
‘We cannot let you surface again or he will know you are a counterspy,’ said Thornton.
I now realised the mirth confirmed I would not be going back to Portugal or any other espionage venue. ‘So do you have a future for me now that Portugal is out of the question?’ I asked.
‘I think we have. It is highly secret. I cannot stress this too much. I am not prepared to talk about it yet.’
‘I see. Can you tell me where will this be, I mean in Britain or elsewhere?’
‘You would be based near London. We have to share your background with higher authorities. The fact you are a fluent German speaker and your experience of the Nazi machine is invaluable. They feel you could be very useful indeed. They of course understood your earlier exploits for the Germans and of course Otto. We had to confirm your days of counter espionage were over. They’d like to meet you this afternoon for themselves and before that; you will have to sit an examination paper, a mathematical paper.’
‘Really? I can’t imagine why. Sounds like school all over again.’
‘Precisely,’ said Dynes, nodding slightly. Clearly he did have plans for me, perhaps a desk job. I’d be content with that as long as it seemed worthwhile. This spying was not for me.
Dynes opened his case and produced an unfolded paper.
‘Here, read this Hilda.’
As I read this official document, I could now see why he thought my future work was crucial and that my commitment had to be total. It took a few minutes to read the document and I did so in total silence. I reached the end where it invited me to sign to verify I had accepted the rules. Dynes gave me a pen and I duly signed.
‘That’s the Official Secrets document signed. Forget any similar document Eicke got you to sign. Your colours are tied to our masts fairly and squarely now,’ said Thornton.
‘I thought they always had been,’ I replied.
That afternoon I was sent to room eight on the second floor of the Admiralty office. Two others sat outside the room. They were Wrens, in naval uniform.
‘Good afternoon. All doing the maths test?’ I asked to break the ice.
Strangely their reply was only in smiles. None of them ventured any information. I smiled too. The poster above their heads declared in bold large print that Careless Talk Costs Lives. They sat beneath the message unable to see it, unless they saw it when entering. I rather suspected it was the last order they received from their superiors as well before arriving in this corridor.
High ceilings and wooden panels bearing royalty and political figures hung from picture hooks. They looked down on us as if to urge us to do what we could for our country. A maths test seemed to be the last thing to contribute to the war. Perhaps I had not questioned Thornton enough about its relevance. He seemed to be proposing a new direction but as a maths teacher? I somehow doubted it.
We were led into a room which seemed full with a dominating dark oak table. We were positioned at top, middle and end where the examination paper lay downturned beside a pencil, a sharpener and a rubber.
‘Ladies, you have an hour and a half to complete as many of the questions as you can. There will be no talking, consulting or enquiring of one another. Do I make myself clear?’ asked the duty staff sergeant.
We glanced at each other.
‘Yes, quite clear,’ we said almost in unison.
He looked at his watch in an ostentations manner. His forearm was raised before him. Then he dropped his arm and he ordered us to start.
I turned the paper over to see the questions first. Part one were some very easy fractions, divisions, multiplications and subtractions, an easy starter. Part two was a geometry paper and page three trigonometry. Page four was based on algebraic equations. They used to be my class bread and butter sums so many years ago. Helping Otto too helped to bring the mathematics back to the front of my mind. I was quietly confident as I lifted my pencil.
I decided to do the more advanced questions first. I thought if I ran out of time it would be better to have done so on page one. I sharpened my pencil without thinking whether it needed to be sharper. My mind wandered in the trigonometry question where the time was sought for a cruiser sailing at 35 nautical miles per hour to come to the aid a sinking ship at point B, while evading U-boats at position C. The problem fell to my advantage as the co-ordinates of the convoys came rushing back to my memory of my time in Portugal.
I began to enjoy this task. I remembered sitting with Otto guiding him through mathematical hoops and rings as he progressed through his school years. The questions were as fresh a subject as it was then. I looked up at the wall clock. I had forty three minutes left. I turned to the Geometry paper. I relished the angles and tackled the questions presented. On completion, I had a little more than ten minutes to complete paper one. Somehow I took great care over this part. A slip here might dissuade an examiner to delve further into my other answers. Yet these final questions were embarrassingly easy. I supposed it was designed to rate and separate the three of us. For what, I still wondered?
