During the summer of 2006 my grandmother sadly passed away. Amongst her possessions, that I was given responsibility for sorting, was a neatly filed and dated collection of my late grandfather’s diaries, dating from the early 1940s. Over the ensuing weeks I read and reread all my grandfathers’ thoughts. Of his hopes and aspirations and his concerns about the war and its eventual outcome. Like many young men of his age he could easily have ended up conscripted and fighting in France or Norway but because of several of my grandfathers more eclectic idiosyncrasies (more later!) he was assigned to the fledgling Special Operations Executive (S.O.E). A covert organisation instructed by Churchill to create mayhem and maximum disruption to the Nazi war machine throughout occupied Europe by whatever means were available.
Cambridgeshire has a distinguished history of involvement with S.O.E and many dangerous, clandestine operations were either planned or agents and wireless operators would train in this area before leaving for the secret airfield at nearby Tempsford and their eventual destinations in war torn France, Belgium and Holland. My grandfathers daring and extremely brave wartime exploits are covered from his recruitment into secret operations until June 9th 1944, three days after D-day.
It has never been properly established what happened to my grandfather after the last diary entry or how the diaries came into my grandmothers possession and as she refused point blank to discuss the war or my grandfathers involvement, I am afraid that all their secrets have now gone to the grave with them.
For some months I have been recording songs and my Grandfathers diaries have been a great influence to me in the writing of the songs on my album, "The Strange Case Of Buster Crabbe". Each month I intend to update with a new installment of his recollections.
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Buick McCain
NOVEMBER 1940
I hated London, even on a bright, sunny autumn afternoon, I hated London even when it hadn’t been bombed. It was an unmitigated cacophony of mayhem, madness and insufferable rudeness. Cockney chirpiness was a figment of Noel Cowards vivid imagination.
The hand delivered letter contained a first class return ticket from Cambridge and overnight accommodation at the Grand and the short but important looking missive had been enough to drag me away from my studies.
64 Baker Street seemed innocuous enough, but the gentleman that insisted on leading me to the third floor offices of Goodwin Paper Supplies was an all together different proposition.
More small mountain than man. I was lead into a large study to be greeted by three rather grandiose looking chaps, two in day to day business attire and the other in full colonel army regalia. The invitation that nestled in my jacket pocket never once mentioned donning khaki of that I’m sure!
Any pre conceived ideas regarding future employment prospects and a hedonistic life of affluence were soon vanquished by the elder of the two soberly suited gentlemen. This was to be an informal chat to ascertain my suitability for work in a new government department attached to the Ministry of Economic Warfare but if I wished to proceed with our meeting I had five minutes to read, digest and sign His Majesties Official Secrets Act, the ramifications of contravening said act were explained to me in no uncertain terms and having Mount Olympus standing only feet away from me, firmly set in my mind the need for loyalty and acquiescence. I never was to use the return ticket to Cambridge.
It was almost 2 a.m. by the time I arrived at the Grand and I was shattered, eleven hours of the most gruelling, intrusive questioning, even Dr Crippen should not have been subjected to such interrogation. They knew more about me than I did.
My mother was French, from the Clermont region, which was now firmly ensconced in the pro Nazi Vichy area. When was the last contact I had had with my maternal family? What was my opinion of the situation in France? How fluent was my French? My school and university reports were held up for intense scrutiny. I was lucky to have been born a natural scholar and while my friends laboured with their studies until the early hours, I was out doing the things that young men like to do. More Machiavellian than miscreant read one report. A bright, articulate boy who seems to be heading for a career as a loveless Lothario, another. At which point I felt the need to remonstrate. Lothario maybe, but loveless! Never. I loved all my girlfriends. The questioning was relentless and every so often they would talk to me in French and ask me the same things all over again. At the end of the meeting there was no informal chat, no invitation for drinks. Just a cursory thank you and orders to report back at 10 a.m. sharp. So why the hell did I agree to a repeat performance in a few hours time?
I managed to bribe Harry the concierge into pouring me a very large brandy and as I sat in the darkened bar, reflecting on the events that had taken place over the past hours and trying to find a logical purpose and reason, voices emanated from the foyer. I finished my drink, I knew that sleep would be impossible but I was desperate for a bath. It’s amazing how dirty you can feel when your dirty linen has just been aired in front of you. As I made my way to the elevators I turned towards the concierge to wish him goodnight, he was busy chatting to a young lady in a nurses uniform, I waved nonchalantly and as I did so Harry beckoned me over and introduced me to his niece, who, according to Harry, was nursing London’s bombing victims all by herself. She was beautiful and her name was Magdelaine.
Perhaps today might be a touch more exciting than yesterday.
Harry made us coffee and left us to chat, Magdelaine talked away.
Me? I just sat there like a gawping idiot, beguiled, enchanted, until somehow the conversation turned to me. Where was I from? What did I do? Why was I in London? How long was I here for? Do I have a girlfriend? Why hadn’t I enlisted or received my call up papers? I made up some complete rubbish about meeting my uncle regarding family business and that, thankfully, seemed to work. As for enlisting, I honestly had never given it a thought but, when eventually I received my call up I would dutifully oblige along with all the other young men packed off to war.
It was gone 6 o’clock when Harry reminded me of my wake up call. I had to see Magdelaine again, but when? I had no idea what time I would be finished at Baker Street and when or where Magdelaines duties would end. Harry resolved the problem, I would let him know as soon as I had returned to the Grand, even if he was off duty he would be able to receive messages and Magdelaine would do the same as soon as she was off duty. It was going to be a very long day.
TO BE CONTINUED......... view the blogs for all the other chapters
