The Spy Who - The Spy Who Duped Hitler | Hook, Line and Sinker | 3

Episode Date: April 8, 2025

With 160,000 Allied troops about to invade Sicily, the Operation Mincemeat team hunt for signs that the Nazis fell for their con. But are the Germans fooled, or about to turn Britain’s double cross against the Allies?See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. May 8th, 1943. The German embassy in Madrid, Spain. German intelligence officer Major Karl-Erik Kuhlenthal enters a room slightly out of breath. Having rushed here he now looks expectantly at the Spanish intelligence officer who was waiting for him. It's been a week since Kuhlenthal first heard about the dead British soldier found floating off the Spanish coast with a briefcase full of top secret documents.

Ever since he and his fellow upfare officers have been trying to get access to those documents, but with the British pressing the Spanish to return the briefcase, time's running out. And that's a problem for Kuhlenthal. His spymasters in Berlin want those documents, and failure's not an option. Not least because Kuhlenthal's one quarter Jewish. Officially, he's been declared Aryanized, but many in Berlin are waiting for him to trip up. So ever since the British briefcase arrived in Madrid, Kuhlenthal's been lobbying every friend in the Spanish government to help him get access to those letters.

He sits down opposite the Spanish intelligence officer and looks at him, hopefully. You have something for me? The Spanish intelligence officer nods. Yes, but these must be returned in one hour. The Spanish intelligence officer hands him the letter from the sealed envelope in the briefcase. Kuhlenthal reads it with mousing excitement. The letter is from a senior British general in London to another based in North Africa.

It's not explicit, but it hints the Allies plan to surprise the Axis forces by invading Greece instead of the obvious target of Sicily. And that invasion is likely to take place within the next two months. Kuhlenthal feels the throb of victory in his veins. Discovering top-secret information of this magnitude will definitely safeguard his position. He frowns as another thought occurs to him. If the British realized the letter's been read, they could abandon their invasion plan and this intelligence would be worthless.

He looks at the Spanish intelligence officer. This is only of use to me if the British still believe this secret is safe. The Spanish intelligence officer smiles. That's not a problem. I need to be sure. I will have these letters copied. Then I want you to show me how you will ensure the British won't know the letters have been read. Forty minutes later, Koolum Tal is in the offices of the Spanish military. He watches as the Spanish intelligence officer soaks the letters in a tray filled with saltwater. After removing them, he gently folds them into thirds as they were originally.

Then with careful precision, the Spaniard rolls the wet paper around a thin metal prong until it is a tight narrow cylinder. Another Spanish intelligence officer holds up the still sealed envelope. The officer with the prong then carefully inserts the rolled wet paper through a small gap in the envelope flaps. Next, he patiently unfurls the letter a bit at a time until it lays flat inside the envelope once more. It looks as if the letter never left the envelope. The Spanish officer looks at Kulintal triumphantly as he puts the envelope back into the tray of salt water. We will now soak it for 24 hours to remove any creases and so the letter will still be damp

when it is returned to the British. Kulintal smiles. His doubts vanquished. He himself would be fooled by this trick. This is excellent work, gentlemen. You will be rewarded. Kulintal hurries out of the office with a spring in his portly step. He's just obtained what must surely be the Allies' greatest secret.

A plan that could change the course of the war. He must message Berlin immediately. From Wanderi, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And we're the hosts of British Scandal. And for our next series, we're taking you back to the 80s. This is Thatcher's Britain. These are the boom years. But boom is notoriously so often followed by bust. It is, and that's the case for Asil Nadir. He built one of the UK's biggest conglomerates of the 1980s, a jewel in the FTSE 100,

and he built it with just his bare hands, a fertile imagination, and a whole heap of lies. Ah yes, the important ingredient. We love lies on British scandal. This sounds absolutely perfect. The only thing that could make it better would be the Prime Minister herself,

maybe a trophy wife and a bonkers escape from the law on a two-seater propeller plane. I live to serve Alice. This story has all that and more. To listen to Thatcher's favourite fraudster, follow British Scandal wherever you listen to your podcasts and binge entire seasons early and ad-free on Wandery+. From Wandery, I'm Raaza Jafri, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, submarine captain Bill Jewell

dropped Operation Mincemeat's corpse and its briefcase full of fake intel about the Allies' invasion plans off the coast of Spain. But then things went awry. The Spanish Navy reached the body first and threatened to derail the plan by stopping Hitler's spies from seeing the briefcase's contents. But now Germany's spies have got hold of the faked intelligence Britain wants them to have. The question is, will the Nazis fall for this British con? You're listening to The Spy Who Duped Hitler. This is Episode 3. Hook, Line and Sinker.

