I WAS A SPY

Press, Volume XC, Issue 27410, 24 July 1954, Page 6

I WAS A SPY

CLOAK AND DAGGER

[Specially written for “ The Press,” by

R. R. BEAUCHAMP]

All this to-do in the papers about Mr and Mrs Petrov brings back to me with a singular vividness the days when I, too, was a spy. It happened this way. In 1920 my ship went home after a spell on the China Station. I liked China, applied for a further two years in the East, and, the Intelligence Officer at Hong Kong being due for relief I was appointed in his place. F., my predecessor, was an enthusiastic young officer of Irish extraction who had not been content with the somewhat dull and routine existence of peace-time 1,0. The work was generally considered to involve reading all the local papers and extracting from them enough information to satisfy your admiral’s curiosity about the political situation in any part of the Western Pacific. If you had a sporting admiral like mine, you were also expected to know the dates of the more important race meetings; the position of the migratory snipe on their flight from Siberia to the Dutch Indies; the state of the pheasant shooting on the Yangtse river, and the best time for salmon fishing in the far nOrth * - All.* These matters were incidental but important, for if there were no political considerations, then the fleet’s cruising programme was always arranged to provide the maximum of sport and entertainment. It was indeed rather a dull job and in the steamy atmosphere of a Hong Kong summer it made you long for something a little more exciting. My predecessor had fallen into this mood- and being a man of action and addicted to cloak-and-dagger methods, he had set out to get more and better information. He habitually went about in plain clothes. His hat was wide-brimmed and capable of concealing most of his face; he wore rubber sneakers. Best of all, he had collected what he called his stable. This was a motley assortment of agents. "The Agents” Ah! The very word gave me a thrill. At the head of the string was a Levantine Jew of enormous wealth, the manager of a large insurance company with branches throughout the East. Contact with this magnate was made at a weekly luncheon (paid for by the magnate) at the Hong Kong Hotel. We had a luxurious private room and food and drink suited to high-level international conspirators. Besides the magnate and myself there were generally one or two guests—men from politically hot spots: men with a story to tell! From this airconditioned feast of good things and underground gossip, I would return to my staff office to write notes on the information I had gathered—or, more usually, to sleep it off. Looking back, it has sometimes crossed my mind that instead of 'X being OUR agent we were more probably HIS! We still lived in the days of gunboat diplomacy. Bandits, war lords, and even the legal government were constantly in the market for arms. A financial dabbler in Far Eastern affairs would certainly be glad to know who the British Navy was likely to back before launching any black market business. Anyway, whoever was whose agent it made one feel very important and rather sinister. Then there were a number of business contacts in the outlying ports, who, when asked to do so, would give reports on the state of war, peace, and trade in their various districts. China was in a state of chronic chaos in those days. The great trading firms were mainly British, and peace was vital to their trade. These firms were often the only stabilising force in an empire that was fast falling apart: and their heads were men with a deep knowledge of China and with the ability and tact to preserve peace wherever possible. Here again we ran as a mutual benefit concern; for when risings and revolutions threatened, the opportune arrival of gunboat or cruiser would often save much bloodshed and, incidentally, Improve the security and volume of local trade. Dick A third source of information was found in the consular reports. That now-vanished race, the Chinese Consular Service, was composed of most remarkable men. Men of English tradition and classical education, they were generally good, and sometimes outstanding, Chinese scholars. This blending of two great civilisations produced a type whose wisdom, charm, and eccentricity would be hard to match. Their reports were mines of information ana masterpieces of literature. Nor did they lack humour. I remember the account of some dignitary visiting the port of Swatow. “The general was received by the provincial governor to the strains of that enthusiastic collection of unskilled brass workers, the Swatow military band.” But the pet exhibit in our string of agents was Dick. .Dick was a young Western-educated Chinese, who hovered between Hong Kong and the city of Canton, where the great Dr. Sun Yatsen was trying to hold the remains of his South China Republic together in the face of strong attacks hy local war lords. Dick was a born conspirator and readily fell in with F’s cloak-and-dagger methods. My first introduction to him went something like this. F was turning the office over to me and showing me the dossiers of his various agents. It was night time. “Dick’s probably handy; he often hangs around on the chance of a job.” He peeped round the window blind and seemed satisfied with what he saw. He then put on his conspiratorial hat, turned out the light, opened the winand gave three piercing whistles. That’s to let him know all clear to come up.” There were two whistles in reply, and Dick entered, moon-faced and smiling, low-brimmed hat, rubber sneakers, and all. I never knew how Dick existed, for we had nothing to give him but thanks for any information he brought in. Sometimes we stood him a bang-up Chinese dinner at the Court of

