by Damien Lewis
The next morning Byrne shaved again, moistening his face a patch at a time with a raw potato he had dug up from the field. Feeling ‘rested and renewed’, he continued westwards, wheeling his bike. He estimated he was now around fifty miles from Danzig. As he walked he became aware that he was not alone. A small white dog had begun to follow him. It remained at his side the whole day, curling up next to him and his bicycle as he slept through the night under some bushes in a disused quarry.
The following day Byrne pushed on, flanked by his scruffy canine partner, occasionally carrying the small dog on the saddle of the bicycle when he began to lag behind. He had realised that his four-legged companion gave him the appearance of normality whenever they passed through a busy area. Later that morning Byrne reached a pontoon bridge over the River Vistula, the longest in Poland, which empties into the sea at Danzig. It was menaced by a checkpoint. Realising there was no way around this one, Byrne mounted the bicycle and cycled ahead, praying the grass-stuffed tyre would hold out until he was safely across, his little dog scurrying behind.
Luckily the traffic on the bridge was heavy, and by putting a lorry between himself and the checkpoint Byrne was able to cross without attracting any notice. He pressed on and reached the outskirts of Danzig just before dark. On the edge of the city he stowed the bike beside a railway line, hiding himself and his dog in an old signal box. Before long, the mongrel’s ears pricked up: someone was approaching along the track. Byrne peered out of the signal box, and to his relief saw that it was a man wearing the kind of French uniform he’d become familiar with in Königsberg.
Byrne managed to attract the man’s attention, explaining that he was an escaped English ‘airman’. Fortunately, the Frenchman spoke decent English and understood right away. He led Byrne to a nearby station, little more than a hut beside the train tracks. He heated a pot of water to make coffee and Byrne used the rest to wash and shave. Once he was done, Byrne confessed to the Frenchman that he wished to get down to the docks and ‘board a Swedish boat’. His new friend cast a critical eye over Byrne’s disguise, pointing out that his diamond badge was of little use in Danzig, as the French POWs there sported two crosses and the letter of their prison camp on their sleeve. Byrne removed both the tunic and the badge. The Frenchman outlined the best route to take to the port, and what Byrne could expect to find there. He offered some francs, but Byrne refused the money. Instead, he pressed his haversack and battledress on the Frenchman, along with the little dog. Byrne hated leaving the dog, but escape was foremost in his mind now, and his four-legged friend would be better off like this.
It was early on the morning of 21 July when Byrne joined the crowd of workers heading towards the city docks. There, he noted several heaps of coal piled alongside ships flying the Swedish flag. A German guard was busy checking papers, but Byrne quickly realised there were far too many workers to stop and check them all. He took some tobacco and cigarette papers, rolling up as he walked and, spitting in the opposite direction to the guard, he hurried past. The German was too busy and had neither the time nor inclination to stop Byrne.
A little further on there was a second control point, where an elderly guard was checking passes. Those around Byrne held theirs aloft, and Byrne – praying that the guard’s sight was not at its best – held up his map in the same way. The old guard ushered him through, along with the others. Using a combination of bluff and trickery, he had managed to smuggle himself onto the dock undetected and without arousing any suspicion.
Byrne strode along ‘a cinder track parallel to the wharf where the Swedish ships were berthed’, he wrote in his escape report, doing his utmost to appear purposeful, while taking note of his unfamiliar surroundings. Somehow, he managed to maintain an icy calm, even though he was surrounded by enemy guards and in the heart of one of Nazi Germany’s key dockyards. Discovery would spell all but certain death, but Byrne was utterly determined he would not be caught. Still, there was no easy way onto any of those vessels. ‘Between the track and the ships there was a wire fence with gaps in it opposite each ship,’ he noted. ‘At each gap a German guard was posted.’
