Before Bletchley Park E-Book

Paul Gannon

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The story of Bletchley Park's codebreaking operations in the Second World War is now well known, but its counterparts in the First World War – Room 40 & MI1(b) – remain in the shadows, despite their involvement in and influence on most of the major events of that war. From the First Battle of the Marne, the shelling of Scarborough, the battles of Jutland and the Somme in 1916, to the battles on the Western Front in 1918, the German naval mutiny and the Zimmermann Telegram, this cast of characters – several of them as eccentric as anyone from Bletchley Park in the Second World War – secretly guided the outcome of the 'Great War' from the confines of a few smoke-filled rooms. Using hundreds of intercepted and decrypted German military, naval and diplomatic messages, bestselling author Paul Gannon reveals the fascinating story of British codebreaking operations. By drawing on many newly discovered archival documents that challenge misleading stories about Room 40 & MI1(b), he reveals a sophisticated machine in operation.

Leseprobe

First published 2020

This paperback edition published 2022

The History Press

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© Paul Gannon, 2020, 2022

The right of Paul Gannon to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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ISBN 978 0 7509 9634 1

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

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Contents

Introduction

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1     Munitions of War

2     Breakout

3     The Longest Link

4     Urgent Imperial Service

5     Birth of a Legend

6     Code Capture

7     Codes and Ciphers

8     Early Days

9     Blockade

10   Counter-Blockade

11   ‘For You the War is Over’

12   ‘The Pillars of Hercules have Fallen’

13   Inside Room 40

14   Codebreakers

15   The Spanish Interception

16   ‘Most Secret: Decipher Yourself’

18   On Timing and Treachery

19   Applied Intelligence

20   War, Revolution and Peace

Notes

Select Bibliography

Introduction

On 17 January 1917, Nigel de Grey, a young Naval Intelligence officer, hurried to the office of his wartime superior, Captain William Hall, Director of Naval Intelligence. Once inside, de Grey impatiently spluttered out his question, ‘Do you want to bring America into the war, sir?’ The short, dapper captain, known to his subordinates as ‘Blinker’ Hall because of his rapidly blinking eyes, was immediately alert. ‘Yes, why?’ he inquired. De Grey brandished a piece of paper, exclaiming, ‘I’ve got a telegram here that will bring them in if you give it to them!’

The war was at a critical stage. A dreadful, bloody stalemate on land and sea was consuming lives at an awful rate. The military offered no obvious way of breaking the deadlock. The United States’ entry to the war, however, could shift the balance and bring the dreadful slaughter to an end. But neither the US Government nor its people wanted to join the Europeans’ imperial war. If de Grey was not exaggerating the import of the telegram, then whatever he had discovered could be decisive.

De Grey was one of the handful of people who worked in Room 40 of the Admiralty in Central London. Their task was to break German naval and diplomatic codes and ciphers. This particular telegram, sent from Berlin, via Washington, to the German representative in Mexico, was intercepted in London on its journey. De Grey, and a colleague, Dilly Knox, had made out only some passages of the message. But what they had revealed was enough to send de Grey dashing off to Hall’s office. The German Foreign Secretary, Arthur Zimmermann, proposed in the telegram that Germany and Mexico join forces in waging war – ‘conduct war jointly; make peace jointly’ – against the United States. When the telegram’s contents were fully decoded and revealed to the US public, it helped propel the United States into the war, ensuring Germany’s defeat.

This intercepted message is Room 40’s most renowned achievement. Yet, the Zimmermann telegram was just one of many thousands of wireless and telegraph cable messages systematically intercepted throughout the war and decoded by Room 40, and by its War Office equivalent, MI1(b).

The existence of these codebreaking activities was kept secret during the war, though soon afterwards some details were exposed. But it was only in the early 1980s that a semi-official account of Room 40 was written by Patrick Beesly, a Naval Intelligence officer at Bletchley Park in the Second World War. He had access to some of the Room 40 archives and his book became the standard work. Many previously secret documents have since been opened at the National Archives in Kew, including several on the Zimmermann telegram and on the secretive MI1(b), enabling us to update the story of First World War codebreaking.

***

History, it is frequently asserted, is written by the victors. And this case certainly seems to fit that idea. Assuming that we do not dwell too long on what ‘victory’ actually means, Britain was among the states that determined the shape of the settlement imposed at Versailles in 1919. British codebreakers in the First World War peeped into the secret military, naval and diplomatic messages of Germany and its allies, and also into the diplomatic messages of neutrals, including the United States, Spain, the Netherlands and Greece.

British codebreaking was part of the overall effort that achieved victory. And, by helping to bring the United States into the war, codebreaking was critical in determining who would be the winners and the losers. So the story would seem, at first glance, to be a classic case of history written by the victors; but it is not such a simple matter.

This book tells the story of the First World War using those intercepted messages. In that sense, it is history intercepted, decoded and translated by the victorious side – but as written by the vanquished. The intercepts allow us to hear the voices of German military and naval commanders (seldom, though, of the lower ranks) and also of diplomats, politicians and spies. There are orders couched in military jargon, often about apparent trivia such as switching on harbour lights, but also debates between diplomats, civil servants and politicians about operations and strategy and even the allocation of blame when things went wrong. When combined, the intercepts reveal how the German military and government understood and organised their war.

The geographical spread and range of topics covered in those messages is astounding. They reveal how Room 40 and MI1(b) gave British military leaders an oversight of their enemies’ activities on a global scale: on every continent and in every ocean; in the air war; the espionage and sabotage war; and the propaganda and diplomatic war. The story, however, has been cast into the shadows by the better-known efforts at Bletchley Park during the Second World War.

This is also a story about people. The cast of characters who peopled Room 40 and MI(1)b is as replete with brilliant academics and unworldly eccentrics as the more renowned codebreakers of Bletchley Park. And a few accounts from the individuals who toiled night and day between 1914 and 1918 have survived, allowing us to get a feel for what it would have been like inside Room 40 or MI1(b) and to glimpse behind the mask of command and the veil of secrecy.

***

This book was originally published in shorter form as Inside Room 40, but since publication of that title new documents and other material have become available, revealing the story in greater depth, so this edition is substantially larger. Some further accounts of First World War codebreaking and other material relating to the story can be downloaded from www.paulgannonbooks.co.uk.

