give you the gen. Strictly need-to-know of course.”
“Oh, strictly, of course.” Tommy was being persistently difficult.
Curry lit a cigarette, didn’t offer them to anyone else and blew a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling before starting his tale. “I got back to England in a fishing boat from somewhere close to Ostend. Very cold, January 1941 and the man I saw at the War House had what he thought was a great idea. I was put on to training men who were going to work at Camp XX – Camp 20. They were faced with me, a man who claimed to be Anglo-Irish but could not prove he wasn’t missing believed killed in Belgium in ’40. Most of them thought I was a real Nazi infiltrator. My old boss, General Brooke wasn’t told and he was approached several times, said he doubted that I was alive.” Taking another lungful of smoke and bringing it down his nose this time – brandished his smoking tricks did our Curry. “By this time,” he continued, “We’d put most of the Nazi spies in the bag before they got very far. Blundering lot of idiots most of them. Put ’em in the bag then took the bag down to Camp XX.”
Curry told them Camp XX was not about getting spies to face the firing squad. “It wasn’t so much about termination as playing them back to Nazi Germany.” Certainly, the staff tried to de-gut them, fillet them, clean them out, but the aim was not to see them ending up on the Tower of London Rifle Range. “They were treated well. The object of the exercise was to get them working with us. Any odd bits of information on the side were a bonus.”
Most of the captured spies, and they had caught the bulk of them – mainly because they were brought into England and Wales in such a ham-handed fashion – finally bowed to the inevitable and sent their messages in their prescribed way. “The information sent was, of course, the stuff we gave them. I only know of two who refused to cooperate. Alas, they ended up on the Tower’s Rifle Range at six o’clock in the morning. Not a glamorous end for the Fatherland and Führer.”
Curry worked at Camp XX for three months. After that he went on a couple of courses, was upped to major and now operated as what he described as “a floating go-between in the intelligence community”.
“And where’re you floatin’ at the moment?” Tommy’s drawl became worse and Curry started to show a shadow of annoyance.
“I drift between the MI6, MI5, Camp XX and the boys in Baker Street, Tom. You know who the boys in Baker Street are?” Like throwing down the gauntlet.
“Would they have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes or Dr Watson?”
“Close,” Curry smiled and told him to try again. “After all, Tommy, you’ve got a sister in the business.”
Suzie, as much as she tried couldn’t stop the flush creeping from her neck onto her cheeks. She had spent that one night of unfaithfulness to Tommy after seeing him with another woman, in close heads-together conversation. Only later did she discover the truth, that it was his sister, Alison, back on a brief visit from doing something incredibly hush-hush. The tune of ‘This Can’t be Love’ ran through her head and her cheeks became redder.
Tommy sucked his teeth. “Must be an off-shoot of one of the other funny groups, organisations, departments, whatever you call them.”
Curry said, “Okay,” loudly as though Tommy had made a bold stab at the answer and landed close to the truth. Then he laid it out. “The boys in Baker Street’re various sections of the SOE – Special Operations Executive: the people who are at the sharp end of setting Europe ablaze, which was what Winston asked them to do. They’re not just in Baker Street of course but that’s as good a generic address as any for them.” For a moment the pale grey eyes caressed Suzie, once more making her feel uneasy.
“And who do I work for?” he asked, as though either Tommy or Suzie had formed the question in the way they looked at
“Oh, strictly, of course.” Tommy was being persistently difficult.
Curry lit a cigarette, didn’t offer them to anyone else and blew a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling before starting his tale. “I got back to England in a fishing boat from somewhere close to Ostend. Very cold, January 1941 and the man I saw at the War House had what he thought was a great idea. I was put on to training men who were going to work at Camp XX – Camp 20. They were faced with me, a man who claimed to be Anglo-Irish but could not prove he wasn’t missing believed killed in Belgium in ’40. Most of them thought I was a real Nazi infiltrator. My old boss, General Brooke wasn’t told and he was approached several times, said he doubted that I was alive.” Taking another lungful of smoke and bringing it down his nose this time – brandished his smoking tricks did our Curry. “By this time,” he continued, “We’d put most of the Nazi spies in the bag before they got very far. Blundering lot of idiots most of them. Put ’em in the bag then took the bag down to Camp XX.”
Curry told them Camp XX was not about getting spies to face the firing squad. “It wasn’t so much about termination as playing them back to Nazi Germany.” Certainly, the staff tried to de-gut them, fillet them, clean them out, but the aim was not to see them ending up on the Tower of London Rifle Range. “They were treated well. The object of the exercise was to get them working with us. Any odd bits of information on the side were a bonus.”
Most of the captured spies, and they had caught the bulk of them – mainly because they were brought into England and Wales in such a ham-handed fashion – finally bowed to the inevitable and sent their messages in their prescribed way. “The information sent was, of course, the stuff we gave them. I only know of two who refused to cooperate. Alas, they ended up on the Tower’s Rifle Range at six o’clock in the morning. Not a glamorous end for the Fatherland and Führer.”
Curry worked at Camp XX for three months. After that he went on a couple of courses, was upped to major and now operated as what he described as “a floating go-between in the intelligence community”.
“And where’re you floatin’ at the moment?” Tommy’s drawl became worse and Curry started to show a shadow of annoyance.
“I drift between the MI6, MI5, Camp XX and the boys in Baker Street, Tom. You know who the boys in Baker Street are?” Like throwing down the gauntlet.
“Would they have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes or Dr Watson?”
“Close,” Curry smiled and told him to try again. “After all, Tommy, you’ve got a sister in the business.”
Suzie, as much as she tried couldn’t stop the flush creeping from her neck onto her cheeks. She had spent that one night of unfaithfulness to Tommy after seeing him with another woman, in close heads-together conversation. Only later did she discover the truth, that it was his sister, Alison, back on a brief visit from doing something incredibly hush-hush. The tune of ‘This Can’t be Love’ ran through her head and her cheeks became redder.
Tommy sucked his teeth. “Must be an off-shoot of one of the other funny groups, organisations, departments, whatever you call them.”
Curry said, “Okay,” loudly as though Tommy had made a bold stab at the answer and landed close to the truth. Then he laid it out. “The boys in Baker Street’re various sections of the SOE – Special Operations Executive: the people who are at the sharp end of setting Europe ablaze, which was what Winston asked them to do. They’re not just in Baker Street of course but that’s as good a generic address as any for them.” For a moment the pale grey eyes caressed Suzie, once more making her feel uneasy.
“And who do I work for?” he asked, as though either Tommy or Suzie had formed the question in the way they looked at