Classic EssaysRevilo P. Oliver

An Intrepid Liar

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by Revilo P. Oliver

WHEN THE WEALTHY Sir William Stephenson (pictured) died in his luxurious home on Bermuda at the age of 93, he lived up to his reputation as a very modest and retiring man. He wished “to die unnoticed by the world,” and he accordingly arranged to have his death and funeral kept strictly secret until after he had been buried — the surest way of attracting the attention of the press throughout the world.

The newspapers in Britain, Canada, and the United States — and, no doubt, in many other countries — blossomed with obituaries. The Chicago Tribune, for example, lauded him as the great “spymaster,” the man who “resolutely took on Hitler and the Nazis,” and whose work in British intelligence “was decisive in the fight against the Nazis.” And surely a man who was thus responsible for the defeat of Germany, the destruction of the British Empire, the ruin of the United States, and the fall of Western civilization deserved the most fulsome plaudits a hack writer could devise.

When I read that obituary, I laughed sardonically. About a dozen years ago, I picked up a book about Sir William’s career in espionage, entitled A Man Called Intrepid. I read eighty or ninety pages before I threw it aside because I had no time for crude fiction. I thought it likely that Sir William had written it himself, and that the journalist whose name appeared as the author was just a part of the hoax.

Now let me hasten to add that Sir William undoubtedly knew by long and practical experience far, far more about intelligence work than I do. But let me suggest an analogy. My knowledge of chemistry is little more than what I learned in school, where, in those far off days, one verified empirically in the laboratory most of what one was taught. I went only so far as the second year. But nevertheless, if a distinguished chemist and holder of a Nobel Prize were to assert that there is no hydrogen in water, which is a compound of nitrogen and helium, I would know at once that he lied thrice with so reckless a disregard of facts as to make all his other statements suspect.

The Tribune had not pulled out all the stops on its calliope. That was done by the Sunday Times (London), which described the late Sir William as “the giant of the century,” asseverating that no one, “excepting possibly Churchill,” had done more than he had to “win the War.”

If I may borrow a metaphor from the eminent British historian, Hugh Trevor-Roper, the newspapers in their encomia on the great Sir William merely regurgitated the tripe they had swallowed years before. Professor Trevor-Roper, in the Sunday Telegraph (London), 19 February 1989, used the weight of his authority (as should have been unnecessary) to expose definitively the crude imposture, and he did so judiciously, admitting that Sir William was really entitled to no little credit for work he had actually done as an operative in the British secret service.

I have often alluded to the important and sometimes crucial work of the secret services of both civilized and barbarous nations, and in Liberty Bell, January 1988, under the rubric “The Business of Deception,” I explained why intelligence agencies, sometimes by necessity and sometimes from mere habit, deceive even the nations for whom they are working. The career of Sir William is relevant to that subject, and is otherwise significant.

He was a Canadian, the son of a prosperous owner of a lumber mill. He served honorably in the British Army’s air force in the First World War and was decorated for his services. After that war and until 1939 he promoted numerous corporations and similar financial enterprises in Britain, always with great profit to himself and, one supposes, also with profit to the stockholders or participants in limited partnerships. He became a well-known and very wealthy man.

His prominence as a business man and financier gave him a cover that made him the obvious choice when he was enlisted by British Military Intelligence to take charge of British espionage and sabotage in the United States, which he directed from an office in New York that was later made famous under the name “Room 3603.” What American acquaintance would believe that the affable but pedestrian and rather dull English business man was really the director of a branch of what was, among civilized nations, the most cunning and ruthless secret service in the world, excelled only by the Jews’?

He was doubtless given assistants experienced in espionage, sabotage, and subversion, and profited from their instruction and advice, but much of the agency’s success must be credited to his own lucid mind. He won the admiration and loyalty of his operatives, if the testimony of two or three of them is to be trusted, and if, as one may suspect, his imagination provided some of the exploits of which he told them, that could be attributed to a technique of inspirational management.

