L. Ron Hubbard was attending George Washington University in 1932 and became one of the editors of The University Hatchet Monthly Literary Review together with Paul Linebarger.
Who is Paul Linebarger?
Well, you might know him better as one of his later pen-names – Cordwainer Smith. Under that name he published a number of science fiction stories, the most well known was Scanners Live in Vain written in 1945 but not published until 1950.
The year Hubbard would officially release Dianetics (May of 1950) Paul Linebarger was finally able to have his Scanners Live in Vain story finally published in a theretofore insignificant sci-fi magazine Fantasy Book – in January. Everyone was in a tizzy as to who was this Cordwainer Smith?
Ref – Biographical Timeline of Linebarger
The reason he even got it published at all, is what’s really interesting. L. Ron Hubbard had hooked his old friend and CIA ‘political action’ compatriot, Paul Linebarger, up with his own personal literary agent Forrest Ackerman! Who then became Linebarger’s agent.
By the time he wrote it, Linebarger was fully engaged in using the psychological warfare principals he detailed in his later 1948 book.
He had become a Catholic – or at least he wanted to appear to be – and was experimenting with using religious materials mixed with space opera-come-Messiah elements to conduct psychological warfare on the more intelligent but rebellious elements of America, including the introduction of a little known element of a top-secret program at the time – telepathic warriors.
In case you think I’m kidding when I said that Linebarger was part of a psychological warfare campaign against the American people as was Ron Hubbard, let me introduce you to a 1939 letter from Astounding science fiction magazine editor, John Campbell, to L. Ron Hubbbard (who had just started working for him).
This exchange was provided online by the Church of Scientology – obviously Campbell is answering some previous letter by Hubbard about “saving” Arabian stories for him for his new magazine called Unknown.
January 23, 1939 – John Campbell letter to Hubbard re: Unknown magazine.
February 1, 1939 – Hubbard responds to John Campbell.
Campbell starts out complaining about that he’s having trouble getting first-rate fantasy stories that fulfill his goal for the magazine, which obviously he considers Hubbard in that first-rate category. But what was the goal for this propaganda vehicle?
Look closer at this part –
Basically, this is the philosophy I’m applying:
All human beings like wishes to come true. In fairy stories and fantasy, wishes do come true.
Adults with childish minds (average “adult” has the mind of a 14 year old) don’t dare to read “fairy stories,” because their minds are afraid to acknowledge their interest in anything childish – they subconsciously realize their mental immaturity and, as a defense mechanism, avoid childish things.
…And every human being likes fantasy fundamentally.
So now wait…this means that the assessment of the general American adults is –
Those who believe wishes can come true.
because they have 14-year old minds
Put another way –
Those who believe in mental or spiritual powers.
because they have 14-year old minds
Of course, one might ask where this magical number of 14 came from. Why not 12, or 13?
Just look at Campbell’s attitude towards the ‘immature’ people –
The little runt is apt to be belligerent, spiteful, and bitterly resentful if ribbed.
Also note what he is trying to do with these stories – irritate and inflame the people who believe in mental or spiritual powers by ribbing them with these stories!
In view of this, I have absolute confidence that this new magazine will inevitably become more or less of a fashion among truly adult people – and will be despised by the 14-year-old minds.
Whereas who are the ‘right’ role models in this little scenario world of John Campbell?
Oh yes. Men of power and means.
in the physical world where you find the big, powerful, capable man pretty generally peaceable, friendly and willing to take ribbing easily because of an assured and unquestionable power.
The little runt is apt to be belligerent, spiteful, and bitterly resentful if ribbed.
How very BRITISH of him. How very slavemaster.
See the 2-classes he has there, with no in-between? The runts and the ‘big, powerful man”?
Now who’s being childish in their view of the world, Mr. Campbell.
So, apparently, we must be mature enough to understand the true magnificence of the seriously shitty stories that were being brought out in Astounding and Unknown, or else we are ‘little runts’?
Oh fer fucksakes!
That’s just plain ridiculous.
This little part of Hubbard’s response to him is quite interesting, it shows what his strategy was that would clearly carry over into his later Dianetics and Scientology materials – particularly the FAIRY TALES aspect of it all.
