Red Runs the Vistula
by

Ron Jeffery
New Zealand, 1985

MORE CONSPIRACY

     

      Outside Boris' apartment block a large black saloon car was parked. As I went by the vehicle and entered the ground floor of the building the uniformed German driver was chatting and smoking away with a male civilian. Giving a quick thought as to whom the civilian might be, a rapid mounting of the stairs brought me to the correct landing and Boris' front door. Immediately after admission into the elegant hall and being relieved of my overcoat a beaming Boris appeared to shake hands cordially and usher me into the lounge. A very good looking German officer got to his feet. We both bowed to one another, clicked heels and shook hands as German military custom demanded. Oberleutnant Gerhard Dahlmann was about five or six years senior in age, my height, blonde hair, charming with a most pleasant smile and an engaging warmth. Relief swept over me from the first moment. No matter what his mental powers or shrewdness might be, he gave the impression of being a very kind man, a good sport with a well developed sense of humour. Not the slightest cause for alarm emanated from him at the first meeting. Dahlmann's job was to escort people as was directed. Other than performing this duty efficiently and extracting as much pleasure in the course of so doing, his military interest in the function was nonexistent.

      Dahlmann confirmed that the car parked outside was our transport, to be all irate attention to hear from me, in a voice of mild concern, that the driver was being quizzed by a civilian who, in this part of the world, was well likely not to be on our side. Excusing himself he hurried downstairs. Through the open front door we heard the German chauffeur on the receiving end of a good tongue lashing.

      Mrs Boris sat down briefly with us at the start of the meal and as she responded to her husband's toast to "Success" the anxiety in her eyes refused to be hidden. Very understandable. Boris was now just as much dependent on my performing well and without mistakes, as until then I had been on him. With the departure of Mrs Boris from the table, drinks flowed more freely. Boris played the part well and skilfully added his own prestige from Hitler's headquarters to my mission all of which was making a good impression on the jovial Lieutenant Dahlmann. To my further satisfaction, the Lieutenant was showing only weak resistance to the effects of the limited quantity of alcohol we drank. Not wishing to push matters too far on this first night and possibly induce a hangover, remorse or an adverse later reaction in Dahlmann, I steered the liquor intake to a halt, although by that time the Oberleutnant was well on the way to being amiably plastered.

      I asked Boris discreetly if he had been able to do anything for Cook, the elderly Englishman to whom I felt we owed something for his part in this operation. We had previously discussed doing something to help, before his life style in Warsaw plus all the other troubles looming over Poland created difficulties and dangers for him. Boris in a similar grateful frame of mind, assured me that he would, in any case, feel happier if the old chatterbox was out of the country. Cook had been already given money and arrangements had been made with the Hungarian Military Attache in Warsaw to establish him in the more amenable and all round safer city of Budapest. Mr and Mr Boris came out on the landing to say goodbye after we rose to leave. I kissed the lady's hand, murmuring an assurance in Polish that everything would be alright. More for Dahlmann's benefit Boris spoke in German and again emphasised the importance attached to my mission by his headquarters. More hand pumping, a kiss on both cheeks from Boris, my first ever from a German officer, and the last but one I might add.

      Dahlmann sat in the front next to the driver, I climbed onto the spacious seat at the rear. The car moved off into the night. I was totally committed. Dahlmann's manner was friendly and pleasant and we were completely at ease with one another outwardly. There was no heating in the vehicle and the cold had started to grip when Dahlmann relieved the situation by passing over a couple of German army blankets, which were to prove a boon before the night was out. The car slid through the centre of dark, deserted Warsaw, the motor inaudible over the sound of heavy tyres as they crushed the iced up, fresh fallen snow. It was reasonably light with a high shallow cloud of insufficient density to prevent a ghostly visibility from the hidden moon, aided by an almost incandescent reflection from the fresh mantle of white.

      The slumbering ruins and buildings which lined our route were unmoved as we left them behind. I was certainly moved. A kaleidoscope of emotions flooding me to feel very mixed up about leaving. In spite of these disturbed mental ramblings, I realised that there was no choice but to press on and settled down under the blankets to await come what might. The car turned north, gathered speed and negotiated the thinning suburbs towards the flat and snow covered country we were to pass through that night.

      Dahlmann was fiddling about with something under the front seat and straightening up, turned to the rear of the car and handed over a bulky object loosely wrapped in a cloth. "Better keep this handy," he said. "Been a few partisan incidents on this road". On my lap in the dark, a machine pistol was unwrapped. It felt like a Bergmann and in no time reverent fingers had caressed and examined its full magazine, safety catch and stock, with a lover's touch. The situation was complicated. If Polish partisans did attack the car, there would hardly be sufficient time to parley with them about my real allegiance. Even were I to blaze away at the two Germans in the front of the car, the Poles could not be expected to recognise such assistance in time to spare me under the distracting circumstances which would prevail at the time. The only course was to hope that such an attack would not occur and with this optimism a sense of humour as to the awkward situation which might arise was just possible to maintain.

      The last straggling suburbs of Warsaw were speeding by, when from a few hundred yards ahead a powerful spotlight split the night and bathed us in its beam. We closed and came to a halt, the car and its three passengers brilliantly illuminated. For about half a minute we remained still under the penetrating glare, blind to the scrutiny of those hidden in the darkness summing up the new arrivals. Steel helmeted troops, machine pistols at the ready, appeared from out of the impenetrable shadows. A warrant officer poked a hand gun and his head at the driver's window. Dahlmann produced a pass. The German sergeant major read the document, glanced at the driver and over to me in the back seat his eyes registering the reclining Bergmann. "Danke Herr Oberleutant. Konnen Sie weiter fahren. Alles Gutes". The journey was continued, very cold in spite of the blankets. Dahlmann halted later and not before time for a comfort stop. I alighted to share the relief at the side of the road with my German companions. My own comfort was not so easily come by as for the other two. Such were the dangerous times for us Germans that I felt it wiser to function with only one hand. The Bergmann was gripped in the other. Many hours later in cold and dark we crossed into East Prussia with but a cursory inspection of documents.

      I remember without much impression, the smallish town of Soldau with its old-fashioned buildings and houses. We stopped at a hotel to freshen up. By five j thirty in the morning we were at the station to catch a train westward to' Marienburg for a further journey of some four hours. The driver and car were left behind in Soldau and a marked change came over Dahlmann now that there were only the two of us. In a comfortable compartment on the Marienburg train we dozed, my companion solidly, I fitfully. To have the hours passing in this manner, while travelling in the right direction was a relief. Although relationship with the easy going Dahlmann was proving pleasant enough, any type of conversation between us kept me under permanent pressure to maintain a watchful guard. My escort seemed, so far to be a harmless fellow and fond of talking, but under the circumstances, silence was far less demanding for me.

      Much of the conversation had so far, by design, been one sided. There had been no difficulty in encouraging the Oberleutnant to talk mainly about himself, his likes and dislikes. A champagne salesman before the war, some of the bubbling friendly qualities of the product he represented had helped mould an engaging personality. Posted early in 1943 to the Fuhrer's headquarters to act as security escort officer, was enjoyable and the work had taken him far and wide over Germany and occupied France. The men and women he had met, quickened an interest in the doings of the secret world and a somewhat self effacing desire to become more closely involved in such work was quite evident. It was mid morning by the time the train pulled into Marienburg. In between naps, thought had been given to the handling of my escort and whatever stars were responsible for having provided such a pleasantly malleable travelling compaion were sincerely thanked.

      There was an hour or so to wait before departure to Berlin. In the station restaurant Dahlmann gave further evidence of his prowess as a charmer by procuring a bottle of schnapps to grace our table together with a goodly supply of spiced sausage and bread. The waitress who had been the recipient of the full blast of his personality would have set no worlds alight with either face or figure, yet she positively bloomed under the Oberleutnant's twinkling tongue and smile. He gave her bottom the odd friendly pat as we tucked into the food and drink so willingly provided. With Dahlmann's interests devoted to wine, women and song, pastimes to which I had often also warmed, our compatibility was assured. His indulgence in such hobbies would have to be encouraged to enjoy an untroubled trip, at least as far as Oslo.

      The train to Berlin was not over full. Passengers, an evenly balanced mixture of mufti and uniforms of every hue, paid little attention to one another. Many of the men in uniform, in contrast to the impressions gained during my previous trips to the Reich, were quite elderly, often nearing their sixties. Some of these old soldiers wearing medals from the first World War appeared bewildered and lost in their ill fitting drab uniforms to which shapeless forage caps added a touch of comic opera. Younger members of the German armed forces had lost a deal of jauntiness, the former strong sense of purpose markedly weakened, and the influence of whatever had inspired them previously, no longer present. The civilians sitting in the train or standing dolefully on the platforms had their eyes open but looked at nothing. The precious sense of sight had been dulled by an inward despair and resignation mirrored in their expressions. The melancholy and gloom of these Germans gladdened my heart. By comparison the people of Poland, who had suffered so much, were alert and full of hope with good cause if the early 1944 impressions in Germany were correct. Most platforms had a group of German Red Cross sisters dispensing soup, bread and the eternal sausage to anybody in uniform who cared to alight and partake. Some of the civilian gloom may have been occasioned by the ineligibility of mufti to enjoy such bounty. I stoked up with all the soup and sausage possible at every opportunity. Nazi food had always been a priority target with a gluttonous appetite self interpreted as a war effort, albeit minor to keep the enemy shorter of food than ever. Still a growing lad, not yet twenty seven years old timewise, though mentally feeling of vintage standing, I was well equipped to fight on the food front.

      The train rumbled on into the late afternoon and there was still a long way to go. Chatting away with Dahlmann was unavoidable. His interest in the world of espionage and secret agents was further revealed and he was mildly rebuked when comments became a little too inquisitive for comfort. This trend in conversation was turned to advantage by indicating an admiration of his ability to handle and manipulate people, and an inference that such talents which he undoubtedly possessed might be better employed in some form of direct intelligence involvement, delighted the attentive Oberleutnant. Our relationship gradually assumed an accepted air of would be pupil to master. Dahlmann was keen to learn and lapped up eagerly a lot of verbal garbage conveyed to him about the makeup and qualities necessary in a good agent. The intensity of his attention was that of an ambitious youngster anxious to please the coach and make the first team. The crowning hint which sealed our association advantageously in every respect, was a suggestion that should all go well on this present important operation, I would have a favourable word with Colonel Boris.

