The Spy Net (3 page)

Relieving was done at night. It was an eerie feeling, approaching the front line for the first time: it was a pitch dark night, and the dazzling white Very lights, shot out rocketwise at regular intervals, clearly marked the position of the firing line. Bursts of machine-gunfire, interspersed with an occasional rifle shot and the howl of a shell, drowned at odd intervals the muffled sound of our gun wheels, horses’ hoofs, and the champing of bits. Once the gun pits were reached, the relief was quickly carried out, and we were soon wrapped in our blankets, trying to sleep. At first everything was new. Every operation, every scene was avidly taken in. It was great sport firing at objectives behind the enemy’s trenches, and a stinging thrill to watch a direct hit through field-glasses, after regulating by telephone the fire of a battery 3,000 yards away from the observation post. The routine of a week at the battery, a week as forward observing officer in the trenches, and a week at the wagon lines some 8 or 10 miles behind the Front, was eagerly gone through at first, but as the months dragged on it became terribly monotonous.

In 1915 we were suffering from shell shortage. Our ammunition was cut down each week, until eventually we were not allowed to fire more than six rounds a day, except in emergencies.
The winter came on, and with it the rain, snow, and mud. The trenches became a quagmire. We were up to our thighs in water each day; and at night, we slept in dug-outs on wire bunks, sometimes only a few inches above the water. Add rats and fleas to make the picture complete. Rheumatism and trench foot were causing more casualties than the enemy’s fire.

I had my share of land mines, Big Berthas, Whizz Bangs, and Minnies, and saw men killed and wounded. I had an observation post razed to the ground while I sat in its sand-bag cellar for a couple of hours, wondering whether it would hold out against the ‘crumps’ that were being poured on it. In the front line, I spent a sleepless seventy-two hours as FOO cutting wire and directing an artillery barrage during a diversion we tried to create at the time of the Loos attack. But all this was tame to what the division had to go through on the Somme, and in many a subsequent battle later on, after I had left it. Actually, I saw more of death in the three weeks in the hospital at St Nazaire than I saw here during our whole nine months’ stay in the sector. Armentières remained to the end of the war the de luxe sector of the Western Front, a convenient terrain in which to give the new Kitchener divisions their first baptism of fire. If we could have relaxed, it would not have been so bad, but we were continually keyed up expecting something to happen which never did.

Our only relief from this dull routine was our three days’ leave in England every three months. We also had good food: the army rations were excellent, and this was supplemented by hampers which we were permitted to order from Harrod’s. For water, we used Perrier, as the ordinary supply was bad, and the local beer was even worse. How the peasants of north-eastern
France could drink it, I never could fathom. I could get a little consolation out of letters. Most of my relatives were disappointed that I had abandoned a promising career for the service; they were too far away to realise that the best of England’s youth had joined up. My fiancée, cut off from me in Australia, wrote less and less, until finally we ceased to correspond. The end of the war seemed indefinitely postponed, and communication, because of censors and delays, became almost impossible. I seemed effectively cut off from the world.

Just when we began to think that we never would be transferred, we got orders to move. All immediately was excitement and bustle. The usual rumours flew around as to our destination. We were even going to the Dardanelles, and then it was to Mespot. Imagine our dismay when we found ourselves relieving the Guards at Laventie, a sector at that time almost as quiet as the one at Armentières. But we were really on the move: we only stayed there for a couple of weeks. At the commencement of March 1916 we started south again: the concentration for the Somme offensive had begun.

For the rest of my short stay on the Western Front, I was never again to complain of monotony. Events moved quickly. Before leaving Ewshot, I had been promoted to the rank of first lieutenant; I was now a captain. My battery commander had been placed on the sick list and was subsequently retired on account of advanced age; Captain Wells, who had succeeded him, had been wounded at Laventie; I now found myself in command of the battery.

