Strange Intelligence: Memoirs of Naval Secret Service

by Hector C. Bywater

  But, in fact, the prospect of such a victory was remote, and had the proposed sortie of the High Seas Fleet ended in disaster Germany would have found herself in an infinitely worse position than before. She would have been held to have broken faith with the Allies, to have used the armistice negotiations as a cloak for treachery, and her punishment would have been merciless. When Germans complain of the severity of the Treaty of Versailles they might profitably reflect on the terrible price they would have had to pay if this sinister naval conspiracy had not been frustrated in the nick of time.

  CHAPTER 18

  FALSE DAWN

  BEFORE EXPLAINING IN greater detail the German naval plans for ‘The Day’ and how they were defeated, it may be as well to emphasise the absolute unanimity of all the evidence available on this subject, whether from the German side or from our intelligence reports of the period. We have to thank the Reichstag Committee of 1925–26 for many illuminating and dramatic revelations, elicited in the course of its exhaustive inquiry into the antecedents of the surrender. While these were new to the world at large, they were fully known to the British Admiralty in 1918. Among the witnesses called upon to testify as to the projected naval offensive of October 1918 were Vice-Admiral von Trotha, Rear-Admiral Heinrich (chief of the torpedo-boat flotillas), Rear-Admiral von Levetzow, General Gröner, General von Kuhl, Professor Hans Delbrück, and Dr Eugen Fischer, Herr Scheidemann, and Herr Otto Wels, the Socialist leaders.

  The date of the High Seas Fleet offensive was to be 28 October 1918 – that is, nearly a month after General Ludendorff had demanded an immediate armistice as the only means of saving his armies from utter disaster. Thereupon the German government opened negotiations with President Wilson, and it was while these were proceeding that Admiral Scheer – who had recently relinquished the command of the fleet to become chief of staff – had an audience of the Kaiser at Potsdam, in which he begged for a free hand with the fleet, pointing out that since it was no longer required as a cover for U-boat operations, it ought to be employed in its proper mission of seeking battle with the enemy.

  There is no doubt that the Kaiser accepted this view in principle. He did not, however, give his consent to any definite plan, for the sufficient reason that none was submitted to him. Admiral Scheer, conscious of his Imperial Master’s reluctance to risk his beloved battleships, deemed it prudent not to reveal the desperate project he had in view. He went on with his preparations without asking for the Kaiser’s sanction, because, as he subsequently admitted, he was afraid he might not get it.

  Nor was it only the Kaiser who was to be kept in the dark. The then Chancellor, Prince Max of Baden, was not consulted, though he was already deeply involved in the armistice negotiations and had given an undertaking to abandon the U-boat campaign. In his own narrative of events he states that he first heard of the naval plan on 2 November, whereas the decisive battle had been timed for 28 October, and had been cancelled on account of mutiny on 31 October. The first intimation he received of what had been going on behind his back was a request from Admiral Scheer that he should sign a manifesto addressed to the crews of the fleet, assuring them that there was no intention of sending the fleet on a ‘death cruise’, and appealing for the maintenance of discipline.

  This official repudiation of the ‘death cruise’ plan, which the Chancellor was inveigled into signing, was, no doubt, correct, strictly speaking, since the naval command expected a victory, not a disaster. Nevertheless it was misleading, in that it was read, and intended to be read, as meaning that there was no question of seeking action with the British fleet, but only of a routine practice cruise for training purposes. Clearly, therefore, the admirals were determined to hoodwink both the Cabinet and the men of the fleet, to seek a pitched battle on their own, and, if fortune did not smile on them, to pretend that the expected encounter with the British fleet had been accidental.

  They were preparing to embark on this desperate venture without the sanction of the Supreme War Lord, who was also their Commander-in-Chief; in flat defiance of the Cabinet; in full knowledge that Germany’s honour was already pledged in the conduct of the peace negotiations then in train, and also in the knowledge that their own men would not obey them if the truth of the cruise leaked out! The annals of history may be searched in vain for a parallel to this crazy and unscrupulous attempt by a few admirals to override all authority and stake the future of their country on a single throw of the dice.

