THE GERMAN SPY
My readers may now be asking themselves how soon I am going to write
about German spies. There are obvious reasons why it is impossible
to divulge secrets. I shall tell, therefore, as much as the military
authorities have already allowed to be divulged and nothing more, but I
shall tell most of it at first hand.
There is much confused thinking about the ethics of spying on movements
of an enemy. The very word ‘spy’ has acquired so ugly a significance
that we prefer to disguise our own spies as ‘Intelligence’ or ‘Secret
Service Officers,’ and to regard them as necessary evils; but any
Government that accepted the standards set up by certain censorious
newspapers and declined to ask Parliament for a vote for Secret Service
on the ground that it was dishonourable would be guilty of treason
against its own countrymen. To be forewarned about the intentions of
an enemy, whether internal or external, may be to save the lives and
property of many hundreds, and to allow the enemy to make all his
preparations unheeded would be criminal negligence of the worst kind.
The cost of a good system of Intelligence is like the premium paid for
insurance against fire.
Whether an individual degrades himself by engaging in espionage depends
on how and why he does it. If his motives are purely patriotic and he
performs this dangerous duty at the risk of his life, without thought
of personal gain; if in carrying out the duty he does not stoop to form
friendships in order to betray them, but comes out with clean hands,
what is there degrading in his service? But if he spies upon a nation
with which his country is not at war merely for the money he can make
and lives riotously, as nearly all such hirelings do, he should be
treated like the vermin that he is and nailed to the barn-door as a
warning to others. Nevertheless, there is something pitiful even about
such men when they have played their stake and lost and they feel the
cold hand laid upon them and all their profitless debaucheries sour
upon the palate. It is as if they ran unheeding round a corner and came
suddenly upon Death standing in the path. Then all honour to them if
they can meet him with a smile, for not all of us, feeling that cold
breath on our cheek and the grip of the bony fingers closing on us, can
be sure that we should pass through the ordeal with credit.
During the first few days of the War I remember a staff officer
remarking that we should repeat the experience of the Napoleonic Wars:
we should begin the War with the worst Intelligence Service in Europe
and end with the best. I was inclined to think that he was right about
the first part of his prediction, and I now think that he was right
about the second. But then if he had gone on to say that the Germans
started the War with the most elaborate Secret Service organisation in
Europe and ended it with the worst he would have been equally right.
I have already related how at the vital moment of mobilisation the
whole of the German organisation in the United Kingdom was broken
up; how it was possible for us to dispatch our Expeditionary Force
to France without the loss of a single man or a single horse, and
without the knowledge of the Germans. It was, of course, not long
before they attempted to make good. They had established espionage
centres at Antwerp and Brussels, they had branch offices in connection
with the German Consulate at Rotterdam. Unfortunately for them,
there was great jealousy between the navy and the army, and each had
been entrusted with a certain amount of Secret Service money, on
which they entered into a sort of civil war of competition. Anything
reported by a spy employed by the German naval authorities was at once
ridiculed by the military Intelligence, and _vice versa_. This keen
competition made them a very easy prey. On one occasion an adventurous
Englishman actually passed into Belgium to take service in one of these
Intelligence offices, and came back with useful information. They were
prone also to engage quite unsuitable people--the sort of people who
in war-time at once become what the French call _Agents doubles_; that
is to say, they attempt to serve both sides, either with the object
of obtaining double pay or of making their lives safe in the event of
detection. What these men do for a living in peace time is hard to
guess. I can imagine them running cheap gambling-hells, frequenting
the docks to pick up some dishonest profit, resorting to a little
blackmail, and performing the humbler offices for the White Slave
trafficker. In war-time you will find them swarming in every capital,
for war is their brief summer. The money they get by their complicated
villainies is spent with both hands. They live like princes and dress
like bookmakers’ touts. The Germans were so easy to manipulate that
quite early in the War some of these men came over and offered their
services to us. They felt sure that any story, however improbable,
would be swallowed. Certainly the Germans got more interesting
information from the _agents doubles_ than they ever got from their own
spies in England. Sometimes they acted upon it, and they paid quite
liberally. When you come to think of it, not many private Englishmen
were in a position to give naval or military information of importance,
and still less a foreigner who dared not ask questions.