Clearly, he needed to find some cover from where he could observe the comings and goings of the workers and sentries. On the opposite side of the track there was a latrine built from rough-hewn logs. He sneaked inside and discovered he could keep watch through a gap in the wooden planks. Byrne noted a German watchman patrolling in front of the nearest ship – the Swedish merchant vessel the SS Capella – with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was quite elderly and walked slowly back and forth along the length of the vessel, taking a long time to turn around when he came level to the Capella’s bow or stern. He was clearly bored, and just then it started to rain, adding to the guard’s woefulness.
As the downpour became heavier, Byrne seized his chance. He had no idea how the sentry would react to someone approaching the ship, for nobody had tried to during the time that he had been keeping watch, but he hoped that the rain would make the man less alert. If he was captured, Byrne knew what fate awaited him, but he steeled himself to take his chance.
Summoning all his courage, Byrne swapped his worker’s beret for the sailor’s cap he had found back in Königsberg, and stepped out into the rain. He strode purposefully towards the Capella’s gangway, whistling loudly, as if he had absolutely nothing to hide. Once he was sure that he had the guard’s full attention, Byrne made a show of combing his hair back with his hand, checking his watch and straightening his sailor’s cap, in order to appear as if he was making himself presentable to meet somebody aboard the ship. He strode towards the gangway, his gait full of the confidence of an experienced seaman. The German guard cleared his throat and took his hands out of his pockets, readying himself to challenge Byrne’s credentials.
This was the make-or-break moment. Acting like any sailor who’d been carousing ashore, Byrne turned to face the guard, taking up a ‘comic boxing stance’. He circled the German, ‘punching the air’ all around him and grinning inanely. For a long moment the soldier – ‘an old man who was not amused’ – stared at Byrne in irritation, before turning away wordlessly and stomping off. Hardly daring to believe his own brazenness and luck, Byrne hurried up the gangway and boarded the Swedish vessel.
Finding his way to the boiler room, he checked that it was unoccupied and clambered inside. The only illumination came from a narrow grid in the celling, which opened onto the deck above. Via its dim light Byrne could make out the hulking shapes of the twin boilers, which were stone cold, for the ship had been at berth for some time. Byrne wriggled into the narrow space underneath one, concealing himself in the shadows. As he lay in the dark, he tried his best to keep awake. The escape committee had warned him that all neutral ships were said to be thoroughly searched by the Germans before they were permitted to sail. Often they used German Shepherd dogs to sniff out contraband goods or stowaways, and Byrne was desperate to keep alert.
But despite his best efforts he drifted into slumber. He awoke sometime later soaked with sweat, for the boiler above him had begun to heat up. Byrne gingerly extracted himself from beneath the hot metal. As he’d slept, the ship had become a hive of activity, with deckhands moving around above, shouting to each other in Swedish as they loaded cargo.
It was now that Byrne heard heavy footfalls outside the boiler room: someone was coming. As the heavy door creaked open Byrne noticed, by the dim light from the vent, a metal pipe running horizontally overhead in the space above the boilers. He leapt towards it, hoisting himself onto it and doing his best to lift his feet up – out of the line of sight of whoever was making for the boiler room.
A German guard stepped through the door and began to flash a torch around. Its beam seemed to miss his dangling feet by inches. As the figure bent to check under the boilers, Byrne held his breath, praying that he would not think to shine the torch into the shadows above. After what felt like for ever, the guard seemed satisfied a
nd left the boiler room. Byrne released his grip and dropped to the floor. Hardly daring to believe his good fortune, he curled up in the darkness behind the boilers and fell asleep once more.
He was jolted awake sometime later by the ringing of a loud bell: the ship was ready to depart. Byrne remained in the boiler room until the following evening, sleeping fitfully and longing for daylight, but knowing that he must remain in hiding until the ship was far away from enemy-held waters. Once it was dark, he furtively made his way onto the deck. Finding no one about, he ‘dropped into the coal bunker and hid among the coal’.