I read through my answers checking the logic I had applied to each question. I felt both satisfied that my efforts had been diligent and confident that my answers were correct; at least I had done my best. I put my pencil down and gazed at the second hand of the large clock at the end of the room as it counted down the last couple of minutes.
‘Time ladies, pencils down,’ the non commissioned officer said approaching to gather up the papers and making sure our names were on the top of the front page.
‘Please take a seat outside. You will each be called to interview with Sir William Raeburn, in alphabetical order. Baker, Campbell then Wheeler.
‘Always last, the problem with being a Wheeler,’ one of the Wrens said.
‘Madam, if the first may be last then surely the last maybe first? This time perhaps? Then I shall reverse the order. Miss Wheeler, you will be first.’ said the staff sergeant with an air of superiority.
Just what were they testing us for? I was not sure of his logic either but the one thing made evidently clear was that I would be in the middle. My instinct was to win; I’d prefer to have come first.
Miss Wheeler’s interview lasted almost twenty minutes. Now it was my turn to be interviewed by a man with a distinctively Scottish surname. Perhaps a lucky omen was on the cards. That augured well in my mind.
I entered. Sir William sat at the end of the room. His head bowed, his hand writing at a fast pace and his broad shoulders dominating his presence. He had white hair, a neat coiffure. He wore a dark if not a black suit, a gold coloured waistcoat with splattered black spots; a white shirt and a dark blue tie. The pen was in his right hand; his spectacle leg was held in the other. The silence gave me time to analyse the man who was about to interview me, for what, again remaining a mystery.
Without raising his head, he addressed me.
‘Frau Richter, sit down.’
I was taken aback with his abruptness. I sat down on the hard backed chair placed before him. This man knew my background. Was he showing me he did or was his motive more sinister than that?
‘You are German. We are at war with your country. Why should I not lock you up for the duration of the war?’
My knees were tense, my pulse rate rose. ‘My country is Scotland, my loyalty the King. My name is Hilda Campbell. I have specific qualities which this country needs.’
‘Your son is in the German army and you have a home in Hanover. Or is that a fabrication in your deception?’
My breathing was shallow and I felt my cheeks drain in colour. This man knew much about my past but very little of my recent activities.
‘Yes, I have a son in the German Army and he has our old home. I am a widow. I do not deny these facts. I have lived in the torque turning terror which is the Third Reich. I was house-bound in the First World War. That fate would not be offered me in the present climate in Germany. Hitler will stop at nothing. He is not just a menace to Great Britain; he is a menace to the world. I will play my part in defeating this terror, even if you insist, from a British prison. Sir, your assessment of me is misplaced,’ my outburst was controlled. My voice had been steady and unemotional. This interview had hardly begun, I was now prepared to give as good as I was getting. I awaited his response.
‘You were directed to Portugal by Herr Eicke, on his instruction. You provided intelligence to the enemy. This is a treasonable offence.’
‘I do not deny being a double agent, or a counterspy, call me what you will. The time I spent in Germany after the war started had to continue without me becoming a suspected thorn in their side. I would not have survived. I did send one message to Berlin, to earn my credibility but I was able to identify a German spy ring based in America. Why would I have done that if I was a German spy? Why I ask you, why?’’
‘Why would you possess an Iron Cross?’
God, I was being turned over like a pig on a spit. Now I was a viper with a tongue ready to strike.
‘That I can explain. It was given, not awarded, to retain my loyalty to the Reich whether I was in Germany or Britain. It was not for any action I had achieved for the glorification of the Reich. I have been open with MI6 with that information as with all the evidence I have given.’
There was no way I was making him see my point of view; my loyalty. My eyes welled up. I sought a handkerchief to dab them dry.
‘Crocodile tears?’ he said as a further provocation.
I ignored this jibe. His rudeness was cutting and heartless. I began to hate this man. This was no interview; it was a nasty interrogation, on par with Gestapo questioning.
‘How else can I convince you of my loyalty to this country?’
‘Through a period of detention?’
I had heard enough. Without my backers, I was slipping into a British jail for the duration of the war.
