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A RELUCTANT PRISONER
Overwhelmed with
shame at having been captured, by daylight on the morrow, I was in
a lorry going eastwards towards the Reich. Every few miles, more British
prisoners were picked up from German units who handed over their victims
most like me, caught in ones or twos after becoming isolated from
the main forces. Mopping up had been easy. We crossed into Belgium
and were disgorged into a vast grassy plain through which meandered
a lazy stream. There were thousands of prisoners milling about and
although much battledress was visible, the British were far outnumbered
by the French. The Tommies were a motley crowd, unshaven and shuffling
dejectedly around in disarray. At least it looked as though they had
been in a fight. There were very few complete uniforms. Nobody had
a greatcoat. The French, on the other hand, were well-organised, spruce,
had plenty of tobacco and mountains of equipment. They had set up
little tents and, perhaps unfairly, one sensed an air of relief among
them as they placidly contemplated the rural scene and appeared well
content with their lot. There was no love lost between the two allies,
not unexpectedly, as the French were so clearly the haves, and we
the have nots. The British troops slept in the open and although the
days were sunny and warm, nights were damp as well as cold. In nocturnal
misery, we envied the French their tents, as the chilly dew penetrated
our meagre clothing. At dawn, aching and stiff, we struggled up to
stand wet, half-frozen and more than half-starved.
Food was an urgent problem. German
field kitchens produced volumes of a palatable soup. The French, well
supplied with mess tins and eating utensils, were able to partake
fully of this warm nourishment. Few Britons had equipment of any kind.
After nearly a week of battle for physical
survival, with only the most basic of animal comforts, all the British
prisoners were crammed, with standing room only, into a long column
of trucks, Hun helmets everywhere. We moved east towards Germany,
long miserable hours later to arrive at the picturesque city of tourist
renown, Trier, on the banks of the Rhine.
Alighting in an enormous barracks of
large huts, we made an initial acquaintance with watchtowers, massive
barbed wire entanglements and efficient looking machine guns pointed
down into the large compound. In the vast prisoner of war holding
camp at Trier, there was at least an established cookhouse with facilities
to ensure that every inhabitant obtained an allotted ration. A few
fared better than most. By keeping my German ear well alert, I arranged
for ten men, including myself, to be on a daily working party round
the camp. The extra duty involved extra rations which, after the work
required, left us with no conscience twinges about receiving better
treatment than our unemployed brethren. One job into which scheming
led our little squad had undertones of utmost distaste. We were ordered
to dig deep open latrines, in demand more and more owing to the increasing
pressure on accommodation as large numbers of prisoners continued
to pour in. An inherent dislike for vulgarity precludes making a pun
at this stage, but pouring is the key word should you possess a practical
imagination and one not easily ruffled. By midday, a long and substantial
pit which by the end of the afternoon would be an excavation big enough
to be commissioned for its purpose had been dug. Marched off to our
perk lunch we returned fuelled and invigorated for further wielding
of spades and pickaxes to receive an unpleasant shock. Such had been
the quality of the morning's work that many other prisoners had already
put and were still putting our creation to the use for which it was
but half complete. My German eloquence that the offenders be detailed
to clean up the mess fell on two of the nastiest, deafest and most
sadistic of German ears. Persuasiveness was of no avail and motivated
by a false sense of pride at failing to influence the decision for
us to continue working, I categorically refused on behalf of myself
and the rest of us to get down into the pit. Our guard was toughness
itself. He calmly fixed his bayonet and whistled up reinforcements
who were immediately on the spot, exuding equal menace. The bayonet
was poked none too gently into my midriff. He was going to run me
through and assisted by the resulting alarm, reason prevailed. Death
for one's country might in most cases be a noble and worthwhile sacrifice
and with advice from my now thoroughly apprehensive companions, I
decided to live to fight another day for some matter of more patriotic
consequence.
Notwithstanding the unpleasantness
we had undergone at midday, as soon as we had finished digging the
latrine, the guard was requested in the name of 'Kultur' that we be
allowed to bathe. The Jerries were always much influenced by the word
'Kultur' and to imply that they might not have much of it, very frequently
achieved a desired result and we were all marched off to the German
garrison's bathhouse. After the luxury of hot water and sandsoap,
a further shock unfolded. In the long mirrors we stared aghast at
our woebegone reflections, in particular my legs for which I had always
had the fondest admiration were match sticks in comparison to their
former glory.
A long column of British prisoners
of war marched out of the camp one morning to the local railway station.
The procession, surrounded by guards, dragged itself along as jeering
German youths shouted their contempt and confidence in the victory
of the swastika. Our unkempt appearance would certainly have encouraged
this frame of mind. Who couldn't beat such a scruffy looking bunch?
The type of guard had changed too. Front line troops who first captured
us were of a different breed, far superior to rear area soldiers anxious
to demonstrate a martial ardour by fierce attitudes to the prisoners
over whom they now had power. We were urged on at too fast a walk
with many in a weakened, or sometimes wounded state. A faltering battledress
preceding me in the ranks, tripped and stumbled with the quick pace,
and bending down to help a comrade to his feet I was booted heavily
from behind. Of quick temper at such treatment, and turning on the
guard who had kicked me, I startled him in fluent German with a full
description of his unmarried parents' pedigree. Another Hun, hearing
the signs of revolt rushed up, immediately felling me to the ground
with a vicious blow from a rifle butt in the centre of the back. From
this blow, my golf swing is still affected with a not infrequent spasm
of pain as the club head reaches the limit of the back swing, prior
to launching at the ball. Not much of an excuse for never having become
a good golfer!
Some fifty prisoners at a time were
brusqely loaded into closed cattle trucks, and groggy after the blow,
I was lifted onto the train and secured a position under one of the
small ventilation slots situated at each corner just under the roof.
Our mental and physical discomfort
continued as the train rattled on in brilliant sunny weather through
the luscious valley of the Rhine. The wagon was completely sealed
in, except for the four ventilation slots, standing room only. Orderly
farms, pine forests, laid out with Teutonic thoroughness, flashed
by in strong contrast to the misery and squalor in the train. For
hours at a time we halted for no apparent reason, remote from anywhere,
the escorting guards patrolling up and down alongside. This stopping
and starting went on for some thirty-six hours during which time no
wagon door was opened, no food or drink provided. Not until late in
the afternoon of the second day on the train, did we pull into a small
station where attention was paid to the dire straits to which everybody
had sunk. Besides being desperate for food and drink, the lack of
toilet facilities, aggravated by the extreme overcrowding, had created
a truly hellish atmosphere on earth. Those whose strength had given
out lay prostrate, often on top of one another, the latter with the
advantage of not lying in the filth which covered the floor. Doors
were eventually opened, separately, and under heavy escort each wagon
load of prisoners struggled, somehow or other, onto the siding. German
Red Cross nurses dispensed soup with bread, many men too low to feel
like eating, but accepting advice to tuck in. Who was to know how
long it would be before the next stop?