and sinker. May 11th, 1943. Two days after the Germans gained access to the letter in the briefcase, the British Embassy in Madrid. Naval attaché Alan Hilgarth rises as a Spanish naval officer enters with a black briefcase under his arm. The officer salutes him before handing over the briefcase. Admiral Moreno sends his apologies that he's unable to return this in person. You must thank him for me. I hope keeping it secure wasn't any trouble. The Spaniard gives a knowing wink.

You may rest assured all the documents are there. As Hilgarth ushers the officer out of the door, he tries to assess what his cryptic behaviour indicates. That the letters have been passed to the Germans, or that the Spanish Navy kept them safe for their British friends. He locks the door and gingerly opens the briefcase to check on the sealed letters. The wax seal on the letter looks untouched. Hilgarth examines it from every angle with mounting disappointment.

Could this be the only occasion the top secret letters have been in the possession of Spanish authorities for ten days and not been passed on to the Germans? He finds that difficult to believe, but he can't conceive of how they could get to the letters without breaking the seal. He sighs and prepares to send a secure message to London to warn them that Operation Mincemeat appears to have failed. Two days later, Hitler's East Prussian headquarters, the Wolf's Lair. Nazi Germany's leader, Adolf Hitler, pours over maps of the Mediterranean laid out on

a large high table in front of him. He is in the dimly lit conference room of a large concrete bunker hidden deep within a dense pine forest. Next to him stand two of his most senior generals. General Keitel, head of the German armed forces, points to the island of Sicily. Mein Führer, an attack on Sicily is the only plan that makes sense for the Allies. It is the easiest point for them to resupply their lines, and they know the Italians are the weakest of our forces."

Still smarting over his defeat in North Africa, Hitler is trying to work out where the Allies will attack next. Just a few days ago, he would have agreed with his generals that Sicily is the obvious target. But then, his intelligence service, the Abwehr, told him that they had obtained top-secret British documents indicating that the Allies are planning a surprise attack on Greece and the Balkans. Hitler taps the Balkans with his forefinger.

Churchill is not afraid of risk. He knows losing the Balkans would be very serious for us. We would lose the oil fields, the bog site, and copper mines. Our army depends on these resources. For a moment, Hitler feels the thick walls of the bunker closing in on him. Between the defeat in North Africa and heavy losses on the Eastern Front, he has lost one-eighth of his army in the last four months. He holds up the Arbfair report about the new intelligence.

Our agents in Spain had to overcome a number of difficulties to get this intelligence. The British were desperate to get these letters back. His generals look skeptical. They have, on more than one occasion, voiced doubts over the reliability of the Arpwehr's intelligence. General Jodl, the head of operations staff, purses his lips. The British are devious, as you have many times remarked, mein Führer. These letters could be a ruse.

Keitel looks from his notes to the map, making rapid calculations. We do not have the numbers to split our forces in three and still repel a major invasion. We must recall troops from the Eastern Front and deploy them in both Sicily and Greece. Hitler narrows his eyes. The fight with the Soviets in the East is on a knife edge.

Diverting troops from the eastern front risks handing victory to the Soviet Union. No! I will not touch the troops in the east. We must move our most experienced panzer division to Greece, if some kind of a mess develops in Italy. I think relatively few forces could hold it. But if the Allies took the Balkans, it would be a disaster. Jodl looks worried at Hitler's proposal to move one of Germany's crack armoured divisions thousands of miles just because of a letter in a dead man's briefcase.

