Public Servant, Secret Agent

by Paul Routledge

  Since its abandonment by the Saxon royal family in 1800, Colditz had housed prisoners of one sort or another. In the 1920s it was a mental asylum, and when he came to power in 1933 Hitler used the castle to incarcerate his enemies, real or imagined, and to train the Hitler Youth. Its outer walls were 7 feet thick, resting on a rock face that rises 200 feet above the river. The inner courtyard, where the English officers were to live, rose a further 60 feet. Their cells were six storeys high with iron bars on the windows. Searchlights played on the walls all night, and in these early days at least there were more guards than prisoners. It was a truly forbidding place, designed to dishearten would-be fugitives.

  The first prisoners of the Second World War were Polish officers, who arrived in the autumn of 1939 when Colditz was no more than a transit camp. With the outbreak of war in Western Europe the following year, it was designated a Special Camp, and French and Belgian officers started to arrive. The first British officers reached the castle in early November 1940. This advance guard of three Canadian RAF flying officers was boosted by a group of six army officers recaptured after escaping from a camp near Salzburg.

  Colditz was designated Oflag (Offizierslager) IVc and came under the command of Werhmacht Group Four, based in Dresden. The Germans derived their authority to establish a special camp from Section 48 of the Geneva Convention which permitted strict surveillance, though without loss of any other prisoners’ rights as provided by this agreement. ‘In effect, this camp had a greater number of searches, roll-calls and so on than in the normal camps, and much less room to move around in – just a forty-yards square courtyard, and no open space except the park outside, which might only be visited for short and fixed periods daily under some restriction and much surveillance,’ wrote Reinhold Eggers, latterly in charge of security at the prison.2 Oberst Prawitz was the Kommandant during Neave’s spell there. The German guards were mainly drawn from middle-aged and even elderly men called up to serve their country, though some had seen action in the First World War.

  The prospect of moving to Colditz, of which he knew virtually nothing (not even where it was), contrarily lifted Neave’s spirits. The atmosphere of public school and university still permeated officers’ lives, and the idea of ‘a camp for naughty boys, a sort of borstal’ did not disturb him. He was flattered to be singled out so early in his POW career as a nuisance to the enemy. ‘I was like a boy who, flogged by the headmaster, proudly displays the stripes on his backside,’ he confessed later. As the British contingent passed across the drawbridge of Thorn fortress before dawn that late spring morning, he even looked forward to new adventures.

  To begin with, a long train journey offered another opportunity for escape. As they travelled slowly south, the prisoners scanned the countryside and looked for weaknesses in their armed escort, but they were heavily guarded and even accompanied when they went to the lavatory. It was not a pleasant trip. When they changed trains at Posen, the POWs were spat upon. Neave cultivated the guard sitting next to him, a garrulous, middle-aged toyshop keeper from the Dresden area who had been called up for military service. Hoping to give his well-meaning guard the slip en route, Neave so shamelessly played on his feelings of homesickness that tears came to ‘his stupid blue eyes’. It was not perhaps an attractive thing to do, but his manipulation of the guard showed just how obsessive the idea of escape had become.

  At Dresden they changed trains again. Here, Neave took the opportunity to study the master race off guard: waiting for trains, dozing, wolfing down Wurst and margarine sandwiches, showing their tickets and papers to the railway police. It was a useful chance to reconnoitre the railway system. Prisoners and guards alike slept with their heads on the waiting-room tables, but an alert Neave kept up the conversation with his toy merchant. They fell into a serious discussion about what would happen after the war. The shopkeeper said there were many Communists in Dresden, and they would simply change their brown shirts for red. He asked Neave for his address in Britain, and took him to a secluded part of the waiting room where railway workers were drinking morning coffee and the conversation flowed freely. Neave was surprised at how amenable they were to his seditious propaganda. As the discourse deepened, he edged away unnoticed on his chair towards the door. He was within a yard of an impromptu escape when his guard turned round and asked: ‘More coffee, Englishman?’ He could not refuse and his chance had gone. Soon after they were herded out on to the platform for the train to Colditz. In later years, Neave thought often of the toyshop soldier, so genuine in his hatred for the war and his captive’s tribulation. In his classic account of his wartime experiences published eleven years after that morning in Dresden, Neave wrote: ‘Now I feel almost ashamed of my attempt to take advantage of his good nature.’ In 1946, the shopkeeper wrote to the address Neave had given him, complaining of his fate under the Russian occupation of Eastern Germany, and asking for help. Neave replied in the most general terms to avoid exciting the attention of Communist censors. This incident provoked an unusual outburst of personal philosophy from Neave: ‘Some hypocrite has called this the century of the Common Man,’ he remarked, ‘but in no age have common men suffered more for being human and kindly.’3

