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Chapter 3: 1936 – Joint Intelligence Committee

On Tuesday 7th July 1936, a few weeks before the spectacular opening of the Berlin Olympics, seven men sat around a large ornate table in a four-storey building just opposite the entrance to Downing Street to discuss the growing military challenge that Germany posed to the British Empire.

Six of the men were officers representing the intelligence staff of the Royal Navy, Army and the Royal Air Force. The seventh was a shadowy civilian whose background was an organisation that had no official existence, the head of the Industry Resources Section (IRS), as well as being a senior representative of the Foreign Office funded Secret Intelligence Service, the SIS. The building in which the meeting was taking place, No. 2 Richmond Terrance, was once the home of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, the explorer of Africa, the greeter of Dr. Livingstone, and sometime Member of Parliament for North Lambeth. Outside the front entrance, the plane trees were the last remnant of the Privy Garden of the Old Palace of Westminster. Now the large ornate rooms, modelled in the French style similar to the interior of a Loire chateau, housed the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID) and the Chiefs of Staff (COS) Committee, and it was on their direction that the key figures in British Intelligence were meeting formally for the first time.

As the clock chimed eleven o’clock in the meeting room on the first floor the Chairman, a Brigadier in the Buffs (Royal East Kent Regiment), opened proceedings. The Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) had come into being.

The Armed Forces had their own intelligence units and they were quite proud and protective of them, the result of which was that the information was guarded even between themselves. Inter-service rivalry dominated. They had to be brought to heel and cooperate; easier said than done.

The SIS was under Foreign Office supervision, and was responsible for collecting information outside Great Britain and Northern Ireland. The SIS was not solely concerned with military matters, which was a cause of much jealousy and carping from the Armed Forces at various committees and ad hoc intelligence gatherings in Whitehall, and could and did report on political matters. Unfortunately, the SIS was underfunded and, according to knowledgeable Foreign Office insiders, it was encumbered by, to put it delicately, ‘square pegs in round holes.’ It had to be better used, and inept internal circuits replaced or circumvented; easily done if the will prevails.

The third strand of intelligence was the political element within the Foreign Office itself. A mixture of diplomatic reporting and information gathering through embassies and private networks, the Foreign Office had, since the nineteenth century, collected what is called ‘political intelligence’. This had to be incorporated into military intelligence consciousness; easier said than done.

It was because of this confusion and exasperation in a disparate number of organisations dealing with intelligence and a resurgent German threat that the Joint Intelligence Committee or the JIC was created.

The shadowy figure at the first Joint Intelligence Committee meeting was Alastair Cartwright, an artillery major in the Great War, seconded to the Foreign Office in 1919. A young clerk who worked in Cartwright’s department for a number of years had described him in hushed tones to a colleague in the staff canteen as the ‘intangible man’. He had the ability to pass through doors and walls and listen in on meetings, whispers in corridors, and conversations on stairways. She even suggested, and quite wildly, this ability extended to taxi cabs and buses. Cartwright, the information gathering phantom.

***

What turned night into day, as Cartwright described it, was a phone call from a Captain in Army Intelligence inviting him to a spot of luncheon the following day, their place. Unusual, thought Cartwright. Due to his pugilist history with the uniformed branch of intelligence circles, he certainly was not treated as ‘one of us,’ nor had he been ever invited to lunch at ‘their place,’ the lair of his most bitter antagonist.

Lunch was with a face he recognised, and introduced himself as Major Whiteford. Walking stick user, another remnant of the Great War. Whiteford informed him over the indifferent oxtail soup that they had recently discovered, through sources, the alarming and unexpected growth of the German Army, the Wermacht, and its industrial base suppliers, and in their considered opinion it was beyond what the War Office considered as a legitimate and acceptable. Whiteford passed this bombshell in a monotone nasal voice, complementing a bland, impassive poker player face. Ideal committee man or, heavens above, a politician, thought Cartwright. Whiteford could blatantly contradict himself in the same sentence, look one in the eye, and vehemently argue there was no ambiguity in the statement.

Cartwright put down his spoon and stared at his luncheon companion. Did he hear right? Now he knew the reason for the lunch. He could not believe his luck on one hand, and an immediate sense of foreboding on the other. If the principal flag bearer of Nazi Germany had completely done a volte-face, then what exactly did they know? Cartwright did not react. He kept his peace. Let the Major talk.