But there are inconsistencies in this intelligence report. We should ask the Abwehr to double check the details before giving firm orders. Hitler flares at his generals. They only ever bring him caution and pessimism, even now, when the British have discovered the point where he is weakest. Yes, get the intelligence verified. But if we are to get Panzer divisions to Greece to repel a major attack in the summer, they must leave now, or they will never make it in time. But if we are to get panzer divisions to Greece to repel a major attack in the summer,

they must leave now or they will never make it in time. He turns his back on them and stalks out of the room. The conversation is over. The next day, room 13, the Admiralty, London. Naval Intelligence Officer Ewan Montague is so wrapped in his thoughts, he forgets to duck as he enters the office and bangs his head on the low-hanging air duct. God damn it! It doesn't improve his mood, which has, for the last two weeks, been black.

I am sick and tired of having to enter this room on all fours because of an air duct that never delivers any bloody fresh air. This obviously be condemned by any factory inspector. Nobody reacts. Least of all his double cross committee colleague Charles Chumley. He's despondently checking recently intercepted German communications from the code breakers of Fletcher Park. For two weeks both men have been waiting for any sign that the Germans have seen the fake documents they created. But so far, there's nothing. Montague can't help asking, even though he knows the answer.

Anything? Chumlee shakes his head. The briefcase is in transit. Should be here in the next day or so, but no evidence the Germans have read the letters. A young woman enters the room with a pile of papers in her arms which she places on Montague's desk. Here's the latest batch from Bletchley Park, sir. Montague nods and sits down with a sigh. His skin reads each intercept and sorts them into different piles for action. He's about to put one down when he frowns and rereads it more closely.

Montague bangs the table so hard, his coffee cup jumps off the table and smashes. Yes! Every head in the small, cramped office turns to him. Intercept from General Jodl of the German army. An enemy landing on a large scale is projected in the near future in both the East and West Mediterranean. Greece will be the primary target. Within seconds Montagu is surrounded by everyone in the room

begging to see the cable. This information comes from a source we believe is absolutely reliable. Tomley laughs and hugs Montague. They immediately break apart, horrified at getting so carried away with emotion. Montague clears his throat. We're not out of the woods yet. They're bound to pour over the intelligence reports with a fine tooth comb. But they're taking it seriously.

It's bloody good news, Chum. The following day, the German embassy in Madrid. In his office, Upfare Officer Karl-Erik Kuhlenthal is working his way through Berlin's extensive list of questions about his intelligence coup. One is to double-check all dates. He stands to better sift through all the papers, reports and photographs spread out across his desk. He looks at the coroner's report from Huelva,

where the British Marine's body was first examined. Kulintar's heart stills for a moment. In a paragraph he had previously missed, the coroner states that Major Bill Martin had been dead for at least eight days. He works out the dates. That would mean the Major's plane crashed on April 22nd at the latest. He rapidly goes through all the photos of the dead soldier's belongings until he arrives at the one he wants. A photo of a bill from Major Martin's Members Club

dated April 24th, two days after the apparent date of the plane crash. Kulintar's eyes flick back and forth between the coroner's report and the bill, his mind straining to think of any logical reason for the mismatch between these two dates. May 21st 1943, ten days after the Spanish returned the briefcase to the British. The Ministry of Information, London. Charles Chumley tries to arrange his long body comfortably on the small wooden chair he's been given.

He's waiting for the Ministry's technical analysts to decide if the sealed letter in the briefcase has been read. But so far, they've done little but stare at photos of the letters' wax seals for hours. Any conclusions? Yes, gentlemen. One of the analysts straightens. I think we can say with confidence

that the seals have not been tampered with. Cholmney stands quickly with irritation. Well, we knew that, didn't we? So that means the letters haven't been read. There aren't many ways to skin a cat, Lieutenant. Cholmney's jaw clenches in irritation. He leans over the analyst's shoulder as the wax seal is broken

and the damp letter inside is removed. The eyelash is gone. The analyst gives Cholmley a condescending look. That's hardly conclusive proof. He was probably washed away in the seawater. Deflated, Cholmley slinks back into his chair as the analysts confer. One brings a heat lamp and sets it up.

Cholmley is on his feet again. You're drying it out. Why? You can tell a lot by seeing how the paper reacts when it's dried. This leaves Cholmley no wiser. He is even more mystified when the analyst animatedly points to the curling edges of the letter as it dries. Ah, clever! Mortis!

They rolled the letter around something, probably some kind of fork or piece of metal to keep the spiral tight. Then they pulled it out through the gap in the envelope flaps. Chomley can't help feeling they've gone from the bleeding obvious to the most inexplicable of conclusions in seconds. But doesn't all wet paper drive it wavy? Yes. But when you roll paper while it's wet, it damages the fibers in quite a specific way.

