The silence in the room is broken by ‘C’, who looks up from the papers over which he has been poring for the past hour.
‘There’s no doubt about it,’ he exclaims:
This stuff from ‘X’ is absolutely genuine. I have checked it with every scrap of information we have got. The details we knew to be correct are repeated both in his map and in the report, while practically every item we were doubtful about is either omitted or given in a different version. I’ll stake my reputation that ‘X’ has delivered the goods this time. If so, Borkum is not half such a tough nut as we’ve always been led to believe.
His subordinate walked over to the chief’s desk and looked at the papers.
That’s just what I told them across the road two years ago, you remember, sir? When I was at Emden I could find no trace of any really heavy stuff having been shipped to Borkum, and Moller, who used to send us in good reports from Delfzyl, always swore the 28-cm howitzers were the biggest guns on the island. ‘X’ repeats this, and also mentions the 10.5-cm mobile guns for which we suspected those new roads were being made.
He picked up the map that had so intrigued his chief. Drawn by an unpractised hand, it nevertheless showed very clearly all the salient features of Borkum, that small island off the Friesland coast, which, at the time of which we are writing, was regarded, rightly or wrongly, as one of the strategical key positions of the North Sea. That the seizure of this island by a coup de main, immediately after the outbreak of hostilities, was an essential part of Lord Fisher’s plans for dealing with the German menace, is now common knowledge. Germany herself, foreseeing this rather obvious opening gambit, had begun to fortify Borkum in 1909.
The sketch map prepared by ‘X’ showed the site of each battery, with the number and calibre of its guns; the location of all magazines, bomb-proof shelters, and observation posts; the positions prepared amidst the sand dunes for the mobile 4.1-inch high-velocity guns, which were to supplement the fixed defences, and the narrow-gauge railway and paved roads that had been made for the transport of troops and material. Other details indicated were the main and emergency wireless stations, the secret telegraph and telephone cables leading from garrison headquarters to the mainland – as distinct from the ocean cable lines that traverse Borkum – and, indeed, every feature of the entire defensive system. Accompanying the map was a long report on the arrangements made by the German military authorities for reinforcing the garrison of the island at short notice by despatching troops and war material from Emden.
While this was considered by the ID people the best piece of work that had been done by ‘X’ during the first eight months of his intelligence activities in Germany, he had been highly commended on previous occasions for the accuracy and completeness of his reports. These had dealt with, inter alia, the progress of naval construction at the principal German shipbuilding yards, new defences on the North Sea and Baltic coasts, and recent developments in guns and torpedoes. Only rarely did ‘X’ guarantee the absolute accuracy of his information, yet in the main it was subsequently verified and passed as reliable by admiralty experts. Thus, for eight months our authorities had been kept well in touch with all important naval developments in Germany, and there seemed every prospect of still better results when ‘X’ had warmed to his work. Also, there were other agents from whom useful reports had been received.
No longer, therefore, were we groping in a dense fog. Much remained hidden from our ken, it is true; but the screen that surrounded the German dockyards and arsenals had been pierced in several places, and the glimpses thus vouchsafed enabled us to form a pretty clear impression of the whole scene.
To the post-war generation ‘the German naval menace’ is a phrase of little meaning, recalling at most a page of semi-ancient history. Twenty years ago, however, it possessed a very real and sinister significance. For more than a decade, Germany had been enlarging her fleet, at first by gradual stages, but latterly at ever-quickening tempo. An immense war armada was being created, for an ultimate purpose of which there was never any serious doubt. The building of this fleet could only be construed as an overt challenge to the maritime supremacy of Great Britain, and for at least five years preceding the war it was accepted as such by all our national leaders, save for a purblind minority who chose to ignore the most positive and conclusive testimony. As far back as 1900, when Germany’s first ambitious naval programme was launched on the crest of a wave of Anglophobe propaganda, Admiral von Tirpitz made candid avowal of its aim. In the preamble to his bill he enunciated the doctrine that Germany needed a fleet of such dimensions as would command the respect of ‘the mightiest naval power’, the more so in that this power, having vital interests to protect overseas, would at no time be in a position to concentrate its strength in European waters. Therefore – and the implication was as clear as words could make it – the projected German battle fleet would have more than a sporting chance of defeating the strongest British force ever likely to be encountered in the North Sea.
Passing over the intervening years, each of which brought fresh evidence of Germany’s fixed resolve to try conclusions with us at her own appointed time, we come to the position that existed in 1910. By that time, Germany had recovered from the temporary setback her naval policy had met with by reason of Britain’s adoption of the dreadnought type of battleship. To Germany, indeed, the advent of the all-big-gun ship was a stroke of great good fortune. By reducing all previous battleships to obsolescence it wiped out Britain’s crushing preponderance in this type, and enabled Germany to start level with us in the new building race. As an earnest of her determination she rebuilt the Kiel Canal at stupendous cost to make it navigable for her new mastodons.
