Part 29

It did not take the government long to realize that, if the cable and postal censorships were to be made sufficiently water-tight to prevent our military secrets leaking through to the enemy, it would be necessary to reinforce them with a censorship of photographs and motion-picture films. Accordingly, the Censorship Section of Military Intelligence was charged, in addition to its numerous other duties, with the censorship of all pictures taken by military photographers for the use of the Committee on Public Information and for other publicity purposes, as well as of those taken for commercial purposes by private concerns. In order to keep our own people, as well as those of the Allied and neutral countries, acquainted with the progress which the United States was making in the business of war, scores of cameramen belonging to the Photographic Section of the Signal Corps were sent out, at the request of the Committee on Public Information, to take pictures at the cantonments, training-camps, and munition factories in this country and in the theatres of operations overseas. As, however, there were countless details of our equipment, munitions, training methods, and the like of which the enemy must be kept in ignorance, it was imperative that all such pictures be carefully examined and passed upon before being released for publication or exhibition. And, moreover, they must be passed upon by men who were authorities on the various phases of the army with which the pictures dealt. That it was a matter which could not be left with safety to amateurs was emphasized by an incident which occurred in October, 1918, when the great Allied offensive was at its height. One Sunday morning the officers of the General Staff were astounded to see, in the illustrated supplement of a New York newspaper, detailed photographs of the new French howitzers, the very existence of which up to that time had been one of the most carefully guarded secrets of the Allies. The young officer who passed the pictures for publication explained that, not being an artilleryman, the howitzers looked like any other guns to him. A few weeks later the Staff was again surprised and angered to see another secret—the small tanks which were being manufactured in this country—revealed in the same paper. Here was another case of an officer having passed a photograph dealing with a subject of which he was ignorant. In order to prevent a repetition of such blunders, the Censorship Section arranged to work in close co-operation with the Chief Naval Censor and with experts in the offices of the Chief of Coast Artillery, the Chief of Field Artillery, the Chief of Ordnance, the Director of Military Aeronautics, the Bureau of Aircraft Production, the quartermaster-general and the surgeon-general, these experts being consulted in regard to all pictures relating to their respective arms of the service. With their assistance a series of precedents was established and a set of regulations for the censorship of photographs was evolved. Among the pictures withheld from the public were those dealing with new inventions of military significance, such as radio telephony; with all examples of military and naval camouflage, and with the various new types of artillery, especially those on tractor mounts. Such photographs as were not released were placed in the archives of the War College to become a permanent part of the pictorial history of the war, while those which were passed were turned over to the Committee on Public Information for distribution to the various agencies which were in a position to give them the greatest publicity. There was also an informal, intimate, and extremely valuable service which the section was able to perform. As pictures were received from the A. E. F., a systematic effort was made to furnish to the relatives and friends of soldiers serving overseas copies of the photographs or sections of the films in which their loved ones appeared, of the hospitals in which they were being treated, or of the spots where they were buried. As a result of this official thoughtfulness, comfort was given to many a lonely wife, many an anxious parent.

A no less important phase of the section’s activities was the censorship of still and motion pictures taken for commercial use at home and abroad and the supervision of the firms and individuals taking them. When one remembers that “The Birth of a Nation” is estimated to have been seen by 60,000,000 people, a realization can be had of the enormous possibilities of the motion-picture for purposes of propaganda and the necessity of subjecting it to rigid censorship. Whenever a picture contained a suggestion of enemy propaganda, or when the policy of a producing company appeared to be antagonistic to the interests of the United States, a systematic investigation was started to determine the loyalty of the officers of the organization and the source of its financial backing. If the enemy propaganda was evidently intentional, steps were immediately taken to prosecute the producers under the Espionage Act. If, however, as was usually the case, the fault was due to mere ignorance or thoughtlessness, a conference with the persons concerned generally resulted in the alteration or withdrawal of the offending picture.

Exceptional precautions were observed in the censoring of films destined for export. This work was in charge of the Customs Division of the Treasury Department, the films being viewed by a board composed of representatives of the Customs, Military and Naval Intelligence, and the Committee on Public Information. If a member of this board made any objection to a film it was sent to the custom-house for review by another board of censors. If the matter to be deleted was unimportant, the objectionable parts were cut out in the projection room. If the film was approved, a letter of clearance was issued by the Committee on Public Information and an export license was then granted by the War Trade Board; should the film be rejected, the license was, of course, refused.