  On the short, crowded train journey from Dresden, Neave studied his fellow passengers. In his compartment, a German officer took in the sight of British POWs in battledress uniforms and muttered nervously to his gargantuan Hausfrau Hilde: ‘Kriegsgefangener!’ (prisoners of war). She spent the journey complaining loudly about the flight of Hitler’s right-hand man, Rudolf Hess, on 10 May. Why did the Führer not stop him? Where did he get the plane? This was news indeed. Hilde was very cross. Hess had apparently parachuted into Scotland from a Luftwaffe plane, bearing a message of reconciliation to the Duke of Hamilton, and had promptly been interned. (Neave would later meet him in a cell at Nuremberg, where he served war crimes charge papers on him.) On this morning, however, the mere mention of Hess’s name in front of the enemy prompted the browbeaten officer to silence his wife. The prisoners broke into smiles. Neave lit his pipe and winked at his comrades-in-arms.

  The party of five ‘bad boys’ arrived at Colditz in the early morning of 14 May 1941. They were drawn up at the station and marched across the cobbled Bahnhofstrasse and up Badergasse, crossing the shallow but fast-flowing River Mulde by a wide, modern bridge 50 yards long. From here, they skirted the main square and trooped up the short, cobbled access road to the castle, across the moat bridge and through the great gates of the inner courtyard. ‘I felt the battlements close in, enfolding us, so that I looked round in fear,’ Neave recalled later. ‘White faces peered at me from the windows, and men in strange clothes paced up and down in the shadows.’4 Then he spotted John Hyde-Thomson, an officer of the Durham Light Infantry who had also escaped from Thorn, clattering along the cobbles in clogs to welcome him. He was quickly made to feel at home, not just with the contingent of twenty British prisoners but with the polyglot community of Poles, French, Belgian, Dutch and Serb POWs. After the depression of Thorn, Colditz, for all its forbidding appearance, was like escaping from a turgid political meeting to ‘a salon filled with wit and self-confidence’.

  Incredibly, among the small British company were three clergymen from the Chaplains’ Department. One, J. Ellison Platt, an army Methodist chaplain who had chosen to stay with the wounded at Dunkirk rather than get away, observed the newcomers. In his diary, published long after the war, Platt recorded on the day of Neave’s arrival that the camp was rapidly filling up. The French contingent numbered two hundred ‘and the British increase by ones and twos daily’.5 The padres led the latest intake up a stone staircase to a large hall on the first floor, where all but the most senior British officers lived. Neave felt as if he were being ushered by masters to a school for waifs and strays. After a meal of hot stew, German bread and lard, they were escorted to smaller rooms off the mess hall where they were allocated bunks. Neave immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  He was roused at 7.30 the
next morning by the shouts of ‘Aufstehen’ (get up) by German NCOs walking through the dormitories. Thereafter he was inducted into the daily routine. Breakfast, of ersatz German coffee made from acorns, bread and margarine, was brought up to their quarters half an hour later by British orderlies. At 8.30 all the prisoners assembled in their national contingents in the courtyard for Appell – roll-call. After much laborious counting and saluting, the prisoners were allowed to get on with their hobbies: reading, music lessons, language lessons and exercise. The daily routine altered little, until the escapes began in earnest, when the Germans instituted more roll-calls to reduce the opportunities for getting out. ‘Lunch’, usually a thick barley gruel very occasionally containing pork skin, was served at 12.30, and the final roll-call took place at 9.00 p.m. Soon after, they were locked into their cells for ‘lights out’. For undergraduates of Colditz academy, however, this was simply the signal to start a night shift of intense activity.