‘I demand to see Dynes and Thornton. They have faith in me even if you don’t.’ I stood up. ‘Good day.’
‘Please Miss Campbell, please return to your seat.’
I stopped with my back still facing him. A ‘please’, was he softening? I had nothing to lose. I turned and stared at his forehead with my penetrating eyes. I could not stare at his intense gaze. My lips were tense and dry. I showed no feminine charm. I was livid. I felt my knees tremble beneath my skirt.
‘Do you like crosswords?’ he asked.
I wondered for a moment whether he said cross words or crosswords for he had certainly provided the former.
‘Crosswords?’ I clarified.
‘Yes, crosswords.’
‘I’ve not done a crossword for some time, as you could imagine. I have always done them when I came across them, yes in German as well as English. I usually completed them.’
‘Cryptic or not cryptic?’ he asked.
‘Cryptic are certainly more satisfying but all crosswords when I encounter them and when I have the time to complete them.’ I wondered if I should sit down once more in front of him. I decided I would not. By standing I was inviting him to terminate the interview.
‘You enjoy them?’
‘Very much so, why?’ I asked forcing him to reply for a change.
He did not respond of course. It was not in his nature. Instead he made a note of what I had said. A knock on the door diverted our attention.
‘Come in.’
A women in her mid years approached Sir William’s desk with a brown folder. She handed it to him then departed without saying a word or looking my way. Sir William opened the folder and studied the papers, turning them over frequently. I waited and watched. Was this a directive requiring his signature and my detention? That was in the forefront of my mind before he spoke.
‘Please,’ he said extending his hand to the empty chair. I hesitated. The papers seemed to have distracted him. His venom seemed less poisonous now. I sat down clasping my hands.
‘98% Miss Campbell, admirable,’ he said.
At last, a positive statement. It was still too little to change my mind about him.
‘98%? How did I lose two marks?’ I inquired.
He turned the page and smiled. It made him more humane and I would even reluctantly admit he was quite a handsome elderly individual.
‘The trigonometry shows your mind must have wandered momentarily. The working was not all there, the answer was correct, like all the other answers you submitted. The marker chose to fault you on the missing line necessary to explain your working towards the answer. Your mind must have been racing against your hand. But that is a minor detail. It was by far the best result of the three candidates.’
‘So you have me now as a qualified maths teacher in a detention camp.’
I detected a smile on his ruddy face.
‘I believe you Hilda. I think you will do well in the position now available to you. I cannot emphasis how secret this operation is. Have you signed the Official Secrets Act declaration?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘I will of course have that verified. Any deviation from that and I will advocate the death penalty for treason. You understand? I’d have no hesitation to see you hang if you turn against this country.’
I shook my head at the thought of betrayal. It was difficult to understand the volte-face of this senior administrative official. Yet he seemed satisfied that his gruelling questions had not cracked my resolve. He was seeing my true colours.
He stood up and offered his hand as a peace offering.
‘I had to be hard on you Hilda. I believe you, I assure you I do. Your loyalty had to be tested hadn’t it? German son etc etc....I know it must be hard for you not to know where your son is. But your loyalty to our defence of the Realm is not in question. I trust that one day you will be with your son Otto, again.’
‘Thank you. You did have me worried,’ I said warming to him at last.
‘What we have in mind for you is top secret. I cannot stress that enough. Listen carefully. I’d like you to go to Bletchley Station this afternoon. You will be met by a car.’
‘And where will I spend the night?’ I asked out of curiosity and necessity.
‘That will be taken care of, I assure you. Regard this as a crucial assignment. You bring to the task, some much-valued qualities.’
‘Wait outside please; you may have a colleague to join you.’
‘Just one colleague?’ I asked in clarification.
‘98%, 92% and 74%. Yes, there will be just one.’
Chapter 22
The train chugged its way through Buckinghamshire until it arrived at Bletchley station. The air was still and fresh. Birds chattered and lightened our spirits after the noisy starlings of central London, as we left the train. The country seemed much safer than the capital. Yet we were not far from it. A stray German bomb might find its way to Buckinghamshire. Nowhere was safe and that had to be our outlook.