We covered miles in intermittent snow over muddy roads. The displacement of guns, ammunition wagons, horses, and
men over such a distance was an undertaking. We spent hours in the saddle each day, our hands and feet numb with the cold. It was ceaseless work, which called for endurance. At dusk, billets had to be found, and, when all the men and horses had been looked after, maps and orders had to be studied for the next day’s march. I enjoyed it; it was the only part of the war which recalled to me my boyhood memories and conception of war. We still had the mud, but I was in command of a fine group of men; I felt a good horse under me; we were on the move; we were going somewhere.

At Souchez, we moved into the line again, taking over gun positions vacated by the French. Here I was immediately faced with an ordeal: the French battery had already left, and I was faced with no indication as to the position of our front line trenches or that of the enemy. There were no telephone lines, nor any information as regards observation posts; the only thing for me to do was to reconnoitre for myself over ground which had been taken and retaken a dozen times, where not an inch was left unpitted by shell craters. I crawled through rotted fragments of French and German dead whose clothes had long since crumbled away, so that the only distinguishing marks were the long top boots of the Germans and the shorter ones of the French. Covered with mud, raked by machine-gun and shell fire, I reached our front line trenches, where I quickly established contact with battalion headquarters. Telephone lines were laid. As soon as I could get back to the battery we got the range, and were ready for all eventualities.

On the third day after taking up this position, my leave fell due. The enemy were to have one more crack at me, however
before I entrained. At railhead, sparks from the locomotive betrayed us to a raiding German plane. In the darkness of the night, we heard the drone of its motor, the whistle of the bomb, then crash! We scattered as fast as our legs could carry us while three more bombs fell in quick succession. We had visions of an enforced return to the trenches; but, to our relief, the train was untouched, and other damage we did not care about. Within the hour, we were on our way to Boulogne and ‘Blighty’. I was not to see the Front again.

L
EAVE FOR MOST
of us colonials and overseas men, with no family or relatives in England, had resolved itself into a mad three days without sleep, doing a round of night clubs and shows, with companions of the opposite sex, not always well chosen. I had been no better or worse than the others. For all we knew, we might never return on another leave.

To me all this had brought a reaction of strong distaste, and on this particular leave I was grateful and happy to have a letter of introduction from a brother officer to his sister. She was a charming, highly intelligent girl, with a job at the War Office. We saw a great deal of each other, dining together, and seeing
some of the better plays; starved for companionship, I told her a great deal about myself, especially about my travels. She listened with her eyes shining, but I was not allowed for a moment to fancy that she was a modern Desdemona – her excitement was all for the service.

‘What a pity you cannot get into intelligence!’ she cried. ‘You are just the man they are looking for. They have the greatest difficulty in finding an officer with military experience who speaks French, German, and Dutch, and who is thoroughly acquainted with the countries. The difficulty, of course, is Dutch,’ she added. ‘It is remarkable how few Englishmen speak it. It is typical of us as a race – we always expect the foreigner to speak our own language.’ I laughed at her remark. Wasn’t I returning to France that evening?

On arrival at Folkestone, ready to embark for Boulogne, we wretches leaving ‘Blighty’ were told that since a German submarine had been sighted outside, we could return to London, and report back the next evening. I woke next morning at the Waldorf Hotel with a fever and a body rash. Frantically I dashed to the nearest military hospital. My case was diagnosed as German measles, and to bed I was ordered. Entrance into a hospital in England automatically transferred one from the Overseas Command to that of the War Office. I realised that this meant I was now free to apply for the post my enthusiastic friend had mentioned. As I convalesced, I turned the matter over in my mind, and over the phone, I discussed it with her. She promised to talk to her chief about it.

A week later, I received orders to report immediately at the War Office. I hurried there, hoping to find out at once what my
new duties would be. Instead, I was confronted by three examiners in succession; I was in for a language test. The examination, both oral and written, presented no difficulties. I had, in fact, the advantage of the Dutch examiner: I was speaking my native language, the first language I had learned as a child.