  Perhaps with some overstatement, Neave later insisted that every single officer in the castle had but a single thought – to escape. Lord Campbell of Alloway QC, then plain Alan Campbell, a young army officer who was one of the first to be sent to Oflag IVc, remembers: ‘One spent most of one’s time trying to escape. We were always planning escapes or doing escapes.’6 Campbell occupied the bunk below Neave and so observed him at close quarters. ‘We never quarrelled. I found him agreeable, amusing. But I never got to know him. He was a withdrawn, distant character, with a slightly isolationist, ruthless streak.’ Ken Lockwood, a stockbroker in civilian life who looked after the British ‘shop’ and supplied would-be escapers with German money, comments that Neave in particular was keen to get out, but points out: ‘We couldn’t all escape. One accepted that. But the object of the exercise was to get somebody out of the camp and if possible get them away successfully.’ He concurs with Alloway’s assessment that Neave was ‘very quiet, very much his own man. I don’t think any of us got to know him really well.’7

  The prisoners engaged in a restless battle with the ‘goons’, as the hapless German guards were known, and they were endlessly busy looking for anything that might aid themselves, or others, to get out. Neave plunged himself into this hive of industry with relish, delighted that he no longer had to fear the mild disapproval of fellow inmates content to live out the war that he had experienced in previous camps. Eggers deplored the attitude of his recalcitrant charges. ‘Indiscipline, I can truly say, was the unspoken order of the day on their side: indiscipline often amounting to plain personal insolence, or at least studied offhandedness.’8 He singled out the British as being particularly obstreperous. They even used occasional excursions to the town football ground to show off how well turned out and disciplined they could be while marching through the streets, giving chocolate to the children, until this privilege was stopped. The Germans realised they were mounting a magnificent piece of counter-propaganda, at their own expense.

  Neave was not involved in the first serious attempt at a British breakout, which took place only a month after he arrived. Twelve officers, including two Poles, tunnelled their way out of the canteen, having successfully (as they believed) bribed a German guard 700 Reichsmarks to look the other way when they made their exit on to a small patch of grass beneath the parapet. The sentry accepted the down payment of 100 marks, and promptly betrayed them to the Kommandantur. The sentry was allowed to keep the money, promoted, sent on leave and given a War Service Medal.

  Watching this botched escape from his window at two in the morning, Neave brooded on the shortcomings of tunnels as the best way to get out. Escapers, he concluded, must pit their wits against something frailer than the castle walls – the Germans themselves, as the last escapers had in part tried to do. The gap in their defence seemed to lie in the hope that the guards would be deceived by a bold attempt to leave by the front gate dressed in German uniform. While he pondered this plan, Neave joined ‘the board’ of an international tunnel, comprising British, French, Polish and Belgian officers. He had scant confidence in the project, but in a schoolboyish way he felt he had a place in the second eleven. The tunnel was started under a bed in the sick bay and went through the floor of the Red Cross parcel room below. From there, the international consortium argued about what direction to take. Nonetheless, they worked with a vigour, using broken knives, forks, door latches – anything metal they could lay their hands on – until four months later the tunnel stretched for 20 feet beneath the Red Cross room floor. Neave had no faith in its success, but he believed in the self-discipline that all escaping activity encouraged. It strengthened the spirit of POWs, occupied their mind and reduced the tedium that could otherwise drive them to distraction.

