In the 1930s, Trent Park must have been a sight to behold. Its owner, Sir Philip Sassoon, acquired it in the 20s and extensively remodelled the Victorian mansion into an elegant Georgian-style country house. This was the ideal environment for opulence and for entertaining royalty, politicians, artists, celebrities, and whatever Wallis Simpson was.
The inside was decorated with elegant Georgian furniture, which was pretty but probably really uncomfortable. As well as Chinese porcelain and elaborate painted decorations. But it was the gardens and entertainment that made the estate spectacular. Guests could enjoy a private golf course, tennis courts, a swimming pool and flights over the grounds in Sassoon’s airplane. From his airplane they could look into his gardens at the flamingos and peacocks who lived there in utter confusion. And if they were still alive after the plane touched down, they could thoroughly enjoy an evening of alcohol-fuelled shenanigans. The birds probably just loved that.
Enter September 1939. A bunch of German guys dressed in the same outfits goosestep into Poland, Britain declares war, and – among a bunch of comparably minor global events – Trent Park gets requisitioned by the British Army. Unlike Brideshead, whose major use was as a barracks, Trent Park is put to use as a prisoner of war camp . . . but with a wee twist.
Throughout the war, over 100 high-ranking German prisoners of war – including 59 generals – resided at Trent. But the prisoners were treated like high society visitors rather than masterminds behind the attacks Britian had thus far endured. They were wined, dined, and given several privileges. A welfare officer – a vivid, kilt-wearing Scot aristocrat named Lord Aberfeldy – made sure their needs were taken care of. He went into town and got them socks, shaving cream, and other creature comforts. He even occasionally brought them for decadent lunches in town – a thing that pissed off Churchill.
However, while the high-ranking Germans thought this was just a reasonable way for upper-echelon prisoners who wear leather coats and a pince nez to be treated, they were in fact being set up. They lived in luxury, yes. But a series of miniature recording devices were hidden all around them: in the walls, skirtings, light fittings, plant pots, billiard table, and garden benches. The generals were encouraged to rest, relax, stroll, and read some of the books in the suspiciously-voluminous library of German books. Also, it might shock you to learn, within reach was a steady supply of alcohol. Right. It’s not hard to see the logic: lull arrogant SOB into false sense of security, ply said SOB with booze, see what comes out of said SOB’s loose lips.
To egg this on, stool pigeons were introduced – these were intelligence agents posing as German POWs or members of the British aristocracy with Nazi sympathies. These stool pigeons would guide prisoners into conversation on certain topics. ‘Say Fritz, how many hemorrhoids does Hitler have?’ or maybe even smoother than that. Lord Aberfeldy himself was a fictional persona being played by Ian Munroe, whose job was to convince the men that they were in the company of friends whose shared social level was more important than country allegiance. it was all geared towards getting information.
While the Germans spoke, the conversations were gathered and translated from the basement of the grounds in M Rooms (microphone rooms) by a group of ‘Secret Listeners’. These were mostly German-speaking Jewish refugees, who were getting the best revenge possible until Inglorious Basterds would come out 67 years later. They learned about the Germans’ V2 rocket program, about German ballistics systems, the Axis Enigma code, how planes transmitted information, and even information on atrocities taking place in Germany. Plus plans for little things like world domination and the Fuhrer’s recipe for his prized Bolognese. Unfortunately – tragically – some of this more dire information couldn’t be acted upon for fear of tipping off the Germans to their scheme. If it couldn’t be attributed to other sources, it had to remain quelled. Nevertheless, your enemy drinking was an effective tool. And we know why. Who doesn’t understand the pain of waking up the morning after a bowl or two and remembering with a cringe letting slip a secret or two?
Britain’s allies across the pond knew all too well how alcohol can guide people along the 40-proof road to spilling secrets. The Seagram Distilling Company made an ad campaign that contained one of the 20th century’s (eventual) catchiest proverbs. In 1942, Seagram Distilling Company artists Seymour R. Goff (Ess-Ar-Gee) created a poster of a ship sinking beneath the words: ‘Loose lips might sink ships’.
The message was simple: please drink Seagram’s products, but please don’t tell anyone about how deep our depth charges go after you’ve had a few. This was geared towards sailors, civilian dockworkers, and Navy personnel, who liked to drink and who did so around strangers. In this case booze is Mata Hari and sailors are horny German officers. Any information about troop movements, sailing dates, or military activity could lead to deaths at sea. Everyday English has since adopted the catchier form ‘Loose lips sink ships’ to warn that revealing secrets can have serious consequences, not just nautical ones.
To celebrate our secret listeners at Trent Park, we are making and having a Brandy Alexander. This is the milkshake of alcoholic beverages and features a gloriously diabetic combination of brandy, crème de cacao and cream that was popular during the interwar years. It popped up in the 1920s and would have been right at home at Philip Sassoon’s highbrow parties. It makes an appearance in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, another WWII story set at a grand English country home, albeit a far more boring one. Moreover, the Brandy Alexander is mocked by Kurt Vonnegut in Mother Night and once spurred John Lennon into assaulting a waitress and booing the Smothers Brothers. Since brandy was among the little liver-treat luxuries provided to Trent Park’s German prisoners, we can hypothesize with some reality that a Brandy Alexander was poured at Trent. It’s also rich, luxurious, and way more potent than it first appears, so the Brandy Alexander is a perfect tribute to a house where the hospitality was exquisite and the walls had ears.
Ingredients
- 45 ml brandy or Cognac
- 30 ml dark crème de cacao
- 30 ml heavy cream (33–35% fat)
- Ice cubes
- Freshly grated nutmeg, for garnish
- A secret you don’t mind telling
Instructions
First, add the brandy, crème de cacao and cream to a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake it like it’s a polaroid picture for a half minute. You want it to be thoroughly chilled and look slightly frothy. This is the alcohol world’s milkshake after all. Strain into a chilled coupe or cocktail glass. Also any cup with no holes in the bottom works. Garnish with freshly grated nutmeg and serve immediately (to, we assume, yourself). Drink to getting one over on the bad guys. Drink to Philip Sassoon, who died before his house was made into a den of righteous trickery. Drink to Lord Aberfeldy and his kilt. And drink to the secret listeners in the M room, the Jewish refugees who were able to do their part to bring down the regime that terrorized them. If someone deserves a drink, it’s those guys.