      Dahlmann made a deferential query as to whether I was in a great hurry to get to Norway. Eliciting that an affair of the heart in the German capital to which he was desirous of paying discreet attention, I readily consented to stay a couple of nights in Berlin with the proviso that suitable hotel accommodation was arranged while he busied himself with the pursuit of love. With no wish to daily, a couple of days delay would nevertheless do no harm with such a gesture serving to further cement the cordial partnership with the Oberleutnant. The thought of being a guest of the Nazis in their own capital was also intriguing as few Englishmen could have enjoyed a chance of a practically risk free snoop around the centre of the opposition. On our arrival in Berlin, Dahlmann urged on by his own plans for the night, procured a taxi and in short order comfortably installed me in the National hotel just off the Kurfurstendamm in the centre of the city. After promising to call at ten o'clock the next morning, Dahlmann left in an almost unseemly haste. After an undisturbed night and having slept like a babe, I rose early to present myself shaved and bathed on the first floor for breakfast. The dining room was crowded, with most of the guests seated at the numerous small tables, wearing uniforms many of which carried epaulettes denoting high rank. The head waiter showed me to a table at which sat an elderly Wehrmacht general accompanied by a well dressed and attractive woman of about half his age. At a slight loss as to the correct behaviour before taking seat, I modestly clicked heels to bow deferentially to the lady and then to the general. In a situation for which I was unprepared, and realising that it would be easy to draw attention to myself, I commenced nibbling and allowed events to take their own course. The lady who, from closer up was even more attractive than first supposed, asked whether I came from Berlin and asked a few other day to day questions. I battled away for about ten minutes to say and do nothing that might upset the peppery looking old General who remained speechless, glowering at the young intruder. Far from being in a panic, there was nevertheless a feeling of relief to stand and acknowledge the couples departure from the table. The woman looked deeply into my eyes as if trying to convey some hidden message and though more than smitten by her appearance, it was good to see the back of both of them. Deciding not to use the hotel dining room again, after breakfast, with plenty of time before Dahlmann was due to call, I went for a walk.

      There was a fair amount of bomb damage visible, but nothing like enough for satisfaction. Passers by, without exception, exuded the same air of resignation that had already registered thus far on the journey. It was a grey late winter morning with a light half snow, half freezing rain adding no cheer to the picture of a people and their city in very low spirits. Since those days, compassion for my fellow creatures has re-established itself, but on that long ago morning in the enemy capital, the sight of miserable Huns making their way about their miserable city, was relished.

      In a triumphant frame of mind, I saw a tall German officer striding down the street towards me and pretended not to notice him. In the German army, lower ranks from privates upwards salute any senior rank they may be passing. Hence a corporal would customarily first greet a sergeant and a sergeant a lieutenant, a lieutenant a captain and so on upwards and upwards. I was unsure at the time, whether the practise was always mandatory or otherwise but in a flush of Allied victory to come, I was in no mood to salute any damn Jerry regardless of rank. A nasty shock awaited, as the German colonel drew abreast, noticeably annoyed.

      His guttural voice blasted into my eardrums. "Stehen Sie da und grussen Sie nicht,"* he roared.
No British officer ever inspired a hastier or more magnificent salute than the one whipped up to the massive creature in Hun uniform who towered over me.
"Please excuse me Herr Oberst," I blurted out. "A thousand apologies for not having noticed you.
"Think yourself lucky not to be under arrest," he barked in reply and continued along the street with the air of a man who had administered a well deserved rebuke. He had every right to feel that way and had half scared me to death. Even my papers issued by the Fuhrer's headquarters might not have averted a disastrous charge of conduct prejudicial to military discipline. Very touchy about such things are the Germans and from that moment on, no Nazi uniform which appeared even remotely to warrant a salute ever failed to get an exhibition sample.

      Dahlmann looking much the worse for wear was on time at the hotel. I complimented him, envying his appearance, at which he smirked with gratification. We proceeded to the German Foreign Office in Potzdamm Place. The large building was only in use up until the third floor, the highest part of the structure rendered uninhabitable by bomb damage. Although neutral embassies in Berlin were probably supplying accurate information in Britain as to the effects and damage of Allied bombing, much of the destruction on view and the names of the streets involved was committed to memory. In the Foreign Office I demurred on security grounds to Dahlmann who wished me to go with him to settle certain formalities connected with the journey. Anxious to please he attended to everything by himself, although stressing that the official involved had almost insisted on meeting me. The question of money to start off the operation in Sweden had been raised and my suggestion that I should be provided in Oslo with two thousand American dollars of small denominations, plus a few hundred Swedish kronor had been authorised. Money said Dahlmann, had been readily made available. More could have been asked for although an assurance was given that the Nazi embassy in Stockholm would fund me on request. While Dahlmann was busy somewhere upstairs in the Foreign Office on my behalf the air raid sirens wailed yet again. A large crowd of visitors and staff were escorted to an underground shelter. Over a public address system came the information that a large force of American bombers was approaching Berlin from the north west. Daylight raids by the Eighth American Air Force were increasing in size and frequency and after the destruction in Hamburg, there was ample cause for some disquiet. It was comforting to hear over the shelter intercom that the threatening formations had turned away from the air path to Berlin in another direction. "Crafty devils are trying to keep our defences off balance," commented an elderly Hun.

      By the end of the war I had been bombed by the British, French, Russians and Germans as well as the new VI's and VII's. It would have been an unusual record to have the Americans included in the list, but it is perhaps just as well that they and the Japanese do not figure.

      Dahlmann took me to a cosy little restaurant which had been established below ground floor in what was once the cellar of the building. It was so dimly lit and sectioned off into little eating alcoves that the identity of the other patrons was difficult to establish. With a wink the Oberleutnant explained that Nazi bigwigs, pleased to be under an anonymous seclusion from public gaze, ate there and partook of the bountiful black market fare the place offered. Arrangements for the restaurant to receive the essential raw materials to provide an excellent menu and wine list was taken care of in the highest places. We ate and drank to prewar standards. Dahlmann paid. During the excellent meal he told me that the Foreign Office official was the keener to meet me as his department had a special interest in Swedish affairs through its own intelligence section. TJnable to budge Dahlmann with an authority stemming from the Fuhrer's headquarters, the official requested the Oberleutnant to convey a respect for my desire to remain completely incognito. It would be deemed a favour, however, if, after settling down in Sweden, I could make myself available to the Foreign Office who would be able to provide assignments which would in no way clash with any duties envisaged.

      After the war it was learnt that almost every phase of Nazi military and political activity ran an automonous intelligence branch. Thus isolated in objectives and organisation, many of these unco-ordinated efforts clashed in a farcical manner. Inter-departmental rivalry, jealousy and jostling by underlings for individual recognition and rewards may well have been fostered by Hitler and his gang to make it that much more difficult for any cohesive and united opposition to be formed. Without the knowledge or experience of the Nazi internal structure at the time to recognise this evidence of the lack of German administrative unity, it was nevertheless pleasing to hear what the Oberteutnant had reported.

      Boris must have laid very thorough foundations and the observations by the German Foreign Office intimated strongly that no suspicions of our joint motives had been roused. The passage to Sweden had attracted bureaucratic attention only from the intelligence section to the German Foreign Office, who had disclosed innocence of what was going on by tentative attempts to recruit me. The capacity for inflicting mischief against the Germans was so great and complicated that very sadly at that time I was unable to give the possibilities which arose, sufficient of the careful consideration so richly merited. The inability to appreciate fully the gold mine of intelligence onto which I had stumbled was all for temporary best. Otherwise it might have been tempting to dally and try too much for one pair of hands. As it was, everything remained still firmly on course to arrange for the charter of the good ship Boris to sail German waters in the service of the Union Jack.

      After the most fortifying lunch an opportunity arose, which was to prove a memorable feature of the stop over in Berlin. Dahlmann had obtained the full time use of a car and a driver, an achievement of considerable merit in wartime Berlin. A pre-war friend, now a high ranking Gestapowiec in the capital, had placed one of the police fleet of vehicles and a chauffeur at the Oberleutnant's disposal. In itself, this would have been merely an example of the comforts attained by having connections in high places, but fortunate circumstances enabled me also to benefit from the arrangement.

      For the rest of the afternoon Dahlmann had only some semi-official duties to complete in central Berlin, the car then superfluous and something of a waste. Would I like to be driven around the cit~7 to meet later and refortify our systems in the same restaurant where we had just eaten the sumptuous lunch? Dahlmann could then depart for the suburbs for another amorous interlude and I would stay at the hotel for a good nights rest before continuing our journey on the morrow.

      The generous offer was gratefully accepted for more reasons than one.
The driver of the Gestapo car was a middle aged civilian of nondescript appearence, the only military type concessions being a cap with a shiny black peak under which grew a prominent Hitler type toothbrush moustache. Dahlmann introduced me impressively to the chauffeur as a visitor who with only a few hours of free time, was to be given as wide a tour of the city as possible. Any suspicion which might have been harboured about the true rank of the Gestapo driver soon disappeared as the man displayed the utmost subservience to the Oberleutnant, especially when reference was made to the friend in high places as a General of Police. I intimated a desire to sit on the front seat the better able to talk about the afternoon's tour of inspection. As we drove off, I thanked the driver for the service he was providing and with a few verbal pleasantries the man relaxed and shed his fear of the indirect authority as represented by Dahlmann. In no time he was a friendly guide anxious to please a friendly visitor.

      The tour around Berlin disclosed more heavy damage in pockets. The picture was moderately satisfying and the numerous mental notes about the destructions and their location was later difficult to completely or accurately recall to mind. Moving round slowly in broad daylight provided a close up view of the German people about their daily round. Their expressions conveyed further confirmation that if they were not completely resigned to defeat, the will to fight and win was fast weakening. My sympathetic tutting at some of the more spectacular bomb damage, gradually drew from the driver many uninhibited comments about the kind of life endured by the ordinary man and woman of Berlin during this fifth year of the war. His comments on the pressure of constant air raids, the alarms, the housing destruction, with consequent overcrowding and tremendous demands on accommodation, were like music. As an encore 1 heard with equal pleasure that food was in ever decreasing supply driving many families to the brink of genuine hunger and starvation.