The espionage, sabotage, and subversion in the United States was principally directed against the Americans who were obstinately refusing to be shipped to Europe as cannon-fodder to rescue Britain from the insane war on which she had embarked on behalf of the Jews and their Soviet Empire, but he also discreetly kept under surveillance Roosevelt’s government, to make certain that the perfidious criminal would keep his promises when he could. Only a small part of what Stephenson’s branch of the British secret service accomplished in the United States has been disclosed in the book about it. There can be no doubt but that he did make a large contribution to the vast complex of forces that brought about the Suicide of the West.

After Roosevelt succeeded in using the Japanese to give himself dictatorial powers to herd millions of Americans abroad to fight and die for the benefit of their enemies, Stephenson, whose illegal activities had been only reluctantly tolerated by J. Edgar Hoover and the F.B.I., affiliated himself with the mushroom organization headed by the madcap and unscrupulous “Wild Bill” Donovan, and known as the O.S.S. — an abbreviation which the old-line American intelligence services translated as “Office of Soviet Stooges.”

It was a bizarre organization. One of its principal purposes was to provide a secure refuge for Jews and others whose valuable hides must not be exposed to a risk of abrasion. It maintained a hive of big brains who turned out very secret reports, many of which were ludicrous. (I rather vaguely remember one by a psychiatrist who had been morbidly fascinated by the way in which Japanese children are house-broken, and deduced from it that the Americans, after their victory, must be careful not to humiliate the Japanese or bruise their delicate souls by letting them know that they had been defeated.) It did mount operations abroad during the war, some of which had a limited success. It included, of course, many well-meaning but rather naive individuals. There was, for example, the American major who, with two sergeants, was sent by plane to deliver a supply of weapons to supposedly patriotic Italian partisans who were harassing the Germans. The two sergeants, who were Communist agents, murdered the major and delivered the arms to Italian Communists, who were plotting to make Italy part of the Soviet Empire.

Stephenson probably had a well-dissembled contempt for the staff of the O.S.S., but he basked in the unlimited admiration which was accorded him as a master spy, although, so far as is known, he only transmitted to them information from his superiors which they permitted him to communicate to that strange American operation. And he did work closely with the O.S.S. although British Military Intelligence knew better than to trust Donovan’s madhouse, until he was recalled about a year before the end of the war, possibly at his own suggestion.

After the war, Stephenson was knighted in recognition of his services and then, with his old pal, Donovan, and others, he embarked on business ventures, made possible by the catastrophe, which were highly profitable to him and made him more wealthy than ever.

Donovan and others who had been connected with the Office of Soviet Stooges lavished praise on Sir William for his supposed genius in secret work, and the Canadian press, for some obscure reason of its own, made of him the national hero of Canada. Virtually all the universities in Canada showered honorary degrees upon him, and ambitious Canadian politicians boasted they had once had the great privilege of meeting him. That may have inspired him.

In 1960, Sir William subsidized H. Montgomery Hyde, a British writer who had served with him in New York, to produce a biography entitled Quiet Canadian. I have not seen that book, but it fashioned the specious legend that Sir William was so extremely modest and retiring a man that he did not want to talk about his great exploits during the War.

Hyde is a really expert professional writer, who has turned out so many books on every conceivable subject that he thought would yield large sales and royalties that I suspect that if I were to compile a list of all of his publications, it would fill a page of Liberty Bell, and perhaps run over to the following one.

For his next effort at spectacular modesty, Sir William turned again to H. Montgomery Hyde, who typed out a chronicle of his great achievements as a British agent in the United States, entitled Room 3606, published in 1962. In that very successful book, Hyde narrates his own experiences in Stephenson’s organization, and I am willing to suppose that this rather minor part of the book does not depart too greatly from the truth. For the rest, Hyde was dependent on, and naturally accepted, what the modest Sir William told him about international affairs and his role in them. The account in Room 3603 is not absolutely incredible, if you make allowance for the chronic habit of deception in intelligence agencies on which I commented in Liberty Bell.