Watch. The analyst folds the letter into three sections, as it was inside the envelope. The edges now all curl the same way. Also, they folded it when it was wet, so it's caused a very slight double crease here. Do you see? The analyst looks smug. I'm confident these letters have been read but they've gone to great lengths to conceal it. Chomley grins. It's another sign that the Germans took the bait.

The only question now is whether they'll believe it. believe it. Four days later, Berlin. Nazi propaganda chief Joseph Goebbels pushes his way through the crowd of senior Nazi and military chiefs leaving the briefing room. Admiral Canaris, a silver-haired man in a German naval uniform, turns on hearing his name. Canaris is the head of the Abwehr, Germany's military intelligence agency. Goebbels ignores the admiral's obvious reluctance and ushers him towards a nearby side room. Would you like to join me for a moment, admiral? There are some matters I would like to discuss.

Goebbels, like many senior Nazis, has growing doubts about Canaris' loyalty. The head of the Upfare has, on more than one occasion, expressed disapproval over the party's policy on the Jews. How can I help, Herr Goebbels? I wanted to ask about this intelligence report from Spain that has got everyone very excited. I have sent you a copy of it. Indeed you have. But does it not strike you as very convenient? What do you mean? Well, the Allies have victory

in North Africa. They are planning their next move and Abracadabra. A dead body washes ashore in Spain. And it just happens to have letters on it containing all the secrets of the Allies' next attack. Canaris' eyes flash with anger. "'You're assuming this information came to us easily. It was quite the opposite, and I'm sure you saw the death notice in the Times for the dead soldier.'" Goebbels gives Canaris a pitying look. He knows more than most how easy it is to manipulate press and radio reports. Canaris ignores the look and continues.

"'My most senior officer in Madrid, Major Kuhlenthal, has double checked everything. He has already explained how the advanced decomposition of the body is from it floating in the hot sun for many days. Goebbels places his fingertips together and presses them against his long, thin nose. Ah yes, your protege, Major Hulintal. He's part Jewish, isn't he? Ganarus scowls at him. He has been Aryanized, and he has shown over many years that he is a loyal servant of the Reich.

Yes, we wave a magic wand and get rid of any Jewish blood. And he is so very keen to show us what a clever little intelligence officer he is. Canaris stands in disgust. Your tone and imputations against Major Kulintal's honor are unacceptable. I will not listen to this any longer. Goebbels, with hooded eyes watch Canaris stalk out of the room. He arbors serious doubts about the intelligence report from Spain, but he needs to be careful about his next move. Hitler has already given orders based upon this report, and it's a risky move to question the Führer.

Two weeks later, London. In room 13 at the Admiralty, Montagu and Cholmley stare at a map of the Mediterranean that's pinned on the wall. They've spent the past fortnight on tenterhooks as they watched for any signs that the Germans may have fallen for their Operation Mincemeat ruse. Now Montagu must prepare an update report for Allied High Command. With his finger, he traces the path of the roads that run from northern Italy through the Balkans and into Greece.

The intercepts from Bletchley Park show the Germans' first Panzer Division is heading to Greece. How many men is that? 18,000. They are also one of Hitler's most battle-hardened divisions, and our double agents report the Germans are still searching for the secondary invasion target in the Western Mediterranean, all of which suggests they bought our lie.

Hook, line, and sinker. He waits for Charly to agree agree, but instead his younger colleague just looks at the map with a creased frown and says nothing. Montague rolls his eyes. What's the problem? Out with it. What if the Germans haven't bought it? What if they know the information on Bill's corpse is fake and that this is all just a huge double bluff? Montague chews on his pipe thoughtfully. They don't? No, we've broken their codes.

No. Maybe they do. Maybe they have broken our codes, just like we've broken theirs. But we have aerial confirmation they're moving troops. And what do we do when we want to convince the Germans we are amassing troops in a different place to where they actually are? Montague's eyes fill with worry. What if they are dummy troops?

