Strange Intelligence: Memoirs of Naval Secret Service

by Hector C. Bywater

  The Major stared coolly at his colleague.

  ‘What forts are those? Do you imagine that we are going to break our heads against Belfort, Toul, and Verdun? No, there’s a better way than that, and everybody knows we are going to take it. Yes, everybody’, he repeated, banging his fist on the table. ‘For what else have we built those colossal railway stations at Eupen and Malmedy? It’s an understood thing that we shall be over the Luxemburg and Belgian border almost from the word “go”. There’s no secret about it at all!’

  ‘But that means a breach of neutrality,’ objected one of his hearers:

  And suppose Belgium resisted? Her army may not amount to much, but we couldn’t take Liège and Namur in our stride. They are said to be as strong as any of the French forts, and we should have to begin a regular siege. And what about Antwerp, which may prove a still tougher nut? But it would have to be cracked, unless we were content to leave it, with perhaps the whole Belgian army and some French divisions inside, as a perpetual menace to our right flank and line of communications?

  The young engineer officer, hitherto shy and silent in the presence of so many seniors, now joined in:

  Liège is certainly very strong. I spent a month in Belgium last summer, and made as close an inspection as possible of Liège and Namur. The big-gun cupolas at Liège are said to be armoured with 9-inch plating, and the ferro-concrete shelters are given in our textbooks as 4 ft thick. If that be so, they could probably defy our 12-inch howitzers.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Major:

  We’re not relying on those. My brother Ulrich, who’s in the War Ministry, told me something the other day that would give our neighbours across the border a pretty shock. We’ve got something much heavier than the 12-inch, so much heavier as to be almost unbelievable. Ganz geheim, of course, but they’re all ready at Essen. The shells are colossal; in fact, they weigh about ------.

  The speaker did not finish his sentence, for the Colonel, who had been chatting with a friend, and only at that moment appeared to become aware of the conversation further down the table, suddenly rapped with his knuckles on the board and exclaimed ‘Achtung!’

  There was an embarrassed silence, and the garrulous Major slowly reddened beneath his tan. Then the Colonel rose, and beckoned to the Major, who, with a muttered ‘Zu Befehl, Herr Oberst’, joined him in a corner of the room. It was very obvious that the gallant infantryman was receiving a lecture for having talked ‘shop’ rather too freely.

  ‘Ach, Quatsch,’ exclaimed another officer in low tones. ‘What’s the old man fussing about? We’re all friends here.’

  He shot a glance at Mr Brown, who, apparently unaware of the slightly strained atmosphere, was discussing with his neighbour the respective merits of light and dark beer. The two officers soon returned to the table, but the Major was no longer in a talkative mood, and soon took his leave.

  Two days later Mr Brown’s business took him to Wiesbaden, or so he told his Hanoverian friends. But apparently he got into the wrong train, for that same evening found him at Düsseldorf, which attractive city lies within easy distance of Essen. It is unnecessary to go into his subsequent activities in any detail. He spent most of the time at Essen, returning to Düsseldorf every night and sending a number of business telegrams to Brussels – whence, strange to say, they were instantly relayed to London.

  On the evening of the fifth day Brown was seated in a little estaminet at Roermond, a tiny Dutch hamlet within sight of the German frontier. A westbound train drew up at the station and several passengers descended, among them a man wearing the unmistakable ill-made but respectable Sunday garments of a German artisan. He glanced about him rather furtively, and remained on the platform until the rest of the passengers had dispersed. Then, having made inquiry of a porter, he set off towards the estaminet where Brown awaited him.

  The two men took not the slightest notice of each other. Brown continued to read his paper and sip his beer, while at another table the German artisan stolidly munched sandwiches between copious draughts from the largest Stein the little inn could boast. Presently Brown paid his score and left, taking the long straight road that runs parallel with the railway until he reached a side path bordered with stunted poplars. He turned into this and followed it for a few hundred yards, then sat down and lighted his pipe. It was a radiant autumn afternoon. The flat Dutch landscape, over which the eye could range for miles, seemed deserted, but Brown, keeping well under cover of the poplars, waited patiently, his gaze fixed on the dusty highway whence he had come.

  In twenty minutes he saw a figure approaching from the direction of Roermond. It came slowly on until it reached the poplar-bordered lane, halted there for a moment, then plodded down the lane. Brown rose to his feet as the man advanced.

  The latter, in spite of his outward stolidity, was somewhat excited.

  ‘I’m sure there was an Essen policeman on the train,’ he said nervously. ‘But he didn’t get out at Roermond, so I suppose it’s all right.’

  ‘You certainly haven’t been followed from there’, Brown reassured him. ‘I’ve been watching the road for the past half-hour, and no one has passed save yourself. Where are the papers?’ he held out his hand.

  ‘Not so fast, mein Herr,’ said the other. ‘How do I know you have got what you promised me?’ Brown took from his wallet a fat roll of German banknotes and counted them before the man’s eyes, which glistened at the sight. He in his turn opened his coat, produced a pocket knife, and ripped open the stitches in the lining, out of which he took several sheets of paper.

  These he proffered to Brown, who took them, while still retaining the wad of banknotes.