There was in my office an armchair in which every spy, real or fancied,
sat while he was accounting for his movements. It was realised during
the first weeks of the War by the judges and the law officers, as well
as by the laity, that the ordinary criminal procedure was of no avail
against spies. If no questions could be asked of a person under arrest,
how were you to piece together the documents in his possession--marked
dictionaries, memoranda of addresses, code telegrams, and the like. The
only way and, to the innocent, the fairest way was to adopt something
like the French criminal procedure. As I have said, there was never
anything approaching what is called in America ‘the Third Degree.’ The
suspects were cautioned that they need not answer any questions, but
that what they said might be used in evidence against them, a caution
which almost invariably induced loquacity, and questions and answers
were recorded in shorthand. I suppose that on the average four persons
a day sat in that chair throughout the War. At the least, nine out of
every ten who might otherwise have been detained under suspicion for an
indefinite period were entirely cleared by the examination. It used to
be a joke among my staff that no single person, however angry he was
when he came in, left the room without thanking me profusely, though
one, and he was a Mexican, did afterwards make a claim of £10,000 for
moral and intellectual damages. One man was so grateful that he asked
leave to make a contribution to the fund of the Police Orphanage.
This I had not the face to allow, perhaps because his arrest had been
the result of a mistake, and I felt that, if money had to pass, it
should be going the other way.
[Illustration: ANTON KUPPFERLE. ROBERT ROSENTHAL. CARL HANS LODY.
COURTENAY DE RYSBACH.]
I made a discovery about that low armchair. For some time I had noticed
that whenever a particularly disconcerting question was put the suspect
instinctively raised himself by the arms to reply to it. My assistant,
in peace time an eminent K.C., suggested one day that I should sit in
it and be interrogated by him. I felt at once an irresistible impulse
to raise my face to the level of his. The fact is that if you want to
get the truth out of a witness the worst way is to put him in a box
above the level of the cross-examining counsel; if our law courts were
intelligently constructed the cross-examiner should take his stand in
a kind of lift and be suddenly elevated to the proper position just
before his cross-examination begins. Primitive races have found this
out, for their chiefs stand erect while their inferiors squat on the
ground when they are being questioned.
During the first few days of the War I detained a curious person
who arrived in the country on an American passport, and who claimed
to be a major in the Mexican army. He was a typical international
spy--mysterious, wheedling, and apprehensive. He pretended to be
eager to enter our service. I told him that we would make use of his
services--as a prisoner of war in Brixton Prison. It was not until
early in 1916 that the capture of von Papen’s cheque-books disclosed
his real activities. He had been engaged in the United States in
sabotage, and probably he had come to this country for the same
purpose, but he took alarm, imagining that his every movement was
being watched, and he came to us with offers of service to save his
own skin. When we found his name among the cheques I sent for him
from prison to ask him to explain. He then made a statement about his
activities in America, which was considered so important that on 18th
March 1916 he was sent over to the United States to give evidence
against two of the German Consuls, one of whom was Krupps’ agent, for
attempted outrage and breach of neutrality. The American Government was
quite ready to send us back our prisoner at the end of the case, but I
assured them that we were altruistic and had no desire to deprive them
of so interesting a personality. Afterwards he published in America his
own version of his adventures.
The first serious spy to be arrested was Lody. Carl Lody was a good
example of the patriotic spy. He had been one of those Germans who had
lived long enough in the United States to acquire what he believed to
be fluent English with an American accent. He had held a commission
in the German navy, and was a Reserve officer. He then entered the
employment of the Hamburg-America Steamship Line as a guide for
tourists. In that capacity he had travelled all over England, and had
even attempted, though unsuccessfully, to obtain employment under
Messrs. Thomas Cook & Son. A few days before 4th August 1914 Lody
returned to Berlin from Norway, and got into touch with the German
Intelligence. It happened that there was staying in Berlin at that time
an American named Charles A. Inglis, who had applied to the American
Embassy for a _visa_ to his passport, enabling him to continue his
travels in Europe. His passport was passed by the Embassy to the
German Foreign Office for the _visa_, but there it was ‘mislaid’ and
the Foreign Office promised an exhaustive search. This passport was
used by Lody. Mr. Inglis’s photograph was removed from it and Lody’s
substituted. Mr. Inglis obtained a new American passport from his
Embassy.
As Mr. Charles Inglis, Lody presented himself at the North British
Station Hotel in Edinburgh, and from Edinburgh he sent a telegram to
one Adolf Burchard, in Stockholm. Telegrams had to pass the Censor,
and there were matters in Inglis’s telegram that called for close
scrutiny. Meanwhile, Lody took private lodgings, realising, no doubt,
that hotels are not very safe places for spies. He hired a bicycle, and
spent a fortnight in exploring the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, looking
into Rosyth Harbour, and asking too many questions for the ordinary
sightseer. From Edinburgh he came to London, and put up at a hotel in
Bloomsbury. Here he interested himself in our anti-aircraft defences.
