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  Letters for a Spy

  A Novel

  Stephen Benatar

  For John Murphy

  (my right-hand man)

  And in very grateful memory of Rita Druiff.

  Also in memory of

  Lieutenant Commander Ewen Montagu—

  without whom, obviously, this book could never have been written.

  INTRODUCTION

  I was introduced to Letters for a Spy when the author sought my help in corroborating details concerning names and locations in Aldershot. Details can create a vivid sense of place and period, and it is those particulars which ultimately are not linked to a character’s development, nor have any real impact on the outline of a story, that can make a ‘good read’ all the better. So to say I was intrigued to see the novel is an understatement—it was definitely one of the more curious requests I’ve received during my time as curator of the Aldershot Military Museum.

  And being someone who deals regularly with the general history of the Second World War, I was looking forward to reading about Britain during one specific week in May 1943; looking forward, too—because I knew the book was basically a detective story—to finding twists along the way and following the steps which would lead to the solving of a mystery.

  I was by no means disappointed.

  But it’s clear that, like myself, there must be many who’ll recognize the facts on which the story is based, so it won’t be a mystery to everyone. That doesn’t matter. This isn’t just a novel about warfare; it also deals with the development of a friendship between two people on opposing sides, and with issues, choices and responsibilities that are as relevant today as they obviously were during the nineteen-forties. I don’t wish to give away the plot. I shall only say that Stephen Benatar has created something between an espionage thriller and a romantic adventure that delves absorbingly into the complex nature of wartime relationships and into the things we hold as our priorities. It’s a love story in which you very much root for the participants.

  And even if you are familiar with the strategies involved, you’ll surely find it fascinating and suspenseful to witness the advances and the setbacks of the novel’s hero—a twenty-five-year-old working for the German Intelligence Service—and to follow his steady though, inevitably, stumbling progress. More than that, at this distance in time and between the covers of a book, you will probably wish him well … because, for all his faith in the future of The Third Reich, Erich Anders is a man you cannot help but like. Benatar has drawn him in depth, so that we relate to him as a human being rather than as an enemy agent. For one thing, he essentially lacks confidence—and although he draws strength from the knowledge he was handpicked for this, his first real mission, by the chief of the Abwehr himself, Admiral Canaris, a man he regards as a wise and kindly father figure, he is painfully aware at the same time of his own inexperience … and even of his immaturity.

  As I say, you’ll almost want him to succeed … well, certainly not to be found out and thereby become subject to the Treachery Act—which was brought in by the government in 1940: anyone convicted of spying faced summary execution. You’ll also want to know how Erich’s journey of discovery is going to culminate, in the way that we realize it has to culminate, in accordance with our history. This is a page-turner of a novel.

  But two points arise out of that last paragraph.

  The Treachery Act…

  Doesn’t the very name of it seem slightly unfortunate; there’s such a wealth of difference between a traitor and a spy. We British may think that William Joyce—the most infamous of all the Lord Haw-Haws—thoroughly deserved to die; and maybe, from the German point of view, Admiral Canaris did, as well … although emotionally one finds this extremely difficult to accept, for how can you compare the two? Wilhelm Canaris, born in 1887 and chief of the Abwehr from 1935 to 1944—whose connections to the Resistance were discovered by the Gestapo only in 1944—was executed alongside the thirty-nine-year-old German Lutheran theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, merely weeks before the end of World War II. The Nazis hanged them both naked.

  Yet how on earth could a spy, German and working in the interests of his own country, ever be thought of as a traitor to England?

  And my second point: I used the phrase in accordance with our history…

  But anyone who hasn’t read much about the Second World War may believe that the pivot of this novel is just too inconceivable to be true. It isn’t. However improbable it may appear, however far-fetched, however incapable of standing up to even the sketchiest of scrutinies, it is still completely true. Every single detail describing it, down to the lost chain attached to a briefcase and the lost aluminium oar accompanying a dinghy, is authentic; and the fact that nearly all the characters are fictional doesn’t detract in the least from that basic authenticity or make you want to speculate on how much you cantrust.

  There’s only one thing you may find yourself wanting to speculate on.

  In real life—both astoundingly and incomprehensibly—the Germans never sent anybody over to investigate … although, during the last half-hour of a film made in 1955, it was suggested (by the novelist Nigel Balchin, who wrote the screenplay) that they did: an Irish malcontent played by Stephen Boyd: it was certainly the film’s most entertaining half-hour.

  But what would have happened if they had sent somebody?

  Letters for a Spy sets out to answer that question … even though (unlike, say, Kevin Brownlow’s 1963 film, It Happened Here) Benatar plainly wants to stay within the parameters of history.

  Ewen Montagu’s idea turned out to be a stroke of genius; but nothing can disguise the fact that—looked into at close quarters and by someone inclined to be sceptical—it would hardly have survived an hour.

  At this point, I feel it necessary to mention something else which has a bearing on this story—and you will see why, when you come to the novel’s essentially open-ended (yet wholly satisfying) conclusion.

