A FEW WEEKS AFTER THE publication of Agent Zigzag, I received a call
from the German Ambassador to London, Wolfgang Ischinger. “I have just
finished your book,” he said. “You describe how Eddie Chapman was flown
across the Channel by the Luftwaffe and then parachuted into Britain. I
thought you might be interested to know that the man who commanded that
flight was my father. Both he and the pilot, Fritz Schlichting, are still
very much alive.”
Schlichting had been the tall, shy pilot with the Iron Cross at the controls
of the Focke-Wulf reconnaissance plane in 1942, while Karl “Charlie”
Ischinger was his commanding officer and navigator, described by Chapman as
a “small, thickset young man of about 28, with steady blue eyes”. Chapman
had believed these men were dead: “The whole crew had been shot down and
killed over England on their 60th sortie,” he wrote.
The discovery that the pilot and navigator had not only outlived the war but
survived still, led to a meeting with Fritz Schlichting at his home in
Detmold, Germany. At the age of 84, charming and hospitable, the former
pilot recalled that day as if he had stepped off the runway at Le Bourget
last week, rather than a long lifetime ago.
“We were the Luftwaffe Reconnaissance Squadron number 123 stationed in the
Château du Buc, outside Versailles. We flew night flights over Britain,
photographing the effects of bombing raids and helping to identify targets.
It was dangerous work. I lost more than 80 comrades. The average number of
flights before being shot down was about 40. I flew 87 in all.
“One day my commanding officer, Major Gobin, told Charlie and me that we had
been chosen for a special mission. He told us to dress in civilian clothing,
and go to Paris. We met the English spy and his handlers in a restaurant for
dinner: we knew him only as ‘Fritz’, like me. Much later I discovered his
real name. He was delightful, excellent company.
“We all met a few weeks later at Le Bourget airfield, and I showed him over
the plane. Chapman seemed quite calm, although he asked lots of questions.
On the way over the Channel we sang songs. There was a bad moment when
Chapman was preparing to jump, and we realised that his parachute cord was
not properly tied. If he had jumped like that, he would have fallen to his
death. Charlie gave the signal, and Chapman opened the hatch. He had this
huge pack on his back – heaven knows what was in it – and as he jumped it
got wedged in the hole. He was struggling, but it wouldn’t budge, so Charlie
got out of his seat and gave him a big boot in the back.
“That was the last we saw of Chapman for about four months, but we heard that
his mission had been successful. Everyone was very pleased with him. It
never occurred to anyone that he might be working for the British. We met up
with him again in Paris. It was a great reunion. Chapman handed Charlie and
me two packages, a big box of chocolates and a pound of coffee which he had
bought in Madrid on his way back. It was real coffee beans, not the fake
stuff, so we were delighted.
“After the Chapman mission, as a reward, we were each presented with a special
engraved silver goblet. I have always treasured it. Charlie is my still my
best friend. He is 97 now, and his health is not good, but we still have
get-togethers when we remember the extraordinary night we dropped the
English spy into Britain.”
The courtly Luftwaffe pilot was only one of several people to emerge from
Chapman’s past, adding fresh myths and memories, some affectionate, some
decidedly less so.
An elderly, refined female voice came on the telephone at The Times,
and without giving her name declared: “He was an absolute shit, you know.
The handsomest man I ever met. But a prize shit.” Then she rang off.
An acquaintance of Chapman’s, the journalist Peter Kinsley, wrote to The
Times after Agent Zigzagwas serialised: “Eddie would have loved
the publicity. His old friends said he should have worn a T-shirt emblazoned
‘I am a Spy for MI5’. The last time I met him he described how he had missed
a fortune in ermine ( used in coronation robes) during a furs robbery,
because he thought it was rabbit.
“He also said he successfully convinced a German au pair girl that he was a
post office telephone engineer, and robbed the wall safe. He was also once
visited by an income tax inspector, and produced a doctor’s certificate that
he had a weak heart and could not be ‘caused stress’. Ten minutes later, he
drove, in a Rolls-Royce, past the inspector waiting in the rain at a bus
stop, and gave him a wave.” I received a mournful letter from Brian Simpson,
a collector of medals. Simpson had heard of Chapman’s adventures and asked
if he could buy his Iron Cross. A few weeks later, Chapman duly produced the
medal; indeed, he produced two, saying that he had been given another by
Hitler himself. Eddie Chapman took the money, and a delighted Simpson took
the medals. Two decades later, on reading this book, the collector realised
he had been conned. Chapman had given his own Iron Cross away many years
earlier. Those in Simpson’s possession were replicas.
One after another, Chapman’s former associates, former lovers and victims
emerged to add their stories. Then, to my astonishment, there reappeared the
only person who really knew the truth about Eddie Chapman: Eddie Chapman
himself.
John Dixon, an independent film-maker, called me to say that he had six hours
of footage of Chapman talking about his life, not one second of which had
ever been broadcast. Dixon had shot the film in 1996, the year before
Chapman died, with a view to making a documentary that never happened.
Sitting in a small screening room in Soho, meeting Chapman for the first time
from beyond the grave, was one of the strangest experiences of my life.
Chapman was old and ill when the film was made, but still vital. He exudes a
feral charm, as he lounges in an armchair, reminiscing, smoking, chuckling,
winking and flirting with the camera. He describes parachuting into Britain,
the faked bombing of the de Havilland aircraft, and his life in Jersey,
France, Lisbon and Oslo. His criminal exploits are remembered with airy
pride.
But there is a valedictory tone to his words: this is the last testament of a
man talking to posterity, and setting the record straight or, in some
instances, bent. Because at the age of 82, Chapman is still a shameless
liar. In one passage, for example, he describes being taken to see Winston
Churchill in 1943 and sharing a bottle of brandy with the Prime Minister
while the latter sat in bed in his dressing gown. It is a splendid story. It
is also completely untrue.
Chapman could never have imagined that MI5 would release its records, and that
the truth about his wartime service would be revealed. His own death is
imminent, but here is Eddie Chapman still playing by his own rules: a
grinning villain, spinning a yarn, looking you straight in the eye, and
picking your pocket.
© Ben Macintyre 2007
This is an edited version of the postscript to Agent Zigzag ,
published in paperback by Bloomsbury, 372pp, at £7.99,
offer £7.59 inc p&p from 0870 1608080 or
timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst bloomsbury.com/agentzigzag
Buy the book
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