While each group was eating or rather
wolfing on the platform, its wagon was washed down by a high pressure
hose. The floor was then covered with straw, a luxury compared to
the previous condition, and after reboarding smartly to secure my
vantage place in the corner, we were once again locked in for some
hours before the journey recommenced. Considerable advantage accrued
by procuring a place under the oblong ventilation slot. Waiting resignedly
to move off again and propped up in the corner, I heard a German walking
alongside the wagons ask if aiiybody would like some bread. It appeared
that all prisoners were now securely relocated on the train and that
many surplus loaves were left on the station. The soldier was assured
that our wagon could make excellent use of all the available bread.
It was fortunate that the occupants of the other wagons had not interpreted
the offer and neither did they observe the number of loaves which
were being passed to us through the ventilator. Even though I had
been the architect of this good fortune and inwardly would have liked
to keep a rewarding share of the bread, a gesture was opportune. Addressing
the senior N.C.O. by rank and with deference hardly due to his dismal
appearance, I suggested that the bread be equally apportioned. This
move was readily accepted and with each prisoner now in possession
of a reserve chunk of bread as an insurance for the future, there
was an all round rise in spirits and morale. Some talented fellow
had succeeded in making a sizeable hole in the wagon floor, and though
not perhaps the most comfortable of toilet arrangements, it proved
of great advantage in overall use and improved hygiene.
By the morning of the fourth, or was
it the fifth day, conditions had again desperately deteriorated. Although
the improvised toilet arrangements and the straw covering the floor
made for less filthy conditions, many were growing hourly weaker.
Half our number were lying or hunched up in the limited space. My
back had a bruise on it from the rifle butt, the size of a football,
which painfully prevented sitting. I remained miserably propped up
in the corner. The train slowed to a halt, the journey over. The name
of the small station read Szubin, formerly in the Polish corridor,
now fully incorporated into the Reich. Armed Germans were everywhere,
the wagon doors opened and loud orders to get out stirred us to move.
The troops who had arrived to escort us to the prison camp were visibly
shocked at the state of the new arrivals. Their commandant, an elderly
German colonel wearing a World War One medal was not mincing matters
with the train guards and, to the Leutnant in charge he referred in
full voice, to such an inhuman Schweinerei". Orders were barked
for us to be assisted from the wagons and discarding rifles the enemy
soldiers did their best to help. Most managed to climb out unaided,
but some of the older prisoners required lifting onto stretchers and
were then placed in the back of lorries and driven off. Conditions
in other wagons must have been even worse than in ours. German army
blankets completely covered the occupants of some stretchers, a grim
testimony to the rigours of Nazi hospitality.
In the light of the overall, reasonably
correct, attitude from then on, it must be concluded that the capture
of such numbers at one time had strained handling facilities to the
disastrous limits depicted on our arrival in Szubin. It should also
be recorded that German treatment of prisoners of war of other nationalities,
especially Russian or guerilla fighters, became murderously barbaric
as the war progressed.
The long column dragged itself slowly
down the main street of the town and many an already exhausted man
gave what physical help he could manage to assist an even weaker comrade.
Polish civilians yet to be deported by their new masters lined the
way and openly shed tears at our plight. Just on the outskirts of
town, the Szubin camp prewar had been a convent school. Many acres
of fine buildings and tree-clad grounds were now enclosed with high,
double barricades of barbed wire and regularly sited watchtowers.
One building into which the stretcher cases were being carried had
been set up as a hospital. The rest of us were taken to various ex-classrooms
in which tier-upon-tier of wooden slatted bunks had been erected,
each one with a straw filled palliasse and for the first time since
capture, it was possible to lie down and stretch out and give Mother
Nature an opportunity to repair the ravages of the recent past in
blessed exhausted sleep. For a couple of days, as we lay about in
a semi-stupor, the guards acted with restraint and though hunger was
constant, some strength was recovered. One thick slice of German army
bread, ersatz coffee, a bowl of watery soup, comprised a full day's
ration. At a pump in the grounds, it was possible to clean up in the
warmth of the day and recuperate in the sun. Life resumed a pattern.
Parades for roll calls were established and with German thoroughness,
all prisoners named, numbered and generally documented, including
home addresses and occupations. Those with appropriate skills were
employed within the camp as cooks, cobblers, electricians, gardeners
and the like, and as there were no officers, senior N.C.O.'s assumed
authority over their own troops and liaised with their German captors.
Though thinking it better to keep a fluency in German to myself, it
somehow became known and I was pressed into all manner of interpreting
services. In the hospital, making myself particularly useful on behalf
of the sick resulted in a few benefits, such as extra food and the
occasional tobacco. Many were the loaves of bread I smuggled out of
the hospital cookhouse to friends in other parts of the camp. Nevertheless,
the diet was spartan and hunger a dominant and constant presence for
the many hundreds who now filled the camp. A few Red Cross food parcels
arrived, meticulously shared out to enable one and all to participate
in a bar of chocolate, some lollies or other exquisite delicacy, not
forgetting the delightful, much-maligned meat loaf, spam. From one
consignment of parcels my share was a whole tin of Nestles sweetened
condensed milk. After scoffing it down I felt quite sick for some
hours but certainly greatly fortified.
There must be many necessary elements
taken for granted in a person's normal daily diet which, when eliminated,
as was the case with our miserable fare, give rise to the cravings
all were feeling and voicing about particular types of food.
The forwarding of life-saving parcels
eventually gained sufficient momentum later in the war to allocate
as much as one whole parcel weekly to each prisoner. Together with
the German basic rations, as time went by, some prisoners of war with
Red Cross bounty, were eating better, quality-wise than the average
German soldier. Memories are often short. Many owe so much to the
Red Cross.
Having catalogued all prisoners into
their various employment potentials the Hun commenced despatching
working parties to toil and accommodation away from the main camp.
Most were keen to participate and to leave the giant prison and see
something of life outside a barbed wire enclosure also appealed. Rumour
had it that food was better and overall conditions for the most part
easier going, such thoughts creating keen desire to become enrolled.
On most days, groups of prisoners, predominantly about twenty at a
time, left the camp under the supervision of a few guards led by an
Unteroffizier. Fresh batches of prisoners arrived and were quartered
in the space made available by the departures and the cycle of registration
recommenced.
Szubin was to be headquarters for the
supply and administration of prisoner of war labour over a wide area.
As all this exodus from the camp went on, my interpreting job, in
spite of many advantages, had a serious drawback. It might not prove
easy to join a working party which aside from the rumoured attractions
of such a move appealed for an additional reason. I had now fully
recovered from the physical and mental depression which initially
affects most soldiers when first captured. A determination not to
sit the rest of the war Out behind barbed wire was becoming an obsession
and indications that escape from a small party was much easier than
from the more secure headquarters camp, priorities to break out were
decided. The first step was to give up work as an interpreter, to
prevent any objection to my leaving Szubin on the grounds of usefulness
to the Nazis. To new British arrivals with any knowledge of German
the blessings of being an interpreter were pointed out, as I looked
for someone to replace me.
Before joining a working party, by
bribery, barter and blatant appeal, maps of Poland, a compass, and
a waterbottle were acquired. Although the planning in hindsight was
amateurish in the extreme, it was therapeutic to have an ambition
and something to live for and think about. A quiet word with one or
two of the more approachable guards produced information to ensure
joining the type of working party most suited to my purpose. To cross
German occupied Poland into the part held by Russia was the general
plan. About a dozen prisoners were to be quartered twenty miles to
the east for work on a canal bank. Early one July morning we assembled,
each receiving a long Polish cavalry great coat, a mess tin and a
few sundry items to set us up in a new career. In addition to the
maps and other gear to be used on escaping, I had also acquired, during
a visit to the cobbler's shop, a stout pair of boots. The whole camp
had been paraded as an irate German soldier stalked the ranks in search
of his missing footwear. The boots had been hidden well and worn as
part of my going-away outfit, the morning of our departure.