The only thing which could possibly kill it would be the tendency common to most writers to try to make the reader believe by disbelieving the thing themselves in the form of the hero’s stream of consciousness.
If not, don’t worry, you will soon enough.
Now, that was just one example of the parallels between L. Ron Hubbard and Paul Linebarger’s role as propagandists using religious/technico/sci-fi blends to influence the ’14-year old minds’ that dare to still believe in basically mind-over-matter – despite centuries of trying to beat it out them with religion and science as the twin war-hammers of this all-out War against humanity.
There are many, many more examples. Some of which will downright amaze you at how closely they were ‘doing their job’ for British intelligence and it’s bastard step-child, the CIA. You really should read my post of last July, 2015, to see what I’m talking about.
Ok, I give, here’s one more example.
In Linebarger’s story, the scanners resemble skilled espionage agents in certain ways: though respected and admired by ordinary folk, they are regarded as not quite human and are not able to lead ordinary lives. It’s quite a projection of Paul’s angst over his life, even then, as an intelligence agent.
Guess what his main character’s name is?
Why is that important?
Because just two years later, in a very similar story, L. Ron Hubbard named his character the exact same name. See my post regarding that story named: End Is Not Yet.
And now we will get to the earliest example of the two of them working together putting out propaganda ‘fiction’.
Hubbard’s TAH story.
Paul Linebarger wrote the “Coolie Chant” for it.
The University Hatchet Monthly Literary Review (George Washington University), Volume 28, Number 18, February 9, 1932.
Images first – plain text after.
Chang is a play on the very real General Chaing Kai-Shek of China.
LITTLE TAH walked back and forth before General Chang’s tent and watched his square footprints following themselves in the thick dust. He had shined his shoes that morning with the aid of some goose grease, but now there remained only the dull sheen of oil-accumulated dirt. The gun on little Tah’s shoulder had grown very heavy during the last three hours, but a soldier never complained, even at death.
The army of Chang had been camped in the center of this yellow plain for two weeks, enough time to thwart the efforts of foragers, and to exhaust the patience of the few scattered farmers whose fields had been trammeled by five thousand men a week before the harvest. But the sick were becoming strong again, and the morale had risen through many nights of sitting around flickering campfires with nothing more in mind than a long sleep in a warm bed under a clear sky.
Little Tah had noticed the difference, and had confided in Trivensk, the sub-Iieutenant of the boy’s company, while the White Russian had wound a bandage around the little bruised hand of his twelve year-old soldier.
“You’ll make a general some day, Tah,” still rang in the ears of the boy. He looked down at his cotton-padded grey uniform and wondered how gold braid must feel when it graced a silken tunic. He dared peek into the tent of the commandder as he passed in, and started a little when he saw the general sprawled on his cot, his mouth open in heavy sleep. Did one suddenly look like that when one became a general? Tah liked to think of generals in terms of Trivensk, who was straight and carried his mouth with just the right amount of authority. But if Trivensk thought that Tah would make a general some day, Tah would try.
The footprints became overlaid with others.
The dust eddied about the square shoes, and the twelve-year-old Chinese soldier’s mind turned to other more important things. Tsing had made a new top he wanted Tah to see. It must be a glorious top, for Tsing had made it, and though Tsing was a year younger than the sentry, he possessed a knack of making beautiful things of wood. When this tour of duty was ended, he would search out Wung and the two of them would find Tsing and ask him to spin the top for them. Wung could draw pictures with charcoal on stone. Little Tah liked pictures, especially pictures of gardens with big birds singing on top of the shrines and waterfalls bubbling away, He wished he could draw pictures. He sighed as he made his five-hundredth about-face at the end of the tent, but brightened when he thought of his new markmanship record which had brought him this heavy gun. Ninety-five out of a possible one hundred.
But still he wished he could draw pictures like those of the eleven-year-old Wung, or make tops like Tsing could.
A company of infantry marched down the gouged road throwing geysers of dust into the hot air, their rifles askew and their bandoliers clanging against their buttons. The company halted while the captain hurried over to the general’s tent. Little Tah stood at attention, his rifle just the height of his pill-box cap, and demanded the officer’s business.
“Tell your General Chang that I come from Harbin with important news. Hurry!”
