by Martin Allen
During the winter of 1945 the prosecution at the International Military Tribunal (IMT) in Nuremberg considered placing Karl Haushofer on trial with the leading Nazis, but concluded that it was not possible to prosecute an academic merely for putting forward theories, even theories as provocative as Professor Haushofer’s. It was, however, seriously debated whether Haushofer should be called as a key witness for the prosecution of Hitler’s Deputy Rudolf Hess and Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, to explain his theories, which were at the core of Nazi foreign policy, and to give general evidence.
What occurred next cannot be viewed with anything but a sceptical eye. On Sunday, 10 March 1946, Professor Haushofer was discreetly visited at Hartshimmelhof by two Allied Intelligence officers. On this occasion the men were not Americans, but from British Intelligence. Several days later they wrote a brief memorandum to Ivone Kirkpatrick, a high-ranking official at the Foreign Office. They reported that Haushofer ‘knew nothing further on the subject in question’, and, curiously, concluded: ‘In response to our instructions, the problem concerning this man and the IMT has been removed.’7
Two days later, on Tuesday, 12 March, Heinz Haushofer, puzzled by his inability to contact his parents on the phone, went to Hartschimmelhof. He found the house deserted, although the lights within were burning. With increasing concern, Heinz searched the substantial house, before moving on to the grounds and the surrounding forest. An hour later, deep within the woods in a hollow beside a stream about half a mile behind the house – a spot later described by an American Intelligence officer as the ‘loneliest hillside in Bavaria’ – Heinz Haushofer found his parents. Karl Haushofer was lying in a hunched position in the hollow, and his wife Martha was hanging from a nearby tree. It was later established that Professor Haushofer’s death had been caused by cyanide poisoning.
The local police, together with the American authorities, investigated the matter in some detail, but after all the horrors of the war, and with the desperate state of Germany in the spring of 1946, resources and time were limited, and the Haushofers’ deaths were officially recorded as suicides.
There is, however, a curious fact about the German police reports on the case, and the subsequent interest taken in the case by the American authorities. Nowhere, in any statement taken at any time, did anyone reveal, record or admit that the last people to see the Haushofers alive were almost certainly two British Intelligence agents. Agents who reported on their visit to Ivone Kirkpatrick, the Foreign Office official who in 1941 had been one of the very first men to interview Rudolf Hess after his unexpected arrival on British soil. Kirkpatrick was also, incidentally, later that year to land a plum appointment as Britain’s High Commissioner to Germany.
Almost from the moment Rudolf Hess parachuted out of the night sky on 10 May 1941 to land on a remote Scottish hillside, the official British line on the arrival of Germany’s Deputy-Führer on British soil was that he was mad. Intriguingly, within twenty-four hours Adolf Hitler would make much the same claim.
The two opposing parties had very different reasons to denigrate Hess’s importance. British Intelligence may have been hiding an entirely different, and infinitely more dangerous, secret. The arrival of Hess was merely an unplanned offshoot of an operation intended to achieve a much more important end. Right up until the moment they were confronted by Germany’s Deputy-Führer standing before them in a gleaming black flying-suit, British Intelligence had actually been expecting someone else.
In Germany, Hitler’s reaction to Hess’s flight was largely motivated by fear of losing face before his own people should they discover that their Führer, whilst exhorting them to fight on in his war of conquest, had actually been secretly involved in negotiations with certain top Britons to make peace and end the war. Indeed, he had even offered to withdraw all German forces from occupied western Europe in order to attain a deal.
The extraordinary truth is that, for sixty years, a potentially devastating political secret has been covered up by subterfuge. This secret was related to British fears in 1940 and 1941 that the country might go down to crushing defeat, and to how Britain’s top political minds determined that Britain would survive. The means they used to accomplish this were ingenious and extremely subtle, but also unscrupulous. They were the acts of desperate men, faced with the options of either catastrophic defeat or national survival.
