ULTRA

By Walker Jackson

Dedication

In memory of the World War Two Doughboys who fought tyranny so that we may walk free. Many gave. Some gave all. May God bless and rest their souls. Harry E. Smith, a patriotic American, and friend landed on a sandy beach in France on D-Day. Harry lived, but never talked about it. Benjamin Pope Jackson, Jr., my brother served stateside. Later, he was activated to serve during the Korean Conflict. He served in Japan. I served in England. We did what Uncle Sam asked of us during that misunderstood war.

 Synopsis

Two love stories set at a time when the world had gone mad and was filled with hatred. It's a thrilling WWII spy spoof featuring one of the most beautiful femme spy who ever lived. Wrapped the love around the German's encoder Nemesis and you get intrigue. Hitler would have conquered the world save for being outsmarted by the allies. The arrogant Germans thought the Nemisis encoder was invincible, a collossal mistake for them.

Hackney McTrite gets a call from Georgia, a dear girl friend, he met in London during World War Two. He's swept back to the time he was a double agent and beautiful Irene Glauber was his contact. Hitler's intelligence operatives have tasked her to buy Allied Military secrets. McTrite obliges and passes along mostly false information. The information he passes about D-Day is believed. The high command offers some correct information near D-Day to enhance its credibility.

They slowly fall in love, but she shows reluctance. Her Chief becomes suspicious of the information she's passing. She knows they are watching her closely. She's terrified and McTrite knows it. One night she calls him. She's hysterical. People are hiding in shadows outside, and now, they are knocking on her door. Hackney tells her not to open the door. That he's coming over as quickly as possible. When he's within two blocks of her apartment, he hears and sees incendiary bombs exploding. Now, he sees her apartment leveled and in flames. What's happened to his love? Well, you'll have to read the book. You will find McTrite and Irene's holiday in Ireland enchanting. Love grows fonder and war is forgotten. Georgia and her future husband accompany them.

The Big Easy

"Brrring!"

"Good morning. McTrite investigative services."

"May I speak to Mister McTrite?"

"It's for you," said Deloris, Hackney's partner.

"I'll take it in my office."

"One moment please."

"McTrite speaking."

"Monday, it's Georgia Klapp."

"Hello luv, how nice to hear from you."

"Phil and I are coming down for Mardi Gras."

"That's terrific. Plan on staying at our place."

"We don't want to impose."

"That'll be the day. You two are favorites of mine. I don't remember how many times I've relished the memories of those wonderful times we had during the war years."

"Have you ever heard from Irene?"

"Never. She vanished into thin air."

"Beautiful lady, but a mite strange."

"It took months before I got over her."

"I imagine so. I saw how close you two became."

"Ring back, Georgia, when you've finalized your plans."

"Thanks, Monday. Phil has never found out about me. I thank the Lord everyday for his mercy. It would have broken us up and destroyed me."

"Faith is powerful. Goodbye, Georgia."

"Goodbye, Monday."

I reflected for a moment. The war years circled the periphery of my brain.

~ London - Late 1942 ~

This had been all too typical London day, constant cold drizzle since noon. Dusk crept over garden walls. A crescent moon hung overhead. I walked slowly not wanting to crash into another pedestrian. And I was fagged. I'd worked twelve hours. Our leadership's demands had been unmerciful. We knew something of great importance was afoot.

I had made two trips back and forth between Bletchley Park and London. Transmission problems had created the need for a messenger to mentally carry highly sensitive decoded Luftwaffe's messages to British High Command. For these missions, I was driven in a jeep and accompanied by an armed military police. And a cyanide pill was hidden on my person in case I was kidnapped and tortured. I never felt comfortable with the assignment. In London, my duties were to decode encoded messages transmitted from Bletchley Park to the War Room.

The old Mac felt cozy. It protected me against the penetrating dampness. The grim gray sky was depressing, but it hadn't dampened, even slightly, the optimism I felt. British Intelligence was frightfully close to breaking the more sophisticated Enigma that produced Germany's High Command military encrypted messages. Often, I assisted the 'Brains' of ULTRA. My gift of total recall relieved them of superfluity so they could concentrate on the complex mathematics and artificial intelligence: the design process was more efficient.