Tah stalked into the tent, his rifle dragging, and shook the general by the shoulder. Chang sat up stifling a yawn to pull his sword belt around his fat stomach which bulged when the buckle was fastened. The officer entered and Tah retired to resume his pacings back and forth.
If he hadn’t been thinking so hard about his two friends, he might have heard an exciting conversation.
At the six-hundredth about-face, a grizzled Manchurian relieved Tah of his post. Tah wiped some of the dust from his shoes, the gun-grease from his grey-clad shoulder and went in search of Wung, whom he found seated on the pointer’s ledge of a worn-out seventy-five.
“Seen Tsing?” Tah leaned his rifle against a wheel of the cannon, and seated himself on the trace.
“No, Tsing on range with company.” Wung’s deep brown eyes followed the tracing his stick made in the sand.
“Seen top?” A slight frown passed over Tah’s yellow face as he gazed at his friend.
“No. You?” Tsing’s expression was impassive.
“Heart bad?” Tah moved closer to his friend and put an arm across the dejected shoulders.
“Think too much today. Remember gracious father.”
By PAUL M.A. LINEBARGER
One step more, and another step More:
What the difference? Who keeps score?
What will heal my shoulders sore?
What the difference if my guts I tore,
Flooding my belly with my own sweet gore?
A few years more-and then I die.
Why should I stop to squall and cry?
Men will smile and pass me by!
My son’s son’s sons will be born so late;
They will eat good food and laugh at Fate;
They will wear rich robes and be bright-great;
Hold huge house back of lacquer gates!
“Sorry. Can do something?”
“No. Chang shoot soldier who run. Good soldier do not run. Wung good soldier like Tah and Tsing. They of good heart.”
“Tah like to see his gracious father, too, but father sell Tah to Chang, what can Tah do?”
“Does Tah like to be soldier way down in heart?”
‘”Hush. There bugle blow!”
The staccato notes of assembly rang out across the plain. Soldiers were running from everywhere
toward their companies.
Tah plucked at Wung’s sleeve. “Come. Maybe we go again.”
Trivensk was bawling orders to a ragged line of yellow soldiers who wrestled with equipment, their guns braced between their knees. Trivensk aided some of them with their packs, and then with a final glance at the now-straight line, turned the company over to the approaching captain.
A bugle blew again, and five thousand men moved out onto the dust-choked road toward the north. Little Tah’s heavy rifle felt like fire on his shoulder. Each time he stepped the rough sling seemed to sear the young flesh beneath the grey tunic.
“E! UR! SEN! SHU! E! UR! SEN! SHU!
HEP! ER! SEN! SHU!”
Boots rose and fell, almost invisible through the cloud which increased at each step to crowd deeper into little Tah’s throat. Wung, on Tah’s left, was walking with lowered head, and, in spite of his own misery Tah felt a quick pang of sympathy as he saw a tear roll down his comrade’s face. Tsing, on Tah’s right, gave his friend a long sidewise look and then threw his shoulders back to gaze up at the cap ahead of him. He was a soldier!
There were no ten-minute rest periods today, and at every count, Tah thought he heard the tempo of the march quicken. The rifle grew to be a dull ache as the straps of his pack gnawed at his narrow shoulders. Tah thought for a moment of his home in Mukden where he had attended school until a year ago. There one did not choke on dust and have packs beat down one’s shoulders.
He remembered how pleasant the room had been with its screens and low tables, its cushions and
its. kindly master.
“E! UR! SEN! SHU! HEP! UR! SEN! SHU!”
Tah remembered how he had wept when the master had once beat him across the back with a willow switch for upsetting ink. The pack was slipping a little and threw the boy’s stride off.
He glanced at a file closer, barely discernible through the yellow cloud and hastily shifted his rifle to his left shoulder. Would they never give the command for route step? Or were they too hurried to delay the five thousand with stragglers?
Tah remembered that he would make a general some day and felt a little better.
“E! UR! SEN! SHU!”
Did they have to count everything? Tah wondered if his family ever thought about him. Probably not, with ten mouths to feed. Was mother still well? His lips were cracking with the dryness of the air. The sore on the right side was getting bad. Those boots looked odd, going up and down, up and down. Wung was still crying.
He had only run away from home three months ago. Tah remembered how he had cried when he had first come out to this eternal war.
