Myths and Legends of the Second World War by James Hayward Read Free Book Online

broad daylight. A lady stepped back, as people do under this circumstance. In so doing, she trod on an officer’s toe. He (an officer, mind you!) swore softly, and swore in German. By sudden inspiration, she dashed to the barrier and told the porter in charge … The lady heard no more about it until three weeks afterwards, and then she had a cheque for £100 from the War Office. I said nothing about this story.
    I have my doubts about whether War Office cheques for £100 fly about exactly in this way, although (no doubt) public money is poured forth like ditch-water. And also, the same fable, adapted to the latitude of St Andrews, had been entered by me in these notes on 2nd February … A St Andrews lady travelling to Newcastle was suspicious about a man in her carriage. Wired to York giving the name of the carriage – heard nothing till six months later she got a cheque for £100 from the War Office ‘for information received.’
    Artists and bohemians seem to have been particularly prone to being denounced as spies. One unfortunate artist and his wife living in a rural cottage in the west of England were constantly harassed and abused by locals, despite the fact that both were entirely British. Hostile locals took to visiting the cottage during the hours of darkness, to rattle the doors and windows and shout out threats. On one occasion bricks were thrown at the couple, and a constant supply of spurious accusations laid with the police. The only ground to this persecution appeared to be that the artist was fond of wearing a soft, flat, wide-brimmed hat, and that his wife wore a cloak of an unusual cut. The local schoolmistress was moved to comment: ‘If he is not a spy, why does he wear a hat like that?’
    Graham Greene records that a German master at Berkhamsted fell under suspicion after he was spotted loitering under a railway bridge, without a hat. The rationale is hard to fathom, but a similar pattern was repeated elsewhere. A clique of writers living under the Malvern Hills soon discovered that any sort of unusual accent or behaviour was likely to sow the seeds of suspicion in those of rustic mind. The American Robert Frost was thought to be a spy on account of his New Hampshire accent, and stones were thrown at his cottage. Wilfrid Gibson’s cottage fell under suspicion after a Dutch poet came to stay, as did a party visiting Edward Thomas, who arrived late at night, and included a Russian boy from Bedales School. Near Stroud, meanwhile, the painter William Rothenstein was reported on account of his foreign accent, and steadfast refusal to change his surname to Rutherston, as his brothers had. When he was seen drawing a railway tunnel his neighbours leapt to predictable conclusions, and noted that his farmhouse dominated the valley. Because he had laid down concrete floors, predictable accusations regarding secret gun emplacements flew back and forth.
    D.H. Lawrence was also suspected of treachery. A pacifist, and in any event unfit for military service, Lawrence moved from London to Cornwall with his wife Frieda. However, his presence in the West Country attracted unfavourable comment and suspicion, particularly in the wake of negative publicity attached to the seizure and burning of copies of The Rainbow . Frieda was a German, and a cousin of the fighter ace Manfred von Richthofen to boot; unwisely the couple adopted the perverse practice of singing lieder , a form of German folk song, to piano accompaniment on becoming aware of rumours they were spies. Locals suspected them of provisioning German submarine crews along the coast, and these suspicions were taken seriously by the police, who took to following the Lawrences on country walks and conducted a search of their remote cottage while they were away in London. In October 1917 the police raided a dinner party held by the composer Cecil Gray at Bosigan Castle, described above, following which the two men were charged with