“We’ll go in ten or so days,” said Morris. “I’m gonna pay a visit to the library, and get me a book on tides. Water in the Bay’s dangerous, so we’ve got to go at a good time, otherwise we’ll end up dead.”
But over the next week things were getting even more worrying. Convicts would return to their cells after mealtimes and notice small differences – a towel moved here, a book moved there – that gave away the fact that their cell had been searched. Maybe it was just routine checks, or maybe the prison authorities suspected that an escape was coming.
Three days after their last conversation with West, the Anglins could wait no longer. About 9:00pm on the evening of June 11th, Morris heard a voice behind his wall. It was John Anglin telling him that he and Clarence were going NOW. Before Morris could argue, John had headed back up the corridor. Next door, West was panic-stricken. Unprepared, and choking with anger and frustration, he began chipping at the hardened cement seal he had placed around his fake wall.
Morris kept watch for him as long as he could. It was just before lights-out, and the prisoners had yet to settle down for the night. For now, the dull bustle of conversation and activity drowned out West’s frantic digging, but Morris could not stay watching out for him much longer.
When the lights were turned off for the night, Morris had to go. He left West digging away, and headed up to the roof. The Anglins were already up there waiting for him. There was no point arguing with them about what they had done to West, they just had to get on and see the escape through without him.
John lifted Morris up to the shaft and he quickly removed the soap rivet heads, his face starkly lit by the recurrent flash of the lighthouse beacon as it swept over the roof. Morris gently eased the grill from its moorings and onto the floor of the roof. But as he lifted away the rainhood, it caught in a sudden gust of wind, and clattered noisily to the floor. Inside the vent, Morris froze. He was so tense he could hardly move.
The three men waited, stock-still in the dark, expecting to hear alarm bells or shouts, and guards rushing up to investigate. Down below, a patrolling guard had indeed heard the noise, and hurried off to tell the duty officer.
“Don’t worry about it,” he was told. “There’s lots of garbage on the roof. It’s probably an old paint can blowing around in the wind.”
Ten minutes passed before Morris and the Anglins thought it would be safe to move. Each man slowly slithered out onto the roof, with three or four raincoat sleeves tucked around their belts. They all blinked in the harsh glare of the lighthouse beacon. Away from the stuffy hothouse of the prison, the night air felt cool, and the salty sea breeze caught in their nostrils.
The route from rooftop to shore passed through brightly floodlit areas, overlooked by gun towers. There was a lot to do before they could get safely away. The three hugged the shadows as best they could and crawled to the edge of the roof. Morris hauled himself over the rim of the parapet and on to a pipe. Below was a 15m (50ft) drop, and he moved with infinite slowness, lest any sudden movement catch the eye of a guntower guard. He slid down the pipe with the same slow care, and waited for the Anglins to follow.
Away from the cell block the three men carefully made their way over a couple of fences and down a shallow cliff to the seashore. Across the water, the mainland beckoned, just a 2.5km (1.5 mile) swim away. Crouching in the damp sand, and shivering in the sharp sea breeze, they blew into their raincoat water wings, then waded into the freezing waters of San Francisco Bay…
West finally chipped away his false wall after midnight. He hurried up to the roof but Morris and the Anglins were long gone. Poking his head through the ventilator he disturbed a flock of seagulls. They made such a screeching he fled back to his cell in panic. He spent the rest of his sentence wondering what would have happened if the Anglins had given him fair warning of the escape. Maybe he’d be in a quiet backwater bar, with a long cool drink and a beautiful girl. Maybe he’d be lying at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, his bleached bones picked clean by crabs.
After the escape
At daybreak guards sent to rouse the missing men found only dummy heads in their empty beds. Other prison officers recalled the noise that roused their suspicions the night before, and estimated that the men must have entered the water at around 10:00pm that night. It was a good time to go. The Bay was calm, the currents were just right. If the escapers had survived the cold, they had every chance of reaching the mainland.