That bulge in Tsing’s pocket must be his top.
Tah wished he had had a chance to see it spin.
Tsing had said it really was wonderful.
“E! UR! SEN! SHU!”
It must be getting late. The dust wall not sparkling any more. There was a temple in Mukden whose bells must be ringing now. Tah thought of the countless times he had walked up the high steps into the garden which lay beyond the second wall. The birds always seemed to whistle at him when he came, and the goldfish seemed to swim faster when he looked at them.
It was quiet in that garden.
“HEP! UR! SEN! SHU! E! UR!–“
And the yellow robed monk had offered to teach him all the songs, that he, too, might wear the robe when he grew older. It was dark now, and Tah couldn’t see the boots anymore. He felt as if he were alone in spite of the steady beat of shoes on the road. Tah could feel the dust settling heavily on his face and uniform. The rifle was hurting his left shoulder. Breaking his pace a moment, Tah loosened the sling and slung the weapon across the top of his pack. A hasty adjustment of buckles brought the weight above his shoulder blades. That was better. Monks didn’t have to carry packs at all. They sat on little yellow cushions and chanted while bull fiddles droned somewhere in the darkness of the temple.
Robes weren’t as heavy as packs, and monks didn’t have to listen to
“HEP! UR! SEN! SHU!”
The road was growing rougher. Tar realized that his feet were becoming blistered. They would stop before long and Tah would place some goose grease around his heels so that they wouldn’t swell. Last month he had been unable to remove his shoes after an all-night march. The sharper stones bruised the boy’s instep.
At midnight a halt was called that the weary men might shed their packs for a moment’s rest. Tah set his gear in the road between Tsing’s and Wung’s, pausing for a moment before he squatted on his heels, to look at the stars.
Wung coughed at his elbow. “Tired?”
“No. Stars pretty, Wung.”
“Rifle hurts.” Wung sat down on his pack and fell forward sound asleep. Tsing had cast himself full length in the dirt to bury his head in his arms.
Tah thought for a moment about his heels, but as he knelt to dig into his duffle, he, too, collapsed to sprawl beside his friends, his face turned to the stars. Trivensk stopped for a moment to look down at the young face and sighed.
The skin was still soft like a baby’s, but the wrinkles around the eyes belied Tah’s twelve years. Trivensk started to kneel beside the boy, but squared his shoulders and strode on down the line to check the numbers of his company.
Although they had been halted fifteen minutes, Tah felt that it had been less than one. His shoulders were stiff from the momentary relaxation and his boots felt ugly and cold. He helped Wung adjust his pack and fixed Tsing’s rifle so that it could be carried by the sling, and had barely shouldered his own burden when the five thousand began to move.
“E! UR! SEN! SHU! HEP! UR! SEN! SHU!”
The dust was writhing up into the air again to blot out the stars. Tah felt his heels trod upon and sluggishly caught the step. He wished he had remembered the goose-grease. His heels felt worse for the halt. How he hated to start out again with cold boots! It would have been better to have kept right on marching. He was glad it was too dark to see the feet ahead of him.
At five o’clock the long column began to stop at intervals, and Tah surmised that the companies up front were being dispersed. After slouching up the road ten yards at a time, Tah’s weary company at last came to a trench. It was long, and seemingly without end to its black length.
For the first time, Tah became conscious of a dull booming and a high crackle which had long been in his ears. He had heard it months before and knew that the rumble was made by large guns, and that the crackle was that of rifles and machine guns.
The east was gradually turning grey, and the cold morning air bit into Tah as he stood at the top of a parapet waiting for Trivensk to give an order. The White Russian shouted, and the men tumbled into the trench, to sink as one man on the firestep where they huddled together in sleep.
Tah was too tired to rest. He lay close to his friends with his eyes on the greying sky, Wung was whimpering softly, though he slept.
Nine o’clock found the five thousand waiting at attention in the trenches. The rumble had grown louder, and far down the line, Tah could hear the mad clatter of machine guns. Smoke had begun to roll across the yellow plain before them. There were some hills two or three miles away which Tah liked. There were some green spots there.
Tah wondered how it would feel to sprawl at full length in tall, damp grass. He moved and a cloud of dust rolled from him.