Whiteford waited for the soup bowls to be cleared, a pregnant pause in this mea culpa moment which lasted for a full half minute. As soon as the corporal steward had delivered the steak pie and retreated through the swing door into the kitchen, Whiteford started to continue, but Cartwright stopped him by filling up both glasses with the equally indifferent house red wine. He felt a sense of power. He was the winner. The victor ludorum. He signalled Whiteford to continue.

‘As you are aware, we have argued that German arms output could not, would not exceed 1933–34 levels. This was based, as you know, on the highly speculative nature of figures, and the uncertainty regarding Germany’s economic future, with the proviso that likely rate for new army divisions would increase … err … slowly, based on what we knew,’ he hastily added.

No, it’s what you wanted to believe, thought Cartwright bitterly.

‘We have also to take into account the recent announcement from Berlin that the period of conscription service in the army would be increased to two years. Then we got unwelcome news that the Werhmacht has expanded beyond peacetime strength of thirty six divisions to thirty nine.’ All this was relayed between mouthfuls of pie and assorted vegetables, and the odd gulp of wine. ‘The Reichswehrministerium made lame excuses to our Army Attaché in Berlin about misunderstandings over whether the three armoured divisions were, or were not, to be included into the total. We have concluded that the Germans deliberately misinformed our attaché. Further expansion is inevitable,’ Major Whiteford carefully laid down his knife and fork, ‘therefore, Alastair, we agree with your recent German rearmament analysis. More wine?’

The game had changed; he now had the backing of all intelligence agencies. He wondered if certain members of the JIC had anything to do with this road to Damascus event. He never found out. Never enquired.

By happenstance, Whiteford and three other Military intelligence officers were re-assigned the following week, and Cartwright was invited to place one of his DCs in the Army Intelligence camp. On the proviso, Cartwright insisted, that it was a loan. That same day, Cartwright signed four authorisation dockets: one for the temporary transfer of Dr. Michael McDougall (armoured steel expert, Vickers-Armstongs Ltd., Sheffield) to the IRS at Queen Anne’s Gate, and a phone tap on the London home telephone of Colonel Geyr von Schweppenburg, the German Military Attaché, as well as his rented weekend cottage in Berkshire, and Luftwaffe Colonel Albert Wenninger, the German Air Attaché’s flat in Curzon Street, Mayfair.

***

The IRS staff were by now confident in their work. It was all about sources, experience and cooperation. All hail the DCs! Particularly in their handling of statistical data. By mid-summer 1936 the IRS was a ship with billowing sails, a full crew, a manifest of deliverables, and Cartwright as its indisputable captain and figurehead. Collecting, sifting and analysing data as it docked, loaded and sailed between six continents.

Time to notch up a gear. Early in August 1936, the usual Monday morning meeting of minds was cancelled. It was decided by Cartwright to have it transferred, until further notice, to Fridays. So said the type written memorandum on the communal noticeboard. Monday had been the usual allocation of tasks and ‘to do’ lists, discussion of conclusions to tasks completed, and proposal of remedies to ‘stuck’ projects, as well as allocation of individuals to groups for another hot-to-trot assignment, and planning for the week ahead. Cartwright decided that a Friday was a better day.

With minds full of Friday meeting discussions and conclusions, a restful weekend away from the ballroom was best to mull over highlighted problems, recognise and appreciate the unseen; to appreciate the unknowns. To solve a problem, the exact cause of the problem has to be identified. He was a great believer in sleep, and its ability to facilitate memory consolidation, waking up to that ‘eureka’ moment.

That Friday, they gathered as they usually did for the meeting in the centre of the ballroom, and around the large rectangular table usually reserved as a work-day dumping ground for files, books and whatever else required a temporary resting place. Chairs were carried or dragged, others preferred to stand or perch on adjacent desks.

