Authors: Ben Macintyre
Tags: #General, #Psychology, #Europe, #History, #Great Britain, #20th Century, #Political Freedom & Security, #Intelligence, #Political Freedom & Security - Intelligence, #Political Science, #Espionage, #Modern, #World War, #1939-1945, #Military, #Italy, #Naval, #World War II, #Secret service, #Sicily (Italy), #Deception, #Military - World War II, #War, #History - Military, #Military - Naval, #Military - 20th century, #World War; 1939-1945, #Deception - Spain - Atlantic Coast - History - 20th century, #Naval History - World War II, #Ewen, #Military - Intelligence, #World War; 1939-1945 - Secret service - Great Britain, #Sicily (Italy) - History; Military - 20th century, #1939-1945 - Secret service - Great Britain, #Atlantic Coast (Spain), #1939-1945 - Spain - Atlantic Coast, #1939-1945 - Campaigns - Italy - Sicily, #Intelligence Operations, #Deception - Great Britain - History - 20th century, #Atlantic Coast (Spain) - History, #Montagu, #Atlantic Coast (Spain) - History; Military - 20th century, #Sicily (Italy) - History, #World War; 1939-1945 - Campaigns - Italy - Sicily, #Operation Mincemeat, #Montagu; Ewen, #World War; 1939-1945 - Spain - Atlantic Coast
Flying the Stars and Stripes,
Seraph
duly waited off the coast at Le Lavandou until Jewell spotted the light signals from the shore and sent a boat to pick up Giraud. The French general managed to miss his footing while transferring to the submarine and was hauled aboard dripping wet. To maintain the charade, the crew of the
Seraph
attempted to adopt American accents and spent the rest of the voyage imitating Clark Gable and Jimmy Stewart. General Giraud, it turned out, spoke English, and was not remotely fooled. He was far too proud, however, to acknowledge the trick.
In the wake of the North African invasion, the
Seraph
roamed the Mediterranean, conducting more traditional submarine operations and attacking any and every enemy vessel. In the space of a few weeks, she sank four cargo ships destined to supply Rommel’s army and disabled an Italian destroyer. Back in Algiers harbor, the piratical Jewell raised the Jolly Roger. Late in December 1942,
Seraph
was assigned to another secret mission: reconnaissance of the Mediterranean island of La Galite, fifty-five miles north of the African coast. The island was occupied by German and Italian troops and was used as a lookout post to monitor the movements of Allied ships. Jewell’s mission—code-named “Operation Peashooter”—was to reconnoiter the island in secret and establish whether it could be successfully attacked by a commando force led by an American, Colonel William Orlando Darby of the U.S. Army Rangers. On December 17, Jewell set off for Galita with Bill Darby as his passenger.
The two Bills struck up an immediate friendship, which was hardly surprising, since Darby was, in Jewell’s words, “a two-fisted fighting man”
46
with a taste for danger that matched Jewell’s own. The Rangers were the counterpart to Britain’s Commandos, an elite and highly trained assault force. Formed in Northern Ireland under Darby’s leadership in 1942, the Rangers had already distinguished themselves in North Africa by their courage and devotion to their leader: “We’ll fight an army on a dare,
47
we’ll follow Darby anywhere.” At thirty-one years old, “El Darbo,” as his troops called him, gave the impression of having been hewn out of Arkansas granite: three times in his career he spurned promotion in order to stay at the head of his troops, a varied crew that included a jazz trumpeter, a hotel detective, a gambler, and several toughened coalminers. At Arzew in North Africa, Darby had led the First Ranger Battalion into battle, hurling hand grenades in the face of heavy machine-gun fire, “always conspicuously
48
at the head of his troops.” On the way to La Galite, Darby regaled Jewell and his crew with ribald stories. For two days, the
Seraph
prowled around the island charting possible landing spots, while the American took photographs. “I think we can do it,”
49
declared Darby. Eventually, it was ruled that no troops could be spared for the assault on La Galite, and Operation Peashooter was called off, but not before Darby got a taste of Jewell’s methods. All friendly forces had been cleared from the operational area, and Jewell’s orders invited him to “sink on sight any vessel.”