Boats, soldiers and guards with dogs were all sent out to find them. After two days all they had turned up was a plastic bag full of family photographs belonging to Clarence Anglin.
After that, nothing. No bodies. No clothing. No sightings. The three could have been washed out to sea and drowned, but it is equally likely they escaped. They may even be still alive today.
The getaway from “escape proof” Alcatraz soon became national news, and a severe embarrassment to the prison authorities. The chief guard Olin Blackwell had to admit that the concrete structure of the prison was indeed crumbling away, and this had allowed the prisoners to dig out from their cells.
At the time of the escape many government officials felt that the prison had outlived its usefulness, so in 1963 all the inmates were shipped off the island and dispersed throughout the American penal system.
In 1979 Clint Eastwood starred as Frank Morris in the film Escape from Alcatraz, which was made mostly on the island. The film production company spent $500,000 reconnecting electricity and redecorating the prison, which had been closed for 16 years. Most of the actors working on the film became ill in the musty interior of the prison, which gave their performances a realistic convict lethargy. The film brought the escape of Morris and the Anglins to a global audience, and today Alcatraz is a popular tourist attraction.
Relatives of the Anglins say they have received postcards from South America from the brothers, but have never produced them to prove this. Morris, who had no close family, has vanished without trace. Allen West never regained his freedom. He died in a Florida prison in 1978.
Alias Ivan Bagerov
“Getting out of here is going to be a piece of cake. It’s getting away that’s going to be the most difficult part.”
British Royal Navy Lieutenant David James was explaining his escape plan to a fellow prisoner, Captain David Wells. Both were residents of Marlag und Milag Nord Prisoner of War Camp, near Bremen, Germany. It was early winter in 1943, four years into the Second World War. James had concocted two ingenious disguises for himself, to get him from the camp to nearby Sweden, where he would be able to return to Britain.
The two men were sitting in front of a coal fire. Their hut was sparse, but the fire kept out the cold. Outside the window, a dreary, freezing rain had been falling all day. The north German winter had settled with a vengeance.
James outlined his escape in more detail.
“This how I see it… I’m a foreigner who speaks only a few words of German. So, I’m going to disguise myself as another foreigner. The guards and officials I’m going to meet will see scores of passes and identity papers everyday. They’ll know them like the back of their hand, and will be able to spot a fake from 20 paces. So, I’m going for something obscure they won’t have seen before. In fact, I’m going as a Bulgarian!”
Wells looked blank, then completely bewildered.
“Why?”
James went on, “As you know, the Bulgarians are Germany’s allies, but no one here seems to know much about them. They wouldn’t know a Bulgarian if one came up to them and punched them on the nose. Also, I thought, if I adapt my own navy uniform to look like I might be in the Bulgarian Navy, then no one will know what that looks like either. I certainly don’t.”
Wells laughed.
“Bulgarian navy! They’ve only got about three ships. You’re on a winning streak there, old chap. What have you got?”
James showed him his props. A friend in the camp, who had been a tailor before the war, had made him a gold and blue should
er insignia with the letters KBVMF, which stood for Royal Bulgarian Navy.
“Those letters look jolly strange. They’re Russian aren’t they?” said Wells.
“No, Bulgarian,” said James. “They use the same alphabet as the Russians. In fact, that’s part of the next step in my plan. I’ve had a whole bunch of documents forged by a chap over in hut D. He used to work as a book illustrator, and he’s done a brilliant job. Look at this!”
James went to his locker and took out a folder full of papers, letters, passes and a big photograph.
“Here’s my identity card. Lieutenant Ivan Bagerov – Royal Bulgarian Navy. All that Bulgarian writing won’t mean a thing to your average guard.”
Wells laughed.
“Who’s that handsome chap in the identity card photo? It’s certainly not YOU!”
James smiled.
