concealing the fact that there was any secret to be unraveled. The allegorical code was still very much in use at the time of the World War, especially in espionage work, and none of the nations could find a much more effective answer to it than by censoring telegrams. One day, when a British squadron steamed out to sea, a telegraph censor in Edinburgh found among the messages going over the commercial cables an order for several thousand safety-razor blades, addressed to a firm in Stockholm. He happened to have been in the safety-razor business and was slightly surprised by the size of the order, which did not seem justified by what he knew of current commercial conditions.
A check-back was instituted, and he discovered that in the past six months the same agent had ordered from Sweden more safety-razor blades than all England had used in the last three years! Within an hour the safety-razor agent was facing a military court which wanted explanations and wanted them in a hurry.
On another occasion a censor in the south of England found in his hands a telegram from a man suspected of being a spy, but against whom there was no proof, and addressed to somewhere in Holland. “Father is dead,” the message said simply. The censor considered it briefly, changed the text to “Father is deceased” and let it go through. Next morning the reply was placed on his desk:
“Is father dead or deceased?”
There is really no method of breaking such codes but that of common sense; and the main difficulty lies in detecting their existence. As early as 1916 the Allies became certain that information was leaking through to Germany by this method and a check-up, performed by sending out bits of false information in suspected quarters and watching for the result, showed this was perfectly true. To counter the work of the spies the practice was adopted of holding up all private telegrams of whatever nature for forty-eight hours on the eve of important military movements.
There was also a good deal of talk about using the Personal columns of the daily newspapers for code communications, but it is highly doubtful whether this was ever done. Obviously only the most generalized information could be sent through the limited wordage of a newspaper classified ad; and it is equally obvious that to use the method consistently would be an invitation to the counter-espionage workers, not to mention the fact that papers published in London or Paris could not possibly reach Germany through neutral countries in less than three or four days.
The general public remained convinced that most Personal ads were in code, however, and bombarded the government departments in both France and England with warnings—which gave rise to some ludicrous incidents, such as the occasion when an amateur cryptographer came rushing into the headquarters of the British deciphering department and demanded to see the chief.
“I’ve got it!” he cried, when he finally secured admission, and brandished a copy of a morning paper, pointing to a Personal:
ETHEL—Sorry I cannot meet you under the limes at five o’clock.—Sally.
“There have been three of these Ethel-Sally messages in a week, and they make up a system of code,” declared the amateur. “I’ve finally solved it. Here’s the answer.”
He held out a slip of paper on which was written:
To all Channel U-boats. Transports will leave Southampton tonight at eight o’clock.
The officer read through the decipherment without displaying any signs of perturbation.
“That’s very interesting,” he said.
“I know it is. That’s just what I’ve been writing letters to your department about—letters to which they have paid not the slightest attention. These messages were put in by German spies!”
The cipher expert permitted himself to smile. “Oh, I think not,” he replied. “It just happens that I inserted those Ethel-Sally messages in the paper myself to see what you amateurs would make of them.”
IX
On the other hand there is a story, several times repeated by Italian sources, unverified and possibly not true, but which, if true, represents one of the greatest coups ever put over by means of an invisible code. When the last great Austrian advance rolled down to the Piave in the autumn of 1917 it embraced a town a mile or so back from the left bank of that stream where there was a big inn with a courtyard, in the center of which stood a well. This well the Italians wired for sound, concealing a microphone under the curbing and carrying wires down through the water and underground to a point where they could be led across to the side of the river in their possession. The inn they left intact; it was an obvious spot for an Austrian headquarters, and sure enough a divisional staff established itself there.
Unfortunately the conversations picked up by the microphone were not rich in information. But the device worked beautifully as far as audibility went, and the Italians turned it to use by sending through the Austrian lines one of their best spies, a girl named Rosita, who was a clever singer and an accomplished guitarist. She established herself in the town with the inn and well, and every night came to the courtyard to entertain the Austrian divisional staff with improvised ditties, into which were woven amusing little comments on each division and regiment that arrived in line, with personal chatter about its officers.
Naturally, these songs also formed a convenient code by means of which she was telling her countrymen through the microphone, the name, location and characteristics of every Austrian unit facing them. In a cryptographic sense the thing is possible but very difficult; Rosita would have had to be extraordinarily clever to get that much information into her songs without arousing suspicion. But it is certain that the Italians were particularly well informed as to the enemy order of battle before they launched their troops in the great offensive of Vittorio Veneto that broke Austria and drove her out of the war.
* I acquired, moreover,
A pretty mistress
Dreaming of wine without water,
And unadulterated booze,
Stockings, fine shoes,
A lace-covered waist,
A feathered hat.
* See notes at back.
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