The girl was witty, well-informed, of a gay disposition, and always made me feel quite at home. Indeed, it was a little difficult to think of her as belonging to a profession which is held in such disrepute. I had paid her well for her services and she had never ventured a question for what purpose I desired the information she obtained. There was no reason why she should not receive me now, though she might have an assignation, in which case I should be obliged to find a different haven of retreat until all signs of danger were passed.
I knocked at this lady’s apartment; and after two or three minutes, as I thought from her manner, with some apprehension, she opened the door, retaining the bolt on its chain until she should have seen who the caller might be. She was obviously delighted, if surprised, to see me; and I was at once admitted. I apologized for the state of my clothes and was assured that I should be made comfortable in a dressing-gown; and, while I washed and put off my soiled clothes, the girl promised to prepare me a meal. I observed a soldier’s helmet hanging in the little hall; but with a laugh the girl assured me that this was only a souvenir and that we were alone.
After so painful a journey, followed by a scare which had chilled me even more than the icy wind, it was comforting indeed to recline in a deep chair after an excellent supper, with a pretty girl administering the heady wine of her laughter served with a warm caress. I must have fallen into a deep sleep.
I was awakened somewhere about seven in the morning by loud knocking on the outer door of the flat. The alarm of the previous evening recaptured my senses. My own clothes, Dutch passport and identification papers had vanished. I could not attempt an escape in a woman’s kimono. I sprang to my feet and ran towards the door in search of the woman. I feared that while I slept she had betrayed me. But she came hurrying from her room, in one arm carrying a suit of German uniform, a finger raised to command my silence. In swift, whispered sentences, the girl urged me to don the uniform and adopt its personality. Whoever the intruders might be, I wavered for a few seconds as to whether I should declare myself to them as a respectable Dutch citizen, the agent of the Fabrik Venus, known to a score of highly respectable German manufacturers, or whether I should do as I was now bidden.
I was in a terrible predicament. The suspense of the previous night, my relations with the girl, my activities in espionage and my camouflage, hitherto so completely successful, together conspired to place me on the horns of a frightful dilemma. Yet, even as the seconds ticked by, I slipped into the trousers and put on the jacket, that of a soldier of the 14th Jäger Regiment. As the banging upon the door increased in its fury, the girl returned to the room carrying boots, a helmet and field equipment. With emphasis she whispered to me that at all costs I must pretened to be her lover, Bruno Peltzer, on leave from the front.
I felt for the soldier’s pay-book in the breast pocket and a glance at its pages confirmed the girl’s intention that I had donned the uniform of Bruno Peltzer, a native of Tölz in Upper Bavaria. I was sure that within a few minutes those who knocked on the door would intrude into the apartment, so I lay back, feigning sleep, while I collected my wits to meet the forthcoming ordeal.
The girl smiled her approval and then ran towards the door calling to the interrupters to cease their hammering and that she was already on her way to answer their enquiry. The door was opened on the chain.
“Is Soldier Bruno Peltzer here?” demanded a voice of authority.
The girl laughed, replying that she did not trouble always to enquire the names of her visitors.
“Yes, there is a soldier asleep in a chair. Poor fellow, he was so tired….”
Her chatter was cut short by a quick command to admit the callers, and within a few seconds an under-officer, accompanied by two soldiers, burst into the room where I reclined. He shook me roughly by the shoulder, demanding if my name was Bruno Peltzer. I yawned, nodded and glanced up at him, as might one recovering from deep sleep. Then suddenly I sprang from my chair, and stood rigidly to attention.
“Soldier Bruno Peltzer of the 14th Jäger Regiment,” exclaimed the Feldwebel, “I arrest you for desertion.”
I was a good-looking young man; twenty-seven years of age, a slight fair moustache, bronzed, well set-up, six feet in height, a fine figure of a man; and as I looked the old soldier in the eye, he smiled good-naturedly.
“You’ve got yourself into a nice mess, young fellow. For the sake of a pretty girl’s face you’ve risked the firing squad! If you behave yourself, I’ll do my best for you”—he glanced at the girl and winked—“but you’ve led us a dance since last night. I thought we’d got you at the railway station….”
