I WAS MONTY’S DOUBLE Page 10

  Behind it was something which looked like an old Austin Seven with two wings and a tail stuck on to it. The Wing Commander went up to it, lifted up a sort of cover and said, “Jump in, James.”

  I clambered up and wriggled myself into a tiny bucket-seat in the back. They too got in and sat in front of me. “You’d better put your safety belt on,” said the Wing Commander, turning round. “Oh no, I forgot, you can’t bail out of this type of aircraft.” He shouted something, pulled the, cover over us and the engine started up.

  The plane rocked and swayed about. Not daring to look over the side, I took out an envelope and pencil and with my eyes glued to the paper I slowly wrote some lines from a burlesque on a play called Three Weeks in which I had appeared years ago.

  Three weeks to get a son and heir!

  How in the Elinor Glynne am I going to do it?

  Black sheets, shaded lights, and—

  You and I, darling.

  We were off the ground. Cautiously I peeped round. Nothing but blue sky with a few fleecy clouds. I held my breath and looked down—and I felt fine; the sense of height didn’t affect me at all.

  In half an hour we were over Salisbury Plain, and soon after that we made a perfect landing at an R.A.F. station in Devon. I never felt better in my life.

  After the flight I was driven back to London by a Wing Commander who turned out to be Dennis Wheatley, the well-known author. En route we ran short of petrol and we drew up at a camp for American coloured troops for a fill-up. A big buck negro at the gates gave us an expansive grin instead of a salute and waved us on. When we pulled up by the petrol pump another negro thrust his head in at the window and greeted the officer beside me with a “Hiya, borss.”

  Our driver got out and took him by the arm. “Any chance of some petrol, mate?”

  “Petrawl? Noa, we ain’t nuth’a like that, I reckon. If it’s gas you’se wantin’, jes turn, de handle, Limey, and out she comes.”

  The driver began to get annoyed. “My moniker ain’t limey, old cock.”

  “How come, big boy? I sure never heard of limey Alcock.”

  “For God’s sake! “What about this petrol? Have you got a requisition form for me to fill in?”

  The darkie scratched his woolly head. “Rekwizon form? No, suh, I ain’t never heard of that thing.” He grinned broadly. “There’s the gas, borss. Jes turn de handle and out she comes.” So we gave it up and turned the handle.

  Next morning Colonel Lester told me that the time was getting very near for the curtain to go up. Was I certain that I was ready? I replied that I had studied Monty under a variety of conditions and had watched him in his different moods. I felt confident that I was ready and that if I studied him any more I might get stale.

  My General’s uniform had already been made and there was now a discussion about Monty’s numerous medal ribbons and the exact order in which they should be worn. Eventually his tailor was consulted about it, after which I set out with Stephen Watts and Jack Hervey to buy my kit for the Near East. This was my first definite clue as to where I was going.

  As we walked down Piccadilly I remembered something. “You know I shall need a gold watch-chain, don’t you?”

  They stared at me. “A gold watch-chain,” said Jack. “Haven’t you got a wrist-watch?”

  “What grade of Intelligence Officers are you two? M.D.? Don’t you know that Monty always wears a gold watch-chain across his battle-dress?”

  “All right, all right, you shall have it,” Stephen said. “No expense shall be spared to dress you for the part.” And he went into Woolworth’s and bought a handsome gold chain for half a crown. Although I have no financial interest in Woolworth’s, I will say it was remarkably good value. All the time I was General Montgomery I wore it with a key on one end of it and a penknife on the other. Luckily no one asked me for the time.

  When we had made our purchases I spent the rest of the day watching Monty on the news-reels, probably for the last time. Next morning I was to report for my first rehearsal. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like. I have been to some strange rehearsals in my time but evidently this would be the strangest of them all.

  One of these rehearsals came into my mind next morning on my way to the War Office. Years ago I was to appear in a play at Seaham Harbour, Durham. The Manager of the local theatre had lost the theatre key and so we had to rehearse in a field outside it where cows were grazing.

  The first mishap occurred when the leading man who had to kneel before the heroine chose an unfortunate place on the grass to do it. You can imagine the state of his trouser knees, but I doubt if you can imagine his language. He was in such a bad temper that he started to have a row with his brother who was putting the show on. The quarrel flared up so fiercely that they came to blows, and his brother landed him one on the nose.

  Few actors can resist the temptation to act off the stage. Holding his handkerchief to his bleeding nose, the leading man turned the situation into High Drama.

  “This is too much,” he exclaimed oratorically. “I quit. Find another to take my part—if you can.”

  He stalked across to the ancient Ford in which he had arrived, took hold of the starting handle, then straightened up and shouted: “I wash my hands of your piffling production. I will not sully my name by appearing in such trash. Goodbye!”

  He bent down and jerked the starting handle several times, but the engine refused to start.

  Straightening his back again he waved his arm and cried, “And so, I bid you farewell!”

  Once again he worked at the starter but still the engine refused to fire. At last, releasing the brake, he yelled, “To hell with, you all!” and amid a roar of laughter he pushed his car down the road. It was the perfect anticlimax.

