I WAS MONTY’S DOUBLE Read online

  Evidently my fame had spread abroad, for as soon as they saw me they began: “Ho, look at ’Orace! How de do, yer Lordship—I ’ope her Ladyship is keepin’ well?”

  I lunged out at the nearest boy and at once there was a melee which raged for several minutes until we were all thrown out by the hall porter.

  When I got back to my office my suit was torn and I had one eye half closed. Dazed and dispirited, I had no idea what had happened to the wretched policies. Mr. Jenkinson told me I was a disgrace to the City of London and would shortly be the ruin of Marsden & Co.

  I didn’t argue with him. Next morning I went to Mr. Thomas and told him that I had reluctantly decided that I ought to leave his employ since I was clearly not cut out to be a City magnate.

  He at once agreed with a most unflattering heartiness.

  “My dear James, I entirely agree with you. I am sure you are doing a wise thing in leaving us.” He drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled through his nostrils. “Why, we have not had so many upsets since I joined the firm in 1871.”

  Generously he gave me a month’s wages and I left, Mr. Jenkinson bowing me out with mock courtesy.

  About six years later I was waiting to cross Piccadilly when a soberly dressed man accosted me. “Excuse me, isn’t your name James? Weren’t you with the firm of Marsden?”

  “Yes, I was. I seem to remember your face. Were you one of the staff?”

  “That’s right. They’re still trying to put their books straight.” Tipping his hat he walked away.

  This flow of memories was interrupted by a knock on the door. A middle-aged Sergeant came in.

  “I was instructed to report to you, sir.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. Sit down. Have a cigarette.”

  What did he know about me? How was I to set the ball rolling without telling him too much?

  Looking up from an intensive study of the floorboards I caught the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye.

  “As I understand, sir, you will be going on a tricky job. If there’s anything I can do to help you—”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “I’ve been on some tricky jobs myself in my time.”

  “Have you? Well, when you’re on one of those jobs I expect you have to borrow somebody else’s background in case you get asked awkward questions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After this it was easy. He told me that he had joined up at Winchester in April 1935, and that his first C.O. was Colonel Faraday, nicknamed Monkey Top. On the other hand, his Sergeant-Major, Edwards by name, was known as Nobby Nose. Posted to Colchester he found himself under Colonel Tucker, irreverently known as Satan … and so on, up to the present date.

  I went through all this several times and repeated it back to him until I was word perfect. It took a surprisingly long time because he kept remembering fresh details which he thought I should know and which I had not had the acumen to ask him.

  At last it was over. I shook hands with him and thanked him for his patience and help.

  “That’s nothing, sir,” he said. “I’m only too glad to help you.”

  The words were commonplace enough but they didn’t sound commonplace when he said them. Only those who have been on this deception work can realize quite how nerve-racking it can be. He knew from practical experience. I didn’t, but I was soon to find out.

  Chapter V

  MONTY AND THE CORPS DE BALLET

  When the Sergeant had gone a reaction set in and instead of my previous nervousness I began to feel that if the unexpected occurred I should have no difficulty in wriggling out of it by using my wits. All these precautions, I thought, were a bit overdone. Why should such elaborate steps be taken to pass me off as a genuine I.C. Sergeant among my own people?

  At this time I had not realized that wriggling out of awkward situations was not MI 5’s way of going to work. These people believed in working so carefully that awkward situations never arose at all. If some avoidable element of chance remained, they would feel that their job had not been properly done.

  Looking back on those days it is curious to remember the criticisms of our Intelligence Service which were so freely expressed. You heard people saying that we were always too slow and that the enemy were invariably one jump ahead of us. Why, they asked, didn’t we know about the weakness of the Maginot Line or the hundreds of Fifth Columnists in Europe? Why were we in ignorance that Hitler was going to attack Norway or invade Crete? What on earth was our Secret Service up to not to know years before that Hitler was building up a mighty army to sweep through Europe?