“So did I!” laughed I, then bit my tongue. The fact is, I was so overwhelmed with delight that I had not been arrested as a spy, but had been accepted as a bona fide deserter with whom the military escort seemed ready to be friendly, that for the moment I was off my guard.
While the girl made coffee for the escort and myself, I pulled on my boots, washed, and shaved—she always had every male convenience handy—and re-presented myself, determined to go through with the role of Bruno Peltzer as a safer camouflage at the moment than that of an agent for Venus soap.
It appeared that I had overstayed my leave for three days, that my earlier visits to the girl’s flat had been noted, and that since there were quite a number of desertions across the frontier into Holland the military authorities had concluded that this was my intention. I had been observed at the railway station the previous evening. I endeavoured to get a word with the girl but she would only keep on assuring me, as indeed she sought also to persuade my captors, that I would be quite all right. I had no idea what had become of the genuine Bruno Peltzer, but presumed he had escaped in my clothes with a Dutch passport, and was now well on his way towards Holland. What did it matter, anyway? I was marched to the Uhlan Barracks on the north side of the city; and, after particulars had been taken, was placed in a cell.
About noon I was taken from the cell and brought before the Commandant to answer a charge which had been reduced from that of desertion to one of absence without leave. I imagined that the real Bruno Peltzer was probably guilty up to the hilt; but the charge of desertion could scarcely be brought against a man discovered, not attempting to escape, but asleep in his uniform in the house of a woman to whose privacies apparently most men, not excepting the Feldwebel himself, had ready access.
The Commandant, an elderly officer of the Reserve, spoke to me sharply; but the Feldwebel discreetly reminded him that youth must be served and, moreover, that Germany had need of the best of her sons in the firing line. Upon my promising not to repeat the offence, I received a nominal sentence, a fine, and was ordered to rejoin my regiment forthwith. The Feldwebel was instructed to put me on the next train, and I was given a paper which explained my absence and that I had both been apprehended and punished by the Commandant in Düsseldorf.
I was conducted to the guard-room to await notification of the exact hour of departure of the return-leave train via Aachen and Brussels which would land me at my destination somewhere between Passchendaele and Lille, unless the regiment had been withdrawn or suddenly moved elsewhere. The men in the Uhlan Barracks consisted of the older Landwehr reservists employed in guarding railways, bridges, and factories against sabotage, a few youngsters in training, and wounded, not yet fit to return to the front. The Feldwebel who had made my arrest seemed to have complete charge of details and of discipline. I had several hours to wait before the scheduled time of my train; and, about an hour after my arrival in the guard-room, the Feldwebel entered and brusquely ordered me to form one of an escort searching for a spy. For my edification, he added that such expeditions were by no means uncommon and were spiced with danger. Spies were desperate fellows! I detected no hint of irony in his tones, though, by now, I was again on my guard against anything which might arouse suspicion. I had to remember that I was an ordinary soldier, of some intelligence
but no more.
What report I was eventually going to give to my superiors in the British Intelligence Service I could not now begin to contemplate. But now that I was no longer under suspicion, the notion of a spy being sent out to trap a spy struck me as most amusing. A motor-tender was waiting, and within a few minutes we had arrived in the familiar Herzogstrasse and drew up before the house in which was situated my own lodgings. Such an authority as the Feldwebel had no difficulty in obtaining the key from my landlady, whose glances I studiously avoided, and we burst into my humble abode. It was a strange experience; and even as I stepped into the familiar little hall I felt that something uncanny had occurred during my absence. The office of the Fabrik Venus showed that some one had ransacked desk-drawers and cupboards.
Lying face down at full length on the floor of the bedroom which led out from the office was the body of a man. He was wearing the clothes which I had discarded on the previous evening. As I stooped to turn the body over, my eye caught sight of a tiny puncture on the back of the man’s neck. That sign to me was unmistakable. It was the mark of Joseph Crozier, master spy, chief director of the Fabrik Venus in Rotterdam, the sign made by one of the death-dealing darts, which Crozier and two or three of us acting in concert with him used as life-preservers—poisoned darts, noiseless, quick, infallible.
