All Clear

He’d had a close call last week. He’d been typing one of his messages when Cess came in, and before he could get the paper out of the typewriter, Cess had begun reading over his shoulder. “I say, haven’t you already used the name Polly?” he’d asked. “It’s a common enough name, but you don’t want to do anything to make the Germans suspicious.”

Or you, he thought. Or Tensing. And he had dutifully Xed out the name and typed “Alice” above it.

Maybe the safest thing to do would be to try to get invalided out and land a job on a newspaper. Whatever he did, he had to do it soon, before they were shut down and he was assigned elsewhere. Once he’d been assigned, it would be almost impossible to get it changed.

And in the meantime he needed to finish his news story and get it put away before Cess caught him using “Polly” again and got suspicious. He went back to the office and changed the sentence to “When I spoke to Captain Davies, he said it was scheduled to last another full month. I realize Sellindge is located on the direct route to Dover, but is it necessary for the entire First Army to parade past my door? At my wits’ end, Miss Euphemia Hill, Rose Gate Cottage—”

“You may as well stop typing,” Cess said from the doorway. “The Jig’s up.”

“You may as well stop typing,” Cess said from the doorway. “The Jig’s up.”

Ernest looked up at him, startled. Cess was leaning lazily against the doorjamb, his arms folded. “What?”

“I said, the jig’s up. It’s American slang. It means we’ve been found out. Hitler’s finally tumbled to the fact that there’s no First Army. And no second invasion.”

Ernest waited a moment to give his heart time to stop thudding and then said, “Hitler’s caught on to the deception?”

“Yes, and about time. I’d begun to think he’d only realize he’d been tricked when he saw Monty rolling into Berlin.”

The Russians, Ernest thought. And Hitler won’t be there. He’ll already have killed himself in his bunker. “Who told you he’s caught on?”

“No one,” he said. “I’m in Intelligence, remember? I’ve deduced it from the clues.”

“What clues?”

“One, Algernon’s here. And two, Lady Bracknell’s called a general meeting in the mess.”

Cess was right. It looked like the jig was up. In more ways than one. I should have talked to him earlier about being reassigned, he thought. Or perhaps there was still time. “When’s this meeting scheduled for?”

“Now,” Cess said, showing no sign of leaving.

And Ernest couldn’t leave either, not with a story with the name Polly in it still in the typewriter. “Coming,” he said, putting a cover over the machine and standing up. “You need to go tell Gwen. He’s in the garage underneath the staff car.”

“Oh, right,” Cess said, and left. Ernest yanked the cover off and the letter out of the typewriter, hid it in the file cabinet, and was at the door when Cess returned.

“Gwen wasn’t there,” he reported. “He must already be in the meeting.”

He was, and so was everyone else except Chasuble. Lady Bracknell, in full-dress uniform—another bad sign—was saying, “Colonel Algernon has something to say to you.”

“Thank you,” Tensing said, standing up. “First of all, I want to thank all of you for your hard work during these past months and to tell you how handsomely it’s paid off. Our efforts to deceive the Germans as to the time and place of the invasion have been successful beyond our greatest hopes. Even after receiving news of the Normandy invasion, the German High Command continued to believe that that was a diversion and that the main invasion was still to come at the Pas de Calais.”

He was talking in the past tense. Cess was right. The jig was up.

“As a result of this belief,” Tensing went on, “they held significant numbers of troops and tanks in readiness for that invasion, numbers which, if sent to Normandy, would have significantly altered the outcome. Fortitude South’s work was decisive in the outcome of the invasion, and you’re to be congratulated.”

The men began to clap and cheer. “We did it!” Cess shouted. “We beat them.”

“Right,” Prism said wryly. “Single-handedly. I’m certain all those destroyers and planes and paratroopers and landing forces had nothing to do with it.”

“Lieutenant Prism makes an excellent point,” Tensing said. “The invasion was a combined effort, and there are countless others who deserve credit for its success.

But they’ll receive medals, and there will be speeches praising what they did. And newspaper accounts.” He nodded briefly at Ernest. “You won’t. Your part in all this must unfortunately remain secret. My thanks and the knowledge of a job well done are all the reward you are likely to get. And”—he paused dramatically—“a bottle of Scotch with which to toast your accomplishment!” He held it up, and there was more clapping and cheering.

“That’s not dummy Scotch, is it?” Cess asked suspiciously.

“It’s an inflatable rubber bottle,” Prism said.

“No, it’s glass,” Tensing said, tapping it with his finger. “I’m quite certain it’s authentic. The label says, ‘Aged at Shepperton Film Studios.’ ”