The saga had begun in September of '39 after the British code-breaking operation was moved from London to Bletchley Park halfway between Oxford and Cambridge. I was a junior in high school at the time. The operation was known as ULTRA. John Plimpton, a brilliant Cambridge mathematician, was placed in charge of the operation. The German's had designed an avant-garde cipher machine dubbed Enigma to encipher military communications. It was based on rotors whose movement produced ever-changing alphabetical substitutions.

England had declared war against Nazi Germany. Now, breaking Enigma's transmissions became critical and eventually involved some ten thousand people. ULTRA's efforts continually improved the machinery that decoded Enigma's messages.

Plimpton and another Cambridge mathematician, Rodney Dickey, greatly expanded earlier brilliant works by Polish mathematicians and significantly improved their decoder, which was known as Bombe. It had the capability of converting Enigma-encoded messages into readable text that had high probability of being accurate.

By summer 1940, it was used, with remarkable success, to decode messages produced by the simpler Enigma used by the Luftwaffe. Consequently, it and radar, a new English invention, is thought to have made the difference in The Battle of Britain, which was truly a battle for Britain's freedom and the world's.

The real heroes were the valiant and skilled men and women of the R.A.F. And credit goes to the leader, Winston Churchill, who rallied all of Britain with powerfully inspiring words. "Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty and so bare ourselves that, if the British Empire and its commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, this was their finest hour."

The U-boat fleet, with its more secure and sophisticated Enigma, became the next horrendous challenge. U-boats were destroying allied shipping at a phenomenal rate, sending vital war materials to the bottom. These electro-mechanical machines were much more sophisticated than anyone could ever imagine. And the operators were more methodical. ULTRA had benefited from the Luftwaffe's careless operation of the system. The German Navy's encoders incorporated full-scale use of electronic switching technology. The messages it produced were referred to as 'Fish' cipher-text and the prevailing views that it was impenetrable would discourage most, but not Plimpton and his dedicated colleagues.

Success would save the world and even Germany from heinous tyranny. These new challenges boosted Bletchley Park personnel from six to ten thousand. I became a part of that expansion in late '42, when I graduated from Army Intelligence as a cryptographer. The new decoder would be called Colossus. Knowledge of electronics, a merging science, was required. And it's design required incorporating ideas of great logical ingenuity to break the super Enigmas and win back the oceans of the world.

I was meeting Georgia Brown, who I'd met weeks earlier rather precariously, at our favorite pub, King Arthur's on Piccadilly Circus Roundabout. I had found her a job at Army Headquarters. I felt exhilarated for another reason. Company Commander Bradley had informed me that I'd been promoted to Second Lieutenant, and I couldn't wait to tell her. A well deserved reward for my dedication, astuteness, and courage. I added courage because I carried around inside my infinite cerebrum, secrets, so critical, that the freedom of the world was at risk. I'd been told that several friendly operatives were always in my shadows.

I entered the dimly lit pub and was pleased to observe Georgia sitting at our favorite table in the rear. Nightly bombing raids by the Luftwaffe required total blackout of London. The jukebox offered a popular Glenn Miller arrangement of Kalamazoo. I loved the way she smiled, although it was often mildly doleful. "It's about time you got here, champ." I was glad she'd ordered me a scotch and soda. She drank her usual gin and orange.

"Okay! You know the war comes before anything else." Now, I noticed a creepy looking middle-aged man slinking at the bar adjacent to us. I thought I'd seen him before. The remaining eight people looked normal. Londoners, working in West End, dropped by for several beers before catching the UnderGround home.

"Yes, this 'bloody' war won't cease 'til it puts me under like my brother. I hate it…hate it."

"What kind of day did you have, luv? Incidentally, I've met a nice young GI from Cincinnati who said he'd like to meet you. Well, I think he's nice."

"What does he do?"

"He's a military policeman. He accompanies me on trips between Bletchley and London." I couldn't help notice the creepy one perk up. And I wondered if he wore eavesdropping equipment. "One outstanding fact about being an MP assigned to intelligence is that you're not likely to be sent to the front. He's relegated to the battle of Piccadilly Circus." I don't know why I'd said that.

Georgia was reminded of her past occupation. She'd worked for a short time as a prostitute around the Circus. They were called Piccadilly Queens. I understood the chagrin on her countenance. And I felt the daggers propelled from her beautiful blue eyes.

"Why'd you say that, Hackney?"

"I don't know, luv. I'd never do or say anything purposely to hurt you. You know that. You're the sister I never had. I love you too much."

"I'm terribly sensitive. Promise me you'll never tell of my past?"

