Colditz Page 23

  A bold attempt to climb out of the Colditz prison yard and over the roofs of the Kommandantur for an exterior descent was made on 2 April by two French lieutenants, Edouard Desbats and Jean Caillaud. The idea for this attempt was born one rare foggy winter’s day when the high roofs of the Castle were completely blanked out of sight. But how to take advantage of it? Soon after, and for the first and last time, the Germans held a cinema show for the prisoners in a building outside of the Castle. On the way back a lightning conductor was spotted, leading from the end of the roof of a Kommandantur building down to the moat, which did not appear to be guarded. The other end of the roof linked up at right angles with the coping of a building which gave on to the prisoners’ courtyard.

  But to climb up sixty feet on to roofs that were floodlit was a very dangerous business, particularly when there was no fog. So there was no point in being impatient. The roof project was studied with care. The fact was that those roofs, and the lightning conductor, were only two elements in the scheme, albeit very important ones. A way had to be found to get clear of the courtyard. A window in the Gaullists’ quarters was within about two yards of a flat ledge of roof which abutted a square brick-built chimney. This rose above the gable of the roof they needed to reach. The gap between the window and the ledge could be bridged with a stout plank.

  The chimney was the problem. There was a powerful lamp fixed to it on the courtyard side, so that sentries could see it as clearly at night as by day, and barbed wire was coiled around it, just above the kitchen roof. Later, returning from exercise in “the park,” another lightning conductor was noted on the face of the chimney, where there was no flood-lamp. It could be reached once past the barbed wire. Whether it would stand up to the weight of a man for the twenty-five to thirty-foot climb, with a sixty-foot drop below, was anybody’s guess.

  However, there was a lightning conductor in the prisoners’ courtyard, leading down from the kitchen roof, which was built out from the main building, and about twelve feet high—an obvious place to test the strength of the conductor tube. A tennis ball got conveniently lodged on the roof, in the guttering. Caillaud, heavily built, hauled himself up and retrieved the ball safely. That problem had been resolved.

  March was almost over. The days were getting longer. Fogs were few and far between. They could be ruled out. Caillaud and Desbats were getting impatient. Having convinced themselves that the sentries would not normally keep their eyes on the roofs they decided to take advantage of the period between the evening Appell and lights-out at 10 p.m. The floodlight unfortunately would be on. During that period lots of rowdy prisoners would be in the courtyard, so covering up any noise from the escape attempt. There was a light covering of snow on the cobbles which had melted higher up.

  With everything ready for that evening, 2 April, and with the escapers on the point of making a start, the bell rang at 9 p.m. for an extra Appell following an abortive escape attempt by a British officer. Desbats and Caillaud still felt they had to go, so immediately after Appell, wearing the minimum of clothes and rubber shoes, they hurried to the Gaullists’ room, carrying a bundle containing civilian clothes and a long rope made from strips of palliasse cover.

  The window bars had been sawn. First out was Desbats. Climbing on to the ledge, he ignored the plank that had been so laboriously placed across the void and jumped to the flat ledge. Caillaud followed having tied the rope to the bundle. The other end was attached to Desbats’ belt. Desbats managed to get past a brick projection and the barbed wire. Conveniently there were metal hoops around the chimney, secured by large bolts. These served as securing points for the rope. “Lights out” was sounded in the courtyard. Soon it was empty of prisoners and the noise dwindled to silence.

  Desbats continued his climb to a point about sixty feet above the German courtyard, from where he could see a guard on the far side. Caillaud had by now got on to the ledge, from where he eased the rope as Desbats made progress. Desbats had made his way to the other side of the chimney.

  But in climbing the lightning conductor he dislodged a piece of brickwork. It fell on to the roof of the kitchen and from there into the German courtyard, making a frightful noise. Realizing the danger, Desbats tried to hurry his climb, but the rope with its bundle was a nuisance. If he could reach the roof he would be safer and out of sight of the sentries. He was getting tired. Effort was required to haul in the rope and secure it each time to an iron bolt before each upward step.

