Back in February 2016, I posted about a possible “block paradigm” match for the Voynich zodiac section – using a separate text uncovered by secondary research as a close match to the plaintext, and trying to work forward to the ciphertext, rather than blindly backwards from the ciphertext (as normal).

The match I proposed was with Andalò di Negro’s “introductorium ad iudicia astrologie”, a little-known fourteenth century text mentioned by Thorndike that covered per-degree judicial astrology. I tried hard to find a match between the tables in Andalò’s work and the poses of the nymphs in the Voynich zodiac section: but ultimately wasn’t able to. It might be there, it might not: I don’t know either way.

It was a disappointment: but not the end of the road by a long way…

The Paris 7272 Cipher

One of the two extant manuscripts of Andalò di Negro’s Introductorium is BNF Cod. Fonds Latin 7272: interestingly, as I noted back in 2009 when I saw its zodiac images in the Warburg’s photographic archive, this has some shorthand-like marginalia that had never been decrypted.

When I finally managed to get good images of these marginalia and posted about them, it didn’t take long before Marco Ponzi cleverly managed to crack the core of the cipher.

Once decrypted, these marginalia revealed the – apparently top secret – names of the spirits governing each zodiac sign, e.g.:

Aries: NOMEN ARIETIS SOLICET ANGELUS EIUS (EST) “SORON”
Taurus: NOMEN ANGELUS TAURA (EST) “TOION”
Gemini: NOMEN ANGELUS JEMINORUM (EST) “SAISIACIN” “GADLIO[N]I”
Cancer: NOMEN ANGELUS CANCRI (EST) “BARAM”
Leo: NOMEN ANGELUS LEONIS (EST) “COLIN”

The complete set of spirit names for the twelve signs is then revealed to be:

– IN?TIUS
– SORON TOION
– GADLION SAISIACIN
– BARAM COLIN
– MIMIN SUDRAM
– TEDUO GORO(?)
– UDABUL DOLI?IT

What I didn’t point out at the time is that because “GADLION SAISIACIN” would appears to be a single spirit name (that for Gemini), then “IN?TIUS” would appear to be the spirit name for Pisces. Hence Pisces would seem to be the first in the list.

And – I almost need not say, but I’m contractually obliged to – the Voynich Manuscript’s list of zodiac signs begins (slightly unusually) with Pisces. Which gives a small amount of support to the idea that these two documents may both be drawing in some way from the same well. It’s not a big thing, but I thought I ought to mention it regardless. 🙂

Voynich Pisces

Aside from the looking for a block match with the thirty posed per-degree nymphs corresponding to each sign, there’s another possible block match on the same page: with the text on each circular ring.

This doesn’t amount to a great deal of additional text for each sign: but given that something is definitely there, a similarly-sized piece of text associated with the original per-degree table for that sign might conceivably get us close to the original (unenciphered) plaintext for those rings.

In the case of the Voynich Pisces page (f70v2), the three rings of text (in EVA) are as follows:

(R3) Outer ring, clockwise from 11:30 (as per the interlinear transcription) [~43 words]:
okcheo.dar.otey.ykeey.tchy.otsheo.oteotey.shey.sheckh.opcheoldair.dateey.sal.ody.choteey.chocthedy.oteoteotsho.yteos.alain.sheodaly.ckho.aiin.cholkal.chotear.oteody.cholaiin.oteeey.al.ol.sheeor.okey.choldy.otees.chor.ol.ar.otoaiin.oteeody.sor.todaiin.chokain.otalal.otcham.

(R2) Middle ring, clockwise from 11:15 [~32 words]:
chedaiin.oteey.dair.shchey.daiin.chalaly.oteody.chotol.chedy.oteotey.oteeeor.ar.alody.daiir.oteedar.otchy.teey.dalal.cheoltey.oteedy.sheeteey.*.ykeeol.ykeeor.shey.ykear.araralor.daimamdy.otar.am.aral.otar*

(R1) Inner ring, clockwise from 09:00 [~20 words]:
otaldaly.oteoal.dalaildy.otaiin.ar.oteey.shal.o.qoteeal.ar.al.otaiin.al.teodaiin.oteey.cthey.oteeor.oteor.aiin.daim.

Note that this is my own reading of these lines, which is slightly different to other researchers’ readings. But that’s fairly immaterial here, because we’re looking for word-level matches with a parallel text: and remember that we have no evidence of any encipherer systematically hiding word divisions in a ciphertext until the early sixteenth century, some decades after the Voynich Manuscript was made.

The question now becomes: is there a similar-sized block of text for Pisces in Andalò di Negro’s “introductorium ad iudicia astrologie”? And if so, what happens if we try to make a block paradigm-style “block match” between it and the text in the Voynich Manuscript’s Pisces rings?

Zodiac Texts

It just so happens that there is such a text. In fact, I posted the complete set from the two extant Introductorium manuscripts on the Cipher Foundation website earlier in the year.

In the London manuscript, the Pisces text block looks like this:

andalo-pisces-text

In the Paris manuscript, the Pisces text block looks like this (with one extra sentence):

paris-pisces

This is roughly half the number of words of the Voynich Pisces ring texts: but once again, there’s a further short piece of useful text attached to the tables that (I expect) would also need to be carried across:

7272-pisces-table

Most of the text in the table is formulaic (i.e. common to all twelve zodiac tables), but some lines (specifically the top three lines of text) seem to be largely specific to Pisces.

I suspect that if you add these two half-blocks together, you would get close to the same number of words that the Pisces rings contain. Might there be a match of some sort in there? Very possibly, I’d say. So perhaps this may yet prove to be a practical start towards a decryption of this page, let’s keep our fingers crossed, eh?

And My Conclusion?

Well… sadly, I don’t have a conclusion yet. I’ve posted this as a set of work-in-progress notes for myself, and as a broad guide to the kind of approach I believe stands a good chance of cracking the Voynich Manuscript (in time) for others, rather than as a decryption as such.

But perhaps any passing Latinists will be so kind as to parse the handwriting and expand out the late medieval abbreviations, I’m sure that would be a very great help for anyone who would like to try to make a forward (block) match for this page. Thanks!

Over recent years, one topic on which I’ve expended much virtual ink (as well as actual book-buying budget) is that of Bernardin Nageon de l’Estang’s (AKA “Le Butin”, ‘Mr Booty’) letters. But one of the many questions that bother me is: where are these letters? Who owns them?

I don’t yet know the answer: but I believe I can name someone who did once own an actual copy of them…

Loys Masson

Back in April 2016, I mentioned in a post here that I had found an online reference to a 1935 article in the long-running French literary magazine “Revue des Deux Mondes” that seemed related. However, the specific issue wasn’t available online, so I (once again, are you seeing the pattern yet?) had to spend money on a copy. In fact, it proved cheaper to buy the entire set of magazines for 1935 than a single issue (don’t ask me why).

loys-masson

The author of the article was a young Mauritian poet called Loys Masson: when he (later) arrived in France just as the war properly kicked off, the focus of his work suddenly transformed from a rather elegiac love of Nature into the rather more conflicted (and interesting) topics of war, Resistance and loss.

But you should remember that Mauritius at that time was still a British possession, despite being predominantly French-speaking: which meant that he suddenly found himself (technically) a Briton in occupied France, which required plenty of flexibility to avoid problems. There’s much more about Masson to be found in the book “Loys Masson – Entre Nord et Sud : Les terres d’écriture“, a collection of pieces on him edited by Norbert Louis, who himself contributed a fifty-page summary of Masson’s life and works to it.

But in 1935, it was Masson’s article “La France A L’Ile Maurice” that proved to be his breakthrough piece: the goodwill and interest it raised opened many doors for him, to the point that he could genuinely consider moving from Mauritius to the French literary scene.

His Revue des Deux Mondes piece celebrates the bicentenary of the founding of Port Louis, the capital of the island. More directly relevant to Cipher Mysteries, though, is the fact that in it Masson describes owning a copy of Bernardin Nageon de l’Estang’s letters.

I mentioned this to Norbert Louis, who – though he had seen the 1935 article – was very surprised to find out that the letters to which Masson referred do genuinely exist (he suspected that they were merely Masson’s literary invention), and wasn’t aware of any article or book that discussed these further. So there would seem to be no literature relating to these letters in studies of Masson’s life or works, alas.