By its very nature, what was done became a secret that could never be revealed. The decision to promulgate the legend of the standalone nation – that Britain had survived through pure military endeavour and luck – meant that disclosure during the dangerous years of the Cold War would have resulted in the shattering of Britain’s international credibility, and the ruin of many political careers.
Yet it could also be said that there was another, more noble, purpose to keeping this secret for all time. The impression has always been maintained that the Nazi leaders were a bizarre range of individuals, devoid of compassion for humanity – and, in many cases, evil personified. If, however, the truth should turn out to be that some of these men had considerable political acumen, but that the inexorable spread of the Second World War resulted largely from their inability to control the situation, the distinction between pernicious men of evil intent, and politicians unable to control the flames of war they had themselves lit, becomes less clear-cut.
CHAPTER 1
An Unlikely Triumvirate
If one were looking for some lasting important artefact of the Third Reich, one should not seek a swastika-adorned fighter-plane or medal-bedecked army uniform in a military museum, for these are really the vestiges of failure, items of hardware used by the Nazis to attain their empire when the politics broke down. For a more meaningful relic of Nazism, one intent on exploring the darker side of humanity need only look as far as Mein Kampf. In its pages, more than by any other means, one can gain an insight into National Socialism. Nazism was a concept, a radical if unwholesome ideology that sprang from the disasters of the First World War, the German right’s patriotic yearnings for nationhood, and the fear of Bolshevism in the 1920s and thirties. The torchlit marches, the ostentatious neo-classical structures, the plethora of eagle-surmounted swastikas that adorned buildings, banners and uniformed breasts, were but a manifestation of thought, an ideology that powered National Socialism: the belief that Germany could rise phoenix-like from the ashes of Weimar mediocrity.
Nazism, history tells us, sprang from political theories implemented by a band of individuals who would have been regarded as social misfits in any other society, led by men such as Josef Goebbels, Heinrich Himmler, Robert Ley, Julius Streicher, Joachim von Ribbentrop and, of course, Adolf Hitler and Rudolf Hess. All were determined to create a new world where Aryan supremacy and mysticism became fact, and where humanity would be classified into the top-of-the-heap Aryans, followed by the lower orders – the Slavs, the Jews, and other sub-humans.
But what if some of these top Nazis were not so strange? If they were in fact extremely capable and competent politicians? Our present-day perception of Nazism would be very different. National Socialism would not have been any less terrible or objectionable, but the boundaries between the normal political mind and the bizarre would be less easy to determine.
Nazi rule was a tree whose roots lay initially in a defeated nation’s fear and despair, and whose branches would eventually be strong enough to support the Gestapo, the SS and the ‘final solution’. The leaders of the Nazi Party controlled the German Reich on many levels, but the political alliances, the expedient agreements and the bitter feuds were all directed towards one grand master-plan: the creation of a Greater Germany and Reich that would last a thousand years.
Behind the party leadership stood many important academics who shared a fear of Bolshevism and hatred of the Treaty of Versailles. Over many years they had developed academic theories that would shape the modern world that, they believed, had to come. They came from many disciplines – from physics and medicine, econo
mics and geography, psychiatry, anthropology and archaeology – and the Nazi Party cherry-picked their work for ideas that fitted in with their objectives.
There was, however, one elderly academic whose involvement with the Nazis actually helped formulate National Socialist policy. This man’s involvement with Adolf Hitler, through the intervention of Rudolf Hess, in 1921 would lead to his becoming the politico-foreign affairs tutor and adviser to the Führer and his Deputy.
Rudolf Hess was not a monumentally important personality in National Socialism, but it is certainly the case that had he never existed, or had he been killed during the First World War, the course of world history during the inter-war years may well have taken a very different path. His introduction of Adolf Hitler to Professor Karl Haushofer, Germany’s leading expert on geopolitics, was to have profound consequences.
