On 15th May, 1951, on the Third Programme, Alan gave his first broadcast, which was one of a series with the general title “Automatic Calculating Machines.” His lecture, the second in the series, bore the sub-title, “Can Digital Computers Think?” I heard at his house its recording, but he stoutly refused to join me, though he plucked up courage to listen to its repetition on 3rd July, 1951. It was, as far as I know, generally agreed that he put his case very clearly. The other participants in the series were: Professor M.H.A. Newman, F.R.S.; Professor F.C. Williams, F.R.S.; and Mr. M.V. Wilkes (later F.R.S.), who gave no sub-title to their lectures. These talks were all reasonably long, not those very short affairs that stop just as one is beginning to get interested.

These lectures were followed on 14th January, 1952, by a fourcornered broadcast discussion on the Third Programme between Professor Sir Geoffrey Jefferson, F.R.S., Professor M.H.A. Newman, F.R.S., Mr. R.B. Braithwaite, Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and Alan. The subject was, “Can Automatic Calculating Machines be said to Think?” Alan vigorously maintained, with some mild support from Professor Newman, that they could be said to think and bore the brunt of their opponents' objections, particularly those of Sir Geoffrey Jefferson. The general impression of my non-expert friends was that the subject had been presented most amusingly and in such a way as to be, on the whole, within the comprehension of those to whom it was quite new.

On resignation from the Scientific Civil Service Alan accepted a Readership at Manchester University and was appointed Assistant Director of “Madam,” the Manchester Automatic Digital Machine designed mainly by Professor F.C. Williams, F.R.S., and Dr. T. Kilburn. This machine at the time of its construction was reputed to have the largest memory storage capacity of any known machine and was expected to be able to “remember” a bookful of facts and figures.

As Assistant Director (but ignorant himself of the identity of the Director) Alan's role was to collaborate with Professor F.C. Williams and Dr. T. Kilburn and lead the mathematical side of work with the machine. According to Professor M.H.A. Newman's account in the Royal Society's Memoir, “for a few years he continued to work first on the design of the sub-routines out of which the larger programmes for such a machine are built, and then, as this kind of work became standardized, on more general problems of numerical analysis.” With the experience so gained he produced in 1950, The Programmers' Handbook for the Manchester Electronic Computer.

In June 1949, a representative of The Times asked him by telephone sundry questions and put forward certain propositions regarding the scope of the machine; in reply Alan hazarded some forecasts of what the machine might eventually achieve. He was aghast a day or two later to find the results of this telephone conversation expanded into a long paragraph on the centre page of The Times.

We had given up our home in Guildford in March 1939, and being mostly on the move until war broke out we saw little of Alan: during the next six years he could spend only snatches of leave with us, for immediately on the declaration of war he was taken on as a temporary Civil Servant in the Foreign Office, in the Department of Communications.

As a “back-room boy” he was not allowed to enlist, though he served for a time in the Home Guard. At first even his where abouts were kept secret, but later it was divulged that he was working at Bletchley Park, Bletchley. No hint was ever given of the nature of his secret work, nor has it ever been revealed. The enforced silence concerning his work quite ruined him as a correspondent: his letters from then on became infrequent and scrappy. However on his occasional visits to us and on my visits to him I heard of some of the truly Alanesque things that happened during the war years.

His ability was early recognized in his department where he became known as “the Prof.,” or simply “Prof.” He lived at the Crown Inn, Shenley-Brook-End, some three miles out of Bletchley. Here his kind landlady, Mrs. Ramshaw, took great care of him and generally mothered him and admonished him about his clothes. Someone on the staff at Bletchley Park reported to a relative of ours that Alan was “wrapped up in his theories and wild as to hair and clothes and conventions, but a dear fellow.”

The Farringdon Road market was a favourite haunt of Alan's: it was here that he picked up his violin, already mentioned, and here, I think, found the ancient sextant which was to be part of his equipment for his voyage to New York on 23rd September, 1936. He sailed steerage and I saw him off at Southampton. As we did not realize the extent of the docks we walked from the train to the steamer and the sextant was allotted to me to carry. Of all the ungainly things to hold, commend me to an old-fashioned sextant case. Though some readings were taken, what with the movement of the ship, and a defect in the instrument and Alan's inexperience, he doubted their accuracy. He heads his letter from the Berengaria 41° 20′ N 62° W.

A week after arrival at the Graduate College, Princeton, he writes: “The mathematics department here comes fully up to expectations. There is a great number of the most distinguished mathematicians here – J. v. Neumann, Weyl, Courant, Hardy, Einstein, Lefschetz, as well as lots of small fry. Unfortunately there are not nearly so many logic people as last year.” His next letter suggests some disillusionment. “Church had me out to dinner the other night. Considering that the guests were all university people I found the conversation rather disappointing. They seem, from what I can remember of it, to have discussed nothing but the different States they came from. Description of travel and places bores me intensely.”

Morphogenesis is a term used to describe the processes involved in the appearance and development of living structures. How long Alan had been ruminating on his chemical theory of the growth of living things, particularly the mathematical aspect of it, we do not know. Whether in attendance at lectures on physiology in 1947 to 1948 he had this in view, or whether with his wide interests he studied physiology just to enlarge his knowledge and was thereby spurred on to further investigations, it is impossible to say. Whichever way it was, after going to Manchester, he began to develop his noted theory of morphogenesis which naturally led to the study of botany. On his walks and runs he was always on the look-out for flowers and grasses. With some advice from me and the help of British Flora, (much worn after being carried about in his pocket), and Flora of the British Isles, by A.R. Clapham, T.G. Tutin and E.F. Warburg, he identified all those he found in his neighbourhood, and systematically marked on very large scale maps just where he had found the various specimens.

His lengthy monograph on morphogenesis was contributed in November 1951 to the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society under the title “The Chemical Basis of Morphogenesis”; this was revised in March 1952 and published by the Royal Society on 14th August, 1952, in the Phil. Trans., Series B, No. 641.

My mother has written a biography of my brother Alan. It was certainly a tour de force on her part to write it, as she did, in her seventies. It has rightly been praised, by others better qualified to judge than I am, as a revealing study of a son who became, undoubtedly, a mathematical genius.

I start off, therefore, at a disadvantage. Much of the ground has already been covered, and certainly, so far as Alan's childhood is concerned, far better and in more detail than I could have done it myself. But it is sufficiently obvious to any discerning reader of that book that a false note has been struck somewhere: could Alan have been quite that paragon of virtue that my mother describes? Yet, if an elder brother ventures to suggest the contrary, it can easily be suggested that he is jealous and sour. This is a risk I must accept. My only concern is to put the record straight, however hazardous the enterprise.

My brother Alan was born on 21 June 1912 in a London nursing home. For me, it was a halcyon time, for my father, perforce, had to look after me for the one and only time in his life. His solution of the problem could not have been bettered: we visited the White City, went on roundabouts, ate in restaurants and travelled around the metropolis on the tops of buses with the tickets stuck in our hat-bands.

On release from his duties at the Foreign Office Alan was offered a Cambridge University lectureship, which he declined since his attention was becoming focussed on computing machinery. Before the war he had already begun to build a computer of his own with wider scope, he hoped, than those then in operation. It was natural, therefore, that his aim should be to see his logical theory of a universal machine, previously set out in his paper “Computable Numbers” (published in 1937), take concrete form in an actual machine. On submission to the Government of the outline of his design for such a machine he was taken on to the staff of the National Physical Laboratory at Teddington, and became a permanent member of the Scientific Civil Service in October, 1945. When this service was reconstructed at the end of the war, senior posts were made available for people of exceptional merit so that “they would be able to advance fairly high in the scientific hierarchy without the usual requirement of undertaking considerable organizational responsibility.” Under this scheme Alan was one of the first to become a Senior Principal Scientific Officer. In the Mathematics Division of the National Physical Laboratory his task was to plan more fully the logical design of an automatic computing engine. According to The Times of 16th June, 1954, “he threw himself into the work with enthusiasm, thoroughly enjoying the alternation of abstract questions of design with practical engineering.”

