Codes of courage, p.11
Codes of Courage, page 11
I wish you every bit of luck as you begin your new work. If it goes well, I want to hear about it. If it doesn’t go well, I want to hear about that too. I expect you’ll pick it all up more quickly than I picked up how to tie a bowline on a bight.
Your sincere friend,
Karl Eckerstorfer
“Well?” Miss Percy asked. She seemed to have finished her letters and spoke the moment Millie lowered her page from Karl.
The letter had contained no outright confession of love, but a tenderness wove its way between the lines. She didn’t suppose young men promised mere friends that they would think of them often. And he had written her three letters. At sea, sailors had a good deal of time on their hands between watches, but in Liverpool, there were a great many potential amusements. He wouldn’t have written merely because he’d been bored. “I think maybe he is fond of me.”
Chapter 13
The British were decrypting coded German military messages. No one had stated as much to Millie, but it took only a few pieces of paper to figure out what she was translating. She sat around a horseshoe-shaped table in Hut Three, to the north of Bletchley Park’s manor and lake. Though called a hut, it was fairly large, with multiple rooms and a long corridor running through the center. The walls were painted a dull cream color, the chair she sat in was hard and uncomfortable, and the heating was insufficient. Yet each time she received a paper to translate, she felt a rush of excitement. She was part of the effort to read secret German ciphers. And if the British could read German ciphers, that had to give them some kind of advantage.
She finished translating a message about Luftwaffe staff transfers and started another, a weather report from a station in Norway. Messages came in on pieces of paper the size of a telegram, with letters divided not into words but into groups of five. As she translated them into English, she put the spaces in their proper place. Around her, eleven others worked on their own set of translations. Most wrote furiously, though at any given time, a few were likely to be scratching their heads or reading through a message with foreheads furrowed in concentration. They consulted each other regularly as well, especially about the plethora of military abbreviations and technical jargon that plagued most of the decrypts.
Days passed, and Millie finished her first week. She completed her second week on the shift that began at four in the afternoon and went until midnight. Then she worked the night shift, from midnight until nine in the morning. Whoever had come up with the schedule had thought it best to let those on the day shift have an extra hour free. While Millie had enjoyed the shorter length of the day shift, compensating for it during the night shift made for an exhausting week. Shirley had the same schedule, but she worked in a different hut, and neither of them asked the other what they were doing. Nor did Mrs. Twill.
There were so many messages to translate, and before Millie received them, someone else decoded them. After she translated them, someone had to organize them. So many people going about their specific tasks, working as a team even though they were spread throughout the estate in their various huts.
Thanksgiving came, but it was just an ordinary day—and night—for everyone else at Bletchley Park. A man in civilian clothing walked in as Millie finished a translation on a delayed supply shipment in France. He spoke with the watch officer, Mr. Fletcher, and when Mr. Fletcher noticed Millie was finished, instead of giving her another paper to translate, he motioned her over. “Miss Stevens, Mr. Cooper is in need of a German speaker. If you would be so good as to assist.”
Millie followed the man with brown hair and small round glasses through the door. She had to rush to keep up with him.
“I apologize for the speed, but we’re in a dreadful hurry. The package should have been delivered to me hours ago. What a bureaucratic mess. That might be all right in peacetime, but there’s a war on. Minutes matter.”
Millie knew better than to ask what he meant.
Outside, the grounds were dark, blacked out to keep the collection of buildings from becoming a target for German bombers. Mr. Cooper led her into Hut Six, then into one of its rooms. On the table lay an assortment of items. Cigarettes, ticket stubs, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and a pile of letters.
Mr. Cooper took the letters and handed them to her, waving her to a desk in the corner. “I’d like those translated as soon as possible.”
Millie turned on the desk’s lamp and tapped a stack of paper. “Is it all right if I use these sheets?”
“Yes, yes, go on.” Mr. Cooper sorted the items on the table and studied the ticket stubs.
Millie turned over one of the letters and gasped at the dried marks of reddish brown on the side.
“What is it?” Mr. Cooper looked up from the ticket stub.
“Is this blood, sir?”
Mr. Cooper looked over her shoulder. “I assume so. Being shot down by one of our RAF fighters is a dangerous business. But the more we know about them, the easier it is to extract information when they’re questioned.”
Millie glanced at the bloodstained letter, then at the pile on the table. Items plucked from the pockets of shot-down German airmen? She picked up her pencil and began working through the letters.
“What have you found so far?” Mr. Cooper asked when she was halfway through the stack of ten.
“Hauptmann—or Captain—Kouch carries a loving letter from his wife. And a rather steamy letter from his mistress. Master Sergeant Schwartz has a younger sister with polio and a brother in the Kriegsmarine.”
Mr. Cooper reached for the pile of translations. “Which one is from the mistress?”
Millie pointed.
Mr. Cooper read through what she had already translated, then through the letter she’d translated while he was reading. “Well done, Miss Stevens. Carry on. I need to run over to another hut. I will return shortly.”
