by David Fraser
Two gates served the camp, each guarded at all times. Both gates were locked at the same time in the evening and never thereafter opened, as far as the prisoners could see, except for the occasional passing of the Commandant’s car. It was clear that anybody, whether or not in uniform, had to present some sort of authorization to the gate sentry. One of these gates – known as The Forest Gate’ because of its nearness to woods bordering the lane which ran most of the way round the outside of the camp – seemed principally to be used by administrative traffic, builders’ carts and the like, or vehicles bringing supplies. The other, through which Robert and his party like all their predecessors had marched into captivity from the railway station three miles away, was known as The Main Gate’. Through it visitors, camp staff and the large number of civilian employees moved. There was plenty of coming and going at the main gate. There was a small amount of military traffic but most movement was on foot. Civilian workers seemed to arrive either by bus – a bus at morning and evening stopped in the lane outside the gate – or by bicycle. Bicycles were left in a park outside the gate: presumably by order.
Anthony described the character, the routine of the camp to Robert as they walked ceaselessly round it. The weather was cold for October, but after one circuit of the wire – a distance of nearly two miles – both were warm, and with warmth came optimism.
‘Of course, getting out is the first – in many ways the hardest – nut to crack. Really, there are three main options. First, tunnelling. That means a mass effort. It takes a great deal of time, and conditions have to be right. We were working on one at my last camp. Here, for various reasons which I think are sensible, there’s been no suggestion to start a tunnel. At least I don’t think so, and I believe I’d know.
‘Then there’s the possibility of going through or over the wire. There’ve been ideas about scaling ladders. Unless we could find out how to fuse the perimeter lights and searchlights simultaneously it would have to be done in thick fog. And even if we could put out the lights, we think there’s some sort of standby generator, which would anyway power the searchlights. The trouble with fog – and sometimes we’ve had some really thick ones – is that it’s unpredictable. And escapes need meticulous planning, preparation and timing. One can’t just decide to go when one sees it’s a foggy morning! The scaling ladders, for instance, could probably only be put together immediately before the attempt – there are periodic searches, as you know, and our friends are pretty thorough.
‘The third option is disguise. Plenty of people – soldiers and civilians – go out through the gates by day. One pretends to be one of them.’
Robert stared at him. ‘That must be the hardest option of the three, isn’t it? The clothes, the identity cards, passes or whatever they have, the language –’
Anthony shook his head. ‘One can manage all that.’
He explained that in Oflag XXXIII knowledge was detailed and exact of the sort of documents every German – or foreign – traveller in the Reich needed to be able to produce on demand.
‘We’ve built up the knowledge over a long time,’ said Anthony. ‘People bring more information from other camps and it’s centrally collated, we’ve not had an awful lot of other things to do.’
Similarly precise was knowledge of the papers needed to gain access to Oflag XXXIII itself: or leave it.
‘What’s your chief means of getting information?’
‘Bribery. We can get pretty well anything.’
The generous supplies of cigarettes and chocolate in the Red Cross parcels which every prisoner received were strong currency when negotiating with the German guards, with whom the prisoners established, on the whole, a comfortable relationship.
‘They’ll do anything for some decent cigarettes,’ said Anthony. ‘They never see them otherwise. And they’ll swap Reichsmarks for prisoners’ money, because the British Government has undertaken to honour it after the war, so they reckon it’s a stronger currency than their own! We’ve got masses of money. It doesn’t say much for their faith in the thousand year Reich, does it! But then not many of these chaps are likely to have had that faith for a long time – if ever. They’re mostly old fellows, well beyond normal military age, and all they want is a quiet life. Or they’re disabled in some way. They’re a decent, good-mannered lot on the whole.’
But the guards should not be underestimated, Anthony warned. Old they might be, and without heart in their job, but they functioned still under the iron discipline of the Wehrmacht. They were, with good reason, afraid of being detected in their small acts of corruption and exchange with the prisoners, and this set limits. In an actual escape, whether manning a machine gun from a watchtower, handling a dog or conducting an armed patrol, they would undoubtedly do their duty.