I was completely bewildered. I had thought that the woman had betrayed me, but now, it seemed that she had sent another to meet my fate. I turned the fellow over. He had been dead for several hours; a man of peasant type, about my own age. As I turned out the man’s pockets not by the flicker of an eyelid did I show to the Feldwebel that perhaps, but for the forethought of a pretty girl, here lay an officer of the British Intelligence Service.
“A damned Dutchman,” fumed the under-officer, glancing at the passport and identification papers. “That must certainly be our man. A spy?” he reflected. “I wonder who killed him?” He shook his head sagely. “This is outside my duty. A dirty business. I’ll leave a sentry in the building and inform the police.”
So we returned to the barracks, the Feldwebel shaking his head over a distasteful matter with which he had no desire to be mixed up. I was simply staggered by the events of the day. I began to reflect upon this woman, of whom in reality I knew so little. I gave the riddle up. She remained a complete enigma. A little later, with some words of advice as to soldierly conduct from the Feldwebel—proof that he harboured no suspicions that I was any one other than Bruno Peltzer—I was despatched to the railway station in company with an old reservist, whose business it was to see me safely entrained. I awaited the arrival of the train among a large crowd of soldiers returning from leave, many of them accompanied by wives, children, and sweethearts.
Threading her way through the crowd came the girl of my acquaintance. Neatly attired, paint and powder conspicuous by their absence, no-one would have guessed the nature of her profession. She had eyes for no-one but myself; and she glanced at me timidly, shyly, and nestled close to me.
“Why did you do it?” I whispered.
There was no mistaking the look she gave me—one of absolute adoration. I shall never forget the conversation which followed.
“You’re the only man who’s ever been kind and courteous to me; the only one who ever appreciated….” I drew her close to me. “You gave me credit for intelligence….The rest used me….Men…bah! I’d go to hell for you!”
“But why did you do it?” I repeated softly.
“It saved your skin, silly one,” she replied, laughing. Then she lowered her voice. “You were under suspicion, watched. Gott sei dank! You came to me last night. How I prayed that you would. They would have caught and shot you. I took in a soldier each night until you came. Now I won’t be happy till I see your train going out.”
“And then?” I asked, realizing the selfless heroism of the woman, knowing that if I had been discredited, inevitably suspicion would then fix itself upon her. Within a short while, my true identity screened within the uniform of a Bavarian rifleman, I should be free from the impending inquisition, while the girl remained….Well I knew what was in store for her.
“Who killed the soldier?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes. “It was necessary. We went to your lodgings while you were asleep in my flat. It was the Joseph Crozier method.” The girl glanced at me with twinkling eyes. “I, too, serve my country—France.” I felt her tremble as I clasped her to me. “And I love you.”
There was a stir on the platform. My escort, who had maintained a discreet distance, touched me on the arm, and bade me take my seat. For one brief moment the girl clung to me passionately; I kissed her lips in one long farewell.
Once more the girl hurriedly whispered to me: “You are ingenious, clever. You will escape. Do not trust too long to the uniform. Good-bye.” She raised her hands to my face, and then gently kissed me. There were tears in her eyes. In a moment she had gone. I took my seat in the crowded compartment. As the train moved away, the occupants of my carriage were sunk in their own reflections. I wondered at the courage of this girl, who placed personal honour, life itself, as trivialities compared with service to her country.
She had been my guardian angel throughout. When I had jeopardized my cause and imperilled my life in a reckless whim, it was she who had saved me. That was a debt I could never repay. I wondered. Perhaps I had given her full measure, for she had loved me; and, treating her always with chivalry, in parting I had kissed her just as she wished.