Byrne remained in that coal store until the afternoon of 24 July – three and a half days after he originally boarded the SS Capella. By then, he felt they were far enough from German-controlled waters for Byrne to risk attracting the attention of one of the Swedish crewmen. Informing the sailor that he was an Englishman, Byrne declared that he ‘wished to see the captain’. He was led to the bridge, where the Swedish captain regarded the soot-blackened stowaway with undisguised suspicion. He challenged Byrne to prove that he was English. By way of response, Byrne handed over his British Army identity tags, which he had managed to keep secreted on his person ever since his capture in Libya, fifteen months earlier. The captain studied them and finally seemed satisfied.
He shook Byrne’s hand, and broke into a smile. ‘You ought to be in England in a week.’
Late the following morning the ship arrived at Gothenburg, on the west coast of Sweden. Upon disembarkation, Byrne was handed over to the Swedish police. After interviewing him briefly, they took him to a hospital where he was disinfected, before being despatched to the Swedish capital, Stockholm. There he was met by the British military attaché. Byrne remained in Sweden until 14 August 1943, when he left by air for Britain.
Seventy-three weeks had passed since the raid on Berka Airfield, when Byrne had first become separated from his unit. That raid, together with subsequent operations in support of besieged Malta, were considered to be among the SAS’s most effective missions, and Allied convoys were eventually able to bring in vital supplies, effectively breaking the enemy’s stranglehold on the island. David Stirling regarded it as a significant success, stating that the SAS had been ‘congratulated on making it possible to get those ships in’. The other men who had been tasked with raiding Berka had made it back to their base unharmed, Rose, Bennet and Mayne all managing to link up with the LRDG.
When he reached Britain, Byrne’s epic escape was finally over. He had survived days crossing inhospitable desert terrain, near-death by thirst, capture by the Germans, savage beatings at the hands of his captors, three escape attempts, months of solitary confinement and near-starvation, repeated interrogations, a Gestapo death sentence, and finally a sea voyage as a stowaway. He received the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his bravery and determination to escape at any cost. His citation recorded: ‘This NCO showed courage, pertinacity and initiative of the very highest order under the most trying circumstances.’
After a brief rest period Byrne joined the 1st Special Service Brigade as part of 6 Commando, for ‘one more crack at the Germans’. Alongside those men, whom Byrne considered to be some of the ‘most formidable soldiers in the world’, unsurpassed in ‘courage and skill at arms’, he became part of the sharp end of the spear that led the D-Day landings, the largest seaborne operation in history, which began the liberation of France and turned the tide of war on the Western Front.
Likewise, our next great escapee would play a pivotal role in a daring seaborne operation. But unlike the D-Day landings, luck was not on the raiders’ side, and what began as an audacious operation deep behind enemy lines would become a desperate battle to escape, and a superhuman test of evasion and endurance.
Great Escape Four
Escape or Die
Lieutenant Thomas Bennett Langton pulled hard on the oars as plumes of water erupted on all sides. The small craft was under fire from the enemy’s coastal defences. Unless they could get out of range, Langton and his fellow rowers would join the scores of bodies floating in Tobruk harbour. Near by, the hulking shape of HMS Sikh, a British Tribal-class Royal Navy destroyer, listed dangerously to stern. Flames spouted from the terrible rents torn in her hull.
A few short hours ago, Langton and his fellow raiders had felt confident in the success of their mission; exhilarated by their sheer audacity. They had managed to penetrate this Axis-held fortress undetected, sneaking in under the very noses of the enemy. But fortune’s tide had turned, and now they were fleeing for their lives, massively outnumbered and outgunned. In the depths of enemy territory and over three hundred miles from friendly lines, it was every man for himself.
The objective of their daring strike on the strategic coastal fortress of Tobruk was, as described by General Sir Harold Alexander, Britain’s then Commander-in-Chief of the Middle East, ‘to hold port for 12 hours, destroy shipping, harbour facilities, petrol and supplies’. The Afrika Korps’ supply chain – strung out along the North African coast – was stretched almost to breaking point, thanks in part to a series of hit-and-run raids undertaken by the SAS, and this daring thrust into Tobruk was supposed to be the coup de grâce.