‘Looks like we have arrived at Bletchley Park,’ said Shirley Barker my travelling companion.
A driver approached having overheard the remark.
‘You won’t hear anyone call it that. It’s BP from now on, BP,’ said the driver. ‘Are you the two ladies from London?’
‘Yes and we were told we would be met by a driver,’ I said.
‘That’s me. Step in.’
A few passengers set off from the station on foot. Sally Baker and I entered the black Austin Seven Swallow Saloon. I could see its make written on its front grill. A rather swanky car for the time, I thought. It sped us along country roads till it reached Bletchley Park. A four minute drive away.
The car proceeded past the main stone building through the park to a long wooden hut. Trees surrounded the view from behind. In front was a neatly manicured lawn with only a handful of fallen leaves to mar the perfection of the mown pattern.
‘This is HMS Pembroke V. This is where the Wrens are. Wren Barker, this is where you are housed.’
‘HMS Pembroke indeed, it must be a dry dock.’ Shirley laughed as she left the car with her bag weighing her down. She turned back for a last look at me fearing there would be so many new faces; it would be good to recognise at least one known face in the weeks and months ahead.
I was dropped off at the London Signals Intelligence Centre, Hut 4. This was to be my workstation. It was positioned to the rear of the main building. It faced north and saw little of any sunshine being in the shadow of the main house. My residential quarters were a stone’s throw away in Hut 19. Damp walls and poor internal heating was my first and lasting impression. There were five other women in the residential quarters. Most were civilian and that made me inconspicuous. I was pleased about that. The others all came from Naval detachments. When working, our shoulders bowed over scripts, we saw very little of each other.
After our initial training in the so called ‘Spy School’ at BP run by John Saltman, I was acutely aware of the secrecy of the work being done. We were told we were all cogs attending to our own specialism. We must never ask or seek out the route the work came to us, nor the route it took after each of our part in its journey had been completed. I began to work at Hut 4 six days a week. We rotated through three shifts; 4pm to midnight, midnight to 8am (by far the least liked shift) and the bearable 8am to 4pm. At the end of the third week I was expected to take time off from 8am and come back at 4am. Much of that time was spent in exhaustion cured by sound sleep
Such a strict working practise caused stress for many of the Wrens. I was not nearly under such pressure. When a text required translation, I concentrated hard to provide it promptly and dispatch it. Then I waited until the next piece of work arrived. However some of the German text was written in code and I had to make sense of the message. I used a rather noisy adding machine to find a pattern of words to complete the text. I enjoyed this part of the work immensely. It presented a challenge. I could now see why the cryptic crossword question arose in my interview. The excitement made time fly and the satisfaction when the message was interpreted to make sound sense was wonderful. The only outsiders we heard were the motorbikes which arrived and left regularly. I never knew where they came from or where they went when they left BP. Not even a milkman was seen. Goodness knows how they fed us apart from the battery of hens pecking around the rear of the huts. Eggs was our staple diet until some American boffs arrived at BP and we discovered Baloney sausage, Lucky Strike cigarettes and seamed nylon stockings which we were more than happy to spend from our wages. There were however fewer opportunities to flaunt our silky legs on the village dancehall floor. Indeed no socialising occurred. Many of us also now chewed gum as we worked. Some saw it enhance their work concentration but most, like myself, chewed it for its novelty. I gave up chewing gum after a month. I could not see how this endless chewing would ever interest the British taste. By now of course America had joined the war and they gave us hope.
One day, probably a few days after my first four months in post, a Colonel came into my room with a message for translation. He prided himself in his ability to read in hesitant German. I encouraged him. Then I stopped. I looked up at him.
‘Hamburg 1932...’ I said.
He stepped back to see my face in profile. He could not make anything of my statement.
‘British Consul Hamburg 1927-1932?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. And.... are you not..... Dr Richter’s wife?’ he said cautiously.
‘Dr Willy Richter’s widow, Colonel Simpson.’
He contemplated what he heard and I thought I could see him wondering how on earth I could have arrived in BP.
‘You are working here?’ he asked with some degree of disbelief, although it was more than obvious that I was.
