by Damien Lewis
It took them thirty minutes dodging from one patch of cover to another, to get close to their vehicle. But their progress had been tracked by the enemy, their very movements betraying the presence of the car. Moments later, a barrage of tracer fire ripped into the vehicle and it burst into flames. Now, they were pinned down and bereft of any means of speedy escape, or of Paterson making it back to Locarno.
Worse still, the only route of retreat lay across an open stretch of bullet-pocked road. Colonel Monetta went first, sprinting ahead and diving into cover, as a fusillade of bullets tore at his heels. As Paterson contemplated the dash before him, bursts of fire continued to rake the open road. Finally, he decided he had to go. His Tommy gun grasped closely in his hands, he leapt to his feet and sprang forward, charging across the killing ground, before diving in behind the colonel.
Didio followed, but as he took his first steps a machine gun roared into life. Didio’s face contorted, his hand clutching his left knee. Moments later, Didio, just twenty-four years of age, was cut down. An easy prey now, bullets tore into his body, as it jerked violently on the ground.
‘Jesus,’ croaked Paterson. He felt numbed by the savagery of the sudden attack.
But this was no time to tarry. With Colonel Monetta at his side, they dashed to join a group of partisans who were sheltering in the cover of a culvert. For two hours the battle raged, as the partisans held one side of the road, and the enemy the other. But all the while the intensity of the partisans’ fire seemed to be slowing, while that of the enemy grew progressively heavier. Soon, there were rounds from anti-tank guns shattering the rocks to either side.
Finally, a strange and eerie silence descended, the firing coming to an abrupt halt. Was it over? Paterson thought not. A rock was dislodged near by and a cascade of smaller stones followed. The enemy were closing in. Without a word, Paterson and Colonel Monetta burst out of the culvert, guns blazing, as they prepared to make a last stand. Paterson raised his gun to nail the nearest German, but Colonel Monetta was quicker, cutting the enemy soldier down.
Suddenly, Paterson caught a glimpse of a grey-uniformed figure creeping between the boulders. A short burst from his Tommy gun and the enemy soldier fell dead. Another burst of fire cut the air, and this time Colonel Monetta was the target. Paterson turned to see him crumple, his body ripped full of bullet holes, as he collapsed in a small pool of water. Quickly, Paterson searched out the killer. Aiming his Tommy gun, he released a savage burst, ripping into the German soldier’s head and torso.
Trading bursts of fire, Paterson tried to dash up the road, retreating towards the main body of partisans. Another German crept into view. A squeeze on the trigger and . . . click . . . Paterson was all out of ammunition. Throwing the gun aside, he prepared to take to his heels. But seconds later he felt boots kicking away his legs, followed by a flurry of punches and blows from rifle butts. As his body hit the ground his head slammed into a boulder and everything went dark.
Paterson came to sometime later, to spy a figure striding down the hillside, wearing the distinctive uniform of a sergeant major of the German Alpine troops. The rest of the enemy came to attention in his presence.
‘No shooting of the prisoners,’ the figure barked out an order. ‘Take them back to camp for questioning.’
Paterson was hauled to his feet, but one of the German troopers seemed to pay him particular interest. As he stared at Paterson, he suddenly cried out: ‘Oberleutnant Paterson!’
In the same instant, Paterson recognised the German trooper. It was a man he had known only as ‘Willi’ – one of the guards at San Vittore prison. Having been recognised, there was no hope now of maintaining his cover story – that of being escaped POW Major George Robertson, of the Royal Engineers. Paterson thanked his lucky stars for one thing: no one had yet thought to search him properly and for now his – false – identity card remained hidden.
Paterson was led to a heavily guarded out-house, where he joined a clutch of other prisoners. As soon as he was able, he tore his identity card into tiny pieces, and together with his – false – dog tags, he poked it all through the cracks in the wooden floorboards. Come morning, they were hustled onto some trucks and driven south for several hours, until they reached a bleak, grey building, which someone muttered was Novara prison. There, they were herded into a large communal cell.