The Unteroffizier searched clothing
and gear, but as escaping had yet to become a favourite pastime, the
exercise was carried out casually and nothing found. A little compass
was so carefully secreted that modesty prevents the revealing of its
whereabouts on my person. At the station, the July sun was bright
and cheerful as we waited on the platform for a train. Polish civilians
of all shapes and types cautiously winked encouragement and tobacco
and cigarettes found surreptitious ways into British pockets at great
risk to the donors.
A west bound train, that is one pointed
towards Germany, pulled in and halted alongside the opposite platform.
One carriage was full of teenage girls and a Hun guard answered my
query about them with the information that they were all volunteers
off to work in German industries. He shrugged his shoulders at my
comment that never had a bunch of volunteers looked so sad, with most
of them in tears. Although not crying, we could feel the bond of captivity
between us and the Polish lasses.
After a brief journey our destination
was reached, a nameless settlement with a few cottages and an empty
school on a country lane. The school had four classrooms, two aloft
connected by a flight of stairs from the two on the ground floor.
The prisoners were to be locked in the rooms upstairs at night, while
the guards settled in below. The usual palliasses were filled with
straw, soldiers and prisoners alike feasting on a thick pork and potato
soup supper provided by the contractor, who had requisitioned our
work on the canal. The morrow's task was to fence the schoolyard in
with wire and generally make the place not quite so easy to get out
of, and so diligently did we apply ourselves next day to this fencing-in
that the job was nowhere near complete when tools were downed. My
plan was to escape alone, modified on meeting a young infantryman,
Derek Baxter, who had similar escape ambitions. It was decided to
join forces and leave that very night with the fence still unfinished,
the simpler to breach. After a further enormous meal of pork soup,
and locked in upstairs we made preparations to depart. The Polish
great coats were ripped up, the strips plaited together, the task
eyed with some disfavour by our companions who were in no doubt as
to the reason. One or two expressed disapproval that we were about
to upset the Germans and spoil what they referred to as a 'bloody
good set up'. Their objections silenced, plaiting was completed and
as the late summer evening drew to a close, preparations were complete.
The guards in the ground floor rooms
had been very noisy all evening. From the sound of the raucous singing,
schnapps was flowing and it was comforting to note a steady decline
in the volumne of drunken voices and to hear some solid snoring. Full
darkness arrived and the night was still, as we cautiously lowered
what once had been two Polish great coats, through the upstairs window
into the yard. On the end of the improvised rope were tied our two
kitbags and as they touched the ground, the top end was securely fastened
in the room. Our boots were stowed in the kitbags and sliding slowly
over the windowsill in stockinged feet, to grasp the rope, my full
weight was supported for only a brief moment before I plunged to the
ground. Despite a fairly solid landing, no hurt was sustained, though
my heart was beating loud enough to alert the guards who had, miraculously
not heard the commotion to date. Glancing up, I could just detect
Derek's head peering down from the windowsill and although little
but his outline was visible in the gloom, the alarm radiating from
it could be sensed. He had to come. Firstly, I needed company and
secondly, all his worldly belongings were down on the ground beside
me, and to get them back up through the window would surely create
enough disturbance to give us away. With a whispered assurance that
the fall was no problem Derek climbed out, hung briefly onto the sill,
dropped and landed heavily without harm. In a flash, we were through
the uncompleted fence, booted and on our way crisply through the night.
Noiseless on the sandy, deserted roads, hours later, the emerging
dawn lay dead ahead, on course east. On both sides of the road were
large expanses of tall growing corn ready for harvesting. We carefully
made our way deep into this welcome shelter, leaving no tracks which
might be seen from the air, and sank into the friendly cover. The
first real problem appeared with little delay. The eastern European
midsummer sun mounted swiftly and scorched us from on high. We were
both cooking in a bath of perspiration for every minute of the longest
day either of us had ever known.
Motorised traffic and voices from passing
horse-drawn vehicles were heard from time to time, but nothing occurred
to break the monotony of the oven-like conditions of the hiding place.
At last came the new night and regaining the road, we pressed on keeping
an easterly course. The heat of the second day was as menacing as
on the first. Stripped off, bathing to maximum cleanliness was possible
in our own running perspiration. Water bottles were dry as we again
sallied forth with the darkness, the effects of dehydration, without
a compensating liquid intake, mounting quickly. Mouths were so dry
as to make speech but a croak, and although still with ample bread
and glucose sweets hoarded from Red Cross parcels, water was an urgent
priority. A silent and thirsty way was made through a small settlement
shortly before dawn. Outside one cottage, larger than the others,
was a well, which on inspection had the usual handle, chain and bucket.
Without consideration for possible consequences, we hastened to tap
this heaven-sent rendezvous with water. The bucket was clanked up
full to the brim, desperate faces buried in it and water bottles filled.
The noise set many dogs barking, but down went the bucket again and
we drank and drank. A light appeared in an upper room of the dwelling
behind the pump, a window was flung open and a German voice loudly
questioned the cause of the hullabaloo. The man was holding a shotgun
and even under stress, I adjudged him a fool to have silhouetted himself
in front of a light shining from behind, out into a darkness it was
not penetrating. Lights in other dwellings were being turned on and
we scampered away.
Early to ground in a pine plantation
it was a great relief to stretch out in an alternative and cooler
cover. Some of our confidence evaporated by the sun, and with water
a problem and solid food nigh exhausted, a gloomy situation unfolded.
We knew that an eviction programme for Poles was underway, but incomplete.
Many of these people, our sole source of human assistance, still lived
in the area before banishment to the east although the experience
of the previous night confirmed the nazification plans for this part
of conquered Poland. German civilians were plentiful enough in Szubin
and their resettlement in the rural areas was well-established. The
new Nazi settlers would certainly be keener than normal to co-operate
with their own authorities to neutralise any transgressions such as
two escapees were now committing.
A Polish eviction programme was ruthlessly
pursued by the Nazis without the slightest compassion or consideration
for the victims. Armed German police entered a Polish home and regardless
of age, sex or physical condition, gave the inhabitants ten minutes
to gather a few personal belongings before being loaded into a covered
lorry parked in front of the house. Resistance of any kind was not
tolerated and instant punishment ranged from beatings to shootings.
The day's victims were sufficient in number to allow newly arrived
German families to move immediately into fully furnished and functional
dwellings and the Poles, with the hand baggage possible to scrape
together in the time allowed, were driven off to the railway station,
loaded into wagons, and transported in an easterly direction to the
unknown.
Without guidance, food and civilian
clothes, our survival was going to be shortlived. In British uniform,
unable to move by day, the short summer nights drastically reduced
the amount of time for travel and at the present rate of about a dozen
miles between dawn and dusk it would take months to leave the Germans
behind. Our reception by the Russians, on getting that far, was also
questionable. In position by the side of the road, still hidden under
pines, the shade and cool of the forest was in pleasurable contrast
to the cooking endured in the cornfields. The odd truck passed by,
but as it was unlikely for a Pole to be so mobile we remained hidden.