Some little figures in grey were running across the plains toward them. Tah tried to count them, but his eyes smarted. The figures were coming nearer. Trivensk stood up on the parapet and watched them through a pair of field glasses. The crackling was growing louder now, and above his head, Tah could hear the vicious twang of bullets. He knew that they were rifle bullets. He looked at the figures again, and saw some of them kneel, get up, run closer, throw themselves on the ground, get up again.
There were more than he had supposed. Dully he wondered who they were and why they were kneeling.
Trivensk turned toward the far end of the line; and then waved his hand. “Ready on the firing line!” he bellowed. “Load!”
Tah’s deep brown eyes sprung wide for a moment and then bent to pick a clip out of his bandolier. He felt the cartridges slither out of the clip and into the breach. He slammed home the bolt and set his sights for a thousand yards.
Trivensk looked out across the plains for a moment and then threw down his arm. “Fire!”
Tah stood on his pack and thrust his rifle toward the grey figures which grew closer every second. His finger pressed the trigger. The recoil almost knocked him away from the parapet. He slammed another shell into the barrel. He tried to aim but the gun shook. He pressed the trigger, loaded, pressed the trigger. The grey figures were close to the trench. Out of the corner of his eye, Tah saw Trivensk spin around and crumple into the trench, half his face gone. Tah’s rifle grew hot. He couldn’t see the sights. Clip after clip he tore off the bandolier and rattled into the magazine. Tears were blinding him.
The acrid taste of smokeless powder was in his mouth. Load and fire! Load and fire! On his right, Wung cried out. Tah turned to see the child clutch at the sand bags, and then hurtle onto the dusty floor. Load and fire! The grey figures were almost to the trench. Tah could see them falling here and there, but the tide swept on over the bodies. Load and fire! Tsing snatched at his arm, tried to say something. Tsing coughed and thick blood drooled out of his mouth.
Tsing’s face fell forward against the wall. Tah heard the death rattle. Load and fire! A huge yellow face leered in back of a bayonet. The bayonet was coming nearer, nearer. The bayonet was long, a thousand miles long. There was red on the end. Tah felt the icy, burning steel rasp against the bones in his chest. The leering face was tugging at the rifle. Tah’s body surged back and forth as the face tried to free the bayonet.
There was a sheet of flame as the face pulled the trigger. The rifle came free. Burning powder was eating at Tah’s little face. He fell back into the trench across the body of Wung. There was the sky above, all blue and clean. Tah retched. His breast was on fire. Huge waves of ragged pain clutched at his heart. He felt dust beneath his blackened fingers. His little hand plucked at it weakly. There was the sky above, all blue and clean. He couldn’t think. A top spun before his eyes. Tsing’s top. He would wake up in a minute and go to school. The pain tore at his heart. There was a black cloud up there now. He tried to move. Dust was everywhere. Black dust settling across his eyes. His heart didn’t hurt now. The dust settled more thickly. He felt himself falling, falling, falling. Black dust. Falling, falling. Everything would be all right in a moment.
Very different than his writing style most of us are familiar with. Well done, evocative, organized, and very mature.
The only problem is –
This very first published story of Ron Hubbard’s was a complete propaganda piece! And not just any kind of propaganda, it was straight-out BRITISH propaganda.
Poor little twelve year-old kids going to battle who still played with tops, White Russian commanders…the futility of war…death and suffering everywhere and for what…
Oh how pointless it all was…
Gag me with a spoon.
That is just right out of the British propaganda play-book.
Literally! (pun intended).
I’ll give you an example, taken from the Special Operations Executive (british intelligence) materials given to the new Office of Strategic Services (OSS – precursor of the CIA) psychological warfare trainees during WWII. It’s from a declassified CIA document –
From Robert Cresswell to Major Bruce, December 14, 1942
Considerations in respect to the basis and procedures of Psychological Warfare
Psychological Warfare seeks to:
3. Weaken the enemy’s will to resist, either by suggesting to his fighting men and civilians that their lot will be a far happier one if they will lay down their arms, or alternatively, by suggesting that retaliations that will become progressively more drastic the longer resistance is employed
Hubbard’s Tah story was certainly picture-perfect along that line, wouldn’t you say?