‘You doubt my loyalty to the King?’
‘I suppose not. I’m just very surprised you are here.’
‘Secrecy is paramount but perhaps we could talk more sometime about our time in Germany. In privacy I hasten to add,’ I said.
‘Then we shall. May I also hear your oboe again?’
What a surprise. He had indeed remembered me.
‘You have not forgotten I have an oboe?’ I said in delight.
‘You played at the British Consul in the early 30’s or perhaps the late 20’s.’
I recalled those happier times with affection.
‘And was it not you Colonel, who sang at one of the Consul gatherings?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I had the baritone voice.’
‘You speak in the past tense. Surely you still sing?’
I thought I saw his bottom lip quiver, ever so slightly.
‘Not so much in recent years, after my wife died.’
There was a moment’s hesitation as we realised we were two lonely souls in a place of secrecy and hard work. It was then it hit me, hit me hard. A brief thought I allowed myself was that our meeting based on years of happiness elsewhere which we had in common, could lead to a future life of happiness, opened my heart to him.
‘Perhaps when I have some time off, we could play music together?’
‘To enjoy some semblance of normality, I’d be delighted,’ I said.
We gave each other a contented smile as footsteps were heard approaching. Formality resumed.
‘This document er...Hilda isn’t it?’ He handed over the piece for translation.
‘Yes, Hilda Campbell at your service.’
‘And me, Sir Francis Simpson at yours.’ Our smiles remained as our eyes and ears sought eager eavesdroppers. The footsteps had passed but other footsteps could be heard to approach. The conversation was over and he left, glancing back at me before he was out of sight.
Before I had time to consider this remarkable chance meeting, let alone the revelation of his knighthood, he was gone. I turned to the work he had given me, another message apparently from the German High Command. It took several moments for me to compose myself before turning my attention to the work in hand. I could not detect nor ask how we had come into possession of these German messages. This existence seemed to thrive on information. It required each to do their job and mine was translation not espionage. Mine was not to question why as it was for all engaged at desks at BP.
That conversation I had had with Sir Francis, had a particular cognisance given everywhere were notices of talking forbiddance. “Do not talk at meals. Do not talk in transport. Do not talk travelling. Do not talk in the billet. Do not talk by your own fireside”, posters stated.
That night when I was in my bed I recalled the only conversation I had heard that day. It melted into the time I last saw him almost a decade ago. Sir Francis had a brilliant brain and fine singing voice. He perhaps could have been an academic, not a military man. I was convinced that his status as a Colonel reflected his professional past not gained as a professional soldier.
As the weeks progressed I occasionally saw Sir Francis. We shared unspoken smiles as we passed each other with a slight hesitation in our steps. The constant reminders of ‘not talking’ were an order. They could not be broken.
My heart was broken however. I learned in June 1942 that Sir Francis had been appointed Consul-General at Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo. I was devastated. I had lost a friendship which had great potential in my mind. I did not suppose Sir Francis wished to leave BP but he had now done so in the most dramatic of ways. Central Africa with its heat, disease, poverty and Belgian colonial opposition was no respite from a world war. He had gone and so too his baritone voice. My memory was left with three concerts we gave in the mess. One for each of the three shifts with some other musicians making up a sizable orchestra of twelve people. It seemed music and song was allowed but no chatter in the audience. Now I no longer felt able to perform a concert again without his baritone voice singing to great applause. He had made an impact on all my senses.
Translation continued at a very steady pace. The work at times seemed tedious but its importance grew in my mind when on two occasions Winston Churchill, the Prime minister appeared. I did not see him the first time but on the second occasion he came to the desk I was working at, placed his hand on my shoulder and patted it. ‘Fine work young lady. Keep it up and we’ll win this war.’
I wanted to reply but found no words appropriate to tell the prime minister. Did he really say young lady? No Talking signs on the wall compromised any forming sentences in my head. His presence lightened my load and of course The United States of America was now an important contributing ally. It seemed by the end of 1942, we were beginning to turn the tide. With the no talking rule, the newspapers which arrived regularly, were devoured over and over again.