  As soon as I entered the well-known room at the War Office I felt an atmosphere of tension. The Colonel was there with Jack and Stephen and a tall, grey-haired man who was introduced to me as Brigadier Heywood. This last man was to act as my personal aide during the impersonation. There was also a young Captain, Moore by name, who was to take charge of our hold-alls.

  I liked the Brigadier from the first. He had been with MI 5 for many years, and no doubt had been very carefully chosen for what might prove to be an extremely ticklish job. He looked to me like a man whom nothing could rattle, and like Monty he radiated a feeling of strength and confidence.

  Colonel Lester wasted no time. “Now, James,” he began, “I will give you a brief outline of the first part of our plans. Tomorrow evening at 6.30 you will be taken to an address in London where you will change your uniform—and become General Montgomery. You will be driven to the airport, giving the public a chance to see you en route. We want just a little advance publicity, and we hope that one or two nameless individuals whom we have under observation will get to know about your movements.

  “On reaching the airport you will find certain high-ranking officers of the Army and Air Force parading on the airfield to see you off. Also the skipper and crew of the Prime Minister’s private plane in which you will travel. It will be something of a ceremonial occasion. As you get out of your car you salute, inspect the parade of officers; then go over to the skipper, say a word or two to him and board the plane. Is this clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can give you only the general directions. You must manage the details in your own way—just as you think Monty would do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. Now, gentlemen, we’ll take the first scene.”

  The room, perhaps not for the first time in its history, became a small theatre. Chairs and tables were placed to represent the plane, the crew and the parade of officers.

  As we took our places I saw that I had been right. This was certainly the most fantastic rehearsal that I had ever attended.

  “I and these chairs here are the high-ranking officers,” said Colonel Lester. “You, Stephen, are the skipper and you, Jack, the crew of the plane. This chair is the car.”

/>   The Brigadier put his arm round my waist and solemnly we shuffled along to the chair, representing the car’s arrival. Then I turned, and as General Montgomery I stepped out of the car, saluted, went over to the line of officers on my left, gravely walked along the row of chairs; then over to the skipper and his crew, returned the skipper’s salute, and in Monty’s precise tones I remarked, “Hope we have a good trip.”

  Stephen replied smoothly: “Yes, sir, I hope so. The weather reports are excellent.”

  After this I turned, marked time to show that I was walking up the gangway, turned again to give a farewell salute and sat down in one of the chairs representing the plane.

  “Good,” said Colonel Lester. “I can’t see much wrong with that.”

  We went through it once or twice more and then we sat down and he offered me a cigarette.

  “You won’t be able to have many more of these,” he said, holding the lighter. “Better start cutting them down after this. As soon as you’re Monty you’ll be a strict non-smoker.”

  While I was smoking it he told me a little more. “You’re now in the air. Monty has left England in full view of scores of people. If any of them happen to be enemy agents, so much the better. You fly through the night to Gibraltar, where you will be landing at 7.45 a.m., to be received by the Governor.

  “When somebody important arrives at a British colony or station which has a Governor, the rule is that the Governor never comes out in person to meet his guest, but he sends a representative to act for him. When you land at the airport you will find a full parade of senior officers waiting to receive you. Salute them, then turn and ask for Major Foley, who by the way is in the know. Talk to him for a few moments in the Monty manner, then get into the Governor’s car which will take you in state through the streets of Gib. to Government House.”

  He waited a few moments to enable me to digest all this. “You have probably heard some criticism of us—how we are always being caught on the wrong foot, always too late, and so on? As a matter of fact we rather welcome this sort of thing—it’s a good thing to get the enemy to underestimate you—but I need hardly tell you, this picture of us is not quite accurate. Sometimes we deliberately give the impression that we are committing terrible bloomers. This is what we are going to do in Gibraltar.

  “When you get there you’ll find the usual crowd of curious onlookers watching the plane arrive, and among them some Spanish workers who have jobs at the airport. Several of them will be enemy agents. We have already spread the rumour that General Montgomery is arriving in the Near East on a very secret visit and that he wants it kept strictly quiet. Our people have made certain that this news has reached the ears of enemy agents. So you see why you’ve got to be perfect in your part. Every move of yours will be watched intently by clever people who are working for Hitler.”

  “Spanish workmen?”

  “Yes, and not only Spaniards. Gib. is a hot-bed of espionage. Now to get back to your arrival there. Your car polls up at Government House, the guard presents arms, the main doors open, and out steps your old friend General Sir Ralph Eastwood, Governor of Gibraltar, to welcome you.”

  “My old friend, sir?”

  “Yes. You and Sir Ralph were at Sandhurst together and you greet each other with some warmth. ‘Hullo, Monty,’ the Governor will say, and you will reply, ‘Well, Rusty, it’s good to see you again,’ or words to that effect. Then he’ll take your arm and lead you inside, with your aides following you. After that, it’s up to you. Play it off your cuff.”

  “Is the Governor in the know?”