  The sentry had heard the falling brick. Desbats, still making very slow progress, watched from the corner of his eye. Caillaud, who had heard the noise, but couldn’t see Desbats, continued to release the rope, hoping all the time that they hadn’t been spotted. But it was a vain hope! The sentry in the German courtyard shouted to another guard, and both of them, looking up, saw Desbats dangerously situated about ten feet below the roof that was his objective.

  Shouts of “Halt!” were followed immediately by a shot, which gave the general alert. Desbats stopped climbing. He called out, “Schiessen Sie nicht! Ich ergebe mich. (Don’t shoot! I’ll give myself up.)” But it didn’t stop the Germans. With Desbats in the full light of the powerful floodlamps there was a hail of shots, hitting the brickwork above his head; one bullet was a very near miss. Püpcke quickly arrived and ordered the shooting to stop and assured Desbats that he could come down without danger. So down he came, down the sixty feet of lightning conductor to the ground.

  Now the sentry in the prisoners’ courtyard had also been alerted, and he could see Caillaud on his illuminated perch. As he raised his rifle to fire, a Frenchman rushed out of the French quarters, despite it being forbidden after dark, and persuaded the guard to lower his rifle.

  Then the bell rang again for another Appell. After the previous Appell that evening at 9 p.m., the British retired to their bunks and most of them were soon asleep. Then shots rang out in the stillness. Men stirred and turned over; some sat up. Scarlet O’Hara was heard to remark, “Coo, did you hear that? Three gros coups de fusil!”

  More shots followed.

  Black-out blinds were raised. (Although the outside of the Castle was floodlit, prison orders were to the effect that blinds must be drawn. It was a precautionary measure in the event of air-raids, when the floodlights were always extinguished. The order was, needless to say, flagrantly disobeyed.) Lights went on in the courtyard windows like patches in the quilt of night. Windows opened. There were shouts, orders, jeers, counter-orders and laughter. Windows shut again, blinds were lowered, and the lights went out one by one.

  The annual “Day of the Wehrmacht” was 4 April. In the town of Colditz peas and bacon were sold for the last time. The Oflag IVC museum was opened to the public, and visitors were asked to give money for the WHW (Work for Help in Winter). Many visitors came to see the rich collection of escapers’ contraband. For a year now the Germans had been X-raying the prisoners’ parcels. They had discovered compasses, money, saws—all concealed in brushes, games, sports goods. Also exhibited were the home-made uniforms and ropes, and general carpentry and tools.

  On 5 April more than 150 prisoners wanted to take part in the exercise walk in the park. This in itself should have aroused the curiosity and suspicions of Hauptmann Lange, the security officer. The POWs as usual did not march in any sort of military order but ambled along in disorderly fashion.

  When they arrived in the German yard somebody called out from one of the windows that all the Dutch officers were to return to their quarters for a lecture. The result was that prisoners milled all over the place causing total confusion. The German duty officer ordered everyone back to quarters. Amidst all this chaos two German officers stood watching the shambles with supercilious smiles on their faces. A guard asked them for their identity papers and one of them produced a document stamped and signed neatly by the German adjutant stating that the two officers were from the OKW and had permission to inspect all parts of the Castle. Purely by chance “Beau Max”—Feldwebel Grünert who was in charge
of the camp parcels office—arrived on the scene. He was the best man to recognize every prisoner in the camp and as soon as he saw them he exposed them as a Dutch officer and an English officer. They were taken to the guardroom and positively identified as Captain Dufour and Flight-Lieutenant van Rood.

  In the meantime all the prisoners had been returned to the yard and a special roll-call was ordered by Lange. It was then discovered that two prisoners were missing. They were Flight-Lieutenant Jack Best and Lieutenant Michael Harvey RN. They had disappeared, the Germans thought, in the park parade chaos. In due course, the OKW in Berlin were told that these two had escaped successfully. In fact, they were being concealed in the camp as ghosts.