And all the while they're actually reinforcing Sicily because only a fool would believe that we wouldn't attack Sicily. He meets Chomley's eyes with a stricken look of his own. If this scenario is true, the Allied invasion of Sicily will end in defeat and massive bloodshed. Both men jump as Montague's assistant, Joan Saunders, bangs down two mugs of tea on a desk behind them.

She has the hard stare of a headmistress. Oh, for heaven's sake, get a grip, you two. Montague looks at her in outrage. Excuse me? You intelligence people, sometimes things are just what they seem. Your problem is you never believed your bonkers plan would work." Chalmley interrupts. Yes, but it's our job to be thinking, to be one step ahead.

And what good does that do? Now it's Chalmley's turn to look offended. But Saunders is warming to her theme. We're attacking Sicily come what may, yes? So, whether it's a double bluff or not, you've done what you can. There's nothing to do but wait and see, so stop overthinking and drink your tea." Saunders sniffs as she walks off, leaving the two chastened men to sip their tea. One month later, July 1st, 1943, Allied headquarters, Algiers, North Africa. Lieutenant Bill Jewell waits in a former French colonial hotel with two other British submarine commanders. It's been two months since he slipped Major Martin's corpse and briefcase into the sea off the coast of Spain.

Now, he and his crew are among the invasion forces massing in North Africa, ahead of the attack on Sicily. Jewell and the other two submarine commanders stand to attention as Lieutenant General George Patton strides into the room. He's the commander of the US 7th Army and he's wearing an American side cap with silver stars and pearl-handled revolvers on each hip. He doesn't waste time on pleasantries. Gentlemen, I hope you've all got giant pairs of balls on you because I'm relying on you to get my army onto these three beaches. Patton turns to the map of Sicily on display and uses a leather-tipped stick to point out the beaches where his American forces will land.

Ahead of the invasion fleet's arrival, your submarines will lay a line of beacon buoys to these beaches. The lights in them will be timed to turn on at 0400 hours when the fleet is scheduled to arrive. He turns and juts his chin at the submarine captains. Then you will lay the radar beacon buoy 1000 yards off the beach at 0400 hours. The ships will lock onto that radar to come into shore. Understood? Aye, sir. After you've done that, you stay on the surface as close to the beach as you can.

You will be a visible marker for the landing craft. And you stay there until my boys are running up those beaches. Do you hear me? Jewel raises a tentative hand and Patton hands on hips, nods permission to speak. "'Sir, we'll be less than a mile from the beach. If the fleet is late and dawn breaks, we'll be sitting ducks for the Italian guns.' Patton glares at him. "'I guess you didn't hear me properly the first time. I said you will stay there, no matter what.'"

Jewel realizes what the abrasive American general is ordering them to do. Their mission is to ensure the invasion fleet reaches the landing beaches. And that mission is so important that his and his crew's lives are now expendable. Yes, sir. Good. That's all. Dismissed. As they leave the room, the submarine commanders look at each other. They've just been given what might prove to be a suicide mission. But the lives of 160,000 Allied soldiers and the Allied invasion of Europe now depends on them.

Jule just hopes his noisy destruction of the canister didn't blow Major Martin's mission in Spain. Because now his life, that of his men, as well as thousands of others, depends on the Germans having weakened their defenses in Sicily. July 9th, 1943. Just after midnight, off the coast of Sicily. Lieutenant Bill Jewell turns up the collar of his thick oil-skin coat as his submarine HMS Serif cuts through heaving waves and wind. Around them is thick, swirling fog, the last remnants of an earlier storm. He comforts himself with the thought that their advance will at least be more difficult to spot in this weather. His crew have already laid the beacon buoys that will guide the invasion fleet to the island.

But their mission isn't done yet. They still need to deploy the larger, heavier radar buoy. Jule is about to give the orders a drop-hit when he hears the hushed voice of his lookout. German E-boat on port quarter, sir! The fog has lifted for a moment to reveal the thick outline of a German patrol boat. It's much faster and better armed than the British submarine. And it is just 400 yards away. Jule falls to the deck to remove his silhouette.

Action stations! As his men silently ready the guns, Jewel waits. He knows the German boat's captain will be trying to decide if they are friend or foe. The patrol boat's navigation lights flash a recognition signal. The seraph will be expected to answer it. Jewel acts quickly. Stand down! Prepare to dive!

