Strange Intelligence: Memoirs of Naval Secret Service (5 page)

In connection with the traffic in confidential ship plans a singular comedy occurred in Brussels in 1913.

A shipwright employed at the Blohm and Voss yard in Hamburg absconded with a set of blue prints detailing the internal arrangements and armour disposition of the battlecruiser
Seydlitz
, which was then building at the yard.

They were absolutely genuine, and the renegade shipwright, having heard about the international spy bureau in Brussels, went there to try to sell his stolen wares.

The simple audacity of the man was too much for the ‘experts’ who traded in military secrets. They simply did not believe him. They assumed him be as tricky as themselves, and flatly refused to do business.

He had gone to Brussels with visions of a fortune. But after a few days his funds ran out. He actually touted the blueprints round some of the low cafés of the Belgian capital, trying to raise £5 on them, but did not find anyone who would believe his story.

Eventually, he managed to scrape a little money together, and with this made his way back to Germany, still carrying the blueprints with him.

He escaped detection at the time, and the story would never have become known but for a queer trick of fate years later – after the war, in fact. Then his crime was discovered, he was tried for treason, and sentence to twelve years’ imprisonment.

The story throws a queer sidelight on the mentality of those who dealt in naval and military secrets as commodities to be sold to the highest bidder. They themselves dealt in so much spurious material that they invariably suspected anything that was offered to them. The men engaged in that trade were, of
course, fundamentally dishonest. They were the rabble of the espionage world, and most of them made a living not by procuring information, but by betraying others to the security police of any country that would pay their fees. The majority were known by sight to the regular intelligence men, who carefully steered clear of them, and had the unfortunate Captain Bertrand Stewart, whose story is told elsewhere, been in touch with the ID headquarters, he would probably never have fallen into the trap set for him by the man Rue.

W
HEN THE GERMAN
legions swarmed over the Belgian frontier in the early days of August 1914, public opinion in the Allied countries was encouraged to believe that the tidal wave of invasion would be stemmed by the ‘impregnable’ fortresses of Liège and Namur. The massive steel and concrete ramparts of the Belgian citadels were supposed to be proof against the heaviest artillery, and so, no doubt, they were against the most powerful mobile guns of which the world at large had cognisance.

But Germany had up her sleeve a trump card in the shape of the gigantic 16.5-inch howitzers, the ‘Fat Berthas’, whose levin-bolts soon reduced the forts of Liège to a heap of pulverised ruins. So far as the general public was concerned, the appearance of these mammoth cannon was one of the most dramatic
surprises of the war, but to the staffs of the Allied armies it was no surprise at all.

Nearly twelve months before the outbreak of war the existence of these howitzers was discovered by an agent of the British naval secret service, and duly reported by him to headquarters in London.

Presumably, therefore, the information was transmitted to Paris and Brussels, for it was obvious that the ‘Berthas’ had been built for no other purpose than the battering down of the frontier defences of Germany’s neighbours.

How such a portentous but purely military secret came to be penetrated by a naval agent is a curious story, now told for the first time.

A few prefatory remarks may be offered about the ‘Fat Berthas’ and other heavy artillery that the German general staff, as they fondly believed, had prepared unknown to the outer world. As far back as 1900, espionage reports on the newly constructed fortresses of Liège and Namur in Belgium, and of Verdun, Toul, and Belfort in France, in the building of which ferro-concrete and stout armour plating had been largely used, led the German general staff to overhaul its siege artillery. As the heaviest gun then available was the 8.2-inch howitzer, which was considered to be ineffective against the new defences, an order was placed with Krupps for several batteries of 12-inch ‘mortars’ (to employ the official designation, i.e. ‘
Mörser
’), the existence of which was kept a close secret. Ten years later, when the German staff had fully made up its mind to adopt the Schlieffen plan of invading France via Belgium, and it therefore became necessary to ensure the speedy reduction of Liège and Namur, lest, by holding up the German hosts, they should cause the whole scheme to go awry,
Krupps were invited to submit specifications for the heaviest howitzers it was feasible to transport by road.