What follows is my free translation of what Masson wrote (and which I have transcribed separately and posted on a new Cipher Foundation page):

Masson’s Article

We now make a short stop at the mouth of a stream, a river full of great boulders, where you will have to suffer a nebulous history of treasures. Have they ever existed, these fabulous caches allegedly buried somewhere near the coast? Nobody knows at all. Whether legendary or true, however, there was a time in my family home when numerous Oedipuses found themselves passionately absorbed by these problems. Treasure research was fashionable. Several of my relations threw themselves headlong into it, losing themselves completely. As a child, I recall plans full of cabalistic symbols that one would study by a night lamp, their arrows and crosses traced in a faded ink. As a teenager, I had the good fortune one Sunday to accompany some romantic relatives on one of their treasure-hunting expeditions. Indeed, I saw on large flat stones some of the signs from the documents: here an anchor, there a turtle, and further on were the vestiges of a cryptographic alphabet. Despite our extensive searches, we found nothing. Yet treasure was there, I’m sure. For a long time, I have been in possession of letters from a Sieur Najeon de l’Etang, a veteran corsair, written to one of his nephews in the Seychelles. What remain of these, alas!, are but poor copies. I permit myself to extract some short passages from them for you.

The first is dated 20 floréal an III. “With help from our influential friends, get yourself to the Indian Ocean and the île de France. At the place indicated by my will, climb the river, and then climb the cliff eastward: twenty-five or thirty steps along according to the documents you will find corsair indicator marks to establish a circle of which the river is a few feet from the center. To the north and then four feet south you will find exactly the entrance to a cave once formed by an arm of the river passing beneath the cliff and blocked up by privateers to put their treasure in and this is the vault described by my will…”

The second, “I give to Jean-Marius Justin Najeon de l’Etang, my nephew, namely… treasures recovered from the Indus: I was wrecked in a cove near Vaquois and walked up a river and deposited in a cave the riches from the Indus and marked the place with B. N. my initials… ”

And a third, starting with this almost biblical quote: “Beloved Brother… There are three treasures. The one buried on my dear île de France is considerable. According to the documents, you will see: three iron barrels and jars full of minted doubloons and thirty million ingots and a copper box filled with diamonds from the mines of Visapur and Golkonda…”

What happened to this Croesian cache? Who will tell us? Have we taken completely the wrong route? Only one certainty remains: neither Jean-Marius Najeon nor his descendants solved the riddle. Nor did anyone since. The precious jars and boxes of diamonds, might they have been abducted by an affiliate of the adventurous band? Or do they slumber still in that same dark cave, guarded by a ghostly sentry? The diamond sphinx prefers not to say…

The Differences

What is intriguing is that although extracts from two of the three letters given by Masson are very close (though still not 100% identical) to what we have been working with, the other extract – though overlapping – can only be described as significantly different.

I’ll make the differences there clear, sentence by sentence, by comparing them with the better-known versions of the letters that appeared in “Trésors du monde” by Robert Charroux, Édition J’ai lu (1962):

[Charroux 1962] Par nos amis influents, fais-toi envoyer dans la mer des Indes et rends-toi à l’île de France à l’endroit indiqué par mon testament.
[Masson 1935] Par nos amis influents fais-toi envoyer dans la mer des Indes et rends-toi à l’Ile de France.

[Charroux 1962] Remonte la falaise allant vers l’est ; à vingt-cinq ou trente pas est, conformement aux documents, tu trouveras les marques indicatives des corsaires pour établir un cercle dont la rivière est à quelques pieds du centre.
[Masson 1935] Au lieu indiqué par mon testament, remonte la rivière, remonte la falaise allant vers l’est : à 25 ou 30 pas Est conformément aux documents tu trouveras les marques indicatrices des corsaires pour établir un cercle dont la rivière est à quelques pieds de centre.

[Charroux 1962] Là est le trésor.
[Masson 1935] Au nord donc et à quatre pieds du sud tu trouveras exactement l’entrée d’une caverne jadis formée par un bras de la rivière passant sous la falaise et bouchée par les corsaires pour y mettre leur trésor et qui est le caveau désigné par mon testament.

My Thoughts

Back in 1935, treasure hunting was hugely in vogue – not just in Mauritius, but all over the world. Yet might it have been the case that people were relying on the versions of the letters Charroux later printed in his book, rather than the versions Loys Masson had? Or on yet other copies of those letters?

We don’t know: I know of no retrospective literature on this, and treasure hunters rarely reveal their secrets, even when they – finally, having blown all their personal money and any syndicate money they raised – give up the chase.

More recently, I pointed out that there seems to be strong internal evidence that the final “Beloved Brother…” letter was written by what I called a “missing corsair“, who had inherited the first two documents. If this is correct, it helps give some clarity to what has long been a muddy picture.

Might it be that Loys Masson saw two types of handwriting in his documents, and inferred that they must be copies of older documents, when they could easily have been originals? Unless we ever get to see these (and who owns them now I have no idea, and Norbert Louis had no idea either), we’ll never know.

But perhaps modern investigators will be able to use up-to-the-minute techniques to follow the slightly more detailed instructions in Masson’s versions of the treasure documents: to travel up the river from Vacoas, eastwards along a cliff to some pirate marks, northwards then four feet back, before finding the underground cavern hidden by pirates all those centuries before. Might the cache still be where he left it?

Which River Vacoas?

Here’s the south-west corner of Mauritius (“Isle de France”) from a 1791 map:

Isle-de-France-1791-Vacoas

You can see clearly that there are only two inlets that are near Vacoas. The first (to the right of “Flic en Flac”) collects the Rivière du Tamarin, the Rivière des Vaguas, and an unnamed third smaller river; while the second has only the ominous-sounding Rivière Noire feeding into it.

It would seem logical that the writer of the first two documents believed that he had had been shipwrecked close to the mouth of the Rivière des Vaguas: yet the problem with that is that there are no cliffs whatsoever beside that river.

In fact, only the Rivière Noire runs past cliffs of any size (according to the topographical map I looked at):

topographic-map

Anyway, just so you know… if I was going to go on a treasure hunt here, I’d start by looking at all the early maps of the island I can find. Could it be that Bernardin Nageon de l’Estang confused two different inlets, and so was never able to recover his treasure?

I hear the distant sound of metal detectors being warmed up… who knows where this story may lead?

We start with some film footage of the Atlantis, taken by a doctor called Karl Höffkes who worked aboard the raider. I’m not sure, but the brief glimpse of vehicles that appears at 0:13 might well have been taken aboard the Tirranna:

According to Captain Gundersen (interviewed for the maritime hearings in Oslo in December 1940), “it turned out that” five people died in the 10th June 1940 attack by the Atlantis, as transcribed here.

– 4th engineer Einar Christensen,
– Electrician Otto Kristensen,
– Matros [?] Hilmar Engelsen,
– Machine Boy James Andersen,
– Passenger Charles Mikkelsen

On its own, this would be strong evidence that Mikkelsen died. However, we can further cross-reference this with a number of other accounts, and confirm that exactly five people died on the 10th June 1940…

Graeme Cubbin

John Richardson’s excellent ebook “Victims of Atlantis” includes many details taken from the diary of 16-year-old cadet Graeme Cubbin (who was on the SS Scientist, a ship captured by the Atlantis a few weeks before the Tirranna), including the following quotations:

When Captain Gundersen met up with Rogge he complained bitterly, saying that Norway had capitulated and made peace with Germany just a few hours earlier on that very day, and that he had quite unnecessarily killed five of his men and badly injured a dozen more. (p.51)

Also:

Quite a number of [the Norwegian crew of the Tirranna] were working their passage home from Australia. They did so in order to join up and help put a spoke in the wheel of the Nazi War machine; several had lost their families in the German bombing raids. Five of their comrades had been killed by the German gunners, another died later in the hospital of Atlantis and several lay wounded and helpless in the care of the German doctors. (pp.53-54)

Ulrich Mohr

According to Atlantis’ First Officer Ulrich Mohr (in his book “Ship 16: The Story of a German Surface Raider”):

When I climbed aboard [the Tirranna] I found her decks were literally covered in blood; it lay in pools wherever one trod. Five men were dead, but there were many wounded.

