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“Middle name Ludwig,” Mannberg said. “My middle name is Christian, so we would send that, for example.”

“And then,” Mitchell said, “they reply with what they want to send us. We acknowledge, and that’s it.”

“I hate to sound like a smart-ass,” Cronley said.

“Hah!” Wallace said.

“But I think you forgot to turn the SIGABA on.”

“It’s off, Captain. I was afraid that there might be some interference with the eight slash ten from it.”

“With the what?”

Mitchell pointed to three small, battered, black tin boxes. They were connected with cables, and what could be a telegraph key protruded from the side of one of them, and a headset—now on Sergeant Fortin’s head—was plugged into one of the boxes.

“That’s what we’re using,” he said. “It’s German. The SE 108/10 transceiver.”

“Seven-K has one just like it,” Mannberg said. “We used them quite successfully from 1942. The slash ten means it’s Model 10, based on the original model 108.”

“I thought it was something you found in here,” Cronley admitted. “And were fooling around with.”

“No, sir, that’s it. It’s a hell of a little radio,” Sergeant Fortin said. “Puts out ten watts.”

“And that thing with the white button on it sticking out from the side is the telegraph key?” Cronley asked.

“Right,” Fortin said.

“Where’d you get it, from Colonel Mannberg?”

“This one, I think, we got from Iron Lung . . . Major McClung. But Colonel Mannberg did give us a couple of them.”

Sergeant Fortin, who had been sitting relaxed in his chair before his typewriter, suddenly straightened and began typing. It didn’t take long. He ripped the paper from the machine and handed it to Mitchell as he fed a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter.

Mitchell consulted a sheet of paper in his free hand.

“Send Seven Zero Two Zero Two,” he ordered. “I repeat, Seven Zero Two Zero Two.”

Fortin put his finger on “the thing with the white button on it” and tapped furiously.

“Seven Zero Two Zero Two sent,” he reported.

Thirty seconds later, Fortin’s fingers flew over his keyboard for a few seconds. He tore the sheet of paper from the machine, handed it to Mitchell, and then fed a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter.

“Peanut dog,” Mitchell said, and then looked at Colonel Mannberg.

“Franz Josef,” Cronley ordered. “Send Franz Josef. I spell.”

He then did so, using the Army phonetic alphabet.

Fortin typed what he had said, but did not put his finger on “the thing with the white button on it,” instead looking at Sergeant Mitchell for guidance. Mitchell, in turn, looked at Mannberg.

“Send Franz Josef,” he ordered.

“Spell again,” Fortin ordered.

Cronley did so.

Fortin put his finger on “the thing” and tapped rapidly.