  Crazy the adventure unquestionably was. Now that the complete facts are known, enabling the chances to be weighed, it can be said with positive certainty that the odds against success were a hundred to one. This opinion is notoriously held by many, if not a majority, of German experts, several of whom testified in that sense before the Reichstag Committee.

  The calculations of the admirals who planned the enterprise were based on false premises. On their own admission, absolute secrecy was an essential pre-condition of success, yet the secret had long since been discovered by the British. That Admiral Scheer and his colleagues should have believed it possible to keep all their elaborate preparations from the enemy’s knowledge – preparations that extended over many months and included the mining of a vast area of open sea – does not say much for their sagacity.

  As outlined in the remarkably accurate forecasts by our intelligence department, the plan involved the use of every serviceable unit of the High Seas Fleet, and of every submarine and Zeppelin available. At dawn on 28 October the armada was to have sailed. Two powerful groups of cruisers and destroyers were to advance simultaneously towards the Flanders coast and the mouth of the Thames, bombarding shore targets and sinking everything they came across. The main fleet was to follow, screened from British submarine attack by swarms of destroyers.

  Immediately after news of the sortie had been received, the Grand Fleet, it was anticipated, would emerge from its Scottish bases in full strength and steam south at high speed to intercept the enemy. But its path would be strewn with invisible traps. Lines of U-boats would be lying in ambush athwart the course of the fleet. It would also have to pass through the huge cordon of mines, which the UC submarines had planted off the Firth of Tay, and, further to the south, through five more mine barriers, containing 1,500 mines, which were to be laid by five fast German cruisers on the day preceding the sortie.

  The U-boats were to be arranged on the well-tried method that had once before caused Admiral Jellicoe to report that he had ‘run into a hell of U-boats.’ (This was in August 1916, during a half-hearted sortie by the German fleet, when the Grand Fleet sighted numerous enemy submarines and lost the light cruisers Falmouth and Nottingham from this cause.) As an additional guarantee against surprise, twelve Zeppelins were to scout for the fleet, the embargo on their employment in the North Sea area having been lifted for this special occasion.

  Finally, the entire force of German torpedo boats was to be hurled against the Grand Fleet during the night of its advance, the captains having orders to sacrifice their craft if necessary, and to get within torpedo range at all costs. Then, when the Grand Fleet had been decimated and demoralised by these repeated attacks, it was to be engaged off Terschelling by the German battle squadrons at full strength.

  An important feature of the general plan were raids by cruisers and destroyers on shipping in the Downs and the Thames estuary. The Germans believed we were preparing to throw an army into Holland, with the object of attacking the army group of Crown Prince Rupprecht from the rear and cutting off his retreat. They hoped, therefore, to come upon the transports assembled for this expedition and send them to the bottom.

  Secret instructions from the naval staff impressed upon the commanding officer of every German vessel the absolute necessity for the most vigorous and ruthless action. The ‘safety first’ principle that hitherto had governed all operations was to be discarded. Ships and men were to be expended without hesitation to exploit any promising situation, and in every case fire was to be opened without making any recogn
ition signal, since the sortie was so carefully organised that any craft sighted was practically certain to be an enemy. If it were not, so much the worse for the unlucky neutral or friend.

  As we have seen, this plan, so impressive on paper, was built up on a number of false assumptions. In the first place, the gigantic minefield off the Firth of Tay, which was expected to sink or cripple many of the best British battleships, had been quietly removed by our sweepers. Secondly, the presence of U-boat ambuscades on the Grand Fleet’s line of advance was taken for granted, and measures were concerted to evade them. Thirdly, we knew beforehand that five German cruisers were to steal across the North Sea to lay additional mine barriers just before the great sortie, and we had arranged for them to be intercepted and destroyed by an overwhelming force long before they reached the points at which their deadly cargoes were to be jettisoned. Fourthly, the Harwich Force and the Dover Patrol had both been warned, and neither would have been caught unprepared, if caught at all. Fifthly, special arrangements were made for the protection of shipping in the Downs, and all cross-Channel transport sailings were to be suspended at the first sign of a move by the enemy.