Before the dreadnought era, no particular secrecy was observed by any of the powers in regard to their naval preparations. Comparatively full details of new ships were released well in advance of their completion, and not seldom before their keel plates had been laid. Germany was not less communicative than her neighbours, as a glance at the naval textbooks of that period will reveal. But with the construction of the Dreadnought all this was changed. Anxious to keep the secrets of his ‘wonder ship’, Lord Fisher imposed a ban on the publication of technical naval data that had heretofore been freely imparted to the press. Thus the ‘hush hush’ policy was first introduced by Great Britain, and not, as is commonly believed, by Germany.
But Germany, as was her unquestioned right, promptly retaliated by imposing a censorship that was soon proved to be much stricter and more watertight than our own. British journals, unaccustomed to, and possibly resentful of, any suggestion of official control over news, continued to print a great deal of information about new warships and other naval developments occurring in this country. The German authorities, wielding more arbitrary powers, were able virtually to muzzle their own press on this particular subject. Thus the ‘hush’ policy recoiled on the heads of its authors, for while it failed in its purpose of denying to the Germans important information about the British Navy, it enabled them to conceal their own preparations behind a veil of secrecy, which, as we have seen, defied penetration for a number of years.
And it was precisely during this period that German naval technique was achieving its most formidable results. Revolutionary changes were taking place in the design and construction of German fighting craft; a thoroughly efficient and reliable type of submarine had been evolved after years of painstaking research and experiment; new methods of inter-fleet signalling, both wireless and visual – destined to demonstrate their amazing efficiency at the Battle of Jutland – were being introduced; new guns, new armour-piercing projectiles, new torpedoes, new mines and new explosives were in process of trial or adoption. Between 1906 and 1910 the combatant power of the German fleet may be said to have doubled, less by the increment in ship tonnage than by the improvements made in individual ships and their equipment.
Yet throughout this critical period we were receiving only the scantiest naval intelligence from G
ermany, and much of this was contradictory. Although we knew that a deadly weapon was being forged for eventual use against ourselves, ignorance of the characteristics and power of that weapon handicapped our efforts to devise a sure means of defence against its assault. To cite a case in point: had we obtained in advance full particulars of the Germany battlecruisers, it is extremely improbable that we should have built such ‘replies’ as the Indefatigables or the Lions. Again, had we known the extraordinary potency of the new German shells, torpedoes, and mines, we should perhaps have devoted much more attention to the armour and underwater protection of our capital ships. The word ‘perhaps’ is used advisedly, for, as will in due course appear, our naval authorities were, in fact, apprised of many of these Germany innovations in ample time for counter-measures to be taken before the outbreak of war. Why such measures were not taken has never been satisfactorily explained.
It is not too much to say that the reports furnished to the intelligence department by ‘X’ gave our authorities their first insight into the internal mechanism of the German naval machine. Previously they could see the wood without being able to distinguish the trees. Yet in such a case detailed knowledge is of paramount importance. It was not enough for our purpose to know that Germany had laid down a new battleship of such-and-such a tonnage. To build a ship that should effectually surpass the German vessel in all-round fighting power it was necessary for us to learn her speed, radius of action and armament, the thickness and distribution of her armour plating, the method and extent of her underwater protection, and a number of other details.
Germany, however, was not sufficiently obliging to proffer such information, and thanks to her admirable system of censorship, we were left in ignorance of many essential features of new ships, not only while they were under construction, but long after they had been commissioned. It was to remedy this most unsatisfactory and, indeed, highly dangerous state of affairs that our intelligence service had to extend its activities, one branch of which was represented by ‘X’. Who, then, was this mysterious individual, whose reports, almost from the beginning, threw a flood of light on matters of vital moment that had hitherto been wrapped in the mists of obscurity?
For obvious reasons it would be improper, even after the passage of so many years, to disclose the identity of any member of the pre-war intelligence service. Let us therefore introduce ‘X’ not as an individual, but as a type, even though in writing of his work we have in mind a certain person. How he came to join the ranks of the service would make an intriguing story in itself, but once more, alas, the impulse to be indiscreet must be sternly repressed. Suffice it that, although a mere civilian, he had exceptional qualifications for the task he was invited to undertake.
In every country, no doubt, and in England beyond question, there exists a certain number of people who have no professional connection with naval or military affairs, but who are, nevertheless, entitled to be considered experts on such matters. We could name today at least half a dozen English civilians who have at their fingertips the most intimate knowledge of the world’s navies. In some cases this knowledge is largely, if not wholly, theoretical; in others, it is fortified by practical experience obtained through personal contact with British and foreign warships and naval personnel.
Those men would be the first to ridicule the supposition that they could understudy the professional sailor as far as the practical side of his calling is concerned. They would even disclaim any qualification to pose as authorities on naval tactics – as distinct from strategy. They are simply students who have specialised in the study of the material elements of naval power, but of this particular subject their knowledge is extensive and even profound.