One day we heard the noise of night bombers drone louder and louder overhead. I read that PB had been hit by a stray bomb in 1940 probably intended for Bletchley Station. But we had no direct hit. I listened as I lay in bed. The noise faded and I knew we had not been the target that night. Perhaps there was no target. Maybe they were the large American planes returning after a bombing on mainland Europe.
The bombing of what and of where? Could Hamburg have been their target? Would Renate be safe? Was Otto on home leave? Oh how I wished American and British bombers hit Berlin, the centre of the terror, not my beloved Hamburg.
More significant and reassuring I felt the tide was turning. Others sensed that too.
Chapter 23
The new year of 1945 was fraught with expectation, gilded by doubt. Hitler’s plans were crumbling but no-one seemed able to tell him. The spirit had gone out of the ordinary German soldier conscious of an advancing Russian army to the east but the die-hards, the unquestioning servants of Nazism hung on tenaciously. If desertion was an option for the soldiers I hoped they could take that risk without repercussions. Perhaps Otto had already returned to Hamburg and home to hide until the last days of conflict.
I had to undergo double shifts and one week I was on call all night before starting my day shift. By the spring there were signs that the war in Europe would end very soon. The Battle of the Bulge may have been the last stand-to engagement. Germany might be cut up by the forces of both East and West, the papers suggested. How much retribution would the victors take? Surely not nearly as much as they took after the First World War? That contributed to this Second World War. Surely there would never be a third world war? These questions I had to ask myself because I needed to find Otto, Karl and Renate. I wanted to get back to Hamburg as soon as I could.
When in May, the war ended I contacted Thornton by telephone knowing all calls were monitored. I simply told him my days at BP were coming to an end and I wanted to return to see my family, especially my son. Of course no one could suspect that meant a return to Hamburg. The intercepted call had no repercussions.
The following week several Wrens and civilian staff were summoned to Hut 13 where we received a stern lecture from a Brigadier. His message was simple. We may be leaving Bletchley but what we did during the war and the fact that we did work at BP must never leave or be discussed ever. If asked what we had done during the war, we had to state it was routine secretarial work but the work must remain confidential. In fact the work and the venue must remained top secret, we were told, and the full force of the law would come down on anyone divulging BP’s existence. After we all agreed to this commitment, one by one, we were free to leave. Many stayed. Those who wished to leave were permitted to do so subject to the needs of the slowing down operation, but one far from over.
I left BP during the first week of June and made for London to see Dynes and Thornton. Everywhere were flags in the centre of the city. People went around with smiles of relief on their faces now that the war was over. Some American naval ratings were having the time of their lives with English girls hooked on their arms. Many different nationalities in the uniform of all the services, the home guard, policemen and special constables were congregating in the centre of the city. The bars were full as were the cafes doing a roaring trade.
A twelve piece Salvation Army band was in full tune sounding out Onward Christian Soldiers while bonneted ladies handed out paper cups of hot tea. It seemed that the country was enjoying an extended victory but cautious that the war in the East was not yet concluded.
I made my way to the MI6 offices which had retained its front entrance sand bags and climbed the stairs. I informed the young lady at the desk that I had arrived. I did not recognise her nor did she recognise me, so forgave her when she asked for my name.
‘Tell Mr Thornton that Frau Hilda Richter has arrived.’
I saw her take an inward breath with her mouth slightly agape. So soon after the end of hostilities, a German woman had arrived at her desk at MI6. Unquestioningly, she kept her thoughts to herself and knocked on Thornton’s door to announce my arrival.
‘My dear Hilda, do come in,’ he said.
‘Thank you I trust you are well.’
‘Yes very well thank you and relieved that the war is over.’
‘I certainly am, and Mr Dynes, is he about?’
‘No he’s gone to Birmingham today. Anyway, it’s been a while since we met. So, you survived the war in one piece.’
‘Survived? I felt nowhere near the conflict. We were in huts all the time. Except for a couple of concerts I managed to organise.’
‘Hmm they would have enjoyed that even although they would have been a captive audience, as it were.’ We laughed to relieve the stress which was still bound tight in our muscles.
‘Yes, captive and sworn to secrecy. I’m sorry I can’t tell you what the work entailed.’
‘I know. Remember I sent you there.’