Kapitan Rogge – Atlantis Ship’s Log

Personally, I found reading Volume 1 of Captain Rogge’s Ship’s Log for the Atlantis (thankfully in English) to be shocking and humbling: it taught me more about the real nature of sea warfare than any other book I’ve read. The Kapitan’s behaviour was a model of precision, insight, care and yet cunning: he even used the Tirranna as a sighting target at night to see which one of the different sets of binoculars on board was most effective at picking out ships in the dark.

From Rogge’s log, it is amply clear that he was fully aware of the five deaths on 10th June 1940. Note that the next death wasn’t on the 11th (as reported by Captain Gundersen) – in fact, the Tirranna’s carpenter Johan Johansen had a leg amputated plus an emergency appendectomy (!) on the 11th, but died on the 15th. All in all, the Atlantis’s log seems to be an extremely reliable source document to be working with.

The account of the taking of the Tirranna starts on about page 93 and continues for many pages. After capturing the Tirranna, the Atlantis was in close contact with its prize ship for a good amount of time, so there are numerous mentions of the Tirranna throughout the log.

(p.97)
12:44 — Picket boat sent off with search party under the command of Lt.Cdr. Kamenz. They established the following:-
Motor ship “Tirranna” (built in 1938 by Schichau in Danzig) 7230 tons, carrying 3,000 tons of wheat, 72,000 sacks of flour for British Ministry of Food, 6,015 bales of wool for the British Government, 178 military vehicles and a cargo of canteen goods for the A.I.F. (Australian troops in Palestine) sailing
(p.98)
under orders from the Admiralty from Melbourne to Mombasa. The crew had not yet left the ship, as the boats were partly destroyed. The upper
deck of the ship showed signs of the long spell under fire. There was hardly a spot on the whole ship which had not been riddled with splinters. The upper bridge had been especially hard hit, likewise the boat deck, where the sandbagged radio cabin and the mess below it had been destroyed by a direct hit. Numerous casualties, dead and wounded, lay about the ship. She requested a doctor to look after the wounded and Surgeon Lt. (j.g.) Sprung went aboard shortly afterwards. He certified the death of 5 men and saw to the transport of 3 severe casualties. The crew were made to pack up their private gear and then took to the boats under the supervision of Lt. (j .£•) Breuers • To ease the boat traffic, the motor boat from the “Europa” was sent out and proved invaluable. I must say, however, that the crew has had to toil for weeks to get this boat, which came from one of Germany’s first passenger ships, fit for use at sea and in a decent condition. Boatswain’s mate Ross maneuvered very well with this rather unmanageable boat.

Under weather conditions to date the naval pinnace has proved itself invaluable for all tasks. The boat has been handled very carefully and with extremely fine seamanship by the regular steersman Boatswain’s Mate Stierle.

Surgeon Lt. Cdr. Reil and Surg. Lt. (j.g.) Sprung, the sick bay attendants and the stretcher bearers gave most excellent and devoted care to the severely wounded casualties. As the surgeon, Lt. (j.g.) Sprung had to perform difficult operations – an amputation and a brain operation. Lt . (s.g.) Strecker assisted at the operations. In all six severely wounded casualties had to receive treatment.
[…]
(p.99)
11 June — A statement made by the captain gave us the Tuesday following information:- “Tirranna” left Oslo on 18 Feb, 1940, proceeded through the North Atlantic, Mediterranean, Suez Canal to Ras Hafun, took in salt there, proceeded on 19 March to Miri (Borneo) where she took in oil (29 March) to Hakodate (Japan) on 6 April. There the ship heard news of the outbreak of war between Germany and Norway. On 17 April 1940 while he was in Hakodate the captain received orders from the Norwegian consul in Tokyo to proceed in ballast to Sydney and take in cargo there for British customers, and await further instructions. The ship stayed in Sydney from 1 till 14 May, 1940, in Melbourne from 16 to 29 May. During her stay in Melbourne the ship was fitted out with a 4.7 inch gun, (quick firer 4.7 inch, 45 cal. K.1917 Kure P.V.) (built in Japan under an English license no. 338 Sept. 1932) base, magazine, smoke floats, gun communication telephone, 1 machine gun and 3 rifles, together with ammunition, steel helmets, etc. all to the account D.E.M.S. No. 91 (Defensively Equipped Merchant Ships ).
(p.100)
According to the captain the “Tirranna” is the first armed Norwegian merchant ship to sail for the Department of Defense, Commonwealth of Australia.

He took on the main part of the cargo in Sydney, the remainder of the lorries in Melbourne. From there the ship was despatched on 30 May to Mombasa. The captain went on to state that he received his course instructions for Mombasa in Melbourne. He had destroyed them on meeting, the auxiliary cruiser i.e. he had torn them up and put the fragments in the waste paper basket. After the waste paper basket had been emptied carefully, we were able to piece the instructions perfectly together again (see appendix). Also the Naval Control Officer in Melbourne had
assured him he could go to sleep quite happily until he reached Mombasa, there were no German warships in the Indian Ocean, However, there were mines off Cape Agulhas, which had been laid by the “Graf Spee”.
[…]
(p.101)
The captain thought that he might be shot on board the auxiliary cruiser. He bitterly reproached himself for his conduct and its consequences – above all for the five dead.

So, All That Is Missing Is…

Naturally, there’s one last thing we don’t have, because the list of the names of the Tirranna’s crew and passengers is in an appendix in the original (German) Atlantis ship’s log, which (unfortunately for us) the American translators apparently thought not to include.

So… can anyone help find the original Kriegsmarine document (presumably Volume 2)? I couldn’t find any reference to it, but given that it was translated, it must be somewhere out there, surely?

Alternatively, the crew list and the list of the five dead might be included in Rogge’s own book (which went through at least ten editions in German, and was translated into English). The bibliographic reference given on the German Wikipedia page is:

Wolfgang Frank, Bernhard Rogge: “Schiff 16. Tatsachenbericht. Die Kaperfahrten des schweren Hilfskreuzers Atlantis auf den 7 Weltmeeren.” Genehmigte Taschenbuchausgabe. 10. Auflage. Heyne, München 1982, ISBN 3-453-00039-0, 251 S

Does anyone have a copy of this? Alternatively, the English translation was published as “Ship 16: The Story of a German Surface Raider” (which sadly doesn’t have as gloriously pedantic a title as the German original) [and yes, I’ve ordered myself a copy of this too, *sigh*].

Though Byron Deveson’s current working hypothesis (that Charles Mikkelsen was the Somerton Man) has many features to commend it (not least of which would seem to be that two completely separate people identified Mikkelsen as SM at the time), it does struggle with the very public report of Mikkelsen’s death aboard the M/V Tirranna on 10th June 1940, more than eight years before the Somerton Man’s death.

Now that we have (I believe) almost entirely ruled out the scenario where there were two people both called Charles Mikkelsen trying to emigrate to Australia at the same time, there would seem to be two remaining major alternative scenarios to consider:

#1: The Imposter Scenario

What if the person identifying himself as “Charles Mikkelsen” on the Tirranna was actually an imposter?

The two problems with this are (a) it’s extraordinarily unlikely, and (b) it’s extraordinarily hard to test. But I thought I’d mention it anyway.

#2: The Deserter Scenario

What if Charles Mikkelsen managed to get off the Tirranna before it was sank by the British submarine HMS Tuna, either in Sydney (from where it left on 15th May 1940) or in a midway stop en route to Mombasa?

The first good thing about this scenario is that, as we previously saw, Mikkelsen had previously deserted at least two three different ships (in *1924*, 1937 and 1940): so this is a scenario for which he arguably has ‘form’. The other ‘good’ thing supporting (or rather ‘not opposing’) this scenario is that any document on the Tirranna went to the bottom of the sea a little later in 1940, when it was sunk by HMS Tuna: so there remains a chance that his reported death on 10th June 1940 was somehow inferred rather than actually known.

However, the two main bad things about this scenario are (a) that we have documentary evidence that the Boarding Inspector confirmed that Mikkelsen was on board while the ship was in port in Sydney; and (b) we don’t have anything at all that stands against the report of his death.

What Can We Do?