Early the next morning Paterson was taken off for questioning. The SS sergeant major demanded to know everything that had happened to Paterson after he had escaped from San Vittore. Overnight, Paterson had prepared his cover story: he had headed into the hills and joined the partisans. When the SS man moved on to who had sheltered him, he countered with the tried and tested ruse – he simply couldn’t remember.
A month passed at Novara prison, before Paterson was told that he was to be moved. Under escort from two bulky SS men, he was taken to the local station and hustled onto a train heading east. Arriving in Milan, a car drove Paterson along streets that looked all too familiar. His heart sank as the penny dropped – he was being returned to none other than the escape-proof hellhole of San Vittore.
Upon arrival, the familiar tone of Corporal Franz’s voice boomed out, only now he had been promoted to sergeant major. Worse still, when he laid eyes on Paterson, unshaven and looking very much the worse for wear, he roared with laughter.
‘You look as though you’ve had a rough time,’ he guffawed. ‘Have you returned for some of our kind treatment?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve missed you all,’ Paterson retorted.
Expecting to receive one of Franz’s signature flurry of kicks, Paterson was surprised at the comparative geniality of his response. He was led to his isolation cell, and given increased rations, supposedly on orders of Sergeant Major Franz himself. It made not the slightest bit of sense, and of course the relatively benign treatment could not last.
Shortly, he was taken for interrogation. This time, his Gestapo inquisitors demanded Paterson reveal the names of all those who had helped him, or he should expect the worst. Paterson stuck to his story, answering each question as slowly and as carefully as he could, explaining that he simply did not remember. He was shown photos of men and women, and asked if he knew them. With each he shook his head.
For days the grilling continued, but now with the added threat of torture. Finally, the Gestapo officers ordered Paterson to be taken away, warning him that his lack of cooperation would very likely mean that he would be shot as a spy. Paterson slumped dejectedly in his cell. He had no doubt their threats were real, and he could see no way out.
To make matters worse, Paterson had developed a horrific rash from the scabies – microscopic mites that burrow into the skin to lay eggs – which infested the cells. He asked to see the prison doctor and was taken to the dispensary. The Italian medic proved kindly and friendly and Paterson sensed that the man might be willing to help. Over several visits for scabies treatment, they chatted amiably, before the inevitable subject arose. Might the doctor be able to help Paterson escape, he wondered, especially since he was very likely slated for execution?
The doctor confirmed that he might, but only if he could get Paterson transferred to the prison infirmary. To do that, Paterson would need to have a serious illness. The doctor offered to give him some pills that would turn him yellow, so he could fake jaundice – a potentially fatal condition that causes yellowing of the skin.
Paterson returned to his cell with his hopes lifted, and his thoughts turned to Switzerland and his beloved Karen. Sure enough, over the next few days the pills started to turn his skin an unhealthy shade of yellow. But before his transformation was complete, he had an unexpected visitor: Sergeant Major Franz. Beaming, Franz announced that the Gestapo were done with Paterson, which meant he would be transferred to the Wehrmacht – the military – wing of the prison, to await court-martial.
On hearing this, Paterson’s spirits plummeted to an all-time low.
He also suspected he knew why Franz had allowed him extra rations. The brute of San Vittore was sure to know the Allies were drawing closer, and that he would be in the firing line if he were found to be responsible for the Canadian’s death. But either way, his escape plan lay in tatters.
In the Wehrmacht wing, food proved to be in precious short supply. On a near-starvation diet, Paterson became gaunt and weak. The winter months of late 1944 proved cold and icy, and Paterson was left to shiver under thin blankets. Although most of the warders were less sadistic than their Gestapo counterparts, one took great delight in forcing some of the most emaciated and weak to carry out hard physical exercise.
The months dragged by. Still there was no trial for Paterson, nor any death sentence. Towards the end of April 1945, he was woken by the sound of distant gunfire. His spirits momentarily soared. Perhaps the partisans were rising in Milan, with the Allies advancing just behind them. But no one seemed certain. Later that day the prisoners were ordered to pack themselves into the cells on one floor, and some feared this signified that they were being readied for transport to Germany.
