The Hornet's Sting_ The Amazing Untold Story of World War II Spy Thomas Sneum - Mark Ryan [145]
Mitchell’s first major headache at home was how to deal with the lingering problem of Thomas Sneum. Squadron Leader Gregory had submitted a critical report about Sneum’s treatment and detention inside Brixton Prison. Mitchell did not know how Gregory had learned of Sneum’s whereabouts, but he soon discovered that the squadron leader had visited Brixton personally, something he had not been granted authority to do. Mitchell called Governor Benke to demand an explanation. When he received no conclusive reply, he decided to meet the source of the controversy in person.
‘You’ve been rather clever, haven’t you?’ said the major after introducing himself. ‘Somehow you got a message out of this prison to one of my colleagues, Squadron Leader Gregory. Since you had no obvious contact with the outside world at the time, I’d like you to tell me how you achieved that.’
Sneum refused to do so. He enjoyed protecting Bill. It had taken two Brixton prisoners who hardly knew each other to show SIS and SOE what true trust and cooperation were all about.
‘This is a great shame,’ said Mitchell when he had to admit defeat for the day. ‘Because I have just received an SOE report from a barrister called Park and a fellow called Reginald Spink, from their Danish Section. The report recommends that we allow you to be released from here. You are not helping me to follow those recommendations.’
Tommy looked him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Major Mitchell. But my position remains unchanged,’ he said. It might have been Sneum’s imagination, but he thought he saw something akin to respect in Mitchell’s eyes.
Some time between 25 September and 3 October 1942, Leslie Mitchell returned to the jail with the appropriate papers, bundled Sneum into a car and drove him away. The major said they were bound for Bedfordshire, where a new life awaited Tommy. He wouldn’t be entirely free, but it would be better than prison. Sneum was to stay on a farm with the father of a junior SIS man called Gordon Andrews.
Tommy wanted to trust Mitchell, but he also remembered Gregory’s warning about it being safer inside Brixton. He remembered his childhood and going on duck shoots, when trained birds would lead the wilder ones to their deaths. He wondered whether he too was being led to his execution somewhere in the English countryside. Sneum watched and waited. If the car stopped in the middle of nowhere he would try to make a break for it. It didn’t, and soon they had reached their destination.
Milton Ernest was picturesque. The River Ouse flowed to the west of the village, though anyone passing through might never have known it was there. On a gentle slope beyond the village green stood All Saints Church, first built almost a thousand years earlier, after the Norman invasion. In nearby Radwell Road, two pubs stood almost side by side; from the outside, the Queen’s Head looked classier than the Swan. All over the village, grand signs pointed the way to large farms and manor houses. The biggest of these properties was Milton Ernest Hall, from which the Americans were coordinating bombing raids on the continent.
Sneum soon saw that his new home was to be another mansion. A tower, crowned with a weathercock, sprouted incongruously from the more modest contours of the main building’s roof. The sign at the start of a long driveway read ‘Milton Ernest House.’ The establishment thought itself so grand that visitors were even expected to sign in at a lodge by the outer gate. Willow trees adorned lawns in front of the main building. Tucked away to the right were some modest farm buildings, where the bulk of the daily agricultural business was