Edward Wilson: Portrait of the Spy as a Young Man

Catesby longed for the woman from Homerton, but the things he wanted to say to her were not ones he wanted to share with the House Commandant. He decided to stop writing. He tried to contact her after he returned from France, but, ironically, the letters were returned ‘Addressee Unknown’. He knew that she couldn’t have joined SOE for the war was almost over and they were no longer recruiting. He remembered that she had once said something about immigrating to Australia when she was finally established as a teacher. Catesby never found out what she did, but often lay awake remembering her thighs and hips grinding him into a heavenly powder.

Tracking down H.H. Strachan was easier. He burnt to death after his tank ‘brewed up’ during the battle for Caen. He survived a mere two weeks after arriving in Normandy.

Suffolk: July 1942

Catesby’s earliest encounter with Ewan Maurice Godfrey van Zwanenberg Phillips was at Gibraltar Barracks, the Suffolk Regiment’s depot near Bury St. Edmunds. At first, Catesby assumed that Ewan was an example of the levelling that the war had created. Although he bore the humble rank of private, Ewan’s full name sounded pretty posh and had echoes of aristocratic European forebears. A fellow officer had whispered that Ewan was related to Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands who headed a government in exile in London – but the connection had to be hushed up to protect Ewan from the risk of kidnapping or assassination. Knowing the Dutch link, Catesby once started speaking to Ewan in Flemish. Ewan looked bemused, but didn’t reply.

‘I apologise,’ said Catesby. ‘I know that your Dutch connections should be kept secret.’

‘There is nothing at all secret about my Dutch connections.’

‘Then, if you don’t mind my asking, how exactly are you related to Queen Wilhelmina?’

Ewan laughed. ‘Not at all – but I suppose one of her family’s cooks might have come into the shop to buy a rack of lamb.’

Catesby looked confused.

‘My forebears from the Netherlands were Jewish tradesmen. They lived in a village near Amsterdam. My grandfather ran a butchery business which was very successful. He immigrated to London where he sent my father to Harrow. My father opened an art gallery in Duke Street, St. James’s and specialised in the avant-garde.’ Ewan smiled. ‘So, thank god, we are not aristocracy, but honest tradesmen.’

Although his manner and voice were modest and self-deprecating, Ewan was clearly an establishment insider whose connections stretched far beyond artists and collectors. The colonel realised this and quickly lifted him from the ranks and put him on his staff.

Catesby wasn’t surprised that he had been summoned to see the colonel and was prepared for a bollocking. A route march led by Catesby the previous day had gone badly wrong. He wasn’t very good at barking parade ground commands. In fact, he thought the whole business was silly. Catesby’s platoon had been approaching a T-junction. The route they were to follow went off to the left at a 45-degree angle, but Catesby couldn’t remember the correct command. He began to shout, ‘left wheel’ – then remembered that was only for a 90-degree turn. Oh shit, it was on the tip of his tongue – but ‘diagonal march, left incline’ was still eluding him when the first rank of the platoon tumbled into the drainage ditch. The soldiers, not having been given a command to change direction, were right to continue forging ahead. Catesby closed his eyes in shame. It was the same lions-led-by-donkeys obedience that had led to the bloodbath of the Somme, but on this occasion there were no casualties – other than some scuffed and muddy kit. There was a lot of laughter. It was obvious that what had happened was more piss-take than mistake. Catesby knew that reprimanding his soldiers would only make things worse. Instead, he turned to the senior NCO and said, ‘Manton.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take over and march the men back to the barracks.’

The sergeant gave a snappy salute and turned to the platoon. ‘Come on, you lot. Let’s get sorted.’

Catesby strode ahead reciting Die Lorelei and thinking of the Homerton girl. If anyone suspected him of being an enemy spy, he would say that he was just practising his German.

Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet…

The most beautiful maiden sits

On the heights, a wondrous marvel

Draped in golden jewels sparkling

The colonel had an impeccably trimmed officer’s moustache which, Catesby thought, seemed to be issued as a standard item of kit. Catesby was still waiting for his. The colonel was sitting behind a desk sorting through neatly arranged files with the assistance of Ewan. ‘Ah,’ said the colonel, ‘this is him. Suffolk born and bred, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Catesby stood rigidly at attention and braced himself for a reprimand while the colonel perused his file. From time to time the colonel stroked his moustache and said, ‘Hmm.’ He finally turned to Catesby. ‘I see you are a board school lad who made it into Cambridge.’ The expression ‘board school’ was, even in 1942, an old-fashioned one referring to state-funded schools established by the Education Act of 1870. ‘You must, Catesby, be very clever indeed. I went straight from Repton to Sandhurst – never got beyond basic maths and simple sentence writing. How did you become fluent in all these languages being brought up in Lowestoft?’

‘My mother, sir, is a Belgian who was brought up speaking both French and Flemish.’

‘And why did she teach them to you?’

‘She said the languages would be useful if we ever went into the export trade. She did some translating herself.’ Catesby suspected that the real reason was that his mother loathed life in England and wanted to take her children back to Antwerp. But, in the circumstances, that was a family secret that must stay secret.

‘But you went to Cambridge instead. What did you learn there?’

‘I studied medieval French literature and German.’

‘I am sure the latter will be more useful.’ The colonel gestured towards Ewan. ‘Phillips here is another clever dog – and speaks foreign languages too. Apparently, it helps in the art trade.’

Ewan hid his embarrassment with an ironic smile. ‘It can, sir, be useful.’

The colonel looked at Catesby’s file again. ‘I think that your skills would be wasted in a line infantry unit. And, in any case, your OCTU report is somewhat mixed.’ He read it: ‘“This officer cadet displays a high degree of physical fitness and endurance. His problem-solving skills and map-reading are above average. He is, however, slovenly and sometimes lacking in discipline and respect for his superiors.”’ The colonel paused and shook his head. ‘Not good, Catesby, not good – and it gets worse: “I cannot recommend this cadet for a commission on the basis of his leadership skills. In a command position, Cadet Catesby is often impatient with and disrespectful to those he is leading, who in turn become resentful. On the other hand, Cadet Catesby is a risk-taker who displays little fear of danger. He could prove a useful member of an unconventional unit operating behind enemy lines. He also has the skills required of a staff officer: comprehension, analysis and administration. On balance, I recommend Cadet Catesby for a commission.”’ The colonel looked up. ‘Sadly, Catesby, it sounds like your men would shoot you before the Germans had a chance. On the other hand, you have qualities which could be invaluable to the war effort. I have recently received a top secret request asking me to recommend officers and men for a hush-hush unit which officially doesn’t exist. You seem to meet the bill. Would you like to volunteer?’

‘Only, sir, if it means fighting the Germans and not sitting behind a desk.’