Let us give a few examples to illustrate the point. The prompt identification of warships at sea, whether British or foreign, is a science in itself, and one that assumes vital importance in wartime. We are well within the facts in stating that the most skilful exponents of this science are civilians. The late Fred T. Jane, founder of the widely known Fighting Ships annual that bears his name, could, and repeatedly did, astound the most experienced naval officers by his uncanny familiarity with the minutest details of every vessel of war that floated during his lifetime. To such a degree had he cultivated this faculty that, upon being shown at sea a squadron of ships of uniform design, he could instantly name each unit, though even to the trained eye, they seemed as alike as peas. One of Jane’s diversions was the drawing up of questionnaires on the most abstruse technical minutiae of warships, guns, armour protection, and so forth, which he submitted to his naval friends for elucidation. As a rule the correct answers averaged 5 per cent, but Jane himself, confronted by a set of similar questions, was rarely at a loss for an accurate and immediate reply to every one.
Jane was probably unique but, before and since his time, there have been civilian students of naval technique whose mastery of their subject almost rivalled his own. During the Great War there was witnessed the apparent anomaly of civilians teaching naval officers how to recognise and identify enemy ships. In pre-war days the most comprehensive and detailed knowledge of the German Navy was that acquired by lay observers. Such, at least, was the testimony of intelligence officers of that period.
Now ‘X’ had been from boyhood a diligent student of naval affairs. Long before he went out into the world he knew almost by heart the ship tables and data published in Brassey’s Naval Annual, Jane’s Fighting Ships and other textbooks. His nearest conception of heaven was a visit to one of the royal dockyards, and on these all too rare occasions he invariably astonished and disconcerted the official guides – Metropolitan policemen as a rule – by shyly but firmly correcting the misinformation they dispensed to visitors.
As a small boy he wrote an essay on the Japanese naval victory at the Yalu, which only escaped getting into print by an editor’s chance discovery of the author’s tender age. In his fourteenth year his modest library was enriched by a birthday gift of H. W. Wilson’s Ironclads in Action, by far the most informative work on modern naval warfare, which had appeared up to that time. Followed the Wanderjahre, which included prolonged sojourns in the United States and Canada and visits to several continental lands, including Germany, in which country he acquired the rudiments of what he considered to be one of the noblest and most expressive of modern tongues.
Still the victim of a roving disposition, his mid-twenties found him again in northern Europe, where he was destined to live through several hectic years. As at this time German sea power was on the flood tide of development, it was inevitable that ‘X’ should become deeply interested in the process. His specialised knowledge of warships and their equipment enabled him to appreciate the significance of much that he saw on his first casual visits to Kiel and the waterfronts of the Elbe and Weser. Moreover, since the nature of his business – which at this time had nothing to do with intelligence work – necessitated a careful reading of German periodical literature, he speedily became aware of the existence and extraordinary ramifications of Admiral von Tirpitz’s propaganda system, which was being so effectively employed to stimulate public interest in the national navy. There is not the remotest doubt that this intensive propaganda was mainly responsible for the startling growth of anti-British sentiment among the Germany people.
A steady stream of literature poured from the Nachrichten-Büro of the Berlin Navy Office, in which Great Britain was always portrayed as an implacable enemy who would stick at nothing to frustrate Germany’s hopes of commercial and colonial expansion. The whole nation was being indoctrinated with the belief that perfidious Albion was privily preparing for an unprovoked attack on the power that had already become her most dreaded trade competitor, and that only by the creation of a powerful fleet could this peril be averted.
When ‘X’ first settled in Germany in 1907 he was strongly biased in favour of the country and its people, from whom he had received many kindnesses on previous visits. He had also made German friends in the United States, whil
e Carlyle’s ‘Frederick the Great’ had given him a very sincere admiration for the qualities that had raised Prussia from political insignificance to a commanding position in the world. But it soon became clear to him that Germany, far from being animated by friendship for Britain, entertained very different sentiments and designs.
Few intelligent Englishmen who lived in Germany during the seven or eight years that preceded the war felt any doubt as to what was impending. On every hand there was abundant evidence of a bellicose spirit, coupled with more or less open preparation for war by sea and land. Yet in Britain itself a great number of people, including many in high positions, were unable or unwilling to realise the danger, and dismissed as alarmist fiction the plainest evidence of German hostility.
Having observed all these disquieting symptoms of political animus and the concrete proofs of martial preparation, ‘X’ conceived it his duty to bring them to the notice of the most influential people he could reach at home. In due course his manifest grasp of German naval affairs attracted attention in certain quarters, and eventually, though much against his own desire, he found himself a new but full-fledged member of the British secret service.
The succeeding chapters, which deal with the adventures and vicissitudes of ‘X’ and his co-workers in central Europe, will, it is hoped, serve to dispel many of the illusions in regard to this work, which have been created by sensational but over-imaginative writers who have no personal knowledge of their subject. We may claim, indeed, that these pages disclose for the first time the truth about the naval branch of the secret service, before and during the war. And it will be found, we think, that the wildest flights of fiction are less strange and less thrilling than the truth.
CHAPTER 2
Strange Intelligence: Memoirs of Naval Secret Service Page 2