From Falmouth they sent me one day a curly headed and rotund young gentleman from Chile. He spoke Spanish like a native and he was bound for Rotterdam to buy cheap cigars for his firm in Valparaiso. Also he spoke English, which he professed to have learned in New York during the course of his business travels. Unfortunately for him, there had been on the steamer an Austrian woman with whom he had spent much of his time and just before he was called to go ashore he had been seen to slip into her hand a folded piece of paper. She retired to the cabin to open and read this note, but one of the boarding officers followed her and recovered it. It was a German letter written in pencil and it said, ‘Whatever you do, you must not reveal the fact that I speak German.’ This note was on my table when he came in for examination and with me was sitting as Admiralty representative the late Lord Abinger who spoke German fluently. He kept his knowledge in reserve.
The young man was quite charming. He answered all my questions without hesitation; he thought that some generations ago one of his ancestors might have been a German, but he was not well enough versed in the family history to give me full details about this. Many Chileans, he said, had fair curly hair like his and a fresh complexion, because the Chilean sun does not burn the skin as it does in Peru. Yes, he spoke English fluently but not German. It was one of the regrets of his life that he had never learned that language. We gave him writing materials and set the lamp as he liked it and then I said, ‘Draw up your chair and this gentleman will set you a piece of dictation.’ Then Lord Abinger cleared his throat and dictated the Spanish text of his passport. The handwriting, as I could see, was the same as that of the note. While he was still writing I handed his German note to Lord Abinger who, without break or pause, followed on with the German text. The curly head was not raised. All I could see was a deep flush creeping over the cheek. The hand stopped writing. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you do not seem to be getting on.’
‘The gentleman is dictating in a language I do not know.’
‘He is reading from a letter written by yourself.’
There was a long silence, during which the pencil dropped on the floor and at last the young man rose wearily from the armchair and said, ‘Well, what are you going to do with me? You have me in your power.’ He was quite ready then to answer questions and I believed him when he said that his only object in coming over was to do his duty, because he could not bear to have it thrown in his teeth afterwards that he had taken no part in the Great War. He added, philosophically, that he supposed that they could not reproach him if he was interned in an enemy country and I, looking at his fat hands and his ample proportions, added the comfortable reflection that he would find internment far safer than service in the trenches.
In January 1917, an American boasting the name of Jelks Leroy Thrasher was found on board the Dutch passenger steamer Zeelandia when she put into Falmouth on her way to Holland. Mr Thrasher was a young, clean-shaven man who had something about him of military courtesy, which scarcely accorded with the account that he was prepared to give of himself. For this reason he was asked to land and sent to me for an interview. He had quite a marked American accent and yet there was something about it that did not quite carry conviction. After the usual caution he became even more communicative than before and was ready to tell me every detail of his past life from his very earliest years. There was something quite uncanny about his memory. He could describe the colour of people’s hair whom he could have known only when he was just out of the perambulator. He was never at a loss for a name and his elaborate description of Quitman, Georgia, where he said he had passed his early life, would have astonished the residents of that little-known centre. There were, of course, a few discrepancies and as the examination proceeded he began to show uneasiness. I said at last, ‘Do you know, you are not telling your story very well?’ He looked concerned and bowed – from the waist. I said, ‘Your accent is not quite American, though it is a very good imitation.’ He again bowed, as before, from the waist. What I wanted was a name to put to him and so we adjourned for luncheon to consider what Germans were at the moment loose upon the world on unlawful pursuits. It happened that about this time the German government had had occasion to send a direct messenger to New York in connection with the negotiations for landing arms in Ireland and it was intended, no doubt, that the messenger should afterwards proceed to Holland in the guise of an American. The officer’s name was known to be Captain Hans Boehm. There were several other Germans wandering about, but as this man seemed the most likely I thought I would try him first.
After luncheon Mr Thrasher resumed his seat and I again referred unkindly to his American accent, which I pointed out to him was too laboured for an American. At last I said, ‘You are not doing this well, Captain Boehm.’ He looked surprised, but said nothing. ‘No, Captain Boehm, you are not doing it well.’ He smiled and again bowed from the waist. I said, ‘Take, for example, your bow. No American bows like that.’ He laughed and bowed again and, as he made no objection to being called Captain Boehm, I said, ‘Perhaps I am not quite fair. You had a very difficult part to play and you played it better than any German officer who has yet sat in that chair.’ That pleased him and after a little pressing he told me most of his story. He was the son of an official in Alsace, was well educated and had spent a good deal of his life in America. During 1916 he was commanding a battery of artillery near Wytschaete in Flanders and, on account of his reputation as an American, he had been taken out of the line to be employed upon a special mission. He was now on his way back. He would tell me nothing about the nature of his employment – that we knew from another source – but he did admit that he had met Roger Casement while in Germany. It afterwards appeared that there had been a man of the name of Jelks Leroy Thrasher in Quitman, Georgia, but he was dead. Probably the passport was one of those that had been retained by the German government on the pretence that it had been lost at the Foreign Office when sent thither for a visa. Captain Boehm was treated as a military prisoner and told that as soon as his uniform arrived he would be treated as an interned officer. He wrote to his friends from Brixton on 17 January 1917 saying:
I wish to emphasise that the treatment meted out to me right throughout has been very good. From Admiral to seamen, all were very kind to me and the comprehension of the situation was superior. The Admiral said to me, ‘We have no interest to make difficulties for an enemy who can do us no more harm.’ Please bring these lines to the knowledge of my superiors in the General Staff. If you can do a friendly action to an English prisoner do it.
