After Dunkirk

halls having been divided and subdivided long ago into sterile bureaucratic cubicles, its rooms and suites converted to offices, and most of its gilded and marble detail covered over with plywood and plaster.
As he strode down the hall, he ignored the incessant ringing of telephones and the cacophonic clatter of typewriters mixed with the rhythmic staccato of telegraph machines and the low hum of many people engaged in discussion. Because he had been assigned to the Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as SIS or simply MI-6, he had the clearances despite his junior rank to push his way past need-to-know checkpoints.
He marched directly to Room 424 housing MI-9, a new organization under the War Office’s military intelligence section. This latest element had formed in anticipation of fighter and bomber pilots being downed during air raids, soldiers being separated from their units in battle, or a mix of both types of combatants being captured or simply needing to escape and evade the enemy after being stranded behind enemy lines.
It was organized and led by Major Norman Crockatt, a veteran of the Royal Scots Regiment who had fought during the Great War and left the army in 1927. With war again on the horizon, he had returned to service.
Paul burst through the door and headed straight for the major’s desk. Crockatt, a tall, fit man with dark hair, a high forehead, and piercing eyes over a well-groomed mustache, saw him coming and cast a slightly deprecating glance his way.
“You again, Lieutenant? I suppose you have the same questions?”
“I do, Major.”
“And my answer is the same as I gave you this morning, and twice yesterday and the day before. Have you checked the Red Cross again?”
“I have, and still no news.”
Despite the lieutenant’s neutral expression, Crockatt detected the worry behind it. “I sympathize with you, but our office is not set up to gather the information you seek. Nor do we use what we collect in the way you seem to think. We’ve only been in existence for nine months or so, and we’ve barely started operations. We still have no one in the field, and even if we did, their jobs would not be to locate particular POWs.”
Paul nodded. “I know, and I appreciate your indulgence. I just thought that maybe information might flow through here that would identify where my brothers are.”
“Are you sure they were both at Dunkirk?”
Paul shook his head. “All I know is that my youngest brother, Jeremy, was sent to France to build military infrastructure. His unit ended up getting thrown into the rearguard at Dunkirk. I only know about that from reports coming through MI-6.”
Crockatt grimaced. “I like you, Lieutenant, and I feel I should give you some friendly advice.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t misuse the information you’re privy to. Doing so could cost you.”
Paul heaved a sigh. “I know, sir, and thank you. I’m sure that Jeremy was there. I keep hoping he made it to the beach and got onto one of the boats.”
“I’ve heard that some in the rearguard did manage that,” the major remarked encouragingly, “but there was such confusion and such a mishmash of boats in the flotilla that units are still trying to sort out who made it home and who didn’t. Don’t give up hope. What about your other brother?”
“Lance. Not a clue where he is. I think he was with a company that was supposed to cross France from the south, but when our army was pushed back from the Maginot Line, other units rushed in. I think his was among them, but I’m not sure.”
“With two sons there, your parents must be terribly worried. Didn’t you tell me they live on Sark Island?”
“Yes, and communications between here and the island are very difficult.”
“I imagine they are. I wish I had better news and advice for you. Unfortunately, I don’t, except to say that the odds of ever having relevant news from this office is slim to none. That’s not our mission, and I still have only a skeleton crew. We don’t have the resources. Your best bet is the Red Cross.”
“If the Red Cross gets word, it’ll probably be months. I was hoping to learn something I could get to our parents to ease their minds.”
The two stood in silence, and then Paul turned to leave. As he reached the door, Crockatt called to him. “Lieutenant, would you wait a moment? I’d like to speak with you on another matter.”
Surprised, Paul retraced his steps to Crockatt’s desk. “What can I do for you?”
“MI-9 is the new kid on the block, so to speak, and MI-6 is at the top of the heap, the old venerable intelligence organization that helped win the last war.”
Paul allowed a smile. “You sound like you’ve been around Americans. I believe those are across-the-pond expressions.”
“Right you are, and as I recall, your father is American, so they are not wasted on you.”
“Almost correct, sir. My father is a naturalized British citizen.”
“I see.” Crockatt clasped his hands together and held them over pursed lips. “Mind you, I’m mulling out loud, and what I’m thinking would require difficult-to-get approvals…” He let his voice trail off while his mind was clearly still at work. “You know there will be tension between our two sections.”
“How do you mean?”
“MI-6 is tasked with running foreign agents overseas, and MI-5 handles domestic counter-espionage. MI-9 is chartered to train our forces for survival, escape, and evasion, and to develop networks to assist them in the combat zones. I can see instances where we might use the same people and methods. In fact, I can see that MI-9-developed assets might independently gather intelligence that we would then deliver to MI-5 or MI-6; and by the way, part of our mission is to invent devices to help POWs escape and get that equipment to our men inside the prison camps.”
Paul gaped. “That’s a tall mission, sir. Why would there be tension?”
Crockatt chuckled. “There should be none. We’re all in the same war.