Robert Le Rossignol

In Karlsruhe, southern Germany, there is a monument. A twelve-metre steel tube pointing skywards at the intersection of Engesserstraβe and Fritz Haber-Weg.

At Karlsruhe, Haber and Le Rossignol formed one of the most important partnerships in chemical history, albeit an arrangement accommodating two quite different characters. Both men were middle-class and thoroughly privileged, but their early lives were very different. Robert was the youngest of his family.

On 31 July 1902, the German five-masted, steel clipper Preussen¹ (the ‘Prussian’), left Geestemünde on the German north sea coast near Bremerhaven on her maiden voyage. Preussen remains the largest pure sailing ship ever to be built—partly on a whim of the autocratic German Kaiser Wilhelm II who insisted that Germany had the most prestigious vessels afloat—but principally because of Germany’s need to maintain an acutely important trade route with South America. On 18 June 1899 the German Kaiser visited the F. Laeisz shipping company at Hamburg and was shown around the five-masted barque Potosi by the legendary Captain Hilgendorf. At the end of the tour the Kaiser turned to Carl Laeisz and reportedly asked ‘Na, Laeisz, wann kommt denn nun das Fünfmastvollschiff?’² Over the next three years, following the Kaiser’s ‘advice’, the Preussen emerged becoming the pride of the German five-masted South American fleet. She was huge, immensely strong, incredibly well equipped, able to cover thousands of sea miles at a steady 11–13 knots and she could transport a colossal cargo of 8000 metric tonnes.

Throughout his professional life and beyond, Robert Le Rossignol maintained an active interest in the development of the ammonia synthesis.

After writing to Haber with his concerns, Nernst and his assistant Fritz Jost spent the next six months examining the ammonia equilibrium themselves using a small pressurised electric oven specially designed by him and capable of being heated to 2000 °C.

After the horror of Hamburg, it was clear that Haber was deeply offended by Nernst’s opinion of his work and mindful of its effect on his perception by others.

Scientific progress occurs in a variety of ways, but there is no doubt that throughout history, progress has always favoured the ‘prepared mind’. Sometimes, progress involves a romantic ‘eureka’ moment when a single—often unexpected—event allows the mind to instantly ‘crystallise’ its understanding, and although such romance did not contribute to the success eventually achieved by Haber and Le Rossignol, a ‘prepared mind’ certainly did, ‘prepared’ by two years of painstaking laboratory work and the barbs of professional criticism in extremis. But the men’s work did not just prepare their minds, it led to a burgeoning of their relationship. Haber of course was eclectic and theoretically astute, Robert was his ‘true engineer’¹ and crucially by now the two men shared a common language,² allowing the efficient communication of ideas and strategies. They complemented one another perfectly, and just as Abegg had sown the seeds of a career in physical chemistry in Haber’s mind, so too did Robert’s work convince him that a solution to the ammonia problem might just be achievable. But even as the thought crossed his mind, what was Haber to do about it? There were obvious barriers to nitrogen fixation via ammonia; the need for seemingly unachievable levels of pressure and the discovery of a catalyst that could work at temperatures low enough to produce industrially appealing amounts of ammonia (around 10%). Maybe Haber was not too discouraged by pressure, after all he and Robert must have discussed the simplicity of Travers’ liquefier. But high pressures require a compressor and that costs money so there was the question of funding, and whereas a compressor may represent a relatively modest outlay, to pay someone appropriately for the time, effort and skill required to develop an application was quite a different matter. To be able to move further in this direction with his engineer, Haber would always need money and of course a reason to do so.

The BASF archives contain a ‘down-to-earth’ four-page report sent by Prof. Dr. Fritz Haber to the company’s directors on 03 July 1909 describing the events of the previous day when Alwin Mittasch and Julius Krantz from BASF witnessed the continuous production of synthetic ammonia in Haber’s Karlsruhe laboratory.

July 1909 was an exciting month at the physical chemistry department in Karlsruhe, but the tension, uncertainty and calamity associated with the demonstration for the BASF exhausted Haber and he began to suffer a recurrence of his old ailment—stomach cramps and pains.

With Robert and Meyer Mayer ensconced at the ‘Auer’, Haber returned to Karlsruhe from Pontresina to be briefed by Bosch.

With Haber and Robert progressing their careers in Berlin, Carl Bosch and his team were moving ahead with the industrialisation of the ammonia synthesis at the BASF. Very early on, Bosch had realised that there were three key problems to be addressed viz, the discovery of an inexpensive, effective and durable catalyst, an economic supply of the feedstock gases of hydrogen and nitrogen, and the construction of the high-pressure converters.

As director of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical and Electrochemistry at Dahlem Berlin, Haber was to move from the laboratory into the ‘office’. Leaving the laboratory was never a challenge for Haber for he rarely showed any enthusiasm or aptitude for what to him was the tedium of experimental practise.