The crew work quickly. The submarine disappears under the water in less than a minute. To the German boat, it will seem like the seraph simply vanished in the dark fog. Jule just hopes its captain will assume the submarine never saw his signal. just hope Sid's captain will assume the submarine never saw his signal. Silent tension thickens in the close confines of the submarine as they wait to see what the patrol boat will do. Finally,

the patrol boat's propellers start and it moves away. After 20 more minutes of hiding below the waves, Jule gives the order to resurface. There's still a risk that the German boats might be lying in ambush, but he has no choice. They are almost out of time. They must lay the radar buoy before the invasion fleet arrives.

If they fail, the Allied forces won't find their landing beach. Once back on the surface, the submariners move fast. And finally, land the radar buoy in the right spot. Then, Jule hears a new sound rising above the crashing waves. It's the enveloping buzz of hundreds of unseen planes flying towards Sicily. The invasion has begun. Explosions begin lighting up the coast. The whine of the air raid sirens fill the air.

Jule turns to his men. Find cover, it's about to get lively. Huge searchlights switch on all along the coast. One lights up the British submarine in its dazzling glare. All hell breaks loose around the submarine. The Italian coastal guns begin firing at it. The men crouch into any protective nook they can find, as the seraph is rocked and hit by shells.

But Jule and his men aren't about to flee. Their orders are to stay put until the allied soldiers are on the beach, even if it cost them their lives. Finally, after what seems a hellish eternity, Jule hears another new sound. The throbbing beat of huge engines in the water. It's the Allied invasion fleet. Through his night goggles, he sees a flicker of light from the destroyer that's leading the fleet. And behind it, hundreds of ships slowly emerging from the shadows of the night, heading towards the island.

Never has Jewel seen a sight so beautiful. The searchlights from the lead destroyer are soon bright enough to illuminate the Italians' coastal defense guns on the shore. The destroyer opens fire. The world becomes a nightmarish but spectacular combination of flame, traces and search lights, as the other allied ships also open fire. Above them, enemy planes scream as they drop flares to light up the ships for the onshore gunners. As the lead destroyer passes, Jule is surprised to see the ship's crew standing on the decks waving and cheering the British submarine. Out of the darkness a small landing craft appears with an American naval

captain in its stern. He shouts to Jewel above the noise. Hi, Sarif! The Admiral sent me over to thank you for a great job. Jule gives an astonished salute. The captain returns it and grits. Those boys are gonna remember for a long time how you guided them in. The American captain motors past them towards the beach. Jule can see the landing ships

have now lowered their front hatches and American soldiers are running up the beach towards the defensive guns. He sends up a silent prayer for them all. It's time for the seraph to slide back into the protective waters of the deep. The hidden war has now handed over to the open war of man against gun.

Four hours later, the Admiralty, London. RAF Intelligence Officer Charles Chumley paces room 13 nervously beneath the flickering light bulbs. In a nearby seat, Naval Intelligence Officer Ewan Montague sits at his desk puffing at his pipe and scowling. For heaven's sake Chum, sit down. You're too tall and this office is too small for your manic pacing. I can't bear it. I just want news, any news, even the worst. Joan Saunders, Monsegu's chief assistant, stops tidying her already spotless desk and gives Chumlee a disapproving stare.

You certainly don't mean that, Mr Chumlee. None of them have slept. a disapproving stare. You certainly don't mean that, Mr Chalmney. None of them have slept. Instead, they've spent the night waiting for news from Sicily, where the first landings would use to take place four hours ago. They all know that the lives of the hundreds of thousands of Allied troops now fighting to take the island may depend on whether Operation Mincemeat

fooled the Germans and Italians. Chalmley resumes pacing. I can't shake the fear the Germans discovered our trick. I mean, they're clever, aren't they? The Germans. The conversation stops as they hear running footsteps in the hallway outside. A woman from the secretarial pool appears in the doorway, and she's got a telegram in her hand. Saunders leaps up from her desk and snatches it from her. Montague and Chalmley rush over, crowding around her as she reads it aloud. Beachheads secured.

German defensive positions weaker than expected. Italian forces surrendering in large numbers. It's such good news! Cheers and relieved laughter echo around the room as everyone realizes Operation Mincemeat has been a success. The Germans did not reinforce Sicily. Instead, they sent their best troops to Greece to await the fake invasion. best troops to Greece to await the fake invasion. Ooh! Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, Definitely requires it! Montague pulls open his desk drawer and takes out a bottle of whiskey. Joe, get some glasses. We need a toast.

