Green Ink

 

I see that Sir Alex Younger, a former head of MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, visited the set of the new James Bond film. Apparently, he had donated his pen, filled with the distinctive green ink in which it is customary for “C” to pen minutes and sign his name.  This reminded me of my tour in Defence Intelligence.

Sixteen years after enlisting in the Royal Air Force I found myself on an upward career trajectory although, at the time, blissfully unaware of the time bomb planted in my service record by a mendacious former Station Commander, Benny Jackson. I was just about to graduate from the Advanced Staff Course at Bracknell and had been appointed, following an agreeable interview in 4^th floor office at the Ministry of Defence, the Personal Staff Officer of a Director in the Defence Intelligence Service.

My introduction to Whitehall in general and the secret world of intelligence was a blizzard of briefings and indoctrinations all conducted during the office Christmas Party season at the Ministry in Whitehall. To say that I was surprised at some of the insights and revelations would be an understatement. The Aubrey, Berry and Campbell trial, the “ABC Trial,” had ended but the aftermath was febrile. I remember, as we broke for Christmas, that my head was spinning with who’s who and who did what.  Box this or Box that, our friends across the river or similar relatives in the West Country and who was that chap who said he had an office on the 6^th floor with a MOD telephone extension?

It was a steep learning curve in an exceptionally busy office environment. We staff officers to the Directors, all off similar seniority but very different backgrounds and specialisations, nevertheless bonded in an informal social group, the MADSODS, which included the American Defense Intelligence Agency Liaison, DIAL.  We all got along very well personally which helped smooth the passage of day-to-day business. One day, during my first couple of weeks in post, The MA to the Director General of Defence Intelligence (DGI) who controlled the Defence Intelligence Staff (DIS), called by to appraise me of a delicate issue which I needed to solve. Apparently my boss, a Royal Air Force Officer, had taken to writing minutes and signing his name with green ink.  The MA informed me, laconically, that, “there are only two individuals in the intelligence community who sign their name in green and neither is your boss.”  It was now up to me to raise the delicate issue. My boss did not take the observation well and, feigning outrage, demanded to know who was complaining. Learning fast, I replied that the issue had been brought to my attention unofficially and in confidence but I felt I should mention it now in case any embarrassment should arise downstream. My boss grunted angrily but, as I withdrew, I think I detected a crack of a smile on his face.  I few minutes later, the office intercom buzzed and my boss asked for a selection of coloured pens.  Sheila, the stalwart secretary rushed to the stationary cupboard and immediately provided a rainbow of felt tips from which I removed the green. “He chose brown, of all things,” said Sheila as she resumed her seat at the typewriter in the outer office.

Proof that the delicate issue had been resolved was provided a few days later. Directors had been requested to comment on some proposal or other, and, as was the procedure, each had replied on the minute sheet of the classified file. Acknowledging the minuted discussion, DGI had written, “Greville (not his real name) has commented, in his now familiar dried blood!”

So I had learned that “C” signed his name in green ink but, in those days, the name of the post holder was secret and there was certainly no website with a smiling photograph to aid recognition.  This was a disadvantage because, sometime later, having arranged a lunch at a club in Piccadilly for some foreign defence attaches I was waiting in the foyer, to direct guests to the correct venue. “C,” also happened to be a guest but how should I recognise him? I wondered whether, using some sort of racial profiling, I could pick the most likely candidate and introduce myself: “excuse me Sir, do you happen to be head of the secret intelligence service?”  My dilemma was short-lived because moments later someone touched my arm and said, “are you waiting for me?”

Excitement at Church Fenton

 

A bit of excitement at Church Fenton today with a couple of Spitfires visiting.  The 2-seater appeared to be operating joy rides.  This passenger must have paid for a good 45 minutes!  Deep pockets? Whilst waiting for the Spitfire to return, I marvelled at the huge circuits the flying instructors seemed to be allowing their student pilots to plough. In my day, we tried to keep the down wind leg within North Yorkshire.

The Game's Not Straight Boris

 

For as long as I can remember, Conservatives, particularly in opposition, have characterised an increase in National Insurance contributions as tax on jobs. Nothing has changed except now, as a gale of public disquiet about the NHS treatment backlog threatens to further undermine perceptions of Conservative competence, something must be done, say the pointy-headed focus groups. So, in a breach of an explicit manifesto commitment and disguised as a hard-choice Covid recovery strategy, it has become a question of don’t read my lips. The leaked proposal to shift the risk of long- term social care provision from individual to state will be greeted by thigh slapping hoorays in the affluent heartlands of Conservative support. Whatever levelling up means, this isn’t it. According to Fraser Nelson, as many as 1 in 6 pensioners have assets in excess of £1m. Offspring of this fortunate slice of society will be salivating at the thought that their inheritance will be safe from the demands of long-term care provision for Mum and Dad. Trebles all round? In a double whammy to hard working families, or whatever the current political euphemism for this section of the electorate might be, most working people will see their take home pay decreased whilst their affluent neighbours are laughing all the way to the probate office. The press says Boris’ proposals are a political gamble.  Well, they might be but in this event the game’s not straight.