In censoring commercial films and photographs, every effort was made to prevent the export of pictures which might reveal the war secrets of the United States, which might be distorted and used as enemy propaganda, or which might give a wrong impression of the conditions prevailing in this country. For example, no pictures dealing with the influenza epidemic were permitted to leave the country, for the German Government would almost certainly have used them as proof that the man-power of America was seriously impaired, thus encouraging the German people to prolong their resistance. An export license was refused to a picture showing the effects of a cyclone in Tyler, Texas, because, had it reached Germany, it would, in all probability, have been given a caption something like this: “American city after bombardment by German aircraft.” The fact that there were no German aircraft on this side of the Atlantic would have made no difference; the credulous German public would have greeted such a picture with wild applause. As a matter of fact, thousands of pictures of crumbling castles in England and of French ruins dating from the Crusades were used in such manner by the Germans. For a similar reason, the beautiful poster drawn by Joseph Pennell for the Fourth Liberty Loan, depicting New York City in ruins as the result of a raid by German aircraft, was not permitted to go abroad, for it would have been only too easy for the German Government to publish it as an official picture of the devastation wrought by German airmen in the American metropolis. I have wondered, indeed, why the German propaganda bureau did not publish a picture of Pompeii with a caption to the effect that it was an Italian city destroyed by the Austrian fleet.

Some curious schemes were perfected by German agents in the United States to convey messages to Germany in spite of the censorship. A set of films depicting cannibal life in the South Seas aroused the suspicions of the censors because of the irregularity of the perforations and because of certain mysterious numbers appearing along the edges. The films were finally passed for export, but not until the perforations and numbers had been trimmed off. On another occasion the censor seized an advertising folder, issued by a famous New York department store, which contained a photograph of an exceedingly good-looking young woman wearing an embroidered blouse and a plaid skirt, such as the store was offering for sale. The picture showed the young woman standing beside a table, holding in one hand a volume which, upon close inspection, was found to bear the peculiar title _The Laborer’s Catechism_. Some bright mind in the Censorship Section deduced that this title was really the key to a code message, and that the message itself was contained in the embroidery on the blouse. The story, which appeared to have all the elements of a first-class spy tale, was spoiled, however, by the unromantic code experts of M I 8, who professed themselves unable to find any message concealed in the embroidery. Both the department store and the photographers who took the picture were entirely absolved of any attempt to communicate with the enemy, and the young woman herself was found in a hospital, desperately ill with influenza. When the agents of the Department of Justice visited the hospital some time later for the purpose of interrogating her, it was found that she had left for parts unknown. Whether the message was embroidery or imaginary I do not pretend to say. I merely repeat the story because it illustrates the extreme caution exercised by the Censorship Section. Knowing the cunning of the Teuton, it was taking no chances.

Speaking of false scents in the tracking of spies, I remember being told in England of an old lady, apparently a woman of some means, living in a suburb of London, who was accustomed to write several times a week to her daughter in Austria. The letters, being addressed to an enemy country, were, of course, opened by the censor. Though there was nothing in the communications themselves which could, by any stretch of the imagination, be interpreted as treason, the suspicions of the officials were instantly aroused by the discovery that each letter contained three new playing-cards. One letter might contain, for example, the ace of hearts, the ten of clubs, and the king of diamonds; in the next letter, posted a few days later, would be the seven and the nine of spades and the king of hearts. Here was a code which baffled every expert in the United Kingdom. British Intelligence, the Censor’s Bureau, and the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard all tried to ferret out the mystery of the cards, but without success. Every conceivable test was applied to both the letters and the cards for codes, ciphers, and invisible writing, but without an atom of success. At length the old lady, whose every movement had been shadowed for weeks, was summoned to Scotland Yard and questioned. When the chief inquisitor suddenly demanded of her why she enclosed playing-cards in her letters to her daughter, she replied: “My daughter is a great bridge-player, and when I read in the newspapers that it was impossible to get cards in Austria, I thought I would slip three or four cards into every letter. In that way, you see, I would be able to send her a pack every five or six weeks.”

