So, there we were, the very naughty Germans on one side, and us, the fine upstanding Brits on the other. The pressure was intents and marquees… This story is a life-lesson, and shows the uses and advantages of being totally off your trolley. Please note: this is a true story from WW II. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerp
We needed a plan, a plan to dupe the Hun into believing that we were going to take Greece, rather than the glaringly obvious Sicily. “What to do,” said our brandy swilling Churchill. “I know, let’s see what Intelligence can come with.” So he did. Beavering away there was a young Ian ‘007’ Fleming, and he had been compiling a list of radical ways to deceive the enemy, and it was suggestion No. 28 that caught our leaders attention. It was without doubt, a very British wizard prang idea, and Churchill said, “Hmmm, sounds like a plan!” So from that point it was all, chocks away and tell yer mother ninepence!
Now, on Jerry’s side was a Spanish fisherman, two high ranking spies, a Mr ‘Gobby’ Goebbels, and one Adolf ‘I like a good shout me’ Hitler. And on our side we had Mr Fleming, a Royal Navy Commander, who didn’t go to sea, and an RAF pilot who didn’t fly! And on the subs bench was a pathologist called, (I kid you not) Sir Bentley Purchase, and our star striker – one dead Welshman!
The whole bizarre scheme all hinged a stiff, the right sort of stiff, and it had to be a fresh one. He had to have died in the ‘right way’, so the German pathologists wouldn’t smell a rat. The plan was to dropped a body, dressed as a Major in the Marines, into Spanish waters. It would have a briefcase loaded up with, what looked like top secret documents, and he would also have a wallet stuffed with fake personal details. The hope was that the body would find its way into enemy hands, and the duff information would filter its way up to Mr Shouty.
Well now then and then some, they found their boy, all thanks to ‘Gently’ Bentley Purchase, but what a tragic back story. The guy they found was the son of a minor, and after his pit was closed downed, because the coal had run out, he topped himself. This left Glyndwr Michael (pronounced, Glyndur) and his mother in a village that was slowly dying. Then, a short time later Glyndwr’s mother died, well happy bloody Christmas! By this stage he was homeless, penniless and friendless, and had drifted to London. In 1943 his body was discovered in a disused warehouse, where he had killed himself using rat poison – H-a-p-p-y fucking New Year!!!
Now it was time for our boys to do their stuff, but why did Winston ‘where’s the brandy’ Churchill pick these two particular men to work on, what would come to be known as ‘Operation Mincemeat’? Well, they were both highly ranked officers and both were fairly young, but the key factor was, they didn’t think in straight lines. In short, they were both barking mad!
Ewen Montagu, the matelot minus a minesweeper, was chosen because he was an eminent barrister, and had a remarkable skill for spotting bullshit. And Charles, (wait for it) Cholmondeley, (Pronounced, Chumley!) the fly-boy who didn’t, was employed because he had a superb waxed moustache and a very peculiar mind. On his days off, for example, he studied the mating habits of insects, and if his was really bored, he hunted partridges with a revolver!
Our fine and well educated mentals had three months to invent a whole new personality for the relatively newly dead man. He was given a bank account, and a bollocking letter from his bank manger, stating that his overdraft would be called in if he didn’t start slapping some folding money in his account pronto. He gained a girlfriend and was carrying a ring worth, £13, 000 in today’s money. And I think he even had a Mayfair address too.
Well he had done well for himself! Two weeks after he was dropped into Spanish waters, via submarine, the news had reach the bloke with a stolen logo. The telegraph from Bletchley Park read: Operation Mincemeat swallowed hook, line and sinker. You have to laugh at the front and nerve of the men involved! Churchill was bipolar. Our ‘Brill-cream boy’ was a plane short of a fuselage, and our sailor had spent more time in court than the sea!
Can you imagine the scene? While Hitler was moving everything he had from Sicily to Greece, by sea, air, rail and road, British Intelligence were organising a piss-up to Blackpool. And when Jerry reached Greece, they couldn’t understand why it was so quiet! Abso-frigging-lutely brilliant.
The full story is told in the film, The man that never was. It’s got to worth a look hasn’t it?
Right, I’m off, I’ve got a reindeer to sand down. Catch you all in the New Year sometime…
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