The Spy Net

by Henry Landau

  By means of the high-voltage electric wire at the Belgian– Dutch frontier, and by the efficient surveillance which I have already described, spies were either caught at the border or were cut off from their base in Holland.

  In the interior, by making compulsory the carrying of identity cards and the procuring of passes even for short journeys, the Secret Police not only hindered the transmission of reports, but acquired an effective means of controlling the inhabitants. Random search of houses, sudden raids at railway stations, at cafes, and on the tram-cars, and often the blocking off of entire streets, frequently left a spy in their net. It was not even necessary to seize reports. Often a false identity card or the lack of a travelling pass started an investigation which enmeshed the spy.

  A strict watch was kept at all military centres, and anyone acting at all suspiciously was immediately arrested; above all, houses which could possibly harbour train-watchers were kept under close observation.

  But the Secret Police were clever enough to recognise that these measures alone would not suffice. The inhabitants soon learned to recognise even those agents who had been recruited from Germans who had lived for years in Belgium and France before the war, and who often passed for Belgians or Frenchmen. To overcome this disadvantage, and to avail themselves of a source of information which has been used since time immemorial, the Germans resorted to the use of stool-pigeons. It was the employment of these traitors, recruited from the dregs of the French and Belgian population, which accounted for at least 90 per cent of the arrests made. However small it was, every police post had its five or six informers who spied on their neighbours and collected that idle gossip, not harmfully meant, which often spelled death for the victim. Arrests were, of course, always made by the Secret Police, and the identity of these traitors was concealed as much as possible.

  These stool-pigeons were successful in Belgium, but it was in Holland that they reaped their richest harvest. Here the Allied secret services, cut off from the interior and continually prodded by headquarters in England or France, were often tricked by these traitors who came to them with every possible proof that they had means of bringing information out of Belgium. This proof often was the very report the Germans had seized on some frontier courier, and which the stool-pigeon now used in order to get himself enrolled as a substitute courier. The tragic results can well be imagined.

  Once the Secret Police had been given sufficient information to effect the arrest of a spy, they could carry on for themselves. They were past masters in the art of delayed arrest, that is, watching a suspect until all his contacts had been discovered. Not satisfied with arresting the spy, his house was also occupied, and anyone having the misfortune to call had to prove his innocence before he was released. If these measures failed to enmesh the entire organisation, third-degree methods were used on the prisoners: drugs, endless interrogation without sleep, and finally physical violence. Stool-pigeons were also frequently employed in the prisons. The unfortunate prisoner, worn out by mishandling, often fell an easy prey to these individuals disguised as fellow prisoners, priests, or nuns.

  Since prison stool-pigeons were so frequently used by the Germans, it will be of interest to hear the story of one of them. Practically all were of French and Belgian nationality, but I cannot resist singling out the German, Hans G., for he was the most notorious one of them all.

  One morning, towards the end of 1916, Lieutenant Bergan, in charge of the police post in Brussels, handed his assistant, Pinkhoff, an informer’s report to investigate. Pinkhoff was not especially interested. He knew all these reports had to be followed up, but he would have preferred being put in charge of a more important case. Daulne, the Belgian chief of police at Auderghem, was accused of assisting refugees to escape into Holland. Probably some ex-convict trying to get even with the Belgian Police, is what passed through Pinkhoff’s mind; he handed the investigation on to one of his minor agents.

  Events, however, quickly took a surprising turn. The agent rushed back to Pinkhoff with the exciting information that not only was the report accurate, but that Daulne had in hiding in his house an escaped prisoner-of-war, a Russian officer, Count Jean Potoki. Pinkhoff immediately took charge, the house was put under observation, and Daulne and the Count were eventually arrested.

  At the interrogation which ensued, Count Potoki, to Daulne’s utter amazement, declared that he was Hans G., a deserter from the German Army, and that he had posed as a Russian to arouse Daulne’s sympathy, and to secure a hiding place.