Cartwright, with a mug of tea in his hand, opened the proceedings with his usual M’sieurs-dames … introduction – a habit carried from the Great War. He gave a brief operational summary of the situation in Spain now that Germany, Italy and Russia (he still preferred to call it by its Tsarist name) had entered the fray. He then linked it to Hitler and his hot-off-the-press Four Year Plan. Cartwright talked for half an hour. He covered the Spanish strategic mineral export situation; the involvement of the new German-Spanish mineral joint venture; he pointed his mug of tea at Andoni, who now preferred to be called Anthony, Arriola, back row standing, and told him to follow it up. Cartwright continued with the shipments of war matériel into Spain including personnel from both Germany and Italy; and the goings on at the Gaylord hotel in Madrid, where the Russian NKVD advisors to the Nationalist government were billeted. A mildly risqué anecdote he had heard concerning a Russian intelligence officer and a street flower seller got most of the crew giggling and some laughing. ‘Let me finish, please … the upshot was that the flower seller had a husband, they wrangled compensation and are now the proud owners of a florist shop on Calle Segovia.’ Someone at the back did a flamenco staccato clap and shouted ‘Ole!’

After the formation of the Joint Intelligence Committee in June, and the lunch apology from Whiteford, he now had the backing of all concerned to concentrate on the implications of Hitler’s Four Year Plan, which, in his considered opinion, was dedicated to muscling up the country for war, and probably before the four years are up. ‘Crafty devil is Herr Hitler. He just can’t wait.’

‘It is not our main task to find out how many aircraft the Luftwaffe has,’ he said quietly one Friday morning, ‘but it is our job to find out, for example, if the Lufwaffe would have enough fuel to fly, and for a sustainable time under continuous combat situations. Does Germany have enough iron ore to manufacture more of those spanking new panzer tank divisions we’ve just heard about, let alone the Kriegsmarine’s new ship building plans? Even if there was a complete sea blockade?

‘If we could find out what German industry has, in terms of key matériel specific capacity and storage, and we focus on those industries and products in the light of this new Hitler directive, then we can work out when Germany would be confident enough to start and sustain a long war. M’sieurs-dames, we will now turn our full attention, I repeat, full attention, to imported oil and strategic minerals.

‘History repeats itself, remember the Schlieffen Plan and its consequences,’ he reminded his audience. ‘So, the first task is to review origin and import volumes of crude oil, refined products, lubricants and whatever else that makes an engine work, land, sea and air.’ Cartwright gave this project to Wheeler as leader and another six DCs to make up the German Fuel Assignment team. He reminded Arriola the Basque to get cracking on Spanish minerals. ‘Ongoing projects assessment at 15.00hrs.’ Cartwright clapped his hands and motioned dispersal. Someone shouted ‘Ole!’

On the way back to the greenhouse Cartwright called over Wheeler and, still walking, he said, counting fingers, ‘You and your team did the Synthetic Aviation Fuel study last month, lets now concentrate on conventional petroleum; one, import of oil and related products, from where, how much, current stockpile. What if we close off the shipping lanes and therefore introduce sustainability issues? Marry this with what you did last month. That’s it.’

Both knew this new study would produce guesstimates, to put it mildly and politely. But it had to be done. The effort had to be made.

***

Group Captain Thomas Langlois Lefoy RAF (ret’d) was the Assistant Air Attaché in Berlin. He and Cartwright had shared a hospital ward in 1917. Cartwright had fallen with a bullet in his shoulder and one in his leg, and Lefoy had fallen out of the sky in a shot-up Sopwith Camel. They were firm friends, even shared the same convalescent home in East Sussex. After the war, one went into the Foreign Office and the other stayed on in the rebranded Royal Air Force. Lefoy stayed until 1931; he landed up as station commander at RAF Middle Wallop Intermediate Pilot Training School, and thereafter took early retirement. He was transferred to the reserve auxiliary list, and was promptly contacted by his ex-bed-next-door companion, Major Alastair Cartwright MC.

Lefoy, as the IRS infiltrator, worked the embassy reception circuit in and around the Unter den Linden. Most of the embassies of worth were close by and so were the important German Ministries. Many a time he would be taken aside, champagne flute in hand, … I must tell you Herr Lefoy … and, excuse me, in strict confidence … a personal disquiet and reservations on how the Reich was now run. It was very much evident after 1933, and Hitler’s rise to Chancellor, that Germans of a liberal persuasion thought that only England could stop this madness. His job was to report back. This he did. The diplomatic bag was well used, ‘For the immediate and personal attention of Major Alastair Cartwright MC,’ the information gatherer.