To my mind, one good avenue of attack is social – that is, trying to find Mikkelsen’s New Zealander fiancée and seeing if we can trace his post-1940 history through her. Mikkelsen mentions her in a number of places, but she doesn’t appear in any family tree (so they probably were never married): and she may indeed never have travelled over to Australia. Sending him a “Dear John” copy of the Rubaiyat in the post may be as close as she got. 🙂

A second good avenue of attack is by trying to better understand the last few days of the M/V Tirranna. What archival evidence is out there? And how good is Google Translate with Norwegian? As a great philosopher balder than me likes to say, only one way to find out

The M/V Tirranna

Allen C. Green Series H91.109/469
(Image Source: Allen C. Green Series H91.109/469, State Library of Victoria)

The M/V Tirranna was built in 1938 in Danzig: here is its entry in the 1940 Lloyds Shipping Register (which I found scanned on the Tirranna wrecksite.eu page):

tirranna-lloyds-1940

The Tirranna left Melbourne on 30th May 1940, bound for the United Kingdom. It had a crew of 60 Norwegians and 12 passengers: according to this news article, “[w]hen the Tirranna left Melbourne she was carrying as passengers a number of Norwegians who were returning to Europe with the intention of joining the Norwegian forces to continue the fight for their country”.

According to this article, “most of those aboard joined the ship in Sydney. One was Mr. S. Rasmussen, who was with the Australian Motorists Petrol Co Ltd. He was on the Norwegian navy’s reserve list, with the rank of lieut-commander.” Another passenger on board the Tirranna was (according to this article) “Mr. Birger Bjornebye, who left in the Tirranna to join the fighting forces in Norway … [who was a] sales representative of Mr S. Lie’s firm.”

Another page notes that the Tirranna “…had a full general cargo and a large shipment of ambulances for the British forces”, which elsewhere is listed as “wheat, flour, wool, 178 military vehicles and general cargo”.

It seems that the idea was for the Tirranna to proceed to Mombasa, and then – when the coast was clear, so to speak 🙂 – proceed from there onwards to the Suez Canal, a vital asset which the British maintained control of throughout WW2.

The M/V Tirranna Timeline

Extremely helpfully, the National Archives of Norway have the following document, courtesy of this page:

tirranna-itinerary

From this and other details on this page, we can reconstruct the M/V Tirranna‘s timeline:

* 1st May 1940 – Arrived Sydney (from Kobe, Japan)
* 13th May 1940 – Departed Sydney
* 15th May 1940 – Arrived Melbourne
Note: while in Melbourne, weaponry was fitted to the Tirranna and five crew members were trained how to use it
* 30th May 1940 – Departed Melbourne
* 10th June 1940 – Encountered the German Raider Atlantis south-east of Mauritius

Perhaps The Pendulum Swings Once More?

As far as Charles Mikkelsen goes, understanding this timeline opens up the very direct possibility that the second (Deserter) scenario might easily be in play.

This is because even though we have archival confirmation that Mikkelsen was on board the Tirranna in Sydney, he could surely have jumped ship in Melbourne: the Tirranna was in port for a whole fortnight having the gun fitted. Perhaps nobody noticed Mikkelsen wasn’t on board until after the surrender when they compared the original passenger list with who was left?

So the next place to look is the maritime hearings that “were held in Oslo, Norway on Dec. 21-1940 with Captain Gundersen and 1st Mate Holst appearing”, part of which is transcribed here. According to Captain Gundersen’s (reconstructed) log, after he had surrendered the ship:

“It then turned out that following 5 men were killed:
– 4th engineer Einar Christensen,
– Electrician Otto Kristensen,
– Matros [?] Hilmar Engelsen,
– Machine Boy James Andersen,
– Passenger Charles Mikkelsen”

But once again, was Mikkelsen killed or merely missing? “It turned out” is such a vague turn of phrase, we simply can’t tell… yet. With a little luck, maybe we will, though.

In many ways, this hunt for Charles Mikkelsen is a perfect example of a cipher mystery, in that it has that characteristically fine balance between equivocal evidence (which seems to speak two opposing stories simultaneously) and the surprising difficulty of uncovering the tiniest of evidences that would collapse the two stories into the binary divide of true and merely hopeful. If you don’t see it as a pendulum, you’re probably not looking closely enough. 🙂

So… Where To Look Now?

I continue to be intrigued by the possibility that we might be able – by some means – to identify Mikkelsen’s fiancée in New Zealand. It may be that someone in his family may have the tiniest of clues as to her identity, that we may collectively be able to amplify up into an identification: in those days, letter-writing was just as pervasive as texting is now, so a mention in a letter may well be all we need. Though I doubt they married (and suspect that they may have split up by the time Mikkelsen got on the boat to go back to Norway, even if he did possibly change his mind), she might well have known if he had lived beyond 10th June 1940.

For those who read Norwegian, the 1943 book “Tusen norske skip” edited by female war reporter Lise Lindbæk (or her Wikipedia entry) may offer some clues: luckily, there’s an English translation (entitled “Norway’s New Saga of the Sea: The Story of Her Merchant Marine in World War II”). I should be no surprise that I’ve just ordered a copy and look forward to reading it.

Finally, I estimate that there’s a 80% or better chance that someone who was on board the Tirranna is still alive: of the (supposed) sixty crew and 12 passengers, only 48 are listed online, of whom 36 survived. Here’s the list (“[I]” means injured):

Captain – Edvard Hauff Gundersen
1st Mate – Thorolf Holst [I]
2nd Mate – Nils A. Nilsen
3rd Mate – Sven Bjørneby
Radio Operator – Johnny Haaland
Boatswain – Ole Paulsen [I]
Able Seaman – Kristian Christensen [I]
Able Seaman – Robert Fuglevik
Able Seaman – Floor Andersen
Ordinary Seaman – Alf Sverre Hansen
Deckboy – Einar Olsen [I]
Deckboy – Johan Jacobsen
1st Engineer – Johannes Knudsrød
3rd Engineer – Rolf Andersen
Mechanic – Erling Olsen
Mechanic – Leonard Hilland
Mechanic – Thomas Berg
Mechanic – Leif Henriksen
Mechanic – David Johansen
Mechanic – Kjell L. Gundersen
Oiler – Ragnar Andersen
Steward – Frithjof Gundersen
Cook – Olaf Eliassen
Galley Boy – Einar Jacobsen
Mess Boy – Haakon Sørensen
Saloon Boy – John Rønning
Saloon Girl – Jenny Jensen
Passenger – Odd Nyrud
Passenger – Peder Grodeland
Passenger – Karl Fause
Passenger – Sigurd Vaage Rasmussen
Passenger – Thor Haugen
Passenger – Leif Bartho
Passenger – Birger Bjørnsby [I]
Passenger – Trond Larsen
Passenger – Ole Herman Andersen

I doubt that anyone has yet tried to trace these Tirranna survivors specifically to ask about Charles Mikkelsen. So perhaps we should… 🙂

The primary set of documents covering Charles Mikkelsen’s life is in the NAA, with barcode 31817302. This is mainly comprised of single-page memos bouncing between various government departments during 1937 to 1940 as they processed his application for Australian citizenship. The NAA also has a two-page document from 1932 relating to Mikkelsen’s arrival on the Tancred (barcode 5511023).

Note that some online family trees (such as here) give his birthplace as “Vardø”, but I don’t know how to reconcile that with the “Bassjordan” (?) he gave on his passport.

I used the above sources (along with other archival sources where possible) to build up a timeline for what he was doing. Entries in the following that are only a page number refer to the NAA 31817302 (1937-1940) item.

Charles Mikkelsen Timeline

17th July 1902 – Born in “Bassjordan”, Norway. (1932 p.1)

Jan / Feb 1924 – Norwegian steamship Bessa – deserted at Port Adelaide. Went up country to Clare, returned to Adelaide some months later. (p.30) He worked “clearing of land in S. Aus.” (p.34)

“Late 1925” [Mikkelsen probably meant “Late 1924”] – American steamer Eastern Sea – signed on in Sydney.

13th Nov 1924 – American steamer Eastern Sea – Charles Mikkelsen arrived in New York from Sydney. He was 5’8″ tall (Ancestry.com).

12th May 1926 – Discharged from Eastern Sea (1932 p.2, pencil)

July 1930 – Norwegian oil tanker Turicum – signed on at Melbourne (1932 p.1)

12th July 1930 – Turicum – left Melbourne (1932 p.2) and returned to Norway (p.34)

9th January 1932 – Norwegian steamer Tancred – landed in Adelaide. Last address on passport: “Löberg – Villa, Solheim, Bergen” (1932 p.1)

11th January 1932 – Norwegian steamer Tancred – Signed off in Adelaide. Passport stamped by Customs in Port Adelaide. Valid for “Australia via Holland Belgium for emigration”. Valid until 11th December 1932. 170cm tall (i.e. 5’8″).

“March 1935” – employed for about a month as a painter in the renovation of Customs House in Newcastle NSW. (p.30)

10th April 1935 – Norwegian tanker Herborg – Charles Mikkelsen signed on as a seaman in Newcastle. (p.30)

15th March 1937 – steamer Herborg from Singapore – expected in Auckland. (New Zealand Herald).

17th March 1937 – steamer Herborg – Charles Mikkelsen deserted at Auckland. Ran away. Did “farm work in the Waikato” for some months. (New Zealand Herald)

22nd July 1937 – arrested at Frankton. Was to be held no more than six months while awaiting a suitable Norwegian ship to be deported on. (Same New Zealand Herald article as 17th March 1937 entry).

[7th August 1937 – Norwegian tanker SS Svenor – arrived in Auckland from Balikpapan at 12:50pm. (Sydney Morning Herald and Papers Past).]

14th August 1937 – Norwegian tanker SS Svenor – completed discharge of petrol from Balikpapan and departed for that port. (Auckland Star)

24th August 1937 – SS Svenor – Charles Mikkelsen put ashore on Thursday Island with suspected appendicitis, and immediately admitted to Torres Strait Hospital. (p.37)

10th September 1937 – Discharged from hospital. (p.37)

25th September 1937 – SS Taiping – Departed Thursday Island.

3rd October 1937 – SS Taiping – Arrived in Sydney, stayed in Sailor’s Home. (p.34)

(About three weeks later) – took a job at Dalcross Private Hospital in Killara (p.34, p.30)

“February 1938” – the date that Mikkelsen’s still-unnamed fiancée intended to come across from New Zealand to get married to him (p.35)

16th February 1938 – Charles Mikkelsen was granted leave to stay in Australia, contingent on paying a £1 Landing permit. (p.22)

[28th March 1939 – SS Anten – ship arrived in Melbourne from Vancouver. (Burnie Advocate)]

(Earlier in 1939?) – SS Anten – joined vessel in Australia. (p.7)

11th August 1939 – SS Anten – signed off vessel at Newcastle. (Note that the Anten then got caught up in a port dispute over war bonuses allowance: and was then captured by Germans in November 1939). (Adelaide Advertiser and Port Pirie Recorder)

5th December 1939 – Anglo Maersk – signed on to the vessel’s articles in Melbourne. (p.11)

20th March 1940 – Anglo Maersk – absent on departure for Balik Papan (p.10) [on the east coast of Borneo]

30th May 1940 – M/V Tirranna – departed for Mombasa. (p.2)

10th June 1940 – M/V Tirranna – attacked by German raider Atlantis. Charles Mikkelsen (passenger) and four crew-members killed in the attack.

My Revised Opinion

It now seems to me that even though Mikkelsen’s account is somewhat convoluted on the surface, it does check out OK. So, alas, I now don’t believe that there were two Charles Mikkelsens both trying to emigrate to Australia at the same time: in the end, my conclusion from the documents taken as a whole is that the historical record is clearly telling us a very linear story about a single Charles Mikkelsen.

Moreover: even though I could easily accept that Charles Mikkelsen was the man Keith Mangnoson had worked with in the second half of 1939, and that Charles Mikkelsen was also probably the man the “unnamed woman living in Cheltenham” had met in 1930, I struggle extremely hard to reconcile the possibility that he was the Somerton Man with his apparent death in 1940 at the hands of the raider Atlantis.

I can easily see how Byron Deveson considers him an excellent candidate: but all the same, dying twice is something I can’t believe of Mikkelsen. Even so, perhaps some other evidence will surface – and I admit that I’ll still be very interested if the identity of Mikkelsen’s fiancée in New Zealand turns up – and prove me wrong. We shall see…

Hardy researcher Byron Deveson has been prospecting in the Aussie archives for traces of a Norwegian by the name of Charles Mikkelsen, a name long linked (though so far not completely satisfactorily) to the Somerton Man.

As a result of Byron’s efforts, it now (I think) seems reasonably likely that Charles Mikkelsen was the Scandinavian ‘Carl Thompsen’ who Keith Mangnoson remembered working with in “Renmark” in “1939”, and who Mangnoson believed was the Somerton Man.

(Of course, whether or not Mikkelsen/Thompsen actually was the Somerton Man remains another question entirely).

But there is an elephant in the room. To be precise, a very large and very dead elephant.

A Fishy Story?

The sticking point is that Charles Mikkelsen died at sea in 1940 in an unfortunate but well-documented way, when the boat he was on (the SS Tirranna) was captured by the German raider Atlantis

raider_atlantis

According to this page (and indeed many others), Mikkelsen died on 10th June 1940, the day that the Atlantis shot at, chased and captured the Tirranna. Later that year, the Tirranna was sent back to Europe as a prize ship full of war prisoners, but was sunk by the British submarine HMS Tuna (N94) with a large loss of life.

HMS-Tuna-N94

(Picture source).

Hence what would seem to make the link to Charles Mikkelsen a fishy story is that our Scandinavian candidate appears to have died more than eight years too early to be the Somerton Man.

However, things are never quite that simple in the Tamam Shud research quagmire…

An Australian Paper Trail

What also piqued Byron Deveson’s interest was a claim of a direct link to Charles Mikkelsen that turned up some years later:

In 1953 an unnamed woman living in Cheltenham (a suburb of Adelaide) identified SM as Charles Mikkelsen whom she had known “about 21 years ago” (ie 1932) when he was employed at Jensen’s guest house at American River (Kangaroo Island). She stated that when she had last heard of Mikkelsen he was staying at a Somerton guest house. “Det.-Sgt. R. L. Leane and Det. L. Brown have been told Mikkelsen often quoted the last verse, which ended with the words “Tamam Shud,” from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.” (News, Adelaide, 23 April 1953 page 9). The un-named Cheltenham woman said that Mikkelsen spoke fluent English and she said Mikkelsen was aged about 30 (ie. 30 in 1932) when she met him at Kangaroo Island, and he spoke English fluently. Mikkelsen was later employed as gardener to Sir John Brookman and was last heard of while boarding at Somerton.”

As a result, Byron decided to look more closely at Charles Mikkelsen: and he recently struck on a glinty archival seam relating to his stay in Australia from 24th August 1937 (when the SS Svenor put Mikkelsen ashore on Thursday Island with appendicitis) to his departure from its shores on the 30th of May 1940 (aboard the SS Tirranna, where he died eleven days later).

In the last few days, Pete Bowes has published excerpts from many of the documents Byron dug up in a series of posts (here, here, here, here, and indeed here).

Mikkelsen claimed that he had previously stayed in Australia between 1924 and 1930 (having jumped ship in Port Adelaide from the Norwegian steamer Bessa), before travelling back to Norway for a little over a year, returning in early 1932: and then went off in a Norwegian tanker in April 1935, before returning in August 1937.

According to NAA Item barcode 5511023, Charles Mikkelsen was (when he passed through port clearance at Port Adelaide on 9th January 1932 on the Tancred) a seaman 5 feet 10 inches in height, fair hair and blue eyes, with no identifying marks. He gave his birthday as 17th July 1902 in Bassjordan, Norway: and was single.

Interestingly, the Tancred was due to arrive at Number 2 Quay at Port Pirie on 5th January 1932 “to load 2,000 tons of lead. At Port Adelaide the Tancred will discharge general cargo and timber, and will load 2,000 tons of barley before sailing for Continental ports.” So there’s also a link to lead you perhaps weren’t expecting. 🙂

(Incidentally, a Charles Mikkelsen arrived in New York from Sydney on the 13th Nov 1924 on the “Eastern Sea”: he was a 22 year old Norwegian, and was 5’8″ tall [according to Ancestry.com].)

I have to say that it’s a confused affair: there would seem to be at least three files for Charles Mikkelsen: C.38/468, C.40/2000, and C.40/2192. Though the authorities of the day eventually decided that these various Mikkelsens were one and the same person, it’s easy to see how they might possibly have been wrong.

A New Zealand Paper Trail

To extend the timeline a little further backwards, I decided to find out more about what connected Mikkelsen to New Zealand: and it didn’t take long to discover what had happened just before his arrival in Australia.

It all started with the M/T Herborg (a few more details here (or here if you prefer to read Norwegian).

herborg

(Picture source)

The Herborg had visited Auckland in May 1932, though sadly I found no passenger list for the Herborg in the NZ archives. Five years later, according to this page, the Herborg was expected from Singapore in March 1937, which is when Charles Mikkelsen got to Auckland.

Several months later, on the 31st July 1937, we catch our first archival glimpse:

NORWEGIAN DESERTER

Seaman to be deported accused intended to marry

“If you have nothing against the Scandinavian race, I would bo much obliged if you could allow me to stay in New Zealand, as I intend to get married shortly,” said Charles Mikkelsen, a Norwegian seaman, aged 34, when he appeared before Mr. F. H. Levien, S.M., in the Police Court yesterday, admitting charges of deserting from the steamer Herberg at Auckland on March 17 and landing as a prohibited immigrant. The Collector of Customs. Mr. J. Mcintosh, said accused was refused permission by the captain of the Herberg to sign off at Auckland, after which he made application to become a permanent citizen of New Zealand. He was told the formalities he would be required to comply with, but he took the law into his own hands, and left his ship. Nothing more was heard of him until he was arrested at Frankton on July 22, after having been engaged in farm work in the Waikato. A deportation order was made by the magistrate, under which accused might be held in custody for not more than six months, pending arrangements being made for him to be placed on board a suitable Norwegian ship. The magistrate told accused the only method to adopt to land in New Zealand would be to comply with the immigration regulations.

A quick trawl through Papers Past reveals plenty of references to Mikkelsens in Morrinsville (Eastern Waikato) playing golf etc , so it seems tolerably likely to me that Mikkelsen had some family out there farming. Perhaps Byron Deveson already knows this?

So… What’s Going On, Then?

If you’ve been paying a little bit of attention, you probably already know what I’m going to conclude.

In this case, I strongly suspect the authorities got it wrong: and that there were almost certainly two different people, both called Charles Mikkelsen.

The first Charles Mikkelsen had the reference “C.38/468”, because the “38” is very probably the last two digits of the year that he first applied for Australian citizenship: 1938. We can therefore probably identify this Charles Mikkelsen with the man who jumped ship in Auckland in March 1937, worked on a farm in Waikato (probably with family near Morrinsville), before being arrested in Frankton on 22nd July 1937, and being told he would be put on a ship bound for Norway within six months. My guess is that he then faked appendicitis to get set down on Thursday Island, thus starting his Australian odyssey.

The second Charles Mikkelsen had the references “C.40/2000” / “C.40/2192”, and it would seem that he was most likely the one who died on the Tirranna in 1940. But… it’s a mess, and that’s the truth.

As a result, it may very well be that one of these two Charles Mikkelsens was the Somerton Man: but it will take a fair bit more digging to properly disentangle the two men’s archival strands from the knot that they have ended up in before we are in a position to make a genuinely clear-headed assessment either way.

Luckily I have every faith that Byron Deveson is the best man for such a job. Good luck, Byron! 🙂

The third “le Butin” letter BN3 relates a rip-roaring story: of how a dying French sea-captain gave the letter-writer three documents describing the location of buried treasure, urging him – as a fellow Freemason – to use the money for patriotic ends. All of which undoubtedly sounds a bit “Aaarrrrgh, Jim Lad, take thee moy treasure maaaps afore I die” to our modern ears: but all the same, it is a story that has proven surprisingly difficult to prove or disprove since it first appeared roughly a century ago.

And in that time, there has been no obvious shortage of treasure hunters wanting to know more about the story, and reading it in pretty much whatever way they want: as evidenced by this news item that appeared in the Thursday 18 June 1925 Lancashire Evening Post:

“£30,000,000” MINE LOCATED
A Londoner with gold-detecting instruments is said to have located a gold mine in Mauritius which was discovered and worked by the crew of the French corsair Nageon more than a century ago. It is said to contain £30,000,000 worth of gold.

Anyway, I’ve recently been wondering – might this dying captain have been Captain Malroux of the Iphigénie?

Captain Malroux

The basic story appears in numerous sources, such as René Guillemin’s lively (but far from reliable) (1982) “Corsaires de la République et de l’Empire”.

Guillemin’s chapter concerning Ripaud de Montaudevert relates .215-219] a well-known incident of 1799 concerning a French corsair corvette (the Iphigénie, 18 cannons) commanded by Captain Malroux (“un armateur influent de Port-Louis”) with Ripaud as its second-in-command. Summarizing Guillemin’s account of events:
* 25 August 1799: Iphigénie departed towards the Gulf of Ormuz, where it arrived and waited… and waited…
* 07 October 1799: they spot the Pearl (three-master, 16 cannons) leaving the Persian Gulf. They fight: the British captain and a Lascar die, and the Pearl surrenders. Sacks of gold and silver (4 million francs’ worth), 5000 small copper ingots, and “diverses autres marchanises de mondre valeur” are transferred to the Iphigénie, but forty Arab horses were left on the Pearl (which Ripaud took command of).
* 10 October 1799: they encounter the corvette H.M.S. Trincomalee (40 cannons or smaller cannonades, but with a crew of 140 sharply reduced by illness down to just 70) and the schooner Comet.
* The sea battle ends in the middle of the night with the Trincomalee exploding and the Pearl sinking
* The Comet ran away, and the Iphigénie then picked up the survivors.

OK, it’s not quite off the coast of India: but it’s not far away at all and the timing is good. We also have several vivid eye-witness accounts, including letters by John Cramlington (on the Cipher Foundation website).

Citoyen Malroux

Interestingly, there’s a report here – Gazette nationale, ou le moniteur universel, No 190 (page 1, top of column 3) – that quotes a report in JOURNAL DE TOULOUSE, L’OBSERVATEUR REPUBLICAIN; ou L’ANTI—ROYALISTE (page 2) verbatim:

Octidi 18e Germinal (99) L’an VIII de la République – 1800-04-08

Extrait d’une lettre de Brest, qui contient des particularités relatives à l’Isle-de-France.

Le citoyen Malroux, commandant un corsaire de 20 çanons, après avoir pris un navire anglais qui, indépendamment d’une cargaison très – riche, avait à bord 10 à 12 millions en pagodes d’or, a été rencontré par une frégate anglaise de 40 canons. Après un combat très vif, il l’a enlevée à l’abordage. Le capitaine anglais, désespéré d’être pris par des forces aussi inférieures, a fait sauter sa frégate au moment où on amenait le pavillon : le corsaire, se trouvant accroche à cette frégate, a coulé bas. La prise, qui est arrivée a bon port, est parvenue à sauver quelques personnes des deux équipages; mais le capitaine Malroux a péri. C’est une belle action bien maleureusement terminée, etc.

However, this was followed up by a slightly sniffy article in a later issue that downplayed almost everything about the incident:

Sextidi 26e. Germinal, (N°. 103.) L’an VIII de la Republique:

Un habitant de l’Isle-de-France, arrivé au Havre ces jours derniers, a confirmé, quant au fond, la nouvelle de la capture d’un riche bâtiment anglais par un corsaire français ; mais il en rectifie ainsi les détails:

» Le corsaire du capitaine Malroux n’avait que 14 canons, de 4; le bâtiment ennemi n’était pas une frégate de 40 canons, mais une corvette de 26.
» Malheureusement, lorsque le capitaine anglais fit sauter sa corvette , les grapins étaient encore à bord, et le corsaire a coulé bas.
» On a connu ces détails par la prise qui est arrivée à l’Isle-de-France , deux jours avant le départ de cet habitant.
» Elle n’est évaluée que 100 à 150,000 piastres, l’or ayant été embarqué à bord du corsaire, au moment de la capture.

There’s a lot more to the history, but that’s all I can fit in a blog post for the moment. 🙁

La Perle, Le Butin and… La Buse?

All in all, I think Malroux is a surprisingly good fit, and nothing in all the accounts of his death contradicts the BN3 story: but oddly, it seems that I’m far from the first person to consider this.

If we take another look at the second La Buse cryptogram…

la-buse-second-cryptogram

…it includes drawings of three large ships: “Le Victorieux” (32 cannons), “La Perle”, and a third (unnamed) ship in the middle of exploding.

Now, I can’t prove it, but – given that there already seems evidence that strongly suggests that the second La Buse cryptogram was faked no earlier than the start of the twentieth century – it seems highly likely to me that this was intended by the fakers to intimate a link between the (in reality probably entirely unconnected) La Buse cryptogram and the Le Butin letters.

Who would want to do such a thing? Someone with an interest in both cipher mysteries, for sure: and who had a better knowledge of Indian Ocean maritime history than most people, good enough to point a knowledgeable finger at Malroux.

I’m sorry to have to say it, but this seems likely to me to be the work of someone close to a well-known French treasure hunting group, either to gull them all or as part of the kind of treasure map theatre they seem to have engaged in to show off to each other.

Which is a shame, because I would have loved to have talked with the people behind it, because I’m sure they would have had some great stories to tell. But perhaps no-one will ever know now. Oh well!

Trawling through the New Zealand shipping records for departures from New Zealand to Sydney for 1947-1948, it turns out that there were quite a few more to consider than just the Wahine. And so I went through them all. Though I filtered names out where I could (based on age), I included names where no age was given – but hopefully most of those will be easily cross-off-able.

What may be most interesting for some researchers is that the Marine Phoenix travelled from San Francisco to Sydney via New Zealand: and so, in one fell swoop, would seem to have the capacity to possibly join the American clues (Juicy Fruit + tailoring) and the New Zealand clue (Whitcombe and Tombs’ Rubaiyat) to the dead man in Australia.

MarinePhoenixPostCardFront

According to this very interesting page:

She was launched on the 9th. of August in 1945 by the Kaiser Shipyard at Vancouver Washington. 12,420 tons, 523 feet long with a 71.2 foot beam. One funnel, engine aft with a single screw and a speed of 17 knots. Built with accommodation for 3,800 troops.

The ship was thus too late to play any part in WW2.

Troopships were operated by Army Transportation Service with civilian crews, by the US Navy, or by the War Shipping Administration. The ship was managed by the Moore- McCormack Line for the US Maritime Commission.

Her maiden voyage on the 12th. of December 1945 was from Seattle to Nagoya Japan. She seems to have carried troops from Japan to Tacoma WA over the period 5th. of January/ 17th. of January 1946.

My report states she was laid up in Suisim Bay at San Francisco in 1947, but you thought your family sailed in her in 1948, perhaps that was, in fact in 1947, before the ship was laid up.

Anyway, here are a whole sackful of Eastern European names culled from these lists, make of them all what you will: I’ve carried out simple NAA searches where I can, but many of you can doubtless proceed much further if you so wish. 🙂

“Marine Phoenix” to Sydney, 26 May 1947

* Mr Herech Gildener (42) + Mrs Henryka Gildener (42) + Miss Renata Gildener (11) + Edyta Gildener (1) – Poland
* Mr Wolf Lewenkopf (47) + Mrs Mirla Lewenkop (37) – Poland
* Mr David Litman (52) – Poland

Hersch Gildener and David Litman are both listed in the NAA, but I couldn’t see the Lewenkop[f]s there at all.

“Marine Phoenix” to Sydney, 28 Jul 1947

* Mr Alush Emin (52) – Albania
* Mr Ludwik Menasohn (45) + Mrs Augusta Menasohn (37) – Poland
* Mr Jozef Perlen (52) + Stefanica Perlen (30) + Hyvka S. Perlen (39) + Ludwik Perlen (9) – Poland

Alush Emin is in the NAA (1947-1972), Ludwik Menasche [corrected spelling] likewise (1947-1947), and Josef Perlen (1947-1955). The Menasches appear in a paywalled 1968 Sydney Morning Herald, so we can rule them out. Jozef Perlen seems to have been born in 1903: his pre-war address is given here.

“Largs Bay” to Sydney, 04 Sep 1947

* Mr V Mischenko (42) Police Officer + Mrs V Mischenko (31) Domestic Duties + Master D V Mischenko (7) Student – Siberia
* Mr B Zarimba (38) Electrical Engineer – Russia

Vladimir Mischenko (born 24th July 1904, NAA files 1930-1947, but also document dated 1952), “B Zarimba” (“Zaremba”?) not found on NAA.

“Marine Phoenix” to Sydney, 06 Nov 1947

* Mr O Hanker (?) – Poland
* Mr J Pakula – Poland
* Mr J Zylber – Poland

According to the NAA, Oscar Hanner was born on 24th January 1922 (so would be too young for us); Jozef Zylber’s file is 1947-1972; while Jozef Pakula’s file is 1947-1947 (barcode 8781463 – note that there are two Jozef Pakulas as well as a Jozek Pakula listed).

“Annam” to Sydney, 19 Nov 1947

* Joe Lateiner (51) Hairdresser – Poland

No sign of Joe Lateiner: lots of hits for the pianist Jacob Lateiner, though.

“Rangitiki” to Sydney, 30 Nov 1947

* Mr M Sumic (47) Orchardist – Yugoslav
* Mr P Braun (43) Manufacturer – Czechoslavakian

No sign of either of these men in the NAA. Howeverm Trove has an advert for grapes on 26th February 1939:

GRAPES for Sale, White and Red Muscat. Passenger train 6/6 freight paid, M. Sumic, Swan View.

There appear to be plenty of Sumich family members in Swan View.

“Marine Phoenix” to Sydney, 29 Dec 1947

* Mr Solomon Berglas – Poland
* Mr Leon Bilczewski + Mrs Leon Bilczewski + Master Jacob Bilczewski (1) – Poland
* Mr David Fromberg + Mrs David Fromberg + Miss Miriam Fromberg + Master Grzegorz Fromberg (8) – Poland
* Mr Lew Frydman + Mrs Lew Frydman – Poland

NAA has a Salomon Berglas “[Austrian – arrived Sydney per Oronsay, 5 February 1940]” (file 1940-1947); NAA barcode 4309696 refers to “[Application for admission of Leon, Luba and Jakob BILCZEWSKI to Australia]”; but no sign of the Frombergs or the Frydmans.

Since the Voynich Manuscript surfaced in about 1912, many of the best-known codebreaking experts have studied its writing (‘Voynichese’) in depth. Of them, many have concluded that it was written using a cipher system that was (a) stronger than a simple (monoalphabetic) substitution cipher, yet (b) mathematically weaker than a polyalphabetic cipher.

If the University of Arizona’s 2009 radiocarbon dating of the Voynich Manuscript’s vellum (which points to the first half of the fifteenth century) is correct, the most likely reason for (b) becomes blindingly obvious: polyalphabetic ciphers (such as those of Leon Battista Alberti, Abbot Trithemius, and Vigenère) hadn’t yet been invented.

So, does that mean that all pre-polyalphabetic ciphers were easy? Errm… nope. In fact: not even close.

Fourteenth Century Cryptography

Even though Gabriele de Lavinde’s 1379 collection of Vatican ciphers were, at heart, simple (monoalphabetic) ciphers, many also included “nulls” (special cipher shapes that code for nothing at all, and were added into ciphertexts specifically to try to misdirect codebreakers). In the hands of a tricksy encipherer, this can already become not at all straightforward to crack.

Even the very clever CryptoCrack doesn’t have a tool for predicting / identifying nulls in a given ciphertext: and it turns out (I believe) that this is a significantly harder technical challenge than you might think.

Moreover, many of the ciphers in Gabriel de Lavinde’s cipher ledger also contained a nomenclator: this was a list of typically a dozen-or-so shapes enciphering entire words, like a cross between a cipher and a code. (Broadly speaking, a ‘cipher’ enciphers a message a letter at a time, while a ‘code’ encodes a message a word at a time: so nomenclators blur the line between the two).

