a definition of peace. But setting up two-way wireless traffic for circuits of agents in enemy-occupied territories was a wholly new event for which there were no precedents or guidelines, and by 1940 they had lost most of the agents they had put into Europe. This did not deter them from making a suggestion which threatened the existence of ours.
Ozanne was advised by his friend and mentor Brigadier Gambier-Parry, C's director of Signals, that their agents were going to continue using the poem-code (or some minor variation of it) as he had no doubt whatever that agents' codes should be carried in their heads. This was all Ozanne needed to hear. What was good enough for the agents of the British Secret Service must be good enough for SOE's.
I waited for Heffer to tell me how we were going to transfer codes from aching heads to cuttable silk. But he chose this of all moments to indulge his knack of switching on silence as if it were airconditioning. The captain emerged from his trance freshly recommissioned to announce that even in wartime few battles were won by direct confrontation—and even fewer if they were fought inside SOE. He had several ideas for outflanking Ozanne but would need time to consider them. Drawing on the last of the day's reserves, he agreed that worked-out keys (which we christened 'WOKs' to save breath) should be introduced as soon as possible—but there were 'one or two other things wrong' in the Signals directorate which had also to be put right. He recommended me to be patient for a little while longer.
He was too exhausted to tell me the formula.
The 'one or two other things wrong' were agents' sets, signal-plans and call-signs.
A signal-plan was a WT operator's timetable and he had to adjust his life to it. He had to be beside his set at certain specified times or risk losing contact with London. If he missed a fixed schedule, he had to wait for the next. But a radio operator was usually responsible for the traffic of other agents, including his own organizer, all of whom had poem-codes but no training in wireless transmission. This multiplied the pressures on him to keep his inflexible schedules irrespective of risk.
Call-signs identified an operator's traffic to the Home Station and the Home Station's traffic to him. They were the equivalent of Morse visiting cards and were an open invitation to the Gestapo's social services.
Signal-plans, call-signs and codes were the fundamentals of clandestine communication. But the Signals Directorate allowed no liaison between the officers who produced them. The Gauleiter of Signals preferred to keep us apart.
I took a surreptitious trip to the suburbs of Signalsland and it was worth every Ozanne-fraught minute of it. Many resourceful and imaginative technicians had ideas for improving the wireless side of agents' traffic but, apart from a few minor changes which had slipped through unnoticed, Ozanne had overruled them. I was prepared to leave if he vetoed WOKs.
The whole of SOE was suddenly a department store preparing for the Christmas rush, but all I found in my order book was an indecipherable from Einar Skinnarland. There were four messages from Colonel Wilson demanding that I break it.
A work-out with Skinnarland in our private gym would be a welcome respite from the prospect of going fifteen rounds with Ozanne. But the chronic invalid of coding had let me off lightly this time with a minor rupture of his key-phrase, and I found the right truss for it in a matter of minutes. The message was written in his usual mixture of Norwegian and English, which was excellent security and the one thing Skinnarland could be relied upon to do properly.
It was only when I spotted two words tucked away in the last line that I realized which of us was the chronic invalid. The words were 'heavy water'.
They had been distilled by Morse mutilation into 'heaxy woter'. I wondered what heavy water was.
There were half a dozen files in Dansey's safe reserved for
Ozanne was advised by his friend and mentor Brigadier Gambier-Parry, C's director of Signals, that their agents were going to continue using the poem-code (or some minor variation of it) as he had no doubt whatever that agents' codes should be carried in their heads. This was all Ozanne needed to hear. What was good enough for the agents of the British Secret Service must be good enough for SOE's.
I waited for Heffer to tell me how we were going to transfer codes from aching heads to cuttable silk. But he chose this of all moments to indulge his knack of switching on silence as if it were airconditioning. The captain emerged from his trance freshly recommissioned to announce that even in wartime few battles were won by direct confrontation—and even fewer if they were fought inside SOE. He had several ideas for outflanking Ozanne but would need time to consider them. Drawing on the last of the day's reserves, he agreed that worked-out keys (which we christened 'WOKs' to save breath) should be introduced as soon as possible—but there were 'one or two other things wrong' in the Signals directorate which had also to be put right. He recommended me to be patient for a little while longer.
He was too exhausted to tell me the formula.
The 'one or two other things wrong' were agents' sets, signal-plans and call-signs.
A signal-plan was a WT operator's timetable and he had to adjust his life to it. He had to be beside his set at certain specified times or risk losing contact with London. If he missed a fixed schedule, he had to wait for the next. But a radio operator was usually responsible for the traffic of other agents, including his own organizer, all of whom had poem-codes but no training in wireless transmission. This multiplied the pressures on him to keep his inflexible schedules irrespective of risk.
Call-signs identified an operator's traffic to the Home Station and the Home Station's traffic to him. They were the equivalent of Morse visiting cards and were an open invitation to the Gestapo's social services.
Signal-plans, call-signs and codes were the fundamentals of clandestine communication. But the Signals Directorate allowed no liaison between the officers who produced them. The Gauleiter of Signals preferred to keep us apart.
I took a surreptitious trip to the suburbs of Signalsland and it was worth every Ozanne-fraught minute of it. Many resourceful and imaginative technicians had ideas for improving the wireless side of agents' traffic but, apart from a few minor changes which had slipped through unnoticed, Ozanne had overruled them. I was prepared to leave if he vetoed WOKs.
The whole of SOE was suddenly a department store preparing for the Christmas rush, but all I found in my order book was an indecipherable from Einar Skinnarland. There were four messages from Colonel Wilson demanding that I break it.
A work-out with Skinnarland in our private gym would be a welcome respite from the prospect of going fifteen rounds with Ozanne. But the chronic invalid of coding had let me off lightly this time with a minor rupture of his key-phrase, and I found the right truss for it in a matter of minutes. The message was written in his usual mixture of Norwegian and English, which was excellent security and the one thing Skinnarland could be relied upon to do properly.
It was only when I spotted two words tucked away in the last line that I realized which of us was the chronic invalid. The words were 'heavy water'.
They had been distilled by Morse mutilation into 'heaxy woter'. I wondered what heavy water was.
There were half a dozen files in Dansey's safe reserved for
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