The Road to Station X: From Debutante Ball to Fighter-Plane Factory to Bletchley Park a Memoir of One Woman's Journey Through World War Two (Memoirs from World War Two) Read online

  THE ROAD TO STATION X

  Sarah Baring

  To my sons, William Astor and Edward Baring, and for Osla Henniker-Major who shared all our wartime work, and who I think would have enjoyed this story of it.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  IN GERMANY — 1937

  DEBUTANTE

  THE PHONEY WAR

  THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN

  THE BLITZ

  RATIONING

  FRIENDS

  CALL UP AND RECRUITMENT

  THE HAWKER HURRICANE FACTORY

  PENNY ROYAL COTTAGE

  THE SLOUGH TRADING ESTATE

  FIGHT FOR THE FACTORY WORKFORCE

  RECRUITMENT TO A NEW JOB

  THE INTRODUCTION TO STATION X

  HUT 4, NAVAL SECTION

  THE ENIGMA MACHINE

  KEEPING THE SECRET SAFE

  A NEW BILLET

  VISITORS AND ECCENTRICS

  PROMOTION

  MISCHIEF AND HIGH JINKS

  CODES AND CIPHERS

  ECLECTIC MEMORIES

  THE MEDITERRANEAN

  WORK AND WORRY

  THE SCHARNHORST IS DOOMED

  OPERATION OVERLORD

  DECEPTION

  THE INVASION OF FRANCE

  DOODLEBUGS

  BOMB PLOT AND PARIS LIBERATED

  V.E. ROCKETS

  A NEW JOB

  ARRIVAL IN LONDON

  OPERATIONAL INTELLIGENCE CENTRE

  THE DEATH OF TIRPITZ

  LLOYD’S REGISTER SAVES THE DAY

  A FLIRTATION WITH AN ADMIRAL

  THE LAST FEW MONTHS

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  IN GERMANY — 1937

  When I was seventeen my parents sent me to Munich in Germany for further education and to learn the language. I was green and unsophisticated, tall and skinny with wavy hair the colour of rich mouse. I had long gangly legs which I kept tripping over and which resulted in them being liberally decorated with bits of sticking plaster to cover the grazes.

  I went reluctantly and with bad grace because I really wanted to go to Italy. My innocent mind was full of fantasies of romantic Italian boys, but my mother dismissed them as unsuitable for my tender age and I was dispatched to Germany forthwith.

  I was installed in the home of a Graf and Gräfin who were both kind and welcoming. I was forced to learn German because they pretended not to be able to speak English. Every morning an elderly lady of obviously reduced means came to help me struggle through the grammar and the extraordinary structure of sentences with the verb at the end.

  The afternoons were spent at art school where I studied illustrative lettering with great joy. I was taken to the opera twice a week but, as I was tone-deaf to anything other than jazz, it was not much fun; and to sit through The Ring was a form of torture. I was embarrassed by my lack of culture in the musical arts, but being a visual person I was at least rewarded by the splendid architecture and the flamboyant baroque decoration.

  I began to notice that food was very scarce, butter and such things as marmalade were almost non-existent. The Gräfin did her best under the circumstances and fed me and the two other resident English girls with a reasonably decent diet.

  But something else was terribly wrong. There was tension in the air and an atmosphere of fear pervaded the city. The citizens seemed to shrink away from anyone in uniform and hesitate to voice an opinion even to their family and friends. The culprit was, of course, the Nazi Party who were predominant in the district; they strutted about like roosters in a barnyard causing young and old to quail at the sight of them.

  In Munich, during the summer of 1937, an odious anti-Jewish newspaper was published called Die Juden. It was both vicious and destructive and nobody bought it. As a result of this public rejection, the powers that be in the Reichstag decreed that it should be prominently displayed, framed, covered with glass and erected on the railings of nearly every street corner. Myself and other like-minded English girls also studying the language were outraged by this obscenity and the seventeen-year-old energy was detonated by the unjust and atrocious persecution of the Jewish people.