"Never! I promise. I repeat, how did your day go?"

"Smashing. I filed and handled one million documents. I'm not complaining. The pay is generous and it's honest work. I think the Allied Command is planning…" I quickly covered her mouth.

"Don't say another word. Loose tongues sink ships." I'd noticed the creepy one's face pucker.

"Oops! Well, what big thrills did you have today?"

"I learned that I was being promoted to Second Lieutenant. It calls for a celebration. Glenn Miller's band is playing the Palladium Saturday night. Would you like to hear them live?"

"That'd be a thrill."

"I'll come by your place at six in the afternoon and we'll go somewhere for dinner. But finding an eight-ounce steak in London these days is harder than finding ice cubes for drinks and cold beer, but with a liberal attitude it's possible. I'll bring a bankroll."

"For an eight ounce steak I'd…well, almost."

"What could I expect if I bought you Fish n' Chips right now?"

"A kiss on the cheek."

"Put it here."

Now, I spotted a hefty young man of twenty-five sitting at the opposite end of the bar. His attire smacked of downtown USA. It shouted, I'm a friendly protector. I had no idea just how valuable I was. I relaxed and enjoyed Georgia's company. Someone kept playing those sentimental tunes of lonesomeness, hopefulness and grief spawned by this ghastly war. Then I heard one of my favorite lyrics propagating from the jukebox.

"The boat rides we would take,

The midnight on the lake,

The way we danced and hummed our favorite song;

The things we did last summer I'll remember all winter long.

The midway and the fun,

The kewpie dolls we won,

The bell I rang to prove that I was strong:

The things we did last summer I'll remember all winter long…"

"Come down to earth, Hackney. Does she have a name?"

"Afraid not. I wasn't exactly a girl killer back in high school." I chuckled. "Actually, a girl living in my neighborhood invited me to the senior prom."

"A lot of girls missed out on one swell guy, as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh my goodness, you're one sweet gal. You get a kiss on the cheek. Whoa…the cheek."

We had another toddy before our Fish n' Chips arrived and another after that one. We were mellow as a ripe melon, and I hoped my brotherly feelings would prevail through the night.

I paid the check. Rebecca was pleased with her tip. Her kiss on the cheek said as much. Before leaving, I created an indelible impression of the creepy one in my mind. It was late and I had no affordable way to get to my quarters located half way between London and Bletchley Park. The staff car assigned to me needed servicing, and I'd taken it to the Motor Pool after work. I was staying the night at Georgia's flat.

~ Intelligence Headquarters - Next morning ~

Six numbers had to be dialed to open the steel door of the Communication Room where I slaved 70 hours each week. It occupied half of this reinforced fortress three story below ground level. The other half housed the War Room. The largest bomb the Luftwaffe could deliver would barely shake it and only if it hit directly. A guarded access door in the center provided direct access into the War Room. Messages were quickly decoded and delivered to commanders sitting around one gigantic table surrounded by strategic maps of war zones and oceans. The smoke hovering over the table reminded you of a typical foggy day in London Town.

Messages were diverse. Some were idle chitchat or gossip between, for instance, Hitler and Field Marshal Rommel. However, every word was studied carefully. If the words were determined personal in content, it was withheld from commanders to spare them the trivia. But occasional choice tidbits of improprieties, involving high ranking German military, were passed along for its humorous value. These generals and admirals insisted. They needed comical relief like all of us.

Much of the information received from Bletchley Park concerned enemy logistics: troop and naval strengths, locations and movement, and supplies needed and the means of delivery. This vital information was delivered to the war room pronto. The commanders, after analysis, prepared communiqués, which were quickly ciphered and transmitted to the applicable Allied Commanders in battle zones around Europe, Pacific, and the surrounding oceans.

Occasionally, Bletchley decrypted information pertaining to enemy espionage and clandestine activities. We'd learned that the arrogant Germany's High Command had surmised that we hadn't broken their earlier Enigma system. It was too technically advanced in their opinion. Their naivete and ignorance was a decisive advantage militarily.

We'd learned names of their operatives in London. It was known that my name had been sent to London operatives. Instructions demanded that I be compromised in anyway possible. If I couldn't be bought, I was to be eradicated. They knew I was a walking encyclopedia, and they wanted to know what was inside my brain. Of course, this was the reason why I was guarded.