When Millie was left alone, the room suddenly felt spooky with its bloodstained letters and piles of enemy odds and ends. It wouldn’t have felt that way during the day, but in the quiet darkness, a feeling of unease lingered. She finished her last translation and read through the sheets again, making sure she was satisfied with what she’d written.
Something exploded in the distance. Then something else. The second explosion was closer. An air raid?
The huts were single-story and made only of wood, with no basements to flee to. But there were plenty of rail lines that led through Bletchley, and she’d read an article about how pilots could see rail lines in the moonlight. A quarter moon lit the sky. Was that enough to light the ground for the Luftwaffe?
Another explosion, and this time, the windows rattled. Should she investigate or wait or flee? Someone in the hall shouted that they’d been bombed.
Bombs plus proximity equaled casualties. The other workers might need help, and that sealed her decision. She left the letters and shut the door firmly behind her before evacuating the hut with the other workers.
A bomb had started a fire between the manor and Hut Four. She joined a bucket brigade drawing water from the lake to help put the flames out, though the containers of water that passed through her hands were rarely traditional buckets. Urns for tea, leaking typewriter covers, lunch pails, and random bits of metal all carried water to help douse the flames.
“One hit near the stables too,” someone said. “Didn’t explode, but the telephone exchange took a direct hit.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Millie asked.
“Nothing worse than a few scratches.”
When the blaze was smothered and the other stand-in firefighters began returning to their stations, Millie went back to the room in Hut Six, arriving at the same time as Mr. Cooper.
“I’ve finished the translations, sir. Is there anything else?”
Mr. Cooper shook his head. “No, thank you. You may return to your other duties.”
* * *
Millie yawned as her shift ended. She left Hut Three and went in search of Shirley so they could bike to their billet together, but she stopped when she saw someone familiar emerge from Hut Eight.
She almost called him Uncle Silas but thought better of it at the last moment. “Admiral Adams?”
He smiled when he saw her. “Millie, good to see you.” He walked closer, and his smile fell a little. “You look exhausted.”
She chuckled softly. “I just finished a night shift. And an air raid made things a little complicated last night.”
“I heard about that.” He looked toward the manor. “The Admiralty couldn’t get through, so I came up to make sure all was in order. I’m glad you’re safe. I’d never forgive myself if you ended up dying in an air raid here instead of in London.”
“It isn’t as if you can control the air raids. Or predict them?” Her voice caught on the last sentence, turning it into a question because she’d translated several Luftwaffe communications that named an air raid’s target. Most of her translations had been for air raids already carried out, and the targets were always in code rather than a city’s real name. But if one could ask a few downed enemy pilots about the code names of the cities, and if one could get the messages decrypted in time . . . well, in that case, it might be possible to predict an air raid.
Uncle Silas raised an eyebrow. “Predicting isn’t enough to prevent them, I’m afraid. It helps, though, if we can tell our pilots where the bombers are headed. Alert the local fire brigades and emergency services.”
She nodded. “Has that happened?”
He smiled. “Come for a walk with me around the lake.”
She complied. One of the geese hissed at them, but she gave it a bit of room and moved around him. “Silly goose. I missed Thanksgiving. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll avoid me so as not to end up on the menu.” Not that she knew how to roast an entire goose, but on days when she worked normal hours, she’d be willing to learn.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten all about Thanksgiving. Maybe when your mother is ready to take a break from being a grandma and deigns to join us in England, she’ll take charge and prepare a feast.”
Millie shook her head. “I don’t think Dad wants her to come over by ship, not while the U-boats are so successful.” She studied her uncle. He looked a lot like her mother, but masculine instead of feminine, and a good decade younger. “You know, I’m not surprised to see a rear admiral coming out of Hut Eight.”
He put a hand in his pocket. “Ah, you’ve figured out which hut is working on which ciphers. Where are you?”
“Hut Three. Translation.”
“Really? I thought they’d use you for cryptography.”
“Commander Travis said they were more in need of translators at the moment.”
“I see. Convenient for them that you can do both.”
“I suppose. Uncle Silas, there’s something I’ve been wondering.”
“Yes?”
“I see a lot of things. Messages from the Luftwaffe. Messages from the Heer. Nothing from the Kriegsmarine. But if the U-boats keep ravaging convoys the way they have been, none of the rest will matter, will it? Britain can’t wage war if she’s starved for supplies.”
He blew out a breath of frustration. “Believe me, we would love to know what the Kriegsmarine is saying. We have the best minds working on it. All branches of the German military use the same machine for encryption. Looks a lot like a typewriter, but when they type out the message, they push each letter, and a different letter lights up on the lamp board. Which letter depends on a series of inner and outer settings. The German navy has more rotors to choose from than the other branches. Stricter tables to determine the keys. And frankly, better discipline. U-boats and ships of war know they’ll be transmitting their radio waves across long distances, know someone is bound to pick up their signals. It has to be secure. In truth, all our breakthroughs thus far are because someone on their side was lazy. Used his girlfriend’s name for the key over and over again. Signed the message off with ‘Heil Hitler.’ If you know what a portion of the message says, sometimes you can unravel the rest of it.”