“Well spotted. We found him in a German magazine. He’s a German Navy hero. Looks a bit like me, but we put that fake Bulgarian stamp over half his face, so it wouldn’t be too obvious it wasn’t! I’ve made sure everything in my case looks Bulgarian, or at least looks like what someone would assume was Bulgarian. I even scraped the manufacturer’s stamp off my English soap and etched in a Bulgarian letter.”
“Who’s that in the big photo?” said Wells. “It looks like that ballet dancer. What’s her name?”
James laughed again.
“THAT is Margot Fonteyn. Lovely isn’t she! I’m going to tell anyone searching my case she’s my Bulgarian fiancée. It should prove to be quite a nice distraction. You know Roberts over in Hut E? He speaks Russian, so I got him to write me a love letter too. We’re covering all the angles here! And… I’ve even changed the English labels on my clothes. I couldn’t get Bulgarian or Russian labels, but a couple of Greek fellows in the camp have given me some of theirs. They look sufficiently different. And, on top of everything, Bulgaria is also a monarchy, so the crown on my Royal Navy jacket buttons won’t look out of place either.
“And then there’s THIS!”
James took out another forged document.
“It’s a letter of introduction from The Royal Bulgarian Navy. It’s written in German and I’m going to show it to anyone who bothers me, or who I think I can get to help me. It says: ‘Lieutenant Bagerov is engaged in liaison duties of a technical nature which involve him in much travel. Since he speaks very little German, the usual benevolent assistance of all German officials is confidently solicited on his behalf.’ ”
Wells laughed at the daring plan. He was certainly impressed. But then he looked worried.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Bad news, James. Quite a few of our Navy chaps here have been into Bremen over the last few weeks to visit the hospital. Your Navy uniform might be a bit different, but it’s not different enough. I’m sure someone will recognize it, and have you nabbed.”
“I’ve thought of that too. I’m going to start my escape in another disguise! I’ve got some silk patches to put over my jacket brass buttons, and a cloth cap made from a jacket lining, and a scarf and a pair of old canvas trousers. I’m going to become Christof Lindholm – Danish electrician! I’ve got a pass for that too.”
“Crikey, you’ve been busy!” said Wells. “So what happens when you get to Sweden, or even Britain, and you need to prove who you really are?”
“I’ve got that sorted out too. I’ve sewn my real identity papers into my jacket lining, so I can go back to being me when I need to.”
“Well, best of luck – though with all that lot I don’t think you’ll need it.” said Wells.
James looked a little ill at ease.
“Frankly, old chap, sitting in front of this lovely fire, with the rain coming down outside, I’m not sure I want to escape at all. But so many people have helped me with this scheme I feel I’ve got to give it a go.”
And give it a go he did. On the morning of December 8th, 1943, James made his way down to the shower block on the edge of the camp. Amazingly, a window there opened onto the street outside, so all James had to do was change into his Danish electrician outfit, and squeeze out when he was sure no one was coming.
Walking away in his disguise he could have been any local workman. But trouble loomed almost as soon as he left the camp. He was stopped by a policeman who immediately became suspicious. Inside, James began to panic. All that work and here he was, barely a minute away from the camp, and about to be caught red-handed. The policeman looked in his case. Fortunately it just contained some clothes. James had carefully hidden all Ivan Bagerov’s documents – they were strapped to his leg with adhesive bandages.
The policeman began to question him in a hostile way. What was he doing? Who was he? Who was he staying with? It was a nightmare moment. James only spoke a few words of German but blurted out that he was staying with the local priest. He did not even know his name, so just referred to him as “Father”.
The policeman was still suspicious. What did the priest look like? James made a wild guess. He was an old man with grey hair, he said, which fortunately turned out to be true. He stumbled on with more of his story, hoping that the policeman didn’t start to wonder why this supposed Danish workman had such an odd accent.
The story was not working. The policeman told him to come with him to the police station. But James had another trick up his sleeve – a forged letter from a local hospital, telling him to report there that afternoon. This final detail convinced the policeman that James was the Danish electrician he was pretending to be. The man dismissed him with a curt “Good day” and James hurried off, feeling quite sick and doing his best to stop his legs from trembling as he walked.