A horse-drawn cart appeared on the
road with two men in civilian clothes chatting in a language other
than German. Taking the optimistic alternative and stepping out in
front of the cart, I apologised for speaking in German, having assumed
that my two listeners were Polish. They replied in broken German and
Derek was called out of the shadow of the woods. We were soon seated
on the cart and as both men had Slavic features and were not unfriendly,
it was possible that sorely needed succour would be forthcoming. Our
background and plans were outlined. The two men had heard of our escape
and although they were non-committal about providing the kind of co-operation
requested, there was little to do other than wait for destiny to unfold.
Arriving at a roadside cottage we met
two startled-looking wives who quickly had us tucking into soup and
bread with great gusto. The meal over, one of the men left the house.
My intuition was bothering me as Derek's wish to stay was reluctantly
heeded, the imminence of disaster filling the air. In the middle of
a few German words of farewell thanks to our hosts, the door burst
open to admit Nazi policemen, with pistols drawn. Our hands were up
almost before the request to "Hände hoch" shattered all
hopes of freedom. To the man who had fetched the gendarmes, the unmarried
state of his Polish parents was emphasised, for me to be promptly
enlightened as to the real cause of our downfall. A policeman mentioned
that our betrayers were not Poles, but Ukrainians of German extraction,
who had been resettled in the Corridor, staunch supporters of the
Reich and the Fuhrer.
After a night in a local cell our spirits
received a further jolt by hearing from the senior gendarme that as
the first escapers from Szubin, we were to be taken back and shot.
'Pour encourager les autres,' sums up better in French than a translation
into English, of the sentiments involved. Next morning, handcuffed
together and followed by two enormous Jerry policemen, we walked slowly
to another village to be again shoved into a cell. By a roundabout
route, it took days to reach Szubin. At every hamlet, the whole population
turned out to watch our progress, a morale booster for the German
intruding settlers, the reverse for onlooking Poles. It was noticeable
that the depression felt on first being taken prisoner had disappeared
and to be paraded manacled as a propaganda object was fiercely annoying,
a reaction which augured well for the future.
The reception party from the Germans
in Szubin was alarming. On the way back, the foreboding that we were
to be shot was never far from our thoughts although the length and
slowness of the walk had the redeeming feature of delaying a firing
squad, so constantly depicted in the imagination. Confidence that
the threat would not be carried out had risen every day to be truly
dampened on arrival at the camp. When the Germans administer a rebuke,
great import is placed on loudness and speed of delivery. The noisy
displeasure bellowed from the distance of a few inches by the German
regimental sergeant-major sounded as though we were indeed already
half way to kingdom come. A few words slipped out towards the end
of the convulsive castigation, were of enormous relief. We felt by
then that our numbers might truly be up, until the Hun screamed and
frothed, "Next time you will be shot!" There was certainly
going to be a next time, but no recapture. We were sentenced to seven
days solitary confinement in a small whitewashed cell, barely lit
by an elevated, tiny, barred window. I slept most of the time, except
when not scratching 'Hitler is a bastard', all over the walls of the
enforced abode. The guards were not amused and my stay was extended
by an extra two days. During our absence in the cooler a punishment
compound had been set up within the main camp. The new compound was
strongly surrounded with barbed wire and when I rejoined Derek, an
attempt to escape from the inside to the outside had finished up,
so to say, by being inside the inside. There was no longer the luxury
of a solid building and, for us and a few other naughty boys, the
new accommodation was a large canvas marquee. With no bunks, the only
concession to anything like comfort, an earthen floor deeply covered
with wood shavings, the sole bedding material completely without warmth
at night.
The first escape attempt had been a
failure, but on the whole not too disappointing for the unsuccessful
excursion had provided a lesson. Speaking German and with the appropriate
false papers, a cool customer could move anywhere. For me, not again
the primitive physical movement by night through forest and plain.
Luck to a fantastic degree would be required for such a hit and miss
type of escape to prove triumphant, and although this ingredient is
present to a more or less degree in every human activity, to rely
on it almost solely as a means of getting back to Britain from Germany,
was foolish optimism. To get out of a normal camp would never be too
difficult for a determined escapee, but to repeatedly leave prison
bounds fruitlessly in a sense of desperation, might result in maximum
security detention from which a break-out was proportionately more
difficult. Many a keen escaper towards the last year or so of the
war became very frustrated. By then escape organisations in some camps
had developed sufficiently to provide passable false documents, but
the prisoners who could have made most use of these innovations, languished
in special, almost impregnable prisons, in which they had been confined
after establishing records as constant runaways.
Our punishment compound gradually filled
with recaptured fugitives all of whom had followed a similarly doomed
flight plan. The additional hazards they had encountered helped build
a mental library of essential requirements encountered and recalled,
helped for eventual success. My greatest asset was still the German
language and conversation with any guard who felt like a chat while
patrolling the perimeter of barbed wire was constant. Most of them
had no objection to passing their weary duty by discussing all manner
of subjects with a friendly prisoner, who seemed so genuinely interested
in all things to do with Germany.
One problem was fortunately non-existent.
The Germans were physically our counterparts in all aspects of appearance.
There were blondes and brunettes, tall and short, fat and thin. Were
any German soldier to change uniform with a Briton, providing they
both kept their mouths shut, it would be impossible to tell one from
the other and it was lucky on this count, not to have become a prisoner
of the Japanese.
After being released from the punishment
compound and back as an inmate of the main camp, in spite of difficulties
created by having an escape record I schemed a way onto another working
party. Escape would have often been easy, but with the longer term
policy in mind, I behaved irreproachably to return to the main camp,
clearly a rehabilitated bad boy unlikely ever again to be foolish
enough to run away. Further short term working parties followed. Opportunities
for long conversations with Polish civilians employed at these sites
were frequent. Such contacts were 'streng verboten', but a bar of
Cadburys, or a cake of Lifebuoy out of one of the now plentiful Red
Cross parcels, induced an amazing blindness in the eyes of all but
the most miserable of Jerries.
I learned of a Polish secret army based
in Warsaw. In spite of the severest reprisals, it was waging war in
many ways against the occupying Hun, but try as I might, it took ages
to find a direct line to this magnificent sounding Underground and
by October 1940, there had been little progress to secure reliable
outside help before attempting a final escape. Many temptations were
resisted to enjoy a short burst of freedom and a constant flow of
recaptured prisoners, some of whom had got away on two or three occasions,
supported this attitude. Some returned escapees had obtained Polish
civilian help in haphazard ways which resulted in fierce reprisals
and tragedies for the brave folk involved.
The harsh winter climate of Eastern
Europe came quickly and by November, heavy frosts were constant and
deep snow covered the land. Outside work came to a halt in a camp
of about one hundred prisoners, my current work place. The guard commander,
an elderly Unteroffizier, on most occasions friendly and compassionate,
was a World War 1 veteran, clearly not over enthusiastic about the
course on which Hitler was steering the Reich. It was decided that
we should remain quartered for the winter and not return to the main
camp. Well housed, with ample wood firing and food, guards and prisoners
went into comfortable semi-hibernation. The Unteroffizier became quite
friendly. Poor fellow, isolated in snow and ice, miles from family
or anywhere, very lonely, schnapps became his ever present bolster.