  On August 17th 1943 the following report appeared in the New York Times:

  The last Axis defenses on Sicily crumbled today as British and American troops met up in Messina, opposite the toe of Italy. The whole of Sicily is now in Allied hands. Long-range guns are already pounding coastal batteries on the mainland, Allied warships are shelling the coast roads out of Reggio, and bombers are harrying targets along the length of Italy.

  John Daly, an American broadcaster, was with the first platoon to reach Messina city hall at 8.25 a.m.—fifty minutes ahead of the British. “We did not arrive in style,” he reported. “In fact we walked the last seven miles practically on tiptoe, fearing to touch abandoned equipment lest it contained booby-traps. We watched the ground for mines until our eyes ached.”

  Then, at 9.15 a.m., a lieutenant colonel of the Eighth Army drove up to the advancing Americans. All he said was: “Hello, Yanks. Congratulations.”

  Daly added: “The city is a complete ruin. Bombs and craters take the place of streets and buildings. The few people are listless and haggard with the horror of what they have been through. But in spite of all this it seems miraculous that Sicily wasn’t more comprehensively fortified. Relatively, it was something of a walkover. Just as if the Axis had decided—for reasons perhaps known only to themselves and God—that Sicily was no longer important enough to be properly defended.”

  Against all the odds, then, Ewen Montagu had succeeded.

  And possibly the success of Operation Mincemeat was even more far-reaching than initially appeared. The following year a freelance adventurer and opportunist, codenamed Cicero, posing as valet to the British ambassador in Ankara, secured Allied war files detailing the planned D-Day offensive, and sold them to the Germans. When the Germans ultimately dismissed these as being
too improbable to be treated seriously, they must surely have been influenced by the memory of how Lieutenant Commander Montagu had—with a great deal of good fortune and a great deal of chutzpah—so cunningly deceived them.

  But if they had treated those D-Day plans seriously, the consequences for the Allies would have been devastating.

  It could easily have meant that the final victory in Europe fell to Hitler and the Axis.

  Yet now, in the safe knowledge that it didn’t, we can sit back and enjoy, not simply ‘a good read’ but an excellent one, with lots to think about upon our journey, transcending wartime in 1943 and reaching out to us in peacetime, over half a century later.

  Sally Day

  Military Museum, Aldershot

  Summer 2009

  Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,

  Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

  A Smuggler’s Song, Rudyard Kipling.

  1

  “So then, Anders. Current situation in Sicily … Your viewpoint on it, please.”

  Franz Mannheim was my section head at the Abwehr. The two of us sat facing each other across the desk in his office and my briefing was about to begin. Earlier, I’d been informed of the extreme urgency of this assignment, but knew nothing of its nature.

  It was 1943 … The afternoon of Wednesday May 5th, 1943.

  And, yes, Sicily was very much in the news right now.

  But my viewpoint on it?

  I picked my words with care.

  “Sicily, sir? Well, it’s common knowledge we’re building up defences there.” I didn’t add: Even if we have left it a little late.

  Then I groped for an intelligent way to elaborate.

  “And especially,” I said, “to the south of the island.”

  But anyway it wasn’t the substance of my comment that he chose to focus on. It was the style.

  “To?” Although Mannheim was speaking in German it had been agreed that all my replies should be in English. “Why to, not in?”

  “I don’t know, sir. To came naturally. Towards the south.”

  “Please, then, explain the rule governing that particular preposition. If not in I should have expected at.”

  But my knowledge of syntax was shaky. “I’m afraid I can’t explain. I simply know that it’s correct.”

  This sounded feeble. And what was worse, after a moment I was even beginning to wonder if it was correct.

  He swivelled slightly in his chair, leaning back as he did so. He had his elbows resting on the arms and had made a steeple out of his stubby, nicotine-stained fingers. His brown eyes gazed into my face. I wondered if he was speculating on why, out of so many others, it was I who had been handpicked for this mission, even though, apart from anything else, Admiral Canaris had a reputation for distrusting tall men—he himself was only five foot three—as well as those whom he considered too articulate (whatever that might mean). It was also said he didn’t like men with small ears or anyone who was known to be unkind to animals. My own ears were fairly ordinary and I was certainly quite fond of animals. But in any case, if you’d subscribed to merely a tenth of the rumours you heard about Admiral Canaris, you would inevitably have come to see our chief as a laughing stock. In my own view he was so far from being a laughing stock that he was actually one of those people who made me proud to be a German.

  Yet so much for paranoia. Mannheim’s principal concern at the moment might well have been my grammar.

  “Afterwards, I want you to check up on that preposition. Often it’s exactly this kind of slip that can lead to somebody’s downfall.” He waited until I had reassured him that I would. “So then, my friend? Why is it we’re strengthening our defences there? Especially”—he gave me an indulgent smile—“towards the south?”

  “Because, sir, at present the Allies control the North African coast. And having driven us back through Tunisia it must be obvious they’ll next want to drive us back through Europe. Well … how better to achieve this than by pushing up through Sicily? Sicily would make the ideal springboard from which to mount an invasion of Italy.”

  He seemed pensive.

  “In other words, the common-sense approach?”

  I nodded.

