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. Tomorrow 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, 5 November 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 £3,000 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 14 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 jail fever, though modern science knows that there is now no jail 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 almighty 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 Broil, 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 11 June 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 today 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.
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.
CHAPTER 11
MULLER AND OTHERS
EARLY IN 1915 the Germans began to organise spy-receiving offices in Holland. Usually they pretended to be legitimate commercial agencies. Sometimes one member of a not too prosperous firm of commission agents would lend his offices for the purpose; sometimes a ‘business’ was opened in some upper room, where a few samples of cheap cigars and other goods were on view. Quite early in the year it was discovered that some foreigner who could write fluent English was sending regular communications to one of these addresses in a simple secret ink and it was evident that he was the sort of person who would find out something which might at any time be of great use to the enemy. The letters were posted at various places in London and there was no clue at all to the sender’s address. Like all spies, he was continually demanding money and it was hoped for some time that a remittance from Holland would disclose his identity, but in the end the denouement came about in quite another way. A letter was intercepted in the censorship which disclosed secret writing. It was not in the usual hand and the incriminatory words said that ‘C’ had gone to Newcastle and that the writer was sending the communication ‘from 201’ instead. I remember very well the morning when this sentence was shown to me. The postmark was Deptford. ‘201’ might or might not be the number of a house. We rang up Deptford Police Station and asked for a list of the streets in their area which ran to 201 houses. There was only one – Deptford High Street – and the occupant of that house had a German name, ‘Peter Hahn, Baker and Confectioner’.
No one was more surprised than the stout little baker when a taxi deposited a number of police officers at his door. He proved to be a British subject and to have been resident in Deptford for some years. While he was being put into the cab a search was made of his premises and in a back room the police found a complete outfit for secret writing neatly stowed away in a cardboard box.
When seated in my armchair Hahn was not at all communicative. He professed to know nothing of ‘C’, and when further pressed he refused to answer any questions, but patient inquiry among his neighbours produced a witness who remembered that a tall Russian gentleman had been visiting Hahn at frequent intervals. His name was believed to be Müller and his address a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. This limited the field of search. The register of every boarding-house was scrutinised and within a few hours the police found the name of Müller; the landlady of the boarding-house confirmed the suggestion that he was a Russian and said that he had lately gone to Newcastle to see some friends. The search was then transferred to Newcastle and within a few hours Müller was found, arrested and brought to London. He was a tall, spare, worried-looking person, anxious only to have an opportunity of clearing himself. He had never seen Hahn; had never been in Germany and could not even speak the language. For some time he adhered to the story that he was a Russian. An inquiry into his past showed that he was one of those cosmopolitan, roving Germans who are hotel-keepers in one place, commercial travellers in another. At some time they have all been car agents and touts. He spoke English with scarcely any trace of a foreign accent. With his glib tongue he had gone through the usual spy routine of making love to impressionable young women and winning acquaintance by the promise of partnership in profitable speculations. He had some claim for registering himself as a Russian, for he had been born in Libau and spoke Russian as well as Flemish, Dutch, French, German and English. Hahn, on the other hand, was merely a tool. He had been born in Battersea and was therefore a British subject. In 1913 he was a bankrupt with assets of £3 to meet liabilities of £1,800. His object, no doubt, was purely mercenary. As a British subject he had the right to be tried by civil court and therefore, as it was not desirable to have two trials, both he and Müller were indicted at the Old Bailey in May 1915. Both were found guilty of espionage. Müller was sentenced to death and Hahn to seven years’ penal servitude on the ground that he had been acting under Muller’s influence. Müller appealed unsuccessfully against his sentence.
On 22 June 1915 Müller was removed from Brixton Prison to the Tower in a taxi-cab and by a curious fatality the cab broke down in Upper Thames Street. It was the luncheon hour and a crowd formed immediately. A foreigner seated between two military policemen and going up the street towards the Tower was not lost on the crowd, which raised a cry of ‘German spy!’ Another taxi was quickly found and the journey was resumed without further accident. The condemned man was highly strung and he broke down on the night before his execution. On the following morning he pulled himself together and insisted on passing gravely down the firing-party and shaking hands with each man. The Germans did not hear of his death for some time, for letters containing remittances continued to be received.