  Two nights a week, Neave toiled flat on his stomach, a handkerchief over his mouth to keep out the choking dust. Disposal of the debris was the most difficult thing for most of the obvious hiding places had already been bagged by other tunnellers. Neave and his crew stored great piles of dust and stones in the loft of the building, which eventually gave way, breaking a water pipe that showered French prisoners as they slept. While he worked away at this forlorn occupation, Neave continued to develop his own project. Through their ‘goon watch’, the prisoners knew all about the movement of German personnel throughout the castle. They now learned that everyone who entered the inner courtyard that housed the prisoners had to collect a numbered brass disc at the guardhouse, present it to the sentry on the inner gate, and return it to the guardhouse. Peter Allan, a second lieutenant in the Cameron Highlanders, bribed a visiting civilian painter to part with his brass pass, which went into the British cache of escaping material. However, the workman was obliged to report his ‘loss’, and the German officers warned their guards to be on the lookout for the missing disc.

  Most importantly, Neave had to fashion for himself a ‘German’ military uniform that would be sufficiently convincing to get him past the guards. He had also to equip himself with civilian clothes capable of sustaining his disguise as a foreign worker all the way to Switzerland, the nearest neutral country 400 miles to the south. He thought first of bribing the very German guards he was attempting to fool to acquire a complete uniform, but he concluded that this might take years, and he was impatient to be free. So he resolved to make his own, despite admitting that he was hopeless with his hands.

  Neave sacrificed a month’s supply of Red Cross chocolate to buy from a Polish officer what he later described as ‘an ancient tunic … in a remote sort of way it resembled in length and design that worn by German private soldiers’. It was the wrong colour – khaki rather than field-grey – and although he contemplated dyeing the tunic, this was beyond him. Instead he employed less subtle means: he applied layers of green paint normally used for making the scenery in the camp theatre. A Polish tailor sewed fake insignia, fashioned from cardboard and painted silver, on to the left breast. Dark green cloth epaulettes with the white numerals of an infantry regiment, a forage cap fashioned from a piece of Polish uniform, white piping and an amateurish cardboard badge with eagle’s wings completed this improbable disguise. He planned to wear RAF trousers for the escape, and lastly equipped himself with a pair of handsome jackboots bought from a Polish orderly with Red Cross provisions. Neave realised that his mock uniform would never pass muster in daylight. Even with the precious brass disc, he would have to pass through three sentry posts, and might also meet other soldiers who would see through his disguise.

  Ellison Platt, the Methodist chaplain, noted in his prison diary for 28 August: ‘For weeks Anthony Neave has had no thought for anything but tailoring and dyeing.’ (After his first diary entry for 14 May, in which he uses Neave’s correct first name, Platt invariably wrote ‘Anthony’, a clear indication that this was how Neave was known, and wished to be known, in the camp.) Platt observed that Neave’s scheme was one of great audacity, adding: ‘It consisted of passing out of the main gates in the uniform of a German soldier. Since the time the maggot first entered his brain, every minu
te has been dedicated to “getting ready”.’ His first idea was to steal a uniform, which might be done ‘at a pinch’, but could prove very unpleasant if caught in an abortive escape. ‘So, on reflection, it would be better to take the long route and make it: during the period of making, nothing else has existed in the world. With an unethical fertility of invention he got hold of a mixture of several incredible substances which produce a lightish green field if applied to a khaki material.’ Not quite near enough for daylight, but, under artificial light, quite indistinguishable from the real thing, he noted. ‘The dyeing experiments have occupied a full three weeks.’ His swastikas, woven on tunic and hat, were extraordinarily well done, as was the belt, ‘a creation in tin and cardboard that deserved a better fate’.9

  Neave was less convinced, later admitting: ‘I was only too aware of the fancy-dress appearance of my uniform, fit only for amateur theatricals,’ he wrote. ‘Prisoners, however, develop a blind faith in the most impracticable means of escape. They underestimate the risks, believing that some kindly Providence will surely aid them. For me, escaping was still a schoolboy adventure reminiscent of the books of G.A. Henty. I had yet to learn that success can only be learned by a minute mastery of detail and a study of the mind and methods of the enemy.’10