Читать книгу Secrets of German Espionage - Bernard Newman - Страница 14

At all costs, it seems, the story of a spy must be made sensational. Yet some of the most successful spies scarcely experienced a thrill in the whole of their careers. One of the most valuable spies the British employed during the war was a Belgian railwayman, a shunter with a phenomenal memory and a keen observation. All he had to do, from his unique position of vantage, was to observe what trains passed his junction in all directions; and what was the nature of their cargo. By virtue of his keen eye and freedom of movement, he was able to identify units going towards the line and coming away from it. He soon learned to calculate, by counting the number of trucks, what numbers of men and guns were being moved up to the lines, and how many wounded men were coming down. That was all—no hairbreadth escapes for this invaluable agent. Every evening he reported his observations to a woman in his town. To her and her helpers came the thrills. The gathering of the information was easy: the difficulty arose in its transmission to England, involving a perilous journey across Belgium into Holland.

The spy story often slips up, too, on the question of disguise. Generally the agent is a “master of disguise.” He rushes into a room; the police are on his trail; he is disguised as a Chinaman; he halts before a mirror. A few rapid passes with his grease-paint, a hurried donning of wig and whiskers, and he marches out of the room a Russian, humming the Volga Boat Song and shaking the snow off his boots.

That can be exciting (or amusing) as a story, but in real life it is fantastic. All those who have had any stage experience can tell you the limitations of the use of grease-paint. If you doubt them, try to-morrow morning—disguise yourself with grease-paint and whiskers, and see how far you get down the street before you are held up by the officer on duty.