Colditz Page 28

  Immediately the first “Champ” (who had been brought out as Bartlett) called out to the second “Champ,” “Haven’t you been warned?”

  It was getting difficult to keep track of all three identities and officers, but it was now plain to me that the third man really was Champ and the second man was really Bartlett. The question now was who was the first prisoner, the one I had caught with “Bush” Parker?

  Eventually the Feldwebel in charge of the cells was able to pronounce that he remembered “Bartlett” from a period in solitary and that he was not Bartlett but Harvey. Eggers then persuaded Mike to confess by pointing out that in a few days his file would be returned from the OKW in Berlin (to where it had been sent after his apparently successful escape in April 1943) and he would then be unmasked by comparison of fingerprints. Eggers says he was “staggered” by the reflection that Mike had been concealed in the camp all that time.

  But now he had another headache. Where was Best, who had “escaped” at the same time as Harvey?

  Again I sent the Riot Squad into the yard after showing them Best’s photograph. “Get this officer,” I said. “Go in at about 5 o’clock when it’s quiet and they’re all having their tea. That’s when you’ll find him.” Two of them went in, and there was Best leaning up against the wall. “Come with us, Herr Leutnant Best,” they said. “The game is up.”

  These two officers had actually been in the camp for one week under twelve months, living at first in total concealment, somewhere we never discovered, and later living in the quarters more or less as they liked, as we let them slip further out of our minds as “gone away.” When necessary they had stood in to fill up gaps in the ranks on parade, on behalf of officers who had escaped unknown to us, as in the case of Lieut. Davies-Scourfield three months previously, as I now realised. For the rest of this time they had lived a normal life in the camp except that they did not turn up on parade.

  Eggers now knew that the Lieutenant Barnes who had been recaptured with Mike Sinclair in January was actually Jack Best. At first the OKW in Berlin would not believe this story of the ghosts. They insisted that after their escape in April 1943 the two officers had returned to Colditz at their own convenience. The Kommandant thought this a very poor joke: “Is this place a damned hotel, where people come and go as they wish?” But before long an OKW detective officer who came to visit Colditz agreed with Eggers’ explanation.

  Mike and Jack were sentenced to twenty-eight days’ solitary for escaping and a further month because “they have hidden intentionally since 5.4.43 until they were found again in Oflag IVC intending to prepare an escape, so that they had to be reported as having escaped to the superior authorities, and because they were absent from one thousand, three hundred and twenty-six Appells, including three Gestapo Appells.

  On the same day that Bush Parker and Mike Harvey tried to escape from the German air-raid shelter, Bill Fowler, back in England and promoted to squadron leader, was killed during dive-bombing trials designed to find a weapon against German tanks for the forthcoming Allied invasion of Europe.

  19

  A Vision of Freedom

  Summer and Autumn 1944

  CAPTAIN THE EARL OF HOPETOUN, Lothian and Border Horse, was one of the three star theatrical producers of Colditz. He produced Gaslight by Patrick Hamilton in October 1944, which played to overflowing houses in the Colditz theater, and later he wrote a play which received quite an ovation.

  While on the subject of theatrical productions, which became an important part of camp life in 1944, it is worth recording the versatility of Dick Howe, who found, in conditions of semi-starvation, the energy and the time to carry through major theatrical productions, run the escape nerve-center and control the wireless news service of the camp. Dick produced George and Margaret, which had run in England before the war, in June 1944, and Jupiter Laughs by A. J. Cronin in November of that year.

  The third outstanding producer, and the peer of the trio, was Teddy Barton. He produced Pygmalion in February 1943, Rope in January 1944, Duke in Darkness in March 1944 and Blithe Spirit in April 1944, with Hector Christie of the Gordon Highlanders acting superbly the part of Madam Acarti. Padre Platt had the following to say: “The play is completely amoral as all Coward’s stuff is, but it is light and amusing and the production and acting were extremely good. Wild applause from a very delighted audience.”