Haushofer would provide Hitler with the theoretical concepts of Nazi expansionism, German ethnicity and Lebensraum, or living space, for the German people. Furthermore, in the years to come his son Albrecht would provide important assistance to Hitler and Hess, inexorably advancing the Nazis’ aims of territorial expansion within Europe, according to his father’s plans for a Greater Germany. By the late 1930s Albrecht Haushofer would become the hidden hand of Hess and his Führer in pursuing the Nazis’ foreign policy objectives.
However, Albrecht Haushofer would also unwittingly prove to be the key that would enable British Intelligence to unleash an overwhelming tide of disaster upon Hitler’s entire war strategy. This is a secret that has remained hidden since the Second World War. Indeed, Hitler himself never knew that a situation deep in the Haushofer’s past had been exploited to obliterate his hopes for victory, or that his own Deputy, Rudolf Hess, had himself set these destructive wheels in motion over twenty years before.
The story of how this occurred, of how Hitler, Hess and Haushofer, working towards ultimate German supremacy, in the end brought about their own undoing, is perhaps the strangest story of the whole war.
With the sudden end to the First World War in November 1918, many Germans, among them soldiers who had been fighting at the front without knowing what was happening at home, looked at the ruination of their country and asked themselves what had happened. How had Germany gone from a mighty imperial superpower in 1914, possessed of a superb army and the world’s second-largest navy, to be laid so low a mere four years later? The last months of the war had seen enormous political unrest in Germany, and the suspicion was born that the nation had not been defeated militarily, but that she had been undone by sly, underhand, political agitators and revolutionaries at home. Taking their lead from the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, many left-wing revolutionary factions had sprung up in Germany in 1918, intent upon changing Germany’s political system. They demanded an end to the Kaiser, the aristocracy and the ruling classes, and power to the proletariat.
Just as in Russia, where sailors of the Imperial Navy had launched the revolution that had toppled the Tsar’s regime, so did the spark of Bolshevik revolution ignite in Germany’s Imperial Fleet. In October 1918, sailors of the German Navy had mutinied at Kiel, and large numbers of deserters quickly scattered inland to seek out fellow thinkers among the disaffected workers of Germany’s industrial heartland. Here they fomented social unrest and insurrection, cutting Germany’s supply of materials and power, and crippling the country.
Unable to restore order, and fearing the loss of his life in the same ghastly manner as had befallen his cousin Tsar Nicholas II four months previously, Kaiser Wilhelm II’s nerve failed. He abdicated and fled the country within a few days, leaving a hastily propped-up Socialist government to cope with an internal situation that threatened to turn into full-scale revolution. Faced with this dilemma, and knowing that the Allied forces were growing steadily stronger, the new German government promptly declared that the war could not be sustained any longer, and sued for peace. Germany had lost the war not only militarily, but also economically and politically.
Thus, when the twenty-four-year-old fighter-pilot Rudolf Hess journeyed home by train to his parents in Bavaria in December 1918, he took with him the bitter depression of defeat and the deep feelings of betrayal shared by the millions of other men suddenly discharged from Germany’s armed forces. However, Hess was not a typical German, and his background – for a man destined to hold high political office in 1930s Germany – was most unusual. He was what was called an Ausländer, an ethnic German born overseas.
Rudolf Walter Richard Hess had been born in a luxurious villa in the Egyptian coastal resort of Ibrahimieh, a few miles to the east of Alexandria, on 26 April 1894. His background was to have a profound effect upon the man he would become. Although recognised as a reasonably bright child, he would grow to be a frustrated young man, expected to take over the reins of the family business, the successful mercantile company Hess & Co., run by his domineering father, Fritz Hess.
Rudolf Hess’s childhood with his younger brother Alfred and sister Margarete was an idyllic one. The Hess children played adventurous games in the substantial grounds of the family home. At night they would stand on the villa’s flat roof, gaze up at the Egyptian night sky, and listen enraptured as their mother explained the wonders of the cosmos, the intricacies of the solar system.