  “But somewhat lacking in surprise?”

  “Perhaps, sir, in war you can’t have everything.”

  “Yet wouldn’t you think that sometimes, in war, an element of surprise might be more effective than mere common sense?”

  I couldn’t see where this was leading. I answered only in a mumble.

  “Well, yes, sir. I suppose that it might.”

  “Which is precisely what you’ll need to find out,” he said.

  “Sir? Find out? Find out what?”

  The steeple was finally dismantled. The swivel chair remained stationary.

  “We learn there’s now a strong likelihood that they don’t have Sicily in mind at all,” he said. “That they may be aiming for Sardinia.”

  I stared at him.

  “Sardinia!”

  “Sardinia,” he repeated. Patiently.

  “But, sir, that’s right in the middle of the Med—slap bang in the middle of the Med! God in heaven! Sardinia’s about a hundred miles from Italy!”

  I hadn’t intended that expletive. Mannheim must have realized. There followed no correction.

  Well, anyway, not for that.

  “You mean—I hope—more like a hundred and fifty. But even so. We believe that such a ploy could certainly be possible.”

  He paused; ran a hand over his thinning blond hair.

  “And that’s going to be your responsibility, Anders. To discover whether it’s not only possible—or even probable—but in fact a serious plan, which they are now more or less resolved to implement.”

  He set about explaining.

  2

  At some point between the 24th and 26th of April, nine to eleven days ago, an aeroplane belonging to the Allies had crashed into the sea somewhere off Spain. Only a single body had so far been recovered: that of a major in the Royal Marines, whose Naval ID proclaimed him to be one William Martin—thirty-six and born in Cardiff. The card had been issued last February. At that time Major Martin had been working at HQ Combined Operations in Whitehall.

  None of which made him very interesting. However, there was something else that did—extremely interesting: a black briefcase still clasped between his decomposing fingers. And the briefcase had contained a letter. If this letter had been written by Pope Julius II and been on its way to Michelangelo it could scarcely have occasioned more surprise. In fact, it had been written by Sir Archibald Nye, and was on its way to General Alexander. Sir Archibald Nye was Vice-Chief of the Imperial General Staff; and the letter had been bound for Tunis.

  It had been dated April 23rd.

  “My dear Alex, I am taking advantage of sending you a personal letter by hand of one of Mountbatten’s officers…”

  But how, you may ask, had it fallen into our hands?

  Apparently, on April 30th, maybe as many as six days after leaving England, Major Martin had been sighted by a fisherman trawling out of Huelva. The corpse had been delivered into the custody of the British vice-consul and on the next day, May 1st, had been buried in the local cemetery.

  And buried with full military honours. Graveside attenders included both the Spanish services and the civilian authorities—and doubtless even a member or two of that spy ring which had now acquired a nickname: more mocking than affectionate.

  Yet certainly on this occasion our ‘Hispanic Branch Office’ had performed with a competence wholly in line with the parent company. At least one of its agents had got wind of the major’s waterlogged arrival sufficiently soon; and thanks to immediate and very effective interception had managed to relieve him of his briefcase … that briefcase which had never in consequence been seen by the vice-consul.

  Excellent reproductions had been made of all the papers it contained.

  In addition, an inventory of t
he contents of Major Martin’s pockets had been provided—accompanied by photographs. And these, too, had been dispatched to Madrid as speedily as possible.

  From Madrid the whole thing had been transmitted to Berlin, with reports detailing the authenticity of the find and the manner in which it had come about.

  Berlin had been staggered. Had instantly initiated further enquiries and had considered all the answers supplied by Madrid as being unbelievably sound. Even quasi-miraculous. God was on the side of the Axis. (He was, at least, to those who were still happy to acknowledge his existence.)

  Sir Archibald’s letter, formerly en route to the headquarters of the 18th Army Group, mightn’t have been seen, conclusively, as one of those tablets fierily inscribed upon Mount Sinai—but it carried a message practically as life-altering.

  Though, granted, a little more informal. Almost gossipy. Containing comments avowedly off-the-record.

  Its real point was this: that after mention of an eastern Mediterranean operation involving a landing in Greece (which obviously came as a surprise to no one) there followed a similarly casual reference to a hope that the ‘Boche’ would automatically assume the western Mediterranean operation would be in Sicily.

  “Indeed, we stand a very good chance of making him think we will go for Sicily—it is an obvious objective and one about which he must be nervous.”

  There was no allusion at all to Sardinia but what we had instead—in a shorter, accompanying letter—was a joky allusion to sardines, somewhat contrived. (“And the English,” scoffed Mannheim, “have the temerity to call our sense of humour heavy-handed!”) This accompanying letter was addressed to Sir Andrew Cunningham, at the Allied Forces HQ, Algiers.

  “Dear Admiral of the Fleet,

  “I promised VCIGS that Major Martin would arrange with you for the onward transmission of a letter he has with him for General Alexander. It is very urgent and very ‘hot’ and as there are some remarks in it that could not be seen by others in the War Office, it could not go by signal. I feel sure that you will see that it goes on safely and without delay.