Designs prepared by Professor Rausenberger, of Krupps’ ordnance staff, for a 16.5-inch (42-cm) howitzer were approved, and production began forthwith. In 1912 four of these monster guns were completed. They were housed in a building at Essen that was guarded day and night, and, save by the men who had built them and the crews selected to work them, their existence remained practically unknown outside the Ministry of War in Berlin.

They were indeed formidable engines of destruction, hurling an armour-piercing explosive shell of 1,980 lb at a range of nearly 7 miles. Descending from the blue at a steep angle, these thunderbolts crashed irresistibly through the thickest, concrete, bomb proofs and the toughest armour plate.

Each howitzer was moved to the scene of action by four tractors, hitched to trucks containing, respectively, the gun itself, the carriage, an assembly crane, and the crew. The terrible effects of their fire on the forts at Liège has been vividly described by eyewitnesses. But with the reduction of the Belgian strongholds their usefulness was at an end. In November 1914, they arrived on the Western Front, where they were soon found to be of no value against the entrenched positions that were the only targets in view. A few months later they were withdrawn.

So much for the ‘Fat Berthas’ themselves. To this day, as we have said, it is widely believed that they took the Allies completely by surprise, whereas, in truth, their existence was discovered nearly a year before the war, and fairly complete details of them were given in an intelligence report transmitted to London in the autumn of 1913.

From the practical point of view, no doubt, the information was not of much use. The British War Office had long known of the German plan to strike at France through Belgium, though the French authorities continued to turn a blind eye to the most positive evidence on this point. Belgium, even if apprised of the new German howitzers, would have had no time to reinforce the defences of Liège on the necessary scale. So there was nothing to be done but await the blow, which duly fell.

Nevertheless, the story of the discovery of this secret deserves inclusion because of the singular and dramatic features it presents.

In the late summer of 1913 an agent of our naval secret service, whom we will call Brown, was in Hanover, where he had several German acquaintances. He had, of course, perfectly good reasons for his visit to that city, since a legitimate occupation (which served as a ‘cover’ not only for his residence in Germany, but also for the almost constant travelling that his real work entailed) was as essential to the intelligence agent as the pursuit of cricket was to ‘Raffles’. Amongst Brown’s friends in Hanover was an army reserve officer, who was inordinately proud of the privilege of wearing the Kaiser’s uniform on certain occasions. By the Prussian regular soldier these reservist officers were slightingly labelled as ‘civilians with extenuating circumstances’, but they were none the less keen and efficient soldiers who largely formed the backbone of Germany’s second-line formations during the Great War.

That night Brown’s friend, Herr Schultz, was attending a reserve officers’ reunion dinner, more properly termed a
Bier-Abend
, and he was kind enough to invite Brown to accompany him as his guest, these occasions being very informal and
gemütlich
. Brown accepted with alacrity, knowing by experience how expansive and communicative the sternest Prussian often became under the mellowing influence of plentiful beer.

Good fellowship and camaraderie were the order of the evening. Among the other guests were eight or nine regular officers of the Hanover garrison who were relatives or close friends of their hosts.

The simple meal over, beer mugs were refilled, cigars were lighted, and the company ‘proceeded to harmony.’ Old favourites, such as the ‘
Gaudeamus
’, ‘Was Martin Luther
spricht
’ and ‘
Wer niemals einen Rausch gehabt, der ist kein braver Mann
’, were succeeded by the more classical melodies of Schubert and Schumann, rendered by accomplished singers who are invariably to be found in any German gathering, irrespective of class or profession. After these came tuneful
Volkslieder
, and the stirring patriotic ballads of which German music has so rich a store. The latter harmonised well with the atmosphere of the evening. Round the long, bare table sat uniformed officers of all ranks, from a grizzled colonel of artillery to a pink-cheeked Sapper subaltern whose first tunic had but lately left its tissue-paper wrappings.

In physiognomy and mannerism the company was a microcosm of the Germanic race. One saw the high cheek-bones and snub features of the East Prussian, in whose veins – deny it as indignantly as he would – runs Tartar blood; the blond, blue-eyed, athletic Rhinelander, who has only to pass through the hands of a Savile-Row tailor to become, to all outward appearance, a typical well-bred Englishman; the short, dark, vivacious Saxon, whose naturally easygoing temperament peeps through the veneer of restraint and discipline imposed by a military training that is Prussian to the core, despite the nominal
independence of the Saxon kingdom; the jovial, loud-voiced, but choleric Bavarian, whose somewhat unruly instincts, checked and tempered by the same Prussian discipline, make him one of the doughtiest fighting men in Europe.

