conformed strictly with Ozanne's coding convictions, I would not waste his time by mentioning it to him.
The concept was in every way the WOK's poor relation but it was start. If this were a form of 'SM', it didn't hurt at all.
• • •
Expecting my successor at any moment, I settled down to what might be my last indecipherable from Bodington, which was based (of course) on a piece by Poe.
He'd returned from the field since using 'The Raven', had gone back to France with Peter Churchill—and his latest Poe choice was 'Annabel Lee':
I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea
But we loved with a love that was more than love
I and my Annabel Lee
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
I was determined to dissever Bodington's soul next time we met if this indecipherable was as tough as his last.
The five words he'd chosen were: 'child', 'under', 'I', 'can', 'heaven'. I knew that spelling was Bodington's weakness, possibly due to his peacetime stint as Paris correspondent of the Daily Express —and rapidly discovered that his version of heaven was 'heav a n', and hoped he'd get to both one day.
I phoned Buckmaster to tell him the message was out. To my astonishment he appeared in person a few minutes later. First Hutchison, now Buckmaster—it was like meeting the stars of a play which was still being written.
Buckmaster and I knew each other by sight and had shaken hands on the telephone. I'd met him once at Chiltern Court under unfortunate circumstances.
I'd been briefing a wireless operator named Alex Rabinovitch, a vast young man of Russian-Egyptian origin who could (and did) swear in four languages. We both knew at a glance that we shared the Esperanto of being Jewish. From the way he clenched his huge fists with the thumbs protecting his fingers, and from his ethnic backround, I suspected that he'd done some boxing and, between exerises (he was a good coder), taxed him with it. It was the end of the coding session. I'd boxed for St Paul's in the days when self was the only thing worth protecting and we discovered a mutual admiration for the greatest boxer (and gentleman) our sport had yet produced, Joe Louis. I was very disappointed that Rabinovitch knew that Louis's real name was Barrow. I thought only Joe and I did. My pupil and I then had a serious disagreement. He was convinced that the Brown Bomber's best punch was a short right to the head whereas knew for positive fact that it was a left jab to the chin. To put it beyond doubt, Rabinovitch swung his giant fist at my jaw and pulled up a microdot away just as Buckmaster walked in. Buckmaster expressed the hope that Rabinovitch was here for coding practice and not unarmed combat and asked to see him as soon as we'd finished.
Rabinovitch was now shadow-boxing in France with great success and at great risk, as the wireless operator for Peter Churchill's Spindle group. And here was Buckmaster, himself no stranger to fifteen-rounders with the RF section, looking at me thoughtfully.
I was used to being thoroughly towelled down in the ring between rounds but not by blue eyes of such extraordinary penetration. I didn't begin to understand the politics he was obliged to play to compete with de Gaulle and had no desire to. But I'd noticed that no matter how late I phoned to tell him that an indecipherable was broken, he was always waiting in his office, and his first concern was for the safety of the agent. Not all country section directors shared that attitude. To some of them, agents in the field were heads to be counted, a tally they could show CD. But Maurice Buckmaster was a family man.
He thanked me for breaking Boddington's indecipherable but he'd already done that on the telephone and Buckmaster never
The concept was in every way the WOK's poor relation but it was start. If this were a form of 'SM', it didn't hurt at all.
• • •
Expecting my successor at any moment, I settled down to what might be my last indecipherable from Bodington, which was based (of course) on a piece by Poe.
He'd returned from the field since using 'The Raven', had gone back to France with Peter Churchill—and his latest Poe choice was 'Annabel Lee':
I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea
But we loved with a love that was more than love
I and my Annabel Lee
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
I was determined to dissever Bodington's soul next time we met if this indecipherable was as tough as his last.
The five words he'd chosen were: 'child', 'under', 'I', 'can', 'heaven'. I knew that spelling was Bodington's weakness, possibly due to his peacetime stint as Paris correspondent of the Daily Express —and rapidly discovered that his version of heaven was 'heav a n', and hoped he'd get to both one day.
I phoned Buckmaster to tell him the message was out. To my astonishment he appeared in person a few minutes later. First Hutchison, now Buckmaster—it was like meeting the stars of a play which was still being written.
Buckmaster and I knew each other by sight and had shaken hands on the telephone. I'd met him once at Chiltern Court under unfortunate circumstances.
I'd been briefing a wireless operator named Alex Rabinovitch, a vast young man of Russian-Egyptian origin who could (and did) swear in four languages. We both knew at a glance that we shared the Esperanto of being Jewish. From the way he clenched his huge fists with the thumbs protecting his fingers, and from his ethnic backround, I suspected that he'd done some boxing and, between exerises (he was a good coder), taxed him with it. It was the end of the coding session. I'd boxed for St Paul's in the days when self was the only thing worth protecting and we discovered a mutual admiration for the greatest boxer (and gentleman) our sport had yet produced, Joe Louis. I was very disappointed that Rabinovitch knew that Louis's real name was Barrow. I thought only Joe and I did. My pupil and I then had a serious disagreement. He was convinced that the Brown Bomber's best punch was a short right to the head whereas knew for positive fact that it was a left jab to the chin. To put it beyond doubt, Rabinovitch swung his giant fist at my jaw and pulled up a microdot away just as Buckmaster walked in. Buckmaster expressed the hope that Rabinovitch was here for coding practice and not unarmed combat and asked to see him as soon as we'd finished.
Rabinovitch was now shadow-boxing in France with great success and at great risk, as the wireless operator for Peter Churchill's Spindle group. And here was Buckmaster, himself no stranger to fifteen-rounders with the RF section, looking at me thoughtfully.
I was used to being thoroughly towelled down in the ring between rounds but not by blue eyes of such extraordinary penetration. I didn't begin to understand the politics he was obliged to play to compete with de Gaulle and had no desire to. But I'd noticed that no matter how late I phoned to tell him that an indecipherable was broken, he was always waiting in his office, and his first concern was for the safety of the agent. Not all country section directors shared that attitude. To some of them, agents in the field were heads to be counted, a tally they could show CD. But Maurice Buckmaster was a family man.
He thanked me for breaking Boddington's indecipherable but he'd already done that on the telephone and Buckmaster never
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