The truth of what was going on in China was just a little different. Like the fact that the Chinese were tired of being slaves to the British, and the British only cared about their god-damn opium trade and ‘other financial interests’ that Chinese independence efforts were threatening.
You know, little details like that.
The White Russian addition is interesting. I’m sure that was partially Linebarger’s influence because he had conducted a passionate romance in Peking with an exiled White Russian woman several years his senior, had narrowly survived a suicide pact with her, all before he was 18!
The other reason, the real one, is something decidedly less romantic but definitely worth bringing you up to speed a little on. It is about British intelligence activities – plain and simple.
To really understand it, however, you should really read my Library article Casimir Pilenas Palmer about a Lithuanian spy who worked for both Russian and British intelligence – including working directly for Lord Melville – and operating within America as well.
Let me give you just a few examples of ‘White Russians’ that were really long-term British intelligence agents, that no one knew about, least of all organizations like the FBI or the Anti-Defamation League.
Here’s what Hoover had in combined Russian/British intelligence agent Boris Brasol’s FBI file –
In 1925 BRASOL was called to Washington with reference to the controversy about money left here by the Imperial Russian Government, at which time he gave an opinion favorable to the Soviet, and in that way made a good contact with the Soviet. In the following eight or nine years, he was an agent of Amtorg [the Soviet trade bureau in New York] and G.P.U. while on the other hand keeping close contact with the White Russians.
That’s Hoover for you, always going after those stupid balls they throw him.
But Amtorg? That oughta ring a bell with the scientologists in-the-know out there.
The Amtorg Trading Corporation was the successor to the Russian Supply company that Boris previously worked for. It is an American company based in New York, founded in 1924 by Russia to serve as its buying and selling organization in trade between the USSR and the USA. It handled the bulk of Soviet-American trade (which was often basically weapons) until 1935, and continues to exist today.
Working as an Amtorg employee served as a convenient cover for British deep cover agents.
Especially White Russians.
Some things are just kept really secret, not even Vincent Astor knew about the extent of British intelligence involvement in Amtorg, or at least he gave President Roosevelt that impression when he wrote to him about it in April of 1940.
Of particular interest was the account of Amtorg Corporation, the thinly disguised cover for Soviet espionage in the United States, and Astor forwarded to FDR details of Amtorg’s transactions.10
10. Astor to Roosevelt, n.d., Astor to Roosevelt, Feb. 5, April 18 and 20, 1940, in PSF 116, Roosevelt Library.
By the way, Boris surfaced again in intelligence activities during the time of WWII, this time he’s under William Stephenson, who had just arrived to start the British Security Coordination. Tasked to harass anti-war (and Anti-British) protestors, he and the Coudert Brothers harassed various people as being “Red” or communist.
That was standard British propaganda that they came out with around the time that Senator Borah was killing their League of Nations bill. The whole ‘red’ or communist thing was a BIG distraction, not to mention that communism was totally created by British and Vatican elements in the first place, as part of an attempt to black PR the American Revolution and try to keep that from happening anywhere else.
The whole ‘bolsheviks’ hysteria was also a big deal. When Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming, the head of MI6, sent William Wiseman to New York in 1916 – to establish special intelligence section V MIc – he recruited Norman Thwaites. Thwaites had worked for many years on the New York World staff, he was the private secretary of Joseph Pulitzer.
Thwaites had helped Milner to groom another man who was chosen to become a major mouthpiece for the slavemasters – H. Wickham Steed – the man who would begin the public assault on the newly created “race” idea of “the Jews”, in 1920.
While Thwaites was the personal secretary of Joseph Pulitzer – Steed was appointed as the Paris correspondent for the New York World. Using this as a jump-off point, Milner then had Steed join The Times in 1896 as a foreign correspondent, working briefly out of Berlin before transferring successively to Rome ( from 1897 until 1902) and then Vienna (1902–13).
In 1914 he moved to London to take over as foreign editor of The Times.
Just in time for their planned war – WWI- working directly for C.F.G. Masterman through Milner’s other man in The Times – Geoffrey Dawson – to plant whatever propaganda articles that the Slavemasters wanted in The Times. Steed would later be the man who first publicized The Protocols of Zion.
That, is a very, very, nasty connection there, ladies and gentleman. It absolutely proves complicity on the part of British intelligence to rally later attacks against the “enemy” – The Jews.
