The Secret Life of Bletchley Park (10 page)

‘There was the British Restaurant, where you could go and buy a meal at lunchtime. And no meal was allowed to cost more than half a crown. Half a crown was a very posh meal. That was a great deal of money.’

Some have less than fond memories of the town. During the pitch darkness of the blackouts, Jane Fawcett used to make her way to the Park with a hammer in her bag. ‘You never knew who you might meet,’ she observed crisply.

No one in Bletchley was immune from the depredations of rationing. Mimi Gallilee recalls how, for the women especially, the task of finding new or replacement clothing could turn into rather a quest. ‘If you had to do shopping, you took the train to Bedford or Northampton and on a rare occasion, to Watford. That’s if you wanted to buy clothes. Furniture was all on dockets and people didn’t have the money anyway. You waited until your clothing
coupon ration came around, I think twice a year. You got twenty-six at a time. A fully lined ladies’ coat would cost you eighteen of those coupons and you see from that how little you could buy.

‘And a pair of socks or stockings would be one coupon. So you couldn’t have loads of anything. Shoes: if you had a hole, or if something started going, they were taken to the repairer, you didn’t just sling them out as you do now.

‘Towards the end of the war,’ she adds, ‘a dress shop opened in Bletchley. It was close to the Studio Cinema.’ Beyond that, she says, there was ‘the butcher, the baker, the Co-op grocery store, and then the department store. And if you could afford to buy things in
there
, you were rich.’

And so it was that Bletchley and its inhabitants found itself growing steadily more populous as fresh young faces were drawn in from across the country, and from a variety of different backgrounds. If there was fervid speculation as to the provenance of these youngsters, the townspeople were good enough (and patriotic enough) to keep it to themselves. Nevertheless, rather like that of the Park workers themselves, this act of conscious mass discretion is one that still surprises. To this day, many Bletchley veterans are lost in admiration not merely for the hospitality shown to so many of them, but also for the fact that the people of Bletchley were careful never to ask what exactly went on up at the Park.

In terms of security, this was obviously invaluable. As Sheila Lawn’s landlady indicated, it was obvious to the people of the town that the Park was a secret establishment, and swarming with boffins. But to stifle the urge to discuss, or speculate, seems to have become endemic.

As Mimi Gallilee explains, what now seems startling would have come much more naturally back then. At the start of the war, it was not merely the ubiquitous ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ posters; road signs and railway station signs were taken down as a means of confounding potential spies and potential invaders. It was widely understood, whether in the forces or as a civilian, that one should discuss no more than necessary.

Given that, says Mimi Gallilee, one couldn’t occasionally help wondering what was going through the heads of the townsfolk. ‘What I marvel at is: what were the people who lived in Bletchley thinking? I don’t ever remember anyone ever saying to me “What do you do there?” So I began to wonder. What on earth were they thinking about? What did they think was going on in the Park?

‘Nobody said anything. The Bletchley inhabitants had no reasons to carry any secrets about with them. So it wasn’t duty.’

Perhaps there is a slight class factor: that of the folk in the big house having automatic precedence over the townspeople over looked by the estate. Regardless of their youth, the largely middle-class intake of recruits to Bletchley Park were of a higher social station than the townsfolk. And the townsfolk simply had no business asking them about their affairs.

Even though households throughout the country were presented with so many extra tenants, there were some who were able, by dint of special pleading, to keep their houses and bungalows free of interlopers throughout the war. In general terms, the system involved inspectors first visiting likely properties, and asking the occupants what room they could provide, if any. The more quick-witted, privacy-loving homeowners became adept at spinning yarns concerning elderly relatives and available living space. There does not seem to have been any such reluctance at Bletchley.

As staffing levels at the Park ballooned, living arrangements were provided at the stately home of Woburn Abbey, among other locations. Woburn was quite a different proposition from that of the Bletchley billet. But one of the most evocative – and pivotal – of all billets was that occupied by mathematician John Herivel. In his memoir, he wrote:

It was in this exact room that John Herivel was to make the psychological leap that helped to break the Enigma codes.

So, with practically nothing in the way of ceremony – or indeed, in some cases, of more than rudimentary training – the young recruits squared up to their extraordinarily complex, gruelling, grinding tasks. As Keith Batey has recalled, the nature of the work often had very little to do with mathematics and everything to do with patience and concentration.

The working day would be split into three shifts: 4 p.m. to midnight, midnight to 8 a.m., 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. It was the Air Section, under Josh Cooper in Hut 10, that started the 24-hour watch system quite early on, and the routine was quickly replicated across the establishment. Among codebreakers – and later, the Wren bombe operators – the shift most disliked, quite understandably, was midnight to 8 a.m..

But the intention was to speed up the decoding and translating work. With the enemy’s code settings being changed on a daily basis, the amount of signals traffic to be worked through could not be delayed in any way.

Keith Batey remembers that the nature of the work was not almighty intellectual effort: ‘I wouldn’t describe the work as hard slog. More tedious,’ he says. ‘In fact, the work I was doing to begin
with in Hut 6 didn’t even require a mathematician. I told Gordon Welchman that any of the girls could do it.’