"Good Morning, McTrite. I hear you've been promoted?" said Corporal Brockman, who guarded the entrance. I noticed he was a picture of West Point. His brass and shoes shined brightly, and his uniform was pressed to perfection: creases were knife-edges.

"Words travel like lightening. Who told you?" His interruption caused me to forget where I was in the dialing process.

"Sergeant Gunther."

She was Major Bradley, my commander's, private secretary. A chattier female you'll never meet, but she was a stunning looker. And since joining the organization, one month earlier, she'd already been promoted. The rumor going around was that she was the Major's private stock. It was probably true, since her required time-in-grade had not been satisfied when she was made a Technical Sergeant. That's the way it is. I spun the combination dial and started again. After six numbers, I turned the knob, opened the door, and entered. The cozy room had rows of partitioned cubicles for personnel. I strolled to my cubicle up front.

"Good morning, Lieutenant McTrite." I returned his facetious smile.

"Good morning, Sergeant Brice." I greeted several more glad handers on my way. I had sat long enough to spread my hams evenly when Sergeant Gunther bounced up to my desk. She was thirty and she'd been in the army eleven years. You knew, from her cynical smile, she'd been around the world at least twice.

"Good Morning, McTrite," she greeted. "The Old Man wants to see you immediately if not sooner." Her smile was contagious.

"Tell him I'll be in shortly." I watched her switch away. My gawd, what a rumble seat. It's clear what Bradley see in her.

I went to the communal coffee maker and fixed two coffees. I went to a larger enclosed office up front and stuck my head in.

"Come in, McTrite."

Holding the two coffees in my left hand, I stepped in and saluted sharply. Then I advanced and handed him a coffee. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You're going places."

He gave me the orders that promoted me, extending his right hand. "Congratulations Lieutenant. It's well deserved. Here's a little gift." I opened the small box. It contained gold second lieutenant bars.

"Thank you, sir."

"Sit down, McTrite, and spread your cheeks." His was a devil smirk. "We need to discuss another matter. Recently, we've learned from German communiqués that they have ordered their London Operatives to contact you and entice you into their camp. How they learned of your exceptional brainpower has alluded us. They know you're a walking encyclopedia. We think they learned from a captured shot-down American pilot whom you went to high school with. Underwood…Steve, I think was his first name if my memory serves me right."

"Yes, I remember Steveareno. He was a real jock…make that jerk. He was crude and oversexed and he often nettled me. The girls use to fight over him. I'm sorry to hear he's a prisoner of war. But it's better than being dead."

"Considerably better. Have you seen any suspicious character weaving in and out of your space?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I observed a creepy middle-aged man sitting near at a pub I frequent in Piccadilly Circus. I was there with a girl friend."

He pulled a whimsical smile. "So you're a Piccadilly warrior are you?"

I responded with a painful frown.

"I suspect that's why he didn't approach you. Drop by several times by yourself. If he offers a proposition humor him. Shit! I'm jumping the gun. I've assumed you're willing to volunteer for the assignment."

"I assume I'm going to be feeding them false information."

"Yes, dirty rotten lies."

"Do I keep the money they give me?"

"Only if you share it with me." He cleared his throat. "I jest." The answer is really a categorical no, although it's unlikely that any of our people will know what they give you unless you belly up to the bar with it. However, we expect a man of exemplary principles such as you to be honest and turn in the loot. And if the operative turns out to be a femme fatale you are to refuse sexual favors." It came out matter-of-factly. I thought he was serious for a moment 'til I saw the corners of his mouth crinkle.

"I couldn't be that lucky. What happens when they learn I've been feeding them lines of malarkey? I mean, am I going to be protected from their revenge?"

"Yes. We're covering you like a blanket night and day. You have one of the most powerful brains in the world. Your abilities are nearly irreplaceable. There's another word…nonpareil…but I usually associate the word with creatures like Sergeant Gunther. Now, McTrite, don't let it go to you head. Besides, think of all our doughboys on battlefronts. No telling how many lives will be spared with your brave deeds. And think of all the mothers sitting at home praying for their sons and daughters in harms way."

"Damn, Major, you really know how to milk a guy. Have you ever milked a bull, sir?" I flaunted a big mocking grin.

"Don't be flippant. I made you, and I can break you. I know I'm from Newark, New Jersey, in the shadows of New York City, but I've trained in a hick town in Texas. Believe me, I know the difference between a bull and cow, and a cowboy and cowgirl. So, what's your decision?"

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