Maudling drunk in a little office, he poured his heart out to me before
bursting into tears. I supposed that was why my company was preferred;
not quite the thing for a German sergeant to weep to his own troops,
better one of the enemy. The old Unteroffizier and his endless reminiscing
played a further part in my education. Another language barrier was
broken as I began to think in German without effort, to settle down,
optimistic that 1941 would bring freedom after a winter of restful
hibernation.
Among my colleagues were many of varied
talents, enabling self-amusement to a degree, not readily achieved
by today's indulged society. We played cards, presented plays and
read books. After many discussions about escaping, it was a disappointment
to realise that many Britons were by then so comfortable, away from
the cut and thrust of the war, that survival, not fighting and freedom,
had become a prime ambition. Had they realised that there were over
four years of prison life still to come, a more belligerent attitude
might have prevailed.
With the agreement of the senior British
N.C.O. in our little icebound settlement, the Unteroffizier was induced
to allow us to go on escorted walks outside the camp as weather permitted.
A weekly trip on a horsedrawn sled to a small town a few miles away
was also arranged for anybody in need of dental treatment. I went
along as interpreter and when necessary, a visit to the settlement's
doctor was included, always in the presence of your everwilling, humble
and observant servant. The dentist was a subdued Pole who had been
allowed to stay as no German was available. The doctor was an elderly,
cold and fed up Hun. Much hitherto unknown German dental and medical
knowledge was added to my repertoire. To cooped up prisoners, these
outings were a welcome change and a premeditated concession was volunteered.
A unanimous undertaking was given to the Unteroffizier that for the
winter period, there would be no attempt to escape. Nobody was contemplating
departure at that time and my plans were far from ready. The parole
did away with the certain amount of tension always present between
warder and prisoner, and resulted in the designed relaxation of vigil.
No mention having been made about discontinuing preparations to eventually
get away, and I took full advantage during these excursions to talk
to as many Poles as possible in my search for the Underground.
With a weekly visit to the Polish dentist
some of the lads were having more attention to their teeth than ever
was the case at home. A chat with the dentist, querying the possibility
of a contact with the Underground evoked no enthusiasm and in view
of my German fluency, which should have been played down, a plant
was surely suspected. He vigorously denied knowledge of any secret
organisation and every time we met, was clearly a worrying embarrassment
for him. Not so his daughter, a patriotic Polka, who may have had
certain other justified suspicions about me, but none like those attributed
to her father. Our relationship was most friendly. She made enquiries
with no success about the existence of a local Underground cell.
It seemed that Warsaw was the hotbed
of resistance, as was much of the countryside to the east, but in
Western Poland, now closely settled by the Germans, in only the larger
cities was any form of clandestine operation still possible. Three
former Polish centres, Danzig, Posen and Litzmannstadt, (the latter
formerly Lodz, a big Polish textile centre), were mentioned as places
where limited resistance cells still survived. Lodz, renamed Litzmannstadt,
had a sizeable British prisoner of war working camp and sounded most
promising. Making plans to get there, a quandary surfaced. The administration
of our present small camp was no longer under the control of the former
headquarters at Szubin. A large camp had been set up in the Corridor
town of Schildberg and from there, all prisoner of war labour to the
camp in Litzmannstadt was selected. The way to the city of Litzmannstadt
and an opportunity to contact the Resistance was, therefore, only
through Schildberg. That there was a large working party in Litzmannstadt
was all very well, but how to get there? Winter drew to a close. The
coming of spring was heralded by a succession of bright and sunny
days with only about ten degrees of frost. The snow had a watery glisten
and during the daily stroll in the barbed wire surrounded compound,
so comparatively warm were the bright rays of the sun that ear muffs
and gloves were dispensable.
The dawn of a new season awoke a sense
of urgency. With weather improvement, there would be accelerated movement,
reorganisation of working parties and some action was necessary to
get to Schildberg. Desperation began to erode the sanity and patience
which I had so far applied to the problem of escaping only with the
essential help of the Polish Resistance. The weather continued to
improve. The snow was melting and the earth showed up in patches over
the surrounding countryside. Long dripping icicles hung from all buildings
and outside work would soon be possible.
Awake at night all kinds of weird,
wonderful, but impractical solutions to the problems were pondered.
Well in his cups, and on the point of the usual tears, the Unteroffizier
sent for me. In spite of everything, the stinking war, the unmentionable
weather and being far from home, he had enjoyed much of the time as
our guard commander and was so upset to be parting company that his
weeping could not be contained. The news was alarming as a replacement
could only bring changes for the worse. All the concessions to make
our lives easier would require problematical renegotiation and there
were not many as malleable as this drunk, sorrow-stricken old German
soldier. He carried on talking and my disappointment gave way to joy.
The Unteroffizier was not leaving us. The little camp was to close
down, something to do with the civilian works contractors to whom
our labour had been hired, and we were to proceed within the week
to the new headquarters camp in Schildberg for relocation to other
work.
Schildberg was teeming with a multitude
of misfit prisoners, most of whom even the Germans seemed to have
decided were unemployable. It took no time to confirm that Litzmannstadt,
a big city and former hub of Polish industry, had a large vehicle
maintenance depot. Many Poles sill lived there and a number worked
at the depot which also employed British POW labour as mechamcs.
Nuts and bolts, spanners and wrenches
have always been instruments of mystery to me, but if being a mechanic
was going to get me to Litzmannstadt, a mechanic I would be. The Germans
carried out their normal re-assesment for employment and having organised
the new trade of mechanic to be registered on my work card, I hung
about the German administration office. No pressing was needed to
accept a job as office boy cum cleaner, an avid listener to all conversation
and a keen reader of all correspondence. Late in April, random shooting
hit a target. A memo on the chief clerk's desk revealed that the Litzmannstadt
operation was to be enlarged, and prisoners with mechanical skills
were to be recruited and despatched forthwith. No unseemly rush was
made to acquaint the Germans of their luck in having such a good mechanic
like me in their midst, but an appropriate occasion arose when the
phonetically similar word to mechanic in German was being bandied
around the office. In all innocence, I appeared to recognise the meaning
and made the Germans aware of my trade, to be immediately recruited
for despatch to Litzmannstadt. So keen were the office to carry out
instructions, even protesting would not have prevented my going. Around
the camp a few more who had a desire to transfer to a new camp were
unearthed, the upshot, a train to Litzmannstadt for a dozen prisoners
and a few guards.
The new camp was in the centre of the
city on the main thoroughfare. Single decker trains clanked up and
down the long and straight Adolf Hitler strasse, which was lined with
spartan looking apartment blocks, shops, factories and rundown spacious
villas, the latter in particular indicating a more gracious past.
Vehicle traffic, other than the trains, was mostly military cars and
trucks and the numerous pedestrians consisted of German police, army
and well-clad Nazi civilians. The majority however, of a poverty stricken
and downcast appearance, were working class Poles.