The same complicity on the part of British intelligence of rallying hate against the “enemy” of Communists/Bolsheviks and “international anarchists” as they were then calling them, prior to the lets-attack-the-Jews now operation in 1920.
It was Wickham Steed who first broached the Bolshevist/Jew change of propaganda angle, in an editorial he “wrote” (as in approved writing) for the Daily Mail on 28 March 1919. In it, he “accused” the British Prime Minister David Lloyd George of betraying the White Russians because of a plot by “international Jewish financiers” and the Germans to help the Bolsheviks stay in power.
Remember, that kind of fomenting up the public against “the Bolsheviks” was entirely a British intelligence operation. On recommendation of Wiseman – because agent Sydney Reilly would help to foment the war conditions the British so desired – Reilly had been “officially” tasked into the SIS in March 1918 and posted to Murmansk with the codename “ST-1”.
His task was to foment resistance “against” the Bolsheviks.
That is over a year earlier than Steed’s article. Now you begin to see the point of British Intelligence feeding propaganda though the Times-Ledger Cable Service to British-controlled journalists such as Carl Ackerman. It was yet another British attempt to foment attacks on “communists” and “bolsheviks” in the Red Bible news articles of 1919.
Examples of White Russian British intelligent agents –
Rabbi Gottheil’s son, Professor Richard H. Gottheil, held the Chair of Semitic and Rabbinical Literature at Columbia. During WWI, starting some time around 1915/16, he worked as a deep-cover agent for British Intelligence – for William Wiseman on Bolshevik/White Russian matters (amongst other things).
Stephenson also had another project going with Dick Ellis, his BSC deputy. His full name is Colonel Charles Howard “Dick” Ellis.
image from http://www.specialforcesroh.com, where he is listed as SIS.
Ellis was an Australian who joined the SIS in October of 1921. He had abandoned an undergraduate course at Oxford, and was promptly sent to the Istanbul office where he married a Russian woman and became the contact for a number of Russian agents.
Reference – Secret History of British Intelligence by Keith Jeffery.
He was later assigned to the Berlin Station in October of 1923, where he was given a list of Russian agents to run and was also approached by numerous White Russians to assist in British anti-Bolshevik operations to help create the conditions for WWII.
He also had a hand in actually running the Coordinator of Information office (1941-42) and the Office of Strategic Services (1942-45) for the official head, William Donovan. More on this later.
To continue reading about Ellis, please see my Reading Library article titled: British Security Compendium: The Book and the Lords
You can also check out this 1944 CIA declassified document over in our Reading Library, about using White Russians to Spy for the OSS (the predecessor to the CIA).
* * *
So, Ron Hubbard’s working in a bit about White Russians in his Tah story, is clearly showing his knowledge of British intelligence operations in China, but at the same time he is somewhat positioning a White Russian in a negative way – which is quite fascinating actually.
That was also standard intelligence action at the time.
Bringing up British/Russian agent Boris Brasol, again, he’s a perfect example. He went way out of his way to mis-portray both White Russians and Bolsheviks. Both he and Casimir Pilenas Palmer were often used to feed false information to various targets within the U.S. government community.
All this was going on, historically, not all that long before Hubbard writes his story here.
It’s kind of sad, in a way, to see Hubbard under the influence, so to speak, so young. It reminds me of this haunting picture of Steed’s associate at the London Times, Geoffrey Dawson.
Look at the young men in the background, that Dawson was busy influencing.
Ron Hubbard was that young when he first starts propagandizing with Linebarger.
Hubbard in 1932
Such a waste of talent this was, of Hubbard and Linebarger.
But, it does serve to mark – with a big fat marker –
The exact point Hubbard and Linebarger began working for British intelligence interests.
Hubbard’s first actual intelligence mission actually began that same year – his Caribbean Motion Picture Expedition that he started advertising for (in the Hatchet, no less) just a month or two after he wrote this story!
It was aboard one of the few 4-masted schooners, non-motorized, left operating in the world – the Doris Hamlin. If you’d like to read more about it, follow the link above.
Last but not least, here’s an OCR’d PDF of Hubbard and Linebarger’s Tah story.
Written and researched by –