  The Appell lasted from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. and was a riot. Pete Tunstall and Don Thom were hauled off to the cells. They were let out again later in the day awaiting “charge.” At morning Appell the next day Don Thom was charged with doing something odd with his arms and legs and thus behaving himself incorrectly on Appell. He was sentenced to ten days, which he carried out in May.

  On 11 May as usual the half-dozen prisoners in the solitary cells in the Castle were given their hour of exercise. Escorted by a corporal in charge and a sentry in front and behind, in single file, they passed through the guardhouse, to the turret staircase (the same one that Airey Neave had descended), and sortied out through a small door on to the terrace. The corporal took up the rear of the procession descending the staircase. Bag Dickinson sortied first and marched on behind the leading sentry towards the far end of the terrace. Don Thom was second out. As soon as he sortied, van Rood, who was third, stopped in the doorway and blocked it. Thom leaped over the parapet of the terrace, down a drop of thirty feet. He broke his fall twice by gripping the bars outside two small windows, one above the other, which gave light to the lower part of the circular staircase. There was a machine-gun post in a pagoda facing him as he landed. It was forty yards away at the corner of a small garden. The sentry saw him immediately and fired his rifle once, missing him, before springing to his machine-gun. Thom had run thirty-five yards by then and was almost under the pagoda. The sentry in it was powerless. But two more sentries on the beat in the garden and round a corner heard the shot and the sentry’s shouting. So also did the corporal (who had dived out through the door) and the two sentries up on the terrace. They started shooting. The two sentries in the garden ran to the scene and joined in.

  By this time every prison window facing the terrace was crammed with Frenchmen in their quarters. They went mad and tried to upset the concentration of the sentries. While on the terrace, Bag Dickinson and van Rood obstructed their guards in every way possible.

  Don Thom was now climbing over two barbed-wire fences each six feet high. A fusillade of shots surrounded him—one grazed his scalp and a second tipped his heel. He was soon over the fences and tumbling down a precipitous slope to the stream. Bushes helped break his fall. He was over the stream and climbing its steep bank before sentries in the park spotted him. They fired at him as he passed between the trees and the sentries from the garden joined in. Luckily the machine-gun was now useless, being above the trees. Thom now had 100 yards to run, uphill, to the final obstacle, the high park wall with wire on top. He was nearly exhausted, his heel and scalp bleeding. The park sentries coming from another direction were on his level and closing on him. He could not find footholds in the wall. He could not climb it. He turned and raised his arms. The firing had already stopped.

  Pete Tunstall was soon up again for court-martial. Black Campbell’s précis report of the proceedings is a gem of understatement. The trial took place at Leipzig on 7 May.

  Circumstances:

  Tunstall had just completed one of his many visits to the cells and being fairly dirty asked a German officer if he could have a bath. He was told that this was all right so he went off to the bathroom, which at that time was in the charge of a most unpleasant German bathroom attendant who refused to allow Tunstall to have a bath, or to listen to his explanations as to why he should have one, or to heed the authority of the German officer who said he could have one.

  A quarrel ensued in which Tunstall told him to check up with the duty officer, and much else besides, and to emphasize some of his points touched the German with a rapidly gesticulating index-finger.

  Charge:

  Assault against a superior in the course of his duty.

  Award:

  The court offered Tunstall an honorable acquittal if he would agree that there had been a misunderstanding.

  Tunstall said that there was no question of any misunderstanding and that the witness for the prosecution was lying: so the court ordered a retrial.

  Defense:

  No assault, the incident was provoked by the stupidity and improper attitude of the bathroom attendant.

  Witnesses:

  Pte Brooks - No assault

  Witnesses:

  Pte Doherty - No assault

  Witnesses:

  L/C Hallen - No assault

  Retrial later:

  On retrial, the prosecution witness fainted under cross-examination and was revived by Tunstall, who took the carafe of water off the Judge’s desk and administered it to him; asking the Judge not to press the poor fellow with awkward questions until he had fully recovered. The defense evidence was in substance that of some British orderlies who witnessed the alleged assault: an attempt was made by the prosecution to tamper with this evidence before the date of the retrial; fortunately this attempt did not succeed.