  Other leading lady parts were excellently performed by Alan Cheetham, a lieutenant of the Fleet Air Arm. In May 1944, the theater was closed by way of reprisal for an offense against the Germans; in June Teddy produced The Man who Came to Dinner. Hay Fever and Tonight at 8:30 followed and several Noël Coward compositions occupied the theater until the end of 1944, when productions ceased.

  The scenery for the theater was painted, mostly by the master hands of John Watton and Roger Marchand, on newspaper glued to wooden frames. Dresses were manufactured out of crêpe paper. There was plenty of Leichner make-up provided by the German YMCA. A carpenter’s tool kit was accepted, on parole, but the prisoners soon dispensed with it, preferring to use illicitly manufactured tools, equally good.

  Hugo Ironside was invariably stage manager. The electricians were: Lieutenant Trevor Beet (Navigator, HM submarine Seal), and later Lulu Lawton, who performed wonders in lighting effects. And the litany would not be complete without mentioning the manufacture of stage props, such as a highly polished concert grand piano for George and Margaret, and an ugly-looking brass-festooned coffin for The Man who Came to Dinner, made from old Red Cross boxes.

  The superior productions of 1944 were a far cry from the early days when a handful of British gathered together in their quarters on Christmas Day 1940 to hear Padre Platt sing “Any old iron, any old iron, any any any old iron!”

  The possibility of a general reprisal on the camp theater was always uppermost in the minds of the theater organizers. Until the curtain rose on the opening night, nobody could ever be sure a production would take place; there was so much clandestine activity in progress that might be unearthed at any moment, and the closing of the theater was always among the first acts of retribution carried out by the Germans.

  Indeed, no “privilege” lasted long. Two games of rugby took place on the Colditz village green in the winter of 1943–1944. On two occasions in the summer of 1944, a batch of prisoners were escorted down to the river for a bathe. On one occasion a party of officers went to the cinema in the village. These outings constituted “privileges.” They were all parole jobs, that is to say prisoners had to sign a promise not to make an attempt to escape during the excursions.

  Suspicion was mutual over “privileges.” On the one hand, the Germans thought that frequent repetition would ultimately prove to the advantage of prospecting escapers. On the other, to the POWs, parole savored of the thin end of the blackmail wedge, and the Colditz inmates were nothing if not diehard. The number of prisoners willing to sign parole passes always dwindled remarkably after the first outing.

  Douglas Bader indulged in a different kind of parole. He demanded parole on the ground that he could not exercise properly in the Castle precincts owing to his physical disability—namely, that of having both legs missing. The very ludicrousness of a legless man demanding parole walks is reminiscent of the defiance of this great airman.

  During the summer and autumn of 1944 he had his way. He gave his parole—promising not to make any attempt to escape or even to make preparations to this end. What he did not promise to eschew was the continuation, outside the camp, of the cold-war campaign which he relentlessly carried on against the Germans inside the camp. He would continue to break German morale by every means in his power.

  So insisting that he had to be accompanied on his walks, in case his tin legs gave trouble on the hills, he usually obtained permission for Dick Howe or another to go with him. Together they would load themselves with Red Cross food. At first lone farms were visited, then the attack approached the fringes of the town of Colditz itself. The enemy f
ell like ninepins for the subtle, tempting baits. German morale in the countryside bent under the attack.

  As early as the autumn of 1941, Harry Elliott had studiously learned the symptoms of duodenal ulcers, and had applied carefully the lessons he learned. He complained of pains. He lost weight. He had warning prior to being weighed, so he started off with bags, full of sand, hanging down inside his pajama trouser legs, supported at his waist. Thereafter he lost weight regularly by off-loading a few pounds of sand at a time. He painted the skin round his eyes with a mixture of carbon and yellow ochre so regularly that it became ingrained and would not come off with washing. Harrowing pains and the loss of two stone in weight succeeded in sending him to hospital at Elsterhorst in February 1942. Here he found two stalwart Indian doctors captured in Cyrenaica in 1941 who “fixed” blood in his various medical samples. All was ready for a break-out with his French confederate, Lieutenant Lejeune, when the night before the “off,” the latter’s civilian clothing was found.