  If we could see the secret reports which were sent in by our agents we should probably realize that they did know these things, and as to justifying their reputation for astuteness and foresight, they are always obliged to remain silent. I met only a few of these men and I took part in only a very small part of the vast plan of deception for which they were responsible, but even this was enough to convince me that I was dealing with people who were at least as clever as their opposite numbers in any other country.

  After my talk with the Sergeant I was glad to escape into the open air and cool my brain. Presently I drifted into a cafe and tried to eat something, but I had no appetite. So I went to a cinema, but instead of the news-reel of Monty which I hoped to see I was treated to one of those third-rate musicals with the comedian dressed as a city ‘slicker’ and surrounded by a bevy of South Sea Island beauties dashing their pearly teeth and wriggling their hips. This was the civilization we were fighting for. I tried to follow the story, but constantly heard the words, “Keep your mouth shut! Be on your guard!” mixed up with “Colchester, Monkey Top and Nobby Nose”. I have often noticed that in real life the ludicrous is mixed up with the grim, just as it is in Nature.

  By seven o’clock I was back at headquarters dressed as an I.C. Sergeant, and when I reported, the Lieutenant-Colonel told me that my jeep had arrived. He took leave of me with the usual rather ominous “Good-bye—and good luck.” As I walked out of the building no one seemed at all surprised that I had arrived as an officer and was leaving as an N.C.O.

  It was dark outside and raining. A young Captain loomed up from the gloom and said: “Hullo, Sergeant, all fit? let’s get cracking, shall we?”

  I saluted and climbed into the jeep with my tooth-brush and razor rattling in the pocket of my battle-dress. This was my first experience of that famous Army vehicle. The Captain, who obviously was thoroughly at home in it, drove it like a shell along the rain-swept roads. Having no overcoat I soon began to feel cold and wet, and my forage cap kept slipping over my left eye.

  Turning abruptly off the main road into a narrow lane, we jolted across a field and came to a stop in a wood where I could dimly see rows of tents with some Nissen huts in the centre. The Captain led me to a tent standing apart from the others and told me to wait. In the semi-darkness I could see a thin palliasse with a couple of Army blankets, my bed for the night.

  Presently the Captain returned with the news that the Colonel would see me at once. Rather nervously I followed him to one of the Nissen huts for my dreaded interview with the Top Deception Officer. Although the hour was late I could see dozens of officers sitting at tables, all hard at work.

  The Colonel was young and handsome, but with the tired, strained look of a man who has long been working at top pressure without a break. He gave me a searching look before speaking.

  “You will spend tomorrow with General Montgomery. You know your orders? Take your place naturally as a Sergeant of the Intelligence Corps on Staff Headquarters. If you should find yourself in difficulties, report to Colonel Dawnay and no one else, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He seemed about to dismiss me, but suddenly he rapped out, “Where did you do your training?”

  It is extraordinary how disconcerting such a question can be, fired at you like a pistol shot, even when you have been expecting it. For a moment my mind went blank. Just in time I recovered myself.r />
  “At Winchester, sir, under Colonel Faraday.”

  “Show me your AB 64.”

  “Yes, sir.” I handed him my pay-book., He glanced at it quickly and gave it me back. “Right. That’s all for now. A jeep will pick you up tomorrow night.” He paused for a moment and stared fixedly at me. I waited for the inevitable “Good luck, James”. When it came I saluted and left the room.

  Back in my tent a dark feeling of uncertainty oppressed me. This Top Deception Officer was a man whose opinion really did count. Why had he stared at me in that curious way?

  Of course he wanted to see for himself whether I looked like Monty, but what was his verdict? It seemed to me that he was more than a little doubtful about my looks.

  The more I thought about it the more worried I became. At last, unable to stand it any longer, I went back to the hut and asked an officer I had not seen before if I could see the Colonel again. For some reason he looked almost scared and pointed silently to the door as if unable to speak.