50
On the way back to Algiers, he rammed one U-boat underwater and attacked another with three torpedoes, one of which failed to detonate on impact and the other two of which veered off target owing to the damage sustained in the earlier collision. Even the unshakable Darby found the experience of underwater combat alarming, telling Jewell: “Put me ashore, give me a gun
51
and there isn’t anyone or anything I won’t face. But, gee, Bill, I haven’t been so scared in my life as in the last two days.”
The
Seraph
had sustained serious damage to her bows, and her crew was suffering from the “constant strain,”
52
as became apparent when two former friends fell out and “one grabbed a large,
53
evil-looking carving knife from the galley and tried to stab the other in the back.” The
Seraph
was ordered to return home for rest, recuperation, and repairs. On the return journey, the submarine was attacked, once again, by a flight of Allied bombers.
The repairs at Blyth dockyard had reset the submarine’s “broken nose,”
54
giving the
Seraph
“a lithe, graceful look.”
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A cartoon of Ferdinand the Bull was painted on her conning tower, a reference to the children’s story about the bull who shunned the bullring—a nickname reflecting the fact that
Seraph
spent more time on special missions than on operational patrols.
As the
Seraph
made toward Huelva, Jewell was itching for another scrap but knew he must avoid contact with the enemy if possible. “We were told that we were not
56
going to be required to attack anything, as this was more important.” The RAF had issued strict instructions to aircraft not to attack any submarines on the route, and naval intelligence confirmed that there were no known enemy vessels in the Gulf of Cádiz. But then, west of Brest, about midway through the voyage, the submariners heard a noise they all knew and dreaded: the “unmistakable sounds
57
of a submarine being depth charged.” Somewhere, very close at hand, a duel was under way. “We knew that at least
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one of our boats was in the vicinity,” wrote Lieutenant Scott, “and as each series of explosions hit our pressure hull like a hammer, despite the distance, we feared for the safety of our friends.” Jewell had his orders, and the
Seraph
continued south. Scott returned to
War and Peace
.
At the precise moment Bill Jewell was uncharacteristically turning his back on a fight, Ewen Montagu and Jean Leslie were preparing to go out to the theater and dinner, for the last time, as Bill Martin and his fiancée, Pam.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bill’s Farewell
E
WEN
M
ONTAGU HAD BEEN PLANNING
“Bill Martin’s Farewell Party” for some time, but he did not tell Jean Leslie until the afternoon of April 22. He sent a note from “Bill” inviting “Pam” to see the variety star Sid Field in “Strike a New Note” at the Prince of Wales, to be followed by dinner at the Gargoyle Club. The MI5 secretary was thrilled by the invitation from her office admirer: “I rushed home,
1
changed out of office clothes, and threw on some makeup.” Cholmondeley had bought four tickets for the evening performance—that way they could demonstrate that the tickets had been bought in a block, even though the counterfoils of the two in the middle were missing and already en route to Spain in a dead man’s pocket. Wasting the tickets, Montagu later wrote, would have been “absurd.”
2
Besides, it was an ideal opportunity to continue the courtship of his imaginary fiancée. Charles Cholmondeley’s date for the evening was Avril Gordon, another young secretary in the office who had helped Hester Leggett compose Pam’s letters. Both women were “in the loop” on Operation Mincemeat, although ignorant of its details.
Montagu remained firmly in character. The death of Bill Martin, presumed drowned at sea following an air crash, would shortly be announced, but in the meantime Montagu composed a personal tribute to him, to be published in the
Times
in due course. The ruse would have to be maintained and reinforced long after Mincemeat had landed. The notice reads like a description of the man Montagu would have liked to have been: the desk-bound literary genius who insists on fulfilling his patriotic duty, only to die tragically. The fake obituary was never published, but it offers a fascinating insight into the spymaster’s level of emotional involvement.
Bill Martin’s death
3
“on active service” came as a complete surprise to many of his friends when it was announced in your columns. Few of them knew that he had for some time been serving with the Commandos where hitherto unsuspected qualities had been revealed.
Martin was a unique personality and his loss is tragic. An ever-growing number of his more discerning contemporaries were convinced that he had genius. He made little mark at school where he was more interested in his own reading and music than in the normal work and athletics of his friends. After a university career during which he impressed with his literary talents and qualities of leadership a small circle of dons and college friends, he retired into the country to farm, fish and write.