A great many neutrals used to come in about this time after their journeys in the enemy countries. One of them had had a talk with von Tirpitz. He had called to give the family news of their son, who was a prisoner of war and while they were at tea von Tirpitz himself came in. He described him as looking like a very untidy old farmer, with socks hanging down over his boots and chalk marks all over his trousers, but his expression exhaled benevolence quite out of keeping with the fire-eating advice he was giving to the German government on the subject of submarines. He complained bitterly of the conduct of the Americans in making munitions for the Allies. My friend pointed out that if the Germans would send ships to fetch munitions, as the Allies did, they could be supplied too and remarked, ‘If you had command of the sea, would you not obtain them from us?’
‘Of course we would,’ said von Tirpitz.
I have said little about that admirably managed department, the Postal Censorship, because much of its work was necessarily confidential, but there was nothing new about its functions. At the time of the Great Fire the General Post Office was situated in Cloak Lane off Dowgate Hill. There was no Postmaster-General; the service was farmed out and the lessee at that time was Katharine, Countess of Chesterfield, acting through her agent, Sir Philip Frowde. Under him was the actual postmaster, one James Hickes, whose claim to fame was that he kept the office open throughout the Great Plague and saved most of the letters on the night of the Great Fire. T
here was at that time an inventor, Sir Samuel Morland, who, among other inventions, had devised the capstan and the speaking trumpet and we are told that an apparatus for the opening and rapid copying of letters was among the property that perished in the Great Fire of London. What the machine was that kept Charles II three hours ‘seeing with admiration and very great satisfaction’ the various operations, that copied a letter in little more than one minute before photography was invented, will never be known because Morland omitted to invite Samuel Pepys to a demonstration and allowed his secret to die with him.
All sorts of queer people came to light through the censorship of letters. One would have thought that during the agonies of war there would have been no time for the innocent forms of internationalism, but it is a fact that in nearly every country in the world one could find international chess-players so detached from public affairs that they were actually conducting games by post in 1917. The Censor stopped a postcard in a foreign handwriting addressed to Spain with the usual chess formulae on its back. The card was tested in every possible way for secret writing and it seemed so incredible that any one should be playing chess with a foreign antagonist at such a moment that we concluded that a new form of spy communication by means of chess formulae had been adopted by the enemy. After some search we found the writer. He proved to be a young Spaniard, little more than a boy, who lived in a squalid room near Tottenham Court Road with practically no personal effects except a chessboard. He was genuinely astonished at being hauled before the authorities. During the day-time he was a waiter at a restaurant, but in his spare moments – and there could not have been many of them – he was conducting twenty-four games of chess by post with antagonists in foreign countries whom he had never seen. He had heard that ‘there was a war on’, but apparently as long as it did not interfere with his games it was no concern of his.
It was clear that the British Navy was doing its work well. A letter found concealed in a parcel addressed to a German prisoner which was intercepted in January 1917 gave us some very useful information. The writer had been recently repatriated from Wakefield via Stratford and he gives the following account of what he imagines he saw:
We left Stratford in the omnibus on Sunday evening, driving to Charing Cross through London’s dark streets, which are fearfully depressing. We saw a few houses destroyed by the Zeppelins, but it was only here (in Germany) that I got some photographs which show that the whole corner from the Haymarket, Piccadilly, the complete block of residences over the Piccadilly Tube Station had been clean swept away.
He went on to give minute instructions, based upon his own experience, how gold and other prohibited articles could be smuggled out of the country without interference from the military and the police – a part of his letter which caused us to stop a number of leaks. In the early days of the war a good deal of gold was successfully smuggled out. One German woman had gone to the expense of having a false bottom made to her handbag, which proved on examination to be floored with sovereigns. Its weight was its undoing.
This verbose correspondent was guarded when he wrote about the state in which he found Germany. ‘I will only tell you one thing,’ he wrote: ‘times are serious; much, much more serious than any one has ever thought. So, for instance, it is in my opinion a direct active meanness if anybody in the camp has had sent to him eatables of any sort, even in the smallest quantities.’
CHAPTER 19
THE DECLINE OF MORALE
IN JUNE 1916 the Germans adopted a new policy. They began to send distinguished neutrals, generally Swedes, who entered the country as ardently pro-British and told us that a recent visit to Berlin had convinced them that the economic situation in Germany was far stronger than in England and that England was faced with the certainty of defeat unless she agreed with her enemy quickly. In one case the Swede proposed that our government should select six businessmen and send them to Holland to meet six Germans and thus convince themselves of the truth of what he said! He was surprised and pained when he heard that his invitation had been refused. I wish I had seen him after the Armistice to remind him of his passionate assurances that the Germans whom he professed to dislike so much were about to triumph.