He was back in Edinburgh two days later, and on 26th September he went
to Liverpool, where ocean liners were being fitted out as auxiliary
cruisers. From Liverpool he went to Holyhead and thence to Ireland, and
here his nerve was a little shaken by the close questioning that he
underwent. From the Gresham Hotel in Dublin, where other Americans were
staying, he wrote to his Swedish correspondent that he was becoming
nervous. He wrote all his letters both in English and German in
ordinary ink, without any disguise. His information would have been of
comparatively little value even if it had reached the Germans, which it
did not. The only report that was allowed to go through was the famous
story of the Russian troops passing through England.
From Dublin Lody travelled to Killarney, no doubt on his way to
Queenstown, but on 2nd October he was detained by the Royal Irish
Constabulary to await the arrival of the detectives from Scotland
Yard. They found among his luggage the forged passport, about £175
in English notes and gold, a note-book with particulars of the naval
fight in the North Sea of a few weeks earlier, addresses in Berlin,
Stockholm, Bergen, and Hamburg, and copies of the four letters that
he had written to Stockholm. He was tried by court-martial at the
Guildhall, Westminster, on 30th and 31st October. His counsel made no
defence except that Lody was a man who, having done his duty, left the
consequences in the hands of the court. His grandfather had a military
reputation; he had held a fortress against Napoleon, and the grandson
wished to stand before his judges in that spirit. He was not ashamed
of anything that he had done, he would not cringe for mercy, he would
accept the decision of righteous men. He was found guilty and sentenced
to death, and was executed in the Tower five days later. A letter that
he wrote to his relations in Stuttgart before his execution was as
follows:
‘MY DEAR ONES,--I have trusted in God and He has decided. My hour has
come, and I must start on the journey through the Dark Valley like so
many of my comrades in this terrible War of Nations. May my life be
offered as a humble offering on the altar of the Fatherland.
‘A hero’s death on the battlefield is certainly finer, but such is
not to be my lot, and I die here in the Enemy’s country silent and
unknown, but the consciousness that I die in the service of the
Fatherland makes death easy.
‘The Supreme Court-Martial of London has sentenced me to death for
Military Conspiracy. To-morrow I shall be shot here in the Tower.
I have had just Judges, and I shall die as an Officer, not as a
spy.--Farewell. God bless you,
HANS.’
He wrote a letter also to the officer commanding at Wellington Barracks:
‘LONDON, _November 5th, 1914_.
‘SIR,--I feel it my duty as a German Officer to express my sincere
thanks and appreciation towards the staff of Officers and men who
were in charge of my person during my confinement.
‘Their kind and considered treatment has called my highest esteem and
admiration as regards good-fellowship even towards the Enemy, and if
I may be permitted I would thank you for make this known to them.--I
am, sir, with profound respect,
CARL HANS LODY, _Senior Lieutenant Imperial,
German Naval Res. 11. D_.’
He left a ring to be forwarded to a lady in America, and this was done.
It was believed that the German Government had insured his life for
£3000 in favour of his relations, and that when, after some months,
his death became known in Germany, the people of his native village
planted an oak to be known evermore by his name. He met his death
unflinchingly, and on the morning of his execution it is related that
he said to the Assistant Provost Marshal, ‘I suppose you will not shake
hands with a spy?’ and that the officer replied, ‘No, but I will shake
hands with a brave man.’ Lody made a favourable impression on all who
came into contact with him. In the quiet heroism with which he faced
his trial and his death there was no suspicion of histrionic effect.
He never flinched, he never cringed, but he died as one would wish all
Englishmen to die--quietly and undramatically, supported in his courage
by the proud consciousness of having done his duty.
In those early days there was some difference of opinion as to whether
it was sound policy to execute spies and to begin with a patriotic
spy like Lody. We came to wish later on that a distinction could have
been made between the patriotic spy and the hireling who pestered us
through the ensuing years, but on the whole I think that the military
authorities were right. It is an international tradition that spies in
time of war must die, and if we had departed from the tradition the
Germans would not. While the risk of death may appeal to the courageous
national, it was certainly a deterrent to the scum of neutral spies who
were ready to offer their services to either belligerent.
On 14th February 1915 there arrived in Liverpool another spy not less
courageous and patriotic than Lody, but grotesque in his inefficiency,
and forbidding in his personal appearance. This was Anton Kuppferle,
who was believed to have been a non-commissioned officer in the German
army. How von Papen, who had financed him, could have sent a man so
obviously German, so ignorant of the English language and the American
accent, into an enemy country is incomprehensible. He pretended to be a
commercial traveller in woollen goods, of Dutch extraction, and there
was some slight colour for this in the fact that he had once traded as
a woollen merchant in Brooklyn under the name of Kuppferle & Co. On the
voyage over he was profuse in his conversations with strangers, to whom
he represented himself as an American citizen with business in England.