The World of Mathematics, referred to in Part I, contains an article entitled “The General and Logical Theory of Automata” by John von Neumann which gives the ensuing synopsis (vol. 4, pp. 2093–2095) of Alan's Theory of Computing Automata:

The English logician, Turing, about twelve years ago attacked the following problem. He wanted to give a general definition of what is meant by a computing automaton. The formal definition came out as follows:

Being a scholar born, Alan found himself thoroughly in his element when he went up to King's as a mathematical scholar in October 1931. The balance of freedom and discipline just suited him. He at once took up rowing, being in the College trial eights in 1931, 1933 and 1934. For one so shy it was a curious thing that he very much enjoyed reading the lessons in King's College Chapel, which as a scholar he was occasionally called upon to do. He was too reticent about his religious beliefs to reveal just where he stood. He often accompanied me to church at festivals, as well as attending chapel at King's – things he was too honest to do had he not been, at least, in limited agreement with Christianity, though he was certainly not orthodox. “Within the framework of his science he believed in the great order of things,” according to a very intimate friend. In his last year or so, happening to glance through the Church of England Catechism, by then forgotten by him, he expressed great admiration for the sound exposition of the “Duty to one's Neighbour.” Whenever he referred to Jesus Christ he always did so with reverence using the term “Our Lord,” which speaks for itself. While still at school his opinion of daily school chapel was that the practice was a good one, even if one were apt to be in a state of semi-coma. This may sound paradoxical, but what he commended was evidently the corporate recognition of religious obligation.

Shortly after our marriage my husband and I returned to the Madras Presidency. Our elder son, John Ferrier, was born at my parents' home in Coonoor, Nilgiris, 1st September, 1908. Nearly four years later our second son, Alan Mathison, was born at Warrington Lodge, Warrington Crescent, Maida Vale, London, on 23rd June, 1912. His christening took place at St. Saviour's Church, Warrington Avenue, on 7th July, 1912. We spent the following winter with our boys in Italy. My husband returned to India in the spring of 1913, while I followed in September, leaving both children at home with Colonel and Mrs. Ward at St. Leonards-on-Sea. Both boys grew very much attached to “Grannie” as they called Mrs. Ward. It had been intended to take Alan out to India, but owing to his having slight ricketts it was thought better to leave him in England. Despite his delicacy he was an extremely vivacious and forthcoming small child.

My letters to my husband when I was in England in the spring and summer of 1915, round about Alan's third birthday, give some idea of what he was like. I was not alone in my opinion when I wrote, “a very clever child, I should say, with a wonderful memory for new words,” for I reported that his uncle, Herbert Trustram Eve, maintained that he would do great things – this when Alan was nearly three. Here are extracts from letters at this time: “Alan generally speaks remarkably correctly and well. He has rather a delightful phrase, ‘for so many morrows,’ which we think means, ‘for a long time,’ and is used with reference to past or future.”

The Turing family is of Norman extraction and the family tree goes back to 1316 AD, the family motto being Fortuna audentes Juvat. Having arrived in Scotland the members settled in Angus in a barony of that name, whence they removed to Aberdeenshire early in the fourteenth century and came into possession of Foveran, which remained the family seat until recent times. The name was variously spelled Turyne, Thuring, Turin, Turing. William Turin received the honour of knighthood from James VI of Scotland (James I of England) and thereafter Sir William added the final “g” to the name.

John Turing of Foveran was created a baronet by Charles I in 1639 for loyal service, and was at the battle of Worcester; but his loyalty cost him the loss of lands which had been in the family for 300 years. Records show Turings holding positions of trust and responsibility in the County of Aberdeen.

By the eighteenth century some Turings were venturing further a field. Thus Sir Robert Turing (Bart.), born in 1744, was a doctor and amassed a considerable fortune in the East Indies and then retired to Banff in Scotland where he made himself very useful and popular. One kinsman in the Honourable East India Company took part in the defence of Seringapatam. Others in the nineteenth century lived in Holland; two, father and son, were successive British Consuls in Rotterdam. Some of their descendants have now become domiciled in Holland. Alan's great grandfather, presumably through this Dutch connection, had some occupation in Batavia, maybe in some shipping concern.