There were many other indications that the Germans were becoming anxious about their morale. It was common talk among the interned officers in Donington Hall in September 1917 that they could not expect to win the war, but they still hoped to be able to hold out long enough to secure a ‘draw’.
The peace feelers of the Austrians led to a very curious incident. In March 1916 two distinguished Spanish gentlemen were ushered into my room. One, who bore an ancient title, was the proprietor of a Madrid newspaper; the other, who spoke English fluently and was married to an American, was vouched for as a person of wealth and position. He explained that he had a scheme for obtaining for the Allies the use of all the Austrian ships interned in Spain and the titled gentleman bowed and smiled as an endorsement, though it was doubtful whether he understood enough English to know what was said. Señor P— had with him all the impedimenta of a wealthy traveller – wife, children, governess, secretary, servants and baggage and he had engaged a suite of rooms. He had interviews with various distinguished people, but there was something rather nebulous about his proposals and he did not produce any written guarantee of his good faith. It happened that on the staff of a certain daily newspaper there was a gentleman who knew Spanish. Upon him Señor P— seized, for he could bring him into touch with the newspaper world and so mobilise public opinion in favour of taking over the Austrian ships. Just before Easter Señor P— informed me that he intended to go to Holland and there meet certain Austrian shipping magnates with whom he hoped to negotiate the transfer. On Good Friday I was rung up by the newspaper man, who asked my advice. Señor P— had begged him to accompany him to Holland. Was there any objection? Knowing that he was to be trusted and that he might keep an eye upon the Spaniard’s movements and let me know what it was all about, I helped him with his passport and the two went off together. Two days later I received a telegram from Rotterdam, begging me to meet the pressman in my office on Easter Sunday as he had something important to communicate. The poor man had been travelling all night and was in a state of nervous tension. He told me the following story:
On the way down the river Señor P— had remarked, ‘I ought to tell you without delay that all this about the Austrian ships is a blind. What we are really going to do is to negotiate a peace between Austria and the Allies.’ With that, he pulled out of his pocket a telegram which read as follows:
I appoint Señor P— and Mr H— to be my Plenipotentiaries for making peace.
Lord Robert Cecil
Mr H— pointed out that this was a forgery; that Lord Robert Cecil would not have sent or signed a telegram in this way, nor would he have thought of appointing either Señor P— or himself as plenipotentiaries. Señor P— burst out laughing. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘these little artifices are necessary when great events hang in the balance. I shall show this telegram to the Austrians and they will believe it.’
On arriving at Rotterdam Mr H— found that three Austrian gentlemen had actually arrived and he was taken into a conference in a hotel. Señor P— did most of the talking and was particularly eloquent on the financial question. You could not, he said, have peace without paying for it and peace in this case was worth a million sterling to Austria if it was worth a crown. They haggled for some time over the deal, and Señor P— left the room for a moment to find a document, whereupon the Austrians asked Mr H— what he knew of his Spanish friend. They had made inquiries about him in Berlin and what they had learnt was not very much in his favour. ‘But,’ they said, ‘whether we care to negotiate with him or not, we do welcome the opportunity of meeting face to face the proprietor of a great London daily newspaper.’
‘I am not the proprietor,’ said Mr H— in amazement. ‘I am merely a humble employee.’
They waved this politely aside. Great men ofte
n travel incognito. He was, of course, Lord — in disguise. He continued to disclaim the compliment and they said, ‘Well, whoever you are, you are in a position to convey to the proper quarter our views regarding a peace between Austria and the Allies.’ With that, they handed him the following paper:
M. Emil Karpeles and Mr H—, respectively an Austrian and a British subject, having been brought together at Amsterdam by Mr de P—, starting from the idea of their two countries being in a position to initiate preliminaries for peace and to become for a long period trustees for peace in Europe, undertake to submit to their respective governments the ten clauses named below in order to obtain from them a declaration of their agreeing to them in principle. By giving such declarations the two governments accept these ten clauses as the basis of a preliminary conference to be held as soon as possible within four weeks from today in Holland or Switzerland. The conference is to be composed of the same number of delegates from the two parties and two delegates appointed by His Majesty the King of Spain. This preliminary conference will also arrange conditions and regulations for the exchange of goods between the two countries for the time of an armistice if such be proclaimed.
Clause 1. The re-establishment of the Kingdom of Serbia, with limits as before the Treaty of London, the King to be chosen by Great Britain and Austria-Hungary, the province of Negotin to come to Austria-Hungary.
2. The re-establishment of the Kingdom of Montenegro. Lovcen and the coast to go to Austria-Hungary against territorial compensation on the east frontier.
3. Albania. Sovereign to be chosen by Great Britain and Austria-Hungary.
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