My adventures as a German secret agent

It was peaceful sailing in those early days of the war, and our ship, the Duca d’Aosta, reached Genoa with no mishap. I had but one moment of trepidation on the voyage, for on the last day the ship was hailed by a British cruiser. Here, I thought, was where I should put my passport to the test, but as it happened, our ship was not searched. An officer came alongside inquiring, among other things, if there were any Germans on board, but he accepted the captain’s assurance that there were none—to my great relief.

Genoa, like all the rest of the world, was in a state of great excitement in those days. Rumors as to the possible course of the Italian Government were flying about everywhere, and one could hear in an hour as many conflicting statements of the Government’s intentions as he might wish. The country was a battlefield of the propagandists at the moment. Nearly all of the German consuls, who had been forced to leave Africa at the declaration of war, had taken up their quarters in Italy, and were busily disseminating pro-German literature of all sorts. I was told, too, that the French Ambassador had already spent large sums of money buying Italian papers, in which to present the Allied cause to the as yet neutral people of Italy. And when I went into the office of the Imperial German Consul General, von Nerf, I was amused to see a huge pile of copies of—of all papers in the world!—the Berlin Vorwaerts, which had been imported for distribution throughout the country. Here was a pretty comedy! That newspaper, which during its entire existence had been the bitterest foe of German autocracy in the Empire, had become a propagandist sheet for its former enemy and was now being used as a lure for the hesitating sympathies of the Italian people! In German, French and Italian editions it was spread about the country, carrying the message of Teutonic righteousness to the uninformed.

I found von Nerf to be a large man, with whiskers that recalled those of Tirpitz, although without that gentleman’s temperament or embonpoint. He assured me that Italy would never enter the war; there were too many factions in the country which would oppose such a step.

“Why, consider,” he bade me, “we have the three most important parties on our side. The Catholics will never consent to a break with Germany; the business men are all our staunch partisans; and the Labor Party is too violently opposed to war ever to consider entering it. Besides,” he continued, “laboring men all over the world know that it is in Germany that the Labor Party has reached its greatest strength. Why, then, should they consider taking sides against us?”

“But do you think that there is any chance of Italy entering the war on our side?” I asked him.

Von Nerf shrugged his shoulders. “It is doubtful,” was his reply. “What could they do in their situation?”

I had come to von Nerf with von Papen’s letter of introduction, to ask for assistance in reaching Germany. Accordingly he arranged for my passage, and soon I was on a train bound for Milan and Kufstein, where I was to change for the train to Munich. At that time the German consuls were paying the passage of thousands of Germans who wished to leave Italy for service in the army. The train on which I traveled was full of these volunteers, who later disembarked at Kufstein, on the Austro-German border, to report to the military authorities there.

At Munich we passed some wounded who were being taken from the front—the first real glimpse of the war that I had had. There was little evidence of any war-feeling in the Bavarian capital; restaurants were crowded, and everyone was light-hearted and confident of victory. I saw few signs of any hatred there, or elsewhere during my stay in Germany. All that there was was directed against England; France was universally respected, and I heard only expressions of regret that she was in the war.

On the train from Munich to Berlin I had the first good meal I had eaten in several weeks. It was good to sit down to something besides miles of spaghetti and indigestible anchovies. And the price was only two marks—for that was long before the days of the Food Controller and $45 ham.

Berlin was filled with Austrian officers, some of them belonging to motor batteries—the famous ’32’s—which had been built before the war in the Krupp factories, not for Germany—for that would have occasioned additional armaments on the part of France—but by Austria, who could increase her strength without suspicion. The city, always martial in appearance, had changed less than one would have expected. There, too, the restaurants were filled; in particular the Piccadilly, which had been rechristened the Fatherland, and was enjoying an exceptional popularity in consequence. One was wise to go early if he wished to secure a table there; and that fortunate person could see the dining-room filled with happy crowds, eating and drinking, and applauding vociferously when Die Wacht am Rhein or some other patriotic air was played.

I had returned to Germany for two purposes; to fight and to bring full details of conditions in Mexico and the United States to the War Office. One of my first official visits was paid to the Foreign Office, where I found every one busy with routine matters and very little concerned about the success or failure of the German propaganda in Italy—an attitude in marked contrast to that of the General Staff. There the first question asked me related to conditions in Italy. This indifference of the Foreign Office would seem, in the light of after events, to indicate a false security on the Ministry’s part; but in reality the facts are otherwise. Germany had never expected Italy to enter the war on the side of the Central Powers; she did hope that her former ally would remain neutral, and at that time was doing her utmost to keep her so, both by propaganda and by assuring her of a supply of coal and other commodities, for which Italy had formerly depended upon England, and which Germany now hoped to secure for her from America. But even at the time of my visit the indications of Italy’s future course were fairly clear—and the Foreign Office was accepting its failure with as good grace as could be mustered to the occasion.