Acknowledgements

I am very grateful to George Lasry and colleagues for sharing material on their deciphering of the Goeben and Breslau messages.

My thanks go to Dr Tim Matschak who advised me on some obscure German terms, and to David Williams and Reg Atherton for useful discussions on cryptographic issues. Also thanks for help with access to files go to the staff at the National Archives, Kew; Churchill Archives Centre, Churchill College, Cambridge; British Library Reading Room, London; Post Office Archives, London; and the Imperial War Museum, London. Also thanks to Mark Beynon of The History Press who commissioned this book and to Alex Waite for working on the preparation of the book in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Prologue

Few in Britain or elsewhere in Europe really expected war in 1914, even if war appeared a desirable approach to some, even if it had been much discussed in the press, and even if repeated crises between European powers had come close to war over the past ten years but not to actual war. Indeed, even after Archduke Franz Ferdinand, Crown Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Hapsburg Empire, was assassinated in Sarajevo on 28 June, few imagined that war was on its way – let alone a war that would be without previous parallel in number of deaths, injury, agony, starvation, disease and economic dislocation.1

David Lloyd George, the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, wrote in January 1914:

Our relations with Germany are infinitely more friendly than they have been for years … [Britain and Germany] seem to have realised what ought to have been fairly obvious long ago … that there is everything to gain and nothing to lose by reverting to the old policy of friendliness which had been maintained until recent years between Germany and this country.2

Lloyd George was an enthusiastic reformer and moderniser. He had introduced the first serious provisions for a welfare state in Britain – pensions, unemployment benefits and health insurance. He had other great projects at the centre of his attention in mid-1914 – reform of the House of Lords, Home Rule for Ireland and votes for women. He was just one of many European politicians who were taken by surprise at the intrusion of war into domestic politics. He wrote in his War Memoirs:

I cannot recall any discussion on the subject in the Cabinet until the evening before the final declaration of war by Germany. We were much more concerned with the threat of imminent civil war in the North of Ireland. The situation there absorbed our thoughts.3

After a cabinet meeting on 24 July, Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey asked ministers to remain in their seats for a briefing on the ‘situation’ in Europe. It was very grave, he told them, but hopeful.

As it was July, the diplomatic holiday season was under way and many diplomats and politicians were away when the crisis struck. The German Kaiser Wilhelm II sailed off on his annual cruise in the seas off Norway. The French Chief of Staff, Ferdinand Foch, ‘did not hesitate to go to his estate in Brittany … Sir Edward Grey saw no reason to delay a planned fishing trip [and] several military and political leaders were in fact vacationing in soon-to-be enemy countries’.4

As the crisis intensified towards the end of the month, ‘the weight of [telegraphic] traffic between governments swamped the relatively primitive international communications system, so that vital cables became subject to chronic delay’, waiting to be decoded.5 To circumvent the delays, in the days when the German Foreign Office feared Britain would join the war if Germany attacked Belgium, the German Foreign Secretary sent a telegram to his ambassador in London saying, ‘As long as England remains neutral our fleet will not attack the northern coast of France and we will not violate the territorial integrity and independence of Belgium.’ It was sent in plain language, ‘evidently in the hope of its being intercepted. And, in fact it was the censor, and not Lichnowsky [the ambassador], who communicated it to the Foreign Office.’6

Any lingering prospects of defusing the increasingly tense situation evaporated in the summer heat. Instead, the great powers were drawn into widening the conflict, constrained by commitments made in their alliances, and propelled into war by their own precipitate demands, transmitted around Europe by telegraph to empty foreign offices. When a satisfactory reply to an ultimatum was not received in the short time allowed, war was declared.

Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia on 28 July. As it had already withdrawn its ambassador, it had to notify Serbia by telegraph – the first time war had been declared by telegram.7 Russia and Germany, supporting respectively Serbia and Austria, declared war on each other within days. Russia’s involvement threatened to drag in its entente allies, France and Britain. But ‘even then,’ said Lloyd George, ‘I met no responsible Minister who was not convinced that, in one way or another, the calamity of a great European war would somehow be averted.’

However, Germany’s plans for war with Russia involved knocking out France, by attacking through Belgium, before the sluggish but numerous Russian Army could mobilise. Once Russia mobilised, Germany was able to claim it was responding to Russian aggression and attack both Russia and France.

Britain sent an ultimatum to Germany on 4 August, demanding a declaration of respect for Belgium’s neutrality by midnight European time (11 p.m. British time). Lloyd George described it as:

… a day full of rumours and reports, throbbing with anxiety. Hour after hour passed, and no sign came from Germany. There were only disturbing rumours of further German movements towards the Belgian line. Then evening came. Still no answer.

The prime minister, Foreign Secretary and Home Secretary were ‘all looking very grave’. Shortly after 9 p.m. a telegraph message, from the German Foreign Office to the German Ambassador in London, was intercepted at the Central Telegraph Office. It was translated and sent to the anxious huddle of senior ministers. It read, ‘English Ambassador has just demanded his passport shortly after seven o’clock declaring war’.8

This was the first news received from Germany in response to the British ultimatum. No word had reached London from the British Ambassador in Berlin (the Germans having held up his telegram reporting on his meeting with the German Foreign Secretary). ‘We were at a loss to know what it meant,’ said Lloyd George.

Ministers debated whether they should use the intelligence gained from the intercepted message to begin British Army mobilisation without waiting until the deadline. They also wondered whether to start naval operations scheduled for the commencement of hostilities, such as cutting German international submarine telegraph cables to isolate it from the outside world. The ministers debated:

Should this intercept be treated as the commencement of hostilities … should we unleash the savage dogs of war at once or wait … and give peace the benefit of even such a doubt as existed for at least another two hours?9

In the end they decided to wait until Big Ben had chimed in the eleventh hour of that disastrous day.

***

Ten years earlier, in 1904, British warships and overseas cable stations had been instructed by the Admiralty to intercept foreign military and government messages and to forward copies to London.10 The earliest surviving copies in the National Archives of those intercepted messages date from March 1914. Even these were not decoded until November 1914, after copies of German naval code books had come into British possession. But we can benefit from hindsight and read the messages to see how Germany prepared for war and then signalled its start to distant German naval and merchant ships and to its far-flung colonies.