Lieutenant Colonel John Edward Haselden, a charismatic, Egyptian-born British officer who specialised in covert operations, had originally conceived of the mission. He had planned for a team of elite Commandos disguised as Allied prisoners of war to infiltrate Tobruk – arguably the most important port on the North African coast – to plant explosives on the petrol reserves stored there, so preventing vital supplies of ammunition, weaponry and food from reaching Rommel’s Afrika Korps.
Tobruk had changed hands many times during the war. It had been wrested from the Italians in January 1941, only to fall back under Axis control in June 1942 after a 241-day siege, in which Rommel’s forces had taken thousands of Allied prisoners. If Haselden’s unit succeeded in infiltrating Tobruk to target the petrol stores, senior Allied commanders wondered, what more might they achieve? If the munitions and harbour facilities could be destroyed, that would render the port useless to the enemy at a crucial juncture in the war, when the balance of power rested on a knife-edge. The allure of Tobruk was just too tempting.
Rommel had forged a formidable reputation leading his Panzerwaffe – armoured force – across North Africa. But with ever-lengthening supply lines, and the British Eighth Army amassing to his front, the German commander was under pressure. Allied generals wanted to tip the scales decisively in their favour. Accordingly, they’d taken Haselden’s bold plan to attack the city’s fuel dumps and inflated it into ‘a combined land-sea-air operation’ involving nearly two hundred aircraft, two Royal Naval destroyers and six hundred troops, all of which were scheduled to converge on Tobruk on the night of 13 September 1942. Their mission was to occupy the port for long enough to free the thousands of Allied POWs held there and to wreck it comprehensively.
For such a mission to stand even a reasonable chance of success, they needed men on the inside, a specialist team that could occupy key positions within Tobruk and make it safe for the seaborne raiders to land. Lieutenant Langton was one of those men. Born into a well-connected, moneyed family hailing from the Isle of Wight, he’d grown up with a love of the sea. The son of a banker, he had attended the exclusive public school of Radley College, in leafy Oxfordshire, where he had excelled at sports – rugby, boxing, swimming and rowing.
But come the war, Langton had outgrown the school’s motto: Sicut Serpentes, Sicut Columbae – a basic translation of which is ‘be wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.’ There was little that was ‘harmless’ or ‘dovelike’ about this tough Special Forces warrior. Aged twenty-two at the outbreak of war, Langton had enlisted in the Irish Guards, but quickly ‘grew restless’ and put himself forward for the Commandos. His athleticism, combined with his experience of rowing, swimming and sailing, made him an ideal choice for the Folboat Section, an amphibious
unit formed to carry out special missions.
Posted to No. 8 Commando, he’d immediately sailed for the Middle East, along with a young lieutenant named David Archibald Stirling, who would go on to found the SAS. After his experiences with 8 Commando, Stirling recognised the importance of having an amphibious unit attached to the SAS, and was an enthusiastic advocate of forming 1 SBS – the Special Boat Section, a water-borne raiding party (the forerunner of today’s Special Boat Service, or SBS). Langton was one of its earliest recruits, and Stirling’s men would go on to form the core of the Tobruk raiders.
On 24 August 1942, seven three-ton trucks had rendezvoused at El Fayyum, a remote base frequented by the Long Range Desert Group, lying just to the south of Cairo. They carried a team of SAS and SBS, plus seventy-seven battle-hardened Commandos. From there the LRDG had guided the force across thousands of miles of wind-blasted sand dunes and sun-baked plains of the Sahara. To most, this journey would have seemed impossible, but as David Stirling had avowed, in the wide-open wastes of the Sahara, ‘adventurous men, resourcefully led, could play merry hell with the enemy’.
After weeks journeying over such harsh terrain, they’d reached Kufra, a lush desert oasis situated deep in the desert, six hundred miles south of Tobruk. There, Lieutenant Colonel Haselden, the mastermind behind their coming mission, had outlined the plan. They would drive north, infiltrate Tobruk and disable the key defences, thus enabling the landing of a seaborne force to unleash mayhem. Haselden then played his trump card, introducing the small team of men who would provide the key to the plan’s success, leading the strike force through Tobruk’s supposedly impregnable defences.