Next day a telephone call at the ‘Waldorf’ instructed me to report to Colonel B. at Whitehall court. He informed me that I had been transferred to the intelligence corps, and that as I had been attached for special duty to the secret service, he would take me to the chief immediately. Up several flights of stairs I went, until I reached the very top of the building. Here, in a room which resembled the state-room of a ship, I was confronted with a kindly man who immediately put me at my ease. It was the chief, C, a captain in the navy. He swung around in a swivel chair to look at me – a grey-haired man of about sixty, in naval uniform, and short in stature.

After a few preliminary remarks, he suddenly came to the point:

He offered me his hand, wishing me good luck.

It was in somewhat of a daze that I found myself out in the street – events had moved so rapidly. I had envisaged a job in some government office in London, probably connected with the censorship; a commission in Holland, practically as a freelance, had been furthest from my mind. I had only the afternoon in which to get together some civilian clothes, and in a scramble like that of a nightmare, where everything happens at once and nothing seems accomplished, I bought underclothing, hats, and shoes, and routed out suits and coats long-forgotten in storage in Harrods. The pleasant friend to whom I owed my new career dined with me at ‘The Piccadilly’ to celebrate our common delight and excitement at my new enterprise. At eight-thirty that evening I was on my way to Harwich.

Again, chance had changed my whole career; as a matter of
fact, it had saved my life. Had I developed the measles six days earlier or later, I should have been in France with my battery. A few weeks later, as I subsequently learned, it was wiped out completely on the Somme; every officer in it was killed.

Normally I should have got to the Hook in the morning, but with a group of several ships convoyed by destroyers, the speed of the convoy is that of the slowest ship. A fog further delayed our arrival until the evening. A short journey by rail brought me to Rotterdam too late, as I thought, to get in touch with T. After a good night’s rest at the Maas Hotel, where I had stayed in pre-wartimes, I called on T in his office, which occupied the whole of the first floor of a large building on the Boompjes. A man on guard at the entrance took my name, and after few minutes’ delay I was ushered in to T.

I found myself facing a short, though broad-shouldered man, ruddy of complexion, with small piercing eyes, who looked like the combination of sea captain and prizefighter. I spent the whole morning listening to his summing up of the situation. He was dreadfully worried. The whole of his organisation covering Belgium and north-eastern France, comprising over forty train-watching posts, had broken down, and nearly all the agents had been arrested. Frankignoul, his agent in Maastricht, had been striving to establish a new organisation, but so far had been unsuccessful, and absolutely no information was coming through. T seemed somewhat dubious as to whether I would be able to do anything, but he told me that he would give me every assistance, as he had been instructed that I was to be at the head of the military section in Holland. He placed a room at my disposal and introduced me to the men with whom I was to be associated: Power,
the head of the naval section; de Mestre, the head of the counter-espionage; de Peterson, the son of the Russian consul-general at The Hague, and, as far as I could gather, general factotum at the office; and, finally, Meulkens, the cashier and book-keeper. T further informed me that he had been ordered to supply me with such sums of money as I required, but that I would have to justify the expenditure to him, and added that it was simply a question of results; there would always be ample funds available for the right kind of information.

From T’s remarks, and from those of C, the chief in England, I knew my stay in Holland was entirely dependent on my own activities. I had obvious qualifications in the way of my knowledge of languages, especially Dutch and Flemish, my intimate acquaintance with the topography and people of Germany, and the occupied territories, and my military experience at the Front; but, although there were generals in the British Army at the end of the war no older than I was, my age was a handicap. I realised that if I were unsuccessful, I would be recalled after a few months; and as far as the expenditure of money was concerned, C would pay only for dependable and effective reports. If, subsequently, I was never refused any sum I asked for, it was only because of the vital information which was secured by the organisations which I built up. Youth carried with it an enthusiasm and an adaptability, which today, as an older man, I marvel at. Pitkin may be right about life beginning at forty, but in the field activities of war youth has the advantage.