On the outbreak of war, Martin, who had already been profoundly stirred by the growing menace to all that he loved most deeply, hastened to offer his services to his country. He found himself placed in an office job, and although it was an important one and well suited to his talents, the determined if unorthodox efforts which he made to escape and prepare himself for more active and dangerous work, were ultimately successful.
As to others of an imaginative and artistic temperament, Martin’s experiences with the Commandos had brought a new meaning into life, an immense stimulus to creative activity. He had refused, until the war was over, to publish any of his work. We will therefore have to wait some time before a wider public can appreciate his rare talent.
The two couples made an attractive sight as they entered the Prince of Wales Theatre, the men in full uniform, the women in their best dresses and heels. Montagu handed the tickets to an usherette. “We were terribly agitated
4
when she tore the tickets,” said Jean. “Would she notice that two were missing?” She did, and summoned the manager, who accepted that the middle counterfoils had been torn off “as a joke.”
5
The lights dimmed, and the four settled into the plush seats of the circle to watch Sid Field open his new show. A veteran performer, Field had toured the provincial music halls for thirty years, singing, dancing, and performing comic skits. He had recently broken into the big time, playing the part of “Slasher Green,” a cockney bruiser. “Strike a New Note” was his first West End appearance, and he was supported by a group of young theatrical hopefuls “gathered from every part
6
of the country,” performing together as “George Black and the Rising Generation.” Black, a theatrical impresario, is today as obscure in public memory as Sid Field, but some of the rising generation rose very high indeed. Among the cast were two unknowns, Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise, aged sixteen and seventeen respectively.
“Strike a New Note” had opened to rave reviews a month earlier: the
Times
had hailed Field as “definitely ‘a find’”
7
the
Daily Mail
noted “the loudest laughter we
8
have heard in years;” the
Daily Telegraph
was gratified that “all his jokes are clean.”
9
By April the show was playing to packed houses.
Sid danced, told jokes, performed sketches, and sang: “I’m going to get pickled
10
when they light up Piccadilly, I’m going to get pickled like I’ve never been before.”
In fact, Sid was already well pickled, since he never went onstage without “an adequate ration of gin.”
11
“Strike a New Note” was tailor-made escapism for wartime theatergoers. Many in the audience were American GIs, and the satires on Anglo-American relations raised the loudest cheers. The war seemed impossibly distant, even irrelevant. A note on the back of the program read: “If an Air Raid Warning
12
should be received during the performance the audience will be informed. Those desiring to leave the theatre may do so, but the performance will continue.” The show ended with Sid’s fan song:
When you feel unhappy
13
And if you’re looking blue
We recommend
Sid Field to you
.
Even the cast seemed a little bemused by the rapturous audience reception. Jerry Desmonde, Sid Field’s straight-man sidekick, wrote: “The laughs came like the waves
14
of a rough sea, breaking on a shingle beach, and when they came they lasted. They lasted a long, long time.”
Eight hundred miles away, far out at sea, Lieutenant Scott stood on the deck of the
Seraph
, listening to the waves breaking, and peered through the darkness toward the coast of Portugal. “The weather was warm at last,
15
and it was a delight to keep a watch on the bridge at night beneath a cloudless sky.”
Jean left the theater on Montagu’s arm, high with excitement, her ears ringing with the applause. Bill Martin’s farewell party continued at the Gargoyle Club, a raffish rooftop den above Meard Street in Soho. Founded in 1925, the Gargoyle was the haunt of artists, writers, and actors, the epitome of decadent glamour. It could only be reached by a tiny, rickety elevator, the dimensions of which “were such that strangers
16
entering it left as intimate friends at the top.” The interior was decorated in Moorish style, the walls decorated with mirrored shards of eighteenth-century glass inspired by Henri Matisse, who was a member, as were Noël Coward, Augustus John, and Tallulah Bankhead. Spies, including Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean, were drawn to its dark corners and air of secret assignation. The Gargoyle was half lit, avant-garde, and slightly louche. The filmmaker Michael Luke described the atmosphere inside as “mystery suffused with a tender
17
eroticism.” Jean Leslie had never been anywhere like this before. Her mother would have been scandalized.