Altered States – Volume II. Darkest Hour

Chapter 35

Admiral Tovey was not at his office when the call came in, but the secretary took down the note and placed it in a pile of ten others just like it on his note needle. Tovey came in and sat down that evening, frustrated and bothered by the grilling he had been through in the Admiralty offices. The First Sea Lord, Admiral Dudley Pound, had been particularly trying with his questions and innuendo, intimating that the entire operation had been blighted with incompetence, that the fleet flagship had gone running about like a chicken with its head cut off-those were the man’s exact words-a chicken with its head cut off!

Whitworth had been somewhat more lenient, sizing up the situation in light of the odds we were facing and putting a better hat on it. “Damn lucky we made port with anything at all,” he said. Four German battleships, with two heavy cruisers, three new destroyers and an aircraft carrier-all coordinating in one sweep south-it was something the Germans had never attempted, and a harbinger of hard time ahead for the Royal Navy if they ever tried it again.

“To think that we turned that German fleet for home is certainly the best we could have hoped for,” said Whitworth, god bless the man. But Pound was steaming over a thick report from Rosyth on the damage sustained by Hood, materials needed for repair, time to be laid up. He was so single minded about it that they never did get round to the matter of the aerial rocketry they had observed, and the role it may have played in the outcome of the battle. That was another battle he would likely fight with Pound at tomorrow’s meeting. It was all very, very frustrating.

Tovey looked at the stack of messages, reaching for them out of habit, or a pathetic attempt to chase his discomfiture over the meeting by seeing what else was on his plate, unattended while they had him on the chair. He would normally start from the bottom of the pile, the oldest messages that might need his attention first, but instead he just took up the first one there and saw a name he was not familiar with, yet it was noting a call from a place that immediately got his attention.

The note read simply: Turing, Alan. Regarding Kirov incident.

That had to refer to the Russian cruiser, and it was coming from Hut Four, Bletchley Park. Why did he feel this odd sense of familiarity in that brief message. Was it the name? Alan Turing… Yes, he had heard of the man, one of the boys at BP sorting out the German Naval code.

Tovey raised an eyebrow, curious. He should have put the matter aside and called for a cup of Earl Grey to settle himself, but there was something about that name, about that note, that made him very curious. There was no other way to describe the feeling, a kind of breathless anticipation, a feeling of stony presentiment settling over him. So he reached for the telephone and had them ring this man back on a secure line. The voice at the other end sounded thin and high, and beset with a nervous edge. He introduced himself politely enough, saying he had been asked to help sort out the matter of the Russian ship that had been encountered just before the recent engagement.

“This may be an odd question, Admiral,” said Turing on the line, his voice sounding distended, as though stretched by time and distance, a crackle of frosty interference clouding the end. “May I ask if the word Geronimo means anything to you in regards to this ship?”

The word… The word Geronimo… Geronimo! Tovey put his hand on his forehead, and he almost dropped the receiver. What was it? Yes, he had heard that word. It struck a deep nerve, jarring him, yet where? What was it? He immediately arranged to go and find out.

That afternoon a car pulled up beneath the stately green bell dome and high arched entry to the estate of Bletchley Park. Tovey had wriggled out of his meeting with Admiral Pound, informing him that BP had special intelligence regarding the subject of that day’s discussion. He requested a 24 hour delay, and went straight to the horse’s mouth.

Tovey entered the simple office, noting the plain map on the wall behind Turing’s desk, the standard black telephone, the odd goggles resting on a pile of papers in his inbox tray-and Turing. He was hunched over a photograph, making a close inspection with a magnifying glass and completely oblivious to the Admiral’s presence.

“Mister Turing?”

The man looked up, surprised. “Oh… Excuse me Admiral.” He stood up immediately. “I was so focused on my work that I did not even hear you come in. People shuffle in and out of here all day and I hardly give them any notice. Please be seated.”