  In the Grand Fleet, everything was in readiness for ‘The Day’. Since Jutland the fleet itself had been strongly reinforced by new vessels of every type, and also by six American battleships under Admiral Rodman. All capital ships had been fitted with devices that reduced the danger of magazine explosions to the minimum, and many had received additional armour protection. Gunnery had improved, and the new armour-piercing shells made it certain that every hit would be effective. All vessels were equipped with paravanes, enabling them to pass through minefields with comparative impunity, while special destroyer flotillas, carrying high-speed paravanes, could steam ahead of the fleet and blaze a safe trail for it through any mine-infested zone.

  The Grand Fleet was well provided with aircraft, including many fighters and torpedo planes. The former would unquestionably have given the Zeppelin scouts a rough handling; the torpedo planes would have been launched against the enemy’s battle fleet as soon as it was sighted.

  In his evidence before the Reichstag Committee Admiral von Trotha, expatiating on the merits of the plan, said: ‘The advantage lay with the Germans, since the High Seas Fleet would have had to advance only 150 miles, and the cruisers, for their attack in the Channel, the same distance, while the British Grand Fleet would have had to travel 400 miles from Scapa Flow.’ That would have been true had the sortie caught us napping; but we were, in fact, forewarned. Consequently, the Grand Fleet would have left its bases much earlier than the Germans anticipated, and the latter would have found themselves brought to action at a time and place chosen by Admiral Beatty, not by the German naval staff.

  That the light flotillas told off to raid the Channel would have been cut off and exterminated is beyond dispute, having regard to the reception that had been prepared for them. That the Zeppelins could have given the German Commander-in-Chief timely warning of the Grand Fleet’s approach is highly improbable, in view of the number of British aeroplanes detailed to look out for and attack the hostile airships. Again, the knowledge we had of the U-boat traps, and the efficiency of our paravane gear, would very probably have saved the Grand Fleet from serious loss through torpedoes or mines. Finally, we knew of the intended mass attack by German destroyers during the night, and did not fear it, since our night-fighting organisation had been improved enormously since Jutland. Moreover, since the Germans in all likelihood would place our fleet some 200 miles further north than it actually was, their destroyers would have very little chance of finding it.

  The prospect was, therefore, that the Grand Fleet would arrive on the scene long before it was expected, and engage the High Seas Fleet with a two-to-one superiority. It was the enemy, not ourselves, who would be caught unawares. On the British side, every man in the fleet would have been thirsting for battle, for at no time had there been the slightest depreciation of discipline or fighting spirit. On the German side the lower-deck personnel, grown stale through years of confinement in harbour, seething with discontent, and openly at variance with its officers, would suddenly have discovered the deathtrap into which it had been led under false pretences. None can tell what would have happened in these circumstances, but to infer that the Germans would have fought rather less gamely than they did at Jutland is not unreasonable. Be that as it may, the result of an action fought to a finish under the conditions here depicted would scarcely have been in doubt. Humanly speaking, a German victory was impossible. At best, a sorely battered remnant of the High Seas Fleet might have limped back to port, but the virtual destruction of the whole force was confidently awaited by British and American flag-officers, who knew not only the preparations we had made, but almost every detail of the German ‘secret’ plan. For that knowledge they were largely indebted to the naval intelligence department.

  But the great sortie never took place. In spite of every precaution, the secret leaked out. According to several accounts, suspicion was first aroused on the lower deck by the indiscreet conduct of the younger officers in openly toasting ‘The Day’ while they were at mess, this being reported to the men by the wardroom stewards. Meanwhile the date of sailing had been altered to 30 October. On the evening of the 29th, therefore, all ships were ordered to raise steam. It was given out that the fleet was to make a short cruise in the Bight; nothing was said even of a possible encounter with the enemy.

  By this time, however, the men were convinced that their lives were to be wantonly sacrificed for the personal glory of their officers. Leaflets to this effect had been privily distributed throughout the fleet, urging the men not to allow themselves to be driven to the shambles. As Prince Max of Baden has since pointed out in his memoirs, ‘the naval leaders, whose business it was to make as certain of their morale as their material forces before seeking a decisive action, had planned their undertaking at the worst possible moment, when the armistice negotiations were in progress and a hundred false hopes were being raised in the people. Their scheme was inevitably doomed to failure in face of the men’s feeling that, as peace was about to be concluded, it was senseless to go and get themselves killed.’

