Book Excerpt
An Excerpt from
No Dawn
for Men
By James LePore and Carols Davis
P
rofessor Tolkien, from his seat
in the back of the Eagle and
Child pub, the Bird and Baby,
as it was known around
Oxford, watched as his old
student, Arlen Cavanaugh, weaved his
way, a Guinness stout aloft in each
hand, to him. Tall and thin, his blond
hair swept back to reveal twinkling
blue eyes, pointy ears and a narrow
face, his former student seemed to
glide effortlessly around and through
the knots of people standing, talking
and drinking, in the crowded pub. Did
his feet touch the floor? The
professor remembered that Arlie had
been a great athlete, swift and
graceful on the rugby field where he
seemed never to lose his balance, and
the squash courts, where be bested
all comers, smiling impishly and barely
breaking a sweat the whole match.
The word elvan came to Professor
Tolkien’s mind, which surprised him
since he was used to thinking of elves
as smallish creatures.
On the five-minute walk from
Pembroke he had had a quick lesson in
the improbable. Arlen, a poor student
from a rich Midlands merchant family,
had, after flunking out of Oxford,
wangled an appointment to Sandhurst,
where he lasted less than a month,
and then managed somehow to land
a job in Naval Intelligence, where
he now worked directly under its
director, a man named Hugh Sinclair,
who Arlie referred to as Uncle Quex.
SIS, MI-6. Quite.
“Why the note under the rock?”
the professor asked when Arlie
was seated.
“I was just having fun. You
know me.”
“That’s why you were sent down,
Arlie.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“What’s your interest in Havamal?”
The professor had pulled the note out
of his pocket and spread it on the
scarred wooden table.
“We think Herr Hitler is interested
in it as a code book.”
“That’s absurd,” John Ronald replied.
“It would be easily deciphered.”
“Decoded, actually.”
The professor, now forty-six and
with World War One between him and
his youth, rarely recalled his
undergraduate days with anything but
pain. Two of his best friends lay
buried in the Somme Valley. He smiled
now though, thinking of the
brashness of the TCBS’ers, as he and
his small coterie of public school
classmates called themselves, not
unlike the brashness of Mr.
Cavanaugh.
“So you’re lecturing me now,” he
said, trying unsuccessfully to turn his
smile into a frown of mild indignation.
“No, sir. Just correcting your usage.
Codes are decoded, ciphers are
deciphered.”
“Is this what you’re learning at
Bletchley House?”
“Yes, sir. Among other things.”
“Excellent. Learning something.”
“We had the same thought,”
Cavanaugh said, “about Havamal. The
Germans have Enigma machines. They
are well beyond code books.”
“Should I still be worried about
German aggression?”
“Professor...Are you serious?”
“I was rather hoping the headlines
were accurate.”
“There’s no chance of that. Hitler’s
a madman.”
“Are you sure?”
“They have seen my strength for
themselves, have watched me rise
from the darkness