For example, the heads of British Military Intelligence probably told the highest officials of their government “in utmost secrecy” that the tales of a beautiful female spy in bed had sufficed to extract the Italian naval code from a high-ranking Italian officer; they thus concealed the way in which their ability to read that code had actually been obtained. Furthermore, if the spurious “secret” was kept, well and good; if it somehow leaked to Italian intelligence, the Italians would thereupon suspect in turn all the officers who could have betrayed their country and sold the code for sexual favors — and thus demoralize all of them. (1) Long after the war and the necessity for secrecy had passed, it is quite likely that ranking British officers repeated the canard, from habit or because they knew no better. (I gave an American example of this in the article I mentioned above.) Thus a reader who read the story about the beautiful and erotically talented spy in Room 3603 would, even if he knew the facts, assume that Sir William had merely repeated the cover story.

(1. This secret did not reach Italy, and it gave rise, in the mid 1950s, to a sensational and rather pathetic event. A competent and, I believe, patriotic Italian writer, pondering the disgraceful record of the Italian Navy in the War, wrote and published a book entitled Nave e poltrone. (The last word is a pun; it was in current use as the Italian equivalent of the French ronds de cuir, a contemptuous designation of bureaucracy; it also means ‘poltroon,’ and indeed the English word was derived from it.) The author attributed the Navy’s record of continual defeat and disaster correctly to Mussolini’s decision to have the entire Italian Navy commanded from Rome, moving ships about like the pieces on a chessboard in a great strategic game against the British fleet. The poor author, however, never suspected that all the orders transmitted in “unbreakable code” from Rome were read by the British as soon as they were read by the Italian commanders to whom they were addressed. He accordingly reached the conclusion that the Admirals of Supermarina, the centralized command in Rome, must have been traitors, for the record of constant and disastrous defeats when the Italians sailed into British traps simply could not have been the result of coincidence. The government of De Gaspari was at that time eager for ways to distract attention from its own rascality and prosecuted the author for “libeling the honor of the armed services.” After a long and sensational trial, the unfortunate man was convicted and imprisoned.)

In 1965, Hyde, with the cordial cooperation of Sir William, produced what may be his finest book, a “best-seller” entitled Cynthia. When I read it, I considered the hypothesis that the book was a hoax and that seven of the eight photographs in it had been posed by hired actors (the eighth could have been taken from some book of French geography or history). It seems however that the female spy who is the subject of the book actually existed. A friend of mine in Minneapolis verified one essential detail for me, and Professor Trevor-Roper, who unfortunately seems not to have seen the book, assumed that it was, at least in large part, truthful.

“Cynthia” was the sobriquet and code name of a beautiful British spy, a well-born American girl, Amy Elizabeth Thorpe, born in Minneapolis and born with a lust to become an heroic adventuress — an ambition she eventually realized, after she had been imbued with all the horror stories about Hitler and the wicked Nazis with which the Jews filled the press they controlled before and during the Second World War. She may have welcomed an opportunity “to consider her [lovely] body as expendable as any soldier’s in the line of duty,” on behalf of what she credulously thought a noble cause instead of a project for universal ruin.

Cynthia is a moving book, for it was written with a deep emotion. Hyde was unmistakably in love with Cynthia and had been her lover, with or without the knowledge of her two successive husbands, on several occasions, the last not long before her untimely and agonizing death from cancer, which touched him deeply. One hopes that most of the story, which Hyde attributes to Cynthia herself, was substantially true. There is at least one episode which cannot be a truthful report as it stands, but if we assume that Hyde did not invent it and foist it upon Cynthia, a man who gallantly wishes to champion the beautiful young woman can form a plausible hypothesis that what Cynthia told Hyde was misunderstood in terms of what he had heard from Sir William.

Hyde probably wrote Room 3603 in good faith, not taking time to ponder the inconsistencies and improbabilities in Sir William’s stories (for he was simultaneously working on a book on a totally different subject), but he must have had his misgivings, for he refused to carry out Sir William’s next project in ostentatious modesty.

As I have said, after glancing at A Man Called Intrepid, I decided that Sir William, who signed a preface reluctantly certifying the accuracy of the story a pertinacious journalist had coaxed from him, probably wrote the whole tale himself, perhaps in competition with Ian Fleming, whose novels about spies were enjoying great and lucrative popularity. According to Professor Trevor-Roper, however, I was mistaken about that and the journalist who took responsibility for the book actually existed and may be alive today.