Turing extended a handshake and Tovey sat down, feeling like he had sat there many times before, still strangely familiar with this man in spite of the fact that he knew this was their first meeting.

“I assume those are the photographs we sent over from our encounter with this Russian cruiser?”

“Some of them…” Turing gave Tovey a look that seemed to harbor a warning. “I turned up the others in an old box that was stashed below the bottom shelf in our photo archives.” The man seemed to hesitate, as if he were uncertain of himself, like a man edging out onto frozen ice and hoping it would not give way beneath his feet and send him plummeting into frigid water.

“Then you’ve turned up good information on this ship? That’s precisely what I am here to see. Admiral Pound is already beside himself over recent events, this business with the French now becoming a major blow up as it has.”

“That was most regrettable,” said Turing.

“What was this reference to Geronimo about, Turing? When you mentioned it on the telly I thought I had it right at the edge of my mind, on the tip of my tongue, as it were, but then it completely eluded me.”

“Strange you should say that, Admiral. I felt the same way. It’s just that this box I pulled out was given that label, and taped up as if it were not to be opened again anytime soon.”

“I see. And the contents?”

Turing gave Tovey a lingering look, then averted his eyes, deciding something. He simply handed the Admiral the photograph he had been scrutinizing, and let it speak for itself.

Tovey raised an eyebrow. A ship, making a wide turn, and it was clearly the battlecruiser that had come abeam of HMS Invincible for that unusual meeting at sea with the Russian Admiral.

“Where did this come from? Was it one of the air reconnaissance photos taken by the boys off Ark Royal? I haven’t seen it before.” Yet even as he said that he knew he had seen it. Yes, he had seen it, though he could not remember when. The feeling was very frustrating.

“No, Admiral. That photograph was taken by an American PBY, if you’d care to have a look at the label on the back.”

“American?” Tovey flipped the photo over, quite surprised to read the notation. “It’s misdated,” he said flatly. “August 4, 1941? They’ve got today’s date correct, but a full year on.”

“That is what I first thought,” said Turing, still somewhat hesitant. “But do note the other information provided. You’ll see the notation PBY-6B, Squadron 74, Vosseler. That’s the plane and pilot.”

“Out of Reykjavik?”

“That is what the photo label indicates, sir.”

“I wasn’t aware there were any American planes operating out of Iceland. We’ve barely got our own trousers on there. I requested Fleet Air Arm units, but they’ve only just arrived at Reykjavik.”

“Indeed, sir.” Turing said nothing, simply handing Tovey yet another photo.

This time the image was a typical gun camera still. “My God,” he said. “When did this happen, during the recent engagement in the Denmark Strait?”

“Not according to the photo label, sir.”

Tovey flipped the image over again, his eyes darkening as he read the information: Bristol Beaufighter VI–C — 248 Squadron, Takali, Malta. Melville-Jackson — August 11, 1942 — Tyrrhenian Sea.”

“Misdated by two years this time… And what’s this rubbish about the Tyrrhenian Sea?”

“I have five more photos with identical labels.”

“248 Squadron?”

“I went to the trouble of looking them up,” said Turing. “They were operating with Fighter Command as of 22 April, 1940, flying fighter patrols over the North Sea from R.A.F. Dyce, Aberdeen, and R.A.F. Montrose. They have since been returned to Coastal Command control as of 20 June. Latest information has the squadron at R.A.F. Sumburgh in the Shetland Islands as of 31 July 1940, flying reconnaissance and anti-shipping missions off the coast of Norway.” Turing let the facts speak for themselves.

“I don’t understand. Then why would this photo be labeled this way and show this unit at Takali airfield on Malta?”

“My question precisely, sir.”

Tovey gave him a frustrated look. “See here, Mister Turing, we generally come to you people for answers, not more questions. This is obviously nonsense.”

“Quite so, sir. The entire box.” He now pointed to the box beside his desk where Tovey could see many more fat plain manila envelopes in a row.”