Robert asked about the help a man might expect from within before launching an attempt. He learned that there were highly expert forgers in the camp, self-taught over the years, models of discretion. Given time they would produce all the papers an escaper needed for his particular plan. There were tailors who would create a fair semblance of anything, from a worker’s civilian clothes to a German uniform. There was an excellent make-up department. There was an information bureau which could brief on the regulations and customs with which anybody travelling through Germany must be presumed to be familiar. And there was a comprehensive map library – including detailed plans of the area within about two miles of Oflag XXXIII itself.
‘That’s the first matter, getting out,’ said Anthony. ‘I said there were four main problems. The next is how to get clear of the area. Any escape, once it’s detected, sets off the alarm throughout the immediate area, obviously. One’s got to have a well-thought-out idea how to cover, say, the first five miles. During that time there’ll be patrols and, presumably, dogs active near the camp, and every authority, railway station, policeman and so forth for miles around will be alerted. So one wants a clear cut plan for the immediate action once one’s through the wire.’
The third problem, Anthony said, was connected to the second and influenced it – and was fundamental to the whole matter. Where did the escaper want to go and how did he propose to travel?
‘One can go north, try to get to a port, stowaway on a neutral ship – try to get to Sweden or somewhere like that. It’s been done. From this place, that probably means Lubeck or Hamburg. Or Rostock, perhaps.
‘Or one can go south, aim at Switzerland. It’s a long way, but it’s been tried. The third alternative is to go west – get into France, Belgium or Holland. We’ve heard of men getting home from there, helped by the resistance people. Naturally, that’s the direction one’s drawn to at the moment. If the Allies keep the pressure up one would hope somehow, by going west, to get into British or American lines.’
There was a good deal of optimism in the camp in early October, 1944. Robert’s hopes were more fashionable than Anthony’s doubts. News in Oflag XXXIII was as good as the Allies’ broadcast communiqués, no more, no less. There were plenty of clandestine wireless sets among the prisoners. There was, at the moment, less talk of escape than of imminent liberation as the Allies seemed set to surge forward into Germany over a beaten Wehrmacht. But in the last fortnight of the month, it seemed to Anthony, a certain change of mood set in. Men were now talking of the winter. Robert was considering.
‘One thing, Anthony. You explain it all very logically – the escape planning, the choices. But has much of this actually been tried – here? Or is it just talk? As far as I can see, as a new arrival, people seem pretty apathetic. They accept that they’ll be here until the war ends. And what about you?’
It was a typically tactless and direct approach, but it was just.
Anthony said, ‘It goes in waves. At my last camp I was, actually, part of the tunnel party but we were moved. Here there’ve been two pretty well-staged attempts. The first was “blown” – a search upset it the evening before it was due to start. In the second, five chaps got out, all were recaptured. I wasn’t in either
party.’
‘And do you feel, now that we seem to be winning here in Europe, that it’s not worth while?’
‘Sometimes I feel like that,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘to be truthful. But talking to you has made me restless.’
Anthony resumed the subject of the escaper’s third and great problem – where to go and how to get there.
‘Wherever one decides to go there’s a fundamental choice – is one going to try to get by with a bogus identity, be prepared to talk to Germans, face routine police checks, that sort of thing? If one is, then obviously one can move fast. One can go by train. Or is one going to avoid contact with any sort of people – avoid it like hell? That probably means lying up by day, travelling on foot by night, keeping out of towns, villages. Safer. Some people here would tell you it’s the only way. Too many fellows have been hauled back and found themselves in the punishment cells because they gave themselves away on a train or in a shop. But it’s much, much slower. And, obviously, it can be more of a strain on health and strength.’
