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  Machiel van den Heuvel was born in 1900 in Haarlenmonermeer in the Netherlands. He must have spent some of his youth in the Netherlands East Indies for at the age of twenty-two he attended the military school in the Netherlands East Indies, only returning in 1924, posted to the Royal Military Academy at Brede in Holland. From 1939 to 1940 he was chief of staff of a Dutch Army unit with the rank of captain.

  Towards the end of July 1941 the Dutch were given two days notice of a move. Their destination was Colditz.

  Four days after the escape of Steinmetz and Larive, a Polish Lieutenant Kroner from Colditz escaped while hospitalized at Königswartha on 20 August. Much later it was known through the underground that he had reached Poland successfully. Gall-bladder trouble seemed to be the easiest of all diseases to fake. Kroner was having terrible pains that summer, it seemed. The Tierarzt was suspicious but finally conceded that the symptoms were genuine. His fury at the escape of two previous “patients,” Lieutenants Just and Bednarski, in April, had died down by August. Kroner’s condition gradually improved at Königswartha. So did his escape preparations and, in due course, he changed his blue-and-white hospital garb for civilian clothes and disappeared under the comparatively unguarded wire all round the hospital.

  Padre Platt reported at this time symptoms of a different kind at the Schützenhaus.

  Fifty-four Yugoslavian officers and troops are quartered at the Schützenhaus, the building in which the baronial militia of the Schloss were housed in the days of ancient splendour. (This is also where the Polish orderlies live.) The news of their arrival here, about a fortnight ago, reached us by underground; but today an open intimation of their presence came by way of a letter to the Colonel. It was from the Yugoslavian senior officer, Oberstleutnant Serg M. Altuhov, asking if the British officers could relieve their necessity in the matter of food. For four months—the letter said—they have existed solely on German rations and are in greatly reduced physical condition.

  A mess meeting was called, and after Major Cleeve—acting for the Colonel—had read the letter, he said that the Colonel thought a gift of twenty parcels out of the fifty we have in the store would be welcome. Someone moved thirty, and finally the whole fifty were unanimously voted to them. A further vote called for gifts of cigarettes and tobacco and any such private stores as could be spared….

  There is one fly in the ointment which has greatly agitated several members of our mess, viz. that the Schützenhaus is reported to be a center of collaboration. The French officers here have this information. There are no British at the Schützenhaus and, before the Yugos came, it was solely a French camp.

  Seven new orderlies arrived last night from a camp in Sudetenland. They say they have been working eleven hours a day in the coal mines. They have eaten us out of house and harbour this morning and almost as thoroughly denuded our wardrobes. Three of them were entirely without underclothes and socks.

  7

  A Bolt from the Blue

  Late Summer 1941

  ON 28 AUGUST, LIEUTENANT Airey Neave tried out his German uniform on the Germans. He was to pose as a Gefreiter (corporal). After many experiments in dyeing he had achieved an approximation to the field-gray color of the German uniform; a pair of RAF trousers, and a uniform tunic altered by a Polish tailor, were transformed in this way. Barter obtained a pair of jackboots from a Polish orderly. German insignia were manufactured out of painted cardboard. A bayonet and scabbard were carved for him out of wood by Lieutenant R. T. R. “Scarlet” O’Hara. This was hung from a cardboard “leather” belt with a tinfoil buckle. For a cap he had to use a modified ski-cap suitably dyed. This disguise was to be used in twilight—anything brighter would expose it for what it was.

  There remained the question of maps, a compass and money. He traced in Indian ink the neighborhood of the Swiss frontier from a map made available and hid it carefully in a crevice in a wooden partition of the lavatory. A Dutch officer made him a rough identity card for a foreign worker in Germany. He still had a small compass, now sewn into the lining of his converted tunic.

  Kenneth Lockwood handed him a cigar-shaped container about two and a half inches long, containing money. He explained that, to avoid its capture, if Airey did not get out of the camp, he must carry it in the container inside his rectum. If the container and money were not found, he was to return them to him. Airey’s experiments with the container caused some hilarity.