The first recorded intercepts were taken by wireless operators on Royal Navy ships – such as Glasgow, on patrol in the south Atlantic. Other surviving intercepts were telegraph messages sent over British-operated international submarine cables. The Eastern Telegraph Company made copies of telegrams passing through the hands of its operators in places such as Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town.11 The volume of intercepts increased as war drew closer.

Some of the decoded messages reveal Germany preparing to distribute cipher keys and code books ready for use in the event of war. For example, on 20 March 1914, a message sent in the name of the Kaiser to the German Legation in Montevideo contained instructions about which ciphers were to be issued to which secret agents in Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. On 5 May, the Admiralstab (Admiralty Staff) sent out details of new ciphers to the German cruiser Königsberg at Dar es Salaam in German East Africa (present-day Tanzania).

Other messages, for example one on 18 March, were about potential suppliers of coal and places where discreet re-coaling of German warships could take place if war did break out. A cable message on 9 April, from Berlin to a German gunboat in Manila, instructed the captain to record details of ships seen surveying the waters near both German and British territories in the Far East. These were all matters that could properly be seen as the daily tasks of a navy in times of peace. This included being prepared for war to break out at any time and so these messages are not evidence of an intention to go to war, any more than British interest in intercepting and recording incomprehensible encoded messages should be taken as anything more than diligent preparation.

After the assassination of Franz Ferdinand, the tone of the messages changed. The telegrams now conveyed a tension that was absent from the earlier signals. As the political crisis deepened, both the German and the British navies were put ‘on alert’ in July. This was something that could be done without provoking war in the way that mobilisation of land armies would inevitably mean war was about to break out.12

On 7 July, Berlin sent a telegram to the gunboat Eber, which was undergoing boiler repairs at Cape Town (in the British territory of South Africa), warning that the ‘political situation at home [is] not free from difficulty. Development is to be expected in eight to ten days. When is your boiler cleaning finished?’ Later that day, the Admiralstab advised the captain to ‘conclude no written agreements of any description with [the] Consul General. Destroy any that exist.’

In mid-July the German cruiser Scharnhorst, at Yap in the German Marshall Islands, was informed that an ‘Austro-Hungarian note has been presented to Serbia on 23 July. Political development cannot be foreseen. Await further developments at Penope Island [in New Guinea].’ On 26 July, the warship Königsberg was told:

Diplomatic relations have been broken off between Austria-Hungary and Serbia. Tension between Dual Alliance [Germany & Austria-Hungary] and Triple Alliance [Russia, France & Britain] possible. It is presumed that England will maintain an expectant attitude.

Most of the above messages were cable traffic intercepted by the Eastern Telegraph Company. But, on 26 July, a message was intercepted at an Admiralty wireless station at Dover. It informed the Commander of the German High Seas Fleet, ‘We have received news that Russia has broken off manoeuvres and sent the troops back to their depots [indicating intended mobilisation]’. The message also urged the naval commander to ‘hasten the return of Wilhelm’.

Even though the political situation in Europe had been getting steadily worse through July, Kaiser Wilhelm had gone off on his summer cruise in his imperial yacht Hohenzollern, to the Norwegian fjords (where his captive guests were subject to his excruciatingly adolescent practical jokes). Cancelling his trip might have given the impression that Germany was eager to exploit the crisis following the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. Going through with the voyage would signal that everything was normal. But once war loomed it was vital to ensure the Kaiser’s speedy return.

On 29 July, the Eber in Cape Town was told to ‘leave on some plausible pretext and go to Lüderitz Bay’ in German South-West Africa (Namibia today). The captain dragged his vessel out of the harbour ‘in a hurry, half [her] boiler tubes not working and in a heavy sea’. The next day a message from the German Navy’s main wireless station, at Norddeich in northern Germany, informed the captain of the cruiser Strassburg, ‘War has broken out between Austro-Hungary [sic] and Serbia … in the present state of affairs the English Channel is still passable’.

The same day, warning messages were sent out from the German wireless station at Nauen, near Berlin. This was the world’s most powerful wireless transmitter, capable of transmitting as far as North America, southern Africa and East Asia. The messages issued orders to bring into play the preparations for coal supplies and secret re-coaling places. And a plain-language message was sent to all German merchant ships, ‘Threatened with danger of war. Enter no English, French or Russian harbours.’ The merchant captains were also told to keep an eye on the movement of foreign warships and to report them to the Admiralstab.

The next day, all merchants were ordered to run for the nearest neutral port to avoid being captured by British or French warships. Cruisers stationed at German colonies in Africa and Asia were told to start attacking enemy warships and any merchant ships flying enemy flags. Berlin instructed the cruiser Dresden, ‘Do not come home but carry on cruiser warfare. We will send coal.’

German agents in South America, Spain, Portugal and other places were told to start clandestine operations. Details of the payments of thousands of marks to agents were transmitted from Berlin to distant posts. In return, Berlin received intelligence reports, some of them no doubt of value, but many made up of wild rumours, such as the message notifying that ‘a secret confidential agent reports that on Thursday 15,000 Englishmen arrive in Alexandria from Malta’.

On 2 August, German colonies were told to keep Berlin informed about what was happening far from the homeland:

Send regularly by wireless short messages on the political situation. The big wireless station here [at Nauen] is open for reception continuously by night and day … also [encipher] wireless [messages] in case the political situation becomes more acute. Put the catchword Delta before the call sign.13

The same day, a message to many recipients, transmitted by cable and wireless, said, ‘Hostilities have commenced against Russia. War with France certain: hostilities will probably begin on 3 August. Great Britain very probably hostile. Italy neutral. Acknowledge.’ On 4 August, a cable message to German cruisers read, ‘Declaration of war between Germany and Great Britain is to be expected hourly.’