      The conversation was steered towards the Russian front from which it was inferred I had recently arrived. By now, in full, indignant verbal flight, the driver launched into an anti-Bolszevik tirade. The barbarians from the east would destroy Europe and what nonsense it was that the Germans were defending civilisation against the red hordes from Asia while the idiots in the west stabbed her in the back. Goebbels was doing a great job. Without the vaunted bogy of the Soviet menace and all the terrible consequences that defeat would bring, the German people were clearly well on the road to chucking the whole thing in. Women in particular were justifiably terrified.

      It was difficult not to credit this media campaign against the Soviets with too much trust for comfort. My mind cast back always to the Katyn massacres of 1940 when fifteen thousand Polish leaders had been cold bloodedly killed, while prisoners near Moscow, in furtherance of Soviet plans for the domination of Poland.

      Dahlmann met me at the same restaurant where we had eaten lunch. Another secluded table for two was the setting for dinner, a further magnificent meal. When the Oberleutnant arrived at the restaurant as arranged he was already slightly sloshed, sufficient to slur his words and be even more friendly than usual. Conversation was no worry. Halfway through the meal he hardly knew what he was saying and any comments from me made no serious impact. After we had finished gorging and drinking, Dahlmann was mumbling terms of undying friendship and it must be confessed that although still in control of my tongue and wits, my alcoholic intake had also exceeded the bounds of prudence. The Oberleutnant again insisted on paying. Who was I to demur? The money was probably coming out of a fat Nazi expense account anyway.

      My host was fast asleep across the back seat of the car when 1 was dropped off at the hotel, although as a true friend, in half a mind to accompany him safely to his destination to see what I could see. The temptation was resisted to climb up the stairs and tumble into bed fully uniformed, boots and all. In addition to having handsomely fed and watered me twice in one day, the so and sos would have the extra pleasure of laundering the soiled bed linen. I seemed hardly to have been asleep for more than a few minutes to be rudely woken up in the early hours by the din of air raid sirens, to make critical comment of such lack of consideration for a fellow countryman by kinsmen of the Royal Air Force whose imminent arrival had been heralded by the alarm. It was them for sure. They came by night and the Americans came by day.

      A loud knocking on the door. "To the shelter immediately Sir". I continued to lie on the bed to be disturbed again within a few minutes by more thunderous bangs. "Hurry Sir, there are no exceptions to the rules". Down flights of stairs in the company of a host of other guests, military, civilian, male and female, thc destination was a largc concrete, low ceilinged room well filled with long wooden benches. The place was very brightly lit with naked bulbs and in the spartan atmosphere the most strategic place to sit was important. I found myself gazing at the young woman who had been that morning at the breakfast table with the General. She in turn had her eyes glued on me. About to move away but perceiving no sign of the General, I changed my mind and edged over to her, received a smile of welcome and an invitation to sit down beside her. Bowing as her hand was proffered my Polish training in such kissing served well. A very delicate brush of the lips indicated familiarity with the accepted approach to a lady. Her hair which on the previous morning had been done up in some kind of Teutonic female bun, now hung low down in boudoir glory over a full length fur coat, the animal original of which was beyond the knowledge of my own humble background.

      Before responding to the welcome to take a seat beside her, I had murmured as customary, my surname, being careful to render the pronunciation sufficiently unintelligible for it to be registered accurately. It took only seconds to discover, from her shy admission, that the General was away for a few days on Wehrmacht business. Wishful thinking has always been a trend of mine and without difficulty the genuine and immediate bond which had sprung up between us, was plainly felt by both sides. Remember it was over ten years since first leaving home for the sea. A deal of knowledge about the birds and bees had rubbed off. The beautiful eyes bored into me and had my mind galloping over the tantalising options from which to choose. The favour to Dahlmann by adding a full day and night to our stay in Berlin could well provide the lever for a reciprocal understanding for a further delay. This day or night dreaming in the company of a desirable and apparently desirous female was interrupted by about twenty French prisoners of war in uniform, who filed into the shelter. With prisoner of war memories crowding back, I was very sharply down from the mental clouds and back to earth. Days of hunger, dirt, degradation and knowing that the poor devils had been in Nazi hands since 1940, aroused a wave of compassion. They were deathly pale, thin and, without exception, looked unwell as they shuffled by. There was not a ripple of notice from the German occupants of the shelter who sat completely indifferent to the woe-begone and miserable looking latest arrivals. I was in debt to their presence and avoided once again perhaps making an ass of myself. My concentrated attention on the French prisoners evoked comment from the General's wife. "Just look," she said, "How well we look after our prisoners. When one thinks of the treatment our lads are getting from the Russians and the British, it makes me boil that in spite of all our own difficulties we mollycoddle them so". So sincere was her opinion that her warm and engaging appearance was obviously only skin deep. Underneath she was a true Hun. The short remark displayed a normal Teutonic attitude to immediately change my perspective and opinion about her.

      From a not too distant location the rumblings of a large muffled explosion shook and reverberated through the cellar. Every head ducked slightly and at the same time, a few flakes of plaster descended from the shelter ceiling to mingle with the disturbed dust which rose simultaneously from the floor. The lights suddenly went out. It was pitch dark and wondering the portent of the sudden darkness, one aspect was immediately indicated. A female hand found mine in the dark and held it tight, with passion or fear was debatable although the grasp certainly was asking for consolation of some kind. The lights came on again and an all clear sounded. Heads lifted and eyes blinked. Everybody stood up and before the little devil who had been encouraging such naughty ideas could recommence a campaign to lead me on a military and morally wrong path, I bowed, clicked heels, kissed the woman's hand and was away. Somewhat hurt by the look of unladylike contempt that followed me, a sense of gratitude to the unfortunate Frenchmen whose presence had revealed and effected a rescue from the clutches of a very feminine Nazi, was appreciated.

      Next morning the continuing cold and gloomy weather contrasted sharply with my own sunny and confident mood. After the little affair in the air raid shelter, I was also pleased for having acted in such a firm, upright and faithful manner. The influence on the course of events made by the French prisoners of war was conveniently overlooked, blinded by the brightness of my own halo. Having no wish to bump into the General's young wife, I remained in my room to await the arrival of the Oberleutnant and our departure from Berlin. An hour or two ticked by with no sign of Dahlmann. The foyer was reconnoitred and as eleven o'clock came and passed, an onset of disquiet was difficult to contain. The precise time of our train had not been stated. I was under the impression that it was due to leave at lunch time and sitting impatiently in the hotel room, became intolerable. If anything had gone really wrong they had only to walk in and get me. Completely packed I went downstairs, paid the bill and booked out of the hotel. There was a hairdressing salon nearby. Leaving a soldiers suitcase in their care ostensibly to look around unencumbered for some accommodation, was no difficulty. From a safe and inconspicuous distance a careful watch was kept on the hotel entrance. Midday approached. 1 began chewing over desperate plans to extricate myself from the mess I might well be in. The nearest refuge was Warsaw and if, by later that afternoon, there was no sign of Dahlmann or any other development, the sole option would be to try and return to the Polish capital, not easy if the Nazis were on my trail.

      It must have been getting on to one o'clock when Dahlmann, who had not seen me, approached the hotel at a fast walk and bounded through the entrance. He was alone! He came out quickly to peer anxiously up and down the busy street. There was little alternative but to take a chance, and accost him. Showing great relief, the Oberleutnant got the first words in. "My dear Botkin, I have been trying to reach you all morning, but the verdammte telephone at the hotel is out of order." Then followed a non-stop description of what had befallen him to result in such unpardonable unpunctuality. His girlfriend had broken a leg just as he was about to be driven over to meet me. The accident had necessitated a hospital visit and the unfortunate long delay. As to the truth or otherwise of Dahlmann's story I was indifferent. It was a great relief that he had at last turned up to continue an unsuspecting and now most apologetic escort. Stating an attitude that the only real sufferer was the poor victim with a broken leg, and wryly add that the Oberleutnant was lucky the accident had happened at the end of his visit and not at the beginning, restored a harmonious union.

      Wc had missed the train. The next connection was at midnight. Matters could have turned out much worse. My suitcase was retrieved from the hairdresser and the use of a private sitting room in the hotel until we left Berlin was secured. By the time the Oberleutnant and the Sonderfuhrer arrived late that evening at the Stettinerbahnhoff, if memory serves correctly, the Sondcrfuhrcr to even the most casual observer was doing his gallant best to be of assistance to an Oberleutnant who had over indulged. To ensure that Dahlmann drank more than I, was an objective requiring less and less effort. As our train pulled out of the battered station, the air raid sirens were wailing again. Dahlmann, also somewhat battered was already asleep, and after an all's well that ends well stay in Berlin, it was good to be back on course for England.

      Just before dawn, the train stopped at the small rural station of Gustrow. Shouted instructions for everybody to alight could be heard and there was a general movement onto the platform. No civilians got out and it was noticed for the first time that the train was carrying only service personnel. A German sergeant major respectfully requested the gentlemen to hand over their baggage and form ranks for a short walk to the Offiziersheim. Dahlmann, recovered from his Berlin marathon, walked at my side out of the station onto the road which led through a mature coniferous forest. Not knowing what was going on, an alarm system was beginning to stir. I was becoming a real worrier, the high stakes probably increasing the pressure. According to Dahlmann we were at a military clearing point for all Nazi forces proceeding to Norway. With the invasion from Britain on their minds, the Germans were heavily reinforcing the Norwegian garrisons in addition to pouring troops into France. Outside an imposing brick and mortar building we retrieved our packs to enter an equally imposing interior. Military flags, Nazi standards with massive swastikas and swarms of eagles were very prominent all around the walls of the large hall in which we assembled. After hearing from Dahlmann our reason for stopping here, there was little to worry about for an Englishman in the centre of what appeared to be the German Valhalla. The Oberleutnant made an unerring way into a sideroom with me in careful tow. A source of liquid refreshment had been scented out and while Dahlmann settled for a hair of the dog that had mauled him over the last two days, a cup of ersatz coffee seemed wiser for me. We shaved, showered, breakfasted on bread and sausage. Bacon and eggs to start the day might well have won Hitler the war. The three or four hundred officers who had eaten in the main hall were birds of passage as were the Oberleutnant and the Sonderfuhrer. Breakfast over, queues formed in front of a number of seated railway police who were checking papers, issuing travel warrants and giving accommodation advice. This formality presented a small hurdle at which one could stumble and I was debating whether to request Dahlmann to make arrangements for both of us when the problem was solved by his offering just that service. As Dahlmann took my papers and joined the line of waiting officers, his estimated return in about twenty minutes, gave enough time for a casual stroll and a look around.