Paterson decided it was time for action, come what may. Encouraging others to join him, he hatched a desperate plan of escape. The very next morning, when the orderlies brought around the rations, the first person who could do so should overpower a guard, fling open the cell doors, at which point the prisoners should surge forth and create as much pandemonium as possible, in an effort to break free.
The following morning Paterson’s nerves were on edge. He strained to listen as the orderlies passed down the cells. Suddenly the corridor erupted with yelling and shrieking, as the first prisoners burst forth from their cells. With tension rising, Paterson yelled: ‘All right, everyone, let’s make some noise!’ At the same time he started kicking and hammering on his bars. Moments later Paterson heard the key turn in his cell door, and he joined the crush flooding into the corridor. Confronted by an angry mob, the sergeant on guard raised his hands with the keys above his head, in surrender.
Inserting the key into the final lock, the gate swung open, the crowd roaring in triumph as figures charged into the open streets. At their vanguard was George Paterson, executing his second miraculous escape from San Vittore. Outside, it was clear that the partisans had indeed risen up. Groups of locals with rifles and pistols were laughing and singing. Someone informed Paterson that a great battle had been won. The Germans were leaving Milan and the city was theirs.
An hour later, Paterson found himself outside Maria Resta’s front door once again. Upon spying him she flung her arms around him, kissing him delightedly, before inviting him in to join the celebrations. Among many others, Milan’s new Chief of Police was present. He declared himself so grateful for all the work that Paterson had done in the cause of Italy. Later that day, Paterson was driven in a limousine with a police escort into the hills, where he was given a grand reception as an important ‘partisan chieftain’.
Amid the celebrations, Paterson received word that British paratroopers had landed at Milan airport, after which they had taken over the villa of one of Mussolini’s henchmen, as their headquarters. Paterson made his way there, so he could be reunited with his fellow paratroopers, the force with which he had originally deployed to Italy, on Operation Colossus, over four years ago.
Paterson’s epic tale constituted a four-year odyssey, one of repeated capture and escape, which encompassed almost the entire length of Italy and spanned much of the duration of the war. In the coming days he would sadly learn that his fiancée, Karen, had met somebody else, after she had concluded that Paterson was dead, and she had broken off their engagement. Some years later, Paterson would meet another soul mate and they would live a long and happy life together.
In due course, Paterson was promoted to captain and awarded the Military Cross with two bars – the equivalent of the Military Cross three times – for his extraordinary exploits in Italy, his operations with the partisans, his work for SOE and his repeated escapes. He was also made a Freeman of the City of Milan on 31 July 1945, the proclamation reading: ‘The Mayor, interpreting also . . . the deep feelings of the patriots who were his companions . . . in the fight against the common enemy, confers on Captain George Robert Paterson the honorary citizenship of Milan.’ He would remain in that city and environs for more than a year, assisting the Allied authorities in the post-war period.
Incredibly, like George Paterson, our next great escapee would also be awarded the Military Cross three times (MC and two bars). The first of two such decorations was earned as a result of the heroic circumstances in which he was captured, and for his breathtaking escape from enemy custody.
His was a tale that would rival that of Paterson, in terms of scope and sheer daring.
Great Escape Two
Mutiny And Marooned At Sea
Lying prone on the roof of the POW hospital and clad only in a pair of shorts, Captain Roy Farran appeared to be innocently enjoying the hot August sun. To any guard – and there were scores manning the machine-gun towers and barbed-wire fences that enclosed the camp – he looked as relaxed as any prisoner working on his tan. But in truth, Farran’s ‘sunbathing’ was all part of a carefully crafted escape plan. And come hell or high water, Farran was determined he would escape.
