Muharraq Aerodrome, Bahrain, Monday, 10 February 1947
Alexander Klaws wore several hats – as agent for the DDG Hansa his principal duty was to see to the needs of the freighters of the line, which called about twice a month, seeing to the delivery of outward cargos from Germany and helping to arrange homeward shipments; this did not take that much of his time. He represented several German firms that supplied materials for the growing petroleum industry of the small Arab emirate, but that too did not require every hour of attention. He was honorary German consul – which counted for little save when he had to intervene in disputes on behalf of the occasional drunken German sailor. He had much spare time, and he had spent much of it as an amateur archaeologist, investigating the antiquities of the island. What brought him to the aerodrome today was the anticipated arrival of two professional archaeologists from the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, to whom Klaws had sent several letters citing the prospects to be investigated.
Hans Bessig and Rolf Hachmann craned their necks to get a view of the island from the windows of their BOAC Marathon. After numerous changes of aircraft they were on the last leg of their journey, and Bahrain stood out in sharp relief from the azure waters of the Persian Gulf. Both were recent graduates of the University of Marburg, and their assignment to conduct a survey of the antiquities of this backwater was their first chance to make a name in the world of archaeology. Bahrain was nearly a tabula rasa; who knew what might be found?
The Marathon set down lightly and taxied to the apron; there were few passengers aboard, and the two Germans collected their luggage and made their way to the customs shed. Here they were met by Herr Klaws, who shepherded them through the formalities and led them to his car, a heavy four-wheel-drive Mercedes that Klaws drove himself.
He took the new arrivals to the best hotel in the town of Manama, the capital – which was not saying much; it was clean if Spartan, and the whir of fans to circulate the air was ever present.
“Take a few hours to rest,” Klaws explained, “and I will call on you late this afternoon, before sundown. Then I can show you why I’ve urged you to come.”
Klaws was as good as his word, and the sun sinking lower in the west as their Mercedes made its way along the track out of the town. They followed the shoreline until they reached the ruins of an old fort. “From the time of the Portuguese, the Arabs say,” announced their host. Then they turned and crested a dune…
Bessig and Hachmann were slack-jawed in amazement. They knew that they were coming to examine burial mounds, but these seemed to stretch forever.
London, Fenchurch Street, Tuesday, 11 February 1947
As commercial attaché of the German Embassy Otto von Bolschwing’s duties often took him to the Financial District, and even the bitter cold of winter could not keep him from the most necessary of these visits; and today was such a day. Having completed his tasks he was making his way back towards the embassy in Belgravia, but passing the Fenchurch Street Station he thought he recognised a beggar sitting by the roadside. The man was swaddled against the cold as best he might, but the few pedestrians going about their business paid him little heed. Von Bolschwing walked over to the beggar, fumbling in his pocket for a few coins, which he dropped in the bowl that lay in the snow alongside the beggar.
“Thank you Mister Bolschwing,” said the beggar, much to the German’s surprise. “Thank you very much.”
Von Bolschwing peered at the man, his face covered with a bushy beard and his cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Aston,” he responded; “is that you?”
“Yes guvnor,” Aston answered, “it is me. I’ve fallen a bit on hard times since I left your service. But better days are coming – or so the Government says”. The sarcasm of his last remark was bitter.
“Here,” von Bolschwing continued. “Let me buy you a cup of tea… I suspect you could use one”. Aston did not argue as the attaché helped him stand and waited while Aston swept the coppers from his bowl into his pocket. They entered the railway station and von Bolschwing led the way to the ABC tea shop therein; despite Aston’s dishevelled appearance they were allowed a table. The server brought two hot cups of tea and, at von Bolschwing’s request, a sandwich and a slice of lunch cake. Aston cradled his cup of tea in his hands, warming his fingers that had nearly frozen from the winter weather.
In the next half-hour the old porter told his story, and as Aston went on von Bolschwing found himself feeling more and more like a father-confessor. He had no idea of the true reason for Aston’s departure – as far as he knew it was due to staff reductions. Aston confounded him by confessing that he had spied – in a low-level and serendipitous way – for the British security services.
“You were right to let me go,” he said. “You trusted me, and treated me well. Patriotism, they said to me, we’ll look after you, they promised. Bah.”
After leaving the embassy’s employ Aston had found work at the Hungarian embassy, where, he confessed, he had continued to spy for Britain. Then one day the Hungarians had sacked him – “I guess they tumbled to me” was all Aston said. Since that point he had found himself without a job, and – with no access to anything of value – the security services had cut their ties to him. That was months ago; now he was reduced to begging.
Von Bolschwing was not trained for intelligence work. Like all Foreign Service officers he had been schooled in the elements of operational security but this was far outside his sphere. Yet he knew enough that Aston’s information might be worth much to Schellenburg. He proposed that Aston return with him to the embassy where he could properly explain matters.
“I’ve not much else to lose,” Aston admitted. “Why not?”
They took a taxi from the station to the embassy; a possible extravagance, but one which matched in von Bolschwing’s mind the seriousness of the situation.
Aircraft Carrier Karl der Große, 8 dgs, 23 min North, 37 dgs, 56 min West, Wednesday, 12 February 1947
Vizeadmiral Friedrich Ruge greeted the sighting report of the frigates
Graz and
Salzburg with their supply ships with some relief. His ships had been at sea exercising for more than fifty days, and his orders called for them to remain on station at least a further thirty days. The destroyers and other small ships needed fuelling ever few days, and even their regular stores were drawing down. The
Werra’s holds would fill those needs, and the presence of other fuel ships would allow him to detach one or two others to take on fuel at Recife or Dakar.