  ‘One moment,’ he said, as the German, suspicious and growing angry, demanded the money. ‘I must look through these first to make sure that you have delivered the goods. Sit down and smoke this excellent cigar. I shall not keep you many minutes.’ Still grumbling, his companion complied, while Brown, having run swiftly through the papers, settled down to a more careful scrutiny.

  ‘I do not see the blueprint you promised,’ he remarked.

  The other hastily explained:

  It was impossible to obtain, mein Herr. Schmidt got cold feet at the last moment, and said he would have nothing to do with the business. I told him the Ehrhardt people at Düsseldorf only wanted the plans for business purposes, but I think he smelt a rat. He said that the typed descriptive notes didn’t matter, because half a dozen of his colleagues might have supplied them; but if a blueprint were missed he would at once come under suspicion. But there is a rough drawing, which he told us gave all the important details.

  Brown did not answer, but continued to study the papers. Finally he appeared to be satisfied, placed them in his pocket, and handed over the money without further parley. He watched amusedly as the German hurriedly sewed the notes into the lining of his coat with a needle and thread he had produced from a capacious purse.

  ‘Your idea of a hiding place is rather primitive, my friend,’ he said at length. ‘If I were searching you I should begin by ripping opening your coat.’

  The man was obviously taken aback.

  ‘It’s the best place I could think of,’ he grumbled:

  Anyway, in spite of seeing that policeman, I’m sure nobody suspects anything. Friedrich Muller is known at Essen as a respectable man who has been at the works for twenty years, and never had a black mark against him. Besides, what harm, after all, is there in handing over a few trade secrets to a rival firm at Düsseldorf? The big people might kick up a fuss if they knew, but it’s not really a crime, if you look at it reasonably.

  Mr Brown listened to this rather clumsy attempt to allay the prickings of a conscience, which even the goodly plaster of banknotes had not wholly soothed.

  ‘Quite so,’ he observed drily. ‘I have no doubt that Herr Friedrich Muller is a perfectly respectable member of society, though I have not had the pleasure of meeting him.’

  His companion started violently and turned pale. ‘But
, mein Herr, I am Friedrich Muller, as you very well know.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Brown, lighting a cigar; ‘I rather fancied you were Otto Behncke, residing at 42 Brücke-Strasse, third étage. Come, come,’ he continued, raising his hand as the other began to bluster a denial, ‘I naturally took the trouble to check your identity when our little transaction was first broached. But, believe me, there’s no harm done, and you have nothing to fear. You may have opportunities of earning much more money in future, with just as little risk, if you care to do so.’

  Three days later Behncke’s typescript and drawings were in the hands of the intelligence department in London, by whom, no doubt, they were promptly transmitted to the War Office. They gave a fairly complete description of the German 16.5-inch howitzers, mountings, and ammunition, and of the method of transporting them. There is reason to believe that the authenticity of the documents was doubted at first, though later they were passed as genuine, as indeed they were. But while Mr Brown’s divergence from his purely naval intelligence duties in pursuit of an important but purely military secret had proved entirely successful, the official appreciation of his achievement was not warm enough to encourage him to step outside his own particular field again. Nor did his partiality for German Volkslieder produce any other noteworthy results in connection with his work, though it was undoubtedly valuable as a passport into circles where information was to be gleaned.

  But more than once in the future was he to sing again the stirring words of ‘Deutschland über Alles’, not as a soloist, but as one of a huge chorus. The first occasion was the launch of a great battlecruiser at Hamburg, shortly before the war. The second was at Bremen, in August 1928, when the venerable and justly revered President of the German Republic, Field-Marshal von Hindenburg, launched the giant Atlantic liner Bremen, in the presence of a vast concourse. So infectious was the enthusiasm roused by this event that Mr Brown was by no means the only Englishman there who joined heartily in the German national anthem that swelled to a mighty crescendo as the magnificent ship glided down the ways into the waters of the Elbe. A great ship is a work of art, as Ruskin truly said, and it will be a bad day for civilisation when appreciation of a masterpiece of art is influenced by national prejudice.

  CHAPTER 6

  HUE AND CRY!

  MODERN WRITERS ON criminology have made us familiar with the methods of detection peculiar to Scotland Yard, the Paris Sûreté, and the Berlin Hauptpolizeamt, respectively. In German detective practice, we are told, the resources of science are invoked to a degree unknown in other countries. Be that as it may, the German police department, which in pre-war days was responsible for dealing with cases of espionage, had many more failures than triumphs. At no time, indeed, did it score an outstanding success.

  For at least two years before the Great War the police were making prodigious efforts to locate and trap the principal foreign intelligence agents who were working in Germany, some of whom, in spite of the extreme circumspection with which they went about their task, had at length fallen under suspicion.

  Their connection with the British secret service may not have been definitely known, but it was certainly suspected, for their correspondence began to be tampered with, and they often found themselves under surveillance. All this, of course, made their work more difficult, but, strange to say, did not seriously interrupt it. That foreigners resident in Germany, strongly suspected of being engaged in intelligence work, should have been able not only to continue their activities, but even to conceal their whereabouts from the German police for months at a time, may seem incredible, but it is none the less true.