‘Yes but even I don’t know the full picture; how we received messages at such a rate, and all had to be translated; but there I go again, in breach of the Official Secrets act already.’
We laughed knowing it was necessary to offload all tensions and pressures of recent months and the past few years as well. My thoughts then turned to my immediate pressing needs.
‘I am sure I can be of no use to you now.’
‘We will have to part, that’s in no doubt,’ he said.
‘There is just one favour I ask of you.’
‘And that is?’
‘I need to get to Hamburg.’
‘I see. To trace Otto and your brother-in-law and his wife?’
‘Exactly.’
Thornton opened his desk diary and turned a few pages. I wondered if he could pull this rabbit out of a hat. I was sure it was a thin chance. I was not optimistic.
‘You know Hamburg will not be as you know it?’
‘You mean the bombing?’
‘Yes, but do you know the extent of the bombing?’
‘No, I can’t really imagine.’
‘The docks were our target. Any device that did not hit the quays, hit the city. No pilot wanted to waste a bomb over the sea.’
‘I don’t care it’s a need I can’t ignore. I need to get to Hamburg.’
He continued to leaf through his diary. Then he lifted his telephone.
‘Hello, Transport?... yes, Thornton here. Anyone going to Hamburg? Then let me know when one is leaving. I have a live package.’ He replaced the telephone.
‘If they can’t do it no one will. I suggest you stock up on provisions. It will be very rough over there. No shops, provisions will be scarce. Nothing will be functioning yet. You will have to work quickly and get back promptly. It’s not a place ready for you. Perhaps you can leave notes and follow-up addresses. Perhaps Otto will be heading home too. Bring him home perhaps. Come back at three this afternoon and see if we have made any progress for you.’
‘Thank you Mr Thornton. You have been very kind to me.’
I purchased some packets of dried American soup; some dried fruit and a loaf of bread. I purchased a bag which I could carry on my back. Some slices of ham and cheese were not heavy. The fruit I bought weighed me down somewhat but the packet of water biscuits filled my bag. I returned to Thornton’s office five minutes early.
‘Come in Hilda. We’ve got you a flight to an airport just outside Hamburg.’
‘Oh thank you, that’s wonderful news. Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank the Yanks. They’ll be over here shortly to pick you up and take you to their base. You’ll be heading for Hamburg early, tomorrow morning.’
I smiled a broad smile my face had not stretched for many months. This was indeed the quickest way to my homecoming family. There was just one issue I could see, now that I was heavily laden.
‘I wonder. When I return, if you could keep my oboe with you? I won’t need it and it has quite a heavy case. Anyway, I really have no home to go to yet. And what's more, I'm not sure where I'll settle down.’
Thornton smiled at my request.
‘I’d be delighted to help. Regard this office as your base. I fully understand. Mind you, I thought you two were inseparable.’
‘We are. But I am sure you won’t sell it,’ I laughed.
He walked over to a high walled cupboard and climbed a stack of four wooden steps.
‘Here, this cupboard has a high shelf. It’s locked every night. That seems the most secure place to store it,’ he said.
I did not have to wait too long. The door knocked and in came an American soldier in smartly creased trousers and a flying jacket.
‘Sir, Colonel Zak Withers reporting for duty. A damsel in distress I’m sure lookin’ for,’ he said.
‘I detect a southern accent there,’ said Thornton. The Colonel looked at me.
‘Louisiana man I am, Ma’am. Got to the dance late but saw some action in the Battle of the Bulge.’
‘Creditable flying skills required for that engagement I imagine officer,’ I said.
‘That you Ma’am sure was a tricky op. Hear you’re headin’ for Hamburg. You sure got guts.’
‘Guts? I’m not flying the machine,’ I joked.
‘No, your boys hit Hamburg real bad. Not easy to get around.’
‘I know where I am going,’ I informed him.
‘Sure thing Ma’am. Glad to take you on board. But we leave early tomorrow. I’m taking you back to base at Northolt, not too fat from here, a bit north of the city. We leave early tomorrow. ‘Yawl ready to go?’’
‘I sure am ready to return to Northolt,’ I said in my best American accent.