  He attended evening Appell on the 28th with a British Army greatcoat over his Gefreiter uniform. After the order to dismiss, a colleague removed his coat and he smartly pulled his German cap on. He then marched towards the main door. There he spoke nervously to a German Unteroffizier (NCO): “I have a message to the Kommandant from Hauptmann Priem.” The German took from him the brass disc which acted as a pass (obtained by bribery from an elderly house painter) and let him through.

  He headed for the bicycle racks, planning to cycle to freedom. Before he got there, there were yells and after a chase he found himself surrounded by shouting Germans, most of them pointing rifles at him. The Unteroffizier himself screamed at him: “This is an insult to the German Army. You will be shot!” Then officers with revolvers drawn came running out of the Kommandantur until Neave was surrounded by at least thirty excited men. Eventually the Kommandant himself emerged. “What impertinence,” he said in lofty tones. “Take him away to the cells.”

  Next morning a soldier brought him ersatz coffee in his cell. He told Airey that he was to be court-martialed and shot. At 10 a.m. an under-officer came and ordered him to the Kommandant’s quarters where he stood awkwardly in a long, panelled gallery, closely examined by all the officers of the camp. Their reactions ranged from ridicule to extreme anger as they surveyed his pathetic uniform. The Kommandant appeared. He was polite but mocking.

  “Stand to attention and salute German fashion,” he said. Airey saluted. “A German soldier wouldn’t salute like that. Do it again!” German officers around him laughed obsequiously. The Kommandant smiled in superior fashion and returned to his office in silence.

  From time to time police officers from Colditz and soldiers were brought in to inspect him. There was a chorus of “Heil Hitler!” as they stamped down the gallery. At length the tension relaxed and turned to comic relief. A photographer from the town arrived. Slowly he assembled a large Victorian camera on a tripod at the end of the gallery, and photographed him from different angles. Airey stood there, humiliated. He felt he had reduced escaping to a farce, a music-hall turn. It seemed hours before the comedy was over. Then his German uniform was taken away to be placed in the Kommandant’s escape museum and he was conducted back to the British quarters. There were no more threats of shooting for wearing an enemy uniform. He would do time in the cells when there was room in the town jail.

  That evening Hauptmann Priem made an announcement to the assembled prisoners, which was translated into many languages: “Gefreiter Neave is to be sent to the Russian front.” The roar of laughter which greeted this sally was friendly but it was not music to his ears.

  By way of inquest on this failed escape, Eggers states in his diary that the number of the missing disc, no. 26, had been posted up in the guardhouse. The under-officer at the door looked at the number on the German Gefreiter’s disc and raised the alarm. Perhaps I, as escape officer, should have had the foresight to arrange that a digit on the disc was suitably altered before Airey used it.

  Sunday, 31 August, was the birthday of the Queen of the Netherlands. The Dutch officers were keen to hold a celebration service. When making arrangements for it earlier in the week, Padre Platt found himself responsible for prayers in Afrikaans (he had worked for two years in South Africa just before the war). He composed a special prayer and submitted it, in accordance with the requirements of camp orders, to be Geprüft (censored). It was returned with all the references to the Royal Household deleted. Earlier, an order forbidding Padre Hobling to conduct British camp worship had been issued. This was because he had rec
ited a prayer for the Queen of the Netherlands including a supplication that her enemies should be driven from her lands. Padre Heard had then been appointed Church of England chaplain for Oflag IVC. The singing of the national anthem in chapel was now also expressly forbidden.

  The service for the Dutch Queen’s birthday was attended by everybody who could squeeze into the chapel. There were RCs of five nations, non-conformists and Anglicans of three nations—peoples of six nationalities including the Jews. There were titled noblemen of France, Holland and Poland, and every military rank from general to private. The chapel was crammed, even to the servants’ gallery which is right up under the ceiling of the chapel, like “the gods” in a theater.