  Award:

  Acquittal.

  Note:

  O’Hara R.T.R. [Royal Tank Regiment], one of the camp wags, on hearing of Tunstall’s acquittal is said to have observed with some ardor: “Is there no justice in this country?”

  The “solitary” he had served as a result of his court-martial in November for the water-bomb did not prevent Peter Tunstall from doing it again. On the second occasion he used an over-size water bomb. It was high summer and the Kommandant appeared in a spotless white duck uniform, followed by five Germans in the brown uniforms of Nazi politicians, with massive leather belts encircling their paunches, their left arms swathed in broad, red armbands carrying the black swastika in a white circle. Their shoulders, collars and hats were festooned with tinsel braid like Christmas trees. They were Gauleiters from Leipzig and Chemnitz.

  The Gefreiter called “Auntie” ran ahead of them, up the British staircase and burst into the mess-room. Prisoners were having their tea and his shouts of “Achtung! Achtung!” were received with the usual complement of “raspberries” and rude remarks. Tea continued and his more frenzied “Achtungs!” were ignored. The Kommandant walked in at the head of his procession. He had expected everyone to be standing glassily at attention. Instead he had to wait three minutes—the time it took for the more ardent tea drinkers to note his presence “officially.”

  Benches and chairs scraped, mugs and plates clattered and men rose to their feet, wiping their mouths and blowing their noses with large khaki handkerchiefs in a studied display of insolence of finely calculated duration.

  The Gauleiters raised their arms in the Nazi salute with their arms slightly bent—Hitler-fashion. The salute was returned by the members of one table, including Scorgie Price and Peter Tunstall, in a manner which appeared to please the Gauleiters. The prisoners saluted with a variation of the “V” sign in which the fingers were closed instead of open and the thumb facing inwards. The Gauleiters, happy to think that their importance was appreciated, saluted again, and the salute was acknowledged again but with greater vigor. As the procession passed between the rows of men standing to at their tables, the cue was taken up and prisoners everywhere gave the new salute, which was acknowledged punctiliously at every turn by the Gauleiters.

  They turned, retraced their steps, saluting and being saluted, beaming with smiles at their pleasant welcome and finally left the quarters.

  A water-bomb just missed them as they emerged from the British doorway, but
spattered the Kommandant’s duck uniform with mud. He shouted for the guard, hurried his visitors through the gates and returned alone. A posse, dispatched upstairs at the double to find the culprit, was not quick enough. Pete was learning: nothing could be pinned on him. The Kommandant left the courtyard followed by cries of “Kellner! (Waiter!) Bringen Sie mir einen whisky soda!”

  His exit signaled the arrival of the Riot Squad. Windows were ordered to be closed; rifles were levelled upwards at those delaying to comply with the shouted commands. Scarlet O’Hara, sleeping peacefully beside an open window, awoke from a siesta in time to hear the tail-end of the shouting. Poking his head out as far as the bars he cautioned the squad: “Scheissen Sie nicht, my good men, scheissen Sie nicht!”—all to no avail. A bullet zipped through the opening and he closed the window from a kneeling position, cursing the ill manners of the “uncouth b— Huns.” The word he had pronounced was scheissen (shit) not schiessen.

  The Kommandant never appeared again in his white duck uniform.

  An interesting unsolved mystery, which will almost certainly never be solved now, is introduced here by an entry in Platt’s diary for 25 May:

  In a conversation with Dr. Eggers after evening Appell he referred to an entry for November in the portion of my diary now being geprüft. The point raised was my account of the case of “Sheriff” and the Leipzig general dealer. He, Dr. Eggers, was surprised that the prisoners had regarded the “general dealer” as having filled the inauspicious role of stool-pigeon and assured me it was not the case and that sentence of death had been carried out.