This book contains almost all the essential material for the biography of a very remarkable man, who died tragically in June, 1954, in the prime of his life and in the middle of research which may still prove to be even more original and important than the finished work which had brought him so much honour and fame. Alan Turing's mother, who has assembled and written this record of his childhood and his mature achievements, believes that his death was accidental. The explanation of suicide will never satisfy those who were in close touch with Alan during the last months and days of his life, however much the available evidence may point to it, and in the future the possibility of accident will be considered by those in a better position perhaps to decide the truth. But even if his death was not chosen by him, he was a very strange man, one who never fitted in anywhere quite successfully. His scattered efforts to appear at home in the upper middle class circles into which he was born stand out as particularly unsuccessful. He did adopt a few conventions, apparently at random, but he discarded the majority of their ways and ideas without hesitation or apology. Unfortunately the ways of the academic world which might have proved his refuge, puzzled and bored him; and in return that world sometimes accepted him wholeheartedly (I remember ShaunWylie's saying “He was a lovely man: never a dull moment”) but often felt puzzled by his remoteness.

Alan's house had a room from which the bathroom had been sliced, leaving a space – the “nightmare room” as he called it – useless for domestic purposes. This he eventually turned into a laboratory where he spent many happy hours carrying out experiments. According to some of his friends these were often of an unnerving character. On one occasion Dr. Gandy refused to take part in one such experiment in a laboratory alive with electrical equipment, though he was prepared to pursue it in the kitchen. It only goes to show Alan's readiness to take chances when possessed by some absorbing idea. One who knew him well wrote to me that he was like a child when experimenting, not only taking in the observed result mentally but testing it with his fingers. He adds: “When we worked together on some electrical contraption he several times got high-voltage shocks by sheer carelessness.” One experiment that he carried out to his own great satisfaction was the gold-plating of the bowl of an egg-spoon: he used his grandfather's gold turnip-watch for the gold and, presumably, potassium cyanide, hence the presence of the latter in solid form in a drawer in his spare room.

Dr. Robin Gandy has given a full account of their joint activities over the week-end a few days before Alan's death. They were busy with the preparation of a non-poisonous weed-killer and sink-cleaner. “There was nothing sinister about these experiments, which were just an example of Alan's liking to make things himself.”

Sara Turing, a woman in her seventies mourning the death of Alan, her younger son, a man that she failed to understand on so many levels, wrote this remarkable biographical essay. She carefully pieced together his school reports, copies of his publications, and comments on his achievements by experts. But Alan Turing was a thoroughly unconventional man, whose method of dealing with life's situations was to think everything through from first principles, ignoring social expectations. And she was trying to fit him into a framework that reveals more about her and her social situation than it does about him. Alan's older brother John trying to fill in the gaps he saw in his mother's account, also ends up revealing a good deal about his own attitudes.In these few pages I will discuss some of the questions that may occur to readers of these documents.

Alan Turing's War

In 1940, after France had been defeated, Britain fought on mainly alone. The merchant shipping on which the island was dependent was being sunk by German submarines at a rate that threatened to force the UK to yield. The radio communications between the submarines and their base concerning their operational plans were being picked up in Britain. If these plans were known, attacks could be mounted against the submarines. Merchant ships could adjust their routes so as not to go where they would encounter enemy submarines. But of course the data was encrypted.

Alan was broad, strongly built and tall, with a square, determined jaw and unruly brown hair. His deep-set, clear blue eyes were his most remarkable feature. The short, slightly retroussé nose and humorous lines of his mouth gave him a youthful – sometimes a childlike – appearance. So much so that in his late thirties he was still at times mistaken for an undergraduate; hence occasional attempts were made to “prog” him.

In dress and habits he tended to be slovenly. His hair was usually too long, with an overhanging lock which he would toss back with a jerk of his head. The first thing to be done when he came home was to send him to have his hair cut. When he did take the trouble to comb it, five minutes later he would run his fingers through it so that once more it would be standing on end. At King's, for a time he took more trouble with his clothes and even subdued his hair. But when the war came he was seldom at home, clothing and sartorial advice were both rationed, and he relapsed into the old ways. In his last years there was again some slight improvement and he used to object to complaints about his clothes. The real trouble, perhaps, was not so much the clothes that he wore as the way in which he wore them.