Sheila Lawn equally recalls the unromantic and often unexciting nature of the tasks before her. ‘I just did what I had to do. It wasn’t exciting. I got these messages, I translated them, I decoded them, and simply got through them. They got a lot in. From the radio stations and gun emplacements along the Dutch, Belgian and French coasts. And some in the Mediterranean, but I never distinguished that, and didn’t ask too many questions. It was sightings, weather reports, sightings of ships, sightings of aircraft, anything peculiar.’

For the Hon. Sarah Baring, the notion of a work ethic was already firmly in place before her arrival at Bletchley, thanks to her stint at the plane factory near Reading. Physical labour was one thing though: the concentration required for translating duties at Bletchley was another.

‘It was the hours,’ she says. ‘You were translating German decrypts. And you really got to know how to do them pretty quickly. If you had the lingo, that is.’ The shift system also took a little getting used to, as she recalls: ‘If you turned up for work in the day, hopefully night shift had got through a bit of the messages. It depended on what was going on. There was always plenty to do.

‘But night-watches were hell,’ she adds. ‘You do get a bit tired, but then suddenly you’re woken up by a signal that is so important that you sort of become alive again. It’s not just routine. You suddenly get terrifically excited about where such and such a U-boat is, or where the
Graf Spee
is. You’ve got something really worth it.

‘And the sleep patterns! They were awful, because we changed every week, from day watch to night watch. That was hell. But everyone did it, of course. Soldiers, sailors, everyone.’

No one in the huts, according to Ruth Sebag-Montefiore, looked their best after so many nocturnal hours of ferocious concentration. ‘Individually, these backroom boys, with their original minds and brilliant brains, could be described as interesting looking,’ she recalled. ‘Seen collectively, as they poured out of their huts for a
breather or en route to the dining hall, with their gesticulating arms, unkempt hair and short-sighted eyes peering through thick spectacles, they looked like beings from another planet.’
¹

The actor Sir Anthony Quayle – who according to some spent a little time himself at Bletchley later in the war – was deeply, and helplessly, in love with a married actress called Dorothy Hyson. At that time, Hyson was a byword for theatrical West End glamour. The night work that awaited her now was of a different order. Hyson had been summoned to work at the Park while Quayle was out in Gibraltar serving with the forces. Once, when he was on leave, Sir Anthony recalled, ‘Dot, the essential reason for my return to England, was not even in London; she had gone to work as a cryptographer at Bletchley Park. I went to see her there and found her ill and exhausted with the long night shifts.’
²

Many decades on, cryptographer William Millward found himself pondering the side-effects of the punishing shift system. He wrote:

Some female veterans recall that occasionally, a night shift in a hut could have an uncomfortably quiet, ‘spooky’ quality. Then there was the difficulty of moving around outside in the thick darkness, with few effective torches. One recalls that she found herself subconsciously memorising where the potholes in the roads were.

‘I have a memory of looking out of the first floor window of the house,’ says another veteran, ‘just as a night shift was switching over. Some people would be coming in to start work, others going home.
And I seem to have this image, of seeing, down by the lawn and the lake, all these people, milling around in the dark.’

Sheila Lawn, however, recalls the upside of the system. ‘Because we were all young, we were very adaptable. I think now the shift system would be a big shock to
my
system. But no, we were very adaptable, we just accepted this. And there were advantages and disadvantages. A more flexible day. Sometimes you had to work at night, of course, but you had part of the day to yourself.’

Another veteran is equally phlegmatic: ‘When you changed rota, your sleep pattern would change and that gave you an awkward day or two. But this is how it was.’

But it was not just a question of sleep. The ever-pressing need for one hundred per cent accuracy meant that the pressure in the small hours could be unusually intense.

Keith Batey offers an insight into the intricate yet repetitive nature of the work, talking of the simple-sounding yet fearsomely complex ‘rodding’ system invented by Dilly Knox. ‘They assumed that there was a word likely to appear in the message. Six or more letters. And you could select places worth looking at by checking for what we called “clicks”. In other words, you set the assumed plain letter against each section of text and look for settings on Dilly’s rods where you got the same twice – charts were made to pick out all the “clicks” quickly. When you got a double “click”, you set the rods up to see if it would work. Very often it did – you didn’t set out to work on each code seventy-eight times.’

As well as Dilly Knox’s system of rods, there was the ‘Zygalski sheet’ system devised by the Poles who had originally broken into Enigma, and updated and modified at Bletchley by John Jeffreys, Alan Turing and Gordon Welchman. The updated versions were known as ‘Netz’ or Jeffreys Sheets.

Of great help to Bletchley was Dilly Knox hitting upon the principle of what were termed ‘cillis’. These were defined by Sir Harry Hinsley as ‘procedural errors by Enigma operators combining (1) a
recognisable instead of random choice of message setting, and (2) failure to alter the wheel position much, or at all, before sending a message’. Sir Harry added that this insight was thought to have been named after a German operator’s girlfriend, called Cilli. The operator, using his girl’s name as a message setting, had shortened it to ‘Cil’.

On top of this, there had been, according to Alan Stripp, another chink in Enigma’s armour: the ‘indicator setting’. After following instructions for that day’s wheel order, ring-setting and cross-plugging, the German Enigma operator would turn the three wheels to a random starting point. Then, as part of the preamble to the messages the operator sent, he would twice key in ‘his own randomly selected choice of text-setting’, as Stripp noted.
⁴
This choice might be FJU. He would then tap the setting out again as confirmation, and it would appear as encrypted letters, say PORCDQ.