  But to Pinkhoff, Count Potoki, a Russian officer of high rank, was of much greater interest than G, the deserter; and so, it was as the Count that the prisoner was charged, and it was still as the Count that he was convicted, and imprisoned in the Prison de St-Gilles in Brussels. Proof was soon forthcoming, however, that G was all that he had claimed to be – a German deserter, and the son of the station master at a small town close to Berlin. Pinkhoff, when called to account for the mistake, had a ready answer: ‘You don’t think I really thought he was a Russian, do you? Don’t you see, he took Daulne in? He is going to be one of our stool-pigeons.’ G demanded nothing better; he was once again in order with the German military authorities; and, above all, he had achieved his original objective: he had escaped service in the firing line.

  Those Allied agents who were imprisoned in St-Gilles during the 1916–18 period will recognise the man if not the name: small, dark, thick-set, with high cheek-bones, aquiline nose, small moustache, and an aristocratic bearing. Several years spent as a waiter in Paris had given G a perfect command of the French language. In addition, therefore, to the role of Count Potoki, he often passed himself off as a Frenchman.

  Sometimes he was introduced into a cell as a priest. Overflowing with sympathy, he eagerly listened to the confidences that were made him, and was always quick to intimate that he was willing to carry word, either by mouth or letter, to anyone who needed warning. Another variation was that of fellow prisoner. On these occasions, his passage to the cell would always be accompanied by the sound of blows, shrieks of pain, and by shouts of ‘dirty spy’ and other German imprecations. The cell door would open, and he would be thrown in a heap at the feet of his victim.

  Some of the prisoners were taken in by him; others, acquainted with Secret Police methods, met his advances with insults, or simply refused to speak to him. His victims were many. So successful was he that there were times when he was even lent to the Secret Police in Antwerp. He was well paid. When he was instrumental in securing the arrest of a whole spy organisation, his blood money often ran as high as a thousand marks. Most of the credit, however, for G’s work went to Pinkhoff. He was awarded the Iron Cross, and was eventually promoted to chief of the Secret Police in Bucharest.

  It was not only stool-pigeons of the types I have already mentioned, who succeeded in tricking the Allied agents and secret services. There were many members of the Secret Police who, like Pinkhoff, could speak French fluently, and they too were often successful in passing themselves off as Frenchmen or Belgians. B was a typical representative of this class.

  An Alsatian by birth, B had lived for many years in Paris. He spoke not only French but even the argot fluently. It is not surprising, then, to find him as M. 25 already enrolled before the war in the German secret service. It was he who, in 1913, stole from one of the forts of Verdun a new type of shell of secret construction which had just been introduced into the French Army. It was a daring coup. While an accomplice attracted the attention of the sentinel at the ammunition magazine, B made his entry and got away with the prize. At the commencement of the war, he was again sent on a mission to France, but, compromised in connection with it, he was transferred to Brussels in 1915, and was there attached to Police Section A under the direction of Lieutenant Schmitz. Working alternately under the assumed names of Paul Forster and Paul Lefèvre, he soon proved himself one of the best of the Secret Police in his section. Posing as a Belgian who had extensive connections in Holland, he g
ained the confidence of the Mayor of one of the large towns in occupied France, and eventually received a mandate from him to make purchases in Holland for the municipality. Armed with an official letter from the Mayor, to which the seal of the municipality had been attached, and facilitated by a visa granted by the Germans, supposedly at the request of the Mayor, B, alias Paul Lefèvre, set out for Holland. On arrival there his papers were an open sesame to several of the Allied secret services. Of the arrests he was responsible for, I shall tell in a later chapter.

  This, then, is a brief outline of the German counter-espionage organisation in the occupied territories, as well as a general description of their methods and of a few of the characteristic types employed by them. Since it is outside the scope of this book, I have made no reference to the German secret service branch in Antwerp, which they used both as a spy school and as a base for the recruiting of many of the agents whom they sent into the Allied countries.

  Between the two German counter-espionage services, a network was spread over the whole of the occupied territories – each village had its police post. In the aggregate there were several thousand secret agents attached to their payroll. If one adds to this number, the sentries spread along the Belgian–Dutch frontier, one readily realises the size of the German counter-espionage machine. It had to be large to watch and control several million inhabitants.

  The German Secret Police were often efficient in making arrests; at other times, they blundered hopelessly. They were handicapped by the competition, and consequent lack of cooperation, between the various police posts. Each, in its endeavour to win credit for arrests, was inclined to keep clues to itself. This happened even among the three Secret Police sections in Brussels. Then, they were often tricked by double agents who, working for both sides at the same time, betrayed the one to the other. Their strength, the stool-pigeon recruited from among the inhabitants, was on occasions their weakness; information purchased at a price could not always be relied on.

  In regard to the Secret Police methods, the types of agents they employed, and their treatment of prisoners, I offer no opinion. I have merely stated the facts. The reader can judge for himself. The Belgian and German points of view can never be reconciled, and I am not going to attempt the impossible.

  The Germans point out that the Allied spies had enmeshed the German Army in the rear. Stringent action had, therefore, to be taken; and in war, any means are justifiable where spies are concerned. They further add that they had a problem to face, which none of the Allies had: they were in a hostile country, where each of the inhabitants was a potential spy; it would have been impossible for them to have exercised any form of spy control if their methods had not been harsh. The Belgians reply that the Germans had no right to invade a country which had committed no act of war, and whose only offence was that it happened to lie between Germany and France. Furthermore, they claim that on their own soil they had a perfect right to serve their country.

  The German tribunals on the whole were fair, if one takes into consideration that they were military courts operating in lime of war. During the last two years of the war, I know of no case where an innocent person was shot as a spy. Theoretically, anyone caught communicating with the enemy could have been shot; actually, many of the spies who were caught were given prison sentences. It is true that many were shot who did far less harm than some of those who received prison terms. But the Germans did not always know the whole truth; they could only judge the evidence in their possession, and this as we have already seen was often only a fraction of what they might have gathered if they could have looked behind the scenes. Those who suffered the unfairest treatment were the many thousands of inhabitants who were arrested on the flimsiest suspicion, and then were often kept weeks, even months, in prison until they or their friends could prove their innocence.

  CHAPTER 9

  EXPLOITS OF THE CHIMAY COMPANY

  A MID THE CONFLICTS with the Secret Police, the work of spying went on night and day. And in case the reader should lose sight of this, I must occasionally give him a glimpse of the spy at work. I shall, therefore, tell a few anecdotes about the Chimay company, which was the last of the nine ‘White Lady’ companies to be formed.

  It was just before the time of the Hirson Platoon. The Allies were still without a train-watching post on the Hirson–Mézières line, and the French GHQ were desperately anxious to have reports on the German troop movements along this strategic artery. The Allied secret services in Holland had failed after many attempts. There was only one other possibility, and that was to drop a spy by parachute. Perhaps, by starting from the other end, working towards Holland, and linking up with the French secret service there, this difficult objective could be achieved.

  Two men volunteered for the dangerous mission: a young non-commissioned officer, Maréchal des logis Pierre Aubijoux, who was to be the pilot, and the soldier Valtier, the man to be dropped.

  It was in the early hours of the morning, when it was still dark, that Aubijoux and Valtier took off from a flying field near Jonchery. Valtier was to be dropped at Signy-l’Abbaye, near Rethel, his home village, where he would be immediately among friends whom he proposed to enrol as train-watchers and couriers in the projected spy organisation.

  But night-flying in those days, without beacons and directional beams as guides, was at the best a risky undertaking. After flying for several hours, Aubijoux had to admit that he was completely lost; with a gasoline tank nearly empty, it was impossible to regain the French lines. There was no alternative but to make a forced landing. To add to their difficulties, dawn was just breaking and a heavy ground fog had come up. But luck was with them. They landed in a field, and though their plane crashed into a barbed-wire fence, they were unharmed. Dazed with their sudden landing, they were still recovering themselves when through the mist they saw two German soldiers rushing at them. In a flash Aubijoux had turned his machine gun against them. To set fire to the plane, and to make a dash for a wood that bordered the field, was the work of a few minutes. They did not look to see the effect of their fire, or if any more soldiers were coming.

