Read Online Strange Intelligence: Memoirs of Naval Secret Service by Hector C. Bywater, H. C. Ferraby - Free Book Online
Authors: Hector C. Bywater, H. C. Ferraby
Tags: Historical, Espionage, History, Politics & Social Sciences, Military, True Crime, Autobiography, Intelligence & Espionage, World War I, Memoirs, Politics & Government, Specific Topics, Naval, Engineering, Engineering & Transportation
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fatal to me.
I was in my own rooms, and every sound in the house made me quake. I expected to see the door open any moment and a couple of security police come in.
And, looking back on the incident, I see how inevitably a man in a panic does the foolish thing. I know that I did, and yet at the time it seemed to be the only possible course.
Slipping round the post office, I sent a telegram to myself, calling me to England to see my family.
In a cold sweat, I sat in a café for half an hour or so, to allow time for the telegram to reach my rooms and for my landlady to take it in. I wanted my alibi to be as complete as possible. And all the time I overlooked the very obvious point that the place of origin of the telegram was not London, but the German town I was living in! Months afterwards, when I was talking to ‘C’ about the adventure, he showed me the folly of this move.
Eventually I strolled back to my rooms, outwardly as calm and normal as usual, and was handed the telegram. Having told my landlady the message it contained, I went out to buy railway tickets and reserve a sleeper.
There were several hours to wait before the train was due.
Only those who have expected to be arrested at any moment can realise what I went through during that time. As far as possible I had to keep to my ordinary routine, in case I was being watched. The fact that I had got rid of the diagrams relieved my mind to some extent, though I was uncomfortably aware that the chance of doing so might only have occurred because the security police had blundered as to the time at which they were to visit my rooms and make the capture.
During those few hours, my imagination ran riot. As I walked along the platform to my coach on the train I expected every instant to feel a hand on my shoulder. It did not seem possible that I could get clear away. I went into the sleeper, and shut myself in, though what good that could do I cannot imagine, since the names of all those occupying coupés are on the list in the possession of the conductor.
The train started, and so far nothing had happened.
But that did not end my ordeal. We had several hours of travel through German territory before we reached the frontier, and there were a number of stopping places. Assuming the raid on my rooms to have been planned for after dark, there was still plenty of time for telegraphic instructions to hold me up.
As we approached the frontier I lay on my berth, fully dressed, in an agony of apprehension. I confess quite frankly that my nerve had temporarily gone. After living for several years in daily peril of detection, this collapse was not, perhaps, surprising.
At the frontier station we stopped as usual. I had given my passport to the conductor for him to show in order that I should not be disturbed, and there I lay in the darkness and the silence – waiting. Most of us associate railway stations with noise, but a frontier post in the small hours is silent as the grave, except for the occasional sound of the shunter’s horn or the footsteps of some official along the platform.
I could hear my heart beating, so profound was the silence in that coupé. My breath was coming in gasps. Frankly, I was just about at the end of my strength.
All at once the train began to move. It gathered speed.
I sat up. And the next minute was violently sick.
It isn’t romantic, but that’s how things are in real life. And once we were across the frontier, I got a grip on myself. I saw what an utter fool I had been to clear out so abruptly.
It wouldn’t do to go back at once, however. So I stopped off in Brussels, called on some friends, and stayed a day or two with them. Then, fully master of my nerves once more, I went boldly back to my old headquarters in Germany and resumed my work, both pretended and real.
I had been the victim of a false alarm. As I found out afterwards, my man had got hold of some spurious diagrams from somewhere, but they had not been deliberately
I was in my own rooms, and every sound in the house made me quake. I expected to see the door open any moment and a couple of security police come in.
And, looking back on the incident, I see how inevitably a man in a panic does the foolish thing. I know that I did, and yet at the time it seemed to be the only possible course.
Slipping round the post office, I sent a telegram to myself, calling me to England to see my family.
In a cold sweat, I sat in a café for half an hour or so, to allow time for the telegram to reach my rooms and for my landlady to take it in. I wanted my alibi to be as complete as possible. And all the time I overlooked the very obvious point that the place of origin of the telegram was not London, but the German town I was living in! Months afterwards, when I was talking to ‘C’ about the adventure, he showed me the folly of this move.
Eventually I strolled back to my rooms, outwardly as calm and normal as usual, and was handed the telegram. Having told my landlady the message it contained, I went out to buy railway tickets and reserve a sleeper.
There were several hours to wait before the train was due.
Only those who have expected to be arrested at any moment can realise what I went through during that time. As far as possible I had to keep to my ordinary routine, in case I was being watched. The fact that I had got rid of the diagrams relieved my mind to some extent, though I was uncomfortably aware that the chance of doing so might only have occurred because the security police had blundered as to the time at which they were to visit my rooms and make the capture.
During those few hours, my imagination ran riot. As I walked along the platform to my coach on the train I expected every instant to feel a hand on my shoulder. It did not seem possible that I could get clear away. I went into the sleeper, and shut myself in, though what good that could do I cannot imagine, since the names of all those occupying coupés are on the list in the possession of the conductor.
The train started, and so far nothing had happened.
But that did not end my ordeal. We had several hours of travel through German territory before we reached the frontier, and there were a number of stopping places. Assuming the raid on my rooms to have been planned for after dark, there was still plenty of time for telegraphic instructions to hold me up.
As we approached the frontier I lay on my berth, fully dressed, in an agony of apprehension. I confess quite frankly that my nerve had temporarily gone. After living for several years in daily peril of detection, this collapse was not, perhaps, surprising.
At the frontier station we stopped as usual. I had given my passport to the conductor for him to show in order that I should not be disturbed, and there I lay in the darkness and the silence – waiting. Most of us associate railway stations with noise, but a frontier post in the small hours is silent as the grave, except for the occasional sound of the shunter’s horn or the footsteps of some official along the platform.
I could hear my heart beating, so profound was the silence in that coupé. My breath was coming in gasps. Frankly, I was just about at the end of my strength.
All at once the train began to move. It gathered speed.
I sat up. And the next minute was violently sick.
It isn’t romantic, but that’s how things are in real life. And once we were across the frontier, I got a grip on myself. I saw what an utter fool I had been to clear out so abruptly.
It wouldn’t do to go back at once, however. So I stopped off in Brussels, called on some friends, and stayed a day or two with them. Then, fully master of my nerves once more, I went boldly back to my old headquarters in Germany and resumed my work, both pretended and real.
I had been the victim of a false alarm. As I found out afterwards, my man had got hold of some spurious diagrams from somewhere, but they had not been deliberately
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