      Pretending to be absorbed by the colourful emblems and standards which draped every wall, I drifted out of a side door into the immaculate grounds. With no sign prohibiting passage, a stroll down a wide well formed path into the woods, disclosed that the hall of Valhalla just quitted was a small part of a large troop establishment. Hidden among the trees, well camouflaged by overhanging branches and other artificial greenery, were long low barrack type buildings which could only be soldiers for the use of. A peep through some windows revealed that although the inhabitants were out, the accommodation was fully booked. The whole place had an air of recent construction and with no sign of bomb damage the establishment cried out sadly for Allied attention.

      Formalities over in the large hall, we all marched back to the station. Thrilled with what I had seen, the distance to the railway line was registered and by the time we had boarded the train, a fairly accurate estimate of the location had been memorised, my little arriving home present for Bomber Command.

      We crossed into Denmark at Flensburg. There was no control of inspection and as evening darkness fell, the chattering between us came to a merciful end. The train continued its journey to the north. By next morning we had arrived at a small seaside port at the top of Denmark. Dahlmann quickly finalised formalities at the transport office. Our troopship was to sail that evening and with nothing else to arrange, a few menacing hours were in the offing. The Oberleutnant wove a path from one drinking establishment to another and two naval officers from the Gustrow train kept us jolly company. An early meal before boarding our floating transports was decided on.

      The restaurant was crowded. Many officers sailing that night were also of a mind to dine out. The atmosphere was free and easy and in short order a space was made for us at a crowded table. The spirit of things was entered into. Of spirits there was no shortage and toasts came quickly as we overtook the guests at other tables who had already unlocked the door to laughter and carefree bliss with an alcoholic key. Four officers in infantry uniform were seated close by. Their shoulder tabs proclaimed them to be members of the Russian Freedom army of which Boris was Chief of Staff. They spoke in Russian and as one of them looked in our direction, I spontaneously raised a glass of schnapps. "Na zdrowie," wa~ a harmless enough good health wish in Polish but it was an unwise gesture. The Russian rose a little unsteadily to his feet, stood by our table and addressed me in clear but accented Polish.
"You are a Pole?"
Ever truthful when possible, "No," I replied, "But the language is familiar". The man was at a loss for words and stood there blankly looking at each of us in turn before returning to his own table. He was more boozed than imagined, and our association seemed to have thankfully concluded. The Russian quickly proved me wrong. Picking up a full bottle of vodka the man came back with a present which he handed over with a still vacant stare. "Na zdrowie to you too," he said and stood swaying slightly by the table.

      The limited associations I had with the Russians and their deeds as recorded in this narrative, are couched quite truthfully and factually in generally critical terms. The Soviet actions to which I have referred did not stem from individual Russians who, as individuals, remained Out of my intimate sphere. When considering the policies pursued by the Soviet leaders, some of which 1 have written about, it is hard not to feel pity for the ordinary people of that vast nation, whose qualities have perished in a system which has choked them of understanding. They have been misled, misdirected and cruelly exploited under the misnomer of communism.

      The donated vodka was opened and we drank sincerely to my toast "To a free Russia". Tears ran down the face of the solider who had given the vodka. A member of the Russian Freedom Army, he too loved his country and cried over its misfortunes. It was night, crisp and dark as Dahlmann and I mounted the dimly lit gang plank of an ex-Norwegian ship. Of about two thousand tons, her various smells assailed the nostrils to rekindle nostalgic memories of days at sea as a lad. Once more gone alas like our youth, too soon! We were shown into a small cabin with two bunks and while making ourselves at home, the Oberleutnant gave me a shock.

      "Botkin, my dear fellow," he said very seriously, "I have a surprise for you". The only type of surprises my English conscience could think of were unpleasant and taking a firm grip on myself, to hear what might be unpleasant was awaited. As my companion proceeded to speak, worry proved superfluous.
"While arranging our passage at the docks office today," continued Dahlmann, "I managed to transfer our berth onto this ship."
"Was the other vessel so bad?"
"No, my dear fellow, but this one has an advantage which it gives me great pleasure to tell you about." Foreboding subsidied as the Oberleutnant bubbled over to impart the good tidings.
"We are the only two male passengers on board the ship."
The import of this statement had not sunk in before the reason for Dahlmann's elation was revealed. The rest of the passengers on the ship were all women members of the Nazi auxiliary forces, popularly referred to as Blitzmadel*. To confirm promptly the truth of what had been said, I had a look through the porthole. Even in the poor light, marching on the dock and noisily up the gangplank was a contingent of unmistakably female soldiers. Moments later, heels could be heard on the metal decks, and voices which were certainly not male, penetrated the cabin. Relieved that there was no harm to me or my plans in what had been manoeuvred, it was still abundantly clear that the Oberleutnant was preparing for business in which he fully expected my joyful participation.

      Dahlmann disappeared down the gangway to return holding a key. The Captain had granted the use of his private bathroom. After my companion returned from his clean up, I was soon wallowing in a hot tub. During this luxurious soak the ship started to move and by the time I got back to the cabin, we were well away from the dock and moving out to sea, bound for southern Norway.

      Carefully groomed for the coming fray, we entered the ship's saloon. Our appearance brought about a sudden hush. Every eye of the uniformed females turned in our direction as Dahlmann and I politely weaved a way to the bar. The enthusiastic generosity of the circling of women did not permit the purchasing of a drink for some time. A few gaped in a manner which suggested we were the first men they had ever seen. The ship chugged on. The night outside was still. Inside the saloon it was anything but. One of the girls commenced the lively playing of a harmonica. There was no shortage of dancing partners and we were whirled round for dance after dance, with only time between each one to gulp down another drink, The Oberleutnant waltzed by, embraced with a suggestive hug if ever I saw one.

      "Don't tire yourself out too much, Felix," he smirked. The eyes of his very willing lass were shut, and anticipation was written all over the girl soldier as Dahlmann purposefully propelled her around. One moment the pair were there and suddenly they had gone. It would have been tactless to return to our cabin for whatever reason. During the Oberleutnant's absence I jigged around nonstop. Some of the female troops got tired of waiting for my flagging services and had commenced dancing with one another. The harmonica still rent the air. Liquor flowed as the Nazi maids who appeared more desirable every moment were letting their hair down. After about half an hour, Dahlmann returned with a very satisfied looking uniformed maiden in sleepy tow. "Your turn, Felix," he said, and the key to our cabin dropped in my pocket. The girl who had accompanied the Oberleutnant had been reticent compared to my own partner. By no means an unattractive girl, she had me in an octopus hug with signs of desire not completely unfamiliar.

      Permission is requested to enlarge on the thoughts of a patriotic Englishman recently and still very contentedly married. The matter was so complicated that no easy decision could be reached without the possibility of living to regret it. From somewhere I had heard that for any female German uniformed personnel to become pregnant on active service, was a serious or court martial offence, an understandable enough official attitude in view of the effect of a pregnancy on the carrying out of military duties by the future mama concerned. An opportunity had therefore, clearly arisen to incapacitate some of the enemy's forces. A certain deception of the lady concerned might be necessary to ensure the ultimate success of the assault, but deception had been a main pastime of mine for a long time. The first possible target, still clinging tightly, suggestively gave every indication that her defences had already been abandoned.

      What more satisfying way of striking a blow for one's country could be conceived? — conceived! With soldierly shame I confess to not having had the courage or determination to press home the advantage even for the sake of old England. All is fair in love and war, so they say, but on this night at sea early in 1944, steaming towards southern Norway, I was unable to be fair to both at the same time. I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing but as the end of the battle would have been unaffected, either way my conscience is clear.

      The little port in Southern Norway glistened in the cold sun, swarming with well armed and laden soldiers. Every service was represented and many shiploads of human war cargo must have arrived. Place on the train to Oslo was hard to come by and in the crush to board, Dahlmann and I became separated. Squeezing into a carriage to secure a cramped standing place in the corridor, I saw the Oberleutnant get into the next carriage to give a wave of acknowledgement that we were still travelling together. By the time I sat down on my gear, lit a pipe, examined the surroundings and the other uniformed passengers, we were under way. Glancing behind me it was only then that the sign on the door of a closed compartment was noticed. The warning was written stark and clear, 'Nur fur Stabsoffiziere.'* A side glance into the interior revealed the compartment was nowhere full. Four German generals, each one with a corner to himself, sat in isolated and mighty splendour. With the train making good speed, my back was turned on the inspiring target to contemplate the bleakness of southern Norway, flashing by to the rhythmic beat of the train, it was already afternoon and shortly after dark we should be arriving in Oslo. It was difficult to realise that if good fortune continued I would soon be back in England. it was well over two years since our escape and the tide of war had turned. The Nazis were reeling in the east and the second front to come from England in the wake of the massive air raids would hasten their downfall. In spite of a genuine liking for Boris and with so far every reason to trust his honesty of purpose and ability, there was little doubt that to save his neck from the Soviets he needed a change of horses before it was too late. Thus musing and content to be free of the necessity of keeping a permanent conversational watch while in the Oberleutnant's company, I dozed, lulled by the hypnotic noise of wheels and track,

      The door from the generals' compartment which fronted onto the corridor, slid suddenly open. A hand was laid gently on my back. I glanced over my shoulder and jumped up with the required posture of military deference.
"Herr General?" The clutching of a smoking pipe and being capless did not lend itself to the kind of salutation normally demanded for a high ranking enemy staff officer. Sensing my surprise and perhaps confusion, a white haired, fatherly old quartermaster general of the Wehrmacht looked paternally at the young and hopefully innocent face.
"No problems, young soldier," he said in a friendly voice, "But there is a spare seat in here with us, which will prove much more comfortable than out in the corridor." Military conduct called for the acceptance of such a gracious but unwanted invitation. I stepped inside, with a sharp but not overdone click of the heels, the baggage up on the rack and sat primly down in very alarming company. The elderly quartermaster general whose kindness had caused the awkward predicament continued to gaze fondly at me, recalling perhaps the days as a young soldier, when he had earned the first World War ribbons on his uniform. The other three staff officers made no sign. They were all, in contrast with my snowy haired unwanted benefactor, completely bald or so close shaven as to give that impression. With thick bullet heads and enormous necks typical of so many Huns, without their uniforms they would have looked at home in ~ìn all-in wrestling ring. The awesome trio were well conscious of my presence and resentment to the intrusion could be felt as the decent quartermaster pursed his lips prior to starting a conversation. I paid the closest attention. Anything I might answer could be silently digested by the attentive three and noted down to be used in possible evidence or action against me. Though not at ease, a crisis was not really expected for me to become trapped in a fast moving train. My belt was nevertheless shifted round the better to quickly get at the holster. Though the pleasant snowy haired general had created the mess, I would take the three square heads first and then the old fellow. Remembering poor Jurek, I would have to be the next on my own list.