***

The world war had begun. The outbreak of the armed conflict was marked by a bombardment of wireless and cable messages from Nauen and Norddeich. To help boost morale at the start of the struggle, a message on 5 August to all warships from the Admiralstab cancelled all outstanding punishments for breaches of discipline. More importantly, arrangements were made for cruisers to meet up with supply ships (with essential fuel and food) at quiet points on the coasts of South America and Africa and at remote islands in the Pacific Ocean.

Two German warships, the Goeben and Breslau in the Mediterranean, were instructed on 4 August to head as quickly as possible to Constantinople (Istanbul). The flight of the two ships from the clutches of the Royal Navy was an important early propaganda victory for the Germans (see Chapter 7). Berlin was delighted to hear of even a minor success and wanted more details. On 11 August, Berlin sent a congratulatory message: ‘His Majesty the Kaiser directs the captain to send in a report of your escape.’

Propaganda was to become a key part of the First World War, both on the home fronts and in neutral countries. On 12 August, the powerful German wireless station at Nauen sent out a joyous message: ‘Our army has won a decisive victory at Mülhausen, Alsace, against the French Army Corps. Spread the word.’ Details of other victorious clashes of arms were similarly reported, for example on 20 August, celebrating ‘incomparable bravery’ by German forces storming and conquering a strong point on the Western Front.

The log of intercepts is silent between 23 August and 9 September – except for a single message intercepted in Shanghai on 6 September. This reported that the Japanese were expected to arrive off the coast of Tsingtao, Germany’s colonial territory on the coast of mainland China, which had been acquired in 1898 to great national pride. The apparent German wireless silence – or perhaps it was difficulties in intercepting signals at the British listening stations – ended on 9 September, with a wireless message from Nauen to Windhoek, in German South-West Africa (Namibia), giving details of British blockading lines off the African coast. On 22 September, Nauen told Windhoek, ‘All lines of communication have been compromised except perhaps no. 163.’ This referred to the disruption, by the British Navy, of the coal and supplies bases set up before the war for German cruisers. From now on, such messages become quite common.

Around this time, the British, by much immensely good luck, came into possession of the main German naval code books. And, following French success in September in breaking German Army cipher keys in north-western France, the British also worked out how to break the naval cipher keys. A message dated 21 October, sent from Nauen to the German ship Roon, was intercepted in Melbourne. It was sent in a non-secret code, but with a secret cipher (which it appears the Australian Navy had broken). It reported:

My activity has been rendered difficult because the collier [ship] has been detained by the government. Nevertheless 1500 tons of coal are stored for use in case of necessity at Tjilatjap [Java] on board steamer Sydney …

This could stand as an example of many such messages reporting on the German struggle to create – and the British to crush – German cruiser warfare on the high seas. But what makes it interesting for our story is the combination of the use of a public code book and a secret cipher. A handwritten note in the log of messages records that ‘it was from this message that “Key B” was discovered, by guessing the [code] group for Roon’.

On 13, 22, 25 and 27 November, messages sent to German cruisers and colonies warned that one of the three main German naval code books and its cipher key had been ‘compromised’ by British naval forces. Along with the ability to decode German naval and military messages on the Western Front, the war was to enter a new phase of a prolonged bloody stalemate. As we will see in the chapters that follow, codebreaking was, eventually, to help break the stalemate.

1

Munitions of War

In 1913 the British Government’s Committee of Imperial Defence drew up a list of items that a naval blockade would aim to prevent reaching enemy countries in a future European war. The list included supplies with obvious military significance: ammunition, projectiles, explosives, nitric acid and so forth. There were also some more obscure items on the list – including a sort of rubber known as gutta-percha.1

The Assistant Surgeon to the Presidency in Singapore, Dr William Montgomerie, reported on gutta-percha to the London Society of Arts in 1843. He had ventured into:

[A] place much infested by tigers, to which it is necessary to proceed on foot, so it would be a venture of some risk to proceed to this spot; but I have offered a reward for specimens of the flowers and fruit of the tree.2

Sourced from the Palaquium gutta tree, which grew almost exclusively in the forests in Malaya and Singapore (both then British colonies), gutta-percha had a key difference from rubber. Though solid at normal temperatures, when heated it became soft and could be moulded into virtually any shape. When it cooled down it hardened but retained the moulded shape. Native Malayans used it for various purposes such as knife handles and walking sticks.3 In Europe it found uses as consumer products such as ear trumpets, corks for soda-water bottles, and golf balls. It had plenty of industrial uses too: belts for machinery, industrial tubing, suction pipes and acid-tank linings.

This handy but niche material became truly important, however, as an insulator for undersea electric telegraph cables.4 Demand for gutta-percha grew rapidly in both Britain and Germany. However, in Germany the Siemens company hit problems in sourcing the supplies it needed. As recorded by a German historian of telegraphy, ‘It was necessary to acquire it from the British Gutta-Percha Company that had the supply of raw gutta-percha entirely in its hands’.5

Like rubber, gutta-percha was extracted from the bark of trees, but unlike rubber it did not flow easily. To achieve maximum output the trees were cut down and several large cuts made into the bark. Each felled tree only produced about 5kg of raw gutta-percha – yet the telegraph industry demanded tens of thousands of tons.6 Within a few years, thousands of trees had been chopped down and supply was threatened as an ecological disaster loomed.

Gutta-percha was a classic example of a raw product extracted from the colonies and shipped back to the homeland where it was processed by an increasingly sophisticated industry. In enabling the global telegraph network, the seemingly low-tech produce of trees from distant jungles was at the heart of high tech of the time. The global telegraph network lay at the heart of the most advanced form of financial capitalism and trade, aided the exploitation, control and administration of Britain’s colonies and dominions, and boosted the organisation and effectiveness of Britain’s military forces. Thus it was that, as war in Europe loomed, gutta-percha was declared to be a contraband product.

***

Soon after the invention in the 1840s of the electric telegraph, Western European countries had busily constructed dense domestic telegraph networks. The next step was to link those domestic networks across national boundaries. Technically, this was a straightforward task on the Continent (assuming political barriers did not stand in the way), but crossing the seas was another matter. For Britain, one of the leaders in developing telegraph technology, however, it was a vital necessity, both economically and politically.