Our new home was an old brick built
factory of two stories. There was a spacious yard, surrounded by a
wall, also of brick, some nine feet high. The whole complex was rectangular
in shape, the main gate with its inevitable sentry box, fronting onto
the Fuhrer's street. A cobblestone alleyway ran at right angles from
the street along one side of the walled factory. The whole of the
huge first floor had been turned into a living room and dormitory
and after an exchange of greetings with about sixty resident compatriots,
the newcomers settled in comfortably. I waited for the guards who
had escorted us to depart and return to Schildberg before making myself
known to the British camp commander, a regular sergeant in a Scottish
regiment, Charlie by name. The departing guards may have voiced unwelcome
surprise had they heard of my self imposed capacity of interpreter.
Charlie expressed satisfaction at the appointment, understanding hardly
a word of German himself, and took me at once to see the Hun guard
commander, another Unteroffizier. The new master was a tiny man, immaculately
uniformed, staccato of voice with the movements of a prancing bantam
cock. According to Charlie, he was a stickler for protocol and discipline
among his own troops maintaining a rigidly correct, but unbending
attitude towards the prisoners. War certainly necessitates a lowering
of normal standards. Butter would not have melted in my mouth as I
spoke quietly and deferentially in German. In the camp or on the worksite,
it would be a pleasure to help in any way to promote the smooth running
of his camp for the mutual benefit of both Germans and prisoners.
A favourable start was achieved with the carefully modulated and grammatical
German. The inborn respect of the Hun for what he considered to be
'Kultur' or higher education, mesmerised the Unteroffizier on hearing
his own tongue being used so graciously. My new role was readily approved.
Charlie and I both saluted smartly and returned well pleased to our
headquarters. "You certainly shook that bastard, Ron," said
Charlie.
The workplace, about a mile walk from
the camp, was enormous. As well as large halls of service bays, crowded
with lorries in various stages of undress, there were many additional
rooms for stores and other facilities necessary for the maintenance
of a large fleet of heavy transport. It was good to note that most
of the personnel looked to be Poles, but bearing in mind the last
return into the bag because of confusion as to the difference between
a Ukrainian and a Pole, caution would be applied, before I decided
who was what.
In the camp and the factory, interpreting
was without problem and a new atmosphere came over both places. In
the camp, the British were able to negotiate concessions from the
Germans and in the factory, the German civilian overseers were happier
to be able to impart instructions to their prisoner labour, showing
little concern that their directions were paid scant heed. Happiest
of all were the Polish employees, who were left in no doubt by the
new interpreter, of every Briton's hate for the Nazis and the conviction
that Hitler would be smashed. I worked daily, when not required for
interpreting duties, with a most competent Polish mechanic named Florianski
who seemed the most likely person to be involved with the Resistance.
He lived with his wife and teenage daughter and had a couple of rooms
in a block of workers' apartments, hating Germans deeply and fiercely
with good reason. Being a mechanic and conscripted by the Germans
had not prevented his eviction from a comfortable pre-war home. Of
special gall to my new found friend was being obliged to pass by his
former dwelling on the way to work each morning. Not only had a German
family been given the house, they had inherited the place as a going
concern, with all the furnishings as well as some prized and pedigree
poultry. Initial caution between us gradually subsided and mutual
trust was established, after making very sure that he was not a Ukrainian.
We wallowed in long conversations of hate for the Germans and so many
atrocities against Polish men, women and children were recounted,
that much of Florianskis' abnormally strong hatred began to rub off
on me. Such loathing was foreign to my nature, but as the war progressed
with its mounting bestialities, any suffering inflicted on anything
German, was a justified retribution.
Life in the camp on the main street
had become physically almost endurable. Red Cross food parcels, in
addition to the enemy rations, provided ample sustenance and private
parcels from home were also being delivered. Nobody but me seemed
to be contemplating escape, and thoughts in this direction were kept
strictly to myself for in spite of the improved living conditions,
the inner turmoil to be free and salvage some self-respect had not
subsided.
All prisoners of war were paid for
work in special stamps on which was printed a face value in German
marks. Quite a sum of these paper marks had been accummulated and
submitting the problems to the now almost human Unteroffizier, his
cooperation enabled a camp canteen to be established. Arrangements
were concluded to stock the canteen from a largish, local department
store which was authorised to accept our stamps as normal German currency.
Wartime retail shortages severely limited the range of goods possible
to procure, but the flow of small necessities hitherto missed, was
welcome. Aside from the additional creature comforts, a further aspect
was of distinct appeal. Who but the interpreter was the natural choice
to do the shopping?
One of the guards, a Czechoslovakian
German from Sudetenland often confided his disapproval of Hitler and
his 'Bande'. With slight prompting, he volunteered his daytime off-duty
hours to escort me outside the camp and thus evolved the pattern of
a weekly purchasing walkabout in the city, with an amiable and sympathetic
escort. The Unteroffizier was informed that on such excursions outside
the camp, there was a self-imposed parole not to attempt an escape
although the fine point of the contract made no mention of reconnoitring
with intent. Although the German commander was, by now, under the
erroneous impression that he was dealing with an officer and a gentleman,
whose word was his bond, my conscience remaining untroubled.
The Sudeten and I became regular customers
and welcome visitors to the department store. The serving staff were
all female, most of them Polish girls and with one of them, Halina,
a pretty petite blonde, a warm friendship soon developed. Except when
the word 'Deutsch'was mentioned, her features were gay and sparkling
but the hated name brought a shadow of loathing over her face, further
enhancing the attraction of a beautiful and patriotic young Polish
lady. The range of goods obtainable was restricted by arrangements
to trade our stamps having been finalised with only one store. Many
other retail outlets displayed merchandise of appeal, but out of trading
stamps reach. This limitation was simply solved by Halina and some
of the other Polish lasses, who exchanged our elsewhere worthless
pieces of paper for real German money from their tills. The Sudeten
looked the other way and seemed not to notice that we were now buying
all manner of goods, from different shops, in the readily accepted
real German cash over which I now disposed. Musical instruments were
purchased and a camp orchestra was formed. Other items of merit, such
as beer and schnapps, were smuggled into the camp influenced by popular
demand which, under Charlie's watchful discipline was never allowed
to get out of hand and disturb the prevailing harmony. Not for a rainy
day, but for the sunny one of escape, secreted in my palliasse were
five hundred notes of genuine German marks.
In due course Halina was asked about
the Underground. That she had a friend, who had a friend, who had
a friend, who knew a friend was of little comfort or promise. So many
arrests had been made and so many Poles deported, a contact would
be nigh impossible. It was good, however, to learn from Halina that
with the predominantly Polish population in the newly formed General
Government, and especially in Warsaw the capital, organised resistance
to the Germans was increasing rapidly, inspite of ruthless methods
by the Hun to try to stamp it out.
Vast preparations by the Germans who
invaded the Soviet Union in June of 1941 had been plain for months.
The Russians claimed that the deep advances into their territory were
achieved by the treacherous surprise of the German assault. It was
to become increasingly apparent, as the war progressed, that treachery
was a commonplace commodity and by no means a Nazi monopoly. The Soviets
were either making a weak excuse for the initial routing of their
own forces, or indicating the impotence, or non-existence, of their
military intelligence. With a daily eastward movement towards General
Government and the Russian frontier of men and all kinds of war material
in great volume, the deadly Nazi traffic was for all to see, not to
ponder if but when the storm would burst. Florianski and the other
Poles at the depot predicted the outbreak almost to the day.