  I knocked and went in. The Colonel looked up with a frown. “Yes, what is it?”

  “You know why I’m here, sir,” I burst out. “Do you honestly think I am like General Montgomery?”

  For the first time since I had seen him his face relaxed. He almost smiled.

  “You’ve no need to worry, James, the likeness is extraordinary. When you came into the office the first time, my men outside thought it was the G.O.C on one of his surprise visits. Whoever chose you for the job knows what he’s doing.”

  I left him feeling vary much relieved.

  Alone in my tent I thankfully took off my boots, lay down on the palliasse with both blankets drawn over me and lit a cigarette.

  This striking resemblance of mine to the G.O.C was a curious thing. When you come to think of it, the world goes almost entirely by outside appearances. If a man looks like a saint it is easy for him to be a crook because people trust him, whereas if he looks like a crook he can behave like a saint but he will never readily be trusted. Here was I looking so exactly like General Montgomery that even men who saw him every day mistook me for him. And yet I knew that our characters were completely different.

  The son of a Bishop and brought up in Tasmania, Monty had developed a strong character of his own before he was ten years old. He had inherited his mother’s will, and in playing with other children he was passionately eager to be the leader.

  Impatient of all restraint, he would get into trouble by challenging other children to dangerous feats of daring.

  When the family came to England and Bernard Montgomery was sent to St. Paul’s School, Hammersmith, he plunged with ardour into every sort of game and within three years he was Captain of the First Eleven at cricket and of the First Fifteen at rugger. Not only did he want to excel at games, he wanted to command. It was much the same with his career. Against his parents’ wishes he chose the Army instead of the Church. From the first he felt himself a born leader of men.

  My own background was entirely different. I had never wanted to lead anybody, and to the horror of my guardian I had chosen to go on the Stage. I had no natural authority or gift of organization. I could never have become a General in a thousand years.

  Full of such thoughts I lay awake throughout the night and was just dropping off to sleep in the small hours when I heard a voice outside.

  “Are you there, Sergeant?”

  I pulled open the tent flaps and in the dim light of dawn I made out the figure of a Private who handed me a bowl of cold water, a mug of cold tea, a thick slice of bread and marge and a little piece of burnt bacon.

  Although I managed to shave in the dark, I couldn’t face this repast. A quick, icy splash, a rub down with my pocket handkerchief, and I was ready.

  Ten minutes later I was off in the jeep again with the young Captain. We sped along for twelve miles or so, then turned into a drive leading up to a fine old country house standing in its own grounds. In the grey light I could see a line of cars and jeeps drawn up on one side of the forecourt, with their drivers standing talking in low tones. The column was headed by a Rolls-Royce flying General Montgomery’s pennant.

  We got out and the Captain went inside to report. Soon he came out again, got into his jeep, and with a “See you tonight, Sergeant,” he drove off.

  I began to feel horribly ill at ease and self-conscious. Some of the drivers had stopped talking and were obviously discussing me. What was my next move? I couldn’t just stand there as if I didn’t belong.

  Becoming aware of a very tall figure striding towards me, I looked up, and saluted a Colonel of the Guards.

  Speaking in a low tone he said: “I am Colonel Dawnay. If you’re in any difficulties, report to me. Stay as near the General as you can without attracting too much attention. Go in that car,” he pointed to a Humber, “and sit in front with the driver. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I went over to the car. Behind me I heard quick footsteps and an irritable voice, “Are you the photographer?”

  Turning round I beheld an angry-looking Captain coming towards me like a trough of low depression.

  “You standing there,” he roared, “are you bloody well deaf? I’m asking if you’re the photographer.”

  This was my first test that morning and I’m afraid I didn’t come out of it very well. Having had no sleep and practically nothing to eat since midday the day before, I felt quite as irritable as the Captain.

  “No, I’m not the photographer,” I said testily, and turned my back on him.