  “Yes, of course. But don’t forget, inside Government House you will be under close observation from people who mustn’t know. There’s the steward, for instance, who was once Monty’s batman and has known him intimately for years. From what I have seen of you I believe you’ve mastered the role pretty thoroughly and you could probably fool most of the enemy agents you’re likely to meet, but this man knows every hair of Monty’s head and he’ll be waiting on you at table, I expect. Do you think you can fool him?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I’ll try.”

  “It’s the acid test. If he takes you for Monty you needn’t be afraid anyone else will see through you.”

  One of the things which struck me in my dealings with MI 5 was their rule of telling me only just enough to take me over the next lap. Having run this lap, more information would be given me at the next relay starting-point, perhaps by some person thousands of miles away. It was rather like a treasure hunt with clues at widely separated points.

  I was not surprised when Colonel Lester said: “Sir Ralph will give you further instructions which I won’t burden you with now. What I want you to do is to concentrate on what you’re doing at the moment and not try to think too far ahead. Remember, we can plan and time things this end; we can train you and tell you more or less what to do; but things never work out exactly as they are planned. The scheme has got to be flexible, and this is where your own initiative comes in.

  “Once you are launched on this adventure you must paddle your own canoe. I know on the stage mistakes can be made and other members of the cast can cover them up. But you can’t expect any leniency on the World Stage. A single slip may ruin one of the greatest plans of deception that has ever been attempted.”

  In our previous conversations he had always been careful not to say anything which might make me nervous, but now he had spoken very gravely, and from his expression I sensed a doubt in his mind that he had been a little too alarmist.

  “I feel pretty sure of myself now, sir,” I said. “Whatever happens I won’t let you down.”

  “I am certain you won’t,” he replied, giving me a very straight look. “But it’s not me you have to think of, it’s the thousands of men whose lives depend on you.”

  After this little interlude we rehearsed the landing at Gibraltar with chairs to represent the car, the plane, the Top Brass and Major Foley. Disembarking from my plane and followed by my two aides, one of whom carried a book of the King’s Regulations to represent my hold-all, I saluted the row of officers, then said, “Good morning, gentlemen, where is Foley?”

  When you come to think of it, it is only natural that MI 5 men should be good mimics. Mimicry is a form of humour which can relieve a tense situation, and also it can come in very handy if you happen to be concealing your identity.

  Before Jack could answer, the Colonel replied, “Yus, ’ere I am, old cock,” which had us all in fits of laughter.

  We went through the scene again and everything went well except that I turned too quickly and collided with the “I’m sorry, sir,” I exclaimed, but immediately be dug me la the ribs and said, “Don’t call me sir—I have to call you sir.”

  Colonel Lester, who had noticed the incident, gave me a short curtain lecture. From now on, he said, I must try to get the feeling of actually being General Montgomery. I must change my inner attitude towards the world. Self-confidence must replace timidity. I must carry an imaginary picture of myself as a successful General. Senior officers must be senior officers no longer but mere subordinates. If crowds cheered me it would only be my due. If I inspected parades I must never stop to consider if I were coming up to scratch but only whether they were. This feeling of actually being Monty must govern everything and show itself in my behaviour.

  Stephen Watts, who of course knows a lot about the Theatre, did much to help us with these rehearsals. We had to get every movement and gesture accurate, and the timing as meticulous as it is in a West End play.

  We rehearsed the next scene, my arrival at Government House. Jack was Sir Ralph Eastwood and Colonel Lester the Guard of Honour. I alighted from my imaginary car and was about to return the Guard’s salute when I was almost overcome by the absurdity of the situation. The Colonel stood there as stiff as a ramrod, his battered hat perched on his head and his umbrella held smartly at the Present!

  Mounting the steps of Government House I was met by a smiling Jack who exclaimed,
“Hullo, Monty, how are you?”

  “Hullo, Rusty,” I replied heartily, shaking him by the hand, “it’s good to see you again.” And together we turned and entered the building.

  We went through this scene once or twice until Stephen was satisfied; but suddenly his expression changed.

  “Good Lord!” he said. “Your right hand!”

  All eyes were turned on my hand which had been badly damaged in the First World War. The middle finger was missing, and within twenty-four hours I was to be General Montgomery who seldom wore gloves.

  Time and again I was to discover the ingenuity and resourcefulness of MI 5. Perhaps it was not surprising that no one had noticed it before. When I was first faced with this disability I trained myself to conceal it. I had to do this as an actor. On the stage I always worked with my right hand behind me or in my pocket, and in course of time it became second nature to do this off-stage as well. Some friends did not spot it for months, and in fact one friend told me it was a whole year before he noticed it. After a moment’s silence Colonel Lester sent Jack out to make some purchases in a chemist’s shop, and when he returned they made a most realistic middle finger out of cotton wool, adhesive plaster and some stiffening material. Strapped on to my hand and coloured to match my skin, it would have needed a very sharp pair of eyes to detect it.

  I began to wonder whether we had overlooked anything else.

  “By the way,” I said, “you spoke about an ex-batman of the General’s who knows his habits exactly. What does Monty eat?”

  Nobody spoke. “What I mean is,” I went on, “he may be a vegetarian or a food faddist, and it would never do to break his rules.”

  “H’m,” said Colonel Lester. “What does he eat? Do any of you know?” They all shook their heads.