To another subsection of M I 10 was delegated the censorship of mail to and from the prisoners of war in the various internment camps in the United States. As there were nearly 6,000 of these interned enemies, and as they were permitted, by the regulations, to send nearly 40,000 letters and post-cards a month, no limit being placed on the amount of mail they could receive, the task of censoring this mass of correspondence, most of it in languages other than English, was very far from being a sinecure. The primary object of this censorship was to prevent the passing of objectionable communications, such as attacks on the government or information which might be of value to the enemy. The censors were also constantly on the watch to prevent the prisoners from acting as correspondence intermediaries; that is, from transmitting messages from Germany to German sympathizers in the United States, or _vice versa_. The kind of paper to be used by the prisoners for their correspondence was selected by the subsection with a view to making difficult, if not impossible, the use of secret inks. Thousands of letters, both to and from the prisoners, were submitted to chemical tests for invisible writing, and hundreds of others, which aroused suspicion because of their peculiar wording or unusual marking, were examined for possible messages in code. One prisoner endeavored to communicate with his wife by writing in lemon-juice under the flap of the envelope, and at Fort Douglas a scheme was discovered whereby German sympathizers communicated with the prisoners by means of dots placed under the letters of words in newspapers sent into the internment camp.

In the days before the Great War revolutionized our customs and restricted the amazing liberty of action which we had enjoyed, it was as easy for any one who had the price of a ticket in his pocket to leave the United States as it was for him to leave his own dwelling. To-day—by which I mean the summer of 1919—it is about as easy for an American to leave the United States as it is for a convict to leave Sing Sing. This condition of affairs, so unfamiliar to Americans, is due to the barrier which has been thrown around these shores by rigid enforcement of the passport regulations of the Department of State in co-operation with the Passport Section of Military Intelligence. Prior to the passport regulations of September, 1918, no law of this country required an American travelling abroad to have a passport. In fact, the only countries where passports were needed were Russia and Turkey. But upon the breaking of the war-cloud in the summer of 1914, passports were required everywhere, and the person who could not produce one upon demand, immediately became an object of suspicion and investigation. Under the regulations now in force, the Department of State, by its authority to exercise discretion in the issuance of passports, is in a position to control travel. And, thanks to the facilities of M I 11 for investigating the loyalty and character of applicants, the department is able to form a remarkably accurate opinion as to whether the applications it receives should be refused or granted.

It must be perfectly obvious that, had the old system of non-interference with travel been permitted to continue, German agents could easily have come to the United States through neutral countries, gathered such information as they required, and departed as they came. When war was declared on April 6, 1917, it was not necessary for Congress to pass a law restricting travel by alien enemies, for the law was already in existence, having been framed in 1798, at a time when France was our enemy instead of our ally, and handed down to us by the Fathers. As a result of the authority conferred by this forgotten statute, the German agent who counted on the law’s delay, habeas corpus proceedings, and a long-drawn-out trial by jury, received the surprise of his life, for he found himself seized by a long, swift arm which, waiting for neither indictment nor trial, placed him where he could do no further mischief.

The seaman presented perhaps the most perplexing problem in the control of travel. He rarely remains on the same vessel for more than a few voyages and he seldom has a real home where his antecedents can be looked up. Moreover, under the Seaman’s Act, he is permitted, if not, indeed, encouraged, to desert in an American port in order to be re-engaged at the higher American rates of pay. So long as seamen from neutral countries, particularly those adjacent to Germany, could come ashore at will in American ports, no really effective control was possible. So, following the example of England and the advice of our military attachés in the countries of northern Europe, an order was issued by the Secretary of State—though not until seventeen days before the signing of the Armistice—forbidding seamen from neutral countries to leave their ships while in American ports. The presence of naval guards on the vessels insured the enforcement of the order, which was withdrawn, however, shortly after the signing of the Armistice.