  After a period of reflection followed by frustration, the mischievous elasticity of the teenage mind gave birth to a crusade, the consequence of which forced me to return to England in disgrace some months later, still rebellious and self-righteous nevertheless.

  At the beginning of our campaign against the Nazis, we satisfied ourselves with the sport of circling the Odeonsplatz in the city centre and refusing to raise the right arm in a statutory salute to Hitler, thereby tormenting the Gestapo who didn’t dare arrest us because we were foreigners, but we soon tired of that.

  Next on the agenda was visiting the Charlton Tea Rooms, regularly frequented by Hitler and his gang of assassins. We would choose a table as close as possible and stare at them in obvious distaste. It was a pretty senseless occupation because I do not think they noticed us, but it gave us vicarious pleasure and a good opportunity to observe them.

  Adolf Hitler was usually dressed entirely in grey, giving the impression of a haunting spectre with black piercing eyes that drilled into you. His hair was carefully brushed obliquely across his forehead, but despite the intimidating appearance the effect was rather comical. Field Marshal Goering, on the other hand, favoured an all-white uniform with medals and decorations hung on every spare inch of his tunic and he was so fat that his bloated stomach bulged over the tablecloth. Goebbels and Streicher, the Jew baiters, defied description other than to say they looked sub-human and specimens of evil ectoplasm. We eventually decided that these visits were a waste of time and money and that something more serious and significant had to be done to display our hatred of the regime. I think the exposures of the newspaper distressed us the most and that was where our vendetta should be directed.

  The plan, hardly a plot, was to secure a hammer, sneak out at night, smash the glass and tear down the offensive publication from its frame. The only hurdle to overcome was the suspicions of the Graf and Gräfin’s younger son, who was a dedicated member of the Hitler-Jugend. They were like Nazi Boy Scouts and wrapped in their cause. He might betray us, or even worse, his gentle parents. To ensure that he fell into a deep sleep we doped his evening ersatz coffee with four crushed aspirins.

  The stage was set nearby in Durchstrasse, the scene a street corner. We struck the glass in the middle of the frame, pulled down and tore up the filthy newspaper and moved on to the next target.

  That was when the fun began, the noise had alerted the S.S. and the chase was on. Now, a Stormtrooper with baton and jackboots can be an alarming sight, but thus equipped they cannot run, at least not fast enough. Their clatter made an excellent danger signal, but to round a corner and bump into one unexpectedly involved a spectacular turn of foot made easier by wearing an old pair of gym shoes.

  After a few nights of this hedonistic action, the glass was suddenly replaced by wire mesh which was a slight hindrance, but overcome by purchasing a pair of wire cutters from an ironmonger in another district; this process of removal took longer and scouts had to be posted at intervals. In the end, of course, we were caught, giving grounds for embarrassment to our Foreign Office — who were trying to be congenial to the Germans — and sent home in disrepute.

  I was in some fear and trepidation as to my mother
’s reaction, but all she said was “Well done, despite your nuisance value I hope you learnt the language.”

  DEBUTANTE

  In 1938, these were the words I heard as I walked into the room for my first deb dance. “Well, look what’s happened to little Sarah Norton!” Trying to gather my wits and hide my fright, I looked up and standing there before me were five white-tied, tail-coated males. At first I did not recognise them, but after a few seconds and through the disguise of sartorial excellence I perceived my childhood friends.

  What a metamorphosis! A picture flashed through my mind, indelibly printed, of scruffy, tousle-haired boys who had teased me mercilessly but allowed me to join them in a game of rounders. My only problem, which made me cry, was that I was unable to pee up the garden wall like they did. I didn’t understand why and went sobbing to Nanny, who said she would explain when I got older. My mother’s friends had produced mostly males and although at the time I craved for the company of girls to play with, my male-dominated world was to stand me in good stead in the future. I must have looked a bit different from the tangled tomboy I used to be, but all flowers have a bud which eventually comes out, which was what I was supposed to be doing.