Heavenly Perfumes or some such Dorn lar restaurant. But he was useful S knew much of what was haDnenilr within the tortured maze of SS China politics. He was a devoted ‘ worshipper and even fired me enthusiasm for the great man, thn»«k at that callow age I did not givp 8 ; row of pins for anyone’s politick ideals. I take some credit, though, fn persuading the admiral that we shnnil bail the doctor out. His enemies ha 3 closed in on him and he was making» last stand at Canton. So one dark tart stormy night a gunboat (with Dick S me on board) went up to Canton and brought Sun Yat-sen back to the Hong Kctag that had nurtured and educated him. I understand he is now the patron saint of New China,, go tha t if Mao and Chou ever come down this way I shall say, “Please, I saved Sun Yat-sen,” and expect to be rewaMed with nothing less than the job of commissar of the South Island. No Blondes Our spying was all good clean fun and did nobody any harm. I dreamed of gorgeous blondes coming to mv office by night laden with jeweilerv and information. But they nev» came. My companion in crime was the Air Intelligence Officer, a charming chap with a wooden leg and a heart of gold. At that time (1921) there were known to be five aircraft in China, so that his duties were not unduly onerous. He passed the long days in hi corner of the office sorting and arranging his magnificent stamp collection My latest information is that he grows vegetables in his Kentish garden, using his pegleg as a dibber while his aged mother comes behind and drops the potatoes in. Not all spies come to an untimely end. There were other compensation! noted firm of English boatbuilders was anxious to sell high-speed motor-boats to the war lords of the Chinese rivers. The Hong Kong agent, knowing I was to be trusted with a boat and presuming that I was familiar with war lords, put a craft at my disposal, just to run about the harbour and show its paces off. She was a beauty: a stepped hydroplane hull that could do3o knots—a great speed in those days Full of boldness, I invited a charming lady to visit a well-known picnic and bathing beach with me. All went well, and we were showing off nicely before our envious friends when the propeller fouled an old gunny bag. Everything stopped with a bang and a serious leak developed in the stem. From this predicament we were saved by a passing sampan. It was the kind of craft upon which a whole family lives in incredible squalor It was propelled by a single car over the stern, manipulated with hereditary skill by a large matron with a baby on her back. Baling furiously, we were thus towed ignominiously to the beach. My companion was not impressed.

Besides giving political information, it was my duty to keep up to date the confidential books which were supposed to give the Navy information about foreign shore defences, harbour facilities, and everything else of military value. These books were very tm-pressive-looking objects, bound in lead covers, so that, had my office not been half a mile from the sea, I could, in emergency, have thrown them into the vasty deep and thus avoided capture of the priceless information they were supposed to contain. Actually most of this was hopelessly out of date. I remember one volume marked “Most Secret” which dealt with a Russian port on the North China Sea. It contained the nerve-sbattering information, dated 1864, that the defences consisted of two 45-ton muzzle-loading cannon. For 50 years this jewel of naval intelligence had reposed in ships’ confidential book safes, to be solemnly signed for when it was taker, out and signed off again on return. I managed to persuade reluctant authorities to substitute a loose-leaf filing system, in which new information could be made readily available and the obsolete painlessly destroyed. In pursuit of this ideal, I was sent to visit every port in East Asia, from Vladivostok to Sourabaya. and acquired almost all I needed without the aid of bribery or false whiskers. Ninety-nine per cent, of it was perfectly harmless and could be dug out of guide books, official publications, and the memories of businessmen who lived in the ports. But authority was unhappy. Coast reports had always been secret documents and my loose leaves were eventually bound into the old lead-covered books. I suspect that when we went to war in 1942 most of the information was the old stuff I had collected 20 years before and would again be hopelessly out of date. Amateur and Professional My life as a spy lasted two years. We worked on a strictly amateur code, did a fair job, and made nobody unhappy. Reading the press accounts of the Petrov affair, one is struck by this contrast between the amateur way in which the British conduct their affairs and the deadly professionalism of the Russian method*. The spying upon spies; the subversion of well-meaning people; the passing of 30 pieces of silver. It is all very unpleasant and is not calculated to improve our relations with Russia. But we should remember that nations have always thought it necessary to spy upon other nations—upon enemies and upon friends as well—just to be on the safe side. The M.V.D. may score a point now and then, as the Russians, with their hlgh-powerd teams of oarsmen, their doctors, nurses, and dietitians, beat us at Henley the other day. But the amateur spirit throws up its Landys and its Hillarys; and I think it has everything to recommend it Even in war the civilian army seems to have an edge on the professional machine. After all, the business of life is to enjoy yourself; not to beat the other fellow or poke about in his private affairs.