The object of the first fruitless escape
attempt had been to try to reach eastern Poland, then occupied by
the Russians. That the Soviets had now been driven hundreds of miles
further east, deep inside their own land, was not considered a setback,
quite the reverse. Much had been heard of Soviet actions in Poland
during the nearly two years from the beginning of the war, since when,
half the country had been occupied and administered by them. Everything
indicated a reign of terror and under fearful conditions, millions
of Poles, from working class to aristocracy, had been deported to
Siberia. Such was the communist tyranny that thousands who had fled
eastwards before the advancing Germans in 1939, had made a dangerous
and illegal way back to Warsaw and the General Government, plainly
convinced that life under the Nazis was the lesser of two evils. Stories
had also filtered back through the camps telling of the odd British
escapee who had made a way into Russian controlled territory, there
to be accused of spying and treated accordingly. Later it was possible
to confirm the veracity of most of these reports of Soviet behaviour,
but even at the time so much smoke betokened a substantial fire and
with no possibility of reaching the distant Russian lines, it was
something of a relief not having to risk the danger of Soviet hospitality.
My sights were set even more firmly on Warsaw and the Polish Underground.
At the workshops my heart was opened
to Florianski to beg, nay, I almost demanded assistance with an escape.
His first reaction was to emphasise the risks, sincerely advising
the preservation of life and limb by remaining safely and comfortably
a military prisoner. For some time he remained apparently unmoved,
then the kind of look to be seen on many a Polish face in the years
ahead, came over his countenance. It was the look which portrayed
a decision to risk regardless of consequences, even a whole existence,
to strike in some way or another a blow against the hated Hun. People
of more matchless moral and physical courage than the Poles have never
existed, and a sense of pride at having fought and been closely associated
with them in their scarce unbroken struggles, is always with me. Eventually
Florianski conceded himself a member of the Resistance which still
survived in Litzmannstadt. His sector was not in a position to help
directly, but a message would be passed to the right quarters with
every recommendation that my appeal be answered. I ceased to work
with Florianski in the workshop and moved around various members of
the staff, including Germans. After an escape there was no sense in
having Florianski pinpointed as my closest Polish associate for inevitable
interrogation with a good foundation for suspicion.
Weeks passed by and the Polish summer
baked relentlessly on. One morning at the workshop with a more than
usual conspiratorial glance, Florianski indicated something to communicate.
The news was good. The chief of a courier cell with whom he had spoken
was willing to help. An Underground Intelligence network organised
from Warsaw covered the whole of Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia.
Spies installed and operating throughout these areas fed information
back and a courier system for delivering their material had been established.
The full incorporation of much of western Poland in the Reich proper
had pushed the main German border well to the east. Skilled and qualified
couriers were thus able to ply with intelligence material uplifted
from agents all over Germany, and travel most comfortably to as far
as places like colonised Litzmannstadt, with little effectual control
of their movements on trains or roads and no dangerous open frontier
to cross. From Litzmannstadt, however, meant running the gauntlet
of the strongly policed and guarded border into General Government,
thence to Warsaw. German military and civil authorities fully occupied
and administered the General Government and its use as a dumping ground
for Poles evicted from western Poland and Jews from all parts of Europe,
necessitated Nazi imposition of stringent entry and exit regulations.
An awareness that Warsaw was also, through the Resistance movement,
the chief source of Allied intelligence information on Germany, further
intensified Nazi vigilance at this sensitive crossing. Every conceivable
check as to a travellers' bona fides was implemented. This most dangerous
last leg from the Reich to Warsaw, the Underground had entrusted to
a courier group who specialised in breaching the rigidly guarded frontier
with despatches for redirection to London.
Marvellous news! The bird in a cage
could become a bird of passage. I confided completely in Charlie the
camp sergeant and if anybody could make it, he thought I could. Encouraging
in every way, and with a professional military background, Charlie
stressed the need for top physical fitness, and night and morning,
under a critical eye, I skipped and did press-ups till nigh exhaustion.
Weekly purchasing walkabouts went on as of yore. Halina had no Resistance
news and was kept unaware of Florianski's plans. To speak Polish would
be an asset and to this end a Polish grammar book was procured to
provide something of a shock. The Slavic language had a strange new
alphabet with pronunciation and declination complexities of a monstrous
nature to a person who was trying to make do without a teacher. Feeling
myself making no progress, studies were abandoned until a Polish version
of prewar Anna, to whom I was so much indebted for my German, happened
along. Lovely language instructresses were to become later available
and at times it was very hard to keep my mind on the lessons.
Autumn with shorter days and cool nights
was suddenly upon us. There was no signal from Florianski at the works,
but though almost ready to leave, comforted by the thought that no
news was good news, last minute details were attended to. There were
so many ways of getting out of our camp that the necessity of a concrete
exit plan came with a rush, the solution of the problem to assume
top priority.
Over the wall of only nine feet seemed
the most straightforward and easy exit, which indeed it was. On consideration
it had too great an element of chance and, at this stage, I was in
no mind to rely on the law of averages, if at all avoidable. The yard
was lit at night and, although the guard remained, especially in bad
weather, comfortably tucked up in his little box at the main gate,
a glance at the wrong moment would reveal somebody scaling the wall,
an uncertain link in a chain which had taken much preparation to forge.
There were a couple of brick alcoves in the camp perimeter wall. One
of them had a large, heavy metal door, which once must have been used
as an access to and from the alley which ran down the side of the
complex and came out on Hitler street. It hung on two large hinges
and was secured with a huge square lock. There was, of course, no
key and neither was there any sign that it had been opened for a long
time. Some rusting was visible, but the door had once been operational,
the challenge was to make it operational again. There was a locksmith
in the camp and after delicate and concealed examination, using material
and facilties at the workshop, he made a key. The whole process was
a mystery to me as indeed are most specialist operations in life.
Soap, butter and wire were used and after every probe, ample application
of brick dust, obscured telltale signs of tampering. The key was produced,
the lock saturated with hair oil, warning scouts were placed all over
the camp as the locksmith, Charlie and I performed the opening ceremony.
The key turned and a gateway to freedom needed only slight attention
to function as well as ever. The door hinges were stiff, the pressure
to arouse them from a long and undisturbed sleep creating a discordant
tune of rusty protest. Instead of applying the hair dressing from
the canteen we had used on the lock, due regard for British economy
was given by generous applications of lubricating oil filched from
the workshop. The evidence of our enterprise was again covered with
brick dust, the key greased and hidden, to be produced regularly to
ensure that everything remained functional.
There could be little suggestion that
the concessions wrung from the Germans had been abused. The break-out
was to be orthodox, within the standards of acceptable military conduct,
thus minimising the extent of any general reprisals against the other
prisoners. There was nothing left to do except keep confident and
pressing-up.
The camp orchestra reached a peak of
tolerable proficiency. We enjoyed them and they enjoyed themselves.