My bunk bed was in a row of rooms with a shower at the end. A plastic shower curtain drooped down with a few hooks missing. It informed any passerby that someone was engaged in the shower. The opaque shower curtain hardly hid any modesty.
‘Excuse the art work. We’re all randy around here,’ said a young flyer laughing, with his haunch on the table, his left leg on the floor. He held a Lucky Strike between his fingers and tapped the ash into an empty beer can.
I chose not to remark on the nude women in various poses which decorated the hut common room. I understood their frustration.
‘Don’t really get women here. We chose the best room for you. The others are less tasteful,’ he said.
I did not doubt him.
‘Meal in main Hut across there,’ he said pointing out of the window. ‘6 pm sharp or you get the scraps. Breakfast from 6 am till 8 am but you’ll be away by then, I guess.’
I risked a shower later that afternoon and sang songs to deter any visitors. I returned to my room to dress excited that I’d be returning to Hamburg, to a defeated Germany, to my home and family. I hoped above all I’d not be disappointed even though the bomb damage seemed to have been considerable. A niggle persisted. Was it realistic to find my son? So many young men had died. I decided to assume he was dead to absorb that truth if it came to be. If he was alive, I would have a low base to shoot up in ecstatic delight. Only time would tell. I would sleep with these thoughts active in my mind that night.
I ate my first Cobb Salad that evening with a purloined white Alsace wine. It seemed the fridge had been productive and the Cobb salad edible but unusual with sour bread to accompany this meal. It was more than a substantial filler even before the banana split arrived. I had attracted a full table of service men. They were young enough to be my sons and I guessed they were all longing for home, to loved ones and their mother’s home cooking. That night I was their substitute mother.
‘Say, Ma’m you got any kids in the war?’
I wondered if a white lie would be required but the politics had changed; there was no longer war.
‘Yes one son.’
‘In the Navy?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Britain’s got a good number on the high seas. Okay he’s a pilot like some of us? Did he fight in the Battle of Britain?’
‘No, he’s in the Army. Light armour infantry.’
‘Wow, I bet he’s seen some action.’
‘I am sure he has.’
‘Is he back home safely now?’
‘That’s what I’m flying out to discover.’
The answer must have confused the airman. He stood up to leave the table. He pulled his hand from his pocket and flung a packet on the table.
‘Chewing gum. Helps the ears from popping in the plane.’ I smiled my thanks.
The following morning I arrived at the table at a few minutes past 6am. My pilot Zak Withers was already at his bowl.
‘Hi, Good morning Hilda. Southern grits on the hob, staple Louisiana diet, fills you up. Have some.’
‘Sounds just what I need,’ I said helping myself to the gritty porridge.
‘Just corn with hull and germ removed. That’s our Southern grits. Those in the north make fun of us needing out grits.’
‘So it’s a southern recipe?’
‘No, native Indians actually gave us it. You like it?’
I swallowed a mouthful. ‘An acquired taste perhaps? But I'm hungry.’
‘Okay I hear you,’ he said then shouted through to the kitchen staff. ‘Two eggs sunny side up, you got that?’
I contemplated a full English breakfast as it would be the last full meal I’d have for a while.
‘Hilda, so what you goin’ for?’
‘Something quite filling. Not sure where my next meal might be.’
‘Hey, stack of pancakes with maple syrup for the lady with some bacon and eggs on the side. Sunny side up or down Hilda?’
‘Err, sunny side up please.’
‘You got that cook?’
Zak gave me enough time to get ready and pack. Then I was driven to the aircraft. It was a RB-1 Conestoga cargo transport aircraft. It was bulky. Large enough for a row of tenement houses to be inside, I thought. It was being loaded when I arrived. Pallets of sugar, flour and milk powder were being delivered to Hamburg and the surrounding district. Each pallet’s bags bore the stars and stripes. This propaganda was hardly necessary. The German people would have by now rejected Hitler’s dream and swastika emblazoned material. They would now welcome this aid, or any other aid to stay alive.
I was positioned in the cockpit where six airmen attended to their fine-honed skills making sure the aircraft was fully prepared to lift off the ground.
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Web Site:
The Reluctant Spy
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