Sir Hamish Gilkuddy - a Man of his Time. Part III. | News

In my non-racing life I was what could be termed 'one of the boys'. I also discovered in myself a childish enjoyment of practical jokes. Maybe it was the imminence of war; maybe it was a boyish hangover from those years at Arran Academy. I was never so pleased as when I managed to pull off some jape.

One of my favourites and which I was fortunate enough to capture on camera was played on young Clifton Roberts - a rather naïve mechanic who worked for Seagrave. He had become obsessed by good luck charms and rituals and was the bane of many of the drivers who always had to take or wave away some new trinket or piece of advice. It turns out that his parents were devout Roman Catholics so perhaps this was some twisted version of the Catholic love of beads and crucifixes and other mumbo jumbo

Anyway, I persuaded some friends to go along with me on a plan to cure young Clifton of his annoying dependence upon rituals and mystery. I persuaded Tommy Brice to bring his family in on the jape and he set everything up for me.

Inviting Clifton to join me for a drink along with a couple of others in the team, I set the conversation round to the odd but effective good luck rituals I had picked up in France while with the Auto Cirque. I could see Clifton's eyes widening with pleasure. Nobody ever gave him such an opportunity to share his entrenched beliefs. I started to talk about the Pee Pee for Good Racing Weather Plan.

Since we had consumed about three pints of cider by now, I suggested we move outside to the street and put the ritual to the test.

I explained that it was totally believed by the Provencales that if you wished to ensure fine weather then you placated the gods by peeing publicly near to that which was to benefit by the fine weather. If it was sheep shearing you peed on or near a sheep, etc. We had now reached Tommy Brice's parents house. Parked in the street was the family car as arranged. "So there you go, Clifton - give it a try. We need a dry track to beat the handicapper in the Members Race this afternoon!"

Clifton blushed. He muttered about perhaps trying it later.

We urged him on. "And whatever happens, remember you must complete the ritual!"

Looking around quickly to see if there was a policeman on his beat or anyone else he scuttled quickly across the road and crouched in front of the radiator, clumsily unbuttoning his fly. On cue the family emerged from the front door - and avoiding eye contact proceeded to load up the car with passengers. You could see that they were struggling to avoid breaking out into laughter as a by now crimson faced Clifton bathed the radiator (and his own trousers) in pee. It was at that moment that I took out my camera and took the photo for posterity.

That it started to rain five minutes later was a bonus!

Every time it rained on a race day we would look over at Clifton who would blush and turn his back as we roared with laughter.

The "Blitzen" Benz I may have mentioned that for a variety of reasons I have some inbred (or maybe acquired) obsessions. One was distaste for a certain type of Englishman - often the very type that either could afford or was attracted to motor racing! The other nationalistic issue I have always had is with the Hun. One can imagine my feelings when a certain machine started to be seen at Brooklands - the Blitzen Benz and its driver Barlow.

It had brute power. It had arrogance as it swept past its rivals. I had only three battles on the track with Barlow but they were not really enjoyable. The score was even as he beat me once, I beat him once and on the third occasion neither of us finished. I started to think increasingly about the political situation developing in Europe. I would think of friends I had made there. I would look at the life I was leading, squandering money and time.

In March 1914 I joined up.

I became no. 2 in a cavalry regiment of Indian regulars. I had, at last, a sense of purpose. I was excited.

War broke out in August. By March 1915 we had been all but wiped out.

Of my first six months of war I will not speak. It was an orgy of madness. On leave in England I talked with the War Office. In particular I talked with Percy Bishop with whom I had raced at Brooklands on a number of occasions. He was in charge of Intelligence.

This was the beginning of a phase of my involvement in the war that I cannot talk much about. This is not out of any sense of modesty but because people are involved in both Germany and Britain who would be harmed by too much detail.

Suffice to say that my role in undermining the Hun was to be focused on myself as an agent with cover and responsibilities that were total and mine alone.

This I can say. My flair for languages and my training at Arran Academy in camouflage and careful movement served me in good stead in my cover as an Austrian female actress! Augmented by training with the Intelligence agency, I was prepared well. In the original "Der Fliegende Engel" in Berlin

The contacts I made in Germany were in business and trade rather than with the political membership in the audiences. Of course, it was essential that I avoid any emotional attractiveness as an actress. I adopted an aloof, cold and austere persona - which kept all but the most drunken males at bay but which had an unexpected side effect. I was gaining good inside information of the state of the German war economy and some interesting arms production information but I was becoming highly popular with the general public. Before too long German cinema producers were approaching me.

Part of poster for "Der Fliegende Engel" As the Masked Temptress in "Eisbein und Sauerkraut" By 1917 I was sending vital information on the regimental supplies being distributed geographically which allowed the War Office to estimate which sections of the Western Front were being bulked up for a push. My crazy one "man" attack on the nation I loathed most was being fuelled by the "love" that nation had for its new screen idol!

I got out of Berlin and back to Britain by way of Hamburg. It was a close run thing but I cannot go into any details. It was a cold October day when I walked into the War Office and met Percy Bishop once more.

He strode across the room and made to hug me. Instinctively I stepped back and he paused. There was a short, embarrassed silence and I offered him my hand to shake. Keeping men at bay had become ingrained - as my mission and my life depended on it. The penalty for espionage was a shooting squad.

"Seems like it will all be over by next month Hamish. Damned fine job you did out there. Thought you were a goner a few times."

"Or had gone over to the other side perhaps?"

He shook his head and offered me a Scotch. Together we looked down onto the Mall.

"Going to be alright Hamish? No trouble... well, you know..."

I laughed. Good old Percy. Didn't quite have the words - but was wise enough to realize the problems. We discussed the details of my demobilization and with a minimum of red tape I was out of the Army.

Explaining the whole situation to mother was going to be something else. I went over my story on the train up North.

Five days previously I had been a woman on stage in Dusseldorf in enemy territory. Now home was almost an alien concept. War makes some strange wounds.