By an arrangement with the State Department, all passport applications, both from citizens and aliens, are referred to M I 11 for investigation. The files of the Military Intelligence Division now contain a vast amount of information, much of it of a very detailed character, concerning persons and business firms in the United States and foreign countries. By referring to these files, therefore, or by directing its agents to make special investigations, it is an easy matter for the Passport Section to decide whether the applicant is the sort of a person to whom a passport should be granted. The passenger-list of every vessel bound for an American port is cabled to the Passport Section by the American consul upon the departure of the vessel from the last port of call. These lists are checked in the suspect files of the Military Intelligence Division, and if there is found anything which makes a passenger objectionable or suspicious, the intelligence officer at the port where the ship will arrive is promptly notified, whereupon the passenger in question is either denied entry to the United States or placed under arrest, according to his nationality and other circumstances. A somewhat similar system of control is in operation along the Mexican and Canadian borders, the immigration and intelligence officers who are stationed in the towns along the international boundaries making it difficult, though by no means impossible, for undesirables to enter or leave the country. It will thus be seen that the Passport Section, aided by a small army of military attachés, consuls, customs officials, immigration officers, secret agents, and intelligence police, has succeeded in establishing a highly effective control of travel, thus preventing the entry or departure of persons whose expressions or actions might prove detrimental to the interests of the United States.

Military control of travel is, of course, a war-time measure, and with the passing of the emergency which gave it birth it will almost certainly disappear, along with most of the other activities of Military Intelligence. Though I am heartily in favor of completely restoring the country to a peace-time basis, and of abolishing the many highly arbitrary measures made necessary by the war, it seems to me that it might be a good idea to continue some form of travel control which would prevent the entry into the United States of undesirable aliens. We have quite enough of them as it is.

VIII

“TREAT ’EM ROUGH!”

It is rather a curious circumstance that the idea from which was evolved one of the most formidable weapons of the war, and one which proved a prime factor in bringing Germany to her knees, was obtained by an Englishman in Germany, from under the very noses of the Germans themselves, who did not have the vision to recognize its amazing military possibilities. About a year before the Teutonic wave surged across the frontiers of France, the representative of a California manufacturing concern was giving demonstrations in the larger German cities of a singular device known as the Holt caterpillar tractor. Though this contrivance, in spite of its grotesque and clumsy appearance, could cross ditches and surmount obstacles with amazing agility, it did not arouse particular interest among the Germans, for it was intended for the pursuits of peace, whereas they were even then seeking new means for making war. But it chanced that among the onlookers at one of the demonstrations was an English traveller, who had the imagination to see in the clumsy machine, as it waddled across an apparently impassable terrain with the relentlessness of fate, something more than an agricultural appliance. Upon his return to England he described the tractor to Colonel E. D. Swinton, who evinced the liveliest interest in the subject, closely examining the pictures and asking countless questions. I might add that General Swinton, for he has since been promoted, has, unlike most professional soldiers, a highly developed imagination, as is shown in the stories he has written, the best known of which is entitled _The Green Curve_. Colonel Swinton, who had served in the South African campaign, had long had in mind an idea for an armored fighting-machine, a sort of small fort on wheels, which could be propelled by its own power over ground impassable to any other type of vehicle. The caterpillar tractor gave him the means of propulsion which he had been seeking. But, as might have been expected, the hidebound, brassbound officials of the War Office condemned the suggestion as fantastic and impractical, it not being until 1915, when the gloom of despondency overhung the land and people snatched at straws of hope, that Swinton’s plans were taken from their pigeonhole for reconsideration and he was reluctantly given permission to show what he could do. Upon caterpillar tractors brought from America he proceeded to mount armored hulls built according to his own designs, the land battleships thus created being armed with both field and machine guns. They were tested under conditions of the greatest secrecy, the trials proving so successful that the construction of a considerable number was immediately authorized. In order that the public might obtain no hint of the true nature or purpose of these terrible new weapons they were referred to as “tanks,” the impression being given that they were intended for transporting water. Painted in dull colors and swathed in tarpaulins, fifty tanks were landed at Le Havre on August 29, 1916, and were moved up to the Somme front under cover of darkness. At dawn on September 15, everything being in readiness for the launching of the great Somme drive, they were entered in battle on a most astonished foe.

Though I saw one of the tanks in action on this occasion—it was named, if I am not mistaken, “_Crème de Menthe_”—I was not permitted to photograph it or to write about it. It has repeatedly been asserted that these tanks were the first vehicles of their kind in the history of warfare, and that is true, so far as the method used for their propulsion is concerned, yet it is interesting to note that, ten years before the Great Navigator set foot on the beach of San Salvador, Leonardo da Vinci had written as follows to the Duke Ludovico Sforza: “I am also building secure and covered chariots which are invulnerable, and when they advance with their guns into the midst of the foe, even the largest army masses must retreat, and behind them infantry may follow in safety and without opposition.”