‘I suppose,’ said Robert, ‘that some chaps only speak English and feel ill at ease in any atmosphere in which English isn’t being talked. They’d stand out. Their nerves wouldn’t take it. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, some people couldn’t possibly pass muster, as you say. But you’ve got to remember that there are plenty of foreign workers in Germany. Imperfect German or a blank stare doesn’t necessarily give you away. But you’re right, movement by night and avoidance of contacts is simpler, safer and probably better for the nerves.’ Anthony added, ‘Of course, the autumn’s the best time for all this – weather’s not yet too foul, longer nights in which to walk, some fruit and potatoes to pick or grub up without too much difficulty. I think a mid-winter break would be hell, and in the summer the odds are on the pursuer. He’s got light on his side and there’s too little time to move in every twenty-four hours. If one’s going overtly, using trains and so forth, obviously the season matters less.’
They strolled on.
‘And the fourth problem?’
‘The fourth problem,’ said Anthony, ‘is how one actually crosses the frontiers of the Reich. Or, of course, the German front line.’
‘Your German’s pretty good, isn’t it, Anthony?’
‘Yes, I think you could say that. What about you?’
‘Not bad,’ said Robert, ‘but I’m out of practice.’
‘You can get practice here,’ said Anthony softly. ‘There are facilities for that, and you should start right away. If that’s the way it’s going to be.’
The two overalled electricians moved their wooden ladder to another of the light posts between the German compound and the prisoners.
‘It’s Whiskers and his mate,’ said Oliphant languidly. He was, as usual, observing the labours of others with the air of one relieved that he did not have to share them. It was the last day of October. Oliphant was always immaculately turned out and Anthony, who had got to know him as well as any (for Oliphant was intimate with none), admired a man who seemed so entirely suited to imprisonment. Oliphant appeared so congenitally idle that the enforced inactivity of Oflag XXXIII plagued him little. He did the work apportioned to him by the Mess with goodwill and a charming smile. He pursued no hobby, studied none of the subjects organized by the prisoners within the camp to keep their minds from vegetating, played no games. He read a good deal and occasionally wrote a letter. Within days of his own arrival, Robert expressed irritation with Oliphant.
‘It’s unnatural for a man to show such inertia as Charles Oliphant. He’s rotting. He’ll end up good for nothing, physically or mentally.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Anthony. Oliphant often showed an even-tempered normality which surprised and a little shamed them all. Now he was sitting by the hut window, watching with good-humoured amusement the German electricians at their work.
‘It’s remarkable how often they have to climb up their little ladders and do something to those lights. I thought the Goons were meant to be mechanically efficient.’ Germans were Goons to the prisoners. ‘Do people have to change light bulbs or whatever it is as often as that at home?’ Oliphant sighed, concerned at so much effort, even though made by others.
It was generally the same electrician, christened ‘Whiskers’ by the prisoners. He and his colleague seemed to be about sixty years old. They moved at all times from one electrical fixture to another like priests at the altar, solemn, dedicated, expert. Whiskers derived his name from a luxuriant grey moustache. The other, who limped, was clean-shaven and taller. Nobody had ever seen them speak to each other.
‘I thought they only appeared on Tuesdays and Fridays. A routine contract. I’m sure I’ve got that right.’ It was a Wednesday, and Oliphant frowned, as over a matter of high importance. Anthony responded.
‘I expect if there’s an actual defect they get Whiskers up any day of the week. Tuesdays and Fridays he makes routine checks.’ And this desultory speculation was confirmed by the guard, known to all as Hermann. Hermann was a local man. Hermann was also heavily compromised. He had always been a cynic about National Socialism and the prisoners had enough on Hermann to hang him in his own indiscretions many times over. And Hermann was a tobacco baron. He had grown sleek from his dealings.
Hermann, in spite of his nation’s admiration for hard, methodical work, dutifully performed, much admired Oliphant. The latter’s appearance, Hermann acknowledged to himself, was what an officer’s should be. This could be said about few of the prisoners. Gaoler though he was, Hermann felt warmed by Oliphant’s condescension. Oliphant hailed him on his next visit in his usual half-bantering way.