From Liverpool he wrote a letter to a certain address in Holland, which
was probably the first letter that contained writing in invisible ink.
In this he conveyed information about the war vessels he had seen when
crossing the Atlantic. From Liverpool he went to Dublin, and from
Dublin to London, where he was arrested with all his belongings and
brought to New Scotland Yard. In his luggage was found letter paper
corresponding with that which contained the invisible writing, together
with the materials for communications in secret ink.
He proved to be a typical German non-commissioned officer, stiff,
abrupt, and uncouth. He made little attempt to explain his movements
and fell back upon monosyllables. By this time the machinery for
substituting civil trials for the military courts-martial was complete,
and when the case was ready he was arraigned at the Old Bailey before
the Lord Chief Justice of England and two other Judges, with all the
trappings that belong to that historic court, even to the herbs that
are scattered about the court in the ancient belief that they averted
the infection of gaol fever, though modern science knows that there
is now no gaol fever to avert, and that herbs would not avert it if
there were. Sir John Simon, the Attorney-General, prosecuted, and Sir
Ernest Wild defended. The evidence produced on the first day left
little doubt of the result of the trial, and the Court rose with the
practical certainty that it would meet again the following morning. But
it never met. During the night in Brixton Prison the chief warder heard
a muffled rapping from Kuppferle’s cell. He dressed himself hastily
and came out into the passage, where he was met by the night warder,
who announced that he could not see Kuppferle in his cell. With the
aid of the master key the door was thrown open, and there they found
the man hanging dead from the cell ventilator. He had tied his silk
handkerchief tightly round his neck and, taking his stand on a heavy
book, had kicked it away from under him. Every effort was made to
restore life by artificial respiration, but in vain. On his cell slate
was found the following message:
‘To Whom it may Concern! My name is Kuppferle. _Née_ to (born in)
Sollingen, Rastatt I.B. (Baden). I am a soldier with rank I do not
desire to mention. In regard to my behalf lately I can say that I
have had a fair trial of the U. Kingdom, but I am unable to stand the
strain any longer and take the law in my own hands. I fought many a
battles, and death is only a saviour for me.
‘I would have preferred the death to be shot, but do not wish to
ascend the scaffold as (a Masonic sign). I hope the Allmighty
architect of this Universe will lead me into the unknown land in the
East. I am not dying as a spy but as a soldier; my fate I stood as a
man, but cannot be a liar and perjur myself. Kindly I wish permit to
ask to notify my uncle, Ambros Broll, Sollingen, Rastatt, Germany,
and all my estates shall go to him.
‘What I done I have done for my country. I shall express my thanks,
and may the Lord bless you all.--Yours,
ANTON KUPPFERLE.’
On the back of the slate was written:
‘My age is thirty-one, and I am born June 11th, 1883.’
While in Brixton Prison he wrote a letter to another spy awaiting trial
which was confiscated by the authorities:
‘DEAR FRIEND,--After my study to-day I cannot refrain from writing
a few words again. Here is the true appearance of that deceitful
friendship. (He referred to our declaration that Belgian paper money
was worthless.) The English refuse credit to her so-called best
friend; so I suppose the fact that Belgium is now in our hands has
nothing to do with the state of things.
‘I believe Ypres and neighbourhood have now fallen. If I could only
see the day when the whole British trickery is exposed; England’s
shame must be made known, otherwise there can be no justice. Oh, if I
could only be at the Front again for half an hour!
‘That is my sole remaining wish. I shall not admit or say I am a
soldier, or that I know anything about Military matters.
‘Our Cavalry has been heard of in Russia for the first time. Of
course, the Cavalry has been used by Infantry Service. Reports have
been made by cycle and telephone, and the latter is of greater
importance. The gas must have a great effect and be distasteful to
the English. In any case, it is a stupefying death and makes them
first vomit, like sea-sickness. It is an easy death, and if the
war lasts for some time many more will be killed by it.’
[Illustration: THE PRISON SLATE ON WHICH ANTON KUPPFERLE WROTE HIS LAST
MESSAGE.]
This letter shows Kuppferle in a less amiable light. He had the true
Prussian mentality. It was believed that in the early days of the War
he had fought on the Western Front: he bore on his face the marks of
a blow which may have been caused by the butt end of a rifle. He was
buried in Streatham Park Cemetery.