However, it’s far from clear (to me at least) whether nomenclators were added in the 14th century for security, speed or brevity. I suspect that to insist that it was just a matter of security would be to project principles of Schneieresque computer science onto the codemakers and codebreakers of the 1300s: the true answer would be some vague (and probably unworked-out) combination of all three.

Fifteenth Century Cryptography

At the beginning of the 15th century, however, things started to shift (slightly) in the world of codemaking. 1401 was when a secretary at the Duchy of Mantua produced the following cipher alphabet for corresponding with Simeone de Crema:

crema-1401

Now, in many ways, this is a particularly stupid cipher alphabet, because the top (core) line maps each character in the alphabet to its reversed-alphabet equivalent (i.e. ABCDE –> ZYXUT and vice versa). Yet what is simultaneously clever about it is that it allocates multiple shapes to each of the five vowels.

To be honest, I think it would be a bit of a stretch to infer from this (as David Kahn tries to) that the notion of defending against frequency analysis-based attacks must necessarily have been entering cryptographers’ minds as early as 1401. Rather, it seems many times more likely to me that this trick (now known as “homophonic substitution”) was originally devised for a far more mundane reason: to make it harder for codebreakers to tell which letters are vowels and which are consonants.

Fast forward to the middle of the fifteenth century (probably circa 1450-1455), and we can still see the same palette of tricks in action in the following (undated) cipher alphabet in the Tranchedino cipher ledger from Milan:

milanese-cipher-part-1

Apart from not using the same alphabet backwards as the base cipher alphabet, it would seem that not much has changed since 1401: the vowels are still obfuscated with multiple homophonic alternatives (though with only three different shapes per vowel here, rather than the four shapes per vowel used half a century before).

The more observant among you will also notice that the (formerly Tironian) shorthand abbreviation ‘9’ gets its own cipher shape, as does ℞ (i.e. Rx, if your prehistoric browser can’t render Unicode character ‘U+211E’).

However, the later cipher alphabet also has special cipher shapes for doubled letters, a few other common shorthand abbreviations (p, etc), and a few more nulls than before:

milanese-cipher-part-2

The nomenclator is noticeably beefed up, with this particular cipher boasting more than eighty special entries:

milanese-cipher-part-3

Another Mantuan Cipher (1450)

Given that the 1401 cipher was from the Duchy of Mantua, it’s interesting to have a look at a Mantuan ducal cipher from 1450 in the Tranchedino ledger. This now has two homophonic shapes per consonant (except for x, z, and the ‘9’ shorthand shape), and three homophonic shapes per vowel:

mantua-cipher-part-1

It then has a mini-codebook of common words (Come, Quando, Quanto, Non, etc) and some nulls:

mantua-cipher-part-2

Interestingly, this is followed by an entirely new section, with arbitrary shapes standing in for a whole load of syllable groups (ab, ac, ad, af, ag, etc):

mantua-cipher-part-3

Finally, the page finishes up with roughly the same (small) size of nomenclator as had been in use in Mantua half a century previously:

mantua-cipher-part-4

So, You Call This “Progress”?

There is a long-standing (and widespread) tendency among writers on cryptography to present the development of ciphers in the fifteenth century as a kind of prototype of the modern arms race.

It’s perfectly true that, as the number of parties enciphering messages grew (along with the first flush of modern diplomacy) in the mid-15th century (many historians quite reasonably date this to the 1454 Treaty of Lodi), so too did the number of people who became experienced at cracking them.

However, there seems to me to be no evidence suggesting any kind of awareness of frequency analysis in the West in the fifteenth century. While Leon Battista Alberti’s short book on ciphers (“De Cifris”, 1466/1467) did cover this very well, he appears to have devised the abstract principles himself: and the contents of his book seem never to have been shared with anyone outside the Vatican. Similarly, al-Qalqashandi’s (1412) Arabic encyclopaedia entry on frequency analysis (mentioned in Kahn) appears never to have been transmitted to the West.

Don’t get me wrong, cryptology and cryptography both genuinely advanced in the sixteenth century: but in the fifteenth century, code-breaking had no mechanisms, no abstract methodology to work from: and fifteenth century code-making relied, by and large, on exactly the palette of tricks that were in place by 1450 or so. The only noticeable difference was that of scale: more homophones, more syllables, more nulls, and bigger nomenclators.

What, Then, Of The Voynich Manuscript?

In almost all practical senses, I think it’s fair to note that the Voynich Manuscript stands outside the cipher-making traditions you can see embodied in the cipher alphabets described above. It would seem to have too few cipher shapes to be using homophonic cipher tricks, doubled letters, a nomenclator of commons words, or even nulls.

And yet it dates to this precise period: and – arguably the most telling cryptanalytical feature of all – there is still no modern-day consensus as to which shapes are vowels and which are consonants. Even now, the letters that resemble ‘a’, ‘e’ (sort of), ‘i’, and ‘o’ continue to convince people seeing the Voynich Manuscript with fresh eyes that they ‘must’ not only look like vowels, but ‘must’ also be vowels. However, the closer you look at these, the unlikelier and wobblier this conclusion gets.

So, here’s your paradox for the day: even though the Voynich Manuscript is almost certainly not using the homophonic trick of using multiple letters for each of the vowels that was in use as early as 1401, it very much seems that its author devised or adapted an alternative way of concealing the plaintext’s vowels, i.e. of answering the same basic cryptographic ‘problematique’.

But how did it do that?

Archives New Zealand has made seven million historical passenger records available online through an arrangement with Utah-based familysearch.org . The transcriptions were made by network of generous volunteers (though I have to say that the quality of the transcriptions varies, where a fair few of the pages I looked at were only partially complete).

And so, following on from my previous post, I thought I’d see if any male Balts or Poles aged 40 to 60 travelled on the Wahine from New Zealand to Australia in 1947 or 1948. This turned out to be an extremely short list:

Poles on the Wahine

* 09May1947 - N Szuchmacher - 47 - Printer
* 21Nov1947 - M Zable...... - 41 - Engineer (travelled with wife + two sons)
* 05Dec1947 - M Wilniewezyb - 35 - Priest
* 18Dec1947 - N Naum....... - 52 - Manufacturer
* 31Dec1947 - S Bilgorri... - 50 - Tailor

I included Father Michal Wilniewczyc because I have a nice photograph of him on the 5th December 1947. This was the very day that the much-loved priest left the Pahiatua Polish Children’s Camp in New Zealand, where 733 Polish orphans and half-orphans had been taken in 1944. Which is a story for another post entirely. 🙂

Michal Wilniewczyc 05Dec1947 about to travel on the Wahine

What of the others? N Szchumacher (spelt correctly) would seem to be the “Nojach Szuchmacher” referred to in a single document in the NAA from 1946, where he is a nominee for “RYBAJZEN Jozef [aka Aizen]”, who had apparently applied for naturalization in 1943. This “Nojach Szuchmacher” was without any real doubt the Noah Schumacher who (according to the NAA) arrived at Sydney on the Wahine on 13th May 1947. If it is correct that Schumacher’s file runs through to 1955 (as it appears to), we can probably rule him out as a candidate for the Somerton Man.

“N Naum” would appear to be Norman Naum (born 18th May 1895, died 12th May 1959, buried in Karori Cemetery in Nea Zealand), so I think we can rule him out too.

The Zable family – “Mrs H Zables” (Tailoress, 41), Master B. Zable (2), and Master A. Zable (8 months), both born in New Zealand – I traced through to their naturalization application in New Zealand: Zable, Myer (Zabludowski, Mejer); Zable (Zabludowski), Hodes Mrs. All of which (eventually) let me determine that Myer Zable was a poet and that he died on 31st July 1992 in Melbourne. So we can rule him out, too.

Finally: the tailor “S Bilgorri” would appear to be Solomon Bilgorri of 31 Fouberts Place, Regents St, London W1 (very close to Carnaby Street, naturally), who travelled from London to New Zealand on the Rangitata, departing 14th Feb 1947. Might Solomon Bilgorri have been the Somerton Man? The father of Harry ‘Sonny’ Bilgorri (the famous East End tailor popular among London gangsters) was also called Solomon Bilgorri (though he was born in 6th July 1893 and died on 14th June 1973, it says here), but I suspect these were two different people… though it’s hard to be sure. (‘Bilgorri’ itself was simply the name of a town in Poland.)