But if the Foreign Office was indifferent to the attitude of Italy, it was intensely interested in that of Turkey, which had not yet entered the war. It seemed to me as if Mannesmann and Company, a house whose interests in the Orient are probably more extensive than those of any other German company, seemed almost to have taken possession of the Colonial Office, so many of its employees were in evidence there: and I had an extended conference with Bergswerkdirektor Steinmann, who had formerly been in charge of the Asia Minor interests of this company. Mexico, of course, was the principal topic of our conversation, but many times he spoke of Turkey and of the small doubt that existed as to her future course of action.

Next door to the Foreign Office, every corner of which was a-hum with busy clerks and officials, stood the house to which I had been taken from Gross Lichterfelde so many years before—“Samuel Mayer’s Bude.” It was very quiet and empty to outward appearance; and yet from within that silent, deserted house, I think it safe to say, the destiny of Europe was being directed. It was there that the Kaiser spent his days, when he was in Berlin. And it was there that the Imperial Chancellor had his office and determined more than any man except the Kaiser, the policies of the Empire.

One entered the house, going directly into a large room that was occupied no longer by the round-faced man of my cadet days, but by Assessor Horstman, the head of the Intelligence Department of the Foreign Office. Upstairs was the private office of the Emperor, and, to the rear of that, the Nachrichten Bureau—a newspaper propaganda and intelligence office, directed by the Kaiser and under the charge of Legation-Secretary Weber.

I visited the Turkish Legation, at the suggestion of Herr Steinmann, and discussed at length and very seriously with the Ambassador the attitude of Italy and its effect upon Turkey’s possible entry into the war. He assured me that the only thing necessary to make Turkey take part in the conflict was a guarantee that Germany was capable of handling the Italian situation, and that whatever Italy might do would not affect Turkish interests.

But it was with the General Staff that my chief business was. At the outbreak of hostilities this—the “War Office” so-called—had become two organizations. One, devoted to the actual supervision of the forces in the field, had its headquarters in Charleville, France, far behind the battle front; the other branch remained in the dingy old building on the Koenig’s Platz, in which it had always been quartered. It is here that the army department of “Intelligence,” officially known as Abteilung III B., is located, and it was to this department that I had been assigned.

Von Papen had, of course, communicated to Berlin an account of our various activities and there was little that I could add to the information the department possessed about conditions in the United States. Mexico seemed rather the chief point of interest, and Major Köhnemann, to whom I spoke, asked innumerable questions about the attitude of Villa towards both the United States and Germany; what I thought of his chances of ultimate success, and whether I believed that he, if he succeeded, would be more friendly to Germany than Carranza was at the time. After an hour of such discussion, which more closely resembled a cross-examination, he suddenly rose.

“Your information is of great interest, Captain von der Goltz,” he said. “I shall ask you to return here at five o’clock this evening. Wear your heaviest underclothing. You are going to see the Emperor.”

I started. Prussian officers do not joke, as a rule, but for the life of me, I could not see any sane connection between his last two remarks. The major must have noticed my perplexity, for he smiled as he continued.

“You are going to travel by Zeppelin,” he explained. “It will be very cold.”

That night I drove by motor to a point on the outskirts of the city, where a Zeppelin was moored. It was one of those which had formerly been fitted up for passenger service, and was now used when quick transportation of a small number of men was necessary. There were several officers of the General Staff whose immediate presence at Coblenz, where the Emperor had stationed himself, was needed; and since speed was essential we were to travel this way.

The miles that lay between Berlin and Coblenz seemed but so many rods to me, as I sat in the salon of the great airship, resting and talking to my fellow passengers. One would have thought that we had been traveling but a few moments when suddenly there loomed below us in the moonlight, the twin fortresses of Ehrenbreitstein and Coblenz, each built upon a high plateau. Between them, in the valley, the lights of the city shone dimly; in the center of the town was the Schloss, where the Emperor awaited us.

But I did not see the Emperor that night. Instead, I was shown to a room in the castle—a room lighted by candle—and there my attendant bade me goodnight.

At half-past three I was awakened by a knock at the door. “Please dress,” said a voice. “His Majesty wishes to see you at four o’clock.”

It was still dark when at four o’clock I entered that room on the ground floor of the castle where the Emperor of Emperors worked and ate and slept. In the dim light I saw him, bent over a table on which was piled correspondence of all kinds. He did not seem to have heard me enter the room, and as he continued to work, signing paper after paper with great rapidity, I looked down and noticed that, in my haste to appear before him on time, I had dressed completely save for one thing. I was in my stocking feet.

I coughed to announce my presence. He looked up then, and I saw that he wore a Litewka, that undress military jacket which is used by soldiers for stable duty, and which German officers wear sometimes in their homes. But the face that met mine, startled me almost out of my composure; for it was more like the countenance of Pancho Villa than that of Wilhelm Hohenzollern. That face, as a rule so majestic in its expression, was drawn and lined; his hair was disarranged and showed numerous bald patches which it ordinarily covered. And his moustaches—for so many years the target of friend and foe and which were always pointed so arrogantly upward—drooped down and gave him a dispirited look that I had never seen him wear before.

In a word, it was an extremely nervous and not a stolid, Teutonic person who sat before me in that room. And it was not an assertive, but merely a very tired human being, who finally addressed me.

“I am sorry to have been obliged to call you at this hour,” he said, “but I am very busy and it is important that I should see you.”