After such success in brightening our lives, an enthusiastically received
suggestion was made that a pantomine be produced for the festive season,
now only a couple of months away. The organisation of 'Jack and the
Beanstalk' was under the direction of a Scot taken prisoner with the
51st Highland Division in 1940 at St. Valery in France. Tommie Muir
was a man of charm, good looks and unbounded talent. In his native
Glasgow, he had served an apprenticeship in the musical and entertaimnent
world and goodness knows what heights his career would have reached
but for the ambitions of Adolf, an Austrian house painter. While all
the preliminary arrangements for 'Jack and the Beanstalk' were being
discussed, it was perturbing that an escape before the show into which
so much effort was to be poured, would not be conducive to the harmony
between guard and prisoner, indispensable for such an event. Worries
as to the effects on the pantomine of an escape just before the show's
presentation were quietened by exciting news from Florianski. The
trip to Warsaw would take place during the middle of January, at least
a couple of weeks after 'Jack and the Beanstalk' took a final bow.
The winter, not the popular season for escaping, would be at its height,
with long dark nights and icy weather combining to assist a passage
over the so called Green Frontier, into the General Government.
Crossing a 'Green Frontier' described
the illegal journey between two territories, completely avoiding,
or trying to avoid, any policing authorities by keeping to the open,
sometimes green countryside. Although military patrols had still to
be negotiated, the risky personal contacts with document perusing
officials at road and rail border junctions, were thus bypassed. After
breaking out as early as possible in January, 1 was to be holed up
in the city for a couple of weeks until the hue and cry died down.
Florianski's patience must have been nigh exhausted by my delving
into the smallest details of the plan. At leisure in the camp, the
Law of Possibilities was rigorously applied. One matter mentioned
by my courageous Polish friend called for prompt attention. As it
had been decided to use the green frontier, a suggestion from Warsaw
headquarters was that more than one escapee could be accommodated
although I had long since decided to make the second escape alone.
By adopting this attitude, a feeling of selfishness and ingratitude
had become increasingly difficult to contain. Many friends in the
camp had helped in diverse ways, and the opportunity to take one on
the trip brought a change of mind and a happier conscience. The prospects
of a long war had popularised thoughts on escaping and any amount
of partners would be available. Who to choose was the problem, and
confiding in Charlie, both of us decided to deliberate at length before
coming to a decision.
Tommie threw himself into rehearsing
the orchestra and writing the pantomine script. The bewildering complexities
of a stage production were also solved by this delightful Scot and
I helped by scouring the city for all manner of props. With willing
help from Sudeten, there was ample buying or borrowing of curtain
material, ropes, electrical fittings and dress material. For celebrations
to be held after the first night, a stock of liquid refreshment was
smuggled into Charlie's strict and wise custody. Tommie who sang well
was to be Jack, and though inwardly delighted, I accepted with becoming
reluctance, the role of the Widow Twankey, which to the general relief,
terminated an ambition to play the trumpet which had entailed lengthy
practice.
At the repair shop, Florianski confirmed
all to be in order. In addition to telling Florianski that a second
person would be coming, a reassurance was also given that nobody in
the camp, not even Charlie, was the slightest aware of his role in
the coming operation. The middle of January was finalised as departure
date from Litzmannstadt. The break-out was to be as soon as possible
after dark, but before the nine o'clock Polish evening curfew, for
reporting to Florianski's flat. No time was lost in locating the flat.
On the pretext of looking for further props for Jack and Beanstalk,
the Sudeten and I wandered that quarter of the city, with disinterest
in the area, as soon as I was sure of finding a way blindfolded to
the first port of call.
Tommie was full of life, solidly built
and of medium height. No physical hurdles would trouble him. A cold
homeland and an ancestral diet of granite and heather must have produced
such men who, sallying forth in kilt and pipes, were invariably too
rugged not to arrive, see and conquer. Of course Tommie would join
the escape and with Charlie's approval of my companion in crime, civilian
clothes, money and all the other trappings considered essential for
a sub-zero journey in enemy territory were soon available in duplicate.
Teaming up with Tommie was the start
of a friendship which has fully withstood every test of time and deed.
Now retired in Australia, he was waiting for me at an airport recently,
the beam of excitement on both our faces emphasised a mutual regard.
It had been some years since we last met and commenting on his white
hair and other ravages of Father Time, a Scotch accent countered by
enquiring as to when I had last taken a good look in the mirror.
Jack and the Beanstalk played to a
packed house of prisoners and German troops on Christmas Eve and Boxing
Day. Many other Nazi soldiers who had heard about the show from their
colleagues wished to attend a performance, and acceding to a request
from the Unteroffizier a grande finale was arranged for the following
Saturday, of necessity a matinee for it so happened that the two principal
characters had an evening engagement in the city.
The party we had after first night
to celebrate a successful pantomime and our imminent departure, got
a little out of control with the unaccustomed intake of alcohol. Tommie's
birthplace and my home port, when I had been at sea, was not fogotten
that evening. Glasgow certainly belonged to us while the Germans celebrated
in their quarters, and a solitary guard turned a blind eye. Even after
recovery from the effects of the party, I remained strangely subdued
for the next days. There was no lack of determination to leave according
to plan, but the thought of parting with so many good fellows in the
camp was hard. There is nothing to be ashamed of in emotion. Would
there were more of it. The last purchasing trip for the canteen was
made with the Sudeten. It would have been nice to have farewelled
Halina and thank her for all the kindness, but sooner than involve
her at this stage, nothing was even hinted. Dawned the great day and
in the afternoon to thunderous applause the final curtain rang down
on Jack and the Beanstalk. The show had been an outstanding success
with Britons and Germans alike. The war surely caused Tommie to miss
his vocation.
Darkness had fallen, all the guests
departed and a black evening was freezing cold and foggy. Mad dogs
and Englishmen might go out in the midday sun, but the guards obviously
felt that the national insanity did not extend to departure from a
cosy camp on that particular evening. We took up watch through a window
on the first floor at the end of the building, just opposite the alcove
with the door and from the other end, helpers relayed signals that
the guard was smoking contentedly in his box. The window was quietly
opened. Woollen socks over our boots, Tommie and I dropped silently
into the yard. The window had hardly shut, the key was in the lock
and the big metal door opened. We were in the alleyway alongside the
camp, the door was relocked from the outside, and in yet another sock
the key was lofted over the wall back into the yard. Charlie would
retrieve it in the morning before roll call, at the same time ensuring
that signs of interference with the door were well camouflaged with
brick dust. An effective locking of ourselves out of home without
a key to the door had been achieved.
Joining the pedestrian traffic in Hitler
Street we walked purposefully in the direction of Florianski's. Gripped
with tension to reach there without being halted, I peered deep ahead
through the crowds of civilians and soldiers. Black out was not strictly
enforced in a city so remote from possible air attack and with the
lights from shop windows reflecting on the compacted snow of the sidewalk,
such visibility was a mixed blessing. On nearing the side street to
turn into, a feeling that everyone had an eye on us had subsided somewhat,
my heart leapt. Approaching through the gloom, head up and alert was
one of the camp guards. As if on the spur of the moment, but not too
hastily, Tommie was grabbed by the arm and we both turned to look
closely into a shop window. Without pausing, the guard strode by and
Tommie displaying an uncharacteristic impiety quite audibly, drew
the attention of the Lord's son, to the closeness of that particular
shave. I fully concurred.
  
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