In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

They read on. Reports on the number of British ships sunk. Cargo ships that would never reach British shores with food supplies. Britain would soon face starvation. And yet there was a secret store of food in the cellars under Whitehall so that the members of the government and those in power still eat well, while the average worker has to exist on bread made from sawdust.

After the depressing and deceptive news bulletins, there came purposed messages from British servicemen held captive in German stalags.

From Sergeant Jimmy Bolton, RAF Hornchurch, and now a prisoner at Stalag sixteen. To his wife, Minnie. “Don’t worry about me, old girl. I am in good health and being fed and taken care of here. Chin up and I’ll be home soon.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was his wife,” Froggy muttered.

Pamela nodded. “All very insidious and depressing,” she said, “but I don’t see anything that seems like a coded message. There is nothing like ‘The hedgehog comes out at midnight’ that I had expected to find.”

He laughed. “The Germans are quite sophisticated with their codes. Let’s see if the first letters of any sentence spell any useful words.”

They did that, but drew a blank. They tried similar combinations—the second sentence of every bulletin. Proper names of the purported prisoners.

“I suppose Bolton is a place,” Pamela suggested.

Froggy shook his head. “But Sims and Johnson aren’t, are they? I must say that nothing leaps out at me so far. No repeated words or phrases. We might have to see several days’ worth of transcripts to determine if phrases are repeated at the same time each day.”

By the end of the first day, Pamela felt that they had overestimated her capabilities, and she would soon be found lacking and sent back to her unit in disgrace.

When she arrived home, Trixie was waiting for her. “So what was it all about? Do tell? Did Commander Travis give you a slap on the wrist?”

“No, nothing like that,” Pamela said. “It was just to move me to a new division. We were overstaffed where I was, and they needed extra help with the office work at the big house. As Commander Travis put it, he likes to see a pretty face around the place.”

Trixie shook her head. “Men!” she said. “Wouldn’t it be funny if a woman said ‘Hire a young man, I like to see rippling muscles around the place.’”

Pamela laughed. “I’m sure some women in positions of authority do think that way. But I have to say I’m glad to be out of that hut. If the big noises work in the main house, you can bet that it will be heated properly in winter. And I’m close enough to the cafeteria to pop over during my breaks.”

“But still only doing the boring stuff, like me,” Trixie said. “When will they realise that we women are capable and could quite easily take on code breaking like the men?”

“Only if they ever become desperate, I suppose,” Pamela said. “Actually, there are some really brainy chaps here, so I understand. Absolute maths whizzes. I wasn’t bad at mathematics, but there was no way I’d ever daydream about new ways to solve algebraic problems and have numbers dancing around in my head like some of these boys.”

“Some of them are half-barmy, if you ask me,” Trixie said. “That chap who took me to the pictures. He made a weird sort of humming noise at the back of his throat and kept tapping his foot nervously, and he never got any farther than sliding his arm around my shoulder. We’re probably the only normal people here.”

Pamela was about to say that she was working with a chap she’d danced with as a deb, but then remembered that even such trivial matters had to remain secret.

A gong sounded. “I suppose we’d better go down and face the supper,” she said. “I’m rather afraid I smelled fish boiling.”

“Oh no, not her dreaded boiled fish,” Trixie said. “At least she couldn’t overcook Spam. Do you think we dare sneak out and go have a sausage roll and a pint at the pub?”

“What, and incur her wrath and be served the most gristly bits of stewed meat forever? Have you noticed that she always gives that creepy man, Mr. Campion, the best bits?”

“Of course, I have. She fancies him. But, unfortunately, he doesn’t fancy her. I mean, darling, who would?” She gave a bright laugh. Then she became serious again. “There have to be better digs somewhere nearby. I’d ask my family if we have any connections around here, but I can’t reveal where I am. I shall be furious if I find an aged uncle is living five miles away in a stately home and eating pheasant three times a week.” She slipped her arm through Pamela’s. “All right. Let’s go down and face the music, or rather face the boiled cod. Then we’ll go and get that pint. My treat.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


At home and abroad with Ben



Back home after his visit to London, Ben felt uncomfortable about searching Miss Gumble’s room. It wouldn’t be too hard, he realised. She’d likely be with Phoebe, giving her lessons during the morning. But all the same, there was a tremendous risk: Everyone in the house knew him. If he bumped into any member of the family, he’d have to come up with a reason for being there and possibly be taken into the house for tea. If he were seen going up the steps to the flat over the stables, he’d have to explain himself. Then his father came into the room, looking up in surprise to see Ben there.

“Oh, you’ve come back. I thought you were off to London?”

“Just for a meeting,” Ben said. “In fact, I have to go away for a few days. Up north.”

“What on earth would you be doing up north?” his father asked. “I thought you worked in an office.”

“Oh, I do. I do,” Ben said hastily. “But I’ve been asked to deliver some papers personally to a research station. You can’t be too careful these days. Mail could be intercepted.”

“Really? Surely not. The British post office is a reliable institution.”

“You never know, Dad. German sympathisers are supposed to have infiltrated all over the place.”

“That’s just scaremonger talk. I believe it’s put out by the enemy to drive fear into our hearts. Make us suspicious of each other. Think that Germans are landing every day. You know half the village believes that the poor man whose parachute didn’t open was a German spy. Utter rubbish. He was wearing an English soldier’s uniform. I saw him myself. A tragic accident, that’s what it was.”

“Probably,” Ben said. “So I’ll be gone for a couple of days, then I may be coming home again, maybe not, depending on my department head.”