A Man Called Intrepid, which could have been more accurately entitled “A Four-Flusher Who Calls Himself Intrepid,” was the pay-off. As I have said, even with my limited knowledge of such matters, I discarded the book in disgust after inspecting, with growing incredulity, a first slice of the baloney. Professor Trevor-Roper remarks that the book is “a work of such blatant absurdity that it ought to have sunk author and subject for good.” Sir William’s megalomania had progressed to the point at which he made himself the alter ego of Winston Churchill and co-director of Britain’s part of the War, superior to the British Cabinet and all the officers of the Royal Army and Navy.

According to Trevor-Roper, in a part of the book I did not have the fortitude to read, Sir William decided that he had invented television and jet aircraft (first produced by Messerschmitt for the German Air Force). And this “singularly modest man, who shunned publicity” (in the words of his journalistic stooge) forged and photographed a letter from grateful Winston Churchill to himself — forged it so crudely that it was almost patently spurious. And he made in his book many claims that are outrageous not only for the effrontery of his mendacity but because he could not rationally have hoped that they would not be detected and exposed.

The British professor gives one example. Sir William claimed to have trained in Canada the team of assassins whom he then despatched by parachute into Czecho-Slovakia to assassinate the celebrated Reinhard Heydrich, “der Henker.” (2) One of the cowardly assassins (3) was living in Canada, read the book, knew where he and his accomplices had been trained and by whom, and did not hesitate to denounce the lie by a man of whom he had not before heard. This was but one of many examples.

(2. As you have been told a thousand times by professional liars, Heydrich was one of the monstrously wicked Nazis and so cruelly oppressed the people of Czecho-Slovakia that he rode through the cities and countryside in an open automobile with no companion but his chauffeur, and no one thought of harming him. Actually, of course, many of the Czechs so admired Heydrich that they were becoming pro-German. That, however, was not the primary reason for the assassination. Heydrich was a man of keenly lucid mind, the one German in a position of power who saw that Admiral Canaris, the head of German Military Intelligence, must be a traitor, and who was trying to obtain the positive and incontrovertible proof that would be needed to convince Hitler of the foul duplicity of a man whom he regarded as his devoted friend and trusted implicitly. (If Heydrich had lived to obtain that proof, the catastrophic and tragic end of the War might have been averted.) The British had to rush in the team of assassins to save Canaris, who had called for help that his Soviet friends could not or would not give him.)

(3. “Cowardly” because they arranged matters to make it seem that Heydrich had been assassinated by a conspiracy among the inhabitants of the village of Lidice, on whom the Germans accordingly took reprisals in conformity with a provision of the International Law that was once recognized by all civilized nations — a provision, by the way, which the United States had once specifically sanctioned.)

Sir William was not perturbed by the fact that, as Professor Trevor-Roper says, the book, “one of the most ludicrous works ever written on such a subject,” was promptly “torn to shreds by those who knew the facts, or could read the documents, or could distinguish sense from nonsense.” To all questions Sir William blandly replied that he could not discuss such matters without risk of revealing even more profound and world-shaking secrets he was guarding inviolate in his bosom. And he even had the astounding temerity to hire his tame journalist to take responsibility for an even more blatantly absurd book, Intrepid’s Last Case, in 1981.

Sir William’s impudent mendacity was publicly and indubitably exposed many times, but, amazingly, he continued to enjoy the fictitious honors he had created for himself. In 1983, two years after the publication of a book that put the Baron von Münchhausen to shame, he came to New York to receive the “William J. Donovan Award for services to democracy and freedom” at a grand banquet, attended by eight hundred well-heeled suckers, where he received a personal message from Ronnie Reagan, who shamelessly averred that he and “all freedom-loving men in the world have a special place in our hearts and minds and our history books for the man called Intrepid.”