“The entire box? What are you saying?”

“I wish I knew, sir. What I have found here makes no sense. It’s either complete rubbish and nonsense, as you have put it, or perhaps someone’s idea of a very bad joke. Yet I have opened several of these envelopes and all I have found within was a mystery so profound that I find myself completely shaken. It was then that I made my call to you, sir.”

“A mystery? Explain yourself.”

“I have studied photo after photo from that box, sir. They are all arranged, nice and neat, very proper, and following all established protocols for labeling and attachments.”

“Except for the rubbish.”

“Exactly, sir. Yet the photographs… A picture is worth a thousand words, is it not? A foolhardy man might label those photos any way he pleases, but the photographs themselves do not lie. That gun camera shot for example, the one purportedly taken by this Melville-Jackson, well it would be very difficult to fake such an image. I’d say impossible.”

“Are you saying someone deliberately mislabeled the photographs? I’ll have the man’s head!”

“Unfortunately that will be somewhat inconvenient for me, sir, as I found several photographs where I, myself, appear to have completed the labels.”

“You?”

“Yes sir. This one here, for example. See the notations? It looks like someone was using a shadow cast on the forward deck of the ship in that image to work out its dimensions-nearly 900 feet long, a hundred feet abeam-big as Hood, sir, or even HMS Invincible. That someone was me. Those are my initials there at the bottom.”

Tovey steamed. “Have you summoned me all the way from Admiralty headquarters to make a confession, Mister Turing? Are you telling me you botched the labeling on these photographs, or worse, that you did this for sport?”

“Quite the contrary, sir. I must tell you now that I have never set eyes on any of the material in that box-yet the evidence of my own eyes now tells quite another story. A man knows his own initials when he sees them. Those are mine, but I swear to you, sir, that I cannot recall ever seeing that photo, or making those notations.”

Tovey listened, shrugging, and clearly unhappy. “I was told you were somewhat absent minded at times,” he began. “A bit of an eccentric, or so the rumors go. You’ve heard them.”

“Of course, Admiral. But I can now hand you five or ten other photographs labeled by Peter Twinn, also initialed. He’s an associate here. There are numerous others, all processed and labeled by trusted men here, and a few by people I have never heard of.”

“This is a group effort at mayhem with the files? Outrageous!”

“It would be if the men in question were foolish minded individuals, sir. But I am not a fool, and contrary to anything you may have heard, the only games we play here are a good spot of chess from time to time. Otherwise, I assure you we take to our work with the utmost seriousness. Yet I do not have to defend myself here, or anyone else. That box contains photographs that will astound you, sir. Quite shocking, really. How many King George V class ships do we now have in the fleet?”

“What? Just the two newly commissioned ships. Three more in the shipyards.”

“Well have a look at this, sir.” Turing handed over another photo, and Tovey spent a very long time with it, holding it up, his eyes reflecting a gamut of emotion from surprise to recognition to fear.

“God in his heaven…”

“And all’s well with the world,” Turing finished. “Well not quite. As you can see there are four King George V class ships in that image, all at sea, and the label will indicate that photograph was taken in the Western approaches to the Straits of Gibraltar… in 1942.”

“That simply cannot be. It must be a double exposure.” But even as he said that Tovey knew that King George V and Prince of Wales were only now scheduled for a good active duty shakedown cruise. When might that photo have been taken to find them at sea like that? The photos next in that series were equally astounding. There was the ship, the Russian battlecruiser, clearly photographed as it emerged from the Straits of Gibraltar. He could make out the distinctive landform of Isla de las Palomas on the far left, and something about that island stirred a deep memory, more a feeling than anything he could really recall.

“There’s more, sir,” Turing said quietly. “The entire box-gun camera footage, film reels, and voluminous reports and other attachments.” Now he handed Tovey a sheaf of plain typewritten papers, and if Tovey thought he was flummoxed before, this was the final straw.