      "First time in Norway?" asked the quartermaster.
"Ja, Herr General".
"Where have you served before"? Keeping on home ground by quietly answering that I had been on anti-partisan service mainly in the eastern General Government, a verbal defence was marshalled. It was no trouble to chat away quite easily on a familiar subject with the charming old soldier who posed harmless queries and absorbed my observations with every sign of satisfaction. Breathing became easier. The other three generals, though feigning disinterest and taking no part in the discussion, were nevertheless listening to our every word and the resentment of these gorillas which had been so marked at first noticeably relaxed. As so often happens in the close and secret company of the enemy, the pendulum which had swung to rest on safe suddenly swung the other way to register peril. The pleasant conversation was continuing peacefully when out of the blue the old quartermaster posed a potentially dynamite loaded question.
"You know," he said, "I am very interested in language patterns and accents from various districts. To pinpoint your home district is proving elusive."
It might have been imagination, but the three thick necked officers seemed also to have had their curiosity aroused. Had Dahlmann been there, his intervention with security escort documents issued by Hitler's headquarters would have protected me fully from any additional probe as to identity and once again I plumped for the safety provided by Poland.
"I am pure German, Herr General, but lived with my parents until the outbreak of war in the former Polish corridor."
"Aha," was the rejounder. "That explains my difficulty in placing you. You speak Polish, of course."
"Fluently, Herr General."
Smug and satisfied to have cleared up the problem which had bothered him, ego satisfied, the general relaxed into contented silence. So did I.
The salute and smash of heels with which the four staff officers were farewelled on leaving their compartment, would have gladdened the heart of a most demanding drill sergeant major.

      At Oslo station Dahlmann soon organised a car, and we were driven to the Kommandatur in the city centre. Following what had been the practice to date for the whole trip, all arrangements were left to the Oberleutnant and I waited in the car while he attended to our accommodation requirements. With no problems we were soon very comfortably installed in a mature hotel on the Karljohannsgatte. The name Parkhospitz Hotel or similar, tugs at my memory.

      The Oberleutnant went off to report our arrival to German Intelligence, who were to arrange the crossing into Sweden, and returned quite pleased with his reception. Instructions had already arrived from the Fuhrer's headquarters for every co-operation requested to be made readily available. Dahlmann had promised to confer with me that evening and present a list of requirements in the morning. The local intelligence chief, it appeared, would have preferred dealing with me personally and displayed some disappointment. His masters had left no doubt, however, according to Dahlmann, that my wishes were to be respected and the situation was accepted. The attitude of the senior officer was understandable, especially as one could feel the stamp of authority which Boris and his friends from far away were capable of imposing. With each passing day an admiration for the way Boris had handled matters continued to grow, and a result of his manipulations looked to be a smooth passage home. The overall strategy had been so far foolproof, with the few unavoidable tactical hazards encountered en route, normally expected by every agent under false pretences in enemy territory. Tangible proofs of Boris' efficiency augured well for the future.

      It was now only a few miles from pro-Allied neutral Sweden and though it was too early to count any chickens, one could just dare enough to be confident that a hatching was in sight.

      Dahlmann had reported to a General von Kirchenstrom, or a name something like that, who gave him a couple of passes for us to dine that evening at the Deutsches Haus which had reputably the best table in Oslo. For the rest of our stay we were to make full and free use of the Offiziersheim which was in the immediate vicinity of the hotel, for meals and other facilities on offer. A feature of the food in Oslo was the abundance of lobster for which I had almost a suspect craving. That evening at Deutsches Haus, in spite of the abundance and variety of available meats, we both dined well on large portions of this crustacean delicacy which had not passed my lips since before the war. The whole meal was excellent. Food, wine and service complemented one another to perfection. It was necessary to restrain the effect that Dahlmann's company was having. It was becoming enjoyable. Had he, in turn, really known my identity, it is doubtful whether his regard for me would have flourished as was apparent. Back in the hotel, comfortably satisfied in high good humour, neither of us having had any rest since sailing from northern Denmark with the cargo of Blitzmadel, we were tired and ready for bed. Was it only yesterday? It seemed ages ago, so much had happened.

      As was the prerogative of an espionage status, the next morning which was beautifully crisp and sunny, I donned civilian clothes. We breakfasted at the Offiziersheim, to further indulge in the delectable seafood, again abundantly available. As we entered the dining room my mild "Heil Hitler" to the orderly preceded our being respectfully escorted to a table, allotted to us for the duration of our stay. German officers of all ranks, shapes and sizes were busy tucking in.

      It was time to tabulate my requirements of the local Nazi espionage bureau and for Dahlmann, as arranged, to pass them on to the General in charge, who was under orders to give them unquestioned attention. During the many hours of the long journey from Warsaw to Oslo my thoughts had wrestled with this crucial phase of parting from the Nazis. Fairly confident of having arrived at the correct procedure, it will take but few words to run over the fruits of much lengthy cogitation. Boris and I in Warsaw had been obliged to leave these final move to sum up and act as I saw fit according to the circumstances that developed in Oslo and much as a conference with Boris would have helped, the most important moves in the whole plan had become my sole responsibility. Having reached the jumping off point, the situation was basically simple and straightforward. There was no sign of suspicion as to my person or motives. Cover as an anti-Soviet Estonian had not been broken, and as far as the local Nazi Intelligence was concerned, it was imperative to protect that cover being penetrated or even from suspicion that something peculiar and questionable was going on.

      Dahlmann was as keen as ever to impress and as we sat smoking he was attentively poised to note down my requirements. Now that his liaison function between me and the Oslo authorities had been accepted and established by both parties, my position in the shadows, remote and protected from prying eyes and inquisitive questions, removed any direct personal pressure. The subtle elevation of the Oberleutnant to the position of almost junior partner in the operation proved a fortuitous step. In this manner what assistance was planned and requested assumed the appearance of a decision made after our joint discussions. This creation of an innocent ally was one of the countless tactics which had occupied my mind during much of the sleepless travel so far. I reasoned that were the local hierachy to so resent their complete lack of supervision over this intruder from Boris, they could have made matters extremely awkward. The inference that we were on a project subordinate only to Hitler's headquarters and no other authority, helped Dahlmann fortify himself to resist any attempted interference, which I was also very anxious to avoid.

      Financial requirements were confirmed for me to take one thousand dollars American in small denominations and a hundred or two Swedish kronor. On hearing from me after arrival in Stockholm as to forwarding instructions, any further cash required would be sent in multiples of one thousand dollars. As an afterthought Dahlmann was informed that my wristwatch was giving trouble and a new one courtesy of the Oslo branch, would be an appreciated gesture. In fact my watch was going very well, but I felt that the request was a method of testing the market and adding a disarming human dimension to the unknown Botkin. The Oberleutnant was already aware that Felix Botkin was not my real Estonian name and he was gently led step by step through the superficial reasons for many moves. He concurred and pretended to understand, which he may have done up to a limited point. It was essential that any complication with the Swedish authorities would not lead back to Oslo, the Fuhrer's headquarters and compromisingly to Boris, a disaster which could well happen were the name Felix Botkin to be involved.

      The Oberleutnant was to request papers for me under a new name as a Pole employed in Norway by the Organisation Todt, and to this end I handed over a couple of passport photographs for processing by the local Huns. The Todt organisation, named after its founder and leader, was a Nazi paramilitary unit engaged mainly on construction work for the armed forces all over Germany and the occupied territories. In anticipation of the Allied second front, the Channel and North Sea coasts facing Britain, were in a fever of fortification activity. The Todt orgamsation was massively committed to this work. The hard core of technical and administrative staff were German, but thousands of other nationals from all over Europe, among them Poles had been, albeit often unwillingly, forced into this type of service. With the appropriate papers as a Pole working for the Todt organisation, I would be a deserter from an Oslo unit to arrive in Sweden with an acceptable Warsaw slave labour background. Such a cover would be hard to break and the name Botkin not figuring at all in Sweden would never come to the attention of German Intelligence in Oslo. Dahlmann was impressed with the evasive tactics being adopted and committed himself to obtaining local provision of everything we demanded.

      Well briefed and reimplanted with the conviction that with the Fuhrer's headquarters behind us, no interference or hindrance in Oslo would be tolerated, Dahlmann went off purposefully charged to the full with the new authority which exuded from him. I remained quietly smoking my pipe in the hotel while the Oberleutnant was absent attending to the dirty work. Keyed up by the way things were progressing, it was difficult to restrain a glint of optimism, even though the moment of reckoning had not quite arrived.

      According to the Oberleutnant on return, every request had been reluctantly agreed to. The implication was, of course, that his handling of the matter had swayed the issue in our favour. The documents as a Polish employee of the Todt organisation, the cash and even the wristwatch would be ready in two days time, by which time all necessary arrangements for crossing the border into Sweden would also have been completed. An immediate result of this latest visit by Dahlmann to the Oslo Intelligence C.O. was a further two tickets for dinner at Deutches Haus, a favourable indication that my star was not on the wane. During that day the German Oslo radio announced that we were to have the great pleasure that evening of listening to a broadcast address by an Englishman, Mr Julian Amery, son of a former British Minister to India. Arriving at Deutsches Haus with the renegade's speech about to begin, I sat with Dahlmann in the lounge quite keen to hear what this minor edition of the traitor Lord Haw Haw was going to say. The Oberleutnant took my interest for granted, already aware that I spoke some English and understood the language quite well. We ordered drinks before taking a table in the company of many German officers and civilians, who were there presumably also to listen to a pro-Nazi speech by an Englishman. Amery started and although the conversation in the lounge died down a little, from the buzz still continuing it was quite clear that most present did not or could not follow what was being said in English. As from one Englishman to another, I found the Amery text obnoxious, the whole approach anti-British and Mr Churchill in particular was singled out for vicious criticism. It would have been a great pleasure to have had Amery visiting Warsaw during my stay there. Having heard enough of such repetitive nonsense, and motioning to Dahlmann, who had not understood a word that I was bored, we entered the dining room and partook of yet another sumptuous meal.