There could be no more conclusive demonstration of the density of the mephitic fog of lies in which the Aryan world has lived and groped since 1945, as the Jews enforce by pseudo-legal terrorism respect for the rank excrement of their preposterous “Holohoax,” hordes of thieves and parasites dominate politically all the nations of the Western world, and venal “educators” inject fraudulent “history” and the deadly “One world” pus into the minds of the hapless and helpless children that befuddled parents voluntarily send to the tax-supported boob-hatcheries. The impudent hoaxer who claimed to have defeated the wickedly sane Nazis was so dear to the malignant scum that rules us that, knowing him to be a liar, they continued to believe him.

What is more, Sir William knew they would believe him, no matter how preposterous the lies he told: they had to. He was keeping inviolate in his bosom deep and dark secrets about many of the dirtiest and most scabrous crimes they had to conceal. His reference to such secrets when asked about his wilder tales was a polite threat: denounce my lies and I will tell the truth.

A man of his experience in intelligence work must have known that everything the general public is told about the Second World War by the several governments and by the press in each western nation, and is rammed into the minds of children as “history,” is simply a vast spider’s web of lies and flagitious deceit, from the Jews’ gigantic Holohoax or the reported character and actions of the great War Criminals, Roosevelt and Churchill, to even quite minor matters, such as trivial incidents on the battle field or the contents of now forgotten books.

The dense miasma of lies conceals the putrescence of “democracy” and “social justice,” and the abomination of “politicians” who feed on our nations as worms feed on buried corpses. In a world of lies, Sir William amused himself by imitating with covert sarcasm and parody, and thus subtly mocking, the elected “leaders” and “champions of democracy” in Washington, London, Bonn, and Paris. And I, for one, believe he did more than amuse himself.

Sir William did well to use his death as a last means of calling attention to himself. He was a great man, and he fully deserved the praise that was lavished upon him, although for quite different reasons.

I misjudged him when I contemptuously tossed aside A Man Called Intrepid, and assumed that Sir William was merely profiting from the ignorance and gullibility of persons whose knowledge of intelligence services was limited to novels by Eric Ambler and his successors. It was only when he received the “Donovan Award” that I understood what he had done and began to admire the intrepid liar.

Every person who has served in intelligence work above the level of clerical tasks or routine assignments, knows the truth about at least one incident that is sufficient to make him perceive the enormity of the whole intricate web of lies that is used to enslave our people. (4) He may acquiesce in the gigantic fraud because he accepts with military discipline the alleged raison d’état, or because he himself approves the subjection of mankind to Judaeo-Communism, or because he is unwilling to take the risk of giving the lie to the masters of the world, or because he knows he would not be believed by the victims if he told them the truth.

(4. For example, the American officer who was present when the Germans exhumed the bodies of some of the Polish officers murdered in the Katyn Forest knew that the murders had been committed by the Bolsheviks. If he knew only this one fact, he would nevertheless have seen the pattern of the whole web of deceit when the Americans pretended that the Germans were guilty and so stated when they carried out their equally vicious and more obscene murders of German officers at Nuremberg. Such is the force of one crucial fact, which additional knowledge will merely confirm and extend to other areas. No one man in an intelligence agency — not even its head and director — will learn all of the relevant facts concealed from the public, but a man of Sir William’s wide experience must have learned very many.)

Sir William must have known that if he began to expose the rulers of the world, he would be murdered without compunction or delay. He chose the only safe way to tell the truth to men who could understand. He told enormous and flagrant lies which the masters of deceit had to pretend they believed. The “Donovan Award” and the accompanying adulation was his moment of triumph. That sealed the record. That tells an intelligent historian all that he needs to know to direct properly his research in archives from which it was not possible to delete all vestiges of truth. And any thinking man who perpends what Sir William has done will arrive at working knowledge of the truth for himself.

But, despite every effort that may be made to disclose historical facts, the Aryan suckers who are the victims of organized crime will doubtless continue to relish the swill that their owners dump in their troughs. They have been taught to love their enemies.

The well-known axiom must be rephrased: Those whom the Jews would destroy, they first make mad.

* * *

Source: Liberty Bell magazine, June 1989

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