Blessed with striking Irish good looks – piercing blue eyes, blond hair, fair skin, fine features; his ancestors hailed from County Donegal – Farran knew his pallor would give him away very quickly on the far side of the wire. Unless he could tan, and tan quickly, he stood little chance of passing as a local. In Nikaia, a suburb of Athens, where he was incarcerated, the local Greeks were typically darker-skinned, with olive complexions and tousled black hair.
Ever since his arrival, almost three months earlier, Farran had memorised every detail of the POW hospital and adjoining camp. Opened on 9 May 1941 to deal with the increasing numbers of wounded Allied prisoners, the hospital was a ‘modern structure built in the shape of a Cross of Lorraine’, Farran recalled. A ‘large white building’, it boasted a high wire fence woven from ‘close vertical and horizontal strands’, connected to rolls of concertina wire. In addition to this formidable barrier, the perimeter was watched day and night by a rotation of guards.
Despite the fortifications, Farran was far from alone in being preoccupied with thoughts of escape. Shortly after his arrival he had made contact with a small band of men who were determined to break out. Farran described their leader, Robin Savage, as ‘a regular soldier of the Queen’s Guard’ turned ‘Commando officer’. Then there was veteran Commando Ken Maxwell, plus a Commando lieutenant from New Zealand named Robin Sinclair. Together, they formed an escape committee dedicated to finding a way to break free and rejoin Allied forces.
They had proven relentless in their efforts. Many of the more successful breakouts had shown real ingenuity and daring: two New Zealanders had hidden in the hospital’s dirty laundry and were carried out of the gates by unwitting German guards; some Australians had sneaked beneath the wire, even as another prisoner – a Brit blessed with considerable artistic talent – distracted a sentry by drawing his portrait; and, most audacious of all, two men had pole-vaulted the fence and managed to survive the hail of bullets that came after them. The escape committee were supposed to coordinate all such efforts, ensuring no two escape attempts clashed, inadvertently jeopardising each other.
Farran, Savage, Maxwell and Sinclair spent their time studying the condition and temperament of the sentries and gathering supplies to aid their endeavours once they were over the wall. They dreamed up schemes for escaping from Nazi-occupied Greece, the most unlikely of which involved hijacking an enemy sea-plane – which they had little idea how to fly – and speeding back to friendly lines. Most of their ideas, however, were more firmly rooted in reality.
As far as Farran saw it, they had two options once over the wire: head to the Greek coast to try to get away by boat or attempt th
e trek some six hundred miles overland to neutral Turkey. Many of the would-be escapees were wounded and battle-weary, and such an epic march was doubtless beyond them, especially as they were certain to be hounded by the enemy. The escape committee favoured mass breakouts, aiming to free as many Allied POWs as possible, but for many the only viable option was to try to make their getaway by sea.
It would be all but impossible to get out of the prison and onto a boat without support on the outside. Farran had heard reports of a resistance movement in Athens, one that was prepared to ‘help escaped prisoners’, but he had little idea what form that help might take. At first all efforts to make contact with such a group were frustrated, but in early August Savage approached Farran with exciting news: via a shadowy go-between, he’d managed to make contact with members of the local Greek resistance.
That night, by chance, there was a terrible storm. Forked lighting speared the mountains ringing the Attica Basin, which cradles the city of Athens. Farran recalled how a deafening wind blew up, and ‘the rain came down in torrents’. The following morning he awoke to discover that, unbeknown to him there had been a mass breakout. Thirteen officers and thirteen men – Savage, Maxwell and Sinclair among them – had seized the chance to slip under the wire, using the chaos of the storm as cover. Farran was thrilled that they had made it, but he was also bitterly disappointed that he had been left behind, and at a loss as to why.
‘I felt deserted in a way, for . . . now I was all alone in the hospital,’ Farran remarked of the moment.
In truth, Savage and his fellows had excluded Farran from their escape bid for one simple reason: they feared that he was too badly injured to make it. Farran needed ongoing medical attention, and fearing that he wouldn’t listen to their arguments they’d kept him in the dark. When pushed, Farran himself admitted that he was only ‘just able to walk with the aid of a pair of crutches’ and was really in no condition to make a bid for freedom.