      Next day, it must have been a Sunday as all the shops were shut — the weather continued cold and brilliantly sunny. With arrangements having reached a peak with little more to do than wait, my plan was to keep the Oberleutnant amused and off balance and especially away from any offical business. With a cheery character like Dahlmann, there was little difficulty in generating between us a sense of enjoying a few days' leave before going our separate ways to war. His suggestion that we visit a famous winter holiday spot a few miles from Oslo was most welcome. If I remember rightly, the name of the very popular place was Holmkollen.

      Mid-morning found us on a train moving out from a small local station. It was crowded. German troops with the day off mingled with crowds of young Norwegians laden with sporting gear. Skis, toboggans and skates abounded but most of all an impression remains of beautiful coloured knitted woollen headgear and pullovers with striking patterns. More to keep the Oberleutnant company, I had redonned German uniform and it was this change of attire that facilitated a glimpse of the Norwegian attitude to the occupying Nazis. All around us as the small suburban train chugged its festive way, Norway's youth of both sexes bubbled with good humour matching the weather, and eagerly anticipated a few hours at close grips with their beloved world of sparkling snow and ice. The greatest compliment I can pay them physically is to say that they were as pleasing to the eye, as had been the young people of Poland. Dahlmann was of the same mind, ogling unashamedly all the attractive young faces and figures which closely surrounded us.

      The Norwegian Underground was glimpsed. Maybe a different Resistance fight was being fought. Maybe the losses of life and property in Norway had been less. Maybe the Nazis had been less barbaric here than in Poland. Maybe the Norwegians were fighting a less emotional but more intelligent fight than the Poles. Proof that the people of Norway were indeed fighting was revealed that morning on a little train out of Oslo.

      With the forwardness of all young men, particularly lonely ones in German uniform like Dahlmann and me, we looked almost plaintively into the eyes of the young Norwegians about us. Dahlmann might not have noticed the reactions of our glances, but Botkin did. Such looks of hate were also common in enemy occupied Poland. As soon as any young Norwegian of either sex became aware that the Oberleutant and I were studying them with that friendly inquisitiveness common amongst all youngish creatures, there was an instant change of expression. The jollity and goodwill, which had sparkled between them and their own kind was gone in a flash. As our German uniforms were registered, the former good humour was replaced by a deep seated look of repulsion and hatred. Heads turned in contempt and our presence was ignored, denoting to me at any rate the existence of a Resistance which would have been a joy to have met at war or play. If looks from Norwegian to German could have killed that morning, this story would never have reached the writing. Dahlmann would likewise also have been liquidated.

      We strolled among the crowd at Holmkollen, relaxing in a comfortable chalet-type lodge for a snack and a beer to enjoy the passing colourful scene with its background of snow. Young people milling about in front of the chalet besported themselves, oblivious of the troubled world about them, oblivious of the two young Germans watching them, who would dearly love to have been able to join in the fun. The companionable life we hankered after was sadly insulated by hatred and after desultorily quaffing more alcohol without any lifting of mood, by mutual consent we caught a train back to Oslo.

      Uncharacteristically the Oberleutnant had lapsed into a pensive and untalkative mood. Normally the less conversation the better my purpose was suited, but so accustomed had I become to good humour and chatter, that his high spirits were more appreciated by their very absence. Dahlmann began pouring out the sad story of his life, with emphasis on domestic trials of the past. From the beginning of our journey from Warsaw the more the Oberleutnant talked the more avid was my attention, as a one way verbal traffic reduced the margin for conversational error. On this occasion, melancholy monologue and self pity, combined to put both of us in dire need of drastic artificial stimulant. Remedial treatment was close at hand. The bar was full of German servicemen also intent on drowning in alcohol whatever they felt in need of drowning. Some of those present had taken the cure and were already half drowned. Dahlmann was in a no-stopping mood. Intent on anaesthetising whatever pain it was that bothered him, he was doing his best to operate in the same way on me. A spirit, aniseed tasting, which formed a white milk like emulsion with water added could have been French Pernod, flowed down our throats with unseemly haste and hardly time for any sort of toast. To restrain Dahlmann's desire for company to the land of alcoholic haze proved too difficult. By the time his destination was reached I was not far behind, striving desperately to keep a tight rein on my bolting wits.

      The Oberleutnant forsook guzzling and burst into song. Other lonely hearted, inebriated and uniformed German souls got up from adjacent tables to surround ours. 'Got Mit Uns' said their belt buckles, and I ceased feeling sorry for myself. God was certainly not with them. He was with me and our side was winning. They were all on their way to hell together with their stinking Fuhrer and rightly so, too! My God was taking me home to England.

      The Austrian tenor, Richard Tauber, had before the war graced the British stage and screen, thrilling thousands with an English rendering of 'You are my heart's delight'. I had sung it many times both in English and German. Though nothing like as good a tenor as my father, there was mention that my voice made for tolerable listening. Though a guilty kettle calling the pot black, a drunken Jerry burst into this very song. "Dein ist mein ganzes Herz, wo du nicht bist kann ich nicht sein, so wie die Blume, usw., etc..." The patrons joined in raucously, my own contribution of such gusto and effect for everybody else to stop singing. Vocally stranded, I faded to a halt. No need to overdo it. Dahlmann was suddenly enthusiastically alive.
"Weiter, Felix, up on the table."
"Up on the table," echoed the rest, and there was little to do but pretend to co-operate, and warm to the verse.
"Wohin ich immer gehe, ich fuhle deine Nahe" usw., etc., and then headlong into the chorus —"Dein ist mein ganzes Herz, Wo du nicht bist, kann ich nicht sein," usw., etc. The applause from the whole restaurant was thunderous. Dahimann and I made a hurried exit with some enthusiasts screaming "Encore, Encore."

      When Dahlmann came into my room the next morning, his uniform had clearly been slept in. Mine, too. A wave of self criticism swept over me as the goings on of the previous evening came into clearer focus. Alcoholic remorse added to the feeling. No self respecting agent in enemy territory would have carried on in such an asinine manner. No harm seemed to have ensued and with Dahlmann back to his normal cheerful self, the job in hand reassumed priority. I felt less of an idiot.

      Dahlmann got in touch with Oslo Intelligence. Everything was being processed. Money and papers could be picked up the next morning and the crossing over to Sweden that same night. Jaded after the previous evening's outing, the Oberleutnant and I spent a quietish day, the only activity being a thorough reading of the German papers and a careful checking over of my going away clothes. Dahlmann had already procured a haversack for what was to be taken to Sweden, and my German uniform was to be left in Dahlmann's care to be sent back to Boris, ostensibly to be stored until my return.

      While attending to these final details it was difficult to realise that real freedom could be only a few hours away. The object in escaping had been just that, but the wildest dreams had never portrayed the long and eventful journey to come after breaking out of camp over two years previously. Had the journey from prison to freedom taken but the week or so that covered the present trip from Warsaw to Sweden, the great joy would have been to get home, see my family, rejoin a unit and get on with the war in a straightforward manner. The escape itself had taken so long that the events of those two years, unrelated to the simple process of trying to be free again, had changed and would continue to change my whole life.

      I had become a family man, and to competent German and passable French another foreign language had been added. A variety of anti-Nazi activities had taken place and in addition to a decoration, a commission in the field had been recommended. Next to my skin, protecting me as always from harm, a tattered never washed, sweat and fear impregnated blue woollen pullover knitted by one of Poland's myriads of little angels stood guard. Most important was the wonderful share of tremendous luck, shuddering to contemplate had it not been a permanent feature of my whole war to date. Prematurely musing to no purpose, it was necessary to remind myself that I was still in Oslo surrounded by Germans. Sleep during that last night was hard to come by.

      Dawned the great day. We had breakfast as usual at the Offiziersheim and a German uniform was worn for the last time.

      The Oberleutnant was sad about our imminent parting and for me it was very difficult to continue reminding myself not to have kind feelings towards a very pleasant ex-champagne salesman and playboy who had proved such an excellent help and companion. The name he used was Gerhard Dahlmann and if anybody has any news of him or his fate, it would be appreciated.

      I waited impatiently at the hotel puffing away at a pipe while Dahlmann went to collect the various requisitions we had listed for supply by the Oslo Nazis. A long nail biting delay had been expected and it was a surprising relief to have the Oberleutnant back before lunch, and sign a receipt for one thousand American dollars and two hundred Swedish kronor. Even secret services have auditors. A stainless steel wristwatch and strap as well as a long dark civilian overcoat, worn by higher ranking members of the Todt Organisation, came out ot Dahlmann's case. The organisation Todt service passport looked pretty impressive covered in swastikas and signed by the engineer in charge of Norwegian operations. With Teutonic attention to detail, the passport had much supporting material which I realised as important but had felt it wiser not to be over demanding. There were addresses of construction works around Oslo, a list of Todt residential hostels with telephone numbers, and a file containing a sheaf of works directives. My new Todt name had been officially entered into the organisation's list and as soon as I had gone from Oslo for about a week, the police were to be given particulars of a Polish employee who had deserted.