James reached Bremen station without further trouble, and headed at once for the platform lavatory. There, the cap and canvas trousers of his electrician’s outfit were hidden behind a cistern. Away from the middle of the town, James felt it was now safe to take on his Bulgarian disguise. Inside the tiny w.c. cubicle he removed the silk patches from his buttons, sewed on the shoulder insignia, and darkened his light hair with theatrical make up, to make him look more Eastern European.
Christof Lindholm had disappeared – and out stepped Ivan Bagerov. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, James walked up to a station guard, and presented him with his forged letter of introduction.
The man read the letter and gave James a smile.
“Where are you going to, sir?” he said.
James told him he was heading for the port of Lübeck, on the Baltic Sea. This would be the perfect spot to head for Sweden.
“Follow me, sir,” said the guard briskly, and they walked off to the ticket office.
James’s letter worked like a magic charm. The guard found out which trains he would have to take, wrote down the details for him, and gave him a ticket. Then he took him to the station waiting room and bought him a beer from the bar! James had to struggle to stop himself from laughing out loud, or gushing with gratitude. He wanted to give the man a big hug, but forced himself to remain as aloof and formal as he thought a visiting Bulgarian naval officer ought to be.
The train arrived, and James was soon heading for the coast. The officials he met on his way – ticket inspectors, policemen, guards – all stared blankly at his Bulgarian pass, and all of them waved him on his way with a polite nod.
After a couple of hours the train pulled into Hamburg, where James needed to change trains. He had to spend an hour in the waiting room, and here he was stared at suspiciously by a German soldier. James was sure this man had seen through his disguise and recognized his Royal Navy uniform, but he decided to bluff it out. He thought “What would I do if I was really Ivan Bagerov and someone was staring at me? Why, stare straight back!”
James glared at the man with such hostility the soldier became embarrassed and let his gaze slip to the floor. He left the waiting room shortly afterwards. James wondered if he had gone to fetch a policeman, but by the time the train arrived no one had bothered him.
The journey passed slowly. Jam
es had to get off the train again to spend an uncomfortable night in a waiting room in Bad Kleinen, but he had covered 320km (200 miles) in a single day. His escape was going better than he could ever have imagined.
The next day the train continued on to Stettin, another port on the Baltic Sea. James thought he would try his luck here, as Stettin was just as likely to have Swedish ships as Lübeck.
But it didn’t. As James wandered along the waterfront there was not a single Swedish ship to be seen. Cursing his luck he headed into the town, and went to several bars, hoping to overhear some Swedish voices.
By late afternoon James realized Stettin had been a big mistake. There was nothing else to do but continue on his journey. So he returned to the station and caught a train heading to Lübeck. Again, he had to get off the train in the evening, and spent another uncomfortable night in the dining room of a very crowded military rest camp. As James tried to sleep at a table in the corner of the room, he was joined by several German Naval officers. He couldn’t have wished for worse companions, and felt sure they would recognize his British uniform. But they must have been even more tired than he was, for they said nothing to him, nor even gave him a second glance.
Next day he hurried off to the station and arrived in Lübeck by late morning. By now his smart lieutenant image was beginning to look a bit shabby, especially as he had two days of stubble on his chin. James headed for the nearest barber and asked, in halting German, if he could have a shave. The barber looked at him in astonishment.
“Don’t you know?” the man said rather rudely. “Don’t you know about the soap ration? No one has had a shave at a barbers for two years!”
James gave an embarrassed shrug, and fled from the shop in a near panic, certain that everyone in the street was looking at him.
Feeling flustered, he booked himself into a hotel, where he left his suitcase, and headed for the docks. Here things looked up. The first thing he saw on the quayside were two Swedish ships. But between him and them were guarded dock gates.
Escape Page 2