I began to consider how I could best evade identification as an impostor when I rejoined the 2nd Battalion of the 14th Jäger Regiment. At length my fellow-passengers broke into desultory conversation. There were many movements going on at Douai and Lille. Many divisions and a vast number of guns had been transferred from the Russian front and were relieving hard-tried troops who had spent the winter in the Ypres sector. Ludendorff was getting something ready for the English. Yes, that was certain. Every available man was being sent up from reserve and convalescent camps….No more men were being shot for desertion, but were being sent back to the front with regimental nursemaids….There was much laughter at this observation in which we joined heartily. This was to be the last blow….The English had had terrible losses at Ypres; they had no reserves and the battalions were being filled with schoolboys. They would never be able to withstand the hammer blows which Ludendorff was forging….It was said that the offensive would open in the early spring, possibly before the end of March….
A clerk, employed at one of the Army Headquarters, no doubt anxious to show his knowledge to advantage, spoke mysteriously of grandiose plans known as “Michael,” “George,” “Mars,” “Valkyrie,” “Hare Drive,” “Georgette,” which would follow one another in quick succession as the English armies were rolled back and eventually driven into the sea.
I pricked up my ears. After the collapse of Russia in 1917 we naturally expected the development of a great German offensive in the spring of 1918. The extraordinary industrial pressure which I had witnessed in the Rhineland served to corroborate this view. Ludendorff was about to strike, but when and where?
A plan began to shape itself in my mind. Fate, relentless and ruthless, seemed to be using me to shape her ends. By a chain of circumstances beyond my control, I had been removed from a sphere of comparative usefulness, in which my life had suddenly been imperilled; a girl had been committed to almost certain death by an act of amazing self-immolation at the shrine of patriotism; and now I listened to hints and suggestions—secrets which might prove of untold value to the Allied cause.
I was convinced that I could remain in the masquerade of a soldier of the 14th Jäger Regiment for the shortest possible time. My landlady of the Herzogstrasse would be called to identify the dead body discovered in my office. There would be a hue and cry. Orders would be sent to apprehend soldier Bruno Peltzer, and I should again be arrested. It would not be difficult at Rouba
ix or Lille to change my identity; but at all costs I must discover what was meant by “Michael,” “George,” “Mars,” and “Valkyrie,” in short where and when Ludendorff would strike. Then by hook or by crook, I must reach the British lines.
In the guise of an ordinary soldier I could obtain no access to information. I must somehow contrive to change that role. The idea now obsessed me to the exclusion of all else.
I therefore led the conversation to speculate as to where Obersie Heeresleitung—the German Supreme Command—would elect to strike. I confess that some of my suggestions were most absurd: but they provided an opportunity for the Staff clerk—who had been contemptuously twitted as a non-combatant—to retort with a display of superior knowledge. He declared that a decision as to the “Michael” offensive—against the British Fifth Army on the Somme front—had been reached on 21st January, and that Crown Prince Rupprecht was preparing a gigantic attack through Armentières and Ypres, with Mont Kemmel as the chief prize.
I made myself amiable to the Staff clerk. My guardian angel of Düsseldorf had forgotten nothing in equipping me for my journey. I had money to jingle in my pocket and a wad of notes in my wallet. The clerk surmised that I was a wealthy bauer, a small farmer, and if he smiled at my simulated peasant naïvety, he obviously thought me intelligent. At the infrequent halts, during the tedious journey, I took him to the canteen for refreshment; and, finding me a ready listener, he gave me a well-informed outline of Ludendorff’s intentions. This secret information was of vital importance to Sir Douglas Haig’s staff. By a strange turn of the wheel of Fate it had come into my possession.
I was now obsessed with the single-minded idea of reaching the British lines as soon as possible. The train halted at Courtrai, some fifteen miles behind the front lines at Passchendaele. During the British attacks in the Third Battle of Ypres, I had been attached to the Second Army to assist in the interrogation of prisoners, and was therefore entirely familiar with the topography and lie of the land in the Passchendaele Salient. At the concentration camp in Courtrai, where all men from leave reported, I learned that the 14th Jäger Regiment had been shifted to the Armentières front, and I was instructed to proceed south to Roubaix and from there rejoin my regiment. I had no such intention; so took the road west towards Moorslede.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 19