These Teutonic warriors are taking their ease, with belts unbuckled and stiff collars loosened. On side tables are piled their red-lined cloaks, high-crowned caps and gleaming swords. Old comrades pledge one another in deep draughts of
Pilsner
or
Münchner
, beverages exhilarating but not too potent. Jests crackle to and fro across the board, and now and then an explosion of laughter follows some Rabelaisian anecdote by the genial captain of the crack
Maikäfer
Regiment, who is the best raconteur of the evening.

A lull in the conversation, and then the strains of ‘The Song of the Sword’ with its almost mystical, staccato verses, which the Saxon poet Körner penned only a few hours before he fell at the Battle of the Nations at Leipzig in 1813, steal through the room.

A murmur of astonishment runs round the table, for the singer is the English guest, yet he is singing this essentially German martial song with all the impassioned fervour of one of Körner’s own countrymen:

The song is greeted with rapturous applause, which is, perhaps, less of a tribute to the quality of the rendering than to the singer himself for entering so heartily into the spirit of the thing.

To refuse would be a churlish return for the kindly, spontaneous hospitality of his hosts, so the guest obliges to the best of his ability. And his fervour is genuine enough, for music and poetry should know no frontiers, and these German war songs are among the best ever written:

After this the singer was hailed as good comrade and brother. Polite enough before, his hosts now vied with each other in
friendly demonstration. His health was drunk with acclamation, and he was not sorry when the enthusiasm died down and he was left in peace to listen to the general conversation.

It had turned, as was but natural, on the prospects of war, for in 1913 thunderclouds were already lowering on the political horizon of Europe. Ordinarily the presence of a stranger would have enjoined reticence, but the beer had circulated merrily, the atmosphere was convivial, and Mr Brown’s vocal efforts had made him free of the fold.

That war was not only inevitable, but near at hand, was the unanimous opinion, openly expressed. There was much talk of King Edward’s
Einkreisungs-Politik
, the ‘encirclement of Germany’ legend, which had been sedulously fostered by every means of publicity at the command of the government. But to these soldiers Great Britain was only a vague and contingent enemy. They saw in France the star villain of the piece, with Russia as her close confederate. They exhibited an unbridled hatred and contempt for
die Franzosen
, whom all agreed must be taught such a lesson as would purge them, once and for all, of their bellicose fever.

They despised the Russians, too, and it was noticeable that those of the company who hailed from the eastern marches of Prussia were foremost in breathing fire and thunder against the Tsarist Empire – probably because of their own partly Slav extraction.

But despite their martial ardour, one and all were alive to the dangers of a war on two fronts. Supremely confident of their ability to crush either France or Russia single-handed, they were less positive as to the issue if both powers had to be fought simultaneously. They attached little value to the military cooperation
of their Austrian allies, and some of those present deplored the tendency of the German Foreign Office to give unquestioning support to the devious policy that Austria-Hungary was then, as always, pursuing in the Balkans – the European powder magazine that the fates had timed to explode only twelve months later.

‘Of course we shall have to fight on both fronts,’ declared an Infantry Major. ‘The only question is, Where shall we mass our main strength and deal the heaviest blows? My view is that we ought to keep strictly on the defensive in the East and concentrate on a tremendous drive into France. We must smash right through them’ – emphasising his point with a vigorous sweep of the arm – ‘hammering our way to Paris, and beyond if necessary, until all the fight is beaten out of them. We should get to Paris in a month, at latest. Then we could send divisions back to the East in time to stop a serious breakthrough, for everybody knows that Russia cannot fully mobilise in less than six weeks.’

‘All very well,’ said another officer; ‘but don’t forget that we cannot burst into France until her frontier forts are in our hands. It is not a question of merely containing them while our main army marches past. They are so placed that we cannot deploy until their guns are silenced.’

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: