by Henry Landau
A short while afterwards I was put on the track of two other German inventions, the one a mysterious ray, the other a new light machine gun.
I had heard persistent rumours that the Germans had developed a ray which, when projected from the ground, had the power of putting out of action the magneto of an aeroplane in flight. It was whispered that several planes had actually been brought down in some very mysterious manner, with dead engines, during the last stages of the war. Finally, I got an urgent message from the chief, instructing me to clear up the mystery without fail. Whenever I tried to trace down these stories to their source, I was always met by a blank wall. No one had any definite information to give me. It appeared to be very much the same sort of legendary affair as the rumour at the commencement of the war about the Russians landing in France, which sprang from a fantastic blunder. Someone had sent a telegram from one of the Scandinavian countries to the effect that a certain specified number of Russians had been sent from Archangel to England; the sender was specifying a type of eggs, but the telegraph clerk thought that Russians were troops, and spread the tale accordingly. The whole matter had assumed the proportions of legend and the conviction of truth, which was only heightened by the mysterious quality of the affair. But on what distortion of fact could these rumours of a deadening ray depend?
I had very nearly given the matter up when one day a Russian in my employ, who had served as an aviator during the war, told me that he had met the inventor’s wife, and that she had promised to talk to her husband about it. She was afraid that her solicitations would be fruitless, since her husband was a member of the Black Reichswehr, and as such would be summarily put out of the way if his negotiations with me were discovered.
Although this put me definitely on the track of the ray, the outlook seemed almost hopeless, for I had already sent in a long report of the Black Reichswehr’s activities, and I knew only too well the sinister tactics of the organisation. It was a secret band founded in 1922 with the object of collecting arms and forming itself into a secret army. Its members were plotting the downfall of the government, which they accused of pandering too much to the Allies, and in order to maintain secrecy, the leaders summarily murdered any of its members whose actions seemed to them suspicious in any degree.
I persisted, however, in my efforts, and eventually, through the Russian, I finally brought the inventor to hear my offer. He was to have a big sum for the full information, and £50 down for a preliminary report, which was to be submitted to the Air Ministry as a test of his good faith. If this report proved satisfactory, I promised that the Air Ministry would make him a definite offer for the complete details. The information proved sufficiently interesting for the chief to want the man in London, so that the negotiations could take place there after a final demonstration.
When I set about to convey this message to the inventor, I was stupefied to learn that he had died suddenly. I never heard anything more of him. I did not wish to inquire into the matter generally or pointedly, and I could get nothing whatever from the Russian, who seemed afraid to discuss the subject. Whether the inventor had been killed as he feared, or whether he died a natural death; whether he suddenly grew afraid and simply disappeared; or whether it was a fake and he dared not attempt to carry out a useless trick, I never could discover. Personally, I think there was something tangible in the ray; the Russian intermediary, I am convinced, was honest. His terror at the time of the inventor’s death was too real to be acted. In my own mind there persists the opinion that the inventor was done to death by Schulz, the head of the Black Reichswehr’s murder squad. This fiendish butcher was eventually run to earth after the organisation had been forcibly disbanded by the government. At his trial it was proved conclusively that he had been responsible for twenty-two murders, and it was surmised that there must have been a great many more. I anxiously scanned the reports of the trial in search of the inventor’s name, but nothing came to light about him.
My first knowledge of the machine gun developed by the Germans came from old General von G. He was a fine old chap whom I had met during my first visit to Berlin in 1919. On my return to the German capital I had been glad to resume our acquaintance. I often dropped into his apartment after dinner, and over a coffee and kirsch, which he never failed to remind me was thirty years old, we discussed various phases of the war. The question of war guilt was what exasperated him the most. ‘Didn’t the Russians mobilise first?’ he would shout in his excitement. ‘It is perfectly clear; the war was manoeuvred by the Russians and the French, who were jealous and afraid of us. The assassination of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand – wasn’t it instigated by the Russians?’ I have never yet come across a German who believed that his country was responsible for the war, and so I never attempted to argue with the general. Germans never could understand that imperialism and militarism, to the extent that it was practised in Germany, was a menace to the peace of Europe, and, in itself, an incentive to war.
Like every other German of his class, the general’s income and savings had dwindled to the vanishing point, and he was anxiously looking around for some new source of income. I should have been prepared, perhaps, to receive offers of information from him, but such violent partisanship as his quite closed my mind to the possibility. I was intensely surprised, therefore, when one day the fiery old patriot told me about a new light machine gun that had just been invented. He claimed for it the most surprising results in the trials. When I cautioned him about compromising himself, he shrugged his shoulders, and said: ‘As long as the French don’t get it, that’s all we care about. It is no use to us; the control commission wouldn’t permit its employ anyhow.’ In the end, not only did he consent to procure a blueprint for me, but he also arranged a demonstration. The chief was delighted with the details. The gun proved to be much lighter than the Lewis machine gun, and just as efficient; it could be carried by one man and fired from the shoulder. The inventor received his money and the general his commission.
The general’s attitude demonstrated how little interest the German government had at that time in armaments, for certainly no one could have doubted the old gentleman’s loyalty. It was part of the apathy which marked much of German official life directly after the war, existing in anomalous fashion side by side with the far more positive forces of inventive activity and rebellious secret organisations sworn to avenge the German defeat.
Inventions of the sort which I have been describing, bought from foreigners, have of course a limited value to the purchasing nation. They are almost invariably sold to half a dozen other nations as well, in spite of promises to the contrary. Von G. I could trust, but I am sure that the astute little lady who figured in the robot invention did not miss any of the markets open to her. Each buyer was no doubt sworn to secrecy, as we were. The most valued invention or secret formula is that which is known, and can be known, only to the nation which produced it; necessarily it comes from one of the nation’s own nationals – usually an expert employed by the government for such work, or an employee of some great engineering or chemical works which is in close contact with government activities.
However, to prevent surprise, a nation must always know of every device that can be used against it in war. This knowledge also often enables a country to make improvements on their own creations, or even give their inventors and experts the germ of an idea which might lead to some other invention; it may supply the missing link in some revolutionary device of their own, which is still in the experimental stage. The pursuit of these new devices is one of the most exciting activities of secret service, and the unusual fecundity of German genius in such matters directly after the war made the investigation unusually absorbing. But even as I moved about my work, excited and keyed up to the demands of it as I was, I could not help reflecting that it was a wasteful round of death producing means of death, the needy inventing means of destruction rather than production. I longed to harness all this brilliance and power to a concentrated force for livi
ng.
CHAPTER 26
THE GERMAN SECRET SERVICE MAKES A PROPOSAL
THE OCCUPATION OF the Ruhr was in full swing, and the separatist movement for the creation of an independent Rhineland Republic was being actively pushed by the French. The British government had protested, and the British press, with no uncertain voice, was proclaiming that the French were not out for reparations, but only for further destruction of their hereditary enemy. Its correspondents were reporting each move of the French. Feeling was running high, not only in Germany, but also in the rest of Europe. The British intelligence service in Cologne was also proving a thorn in the side of their former ally. It was no use for France to pretend that she was not sponsoring the separatist movement, for all her intrigues and plans were being uncovered by British agents. The Germans were fairly beaming with an appreciation of the British attitude, and were openly talking of a split between the Allies.
This was the atmosphere when one evening during one of my many discussions with General von G., he ingeniously switched the conversation to secret service.
‘I have been told,’ he said over the coffee and kirsch (its age having as usual been mentioned), ‘that you were in charge of the military section of the British secret service in Holland. Are you still occupied with it?’
I looked at him astounded. My surprise did not spring from this sudden reference to my connection with the British secret service, for I was aware that the Germans knew all about me from Holland; but I could see that he was leading up to some proposal, and I was amazed that a German should fancy my former service to be of any use to their Reich.
I said nothing, however, and he went on, ‘If you are, I have an interesting proposition to make to you. After the Armistice, our secret service grant was stopped entirely, and the German secret service ceased to exist. But it has been brought to life again, and the chief is one of my friends. He is seriously handicapped for funds. Why don’t you get your people to allow you to co-operate with him? You need information about France, just as we do. Now wait,’ he hurried on, silencing an objection he saw on the way; ‘I realise perfectly that the British secret service cannot risk involving itself, but don’t you see how perfectly natural it is that we should? I suggest that you get the British secret service to supply part of the funds, and we will supply the agents, sharing the information obtained with you. You would be the sole intermediary, and nothing could ever be traced to the British.’
This struck me as an extraordinarily naive proposition, for I did not agree with the general that the Germans could risk being involved in secret service activities against France; the French were in the Ruhr and so could inflict any penalties they desired. Besides, how could the Germans be sure the British would not report the matter to the French? The fact that the British opposed the Ruhr occupation was no proof that even in a matter of secret service they would support the German power. I was convinced of the general’s honesty. I had been so often in his home that I knew he would not wittingly deceive me; so I attributed this very dubious plan to overzealousness on his part. I agreed, however, to meet a delegate from the German secret service so as to discuss the matter first hand.
The meeting eventually took place at the Fürstenhof Hotel, just off the Potsdamerplatz, where General von G. introduced me to one Major von Tresckow. I was faced by a man with hard steel-grey eyes, and stiff, close-cropped dark hair, whose carriage and manner immediately betrayed him to be an army officer. For a moment we stood and looked at each other, each sizing the other up. I was quite prepared for a cross-examination and a gradual leading up to the point, but instead, after informing me that he was representing his chief, he wasted no time in repeating verbatim the general’s proposal. His chief evidently knew all about me. No question was asked about my identity nor about my secret service connections.
Now I was really astonished. It was obviously a serious proposition. I refrained from committing myself, but tried to draw out von Tresckow to find out how he intended operating. He refused, however, to discuss the matter further until I had found out whether on principle the British secret service would co-operate. If the answer was in the affirmative he promised to present a concrete scheme to me, but warned me that we would not be put in touch with the agents themselves; the only basis of co-operation would be the exchange of German reports for a monthly sum from the British, which could be stopped at any time if the information seemed unsatisfactory. I jibbed a bit at this, suggesting that it would please headquarters better to pay for each piece of information according to its value. But both of us agreed that no definite details could be discussed until I had the chief’s permission to proceed with the negotiations.
The subject closed, the general ordered coffee. For the next half-hour we exchanged reminiscences about Holland, and discussed at some length the Cavell affair, the general loud in his denunciation of the criticism which the Germans had brought on themselves in the matter, whereas the much sharper von Tresckow saw that the execution was a colossal tactical blunder.
I eventually took my leave, promising von Tresckow to communicate with him through the general as soon as I had received a reply from the chief.
I had no idea what attitude the chief would take, for although it was a wonderful opportunity, and I knew all nations spy on each other, however friendly their relations may be, yet there were obvious complications in this case. The only possible method to employ would be one which gave both sides a loophole for complete denial in case of need, for I realised neither service would trust the other completely. Such a plan could, however, be devised, and so I waited curiously for a decision.
The chief did not keep me long in suspense: he instructed me to drop the matter completely. What his reasons were, he never told me.
In this attempt the typical optimism and miscalculation of the Germans was as obvious as it was in their attitude on the war guilt or the Cavell case; in spite of their cleverness in other fields, they have invariably failed in diplomacy, and never seem to have been able to foresee the response which foreign nations would have either to their acts or their proposals. It is not that they are deceitful. I am sure that in this matter they were acting in perfectly good faith. It was purely a case of bad judgement. They entirely misinterpreted the British motives in opposing the French concerning the Ruhr.
That the German secret service was short of funds did not surprise me in the least. It is the cry of all secret services in peacetime, and even of some during war. Before the war, the British secret service grant was negligible, and even after it, on the occasion of my transfer to Berlin, I saw C worrying over a sheet of figures to see how he could possibly cover the ground. The Belgian secret service suffered from this same handicap during the war. It would be interesting to relate what part of a country’s revenue is earmarked for secret service, but that is one of the things which, as Kipling says, is another story – and it is not mine to tell.
The German proposal that we should use foreign agents to spy on another country, especially a friendly one, is common practice. When it is announced in the newspapers that an American subject has been arrested in Europe on a charge of espionage, the one country it is certain he was not spying for is the United States. The name of Major von Tresckow was, of course, fictitious; this, coupled with the fact that I had met him in the lobby of an hotel, would have enabled the Germans to repudiate the whole affair if the British had reported the matter to the French.
General von G. was greatly disappointed with the decision; he had hoped to be appointed as the intermediary to deal with me. It would have put him once more on the active pay list, which would have increased his sadly diminished income.
I felt very sorry for the old general. In civilian life he was a fish out of water. Everything around him had changed, and he was at the age when it was difficult for him to adapt himself. With me he was a great favourite: his peppery disposition, his crashing voice, which seemed eternally ringing across a parade ground, and his grandiose mannerisms w
ere a continual source of amusement, though I would never have dared to show it. The pathos of his situation was not limited to his own case; he was representative of a type. Formerly a masterful man of action, he was, like many an old officer of the imperial regime, reduced to the position of an opportunist, if not an intriguer. It is to his credit that his schemes were so obvious, so futile, so hopeless of results; their lack of cleverness proved them to be new and awkward channels of action.
CHAPTER 27
RUSSIAN ADVENTURE
CEASELESS ACTIVITY, AND the stirring, rapidly changing events through which I had lived during the intervening years, had already dimmed my memory of those delightful evenings which I had spent with Tania and her brother in The Hague, when I found myself suddenly plunged into the vortex of Russian life in Berlin.