  The Germans were nothing if not radical and, knowing the Colditz reputation, they acted judiciously. The whole Colditz contingent at Elsterhorst was returned, lock, stock and barrel, under heavy guard by the 4:30 a.m. train the next morning, to their natural home.

  Harry lay low for a while, then attempted to convince with a chronic jaundice. By 1943, his back began to trouble him—the result of a fall when he was trying to escape in France, after his capture in 1940. Arthritis set in and showed on X-ray plates, but Harry had cooked his goose as far as hospitalization was concerned. Nobody would take any notice of his serious and troubling complaint. He was becoming a cripple.

  “If the Goons won’t swallow it one way, they’ll jolly well have to swallow it another way,” thought Harry. He decided to start up his duodenal ulcer again. This time he had to travel far to make the grade. Already as thin as a rake, he had to lose two more (sand) stone. After several successive weighings he ran out of sand and still the Jerries would not transfer him. His face was the color of an ash heap at dawn, but the German doctors were unsympathetic. Harry decided he had to starve. He ate nothing for a week, could scarcely stand upright and the Germans gave in. He returned to Elsterhorst hospital.

  There were several English doctors working in the hospital, including a radiologist, whom Harry made his particular confidant. The result was some really juicy ulcers on an X-ray plate which had his name attached to it. All this time Harry was suffering the real pangs of arthritis, which was turning him into a crippled “old man of the sea.”

  Harry’s ulcers flared up and died down in the traditional manner of the really worst type, and the X-ray plates showed the legitimate and pitiless arthritis mingling with cleverly transposed and awe-inspiring ulcers in such a picture of blended medical misery that expert opinion considered he was at last ripe to appear before the Mixed Medical Commission. Harry was returned to Colditz as an incurable case with not long to live and a ticket of recommendation for interview by the Commission.

  The Mixed Medical Commission was a body formalized by the Geneva Convention for the examination of sick and wounded prisoners of war with a view to their repatriation. It was composed of medical officers, one of the belligerent power (Germany) and two nationals (Swiss) of the Protecting Power of the other belligerent. The Mixed Medical Commission at intervals toured around Germany. Doctor von Erlach was the best known of the Swiss delegates. Although the war had been going on for over four years, the Commission had never been allowed to put its nose inside the gates of Colditz.

  Now, in May 1944, the miracle happened and Colonel Tod was informed of the forthcoming visit of the Commission to the Sonderlager of Germany. Germany was surely losing the war!

  Harry realized it was all or nothing. The commission was due the next day, 6 May. He and another officer, Lieutenant C. L. “Kit” Silverwood-Cope, who had thrombosis in one leg, spent the night walking up and down the circular staircase leading to their quarters—a matter of eighty-eight steps—at twenty-minute intervals. They were still alive when the sun rose and they took to their beds in the sick ward as bona-fide stretcher cases.

  Unfortunately, this was not the last ditch. The Gestapo had the final word. Silverwood-Cope had been loose, too long for the Gestapo’s liking, in Poland after an escape, and knew much that they would like to know. They had already submitted him to torture in a Warsaw prison without success, when he had been in their hands for seventy days. He had a red flag opposite his name (that is, he was Deutschfeindlich). It was almost certain they would not let him go.

  The other cases submitted to the Commission for examination included Major Miles Reid, an MC of the First World War; Lieutenant “Skipper” Barnett; and Errol Flynn. Dan Hallifax was a special case—already passed. In addition, there were three French de Gaullist officers. De Gaullists, captured fighting in various parts of Europe, were now arriving in Colditz, replenishing the French fire which had added much to the spirit of the prison through the earlier years. There were twenty-nine names in all.

  The camp as a whole was resigned to the rejection of the case for Silverwood-Cope. But when, at the last minute, the OKW, through the instigation of the Gestapo, began quibbling over the repatriation of others, including the Frenchmen, they came up against trouble.

  The names of those permitted by the Gestapo to be examined by the Commission for repatriation were announced at the mid-day Appell on 5 May. Six names out of the twenty-nine were omitted. The SBO stated categorically that either all twenty-nine would appear or none. A special roll-call sounded on Saturday the 6th at 9:15 a.m. and the officers paraded. After the count had been checked by Hauptmann Eggers, Püpcke called once more for the twenty-three to step forward. Nobody moved.

