Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

THE U.S. NAVAL Torpedo Station, more commonly known in later years as the Torpedo Factory, was a monstrous complex of buildings spread along the Potomac River waterfront in what is known as the Old Town section of Alexandria, Virginia.

The factory opened in 1918 near the end of World War I and went into mothballs a few years later when peace was declared, thereafter serving as a munitions storage depot for several years. It re-opened as a factory at the start of World War II to manufacture the Mark-14 torpedoes as well as warheads, propellers and engines, at one time employing over 5000 people. It sat idle after the second big war to save humanity until it was appropriated by various government agencies to store Congressional documents, artifacts for the Smithsonian and war records – mainly dossiers, films and photographs of the German war effort – including transcripts of the famous Nuremburg trials.

DURING THE 1940s, the United Nations War Crimes Commission in London assembled extensive lists of well-known Nazi war criminals that included Gestapo, SS and concentration camp commanders. Also listed were German industrialists and even factory owners who relied on forced labor, Jewish and otherwise, to profitably run their operations.

In the late 1960s, the Department of the Army received the Commission’s list of war criminals but kept the names secret under an agreement that would only allow declassification to begin in the late 1970s. In the interim, it was assumed that the classified documents stored at the Torpedo Factory and other government facilities were safe from exposure.

In 1969, the City of Alexandria acquired the Torpedo Factory property, which included seven acres of land, for $1.57M. It was a unique agreement with the General Services Administration whereby the federal government would continue to manage the facility with the ownership title to be officially transferred to the City in five years.

By the spring of 1971, a story was leaked to various newspapers that the contents of the Torpedo Factory were being shipped to a secret government warehouse in Maryland. After the story broke, the government scrambled to consolidate and box up all its remaining records, many of which were still classified and under seal – or so it was supposed.

It happened during this transition period that a senior archivist, one Addison Bellows, had stumbled upon a file laying open on a shelf in the Torpedo Factory basement. Leafing feverishly through the contents, he was shocked to see that it contained explosive and still-classified information on a local family with whom the archivist’s own family had long-standing connections. One need only walk around town and see the dozen or so buildings with the Dumont & Bellows National Bank signs looming in stark blue letters. The fact that a classified file was exposed did, in fact, mortify the archivist but, in truth, he was more concerned about adverse publicity for the two families should the contents of the file be made public.

Bellows was certain that the file would never be permanently sealed and, in fact, directives had already been promulgated for opening most of the classified files to historians before the end of the decade. But that was still years away. In that moment, standing in the dank basement of the Torpedo Factory, Bellows’ familial loyalty overrode his duties as an archivist and as a government employee.

Bellows looked at his watch. It was late in the afternoon and workers would start to stream out of the Torpedo Factory in a matter of minutes. It was unlikely that he could remove the file without the risk of being seen. Addison Bellows had always been a cautious, circumspect man. He decided that he would retrieve the file from the basement early the next morning before people started showing up for work. Then, he would secrete it in his office until he decided how to proceed.

THAT EVENING, a member of the maintenance crew at the Torpedo Factory was retrieving cleaning supplies from the basement and saw a file on a shelf propped up between two containers of cleaning liquid. He was headed up to the second floor to clean the clerical area so he grabbed the file and put it on his cart. When he got upstairs, he laid it on the desk of the clerical supervisor and went about his work.

BELLOWS SKIPPED BREAKFAST the next morning and hurried to the Torpedo Factory to execute his plan. No one was around as he descended the stairs to the basement and flipped on the lights. He stood in front of the shelf in disbelief. The two containers were gone and the file was missing. He searched frantically under and behind the shelf, hoping it had slid onto the floor. The archivist was now in a panic, certain that he had been watched the day before.

For over an hour, Bellows sat at his desk and fretted about the file. If he made vigorous inquiries, people would be suspicious and start asking questions. Then, there would be an official investigation and he would have to explain why he was in the basement. If he admitted to finding the file, why had he left it there overnight? He was certain that if questioned long enough, he would at some point be tripped up and exposed. Bellows was a smug, supercilious man when things were going his way but he was not adept in the world of intrigue and subterfuge. So, he sat and worried.

The telephone rang and startled Bellows. It was the supervisor of the clerical section almost nonchalantly explaining that a file had been left on his desk overnight and asking if it should be sent down to his office. When the supervisor described the folder and suggested that it had probably been left by the night cleaning crew, Bellows was euphoric but steadied himself to sound calm and officious in requesting that the file be brought to his office immediately.

The clerical supervisor came out of his office and yelled “Scatcherd.” Several heads popped up but only one person slowly rose and stood next to his desk. Leonard Scatcherd frowned. All eyes turned to him as he limped over to the supervisor’s office.

“Take this down to Mr. Bellows’ on the first floor, Scatcherd,” he directed loudly while handing the file to the clerk. Before Scatcherd could object, the supervisor was back in his office. As Scatcherd walked away with the folder under his arm, someone in the sea of desks snickered viciously, “there goes gimpy.”

Bellows could not believe his good fortune. He had decided that he would remove portions of the file each day, starting with a few photographs that were particularly sensitive. Over a matter of days, he would take all of the contents home with him. No one would know any better and the file would be “lost in the move,” in the unlikely event that it was missed at all.

Bellows’ optimism was premature as he waited for Leonard Scatcherd to deliver the file. By the end of the day, his life would be in turmoil once again and, as the old Navy warning goes, there would be a “torpedo in the water.”

LEONARD SCATCHERD KNEW he would most likely be out of a job when the archives office was moved. Only a few of the senior clerks would be offered positions at the new site across the river in Maryland.