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
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mincemeat Revealed
E
WEN
M
ONTAGU
began lobbying the British government for permission to reveal Operation Mincemeat before the war had even ended. In 1945, he was offered the “considerable sum” of £750 to reveal the story, although who made the offer and how they learned of Operation Mincemeat is unclear. Montagu wrote to the War Cabinet Office asking to be allowed to publish his account of what had happened. “I am a prejudiced party,
1
but I feel strongly that no harm could result and good might well be obtained,” he wrote, adding that the story had already “leaked fairly widely.” Anticipating the objection that the operation would reveal how Britain had partly lied its way to victory, he argued: “It would pay to release Mincemeat
2
as a specialised ad hoc operation to draw attention away from the fact that deception was a normal operation.”
Montagu’s request was turned down flat. Guy Liddell of MI5 told him, “The Foreign Office
3
would never allow publication in any form in view of the inevitable effect on our relationship with Spain.” Yet it was true that the story was starting to leak. Indeed, a copy of the report on Operation Mincemeat, one of only three made, had gone missing in March 1945. Another remained in Montagu’s possession, apparently with Guy Liddell’s blessing, “in case the embargo
4
should eventually be lifted.”
Two months after the Normandy landings, a British radio journalist named Sydney Moseley picked up the scent from a contact in British intelligence. Moseley had worked for the
Daily Express
and the
New York Times;
he was also John Logie Baird’s business manager and a tireless promoter of the new technology of television. And he knew a good story when he heard one. In August 1944, Moseley broadcast an item on the Mutual Broadcasting System radio network in America: “Our intelligence [agents] obtained
5
over in England the body of a patient that had died, and dressed it up in the uniform of a senior officer. In due course this body … floated across the Channel to the enemy-occupied coast where, as was hoped, it was picked up. As a result of a set of faked documents, orders, and plans, the Nazis actually did concentrate their forces elsewhere, and when we made the big move into Normandy, they still regarded it as a feint.” Moseley concluded his report: “I believe this story
6
is the greatest of the war.” Moseley had the wrong location, and the wrong D-day, but his story was close enough to the truth to put a gale-force wind up the secret services.
Tar Robertson wrote to Bevan, pointing out that while the Official Secrets Act could silence the inquisitive in the UK, it had no power in the United States: “Unless some action is taken
7
fairly soon, this, being such an attractive subject, will produce sooner or later, a flood of stories in America, some of which will be true, others invented.” On the other hand, if the journalist was approached and urged to keep quiet, that would show that “there was in fact some truth
8
behind what Moseley says.” It would be better to ignore the story and “leave the American authorities
9
and Moseley in ignorance on this whole question.” Even so, it was only a matter of time before others came hunting. Britain’s spymasters were adamant: “We should do our utmost
10
to stop the true story getting out.”
The story, when it finally emerged, came not from an inquisitive journalist but from Winston Churchill himself. In October 1949, Alfred Duff Cooper, later Viscount Norwich, the wartime minister for information, began work on a novel based on the story of Operation Mincemeat.
Operation Heartbreak
tells the story of William Maryngton—an unambiguous tribute to William Martin—a man unable to serve his country in life but deployed in death in a way that was equally unmistakable. The last chapter reads: “Dawn had not broken,
11
but was about to do so, when the submarine came to the surface. The crew were thankful to breathe the cool, fresh air, and they were still more thankful to be rid of their cargo. The wrappings were removed, and the Lieutenant stood to attention and saluted as they laid the body of the officer in uniform as gently as possible on the face of the waters. A light breeze was blowing shoreward, and the tide was running in the same direction. So Willie went to war at last, the insignia of field rank on his shoulders, and a letter from his beloved lying close to his quiet heart.”
Operation Heartbreak
is a charming fiction quite obviously based on fact.
Duff Cooper had learned of the case in March 1943, while head of the Security Executive, but he must also have obtained access to the Mincemeat file itself after the war was over. Montagu believed “Duff Cooper learned of Mincemeat
12
from Churchill in one of his expansive ‘after-dinner’ moods and then was (I’m pretty sure, but my evidence doesn’t amount to proof) shown a copy of the report by someone I won’t name.” It is just possible that Montagu himself showed Duff Cooper the file, as a way of bringing pressure on the government to allow him to tell the nonfiction version. Churchill may well have wanted the story to be told. When the other Operation Mincemeat—a simple mine-laying operation—was revealed in the 1950s, Alan Brooke, former chief of the Imperial General Staff, apparently got his Mincemeats confused and wrote: “Sir W always wanted to hear
13
this story told.”
The authorities in 1950, however, most emphatically did not want the story told, and when Whitehall got word of the contents of
Operation Heartbreak
, Duff Cooper came under intense pressure—possibly from Prime Minister Clement Attlee himself—not to publish. The story, it was pointed out, might damage Anglo-Spanish relations, and British intelligence might want to use the same ruse in the future. Duff Cooper “considered the objections
14
to be ridiculous.” According to Charles Cholmondeley, Cooper threatened to say that he had learned the story “direct from Churchill
15
if prosecuted.”
Operation Heartbreak
was published on November 10, 1950, prompting a ripple of critical acclaim and “consternation in security quarters.”
16
It sold forty thousand copies.
