“Yes, but it’s in our interest to keep them from correcting the trajectory, to see to it that the V-1s continue to fall short.”
“So you switch the bombs that fall short for the ones that reach their target,” Ernest said.
“Exactly.”
“What?” Cess said, looking thoroughly confused. “How can you switch bombs?”
“Bomb A falls in Stepney at nine o’clock at night,” Ernest explained. “Bomb B falls on Hampstead Heath at half past two in the morning. Our agent tells the Germans bomb A was the one that fell at half past two.”
“In Hampstead,” Tensing said. “And the Germans think it overshot its target, and they shorten its trajectory.”
“Which makes the next one fall short,” Cess said, catching on. “But how do we ensure it falls somewhere where it won’t do any damage?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t, but we can increase the chances of a rocket falling in woods or a field—”
“Or a pasture,” Cess said. “Worthing, this is your chance to eliminate that bull that caused you so much trouble.”
Tensing went on as if Cess hadn’t spoken. “But we can increase the chances of their landing in a less-populated area than central London.”
That’s why you were so eager to point out the thousands of lives we saved, Ernest thought. Because now we’re going to start killing people.
“The retargeting will allow us to provide false information without arousing suspicions regarding our double-agents,” Tensing said. “And to significantly lower the number of casualties.”
And kill people who wouldn’t otherwise have died, Ernest thought. “So what’s our job?” Cess asked. “We’re to match up the bombs?”
“No, I need you two to provide corroboration,” Tensing said, and handed Ernest a photograph of a pile of rubble. It was impossible to tell what it had been from the tangle of bricks and lengths of wood.
“This happened in Fleet Street Tuesday afternoon at 4:32 P.M., but we’re telling the Germans it’s Finchley. The high level of destruction makes substitutions comparatively easy. We’ve told the newspapers they’re not to print any photographs or information about rocket attacks without our authorization.”
“What about the casualty lists in the papers?” Ernest asked. “Won’t the addresses of the people killed give the location away?”
“We’ve thought of that,” Tensing said. “You’ll need to write false death notices to go with the incidents, and we’ve requested the newspapers to hold theirs for several days and list only the name of the deceased. In instances where several members of the same family are killed, we’ve asked them to publish them on separate days, and you’ll do false corroborating stories.”
“What a bloody business,” Ernest said bitterly.
“Yes,” Tensing said. “I’ll need captions and news stories to go with the photographs, and anything else you can come up with—eyewitness accounts, personal ads, letters to the editor—the same sort of thing you were doing before. No direct mention of location, of course. We want the Germans to work that out on their own, and our double agents will be confirming it.”
“When do we begin?” Cess asked.
“Now,” Tensing said, pulling a sheaf of black-and-white photographs from his briefcase and handing them to Cess. “These need to be checked for identifying landmarks or signboards which may need to be cropped out.”
He handed a second sheaf to Ernest. Each one had a memo paper-clipped to it with the actual time and location and the falsified one. “A basic news story for the London dailies,” Tensing said, “and a local connection for the village papers—local resident visiting someone in the town when it hit. You know the sort of thing, Worthing.”
He knew exactly, and he couldn’t have asked for a better job. Not only did he not have to worry about being sent to Burma, but he’d be able to imbed his own coded messages in the articles.
“Cess, you’ll do the London dailies,” Tensing said. “Worthing, you’ll do the village papers. Chasuble will be in on this, too.” Tensing shut his briefcase. “I’d like to speak to him before I leave.”
“I’ll go see if he’s back,” Cess said, and went out.
“Shut the door,” Tensing said to Ernest, and after he did, added, “It is a bloody business. That’s why I chose you. I know I can count on you.”
“What do the higher-ups say about this scheme?” Ernest asked.
“They don’t know yet. We have a meeting to discuss the deception plan with them week after next.”
“And if they vote not to approve it?” Ernest asked, looking at Tensing closely.
“Then I suppose we shall have to think of something else,” he said. “But I can’t imagine them doing anything so irresponsible. It would mean jeopardizing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives—so many that if I was told they’d voted the idea down, I’d be forced to conclude that the person who told me had got the story wrong.”
In other words, he intended to ignore the order and continue deceiving the Germans till he got caught and then plead ignorance. Like Lord Nelson had done at the battle of Copenhagen. Tensing was risking his career. And his future. He could be court-martialed, or worse, for disobeying orders, but he’d do it anyway. In order to save lives.
I didn’t get to observe Chaplain Howell Forgy at Pearl Harbor, Ernest thought, or the firemen at the World Trade Center, but I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten to observe heroes. Not just Tensing, but the Commander and Jonathan. And Cess and Prism and Chasuble, fighting recalcitrant inflatables and angry bulls. And Turing and Dilly Knox, patiently deciphering code.
And Eileen, driving an ambulance through burning streets and coping with the Hodbins. And Polly, dealing daily with the threat of certain death.
If I ever get back to Oxford, I won’t need to go to the Pandemic and the Battle of the Bulge, he thought. I’ve collected more than enough material for my work on heroes right here.
“So, I take it you won’t be at this meeting where the policy’s to be discussed?” Ernest asked.
“Of course I’ll be there.” Tensing drew himself up indignantly. “Unless, of course, my back is acting up. Old war injury, you know.” He allowed himself a smile.
“Lord Nelson’s not the only one who has a blind eye he can turn.”
Cess opened the door and came in. “Chasuble just rang from Tenterden. He says the Austin’s acting up again.”
Right outside the Plough and Bull, no doubt, Ernest thought, where his barmaid Daphne works.
“You two will need to bring him up to speed, then,” Tensing said. He picked up his briefcase and started out. “Those photographs need to be in the dailies by tomorrow and the village papers by their next deadline.” He opened the door.
“Wait,” Cess said. “I’ve only just thought of something. These rockets, we wouldn’t be sending any of them down on our own heads, would we?”
Tensing shook his head. “You’re too far east. If this works as planned, the bulk of the bombs will fall on Bethnal Green, Croydon, and Dulwich.”
Time, which was once said to be on the side of the Allies, has turned out to be, after all, Hitler’s man.
—MOLLIE PANTER-DOWNES,
15 JUNE 1940
Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995
“HERE SHE IS, MR. KNIGHT,” TALBOT SAID. “EILEEN!” SHE shouted, waving across the room at the woman who’d just come into the Blitz exhibit.
She was just as Talbot had described her: gray hair, medium height, rather stout. “Lambert! Over here!” Talbot called, and then turned to Calvin, beaming. “I told you she’d be here soon, Mr. Knight.”
“Her name’s Eileen?” he asked, hoping to God he’d misheard her.