Millie tried to hide her surprise that her uncle had just told her so much. That explained a great deal about what she saw—and what she didn’t see—as she worked on the translations. And it explained the glimpses she’d seen from the other huts. “If something is encrypted with a machine, can’t it, in theory, be decrypted with a machine?”
Uncle Silas chuckled. “That’s exactly what Mr. Turing said. He’s working on the naval cipher. He has so many ideas. Some of them are genius, and some of them are much less than that, and I’m afraid I’m not always clever enough to know which is which. The thing is, breaking a cipher is a lot different from a crossword puzzle. The puzzles in the newspapers are meant to be solved. These aren’t. The Germans don’t want us to read them, and sometimes I don’t think we ever will.”
Chapter 14
1st December 1940
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
I hope this letter finds you well. Perhaps in a sunny port with palm trees and exotic food? It’s rather cold here, where I work and in the house where I’m billeted. I am, however, usually dry, unless it rains, so I’ll save my complaints for someone other than a man with extensive shipwreck experience in the North Atlantic.
I’m learning all about what it’s like to be singled out because of my accent. I suppose it’s the first thing people notice when I speak, the fact that I am different. I’m fortunate enough that most people are pleased to know an American is on their side, so to speak, but it’s made me wonder how you feel when strangers hear you and automatically assume you’re the enemy . . .
* * *
20th December 1940
Dear Miss Stevens,
I don’t know if you heard your president’s speech, but I was wondering if you had a garden hose I might borrow? Or maybe not a garden hose—a few more destroyers and very-long-range aircraft equipped with depth charges would do quite nicely. Most people on my ship would welcome the Americans fighting alongside us, but Mr. Roosevelt’s promise to lend us everything we need is heartening. I suppose that means there will be plenty of cargo to keep the Torlin Line and all of its ships busy . . .
* * *
17th January 1941
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
I did indeed read about Mr. Roosevelt’s suggestion that American aid to Britain was like one neighbor offering another neighbor a hose to put out a fire. Over here, it sometimes feels as if things are on fire. Worry over invasion has lessened—we all assume Hitler is wise enough not to launch an invasion in the middle of winter. Most people hide their fear, if they feel it.
My landlady has a garden hose, but she uses it quite frequently, and I suspect she would be rather hesitant to part with it. Her husband died three years ago, and her two sons are both away at war, so she spends a great deal of time with her vegetables. She told me she used to have flowers, but wartime necessitated a few changes. I do love flowers, but I’m grateful for her switch in crops, as much of her produce is used to feed Shirley and me. She puts a great deal of effort into her meals and succeeds quite well, considering all the culinary restrictions that come with rationing.
Have you ever gardened? I haven’t since I was a little girl, but I find it very calming when coming off a watch, and Mrs. Twill is sharing all her best tips. The weather is currently too cold for most crops, but she’s working on carrots and cabbages. I’m not ready to give up crossword puzzles entirely, but come warmer weather, I plan to spend a great deal of time in Mrs. Twill’s garden . . .
* * *
8th February 1941
Dear Miss Stevens,
Last time we were in Halifax, I received several letters from you at once, and I was most pleased to have them. I’m on deck now, enjoying a rare day with a bit of sun. The wind makes it chilly, and the sun is low on the horizon—right in my eyes. In other circumstances, I might wish to change positions to avoid the glare. But after a long stretch of short days and extensive cloud cover, the novelty of having sun shining in my eyes is delightful.
One of my crewmates is also enjoying the sun. Billy Scarlett joined us on the first voyage with Mr. Blake as ship’s master. He claims he is fifteen, but I very much doubt he told the truth when he signed on. I told our skipper of my suspicions, but Mr. Blake said he doesn’t suppose a boy that age would leave home without good reason, and at least here he has his crewmates to look out for him. It’s not unusual for boys to run off to sea. I suppose in some ways, that’s what I did. Mr. Blake, too, though he wouldn’t tell me the details of what I imagine is a fascinating story. Billy has the height to match his claimed age, and he does his share of work. Given the bruises I noticed when he first arrived, I assume life at home wasn’t easy for him. If we get into trouble, he won’t be the first boy in the war to feel the result of a torpedo, but I still find myself worrying about him.
My life at his age was so different. Schooling, ski trips, bickering with Ingrid. I miss her. And worry about her. She might be older than Billy, but she’s still too young to be alone and away from all her family. How are your brother and sister?
I have to go on watch in a few minutes. I’ll write more later . . .
* * *
3rd March 1941
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
Some of your letters arrive so quickly after you’ve written them, and some take absolutely ages. Your last letter asked about my family, so I’ll give you a brief update on them.
I see my parents most weeks. Mum arrived in time for Christmas. She misses baby Judith and Dot but says she was missing me and Dad a great deal too. We’ve lived all over, and I loved experiencing so many different places, but now that Dot and Irving and I aren’t children anymore, I sometimes wish we all lived a little closer. I’m glad Dot’s family doesn’t have to worry about the Blitz, but I miss them. I’ve never even met my own niece. And I miss Irving. He’ll finish his degree this spring, and after that, he plans to join the Air Corps.