The cat was now out of the bag, at least in fictional form, and Montagu renewed his demand to be allowed to publish because “there could not be one law
17
for a Cabinet Minister and a different one for the blokes who do the work.” He wrote to Emanuel “Manny” Shinwell, the defense secretary, demanding to know whether Cooper would be prosecuted for breaching the Official Secrets Act and, if not, whether there was any reason why he should not now publish his own nonfiction account. Again the authorities resisted. Publication of the facts would be “wholly contrary to
18
the public interest,” wrote Sir Harold Parker, permanent secretary to the minister of defense. “Any true account
19
would have to show how the law was manipulated to secure possession of a corpse, the forgery of documents from well-known firms (whether with their consent or not), and the use made of beliefs of Catholics” as part of the plot. Sir Harold also ordered Montagu to return the Mincemeat files, since “there is no longer any
20
reason for you to retain a copy of the record of the operation.”
Montagu immediately fired back: “One would not think
21
even the most ardent Catholic would be offended that a man of unknown religious belief was buried as a Catholic to save thousands of lives and render the invasion of Sicily more certain of success.” And the Mincemeat files would remain firmly in his possession until the minister saw sense: “I see no reason why
22
I should hand over my copy.”
After months of wrangling, the authorities partly relented. In a later letter to John Godfrey, Montagu wrote: “I forced Shinwell to agree
23
that, if they did not prosecute Duff Cooper, they must give me permission to publish. … Shinwell gave me a clear consent.” The deal came with strings attached: Montagu had to write an outline of what he planned to write, submit the finished manuscript for vetting, and “sympathetically consider advice
24
as to modification.” He began writing immediately. Initially he envisaged an extended magazine article and contacted the editor of
Life
magazine, who was wildly enthusiastic. By April 1951, a first draft outline was completed. Now he hesitated, wondering whether “it would be wrong to publish.”
25
Meanwhile an enterprising journalist named Ian Colvin, who had worked in Berlin before the war and would go on to become deputy editor of the
Daily Telegraph
, had picked up rumors that there was more to
Operation Heartbreak
than fiction and gone digging. In 1952, the diaries of Erwin Rommel were published, in which the field marshal described being sent to Greece soon after the invasion of Sicily to resist an expected attack. A footnote, written by Basil Liddell Hart, hinted at the connection to the story told in
Operation Heartbreak
. Ian Colvin, in Montagu’s words, “shot off to Spain”
26
and began asking questions. When Britain’s ambassador to Spain learned what the journalist was up to, he “cabled back in a frenzy,”
27
fearful of a major breach in Anglo-Spanish relations. “The Foreign Office’s chief worry
28
was that Colvin had been told by our ex vice-consul in Huelva that he had been in the know and had taken part in deceiving the Spanish government.” The Foreign Office took a dim view of “using diplomats to lie
29
and deceive their host-government.”
The Foreign Office was not the only branch of the British government fearful of what Colvin might find and urged the Joint Intelligence Committee to intervene. “Further pressure was applied
30
by the Home Office who were very worried lest it became known that a coroner had handed over a corpse with no one’s permission.”
The Joint Intelligence Committee decided on a preemptive strike. Colvin had already been commissioned by the
Sunday Express
and was getting close to the truth in Spain. A spoiling operation was launched. Montagu was told he should now write his account as long as he did not reveal any information on “the true means
31
by which the corpse was obtained and details from which the man’s real identity could be inferred.” He would have to do so very fast. He was “rushed round to the Sunday Express
32
who had first claim on Colvin’s work and they said they would consider it if they got the story written by Monday so that they could decide before they got Colvin’s.” This was an underhand trick. Colvin had worked hard on the story for two years: the government, and the newspaper that had commissioned him, were now conniving to scoop him.
Montagu later wrote, disingenuously, that government permission to write his account had been “wholly unexpected”
33
and that permission to do so had been unsolicited. “The request not to publish,
34
which I had accepted, was altered to a request that I should write the true story and publish it as soon as possible so as to kill these dangerous untruths.” The reason given for the volte-face was that Colvin’s account was likely to be “so wildly inaccurate
35
as to be dangerous.” The reverse was true: the danger of Colvin’s account was its probable accuracy, in particular the fear that it would reveal the way British diplomats had deceived the Spanish government and how Bentley Purchase had simply conjured up a corpse to order. The guardians of official secrecy knew they could edit and mold what Montagu might write. This would be a “controlled version,
36
in which delicate points could be modified,” whereas Colvin, in Montagu’s own words, was “someone not under any control or influence.”
37
If the story of Operation Mincemeat must be told, it would be told in a way that would not upset the Spanish and would conceal how the body had been obtained. Writing to John Godfrey, Montagu was quite explicit about the terms of his deal with the intelligence censors: he would not reveal secret information, most important the Ultra intercepts, and he would write nothing that could embarrass the Foreign or Home Offices. “The return that the country
38
got was therefore not only the protection of ‘our sources,’ but also the other two quite important points”—concealing the roles of Haselden and Hillgarth in Spain and Purchase in London. The newspaper could edit the serialization, but the final version would need to be approved by the secret services before publication: “The Express will submit
39
and get passed anything that they may add or any alterations that they may make.” The story of Operation Mincemeat would be an official publication in all but name.