  The order to raise steam appears to have been obeyed in most of the ships, if not in all. But on the same evening a majority of the men in the battleships Thüringen and Markgraf refused to stand their night watches, and went to their hammocks, from which in the morning they refused to turn out. Cases of insubordination occurred in other ships, and in view of this development the Commander-in-Chief, Admiral von Hipper, wisely cancelled the signal to put to sea.

  During 30 October the atmosphere in the fleet was charged with electricity. Towards evening the storm broke. The scene in the Thüringen has been graphically described by one of her officers:

  As though by agreement, the men came streaming from all parts of the ship – gun crews, stokers, and lower-deck parties – to the forward battery, where they prepared to resist. Hawsers were cut through, the weighing of the anchors was rendered impossible, and the electric light was cut off, so that order could not be restored. A grim, uncouth horde of men shut themselves up forward from the rest of the ship. The officers armed themselves, and mounted guard over the after part of the ship to protect vital compartments and gear against attack by the mutineers.

  The mutiny in the Thüringen was temporarily suppressed by the calling up of a destroyer and a submarine, which took station on the beam with orders to fire torpedoes into the ship unless the men returned to duty by a given time. This they did, whereupon a number were placed under arrest and sent ashore. There, however, the armed escort refused to proceed further, and fraternised with the prisoners, who broke away and roamed through the streets of Kiel, waving red flags and singing revolutionary songs. Meanwhile the mutiny had spread to other ships. Very soon the whole fleet was in open revolt. Strangely enough, scarcely any resistance was offered by the officers, most of whom stood aside while their men hauled down th
e ensign and ran up the red flag in its place. Only in the battleship Koenig did a handful of officers attempt to oppose force by force. In that ship the commanding officer, Captain Weniger, was badly wounded in trying to defend the colours, while two of his officers were shot dead at his side.

  The fact that the mutiny originated in the big ships shows very clearly the demoralising effect of prolonged service in harbour. Among the crews of the destroyers, which had put in much more time at sea, the revolt spread more slowly, and the submarine personnel remained loyal almost to the last. But by 3 November the High Seas Fleet had ceased to exist as a fighting entity. Discipline had gone to pieces; the ships were being run by ‘Soviets’, and most of the officers were ashore or confined to their cabins. Not even the publication of the armistice terms, which demanded inter alia the surrender of the fleet to the Allies, sufficed to reawaken the fighting spirit of the men. There was, it is true, some talk of ‘resisting to the last’, but the personnel as a whole regarded the impending humiliation of their service with indifference.

  A fortnight later the German battle fleet, escorted by the Grand Fleet, steamed into the Firth of Forth, and eventually was remanded to Scapa Flow in custody, there to await the Allies’ decision as to its fate. It is unnecessary to repeat here the well-known details of that historic event, or of the subsequent sinking of the vessels by their own crews. The world’s comment at the time was scathing enough, as was but natural; but after the lapse of so many years it would be a sorry task to dwell upon the abasement of an enemy who, in almost every action at sea, fought with courage and tenacity. The officers and men who took the German ships into action at Jutland, Coronel, and the Falklands will always be held in honour by British seamen.

  By the end of the war the naval intelligence division had grown to imposing dimensions, as a reference to the ‘Navy List’ of December 1918 will show. Its staff included experts on every branch of naval affairs; linguists who between them were masters of practically every modern language, European and Asiatic, and of not a few ancient tongues to boot; cryptographers to whom almost every code was an open book, and chemists who not only knew all about secret inks, but could even reconstruct a complete document from a handful of ashes taken out of a stove. In fact, the ID of that period might be said to represent a galaxy of practitioners in all the esoteric arts. Most of them held commissions in the Royal Navy, the Royal Marines, the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, or the Royal Naval Reserve, but there was a minority of members who, for one reason or another, preferred to remain civilians, and these, if the least conspicuous, were by no means the least useful units of the vast organisation.