  The two men had no idea where they were. The wood, overgrown with bushes and underbrush, covered several acres. They realised that even if the two soldiers had been killed, there would probably be others who had heard the noise of their motors, and in any event the remains of the plane would shortly be discovered. The hunt would soon be on. A decision had to be taken. Wisely, they decided to remain where they were, within 100 yards of their plane. The audacity saved them; for after a hurried search of the wood, during which some of the men came within a few yards of where they lay hid among the bushes, they saw the soldiers hurry away. For two days and a night, without food and water, Aubijoux and Valtier remained in the wood. Just after dark on the second day, worn out and desperate, they decided to investigate a farmhouse they saw in the distance.

  Peering through one of the windows into a dimly lit room, they saw the farmer and his family at their evening meal. Their sympathetic faces gave them courage to knock.

  The farmer came to the door.

  ‘We are the French aviators the Boches are looking for. Can you hide us?’ Aubijoux anxiously asked.

  One look convinced the farmer that they were genuine – their hunted hungry appearance could not be simulated. And then, as Aubijoux had rightly surmised, the Germans had already searched the house for them, the day before.

  The farmer stood aside, and allowed the two men to enter.

  Their immediate inquiry brought the information that they were at Bourlers, close to Chimay, at the farm of Gaston Lafontaine.

  Lafontaine and his wife, courageous Belgians, had already helped many French soldiers. They had hidden several during the retreat in 1914. For more than two years of the occupation they had received visits from the German Secret Police. They knew the risk they were running in hiding the two men.

  Plans were immediately discussed, and Valtier, realising that they were
among patriots, disclosed his secret mission. Lafontaine, anxious to help, promised to hide them in his loft, while he went off to consult with the nuns of the Congrégation Nancéenne de la Doctrine Chrétienne, at Chimay. Even though the Germans had installed a hospital in the convent, these nuns were taking an active part in every form of patriotic activity, and it was to them that everyone in the region turned for guidance and assistance.

  Rose Lebrun, known in her order as Soeur Marie-Mélanie, understood the importance of Valtier’s mission. The ‘White Lady’ was busy at this very moment mounting the Chimay company, and Soeur Marie-Mélanie had just been enrolled as a member of the service. She, therefore, sent Lafontaine off to consult with Grislain Hanotier, the sergeant in charge of her section.

  Hanotier took quick action. He returned with Lafontaine to the farm. To him the solution was obvious. Valtier should leave the mounting of the train-watching posts at Hirson to him, and he and his companion should get across the border into Holland as soon as possible.

  Valtier and Aubijoux demurred.

  Hanotier countered with: ‘What’s the use? The Germans are still searching for you; and as long as you are in hiding, you cannot do any useful work.’

  The two Frenchmen were eventually persuaded; and, having furnished them with a guide, Hanotier duly started them on their way to the Dutch frontier.

  But on the way Valtier suddenly saw matters in a different light. He had been given orders to mount a post on the Hirson–Mézières line; and it was his duty to remain until this had been done, even if it should cost him his life. The two of them, therefore, retraced their steps, and five days later to Lafontaine’s astonishment they were again at his house. With resignation he accepted their argument, and bravely undertook to guide them through to Hirson.

  Aubijoux and Valtier mounted their posts, and arranged a courier service for the reports to be brought through to Soeur Marie-Mélanie. This having been done, they were now willing to regain the French Army. So once again they set out for the Dutch border. But fortune does not always follow the brave – they were arrested at the Dutch border. Knowing nothing of their spy activities, and believing their story that they were French aviators who had been forced down behind the German lines by fog, the Germans treated them as prisoners-of-war, and sent them off to a prison camp in Germany.