And then instead of ordering me to report to him, instead of commanding me to tell him those things which I had been sent to tell him, this autocrat, this so-called man of iron, spoke to me as one man to another, almost as a friend speaks to a friend.

I do not remember all that we spoke of in that half hour—the three years that have passed have brought me too much of experience for me to recall clearly more than the general tenor of our conversation. It is his manner that I remember most vividly, and the general impression of the scene. For as I stood before him then, it suddenly seemed to me that he spoke and looked as a man will who is confronted by a problem that for the moment has staggered him—not because of its immensity but because he sees now that he has always misunderstood it.

Here, I thought, is a man, accustomed to facing all issues with grand words and a show of arrogance; and now at a time when oratory is of no avail, he finds himself still indomitable, perhaps, but a trifle lost, a trifle baffled, when he contemplates the work before him. For Wilhelm II had labored for years to prevent, or if that were impossible, to come victoriously through, the crisis which he knew must some day develop, and which he himself had at last precipitated. He had striven constantly to entrench Germany in a position that would command the world; and had sought to concentrate, so far as may be, the trouble spots of the world into one or two, to the end that Germany, when the time came, might extinguish them at a blow. But the time had come, and he knew that despite his efforts, there were not two but many issues that must be faced, and each one separately. He had striven with a sort of perverted altruism, to prepare the world for those things which he believed to be right and which, therefore, must prevail. And now after long years of preparation, of diplomatic intrigue with its record of nations bribed, threatened or cajoled into submission or alliance, he was faced with a condition which gave the lie to his expectations and he knew that “failure” must be written across the years. Russia, Japan, were for the moment lost; Italy was making ready to cast itself loose from that alliance which had been so insecurely founded upon distrust. And in America—who could tell? And yet, for all that I read weariness and bewilderment in his every tone, I could find in him no trace of hesitation or uncertainty. Instead, I knew that running through every fibre of the man there was an unquestioning assurance of victory—a victory that must come!

While I stood there imagining these things, he spoke of our aims in Europe and in America and of the things that must be done to bring them to success. He bade me tell him the various details of our affairs in Mexico and the United States; and he, like Köhnemann, was chiefly interested in Mexico. It was in fact, almost suspicious, his interest was so great; and I could explain it only in one way—that he viewed Mexico as the ultimate battlefield of Japan and the United States in the next great struggle—the struggle for the mastery of the Pacific. For just as Belgium has been the battlefield of Europe, so must Mexico be the battleground of America in that war which the future seems to be preparing.

I remember wondering, as he spoke of what might come to pass, at the tremendous familiarity he displayed with the points of view of the peoples and governments of both Americas. I had thought myself well acquainted with conditions in both continents; but here was a man separated by thousands of miles from the peoples of whom he talked, whose knowledge was, nevertheless, more correct, as I saw it, than that of anyone—Dernburg not excepted—whom I had met.

It was then, I think, that he told me what Germany wished of me, outlining briefly those things which he thought I could do best.

“You can serve us,” he said, “in Turkey or in America. In the one you will have an opportunity to fight as thousands of your countrymen are fighting. In the other, you will have chosen a task that is not so pleasant perhaps, and not less dangerous, but which will always be regarded honorably by your Emperor, because it is work that must be done. Which do you choose?”

I hesitated a moment.

“It shall be as your Majesty wishes,” I said finally.

He looked at me closely before he spoke again. “It is America, then.”

And then, as I bowed in acquiescence, he spoke once more—for the last time so far as my ears are concerned.

“I must be ready by 7; my train leaves at 7.10. I may never see you again, but I shall always know that you have done your duty. Good-bye.”

And so I left him—this man who is a menace to his people, not because he is vicious or from any criminal intent; not, I believe, because his personal ambitions are such that his country must bleed to satisfy them; but merely because his mind is the outcome of a system and an education so divorced from fact that he could not see the evil of his own position if it were explained to him.

For in spite of his remarkable grasp of the facts of Empire, the deeper human realities have passed him by. For years he has had a private clipping bureau for his own information; but he does not know that he has never seen any but the clippings that the Junkers—those who stood to gain by the success of his present course—have wished him to see. He does not know that he has been shut out from many chapters of the world’s real history; or that this insidious censorship has kept from him those things, which, I am sure, had he known in the days when his intellect was susceptible to the influence of fact, would have made him a man instead of an Emperor.

Here was a man who honestly believed that he was doing what was best for his people, but so hopelessly warped by his training and so closely surrounded by satellites that even had the truth borne wings, it could not have reached him.

To me it seems that the menace of the Hohenzollerns lies in this: not that they are worse than other men, not that they mean ill to the world, but that time and experience have left them unaroused by what others know as progress. They stand in the pathway of the world to-day, believing themselves right and regarding themselves as victims of an oppressive rivalry. They do not know that their viewpoint is as tragically perverted as that of the fox who, feeling that he must live, steals the farmer’s hens. But, like the farmer, the world knows only that it is injured; and just as the farmer realizes that he must rid himself of the fox, so the world knows, to-day, and says that the Hohenzollerns must go!