Great Britain’s declaration of war on the evening of Tuesday 04 August 1914 came as a complete surprise to Germany. Throughout July, His Majesty’s Government and its Foreign Minister Sir Edward Grey, attempted to mediate the quarrelsome parties, in turn trying to remain aloof from the dispute. To many this appeared as British ‘dithering’. It was only as the war began that the British position suddenly solidified into support for Belgium, predicated upon the arcane, ‘Treaty of London’, and the fact that a German army just across the channel was far too uncomfortable to countenance. The general feeling at the time was that, had Britain come out clearly on the side of Belgium and France earlier in July, Germany would have instructed Austria-Hungary to settle her differences with Serbia and war could have been avoided. With no such indication, Germany believed Britain would stay out of the war, limiting herself to diplomatic protests. Germany and Austria-Hungary subsequently proceeded under the belief that war would be fought solely against France and Russia. The official report² by Sir Edward Goschen, British Ambassador to Berlin, regarding the breaking of diplomatic relations with Germany on 04 August 1914 describes in vivid detail the ‘betrayal’ Germany felt at Great Britain’s position.

Whether or not the Le Rossignols had ever contemplated leaving Berlin¹ after the events in Sarajevo, their decision was made for them by the British declaration of war on Germany; a declaration that immediately confined all British nationals to the German state. The suddenness of the British entry into the war however, meant that Germany at first had no real idea what to do with such people, and it wasn’t until mid August 1914 that a vague set of guidelines emerged outlining the responsibilities and the freedom(s)—or otherwise—permitted to those who had now become ‘enemy’ citizens.

When Robert Le Rossignol fled Germany in December 1918, he left behind a country the international community held responsible for both starting and prolonging the war.

In September 1930, the RSAS’ Chemistry Committee sent out Nobel Prize nomination forms around the world; to selected professors at universities, to Nobel Laureates in physics and chemistry, to members of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences and others. These forms, submitted by 01 February 1931, were screened by committee members and a list of preliminary candidates for the 1931 prize was assembled. From March to May 1931, specially appointed experts were asked for their assessment of the candidates’ work, and by September the Committee submitted its recommendations to the Academy. Early in October, Academy members selected the Nobel Laureate(s) in chemistry by a majority vote. Their decision was final and without appeal. The names of the Nobel Laureates were then announced, and thus—strictly according to the rules and with due recognition of its previous failings—the Academy awarded the 1931 Nobel Prize in Chemistry¹ jointly to Carl Bosch and Friedrich Bergius ‘in recognition of their contributions to the invention and development of chemical high-pressure methods.’ At the award ceremony on 10 December 1931, the debt these men owed to the pioneering work ‘of Haber’ at Karlsruhe was mentioned during the speech by Professor W. Palmær, Member of the Nobel Committee for Chemistry;²

The major contribution the Wembley Laboratories made to the war effort was undoubtedly the range of valves developed and produced for the services, particularly microwave triodes and the ‘magnetrons’.² With the outbreak of war, all the research groups engaged on television, and transmitting or receiving valves turned their attention to devices for radar, navigation and communications, either in research and development or—as in Robert’s case—taking charge of valve pre-production groups and the associated monitoring, testing and quality control activities. Throughout the war Robert Le Rossignol was the senior man on the Laboratories’ staff concerned with the design of valves,³ and in all probability there was hardly a new valve developed during this time that did not benefit from his understanding and advice.

Robert and Emily’s move to their new home between Beaconsfield and the village of Penn, represented a move to an entirely different way of life. Like Berlin and Karlsruhe, St John’s Road Harrow had meant ‘big city living’. Here, an eclectic population had easy access to central London; shops, services and transport were all ‘on the doorstep’. Not so Penn Road. The pace of life here was much slower, and more traditional values prevailed. This was an area populated by the wealthy, the famous, those from the old landed families, the farmers, the clergy and—because of its proximity to London—the well-heeled city commuters and those with their hands on the levers of power.

RRalph Chirnside ¹ described Robert as a ‘kindly man, with a simple uncomplicated philosophy of life …’. Unsurprisingly then, and with seemingly scant regard for his own historical importance, Robert left little of himself behind, and without close family able to account intimately for the man, a trip to Penn was in order to speak to the very few people who still remembered Robert and Emily before these memories too were lost. Having spent most of the previous four years researching Robert’s background and early academic work, the time was right for this change of direction. A further motivation for the visit was the receipt of a copy of Robert’s Will which recorded a gift of £200 to the Council of Penn Parish Church.² I was soon able to reach Mr. Miles Green—Clerk of the Council at the time and a significant local historian—and through him I learnt of the existence of Penn Mead Flatlets. Subsequently I was able to speak to Mr. Christopher White, former Chairman of the Penn-Pennsylvania Fellowship, together with a family friend of his, both of whom remembered Robert when they were much younger. Over a number of telephone conversations, it became clear that there were now very few residents left that had any memories of Robert and Emily but significantly, one of Robert’s beneficiaries viz, Dr. Raymond Sims—a former Trustee of Penn Mead and a neighbour of Robert—still lived on Penn Road. A few more telephone calls and together we were able to arrange a meeting for the 13 February 2012.