During my stay in Holland, right up to the end of the war, T lived up to his promise. I think he was always loyal to me. The ‘cover’ he provided was sufficient to protect me from the Dutch
authorities; I never had the least trouble from them, although they obviously knew what I was doing. He certainly had great influence with them. The head of the River Police, and other police authorities, were always ready to rush to his office at a moment’s call. They accorded him every privilege he demanded. He had lived in Holland a great number of years, the owner of a successful shipping business, and had a great number of powerful friends; but above all, he had the prestige of the British government behind him. It was also the policy of the Dutch government to be friendly to both the Allied and the German secret services; they realised that they could not prevent their country from being overrun with secret service agents, and so wisely chose to keep in close touch with the respective chiefs, who could thus be held responsible for the behaviour of their agents.

T’s outstanding quality was that he was a fighter; he was ever ready to fight with the Belgian authorities when we complained of interference with our agents, and even with the British War Office at times. Since he was living as a civilian in a neutral country, with ample private means, the chief in England always had to handle him carefully.

T spoke little Dutch, and knew no French or German. He had known nothing about Frankignoul’s train-watching organisation. Frankignoul had held all the threads in his own hands, and when they broke, T was naturally unable to do anything on his own.

He was, however, a shrewd executive, and helped to keep the various branches of the service under him in close co-operation. His chief function, the handling of the Dutch authorities, he carried out admirably. He undoubtedly rendered splendid service,
and fully merited the CBE (Commander of the British Empire), with which he was decorated at the end of the war.

My first care on leaving T was to find a comfortable apartment, and with the help of de Peterson I soon found one on the Heemraad Singel. De Mestre, the head of counter-espionage, with a twinkle in his eye, informed me that the Maas Hotel, where I was staying, was overrun with German agents.

It took me two or three weeks to orientate myself, and in this I was helped considerably by a young Englishman who had spent several years in Brussels before the war, and who had been in Holland since the outbreak of hostilities. I was fortunate enough to get him transferred to me from the CE department, and to the end of my stay in Holland, he remained my faithful assistant and companion.

Those who were living in Belgium and in Holland at the time will realise the difficulties we had to contend with. The Germans had created excellent barriers against the passage of information; along the Belgian–Dutch frontier there stretched deadly high-voltage electric wire, with an unbroken cordon of sentinels at small intervals within sight of each other, and a swarm of German Secret Police patrolling the frontier on both sides. But the German devices and men were a definite, concentrated force, much simpler really to combat than the vague but potent pest of Dutch and Belgian freelance agents with which Holland was swarming. Hundreds of Belgian refugees had settled there, and before the Germans had established their effective barriers, many of them had found it easy to get information out of Belgium, and had made a lucrative living by peddling it to the British, Belgian, and French secret services, sometimes selling
the same information to all three. Conditions had now changed; they were producing no further information, but they were all rushing around interfering with every attempt we were making to establish communications with the interior of Belgium.

The first essential was to obtain trustworthy Belgians in Holland whom we could rely on to keep their mouths shut, who would submit to discipline, and who would be governed by patriotism and not by money, providing their living expenses were paid. I was delighted to come in contact with Moreau, a former high official of the Belgian Railways, who, after learning our problem in a long talk with me, offered to get his son to enlist the aid of picked Belgian railwaymen – there were a large number of them in Holland at the time who still looked upon him as their chief. The son presented himself in due course, and as he impressed me favourably, I outlined my plan to him. Accordingly, at odd intervals he brought me, one by one, some fifty or more men who could be distributed at strategic points on Dutch soil from Maastricht to the coast in Zeeland, in a manner so reasonable as to avoid suspicion.

Each of the Moreau agents was made responsible for a definite strip of the Dutch frontier, with instructions to find some means of regular communication across the frontier with the occupied territory. We explained that there were three possible channels to be used: ‘
Pasteurs
’ who could go back and forth across the electric wire on dark nights by means of india-rubber gloves and socks; boatmen, who though under strict surveillance of the Germans, were allowed to ply their barges all the way from Rotterdam to Antwerp; and farm labourers who had fields under cultivation bordering the frontier, and
who could toss messages across the wire when the sentry was not looking.