Imports of food and cotton were vital and of growing importance as the nineteenth century progressed.7 Indeed, imports greatly exceeded the value of exports of manufactured goods from Britain, so the difference had to be made up as ‘invisibles’, such as shipping (where Britain was the world’s ‘common carrier’) as well as finance/insurance and the provision of capital (where the British again dominated).

From the middle of the nineteenth century, the British economy became increasingly dependent on services.8 Control of the international telegraph network enabled further development of global trade and services

It was not just the control of the gutta-percha supply that turned Britain, and London in particular, into the centre of the burgeoning global telegraph industry. Experience with the manufacturing process, not just of the cable itself, but also the sensitive transmitting and receiving equipment, was also centred in and around London. The cable-laying (and vital cable-repair) ships were nearly all British. The companies that operated the cables, too, were mainly British, most notably the Eastern Telegraph Company (with a dozen or more variously named subsidiaries). And the very size and spread of the British Empire gave the impetus to build an ever more extensive international network.

The first submarine cable link was laid across the Channel between Britain and France in 1849 but worked for just a short time. A second attempt in 1851 proved more effective. The Channel cable enabled Paris Bourse closing prices to be known in London’s Stock Exchange ‘within business hours’.

By 1854 there were some twenty cables linking Britain to Ireland and the Continent.9 The first attempt to lay a cable across the Atlantic in 1857 was a failure, but another attempt in 1858 was initially successful. However, after a couple of months, a fault developed in the insulation some 300 miles west of Ireland. Before it failed, one message sent by the British Government to Canada cancelled an order for transporting two army regiments across the Atlantic, saving the Treasury the sizeable sum of £50,000 in transportation costs.10

Although submarine cables were useful for the government, the funding of the transatlantic and many subsequent cable projects was the work of the City of London. Knowledge of the prices in US markets for grain and other supplies was eagerly sought. Once a cable joining Britain and North America was laid successfully, international cable communications rapidly became essential to modern economies. As one US observer noted, ‘Wealthier Russian peasants quickly became attuned to the need to price the wheat they grew for export so as not to be undercut by imports from America.’ On the quayside in Nikolayev, a Ukrainian port on the Black Sea:

Peasants on arrival at the market with their grain were asking, ‘What is the price in America according to the latest telegram?’ And, what is still more surprising, they knew how to convert cents per bushel into kopecks per pood.11

Initially, the cables shadowed the main trading routes. These first international cable-laying projects were financed by private concerns (kick-started by compensation paid to British telegraph companies on the nationalisation of domestic telegraph companies). As the turn of the century approached, the profitable cable routes were, by and large, completed, and it required government involvement to initiate new routes that would serve imperial needs more than commercial ones – such as the enormously expensive transpacific cables. By this time, the British Government, the colonial authorities, the self-governing dominions and the British military and navy were conscious that they possessed a communications infrastructure for the Empire. Other countries built local links that connected regional clusters of their own colonies, but, except across the Atlantic, they had to link in to the global British network for long-distance spans to their own colonies.

The British Government increasingly understood the importance of the global network, but also feared its vulnerability. Thus, they sought to ensure alternative links, following different routes, in case one cable suffered technical problems – or was cut by an enemy power. It became a key objective that the British network consisted entirely of British-controlled links that touched land only within the Empire. The global web of cables was dubbed the ‘All Red Network’ after the colour used on maps to show territories belonging to the Empire.

***

At first Britain’s dominant role in the global cable network was seen as just another example of a comparative advantage that one economy had in a specific economic sphere. But, towards the end of the nineteenth century, this laissez-faire attitude came under pressure. Growing economic protectionism, even as more and more countries came to rely on international trade to supply their population with food, became a cause of conflict and mistrust between nations.

Germany, only united in the aftermath of Prussia’s crushing victory over France in 1870–71, was a latecomer to Great Power status. However, its economic might grew rapidly and by the end of the nineteenth century was outstripping the British economy. ‘The pace of German industrial growth and innovation was frantic.’12 But its political and imperial status did not match that of Britain, France or Russia.

Continental industries gained from the advantage of adopting the latest methods, while British industries lagged behind, concentrating on traditional industries and technologies.13 Growth of industrial production in Britain slowed. By 1913, Germany sold more manufactured goods in Europe than did Britain. However, there were balancing factors. Essentially, Britain, Germany and other leading powers grew economically interdependent.

Germany became one of Britain’s best customers, as well as its most important supplier.14 And Britain continued expanding its service sector to make up for its relative decline as the ‘workshop of the world’. London was the financial capital of the world:

The world’s bank, the world’s clearing house, the world’s greatest stock exchange, the only free market for gold, the chief source of money and credit to facilitate international exchange, and hub of the global communications network.15

Although Britain began to fall behind in the technologies that characterised the ‘Second Industrial Revolution’, especially the electrical and chemical industries, there was an important exception to that generalisation: in the telecommunications and cable sector Britain held its own.

However, perceptions mattered and German advances in the sector grabbed the limelight. As the historian Richard Evans put it, ‘The widespread belief in Britain that Germany was forging ahead economically before 1914 fuelled anxieties about the rise of an economic rival that translated all too easily into political and military forms.’16 This feeling of growing vulnerability was therefore a factor in the growth of Anglo-German antagonism.

***

The term ‘imperialism’ entered the English language in the 1870s:

The cult of empire began in Britain in 1877 with the proclamation of Queen Victoria as Empress of India … by the 1890s imperial propaganda could be found everywhere, on railway bookstalls, in political meetings, in novels, magazines and history books. … Already by about 1880, however, nationalist and political politicians in many European countries were beginning to dream of the conquest of other parts of the world.17

Between 1874 and 1914, European nations grasped more than 8.6 million square miles as colonies. Although keen to avoid clashes with other imperial powers, the German Chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, allowed Germany to acquire German South-West Africa, Togoland, Cameroon and German East Africa, as European powers rushed to acquire any unclaimed territory in the ‘Scramble for Africa’. By the end of 1884 Germany’s African empire encompassed almost 1 million square miles, making it the fourth-largest colonial power on the continent.

A similar frantic search for island territories in the Pacific began after Bismarck approved the annexation of the Bismarck Archipelago, New Pomerania, the northern Solomon Islands, the Marshall Islands and Nauru. The multilateral rush to grab the last of the available territories was effectively over by the mid-1890s, but not before it had added to the brew of mutual distrust between the European Great Powers.

