Kingsway Exchange: The Secret History
June 23, 2011 About my museum job, Blogs, Community, Geek stuff, Learning No CommentsCurator of Social and Working History, Jim Gledhill, discovers a hidden world under Holborn. Listen very carefully, he shall say this only once…
One of my favourite gags in the Indiana Jones franchise is the scene in The Last Crusade when Jones says to the villain clutching a stolen artefact, “This belongs in a museum!” to which the bad guy replies, “So do you!” Sadly the life of a museum curator is not quite as adventurous as that of the fictional archaeologist, but every now and again we do get out and about to visit some unusual places. As a curator responsible for an industrial collection, this usually means visiting various workplaces, current or historic, and usually above ground. Recently I was invited by colleagues at BT Archives to visit a subterranean location which is a bit more off piste.
Approximately one hundred feet (30 metres) below Holborn is one of London’s best kept historical secrets. The Kingsway Exchange, so named for the purposes of misdirection, was originally built as a deep level bomb shelter for up to 8,000 people in 1942, although never actually used as such. Upon completion the tunnels were requisitioned by MI5 and MI6 and other agencies for wartime covert operations. After the war the General Post Office took over the site and extended the complex for use as a trunk telephone exchange (an exchange that connects smaller exchanges) that would be secure in the event of a nuclear war. Dug using shovels in what must have been back-breaking work, the facility was so secret that the soil was spirited out of London for disposal so as not to arouse suspicions. Kingsway continued to be a state secret as important government and defence communications were connected through it. These included the lines to Number 10, the Cabinet Office and the Cold War hotline between the White House and the Kremlin.
The British public only became aware of the complex in the 1960s when it was removed from the secret list. British Pathé made a film in 1968 showing the exchange in operation, but without revealing its location. At its height, the exchange could deal with 6,000 calls simultaneously and handled up to two million calls a week, around 15% of London’s trunk (long distance) telephone traffic. Following the introduction of Subscriber Trunk Dialling from 1959 (where the caller could make a long distance call without the help of an operator) the exchange became less important and was closed in 1980. In the 1980s the government used part of the structure as a back up for its PINDAR nuclear bunker located beneath the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall. Since 1990 it has been used for storage only.
I visited Kingsway with staff from BT (the current owners) in order to investigate the exchange which I had recently acquired objects from for the Museum. The BT staff were drawn from different areas of the company’s vast operation (BT still owns the national telecommunications infrastructure). We entered via a non-descript door in a side street off High Holborn. After going down a flight of stairs, the visitor has to pass through a steel blast door – an unsubtle hint that admission is for authorised personnel only! Descending by lift, the visitor emerges in one of two large tunnels that make up the main structure. A series of shafts and interconnecting tunnels link up these enormous reinforced arteries. As you proceed deeper into the complex the sound of Central Line tube trains can be heard rumbling ominously above. I’m struck by what an undiscovered country London really is. There’s a goods lift down there that takes you up to a secret entrance in Chancery Lane tube station. During the Cold War even London Underground was not aware of the existence of this secret door (!).
The clandestine nature of Kingsway means that it is an entirely self-contained complex with an artesian well providing a fresh water supply and huge generators providing power. During the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis the facility was placed in ‘lock down’ and staff lived in it twenty four hours a day. Equipped with a canteen, bunk beds and even a bar, the complex was designed for its two hundred or so staff to maintain communications in the event of a nuclear strike. Now the disused living quarters have a ghostly feel to them that I’ve often felt visiting abandoned buildings formally so active (no wonder the producers of Dr Who have been making use of Kingsway for filming recently). When examining the rows of empty bunks and the cramped living conditions that accompanied them, one concludes that surviving a nuclear war would have been cold comfort.
I recently collected a Cheetah teleprinter which was used by BT internal security staff at Kingsway in the 1980s. I visited their former office, now empty and derelict. When collecting at former industrial sites I am often left wondering what became of the people who worked there. In the depths of Kingsway, beneath the working day world of pedestrians, cyclists and taxis, I get an even stronger sense of this. It’s difficult for historians to study the secret world – its inhabitants are usually very careful not to leave behind much evidence. Often they do not want to be found. I do know however, that someone typed away on the Cheetah’s keyboard day in day out in the depths of Kingsway and it was their job to make sure that this vast complex remained secure. It’s odd to think what a big deal that was back then when Soviet nuclear missiles were pointing at London and Ronald Reagan was in the White House.
Now even Cold War bunkers have become real estate: BT has put Kingsway up for sale on the open market. The Metropolitan Police have expressed an interest in using the huge fortified tunnels as a rifle range. Whatever becomes of the old exchange, the secret is now well and truly out.