      The small compass which Dahlmann had also brought harked thoughts back to the first abortive escape attempt from Szubin in the early summer of 1940. That occasion was a straightforward and simple burst for freedom. To get to the east was the only plan, a compass and the German language the only tools. Eastwards to Sweden was the direction this time and a compass again part of the equipment. Otherwise the two breakouts were very different affairs. Escape in principal had been successfully achieved on reaching Warsaw and by officially joining the Underground Army, a fighting unit, the category of fleeing prisoner was no longer valid. Getting into Sweden was one phase of an evolving exercise which had weaved its way up a devious path with the original goal of freedom now almost a side issue. The small luminous compass, the cause of a memory flashback, was a reminder also that a physical night crossing of Scandinavian hill and mountain country in winter time might involve conditions which would require more than just being pointed in the right direction should the weather close in. I stoked up with a tremendous lunch, during which Dalhmann remained a mite sad. A German policeman in charge of border patrols in the area where a crossing had been arranged, was to call for me at three that afternoon. As if requesting a favour the Oberleutnant asked if he could come along in the car to the starting point. By now completely convinced of his goodwill, the suggestion was welcome. Dahlmann still represented the awesome authority of the Fuhrer Headquarters which could be used to shield me from any awkwardness which might occur at the last minute.

      There was still an hour or so before departure. Excusing myself to Dahlmann the time was spent carefully committing to memory the details of my new Todt Organisation guise as a Pole, and absorbing all the other paper details of the Todt background which could prove of essential help in maintaining a false cover. Provision of the Polish name as a Todt employee had been left to the discretion of the German office. The full name is of little present consequence but warrants the mention that even the Nazis had allocated the ever popular Slavic christian name of Jan.

      The usual big black sedan arrived driven by a German policeman in civilian clothes. I sat next to Dahlmann in the back. Over two hours later after dark, we came to a halt outside the police station in a small Norwegian village nestling in a valley beside the mountains. The sign of the swastika indicated the persons in charge. Our driver went into the station and came out with a second civilian. In the semi-dark the newcomer was identical in shape, dress and type to the driver who now ushered him into the front seat of the car. We drove on towards the towering mountains for a few miles to pull up as the navigable road petered out into a boulder strewn track which sloped upwards through the dark, snow bedecked conifers. On the really black night further progress, even on foot, would have proved impossible without torches. The driver waited in the car. Dahlmann, the newcomer and I got out. A large scale map was draped over the car bonnet and in the light of a miniature torch, 1 was briefed as to position and course. The few kilometres to the Swedish border was steep with a promise of heavy going, with more snow than down in the valley. Directly east of us on the Swedish side, the small town of Stromstad was pointed out on the map as my immediate destination and aiming point. Orientation and immediate objective clarified, before beginning the next stage, the driver was farewelled with a handshake and thanks, a goodwill investment in case of any early return. The guide, Olaf, a German speaking Norwegian, led the way for Dahlmann and me up a mountain track. The ice, snow and boulders were difficult to negotiate in the dark. Progress was slow, physically demanding and each of us had the occasional fall. Was there no limit to what still might happen to upset things? Even a sprained ankle. After two hours of searing lungs and exhausting climbing, the guide called a most welcome halt. From here the frontier was now less than an hour away and there was no improvement in the hostile environment. If anything, the undulating peaks, which still loomed up ahead faintly outlined against the night sky seemed more menacing and impassable than before. A glow of reflected light was to be seen in the heavens over the mountains straight in front. It came from Stromstad and would be an invaluable direction finder. It all seemed straightforward enough, but the rugged journey so far was going to be that much harder alone.

      His task completed, the guide wished me good luck and stepped back into the darkness. The Oberleutnant, a barely visible outline, also wished to say goodbye. There had been no need for Dahlmann to have come this far. His responsibilities had ceased on arrival in Oslo and to him I was indebted for having kept the local Nazis away. It was not duty which had brought him up a rugged track to within a short distance of the Swedish border as far as any German soldier dare come. We had enjoyed the time spent together and for my part, under other circumstances, a genuine friendship could have developed.

      "Alles gutes, Felix. Sehen wir uns wieder.*" We gripped one another with both hands, and grasping my shoulders the Oberleutnant made a final goodbye with an expressive touch of the lips on both my cheeks and suddenly he was no more. I have already mentioned that Boris was not the last German officer I kissed. Dahlmann was. My two companions could be heard retreating down the steep, treacherous path. As soon as their passage was no longer audible, I adjusted the pack, took a deep breath and toiled upwards towards the serrated skyline. No semblance of a track remained. The only course was to keep in as straight a line as possible to the brightness emanating from Stromstad. The terrain became even more spiteful. Frustrating detours around unclimbable faces of rock and snow hindered progress as well as taking physical toll of a waning strength and adding to the bruises. Exhausted and in spite of the best will in the world to press on, a rest was obligatory and lying down curled up comfortably in the snow and dropping off the sleep, proved a delightful sensation. Adjusting my body to an even more cosy position caused, how much later I have no idea, the drowsy opening of one eye. Had I not registered the glow in the sky from the lights of Stromstad, the land of nod would have been promptly re-entered. With no conception of my whereabouts and concerned only with getting back to sleep again, the surroundings semi-consciously surveyed, happily triggered off an internal alarm. It still took some time to collect scattered thoughts, but in a few moments by dragging myself to stand up, came an awareness of what might have happened. I had read somewhere about the sleep in snow from which there was no awakening. Carefully and slowly, the upward struggle continued. The first suggestion of dawn tinted the sky directly ahead and as it became lighter faster progress was possible. By the time the sun out of the east burst in all morning glory and a small road leading downwards had been reached, I knew that I was in Sweden.

      Sitting down on a wayside rock and gazing out over a neutral paradise, with fist clenched the air was punched, "I've bloody well done it!"

      On that beautiful, bright and crisp morning, speeding on through the sparkling ice and snow, the aches and pains of the bruises sustained overnight were spirited away. The odd villa and cottage was passed. Then came the more built up suburbs to be succeeded by the township which lay in front, peaceful and serene. A few people were about. Nobody gave me a second glance. I had not thought of being able to get all the way to Stockholm without being apprehended by some form of Swedish authority, but there was no intention of giving myself up. The farther away from the border without being stopped and interrogated, the better. Were the Swedes to give me a complicated reception and investigation so close to the Norwegian frontier, Botkins real identity might be unmasked and leaked back to the Oslo Germans. Little danger for me personally, but fatal for Boris and the end of all our plans.

      For long, a knowledge of German and Polish had been the first line defence preventing my recapture on many occasions. Helplessly unable to speak or understand Swedish was a fresh handicap. I marched boldly into a modest railway station and up to the ticket booth, requesting in German without any fluster a ticket through to Stockholm. The booking clerk understood and answered quite clearly in the same tongue. The journey, he said, was via Goteborg, a well known Swedish port and a train would depart within the hour. There was little to do but wait, uncomfortably exposed in the empty station. Oh, for the cover of a Warsaw crowd!

      So far everything had gone too smoothly to be true, which shortly proved to be the case. After cleaning up in the rest room, as I came out two policemen were talking to the man in the ticket office. Without delay, fuss or ill feeling, I was soon sitting in the back seat of an official looking car, wedged in between my captors who very politely had asked me in German to accompany them to the police station. Until being ushered into the presence of a senior policeman at the station, not more than a few words had been spoken. The politely offered seat was accepted and from the way the Swede looked quizzically at me across the desk, there was little doubt that many visitors had been escorted to his office after a telephone call from the booking clerk at the railway station.

      Thinking it politic to fire the first shot of the interview, I quietly addressed myself to the man in Polish.
"Czy pan mowi p0 polsku?" A negative shake. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" A modestly positive nod. My papers as Jan, a Pole working with the Todt organisation were examined. The overcoat, a recognisable part of a German Todt outfit, seemed to help my statement. I told of having been caught by the Nazis in a Warsaw manhunt in 1942 and of an unfailing ambition to get to Allied territory and join the many thousands of Poles who were fighting the Hitlerites on land, the sea and in the air. After taking particulars of my papers which were handed back, a résumé of what had been said was typed.

      Over lunch, the inspector told me that his superiors had been contacted. That afternoon I would be taken to Goteborg and tomorrow on to Stockholm. The Swedish policeman who took me on the train to Goteborg spoke no German, and it was not yet time to try English. After frustrating contortions in sign language, using both hands and facial expressions, trying to communicate was abandoned. Except for the odd friendly exchange of grimaces and heartily agreeing about 'Hitler kaput' our knowledge of one another can hardly be said to have advanced at all by the time he delivered me to the very much larger police establishment in Goteborg. The policeman at Goteborg spoke neither German or Polish. We managed, however, to understand one another quite well. His fluency in English was more than a match for my broken efforts in that tongue. No further attempts were made in Goteborg at interrogation or to add to the report which had been handed over by the escort gendarme from Strombad. The news was apologetically broken that until reaching Stockholm I was to be kept under lock and key, although by then so tired that had my complete freedom been offered, my first request would have been to find a place to lie down and sleep. A comfortably furnished cell with an equally comfortable bed awaited. After a good meal, a bath, the toll of the overnight mountaineering jaunt with no rest other than the episode lying in the snow, fatigue, mental and physical was overwhelming. The next morning with breakfast on a tray, found me still weary, very stiff and adverse to getting out of bed and continuing the journey to the Swedish capital.

      The reception at Stockholm's version of Scotland Yard was polite and clinical, befitting a seat of bureaucratic power. The following morning after another good night's sleep, except for painful bruises all over, I felt rejuvenated and primed for action. From a study of the cell it was abundantly clear that liberation would have to come from outside influences. There seemed no possibility of individual escape. The white walls of the cell were stone hard and thick. No sound penetrated within. A heavy metal grill, well out of reach, up near the ceiling comes to mind. What shattered any thoughts a prisoner might have conjured up in the way of escape plans, was the sight of the massive door to the cell, which closed with a loud and dismal finality after every visit by a warden who, it may be noted, was always accompanied by a colleague waiting outside in the corridor. The memory of the door lingers clearly. Heavy and about a foot thick, it swung ponderously shut in dovetail style. The noise of its locks and bolts shooting home sounded like the colliding buffers of shunting trains. In the very centre of the door was a fixed deeply inset glass porthole. The glass was of such thickness that nothing could be seen through it from inside except a suggestion of light from the corridor.