  The service had to be over by 11 a.m. to allow for the ceremonial opening of an Internationa1 Sports Competition. At a fanfare of trumpets, the representative companies, in national costume and bearing national flags, marched out in order: Poles, French, Belgians, Dutch and British. They stood in double file before the President of Sports, the Polish Colonel Szubert, who had with him as patrons of the contest General Le Bleu, General Piskor and Admiral Unrug. Colonel Szubert delivered the introductory oration in Polish, and called upon interpreters to redeliver the greeting in French and English. There was much clapping of hands and cheering as the national Sports Presidents stepped forward to notify their countries’ entries in the events.

  The first game, Poles v. French, at volleyball, began. Though set out and conducted in Olympic fashion, all the contests were games played with a ball: volleyball, handball, football. But to increase the number of events, teams of different strengths played the same game; for instance, football was seven-a-side, nine-a-side and eleven-a-side. The play was fast and furious all day.

  The British position in sports at close of play was: four events lost. On Monday evening the sports were in full swing when Priem stepped through the needle’s eye (i.e. the main gate) and ordered the courtyard to be cleared for fire-fighting practice. The main doors swung open to admit a horse-drawn fire-engine. While the fire-brigade was engaged in winding up the fire-escape ladders and running out hosepipes, a second man-drawn engine crawled in. The second brigade got to work winding up their ladders and paying out the hose. All this, occupying about twenty minutes, was done to the accompaniment of cheers, catcalls and dive-bomber screams from the POWs at the windows.

  The ladders, set in the middle of the Hof, were mounted by firemen swaying like birds in treetops. The main hose was passed through the camp kitchen window to connect with a water hydrant. To the surprise of everyone, Colonel German, Major Anderson and Squadron-Leader Paddon were discovered there. They had been prospecting in the kitchen area for a possible way of escape. They were led away for interrogation.

  Hundreds of gallons of water spewed in torrents from two of the five points that were hoseless; shouts and jeers from the prisoners. Once in action, the hoses were turned on the jeering figures wedged in the open windows. Men were drenched, beds were soaked and windows were smashed. It was a tremendous diversion. The honors were felt to be about even, discounting Priem’s bag of one colonel and a brace of majors.

  It was also quite a relief from the tension created by the dead seriousness with which the sports contests were being fought. The French and the Poles in particular were coming to regard these sporting events as matters of national honor, something that allies in a prison camp could not afford to countenance without risk of feuds arising. When the proposal for the competition had first been mooted, it was accepted as something to enjoy and laugh about. The British in particular refused to take the contests seriously.

  Meanwhile two other incidents diverted us. Early in September a new French officer arrived. He was recognized by several French officers as an undesirable. He was not admitted to the French officers’ mess, nor allowed to sleep in either of their dormitories. His bed was carried out into the corridor. The Kommandant wisely arranged his exeat while most of the POWs were eating their midday meal, but a belligerent handful left their tables to boo him out of the yard. Before disappearing, he turned, sprang to attention and, smiling, gave the French salute. This infuriated the onlookers. He was lucky to be out of reach. It was assumed by the other nationalities that he was either a stool-pigeon or a collaborator.

  A Dutch officer was married on 11 September by proxy. He wrote out an application and posted it to Dutch Army headquarters stating his wish to marry a Miss So-and-So on 11 September at 11 a.m. He received a notice saying the necessary arrangements were in hand and he could consider himself married at that date and hour!

  On Sunday, 21 September, a ceremonial closing of the International Sports Competition was timed for 10:30 a.m. but was delayed by a German man-hunt for two missing Dutch officers. The park had been reopened for the Olympics a few days before. As there was no evidence of a break-out, the Germans presumed the missing men were hiding in the Castle. This ruse had been used before. But comprehensive search produced no result. The security officer was left without the slightest idea how the two officers had disappeared. At 11 a.m. the quest was abandoned, and the Sports Committee fussily set the stage for the award of diplomas. A fanfare sounded at 11.25 and the Poles and French companies marched out in resplendent style in double file before the President and patrons. The Dutch were five minutes late and the Belgians and British were ten. Under Sportführer “Bertie” Boustead’s brilliant leadership, the British officers’ teams had lost every event.

