ENCLOSURE 2: Technical Report by T/4 [REDACTED] BLUE, FUSAG, 29 March 1944
[Editor’s note: These are pages taken from a larger report on previous and subsequent wireless telegraphy operations, redacted to preserve means and methods. This section was judged to not contain any associated SIGINT significance by G-2 Foreign Disclosure Office, FUSAG.] [Excerpt begins]
The Kraut had no more skilled a hand at technical work and mechanical prowess than he had at literature and theater, or making friends. The two radios, a British Marconi 4 kW number that was rugged and old but stubborn and functional, Frankenstein’ed into monstrosity by the remains of a badly mistreated Radione R3 Receiver/RS-20/M Transmitter for the first and served side by side with number 2, a SE108/10 Keksdose ‘Biscuit Tin’ number that showed that not even malice and shit for brains can destroy the pinnacle of German engineering. The Biscuit Tin was always a wonder, a device so rugged you could step on it or turn it into half a radiator before recovering it without any deprecation at all in propagation. Objective GARDENER had not the soul to appreciate her, but at least he also didn’t have the know-how, or more likely ignorance, to destroy her.
Best I can recall, the conversation between the Pole and I went something like the following.
From him to me, “How progress? Can you translate?”
[REDACTED] [CEA RED] looked around the kitchen for a chair, and found nothing, all of them in the main room but the one in front of the radio, taken up by your lonely correspondent writing in a scavenged grammar school notebook. The reason was clear. In order to heat both rooms, the small pot-bellied stove was never allowed to cool, leaving the kitchen a good ten degrees warmer than the main room-- or the loft. In winter that extra heat was enough to make the kitchen shirt-sleeve comfortable, but it also meant that you could be dressed either for the kitchen or for the rest of the house, not both. And stepping outside, either to gather wood or use the latrine, was torture. Ain’t no one use tolerating long spells in there, so no one did. Which, as I was the one due to speak on the radio, seemed fair enough, if not exactly cordial.
Me to him, “Hello. Yeah, it’s coming along. I don’t know about me saying it all, though… It’s thirsty work, talking on the air. And…”
Him to me, “And?” His accent came out a bit when he said that, he bit down on his words wrong, same way my Uncle back home used to. Made me wonder if there was more of the Jew about our dear pilot than he put on, but I wasn’t one to ask, for obvious reasons.
Me to him, “And I don’t like saying it, to be honest. Didn’t much like reading it, don’t like translating, and I’m just about paralyzed to think of performing it. It don’t sit right, is all. Can’t we get the German to say it? Ain’t no codes in it, if he uses my script.”
Him to me, “No. I fear not, friend. We spoke on this, Orange and I. If he says things a little differently from the script, it is too hard to tell if it is just him misreading, sending code, or something else. And if he does not cooperate, and we must change broadcaster, then the change is noticeable, impossible to explain. If we explain at start that there is change, address fact immediately, it is safer. Not perfect safety, but better. We talk, though, and we can use Indigo to help. He knows theater, has skills. If there is a change, could be two people instead of one. His German is good enough, no Norwegian accent, not like Green. So you two read. He wants to read.”
Me to him, “Does he now?” I stopped writing and peered up at CEA RED, studying his face. His lips were thin, and gave nothing away, as always.
Me to him, “I don’t like that, to be honest. This ain’t something you should want anything about. I was dumb to buy it, and dumber than that to say nothing.”
Him to me, “Is bad? Bad like that?”
Me to him, “Aw, hell, I don’t know. It… It creeps up on you, somehow. Gets into you, starts hooking your mind. You know I dreamed it last night? Saw the damn thing, Carcosa, that city. And the dance, colder even than here. Felt it in my bones, warping me into the shape of it, a wave frozen as it crashes into shore, bent and broken and… And breaking, breaking forever. Never really getting there, but midway, so as you can’t get any better. Can’t heal.”
This was true, right enough, but not enough just stated bald like that. As I thought about it, I guess, I was drawing. A little doodle on the margins of the paper. Three-lobes, something like puzzle pieces fitting together, coming together at a central point and trailing off into uneven lines at the end. CEA RED tapped at the drawing, almost but not quite touching it, before he stopped himself. He settled for tapping above, and leaving his hand in place, covering my pencil-- and the sketch-- with his fist.
Him to me, “Like this? You see this”
Me to him, “What? No, I… No, I don’t think I’ve seen that. Was I drawing that? Must be getting tired. Alright, let me get back to work. I’m about halfway through Act Two, expect to get done with it and a little into Three ‘afore we start talking. You can give these to Indigo, if he really does want to help. And maybe write up something to say, to explain the change, will you?” I took a jackknife and flipped it open one-handed, used it to slice a few pages away from the binding. Handed it to Red, somehow avoiding looking at the pages, like I didn’t want to see what I was doing. Which was the truth, after all. “Back to the freeze, I guess. We got any more wood out there? This chill is getting fierce.”
CEA RED took the sheets, avoiding reading anything himself. Mumbled something about the chill from the night, said his own bones were hurting. Lied, like as not, though I can’t blame him. And left me, lost and lonely, to struggle with the play.
Morse intercept, 3 July 1944