The Codebreakers: The True Story of the Secret Intelligence Team That Changed the Course of the First World War (2 page)

Though the army flirted with using wireless, it was the Admiralty that embraced it enthusiastically. The benefits of being able to radio from ship to ship or ship to shore, regardless of how far they were from each other and their bases, were obvious. The British navy benefited hugely from an extremely close relationship with Marconi. Though not a truly original thinker, Marconi had a genius for absorbing the ideas of others and through inspired experimentation transforming them into something entirely new. He also had a keen business mind and an incredible flair for self-promotion. His international fame was secured in 1901, when, accompanied by a blaze of publicity, he sent a signal from the UK to Newfoundland; by 1907, he was operating a full transatlantic service.

Though keen to sell his product to as many nations as possible, including his native Italy, Marconi was a committed Anglophile. His loyalty to Britain was strengthened by his fear and loathing of Germany. He signed exclusive deals with the Admiralty, offered it access to his newest technological developments, including the interception apparatus that would grab German messages from the airwaves, and built a string of naval wireless stations along the British coast and across the Mediterranean. As a result, when war broke out, he was ready to give unconditional support, and his best scientists, engineers and technicians, to the British. His factories were taken over by the Admiralty, 5,000 of his wireless operators served the Royal Navy and the merchant fleet, his staff built and managed 13 long-range stations dotted across the world, and 348 Marconi personnel died in action, mostly at sea. Room 40 reaped the rewards of the Marconi Company’s contribution to the war effort, gaining access to thousands of German wireless messages.

Sir Alfred Ewing, a distinguished scientist and inventor, was chosen to take charge of Room 40. A specialist in electrical engineering, Ewing became fascinated by earthquakes during a spell at Tokyo University, prompting him to create a new type of seismograph that measured tremors more accurately than previous models. In 1902, he was contacted by the Second Sea Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Fisher, who had embarked on an extensive and ambitious programme of reform and modernisation to meet the challenges of new technology. Fisher invited him to become the Director of Naval Education at Dartmouth College in Devon. Ewing observed that ‘it is the educated man that the navy wants today, when appliances – appliances too, of an extremely complicated nature – are multiplying so rapidly in every department’.

Marconi mounted motorcycle set

His contribution was not forgotten, and on 4 August 1914 he was asked by the Admiralty, represented by Henry Oliver, then Director of Naval Intelligence (DNI), to set up a cryptographic unit. Much has been made of how these two old friends, meeting over lunch, casually got round to the subject of codebreaking, leading Oliver to make the off-the-cuff suggestion that Ewing might like to try his hand at running the show. Though the informal nature of this job offer fits in nicely with the amateurish, old-school-tie reputation of the British elite, the decision to approach Ewing was carefully calculated and showed an acute awareness of the fact that wireless had changed the nature of naval warfare.

Keen to do his bit, Ewing accepted the challenge. However, it quickly became clear that it was beyond his capabilities. Aged 59, and showing it, he slipped into the background of Room 40’s day-to-day operations, a remote presence with little real control, and over time was slowly eased into retirement. Though his input was minimal, he played the part of necessary figurehead reasonably well.

Reginald ‘Blinker’ Hall, the man who would overshadow Ewing as leader of Room 40 and transform it into one of the most potent weapons in the Allies’ arsenal, became the new head of Naval Intelligence (NID) in late 1914. Charismatic, energetic and cunning, called ‘a genius’ by the US ambassador, Hall would fully exploit Room 40’s potential, and in doing so change the course of the war.

Hall had joined the navy in 1884, aged 14, and spent the next 30 years touring the globe and rising through the ranks. He got his first taste of espionage in 1909, on a training exercise in the Baltic, when he was ordered to spy on the harbour fortifications at Kiel, home of the German fleet. On arrival, he found the port seething with activity. It was regatta week and all the great and good were present, as well as the whole German navy. Writing years later, Hall recalled his initial dismay: ‘I was not very confident of obtaining any results at all. It seemed impossible to get near the ships.’

But he was not a man to be easily discouraged. He asked the Duke of Westminster, who was there for the festivities, if he could borrow his high-speed motorboat,
Ursula
, for a couple of hours. The duke agreed, and next morning Hall took the boat out for a spin. Armed with a camera, he snapped away until he’d got all the information he wanted.

Though he clearly enjoyed it, thoughts of further intelligence work were soon forgotten once he was back on deck as commander of HMS
Natal
. In a service where those determined to resist change were as numerous and vocal as those trying to reform it, Hall was unafraid of technology and keen to utilise whatever benefits it offered. He also realised that showing concern for the welfare of his men was not an indulgence but a fundamental aspect of good leadership. One Room 40 veteran, William Clarke, remembered how he was ‘most considerate to his staff, looking after their interests and their health in a way which endeared him to them and got out of all the best results’.