This was the situation facing Wilhelm II, the young and impetuous monarch who became the Kaiser in 1888. By 1890, he had forced the resignation of Bismarck, who had acted as a restraint on Wilhelm’s ambitions. These stretched to wanting a navy to match Germany’s emerging imperial role, and this added a new and critical factor to Anglo-German antagonism:

[Wilhelm] became convinced that Germany was engaged in a life or death struggle for the remaining unclaimed pieces of the globe, and those nations which did not get their share would enter the twentieth century under a crippling handicap. … [he] became fixated on the idea that Germany needed a strong navy for the high seas, with big battleships. In a crisis between France and the Ottoman Empire over Crete in 1897, the British side with their naval power were able to end the dispute while Germany sat on the sidelines.18

In 1898 Wilhelm launched a programme to build a navy to rival that of Britain, challenging the British insistence that it must have a navy at least as big as the combined naval power of its two largest rivals. The year before, Wilhelm II had appointed Rear Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz as State Secretary of the Navy.

A driven, charismatic figure, Tirpitz guided and dominated the navy programme. He aimed to build a fleet at least two-thirds of the size of the British Royal Navy and capable of winning a naval battle in the North Sea. The Royal Navy, with its global interests, he thought, could not concentrate its entire fleet in the seas around Britain, thus leaving it vulnerable to a German attack in its home waters.19

Wilhelm envisioned a navy that would allow Germany to enforce its will on a global scale, as was currently possible for the Royal Navy (although, by this time, the British, realising they could not compete with the United States and Japan, had agreed naval spheres of influence with both these rising powers).

Wilhelm’s plan would have required the building of fast cruisers – something that did not appeal to Tirpitz, who wanted large battleships. He won his struggle with Wilhelm, insisting, ‘Our fleet must accordingly be so equipped as to be able to perform at its best between Heligoland and the Thames.’ It needed to be big enough to force concessions from Britain: ‘rapprochement through deterrence’ at least.20

However, little thought had been given to how Britain would react. It was this long-term plan to develop a navy capable of challenging Britain’s Royal Navy that was the key factor behind the growth of Anglo-German antagonism.21 In 1902, the emperor told the British premier, Arthur Balfour, that the youthful German Empire:

… needed institutions in which it could see the unified idea of Empire clearly embodied. … His Majesty went on to repudiate the foolish notion that we were building a fleet in order to attack others. He had no interest at all in gaining or losing a few palm trees in the tropics. Such questions of colonial borders could always be settled easily, with a little goodwill.22

Not surprisingly, the British were unimpressed by such professions of innocence, fully aware that the purpose of having a navy was to exercise power. At a meeting in Germany in August 1908, the British Undersecretary of State, Sir Charles Hardinge, expressed the ‘grave apprehension’ of the British to Wilhelm about the German programme of naval construction.

Wilhelm told him, ‘We needed our navy to protect the rapid growth of our trade.’

To which Hardinge responded, ‘But it always stays at Kiel or Wilhelmshaven or on the North Sea.’

Wilhelm snapped back, ‘As we have no colonies and no coaling stations, that is our base. We have no Gibraltar or Malta!’

Hardinge replied, ‘Your trade cannot be protected from your base.’23

The British response was to out-build the Germans in numbers of vessels and to build bigger, more powerfully armed ships. As Sir Edward Grey, the British Foreign Secretary, put it in December 1906:

The economic rivalry (and all that) do not give much offence to our people, and they admire her steady industry and genius for organisation. But they do resent mischief making. They suspect the Emperor of aggressive plans for Weltpolitik [world politics], and they see Germany is forcing the pace in armaments in order to dominate Europe and is thereby laying a horrible burden of wasteful expenditure on all the other powers.24

***

In 1896, Kaiser Wilhelm sent a congratulatory telegram to President Kruger of the Boer Transvaal on defeating a raid, led by Leander Starr Jameson on the Transvaal state. Although denied by the British Government, Wilhelm and his advisers believed that Britain was indeed behind the raid and lauded Kruger’s success in ‘defending the independence of his country against external attack’. He considered sending troops to aid Kruger but stepped back from such a dangerous provocation of Britain.25

The British controlled cable communications to southern Africa, but the Kaiser’s telegram was allowed to go via a British cable. However, it was leaked to the London press, who published it even before it had reached Pretoria.26 Though some modern writers argue that the telegram was not provocative but mild in tone, at the time it caused great annoyance in Britain,27 and it marked the deepening of tension over Germany’s imperial ambitions and Britain’s control of cable networks.

Another incident occurred over Germany’s plans to install its own transatlantic cable. The main line of communication between Germany and the Americas was via a cable from the Frisian Islands to Valentia in Ireland, where traffic was transferred to an Anglo-American cable to North America. German companies complained that the route was congested and that their messages received a low priority. So Germany wanted its own cable from Cornwall to the Azores and on to New York.

The British turned down the German application to land a cable in Cornwall. ‘The British government evidently hoped, by its action, to prevent the emergence of a rival cable node between the Eastern and Western Hemispheres, one through which information would flow outside the control of Britain.’28 But this did not work out as the British expected. Instead, Germany laid a cable direct to the Azores, thus bypassing Britain and ruling out any British control over messages – or the opportunity to read them.