      To protect Boris from possible Nazi suspicion as to his attempted connections with the British was of paramount consideration. The problem was to ensure that in making contact with my own people the name Jeffery would not leak back to the Oslo Nazis via one of their listening posts. A pretty kettle of fish would ensue were the connections between Jeffery, Botkin, Boris and the Pole from the Todt organisation to become traceable by the Hun. Machinations as far as police headquarters in Stockholm were concerned had been so cloaked, that possibly nobody in the world was aware of my whereabouts and correct identity inside an escape proof tomb. Sobering thoughts. Under the prolonged, detailed and professional interrogation which could now be expected, the claim to be a Polish escapee from the Todt organisation would soon be established as false. Were Ito persist in concealing my true origin, the Swedes could certainly detain me with every legal and moral justification. There was, however, one considerable consolation to which I had long become unaccustomed. In Swedish hands there was not the urgent necessity of bracing oneself to resist the torture, which any prisoner of the Gestapo could rely on being applied as a matter of course.

      I was escorted down the corridor for what could only be the interrogation, the course and result of which was giving much concern. All the confused thinking had produced even more confusion. Entering the imposing office of an important looking Swedish policeman, I was ushered into a seat to face across a large desk, a man who sat unaware that my godmother and fetish were marshalling their powers on my behalf. We got off to a good start. Middle aged, in civilian clothes, the official had a kindly voice which matched his looks. With a friendly smile he enquired in good German as to my health and comfort. Politely acknowledging his concern for my welfare, I refrained from commenting any further so early during our discussion. It might have been mentioned that the thought of being locked up for much longer in that forbidding cell with its cyclopean door had brought on a bad attack of claustrophobia, an ailment to which I am very prone, and in the past had nearly expired while effecting a self cure. The Todt passport and other papers lay on the desk. After thumbing through the various documents the Swede looked up and regarded me quizzically.
"Why have you come to Sweden?"
"Hopefully on my way to fight the Germans."
"Why?"
"If Sweden had been invaded by the Nazis and so brutally occupied as was Poland, most Swedes would have the same ambition.~~
Full of understanding and sympathy, the policeman nodded.

      Warming to the task I described the struggle in Poland quietly and unpretentiously enlarging on the grim plight of the Polish people. The barbaric treatment of the Jews was also outlined. The reaction of the man was that of a person who had heard much of these distasteful matters, and believed them to be true. More questions were posed about my past and as anticipated, although in a friendly manner, there was more depth to the probing of the story compared to the cursory screening undergone at the other two Swedish police stations before arriving in Stockholm. It would happen sooner or later. My story would eventually break down to be fully exposed as untrue. Fairy godmother's voice was loud and clear. "Time to make your move, Ronnie," she urged from on high.

      Apologising politely I sought permission to digress from the question and answer session. Assent was readily given. The co-operation sought stemmed, I said, from the humanitarian treatment received since arriving in Sweden. An enthusiastic concurrence was not to be expected but the look of approval and a sympathetic nod of the head was just the encouragement needed to proceed with confidence. The man was clearly no fool and whether my story had already wakened suspicions was hard to ascertain. In any case the timing of the request was opportune as evidenced by its reception. The Swede listened carefully and showed no reaction to my plea that he contact the British Embassy and request an immediate visit from the Military Attache or a member of his staff. The reply was awaited for in suspense.

      "Of course it can be done." A telephone call in unintelligible speech except a recognition of the word 'British' confirmed the implementation of his statement, and he smiled knowingly at me.
"Somebody will be along immediately."

      It could well be that all along my story had not been swallowed. I refused to worry, now optimistic that the Nazis would not learn anything from the Swedes which would enable them to unravel the hoax. The name Botkin had never surfaced. In spite of the promising turn of events, no more than was absolutely necessary to keep me on course for London need be divulged.

      My reverie was interrupted. "You speak English, of course," said the policeman with faultless delivery in that language. "Fluently, sir," I replied, likewise fluent.

      His satisfied smile was bigger than before, almost a laugh. He rose, walked round the desk and shook my hand. "You are among friends." The Boris conspiracy looked to be out of danger.

      A nice and efficient looking young man was shown into the room. He knew the policeman, greeted him affably in English and turning to me, shook hands firmly. The Swede casually stating that he would welcome any details later, left me with the newcomer, who purported to be from the British Embassy. Reading my mind, a passport was produced confirming his status. Even long, long acquaintance with all kinds of false documents did not prevent accepting his credentials as genuine. Facing less dire penalties for making a mistake, it was noticeable how much more trusting one became after quitting Nazi territory. Suspicious of a listening device and requesting a pen and some paper, I wrote my name, rank, army number and regiment, together with the dates of capture in France by the Germans and subsequent escape. Transport without delay to the War Office in London was urgently requested, together with a further request for all secrecy possibly under the circumstances.

      That afternoon I had tea with the British Military Attache Colonel Clifton Brown, or it might have been Browne with an 'e'. I never can remember.

      Before I left the station, the Swedish policeman bade me a warm and complimentary goodbye. How much he knew or had been told was not discussed. Yet another good ship was passing in the night. His name was Daniellson.

      London had been contacted and a reply was expected the next day. Unmarked Royal Air Force planes were still making frequent trips from the United Kingdom and back, bad weather the most common reason for hindrances to a well organised ferry service.

      Made very comfortable at the embassy for the night and with no developments by the next morning, a bright young member of the staff, a London girl, was charged with showing me something of Stockholm. Before setting out on this jaunt I drew and signed for the equivalent of one hundred pounds sterling from the colonel to supplement the kronor I had brought with me from Oslo. I also handed over the thousand American dollars a donation from the Nazis in Oslo. That was the last I ever saw of them. Sometime later it was realised that I had been a little too hasty, spurred on at the time by a curiosity to trace the origin of the cash. My enquiry at the War Office as to the ownership of the money resulted in its leaving my company, forfeited as captured enemy property. Even if my gesture was wasted I hope the transaction was legally entered into the Army bookeeping system. I should have asked for a receipt.

      Sightseeing in a city at peace was a bewildering revelation. The kind of life I had been surrounded with for years and almost come to accept as normal in places like Warsaw and Berlin contrasted vividly in every way with the affluence, orderliness and prosperity presented by Stockholm. Later that afternoon after lunch in a well patronised restaurant, the young lady and I drifted back through the clinically clean and almost sterile city in time for a further cup of tea with Colonel Clifton Brown, still not sure about the 'e'.

      There was a reply from London. A plane would arrive that night and after dark during late evening on the morrow I would be on it.

      A young British captain in civilian clothes was introduced. It was common practice before passengers took off, he said, to record as much about them as possible. It was comforting to hear that the procedure was designed to minimise the adverse effects were somebody lost in an air accident or shot down over Norway before debriefing in England. Still influenced by a reticence to disclose the Boris plan, a fairly comprehensive rundown on my career since escaping was dictated with emphasis on my wedding and the arrival of Punia. The captain took me out to dinner that evening pointing out his German counterparts also in mufti, who were seated at various tables. The brightness inside the buildings and out in the streets was still blinding in intensity after years of blackout.

      Next day brought a further pleasant expedition with the charming escort from the embassy. Her heart had been seriously claimed by a young Polish officer stationed in London and to assist the romance she was struggling, not very successfully, to pick up his language from a grammar book. Much of the final day in Sweden was spent in coaching the smitten young lady, who was as keen to learn as I had once been, although her effort was for love, mine had been to stay alive. Of the two motivations hers was by far the preferable. By the time we came to say goodbye, in addition to some progress with the basics of Polish grammar and pronunciation, she had learnt to sing parrot fashion a Polish army ditty. My only regret was that I should not be present during the first performance for the boyfriend, of a melody with a humorous inclining to bawdy lyric.

      Stockholm's late winter evening closed in. Colonel Brown was kindness itself. The young captain who had recorded my final will and testament was to drive me out to the airport. The plane from the United Kingdom had arrived overnight on schedule, the weather forecast was favourable and the next day, said the colonel, would see me in London. A feature of the drive to the airport, was once again the blaze of street, traffic and domestic lights.

      Well out of the normal airport illuminated area, a grubby looking Douglas aircraft, the DC3 was parked discreetly in the shadows. After donning a flying suit, I strapped myself in one of the primitive interior seats. Two young civilians, RAF pilots, bade a welcome and without fuss the runway lights were soon roaring past as we droned steeply up into the dark. Eardrum reaction indicated the high altitude to which we had climbed and levelled out to commence sometime later a very deep descent. The pain in my ears as we plunged down was excruciating, and while the torture lasted, being shot down by a German night fighter would have been a welcome release. The North Sea, after reaching the Norwegian coast, was being crossed at wavetop level. We eventually taxied to a stop by a dimly lit building inside which an army officer was the only inhabitant.

      Some form of arrival questionnaire required attention. Name, rank number and other details were subjected to a searching scrutiny and being compared with another list the officer had in front of him. Attention was being sharply focussed on my army number which contains a seven. I had written the seven in the same way as I had been obliged to write a seven ever since escaping. This tail of my figure seven as was the custom in Europe was crossed ~ thus, differing from the 7 in English use. Recognising this difference to be the cause of conjecture I commented in advance that printing my sevens that way had become a force of continental habit.

      The name of the place where I had at long last arrived home in the United Kingdom was Leuchars. It is not far north of Edinburgh, but to me a more significant reference is its close location to the home of golf, St. Andrews. The small airfield just in from the Scottish coast specialised in the kind of aerial service which catered for trips of a like nature to mine. Before departure early next morning for London a long awaited breakfast of bacon and eggs was a recordable highlight on a first day really free.

      With a travel warrant, a few pounds in my pocket I was driven to the local station, and joureyed a few miles south to pick up the through train to London. The rest of that wonderful day was spent roaring peacefully south and drinking in the sight of my long lost homeland rushing by. In vivid contrast to the German civilians I had so recently observed, the British population in the train and on the platforms at which we stopped had a sense of purpose with a spring in their step. The tide was ebbing in Germany but in Britain the flood had began. For the first time in the war, I was on the side going forward. France in 1940 had been a rout of British arms, say what they might about the glory of Dunkirk. Prisoner of war status had been no booster of military morale and the fight in occupied Poland had been basically a slaughter of heroic patriots. Now everything was going well, during the long train journey to London, the thought of a fight advancing instead of retreating was a pleasant change to anticipate. A concern for the well being of Marysia and Punia was always in the background. Tomorrow "Niech Stas powie Marysia Pawel jest u siebie" would be a priority radio message to Warsaw. Still surrounded by the Hun, news of my arrival in safety would be a great lift to family morale in Poland.

electronic version by:
Roman Antoszewski
Auckland, Titirangi, New Zealand (Oct. 2000)
antora@ihug.co.nz