These qualities were apparent in 1913 when he took control of the
Queen Mary
, a new-style battle cruiser, extremely fast and heavily armoured. A deeply religious man, Hall broke with naval tradition and had a chapel built on board ship. Having attended to his men’s spiritual needs, he improved their leisure time by providing a book stall and a cinematograph, one of the marvels of the age. No aspect of his men’s lives escaped his attention. The regular sailors were expected to hand-wash their clothes themselves, while the petty officers, of whom there were nearly 100, paid to have their laundry done on shore. Hall considered this system a waste of time and money, so he contacted a company that manufactured washing machines, yet another new invention, and had one installed.

Not that he was a soft touch, far from it; a strict disciplinarian with hawkish features, he could be terrifying if he wanted to be. The nickname ‘Blinker’ came about because of a persistent twitch. What is striking in the testimony of those who knew him is how little this featured in their recollections. In others the twitch might have been taken as a sign of weakness and anxiety; not in Hall’s case. Instead, what struck his colleagues about his piercing blue eyes was the effect they had when he trained his laser-like stare on you: once trapped by his unyielding gaze, it was impossible to escape the feeling that he was reading your mind. As Walter Page, US ambassador in London, observed, ‘Hall can look through you and see the very muscular movements of your immortal soul while he is talking to you.’

Admiral Sir Reginald Hall, as commander of HMS
Queen Mary,
1914

As war approached, Hall was ready and eager to test the
Queen Mary
in battle. On 28 August, he was part of the squadron, under the command of the young firebrand Admiral David Beatty, which went to the aid of destroyers being harassed by enemy submarines and cruisers near the Heligoland Bight, the heavily mined exit point for the German fleet. During a brief engagement, two German ships were sunk.

This skirmish proved to be the last action he saw. Throughout his life he’d been plagued by a weak chest and bronchial problems that were aggravated by cold and damp weather. Given his current hunting ground was the North Sea, no stranger to freezing winds and driving rain, his condition soon became serious. On 10 September, Beatty noted that ‘Captain Hall is far from well, he looks terribly grey and tired’.

Beatty was not the only one concerned for Hall’s health. Ethel Agnes, Hall’s wife, was so worried that she wrote to Admiral Oliver, who had just stood down as DNI to become Churchill’s assistant, begging him to find her husband a desk job. Oliver obliged, and Hall took over as Director of Naval Intelligence. His frustration at being denied the chance to end his career at sea evaporated as he found himself at the helm of the good ship Room 40, and he proceeded to build an intelligence empire that spanned the globe.

In his unpublished autobiography, Hall explained his approach to the job, revealing a subtle grasp of human psychology and the need for flexibility: ‘a Director of Intelligence who attempts to keep himself informed about every detail of the work being done cannot hope to succeed; but if he so arranges his organisation that he knows at once which of his colleagues he must go to for the information he requires, then he may expect good results. Such a system, moreover, has the inestimable advantage of bringing out the best in everyone working under it, for the Head will not suggest every move; he will welcome, and indeed, insist on ideas from his staff.’

The main criticism levelled at Hall by his colleagues was that he was too fond of intrigue. Without doubt, he relished devising elaborate ways to deceive the Germans and often made risky and hasty decisions. His secretary called him a gambler who enjoyed a dangerous game, and recognised the Machiavelli in him. Underneath, however, was nothing but a schoolboy; she fondly remembered how ‘the fun and hazard of it all would fill him with infectious delight’.

Of all the intelligence chiefs, Hall exercised the most authority because he was able to escape the confines of his department. No door was left unopened, no area of policy neglected, no aspect of the war untouched. As a result, all roads led to him: Guy Gaunt, Hall’s man in the USA, realised ‘what a powerful friend he was … when I saw the men who came quietly into his office. I think I saw most of the cabinet, and for that matter, everybody else in England of any note.’

Hall’s unique position owed a great deal to his forceful personality. However, it was the intelligence supplied by his codebreakers that justified his ubiquitous presence in the corridors of power. Credit goes to him for the way he marshalled this eclectic band of civilians, but it was their talent, ingenuity and perseverance that granted him the keys to the kingdom.

It was Churchill, as civilian head of the Admiralty, who laid the procedural and institutional basis for Room 40. Realising the immense advantages the codebreakers could provide, and equally aware that these would be rendered redundant if the Germans suspected that their communications were compromised, Churchill drew up a charter that guaranteed absolute security: the wireless intercepts were to ‘be written in a locked book with their decodes, and all other copies are to be collected and burnt. All new messages are to be entered in the book, and the book is only to be handled under the direction of the Chief of Staff’, a position occupied by Admiral Henry Oliver, a rigid workaholic who often did a 150 hour week; he was nicknamed ‘the Dummy’ because of his lack of facial expressions and monosyllabic utterances. Oliver would then circulate the decoded material to a handful of high-ranking naval personnel.