  “Coming out” and being a debutante had never given me much food for thought as I was only interested in horses, but my mother told me I was to be presented at Court that year and that I would have to learn to curtsey properly, none of that bob up and down stuff so admired by the Edwardians to illustrate good manners to their elders and betters.

  I was dispatched off to Miss Vacani’s, a celebrated school of dancing and deportment. I had attended her dancing classes many years before where we were taught to mince across the floor smiling prettily, and point the toe nicely. Due to my innate clumsiness I could do neither, so despite the beauty of my frock and the matching double-satin ribbons in my hair, much to Nanny’s chagrin, Miss Vacani suggested that the lessons should be suspended until I was older.

  So the years went by and I found myself back in Knightsbridge at the dancing emporium. I thought this curtseying business was going to be a doddle. I fancied myself as a gymnast and could do the splits with ease. I had practised this particular exercise for years because it was the one thing the boys could not do.

  Miss Vacani eyed us up and down; there were at least fifteen girls in the class. I hoped she hadn’t remembered my childish ineptitude. “Now, my darlings, stand up straight, heads high, poise is most important.” I felt a perfect idiot parading round amongst the other girls, who were going through the same drill and feeling equally foolish. Another command addressed to me: “Sarah Norton, don’t look at your feet. They are meant to move, not be gazed at, darling.”

  This supposedly easy obeisance to the King and Queen was actually profoundly difficult. You had to bring your left leg behind your right leg, bend the knee almost down to the floor keeping your head high and eyes straight forward. Going down was not too bad, but coming up was almost impossible without wobbling. Such an error Miss Vacani would not countenance. It took hours of practice to become perfect and I am not sure I ever got it right, but at least I got rid of the wobble.

  Then there followed a series of fittings at the dressmakers for my court dress. Mine was made of ivory satin, cut straight with a small train and puff sleeves. I hated it, but no amount of sulking and remonstrations that it was unfashionable would change my mother’s mind. The style made it difficult to do the curtsey and whip the train round with my heel on completion of the manoeuvre.

  The day of my presentation at Court arrived and early on a hairdresser fixed the three white Prince of Wales’ feathers firmly to the back of my head for this important occasion. My mother looked beautiful in white silk with her star-shaped tiara twinkling in her hair; my father was resplendent in the uniform of a captain in the Scots Guards. His sense of humour was renowned and he soothed my nerves by telling me the last time he wore full dress uniform, before he had been wounded in the First World War. He was in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace drilling his platoon, prior to the Changing of the Guard, when to his horror he marched them straight into the railings because he couldn’t remember the command to stop, let alone retreat.

  The story made me giggle on the way to the Palace, the three of us in a huge Rolls-Royce which my mother thought the only appropriate form of transport and never mentioned that we had to hire it. I was still smiling, trying to do up the pearl buttons on my long white kid gloves which had to come over the elbow, when the car was stopped short by hundreds of people in The Mall waving at all the cars proceeding slowly to the vast gold and black gates. I thought it was awfully nice of them, considering we must have looked very theatrical and fancy-dressed.

  On our arrival at the Sovereign’s Entrance to the Palace I was parted from my parents and taken into a large ante-room where I found at least twenty other girls similarly attired, most of whom I knew. We just had time to exchange views about the hideousness of our dresses when a gentleman usher opened a door into what seemed like a throne room and told us to wait until our names were called and then to proceed individually.

  I started to shake and feel sick but there was no going back now, no escape. I heard my name called, it was do or die, so with chin up, shoulders down, I began to walk forward. I had a blurred vision of a mass of people to my right. I think it was called an assembly and presumably my parents were among them. Twelve paces forward and there on the left were the Queen and the King. I curtseyed to the Queen first and did it without a wobble (thank you, Miss Vacani). I was just about to move on to His Majesty when a figure most regal caught my eye, sitting behind and between them. It was Queen Mary and I curtseyed to her before doing the same to the King. This, I was told afterwards with a gentle reprimand by another usher, was not correct but not a treasonable offence.