More conflict over cables arose during the Boer War of 1899–1902. As war between British South Africa and the Boer republics loomed, the British authorities introduced censorship of communications on the two cable routes between Europe and southern Africa. Cable messages passing through London for South Africa were scrutinised to see if any were from Boer friends and supporters in Europe. All telegrams in code or cipher were forbidden except those from governments to their representatives in southern Africa. In March 1900, the two Boer republics asked Germany to seek mediation with Britain on their behalf. The Kaiser, however, would only do so if both sides wanted its involvement and if the request came from a third party. The German Chancellor drafted a telegram, explaining this, to be sent to the Boers. Wilhelm, aware of British eavesdropping, insisted the cable be sent in plain language so that ‘London knows about it and must hear of our answer at once’.29

This habit of interfering with German messages led the German Government to plan its own independent submarine telegraph cable network. As one German wrote:

It was England itself which, in the nineties, sounded a fanfare before an unsuspecting world and repeatedly used its almost total power over cables for national-political purposes in a manner that was extraordinarily painful for the other European peoples.30

During 1899, negotiations between Germany, Britain and the United States led to the German acquisition of the West Samoan islands. Bernhard von Bülow, Germany’s Foreign Secretary from 1897, wrote to Wilhelm:

Those islands, where Germans have worked for so long and so diligently, and which serve as a base for our trade in the Pacific Ocean with Polynesia, Australia and Western America, have great commercial value. Greater still is their maritime significance for our inter-oceanic shipping, in view of the future Panama Canal and the projected world cable link. But the place which the islands occupy in the nation’s heart is of even higher value.31

Bülow’s words reveal the fuzzy nature of Wilhelm’s imperial objectives. It is unclear if it were trade, inter-oceanic shipping, national sentiment, or pride in having one’s own cable links that was most important, or whether they were all seen as equally necessary reasons for possessing colonies and cables.

Two further German transatlantic cables were laid in 1900 and 1902–03 to support the growing trade between Germany and the United States and South America. However, when Germany tried to extend its cable links through Turkey, the Near East and on to the West Pacific, British fears were again aroused.32 Wilhelm aimed to match and displace Britain’s pre-eminent global empire, starting with plans to build a railway between Berlin and Baghdad, with a telegraph line built alongside the railway:33

In this case, at least, the driving force behind the German Reich’s imperialistic urge for expansion was not the financiers, as is often claimed, but the dreams of world power cherished by the monarch and his diplomats. The railway, together with the [planned German] battle fleet, became the quintessential expression of Wilhelmine aspirations for world power.34

The British Government blocked finance from the City of London for the railway to prevent perceived German challenges to its power in India. The Foreign Secretary, Lord Lansdowne, observed, ‘Until now England had sole control of the shortest route to India. With the construction of the Baghdad railway this would no longer be the case.’

Germany could come a step closer to providing the shortest telegraph link to the India Ocean. Not only that, but Russia also had interests in the area and was pushed closer by German ambitions towards Britain, its traditional rival in the area.35 The Kaiser and his senior politicians, in their plans for a bigger empire, were treading on the toes of other powers.

Then, in 1913, Britain put pressure on the Turkish and Portuguese authorities to deny permission for a German cable between their territories. Sir Edward Grey’s view was that ‘Germany has no great commercial need for a cable such as that described and he is accordingly led to the conclusion that the object of their request is political’.36 Germany was denied its own cables in the Indian Ocean thanks to British determination to clamp down on competition to its dominant position.

Thus were Wilhelm’s ambitions thwarted. Germany was left with building a small number of cables linking Pacific islands and its base in Tsingtao, China, partly in conjunction with the Dutch and – to avoid the necessity of using British cables back to Europe – using a US cable across the Pacific, continental America and the Atlantic. This was a costly option, but at least the Dutch acquired two routes from the Netherlands to their Asian colonies that did not touch on British territory.37

Another unlikely cable alliance was created between Germany and France. Despite the persistent enmity between them, they agreed to combine their independent cables to form a common link to South America – France having suffered repeated incidents in the last decade of the nineteenth century of Britain delaying its telegrams for diplomatic and colonial advantage. Britain’s cable policies alienated friend and foe alike. However, around this time a new technology was emerging that threatened British communications hegemony.

2

Breakout

In 1911, Italian forces invaded the Ottoman provinces of Cyrenaica and Tripolitania (present-day Libya) in a grab for colonial territory. The invasion led one of the most celebrated inventors of the era, Guglielmo Marconi, inventor of wireless telegraphy, to travel immediately from London to Italy to help his native country. Naturally, the Italian navy used Marconi’s equipment. On the other hand, the Ottoman forces were, conveniently for the patriotic Marconi, users of a rival wireless system supplied by the German company, Telefunken.

The bombardment of the Libyan coast by Italian warships destroyed the Ottoman’s coastal Telefunken stations. A few months earlier, the Marconi Company had tendered for the contract to supply wireless systems to the Ottomans. Although the Marconi system allegedly received better scores for signal strength and reliability, the German system was chosen – due, it was said, to diplomatic pressure from the Germans on the Turkish Ministry of War.1

Marconi was gleeful as he watched the action:

I visited yesterday the remains of the Telefunken station at Derna which was destroyed by this ship. It was supplied with four large towers about two hundred feet high and a building placed between the towers which contained the engine and instruments … a few days later … the [Italian] admiral called … by wireless and informed the operators, in French that if they wished to save their skins they had better get out of the way as the station would be shelled in ten minutes. They were seen to close up [the station] without a fight … The most impressive sight I have seen during the war was the bombardment by our and other ships of a Turkish position during the night. I never saw anything more like what could be described as hell on earth.2

To many modern historians the Italian attack on Libya was one of the opening moves leading to the First World War. The Ottoman Empire was the ‘sick man of Europe’ and Italy’s assault sparked off a rush for its territories, leading to the two Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913 and then to the crisis that followed the assassination of Franz Ferdinand in Bosnia in 1914.

The Italian military had expected an easy takeover of the two provinces, but met unexpectedly fierce resistance and were soon confined to a coastal strip. Although, for the Libyans and the Italian troops, the war and associated atrocities dragged on until 1912:

For Marconi, the war was short and exhilarating. He was to do patriotic duty, reposition himself with respect to his German rivals … The success of the Italian wireless campaign convinced both Britain and Germany to invest heavily in developing the new technologies. … As wars go, the Italo-Turkish War was a minor conflict. It seemed to be an easy victory for Italy, … But the war was financially ruinous for Italy, bringing disillusionment with [Italian prime minister, Giovanni] Giolitti that would create the instability of the next few years and foster the radicalization of Italian politics and the rise of Mussolini.3

***

The traditional story is that when Marconi first developed a wireless system, he and his ambitious mother approached the Italian authorities who expressed no interest in the young Italian’s invention. Marconi then exploited his British mother’s nationality and connections by taking his wireless to Britain, where he found more willing minds. This story has been repeated in the many biographies of Marconi, but according to the most recent academic biography published in 2016, by Canadian professor Marc Raboy:

[There is] no documentary evidence that the Marconis actually contacted the Italian government before Annie [his mother] and Guiglielmo left for England in February 1896, although they certainly considered doing so. Research suggests that Marconi himself made the claim only once, in a 1923 letter to Mussolini that was certainly politically motivated. The story became part of the mythology of fascism, used by both Marconi and Mussolini’s regime as evidence of the incompetence and lack of patriotism of Italy’s liberal governments of the 1890s and 1900s.4

In the 1920s and 1930s, Marconi became a strong supporter of the Italian Fascist government, becoming an ex officio member of the Grand Council of Fascism. In 1926, he proudly proclaimed, ‘I always claim for myself the honour of having been the first fascist in radio telegraphy.’5

As Raboy recounts:

Archival documents reveal that there are two versions to most of the stories about Marconi’s early life: a heroic version, in which an unusually gifted genius overcomes incredible odds to prevail; and a more prosaic version in which, by a combination of intelligence, determination, attention to wise counsel, class privilege, and plain good fortune, he achieves success. Marconi himself became a master at fostering ambiguity between these two versions of his biography; it was an ambiguity that served his interests.6

London was the obvious place for Marconi to promote his invention. He spoke English without a trace of a foreign accent, sounding to his British listeners just like any other educated Englishman. He received a mixed response in London. He was coolly received by the General Post Office (GPO), which was conducting its own experiments with wireless communication, but he got a more enthusiastic reception from the Royal Navy and the marine insurance market, Lloyd’s. Both appreciated the potential of ship-to-shore communications for safety at sea. The navy also saw possibilities for advancing centralised control of warship movements and operations.

In September 1896, the Royal Navy and the GPO observed tests of Marconi equipment. According to an official report:

I witnessed near Salisbury, in damp weather, signals transmitted to a distance of one and one-third miles through the air without wires … This was done in both fine and very rainy weather … These experiments have been continued in the presence of … [officials] between stations hidden from each other by rising ground, but the extreme distance to which all-round signals can be sent … such as would be useful to a fleet, have not yet been ascertained.7

Very rapidly the distance increased to scores and then hundreds of miles.

The Admiralty not only allowed Marconi to test his sets at sea in their warships, it also worked with his company to develop reliable working systems that could transmit over many miles under all sea conditions.8 The Royal Navy also spotted security issues. Vice Admiral Sir Henry Lawson, commanding the Channel Fleet, observed in August 1900, following trials, ‘As any possible enemy can decypher spelt messages it is very desirable to code signals when … within wireless distance of an enemy.’ It was, he said, advisable to use the ‘Cruiser Code’ as much as possible to make the messages secret.9

Wireless was taken up much more eagerly in the Royal Navy than in Wilhelm II’s Imperial Navy:

Admiral Tirpitz, the German navy minister, appreciated the value of wireless but thought that new equipment should only be adopted when it had been fully proven. When he did succumb to pressure to deploy German wireless sets, they performed badly, so Tirpitz’s opinion against early adoption was reinforced. Thus, in 1914 the German navy was faced with the urgent challenge of implementing wireless technology into its ships.10

On the surface, it might seem as if the wireless transmitter was the key invention. But really it was the receiver that was at the core of Marconi’s success – the ability to distinguish ‘signal’ from ‘noise’. Marconi was driven by the urge to receive messages over longer and longer distances. In 1901, Marconi first achieved transatlantic signalling from Caernarfon, in North Wales, to North America (though it took until 1907 to develop a reasonably acceptable commercial service). Marconi’s emphasis on sensitive receivers gave the Royal Navy a significant advantage in the interception stakes when the war started.

***

One day in 1903, two men called William both happened to visit Rome at the same time. One was Kaiser Wilhelm II, head of the German Empire. The other was Guglielmo Marconi, the returning hero; the Italian boy who had gone to London to turn his invention into a commercial proposition. Now he was visiting the eternal city to be made a citizen of Rome.

The ‘other Guglielmo’, as the Italian press humiliatingly dubbed the Kaiser, was there to visit the Pope. The German Kaiser’s parade to the Vatican caused chaos in Rome, and Marconi was late arriving at the ceremony with the mayor where he was due to receive his fellow countrymen’s token of admiration. All the same, the public adoration for Marconi rather pushed the touchy Kaiser’s reception into the shade.

Wilhelm did not like Guglielmo. His drawing away of public attention did not help relations between the two men when they met later that day as dinner guests of King Victor Emmanuel. There were also more weighty reasons for the discord. Marconi reported:

The Kaiser’s conversation with me and his general attitude were strangely characteristic of the role of omniscience which he had already assumed at the time. After having congratulated me on my work and my wireless he proceeded to tell me that he considered that I was wrong in ‘attempting to obstruct wireless communications from German ships’. I told William of Hohenzollern that although I thanked him for his advice I felt confident both on technical and other grounds that the course of development for wireless telegraphy which I was following was the right one … At dinner whenever the King of Italy tried to direct the conversation towards wireless telegraphy and its achievements the Kaiser just as resolutely headed it off towards other subjects.11

The Kaiser’s tetchy mood derived in part from an incident in 1902 involving his brother, Prince Heinrich, who had voyaged to the United States on the German liner Kronprinz Wilhelm. Throughout the trip, Heinrich (who was to become commander of the German Imperial Navy’s Baltic fleet during the First World War) was impressed at being able to send and receive messages via the Marconi wireless set that had been installed on the ship. However, the return journey was on a different German ship, Deutschland, which was kitted out with a German wireless set. The messages transmitted from this ship were not received – or more likely, were ignored – at Marconi Company wireless stations. The German ship was thus unable to send or receive any messages until it neared the German coast and came into range of German land wireless stations.

Marconi claimed that the problem was a technical one, even blaming the German ship’s wireless set for being out of order. But this was no doubt a lie. The reality was that there were commercial motives for the Marconi Company’s policy of only communicating with its own wireless sets. Wilhelm was livid. Many other Germans – and indeed many Americans – shared his anger at Marconi’s business practices, which were aimed at strengthening his company’s dominant position in the wireless market.