‘Hermann, you know Whiskers –’
‘Whiskers?’
‘The electrician who potters about changing the same light bulbs over and over again.’
‘Ah, that is Johann Meister. The one with the big moustache. The other is his brother, Fritz Meister. They have worked in the village many, many years. They have a small repair business.’
‘I thought they came here two days a week, Tuesday and Friday. That’s what I’ve always observed.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Now he’s here on a Wednesday. Captain Marvell thinks he must have a duty to come whenever he’s needed. Surely that makes his life most difficult?’ Oliphant spoke with great seriousness. Hermann replied in the same tone,
‘The Meisters have an agreement. If there is a failure they must come. It is true. But they do not like it, you are right. They are sometimes taken away from other work to do something small, maybe something on a Sunday which could wait until the Tuesday. Naturally, if there is an emergency they come. But often, they are called when there is no emergency. That they do not like.’
‘You know them well?’
Hermann laughed. ‘Ever since I was a little boy. Everybody knows the Meisters. They are like part of the staff here. And everyone in the village knows them. They resemble their father.’ Hermann laughed again and made an expressive gesture, implying that the brother electricians had a weakness for the bottle.
‘That must be awkward in their profession,’ said Oliphant sternly. ‘It needs great precision, good eyes, a steady hand.’
‘Better when there’s no emergency on Saturday nights!’ said Hermann, chuckling. ‘Only twice I remember them out here on a Saturday, and they broke three fuses on the lavatory wall light box trying to replace one! It could have waited, too, but the Commandant noticed a defective light on his morning inspection and there was hell to pay.’
‘Do we always get electricians to replace light bulbs?’ enquired Anthony. It sounded more like some British Trades Union practice than the National Socialist State. But Hermann became serious and said that the electrical system needed professional attention, even in small things. Some fool had fused all the lights once and it had taken the Meisters two hours to get out from the village and put it right.
‘Meanwhile Oflag XXXIII was in darkness, eh?’ said Oliphant
.
Hermann looked at him thoughtfully. ‘No, Herr Hauptmann,’ he said. ‘There is an emergency generator, although it does not come into action automatically. It was dark for only about four minutes. Perhaps five.’ He seemed to feel he had gossiped enough, and shuffled away.
It was Saturday evening, 8th November, and already it was almost dark. The Main and Forest Gates of Oflag XXXIII were to be closed punctually at six o’clock. Thereafter, there would be no ingress or exit except by specific arrangement or on the authority of the Commandant.
The Meister brothers appeared at the Main Gate at seven minutes to six in their working overalls, their familiar small boxes of tools slung over the shoulder of each, their faces as expressionless as usual beneath their caps. The sentry on duty had seen them on previous occasions about the camp. He did not know them personally, but he was familiar with their reputation. Johann Meister was ‘Whiskers’ to the prisoners: to the more informed soldiery he was ‘Rotnase’. Fritz Meister, a more shadowy (although, if Hermann were to be believed, an equally self-indulgent) figure was always, simply, ‘Der Bruder’. As the Meisters approached the guardhouse, fumbling for their passes, the sentry chuckled inwardly. He caught a powerful aroma of schnapps.
The sentry, Krebs by name, looked perfunctorily at their gate passes.
‘Evening, Herr Meister, I didn’t know we’d had an emergency. I suppose you came in by the Forest Gate?’
‘Naturally,’ said Johann gruffly. ‘And it wasn’t much of an emergency. It could have waited. Now we’ll be walking back by the lane to collect our bicycles from the other gate. You shut both damn gates at six and we’ve not time to reach the other through the camp before it’s closed!’ It was true. Bicycles had to be left outside, and no sentry was allowed to waive the strict orders on keeping gates closed in order to convenience such as Meister. The Forest Gate was at the opposite corner of the camp, and a man needed a good ten minutes to reach it on foot.
‘Ah, well, it’s only ten minutes further by the lane, Herr Meister!’ said Krebs pacifically as he entered the pass number and time on his log sheet.