  I think I did the middle curtsey out of instinct because Queen Mary was a friend of my grandmother and often came to tea with her at Eaton Place. I could never understand why my grandmother always put away her valuable collection of Russian snuffboxes and other china bijouterie whenever Queen Mary came to visit. When I asked her the reason for this concealment, she told me that if the Queen admired an object it meant she would like it as a gift and a refusal might mean the end of the friendship.

  I thought she was quite beautiful, the epitome of a queen, dressed in Edwardian style with a high neck netted up to her chin, supported by tiny wires, and on top a small hat with a veil called a toque; but, for all her regal appearance, she had a sense of humour. When I was about four years old I was summoned to the drawing room from our nursery on the fourth floor to meet Queen Mary. Clutching on to Nanny, who had to wait outside the door, I was gently pushed into the presence. As I advanced towards this formidable lady my knickers fell down. I don’t remember this embarrassing incident, but apparently I calmly stepped out of them as if nothing had happened. That’s poise for you! Queen Mary laughed with pleasure and poor Nanny was mortified about having slipped up whilst sewing the elastic.

  The rest of my upbringing was focused on education, languages and history taught to me by European governesses who were ignorant about the Plantagenets and Tudors. So I learnt about the French and Spanish instead. I didn’t like the lessons, but then I didn’t like the governesses either. When I returned from Germany at seventeen my mother decided I could educate myself and I became a bookworm, reading everything I could lay my hands on; but having reached the age of eighteen I was drawn by force down to London to be presented.

  The rest of my debutante year remains largely out of focus and seemed to blend into one long dance. The really grand ones were called balls and on these occasions married ladies wore their tiaras, necklaces and bracelets and stomachers in sets of shimmering diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Long white gloves were de rigueur at the beginning of the evening and then removed because it was considered vulgar to wear bracelets over them. Some of the jewels were so valuable that it was rumoured that some families had copies made to avoid the
vast insurance premiums.

  During the first year of “coming out” chaperoning was essential and considered correct. My poor mother escorted me to every dance preceded by a big dinner party. There she sat on a gold chair against the wall of the ballroom in some large townhouse until the early hours of the morning whilst I had the time of my life. Few fathers attended and the ones that did were pretty boring. She did get the odd offer of a dance because she was very beautiful. All my men friends sent her flowers and flirted with her.

  On arrival at a dance you were given a small rectangular card which folded, with a small pencil attached by a silken cord. The card was numbered from one to twenty and the men had to ask you if you would dance with them. If you agreed they wrote their names on the appropriate number. This was an excellent formula, because if you took pity on a dullish chap who had pestered you all evening, you could always get rid of him for the next dance as the band stopped after each one.

  I was lucky enough, due to my male childhood friends, never to be a wallflower. This unkind title was given to the not so pretty girls who didn’t know any boys and after the obligatory dance with their dinner partners could not fill their cards and were forced to spend most of the evening sobbing in the ladies’ cloakroom. It must have been a refined form of torture for them and not until the end of the season could they return to the bosom of their country estates and seek solace with their ponies and dogs.

  And so I flitted happily from May to July, attending luncheons, cocktail parties, and the nights dancing at Holland House, Londonderry House, the Ritz and Claridge’s, the latter two being the venue for those families who had no town residence. Then there were the important four days at Ascot races in June. I wore a different outfit each day and had to prominently display my Royal Enclosure badge; otherwise gentlemen in top hats and green velvet jackets would bar you entrance. Some people tried to get in without one but they never succeeded. Silk or tussore dresses should be worn with large straw hats to match and the inevitable white gloves, but this time they could be short. One poor girl was made to wear long dresses by her mother. That fashion had gone out two reigns before. I felt sorry for her, but wished she would wipe that vapid smile off her face.