Although Hess’s parents were established and well settled in Egypt, seeming to have made a successful transition to expatriate life, they had not broken their ties with the mother country. Fritz Hess was proud of his German heritage, displaying a large portrait of the Kaiser in his office, and being most particular to ensure he took his family ‘home’ to the more temperate climate of southern Germany every summer. On these visits the Hess children re-established their German identities, wandering the countryside north-west of Nuremberg, enjoying family picnics, and establishing friendships that would last a lifetime.
This charmed life ended for the young Rudolf when he reached the age of fourteen. In September 1908, instead of returning to Egypt with his family after their summer holiday, Rudolf travelled to Bad Godesberg to attend the Evangelical School, where he was to receive his first formal education, having been educated at home since the age of six by a tutor. The young Hess showed an aptitude for mathematics and science, much to the concern of his father, who was hoping for a son who would take over the family business when the time came. In the hope of igniting the commercial spark that would turn his son into a young entrepreneur, Fritz Hess sent Rudolf to the École Supérieur de Commerce in Neuchâtel, hoping that some of the Swiss acumen for business would rub off on his son.
In 1912, after a year of high expense for the father, and comprehensive cramming by the son, the eighteen-year-old Rudolf left Switzerland to join the flourishing Hamburg trading company of Feldt Stein & Co. as an apprentice. As he took his first tentative steps as an adult in the heady atmosphere of pre-war Hamburg, Rudolf was blissfully unaware that the worst war the world had ever seen was about to erupt. Yet this was also a war that would give Hess his first great adventure, his chance to break free of the future his parents had mapped out for him as a middle-class businessman.
Far from the delights of belle époque Hamburg, in distant Sarajevo the course of European history was changed forever on 28 June 1914, when a young Serb named Gavrilo Princip shot dead the heir to the Austrian throne, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and his consort Sophie Chotek, the Duchess of Hohenburg. Princip’s were the first shots that would herald an unimaginably terrible war that would not only sweep away the flower of Europe’s young men, but change forever the political complexion of the continent.
Rudolf Hess was among the very first bands of young men to volunteer, quitting his job in the summer of 1914 to join the German infantry. Over the next four years he would see action in many of the horror-spots of the war, from the Western Front at Ypres and Verdun to the Carpathian Mountains on the Eastern Front, where he was severely wounded. However, against all the odds, he survived – a remarkable testament not only to his luck, but to his
mental strength as well. Eventually, with considerable persistence, he managed to get himself inducted into Germany’s fledgling Air Corps, where he trained and became a fighter-pilot flying Fokker triplanes in Belgium during the last weeks of the war.
Now, as he returned home at the end of the war only to find turmoil and political unrest, he commented bitterly: ‘I witnessed the horror of death in all its forms … battered for days under heavy bombardment … hungered and suffered, as indeed have all front-line soldiers. And is all this to be in vain, the suffering of the good people at home all for nothing?’1
Not only had Hess seen his once-glorious nation go down to crushing defeat, but his father’s successful business in Egypt had been ruined by the war, and was eventually taken over by the victorious Allies. It was a loss Fritz Hess never really recovered from, psychologically or financially; his son’s bitterness ran deep indeed, on both a national and a personal level.
The manner in which the First World War ended, and the deep sense of betrayal felt by the returning German soldiers, would dominate German politics for the coming twenty years. At this time were sown the seeds of bitterness that would be cultivated by the men who would rise to power in the 1930s – men just like Rudolf Hess, who believed that victory had been swindled from them by a devious gang of traitors at home: Communists, Socialists, wishy-washy liberals; and, worst of all, some of the more ultra-right wing declared, the Jews. It would become a dangerous and volatile cocktail of disillusionment and hate, just waiting to explode.
On returning to Bavaria at the end of November 1918, Hess found his country facing a peril he had only read about in newspapers – the threat of a Bolshevik revolution similar to that which had taken place in Russia a year before. A militant Bolshevik organisation called the Spartakusbund had taken over Bavaria, overthrown the legitimate Bavarian government, and set up its own Soviet Republic of Bavaria, the Räterepublik.