German Spies in England: An Exposure

by William Le Queux

Then arises another consideration of equal importance: every commander is entitled and bound to do his utmost to secure the best possible information as to the enemy's forces, their disposition, their size, and, above all, their intentions. It is of even more importance to understand what your enemy intends to do than to know the forces which he has available to carry out his plans. How, then, are we to draw a distinction between perfectly legitimate scouting and reconnaissance work, which can involve no reprobation and no punishment, and the "spying" properly so called, which justifies the infliction of the death penalty?

The answer lies in a couple of words—the spy acts under false pretences, while the soldier or scout acts quite openly; though, of course, concealing himself from observation and detection, he does not adopt any disguise or discard his uniform. The result is, that under no circumstances can a soldier wearing his uniform be treated as a spy. He may dare and do anything; if he is caught his sole punishment is that he is treated as a prisoner of war. So far as the soldier is concerned (the case of the civilian spy will be dealt with presently) disguise is the essence of spying. This point is clear beyond the possibility of misconception, and the commander who shot a soldier in uniform on the plea that he was acting as a spy would simply be committing a murder.

Usually, a military spy is a soldier who has laid aside his own uniform, and either adopted civilian dress, or clothed himself in the uniform of the enemy, or a neutral, the better to escape detection. For such, there is no mercy; the penalty of detection is death. The reason is obvious: the soldier in disguise is a far more dangerous enemy than the one who openly carries out his hostile acts. In war, as in peace, the enemy in disguise is most dangerous; the false friend is the soldier's as well as the civilian's worst peril.

Here we come to another anomaly: spying in itself is not a criminal act. That is clearly recognised by Article XXXI. of the Hague Convention already quoted. Consequently, unless he is taken in the act the spy is immune; once he has regained his own lines, and discarded his disguise, he is exempt from the consequences of his espionage, even though he were captured and identified ten minutes later.

To constitute "spying" in the strict sense of the word, the offence must be carried out clandestinely, and in the war area. As we all know now, and as I and others pointed out years ago, the United Kingdom for many years has been flooded with German agents busily engaged in picking up information on naval and military subjects which would be of value to Germany. It is important to recognise that these agents are not "spies" in the strict sense of the word, since the United Kingdom is, happily, not within the war zone. In time of peace they could not be shot. When war began, however, they were guilty of "war treason" and liable to the death penalty. The case of Carl Lody, with which I deal fully elsewhere, is a case in point. Lody was not accused of "spying," but of "war treason." The word "spy," however, is convenient, and no doubt it will continue to be used without undue regard to the technicalities.

It is necessary, I think, to make it clear how eminent soldiers have found it not beneath their dignity and honour to act as spies, even in the face of the general opprobrium which attaches to the spy. In the first place, the obtaining of information is essential to the successful conduct of war. Secondly, it is recognised that no moral guilt attaches to the spy, as is shown by the fact that he can only be punished if he is taken in the act, and as a preventive measure. Thirdly, we must remember that only a very brave man, ready to lay down his life for his country, could bring himself to act as a spy in war time. The spy, let it not be forgotten, is under no illusions; he takes his life in his hands, and he knows it. If he is caught there is no help for him; his doom is as certain as the rising of the sun. Only a man to whom his life was as nothing if risking it would serve his country's cause, would dare to undertake the perilous work of spying in time of war. Whatever other attributes the spy may possess, and many of them undoubtedly are individuals of a very undesirable kind, the possession of courage must be granted to them.

Naturally, it will be asked why the spy is so generally held in contempt, and, indeed, in abhorrence. That this should be so is, in all probability, due to a certain confusion of ideas between the soldier spy who, risking his life in war, may be playing a truly heroic part, and those miserable secret agents who, in time of peace and without risk, abuse for gold a nation's hospitality with the deliberate intention of working her ruin when war comes, or, still worse, the traitor who is ready to sell the interests of his own country. And it is one of the anomalies of the whole subject that the traitor who is ready to sell his country's interests to a possible enemy should, in time of peace, be punishable only by penal servitude, while the truly brave and often heroic soldier who in time of war risks his life in his country's cause, should meet certain death if he is detected.

Let us assume for a moment that a man of the former class, the day before the war broke out, had sold to Germany information of some secret upon which the safety of the British Empire depended. There is no such secret, but I assume it for the sake of argument. His maximum punishment would have been penal servitude. Take next the case of a German soldier who, the day after war was declared, crept disguised into our lines and obtained information which might have enabled his commander to capture fifty British soldiers. We should have shot him without delay. Yet will anyone contend that there is anything comparable in the moral turpitude of the two acts? It must not be understood, of course, that I am pleading for clemency for the spy; my plea is for greater severity for the traitor!

We are now faced with another problem. If it is dishonourable to spy—and many eminent authorities, as well as public opinion, generally hold this to be the case—it is unquestionably dishonourable to employ spies. Yet all commanders of all nations employ spies, and if any nation failed to do so, it might as well—as Lord Wolseley said—sheathe its sword for ever. We can take it for granted that, in his many campaigns, Lord Wolseley made the fullest use possible of spies, and yet his personal honour need not be questioned. We certainly cannot say that he was dishonoured by the use of means often regarded as dishonourable.

Moreover, great soldiers themselves have not hesitated to act as spies. The history of war is full of such cases. Catinat spied in the disguise of a coal-heaver. Montluc disguised himself as a cook. Ashby, in the American Civil War, visited the Federal lines as a horse-doctor, while General Nathaniel Lyon visited the Confederate camp at St. Louis in disguise before he attacked and captured it. Against the personal honour of such men as these no word can be said, and, as Mr. Spaight points out, it is surprising to find a military historian like Sir Henry Hozier declaring that "spies have a dangerous task and not an honourable one."