  One of these men remained in Germany for three and a half years, travelling the country from end to end, visiting every naval base and armament centre in the Reich, and gathering a mass of secret data on naval affairs; yet for the greater part of this period he eluded the utmost vigilance of the authorities, and on the few occasions when they did stumble upon his tracks they were unable to secure a vestige of concrete evidence against him. And all this happened in what was claimed to be the most highly organised state in the world!

  Innumerable traps were laid for this elusive agent, but usually they were so obvious that only a simpleton would have walked into them. When the police found themselves impotent they enlisted the cooperation of the German Admiralty, and even of the press, but still did not succeed in laying hands on this much-wanted intruder. He came and went at will, attempted little or no disguise, had confidential transactions with German subjects who well knew his business, and, only a few weeks before the outbreak of war, departed quietly and unmolested from German territory.

  During his forty-two months of intelligence work in the country he met and conversed with scores of naval officers, including Grand Admiral von Tirpitz himself; many police officials, including the redoubtable Herr von Jagow, president of the Berlin Police; naval architects, engineers, gunnery, armour plate and submarine experts.

  He attended meetings of the German Navy League, and was on social terms with some of the protagonists of the big-navy campaign. He knew the inside of nearly every dockyard in the country, and could have described from memory the salient features of the coast defences from Emden to Sylt, and from Flensburg to the Russian border. And, to crown all, he was at one period a daily visitor at the police headquarters in a great German city, where a desk was placed at his disposal and official documents were laid before him for inspection! Although these exploits may sound fantastic, and more suggestive of Arsène Lupin than of a living individual, we have verified them by evidence that is unimpeachable.

  During the latter part of his stay in Germany this agent evidently became an object of suspicion, for his correspondence was intercepted and opened (so clumsily as to betray the fact at a glance), he was often shadowed, and many attempts were made to implicate him in dubious transactions.

  The methods employed were so inept as to excite derision. Take for example the system of shadowing. A detective would follow the suspect to a railway station, find out his destination, see the train off, and then telephone the police of the town to which he had booked to be on the look-out for him. Apparently it did not occur to the authorities that their quarry might become aware of what was happening and throw off the pursuit by breaking his journey.

  On one occasion he was ‘seen off’ from a naval port, after having taken a ticket for Berlin. But at the first place he alighted, and an hour later was back in the port and free from all surveillance, the local police having satisfied themselves that he was safely on his way to the capital.

  At other times he was able to dodge his ‘shadow’ by expedients so simple that he would have been ashamed to try them on an English village constable, yet they were quite sufficient to baffle the German detectives. His own theory was that German police methods were modelled on the national mentality and temperament, and for that reason, no doubt, were effectual enough when applied to Germans. But the foreigner was a different proposition. He had a disconcerting way of varying his procedure under given conditions, of not acting ‘according to plan’, and thereby throwing the complicated and elaborate machinery of detection out of gear.

  Our informant was convinced that any professional wrong-doer who had served his apprenticeship in England or France might pursue his calling with comparative impunity in Germany until such time as the police had thoroughly familiarised themselves with his methods – and that would be a very long time indeed.

  When the German naval authorities joined in the chase for our peripatetic friend they showed no more imagination than the police, and their efforts were equally fruitless. Their tactics were of ‘the spider and the fly’ order, and they were both surprised and hurt when the fly politely declined to walk into the parlour.

  Some two years before the war the agent of whom we are writing received the following letter:

  Honoured Sir,

  I have heard from a mutual friend that you are interested in the progress and doings of the German
fleet. As a retired officer of the navy, I am in a position to give you valuable information, and shall be pleased if you will grant me an interview. I suggest as a rendezvous the ------- Café in the Wilhelmstrasse, where, with a carnation in my buttonhole, I shall be waiting at three p.m. on Thursday.

  The signature, it should be added, was illegible.

  It is hardly necessary to say that the appointment was not kept, but inquiry soon established the fact that the gentleman with the carnation, so far from being a ‘retired officer’, was an active captain holding an appointment in the intelligence division of the of the German Admiralty. It was very literally a case of the spider’s parlour, for he was waiting in a private room at the café, and in the next apartment were two detectives.

  When this ambush failed, a second was set. Another letter came, expressing regret at the agent’s non-appearance, pleading for an early meeting, when the writer would be ‘happy to disclose information of the most important nature.’ To this letter a legible signature was appended, and an address in the suburb of Charlottenburg given. A reply was sent in the following terms:

  While thanking you for your kind offer, I would point out that I have no wish to acquire confidential information about the German Navy. This would be equivalent to espionage, which is an offence that exposes one to severe punishment. Such maritime information as I collect is taken from the German press, and is required solely for commercial purposes.

  A ‘Dienstmann’, or street porter, was despatched with this note to the address given. On arriving at the house he was immediately arrested, taken to the nearest police station, and kept there for several hours, until his captors had satisfied themselves that he knew nothing of the person from whom he had received the note. Incredible as it may sound, three further invitations to meet people who were anxious to disclose information about the German Navy were received by our informant.