  The two missing Dutch officers were Major C. Giebel and 2nd Lieutenant O. Drijber, both of the Royal Netherlands Indies Army. They had escaped from the park manhole on 19 September; their absence was not discovered till the 21st. From Larive’s earlier account of his escape, it appears certain that there was no bolt on the manhole cover for the first two Dutch escape attempts. Before the third attempt, that of Giebel and Drijber, a large bolt and nut must have been installed. This is supported by Eggers’ statement in his diary that “these two officers were concealed there by means of a wonderful invention of Captain van den Heuvel.”

  Vandy had arranged Bible-reading classes, led by the bearded naval lieutenant van Doorninck, to take place over the manhole cover. During these sessions the nut and bolt were carefully measured. A pair of large spanners was manufactured from iron bedparts. When the escapers were ready to go, the spanners were used to unscrew the bolt. Then the men disappeared into the manhole, taking the bolt with them. Vandy had another bolt and nut made similar in every respect to the originals. These were applied and fastened. Upon examination by a German, nothing untoward would be noticeable. However, the substitute bolt was made from a glass tube and the nut parts were made of wood. The escapers had only to prise up the manhole cover sharply to break the glass. They would then replace the real nut and bolt suitably, clear away the broken glass and make off.

  Dufour and Smit had been caught on the Swiss border and on their return to Colditz were placed in solitary confinement. Nonetheless they were able to transmit to Vandy some more very useful details about leaving the Castle from the park and also about the latest dangers in the Swiss frontier crossing at Gottmadingen. This information was passed on to Giebel and Drijber.

  Their exit from the Castle presented some unusual aspects. They were ready to leave on Friday, 19 September. In Giebel’s own words:

  Drijber and I joined the others of the walk party in front of the closed doors at the gateway. We were, however, quite amazed to see that this time the walk party numbered more than twice its usual number. Instead of about eighty there were now some two hundred. When the doors were opened, we pushed our way through to the outer courtyard where our thirty German guards were waiting for us. We became quite a throng when we tried to line up for the roll-call.

  But things went wrong. Was it only accidental that Captain Priem was on the spot? Confronted with two hundred park-walkers instead of the usual eighty, he at once understood that something was brooding. But he knew how to handle the situation. With an ironic smile he addressed the
POW crowd, apologizing that apparently it had not become known in time, that on this Friday the walk in the park had been cancelled. He regretted that we had not been warned earlier and suggested that we should forthwith retire behind the walls of our inner courtyard.

  We could do nothing but obey. Back in our quarters we learned that our escape committee had urged some of our fellow prisoners to take part in the walk that Friday because they might be needed for camouflage purposes. But it had been overdone a little bit. The committee had underestimated everybody’s desire to be helpful.

  On the following day, Saturday the 20th, an important football match was to be played between Polish and Dutch teams in the park. Giebel and Drijber decided to try again, but their first obstacle was an order issued by Priem forbidding the Dutch to go on the park walk. The Feldwebel in charge accordingly would not allow the Dutch supporters to accompany their team to the park. The Dutch players protested at once. They declared that they could not play without supporters. But the Feldwebel was unmoved. “It’s all the same to me,” he said, “whether you play or not.” Then one of the Poles had a brainwave. He told the Feldwebel that he was interfering with the Kommandant’s wishes, which were that we should play the Olympic Games among ourselves. The Feldwebel relented and the prisoners paraded for the count. Two small Poles were secreted in the manner used to cover the absence of Pierre Mairesse Lebrun.

  Once in the park the game began. Giebel continues:

  The Dutch supporters seemed to be not content with the place where they were standing, which was muddy, so we moved forward a few feet across the touchline in the direction of the manhole. When a few minutes later we moved forward again, the players objected and said we were spoiling their game and should keep off the field. But that did not stop us from moving, step by step, nearer to the manhole.