Miller Caldwell - A Reluctant Spy

She would probably never see him again; even the conversation she had had with him was strictly against the rules. There were notices everywhere forbidding them to talk. Do not talk at meals. Do not talk in transport. Do not talk while travelling. Do not talk in the billet. Do not talk by your own fireside , the posters commanded.

That night as she lay in bed, she realised theirs was the only conversation she had had all day. Her musings melted into the time she last saw him almost a decade ago. Francis had a brilliant brain and a fine baritone singing voice. He could have been an academic, not a military man.

Her path and his crossed occasionally again over the next few weeks. They shared smiles as they passed but did not dare stop to talk, though she sensed more than once that there were some things he wished to say to her. She longed for an opportunity to spend more time with him, but both the disparity in their ranks and the hectoring ‘no talking’ posters left her reluctant to take a step out of line.

Then one morning in early spring, against all her expectations, he sought her out. She was in the small, bare room allotted to the translation workers for the short breaks they enjoyed during their shifts. For once, she was alone, sitting at the table with her hands clasped around a mug of weak tea in an attempt to ward off the chill of a March morning when he appeared in the doorway.

‘Hilda, I have something to tell you. I have been speaking to the director of operations, and he has agreed that a social evening would be excellent for morale – and you and I are to arrange some entertainment.’

Hilda was speechless with delight and excitement. When she found her voice again, questions tumbled over each other in their haste to leave her mouth, and Francis laughingly laid a hand on her arm to slow her down.

For ten minutes or more, they sketched out some plans for the social evening. Then she caught sight of the clock and saw it was time to return to her desk. She felt she had been talking to a familiar old friend, not someone she had met only a handful of times to exchange no more than a few sentences. They met again in the main mess hall after her shift, and arrangements were swiftly under away.

A piano was carried into the mess, Hilda had no idea where it had come from, and one of her colleagues expressed the wish to play it. A handwritten notice on the wall of the mess hall asking for volunteers produced excellent results. A tenor, two sopranos and another baritone joined Francis to form a small chamber choir, and it turned out that Hilda’s oboe was not the only portable musical instrument on site; within a couple of days she was rehearsing with two violins and a viola, a clarinet and a tenor saxophone.

The musical evening took place two weeks later. It was a huge success, and for days afterwards Hilda was stopped in corridors in the mess where congratulations were expressed. And, best of all, she was overwhelmed with a multitude of enquiries about when the next concert would take place.

For Hilda, the best thing about the event had been the opportunity to spend time with Francis. He behaved as if they really were old friends, and she began to allow herself to hope there might indeed be something to look forward with him in the future.

Another musical evening took place a month later, followed by a third two months later. More musicians made themselves known, and eventually the choir grew to fifteen voices and the small orchestra numbered twelve. A comedy act surfaced too. In truth, the audience would have laughed at any comedian, no matter how poor the performance, just to express happiness. In reality there were many hilarious jokes delivered on stage.

After the third concert, Francis seemed to vanish; several days passed during which Hilda neither saw him nor heard from him. Then one day when she reported for duty, she found a folded sheet of paper lying on her desk. She lifted it and turned it over, her hand shaking. His handwriting was unmistakeable and her heart sank as she read what he had written. Francis Shepherd had left BP. He said he could not apologise enough, for disappearing without any warning; it was not his choice, but he was obliged to go where his duty took him, sometimes at very short notice.

On 5th June 1942 he had taken up a posting as Consul-General at Leopoldville in the Belgian Congo. Hilda was devastated. They had known each other properly for only a few weeks, but she felt she had lost a very special friendship, possibly forever. What was more, Central Africa with its heat, disease, poverty and Belgian colonial overtures offered no respite from a world war. Like her, however, he had gone where he was sent. Her memory of her time at BP would be dominated by those past few months and the three musical evenings in the mess. Now she felt she would never be able to perform a concert again. Francis had made quite an impact on the entertainers, the staff and especially on her.

The translation work continued at a very steady pace. Sometimes it seemed tedious, but its importance became increasingly apparent; indeed, on two occasions Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister, showed up at BP. She did not see him the first time, but during his second visit, he came to the desk she was working at and patted her shoulders. ‘Fine work, young lady. Keep it up and we’ll win this war.’

Had he really said young lady? Hilda wanted to reply but found no appropriate words. How did one address the Prime Minister? Besides, the No Talking signs on the wall forbade any conversation. However, she felt his visit had raised morale throughout the establishment. Though she devoured the newspapers that arrived regularly, she never found any reference to BP nor its activities; to the outside world it was as if they did not exist. A little appreciation went a long way, especially from one in such high office.

The United States of America had entered the war by then, and their troops were making a vital contribution. By the end of 1942, Hilda was daring to hope the Allies were beginning to turn the tide.

Occasionally they heard night bombers droning louder and louder overhead. Hilda learned that in 1940 BP had been hit by a stray bomb, probably intended for Bletchley railway station, but so far the secret establishment itself had suffered no direct hit. When the bombers came, she lay in bed, listening. Each time the noise faded, she sighed with relief that they had not been the target that night. Perhaps there was no target she told herself; perhaps they were American planes, returning after a bombing raid on mainland Europe. But the bombing of what, and where? Could Hamburg have been their target? Would Renate be safe? Was Otto on home leave? She wished fervently that both American and British bombers would focus their attention on Berlin, the centre of the terror, and leave her beloved Hamburg alone.

All the same, she felt the tide was turning. Moreover, she was not alone in believing that.

Time passed, the Allies continued to make progress, albeit slowly at times, and suddenly it was the year 1945. The New Year gilded with expectation, fraught by doubt. The general view was that Hitler’s plans were crumbling, but no one seemed able to tell him. The spirit had abandoned the ordinary German soldier, conscious of an advancing Russian army to the east, but the die-hards, the unquestioning servants of Nazism, hung on tenaciously. If an opportunity arose for desertion, Hilda hoped many would take that risk without facing certain repercussions, which would surely not occur when Germany finally admitted defeat. Perhaps Otto had already taken his chance for escape, and returned home to Hamburg to hide until the last days of conflict were over; she devoutly hoped so.