  Eggers, speaking in English, addressed Colonel Tod. “Parade the walking cases in front at once, Herr Oberst. Stretcher cases will be inspected later.”

  The tall, gray-haired Royal Scots Fusilier, standing alone in front of his men, replied coldly: “Herr Hauptmann, this action of the German High Command is despicable. It is dishonest, unjust and cowardly. The twenty-nine men must be allowed to go forward for examination. I will no longer hold myself responsible for the actions of my officers. The parade from this moment is yours. Take it!” And with that he turned about, marched back to the ranks behind him, turned again, and stood at attention, at the right of the line.

  Eggers, speaking in English, started to harangue the parade: “British officers, you will remain on parade until those ordered for examination by …” His further words were lost as, with one accord, the parade broke up in disorder and men stamped around the courtyard, drowning his voice with the shuffling of boots and the clatter of wooden clogs on the cobbles.

  This was mutiny. Püpcke hurried to the gate and spoke through the grille. Within seconds the Riot Squad entered the courtyard. The two German officers, surrounded by their men with fixed bayonets and followed by three NCOs with revolvers drawn, forged into the crowd before them to identify and seize the men approved for interview, take them out of the courtyard by force, bang the gates behind them and leave the prisoners to nurse their wounded feelings in impotence.

  The German officers and their NCO snoops peered, now to the left, now to the right, into the sullen faces around them. The mêlée in the courtyard continued unceasingly. The Swiss members of the Commission were in the Kommandantur waiting for the proposed repatriates. They became impatient and demanded to be allowed to see the Senior British Officer. The courtyard was by now in an uproar with jeering, booing, catcalls and singing competing for the maximum volume of sound. The Swiss could hear the riot in progress. The Kommandant was spotted from a window giving orders outside the gate. He dared not enter. Püpcke left the courtyard for several minutes, then returned. He sought out Colonel Tod and spoke to him. The SBO was conducted out to meet the Commission at 10:30 a.m.

  He apologized for his part in the delay and explained how the Kommandant’s list forbade the presence of six officers by order of the OKW. This amazed the Co
mmission and they demanded an explanation. The Kommandant and the German member of the Commission then telephoned to Berlin. The deadlock was broken—Berlin gave way.

  At 11:45 a.m. the Commission began its work.

  Silverwood-Cope surprisingly was passed; also Harry Elliott and nine others. Julius Green was passed but later the OKW categorically refused to let him go because he too was Deutschfeindlich! The three de Gaullists were passed. They were of the six initially forbidden to appear. Duggie Bader was not passed. He was also one of the six. Errol Flynn was passed.

  The German capitulation was complete and Allied solidarity, aided by the Swiss Commission outside, had won a memorable victory. The Germans’ arrogance of 1941 and 1942 was changing and, from this day in May 1944 onwards, the prisoners in Colditz began to feel solid ground once more beneath their feet.

  The episode was an important turning-point. The prisoners knew that Hitler and his minions intended to use them as hostages in the hour of defeat. Here was a gleam of hope.

  Padre Platt commented in his diary:

  Now it was really like old times, the guard in position and at the ready, and prisoners shouting and singing, and whistling. “If only Priem were here!” was the lament of the old lags! This kind of party was right up his street … he would have had musketry loosed off in all direction; but not a shot was fired!

  Eggers has some light to throw on this episode:

  Security approval was required for the applicants and the O.K.W. right away ruled out the De Gaullists on our list. They also objected to Wing Commander Douglas Bader, on the grounds that his leg amputations dated from a pre-war accident and were not war wounds. They also objected to Captain Green, the dentist from Lamsdorf, possibly because he had been responsible for spoiling my plan to plant Lieut. “Grey” in the camp as a “stooge.” They also objected to the presence on the list of Flight-Lieutenant Hallifax, an officer who had been very badly burnt when shot down during a raid over Berlin.