  He shot round in front of me with surprising agility for a man of his build. “Say sir when you speak to an officer. Get into that car.”

  Pulling myself together I saluted and got in. The driver gave me a sly grin. “’E’s all right, Sarge. Bit of a bastard sometimes, but be don’t mean any ’arm.”

  By now the light was stronger. Without warning the Rolls glided forward and stopped outside the main entrance to the mansion. My driver at once moved up to just five yards behind Monty’s car. I glanced through the back window of our Humber and saw the whole line of vehicles moving into place, each one exactly five yards behind the car in front. As I learned later, this was the strict rule of procedure. Whether the cars were stationary or moving, the five-yard interval must be rigidly preserved.

  I remember once a car for some unknown reason dropped a few yards behind its proper position. At once a precise voice called out: “Stop. What’s the matter with that fourth car? See to it, please.”

  One of the General’s aides hurried to the offending driver and dressed him down. Not until the formation was properly adjusted did Monty give the order to move on again.”

  Switching off his engine, my driver got out and stood by his car, and I noticed that all the other drivers had done the same. Evidently this was part of the drill. I scrambled out and stood by my driver.

  Five minutes passed. There was an unmistakable tension in the air. Then suddenly there began what was known as the Corps de Ballet, a set performance which took place every morning when the General made his first appearance. The timing was exact, and it was played as carefully as any theatrical show.

  First the Colonel came out with the two aides, whereupon Monty’s chauffeur, a Sergeant, called us to attention and saluted. The Colonel and the aides walked slowly down the line of cars and then the Colonel went back into the house.

  At this point we all silently counted six, after which, on the tick, the Colonel reappeared with a Brigadier. Up and down the two of them walked, and then the Brigadier made his exit.

  Then we counted twelve, and on the twelfth count the door opened and out came Monty with the Brigadier. He gave us a quick look round and a brief smile before returning the Colonel’s salute. As far as I know, this curious performance never varied from day to day by a single movement or by a fraction of a second.

  This, of course, was my first view of the Corps de Ballet, and I watched the General like a hawk. At once I noticed that he had a sp
ecial salute of his own—a slight double movement of his hand which made it more of a greeting than an official military salute.

  I had thought so much about him, read so much about him, heard so much about him that now he was here before me in the flesh I was more than a little excited. Wearing the famous black beret, and over his battle-dress a leather, fleece-lined flying jacket, he looked exactly as I had imagined him. To all appearances he was 100 per cent fit and without a care in the world. When it suddenly came home to me that this was the man I had got to be, some of my elation at seeing him began to evaporate. Could I ever look so full of health and quiet confidence?

  For a few moments he stood talking to the Brigadier and Colonel Dawnay. Then the door opened again and out came a civilian whom I recognized from Press photos I had seen of him as Sir James Grigg, the Secretary of State for War. With the Brigadier and Grigg, Monty got into his Rolls and off we went.

  We kept our regulation five yards behind the Rolls and my eyes were glued on the General. I noticed that he sat in the left-hand seat, and through the back window of his car I tried hard to notice his gestures as he talked to the War Minister.

  We sped along the country roads. Not many people were about at this early hour, but the few we passed stopped and stared. Then suddenly recognizing the famous black beret they would grin and wave wildly, receiving in return that friendly salute.

  Monty missed no one. Once we had just passed through a village and I saw standing by a hedge an old farm labourer, his eyes fixed on the approaching procession. As we drew level with him, Monty gave him a smile and a salute. The old chap looked a bit taken aback, and then suddenly he recognized the General.

  Being just behind, I saw the expression on his old, weatherbeaten face. It was unforgettable. In a flash all the horror of the past few years, the bewilderment at our reverses and the apprehensions for the future were swept away. Here was the man who would lead us to victory: Monty, the man in whom every man, woman and child was placing his trust for the coming invasion. Taking off his battered hat the old man slowly waved it and his eyes filled with tears. It was so moving that it left in my mind an impression which will never fade.