Montague thrusts his glass into the air. To Major Bill Martin, the man who never was, but who is this day a bloody hero. To Bill Martin! Well done, Willy! Eight days later. Feltre, Italy. In the morning room of a grand Italian villa 50 miles north from Venice, Italy's fascist dictator Benito Mussolini feels Adolf Hitler's spittle land on his face.

The German Fuhrer is red with rage as he stomps around the room. We may lose Sicily because of your inept and cowardly troops. Only Germany's troops are stopping the British from taking Catania and Messina. What has happened here can never be allowed to happen again, do you hear me? Mussolini has remained calm for most of Hitler's furious to raid, but this he cannot let pass. Führer, I told you they would invade Sicily. It was always going to be Sicily. Despite our pleas, you moved your troops to Greece, you abandoned us. Hitler grows wild-eyed. His black hair falls forward as he slams his fist against the elaborate fireplace.

How dare you! Your troops are ill-disciplined and corrupt, and now I, I must pull 100,000 troops away from the Eastern Front to save you! The anger in the room is checked as one of Mussolini's aides enters the room. Il Duce, I am very sorry for this interruption, but Rome is under air attack. Mussolini's rage freezes into fear. If Rome is under attack, then his war is already over. He glances at Hitler who has turned his back and is glaring out of a window. Mussolini knows the German will never admit that he has been fooled.

But it may cost Italy and the other Axis powers this bloody, bloody war. Bloody War. April, 2023. Huelva Cemetery, Spain. A Royal Marine plays the bugle, standing next to the simple gravestone of Major William Martin. It's been 80 years since his body was found floating in the sea off a nearby beach.

Charles Chumley, the man who instigated Operation Mincemeat, died in 1982. His colleague Ewan Montague died three years later, at the age of 84. But today, Major Martin's role in the successful invasion of Sicily is being honored by a small group of local dignitaries and Royal Navy personnel. But Major Martin is not the only name on this flat marble gravestone. Below the original engraving is a newer carving. It reads Glendore Michael, served as Major William Martin, Royal Marines. Operation Mincemeats is considered one of the most successful deception

operations in history. In the first week of the invasion of Sicily, the Allies expected more than 10,000 casualties and the loss of 300 ships. But less than 1,500 men were killed, wounded or captured, and barely a dozen ships were sunk. Commanders predicted it would take 90 days to conquer Sicily, but it was won in just 38. The rapid fall of Sicily soon saw Italian leader Benito Mussolini deposed and the Allies' first victory against a fascist regime in Europe. After the war, Operation Mincemeat instigator Charles Chalmley was awarded an MBE and continued to work in the intelligence services serving in both the Middle East and Malaya.

His colleague Ewan Montague returned to the law and became a judge. He received an OBE and wrote a book about Operation Mincemeat called The Man Who Never Was. Mint's meet called the man who never was. Glendale Michael's identity remained a secret until 1996 when the secret files on Operation Mint's meet were declassified. The following year a plaque to commemorate him was put up in his hometown of Aberbargoid, Wales. Join us for the next episode, where we meet David Cumming, one of the creators, writers, actors, and composers of Operation Mincemeat, the musical. David talks about the process of turning a wartime deception, built on lies and a dead

man in a uniform, into a show that manages to find comedy amidst the chaos, and why the absurdity of the operation makes such a good subject for a musical. Add free on Apple podcasts or the Wondery app. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email us with your ideas to thespywho at Wondery.com. From Wondery, this is the third episode in our season, The Spy Who Duped Hitler. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history,

but our scenes are written using the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including Operation Mincemeat by Ben McIntyre and The Man Who Never Was by Ewan Montagu. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant

for Wondery. For Yellow Ant this episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne with thanks to Marina Watson and Kat Whitehouse. Our Managing Producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our Senior Producers are Ashley Clevery and Philippa Gearing. Our Sound Designer is Ivor Manley. Rachel Byrne is the Supervising Producer. Music Supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frison Sync. Executive Producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin.

Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Louloudis. And our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Lewy.