About the middle of 1915 we learned that on a steamer bound from Rotterdam to Buenos Aires was an Argentine citizen named Conrad Leyter, who was believed to be carrying dispatches from Berlin to the German embassy in Madrid. Leyter was removed from the steamer and brought to London. He said he was a shipping clerk, that he had come to Europe for a holiday and was now on his way back to Buenos Aires. He gave a long and rather wearisome account of his holiday adventures in Germany and Holland and nothing could be done until the clockwork had run down. Then we said, ‘But why were you going to Spain?’ There was another burst of eloquence, but no reply to that particular question. Whenever he paused for breath he was asked, ‘Why were you going to Spain?’ At last he could bear it no more. He jumped from his chair and said, ‘Well, if you will know, I am going to Spain and if you want to know why, I am carrying a dispatch to Prince Ratibor, the German ambassador in Madrid.’
‘Thank you. And where is the dispatch?’
‘I have not got it. It is sewn up in the life-belt in my cabin.’
That was all we wanted to know. Leyter went to an internment camp, the wireless was got to work and in due course the dispatch was found in the life-belt, as he said. It was quite useful.
Every now and then doubtful persons captured at sea came to us from far afield. In October 1915 a boarding officer in the Mediterranean, who was examining passengers on board the blue-funnel liner Anchises, found a man who was carrying a false passport believed to be forged. He was detained and sent to Egypt. In Cairo the luck was against him. While he was being interrogated and his imagination was soaring in full flight, a British officer who had known him in former years chanced to pass through the room and recognised him. ‘Hullo, von Gumpenberg!’ he cried, slapping him on the back. After that it was useless to dissemble and he gave his name as Baron Otto von Gumpenberg and said that he had been squadron commander in the Death’s Head Hussars and had been involved in a scandal for which he was arrested and imprisoned for seven months. On his release he became a vagabond adventurer. In Constantinople he was aide-de-camp to Enver Pasha; later he attached himself to Prince Wilhelm of Wied in his futile attempt to govern Albania. When war broke out he was called back to Germany to serve as a trooper and, according to his own account, he served for eighteen months on the Russian Front with such distinction that when he returned wounded to Germany his commission was restored to him and he was posted to the command of a troop at the Front; but at this moment there happened to be a scheme for stirring up the tribes in north Africa and he was dispatched to see what he could do with the Senussi. About that time the Senussi had captured a number of Italian prisoners and von Gumpenberg accounted for being on the Anchises by saying that he was being sent to the Senussi to obtain the release of these prisoners. We were impolite enough to express entire disbelief in this story. Unfortunately, in return for his confession made in Egypt he had been promised that he would be treated as an officer prisoner of war and he had to be interned at Donington Hall. His real object, no doubt, was to direct the hostile movements of the Senussi and other tribes against the Allies.
> The Germans now adopted commerce as the best cover for their agents. England was to be flooded with commercial travellers, especially travellers in cigars. The Censor began to pick up messages containing orders for enormous quantities of cigars for naval ports such as Portsmouth, Chatham, Devonport and Dover. The senders turned out to be furnished with Dutch passports, though their nationality was doubtful. Now something happened to be known about their supposed employers in Holland, who kept one little back office in which a few mouldy samples were exposed and yet here they were with a traveller in the southern counties and another sending orders from Newcastle. Naval ratings are not abstainers from tobacco, but they are not known to be in the habit of consuming large quantities of Havana cigars. One of the travellers named Haicke Petrus Marinus Janssen and the other named Wilhelm Johannes Roos were found doing the sights of London. Janssen was questioned first. He was a self-possessed person of about thirty years of age and he claimed to be a sailor. He knew no German, in fact he had never been in Germany and, being a Dutchman, he had a dislike for Germans. Why, he was asked, did his employers, Dierks & Co., engage a sailor to travel in cigars? To that he had no answer except that he had been unsuccessful in obtaining a berth as officer on a steamer. A friend had introduced him to Mr Dierks because he could speak English and was looking for work. He said that he was the only traveller that Dierks had in England. We asked him whether he knew a man named Roos. ‘No,’ he said, he had never heard of him. He was then sent to another room while Roos was brought in. He, too, was a seaman, a big, powerful man with the cut of a German seaman. He, too, said that he was a traveller for Dierks & Co.; that Dierks had two travellers, himself and Janssen. Would he know Janssen if he saw him? Certainly he would. Janssen was brought again into the room. He made a faint sign with his eyes and lips to Roos, but of course it was too late. ‘Is this the man you say you know?’ he was asked. He nodded and Janssen was silent. On the way over to Cannon Row Roos suddenly dashed at a glass door which opened into the yard, smashed the panes and jabbed his naked wrists on the jagged fragments of glass in the hope of cutting an artery. He was taken to Westminster Hospital to be bandaged and later was removed to Brixton Prison, where he was put under observation as a potential suicide.
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