The Escape Artists

by Neal Bascomb

  The next night, amid a downpour, Cartwright broke out and made his home run. During the rappel, the cable sheared off a piece of the infirmary window sill. After discovering the damage and linking it to Cartwright’s escape, the Germans took measures to shut down any further rappeling attempts. Harvey might not get another chance to escape, but in aiding Cartwright, as in countless other efforts to help his fellow prisoners, he found freedom within. In his own way, he was a breakout artist.

  On July 21 the tunnelers scraped away their last horizontal length of dirt and stone. By their measurements, their sap now reached beyond the first two rows of beans. The rectangular offshoot chamber that would store the diggings from their final push to the surface was also complete. At a meeting in the barracks that afternoon, the tunnelers decided on the following night, after lockup, as zero hour. Gray led the meeting. He wanted an orderly breakout. Nothing could be left to chance. Any unusual activity in the corridors of Block B, whether on the officer side or on that of the orderlies, might be noticed by a guard. He wanted no logjams within the eaves, the stairwell chamber, or, worst of all, the tunnel itself. The men would be on edge already, and he did not want a stampede or scuffle to erupt, nor any panic within the sap. Every man must know his place in the line and when he was to move. There was also to be a buffer of time to allow for any delays or hiccups along the way.

  The first party to escape would be the thirteen officers (with Blain as the only late arrival) who were part of the original team assembled after Colquhoun and the Pink Toes left. Given Butler’s prowess as a sapper, he would go first, to dig to the surface. Since he had teamed up with Langran and Clouston for the journey to Holland, those two men would follow him. The four remaining groups in the first party drew lots to determine the order in which would they leave. The final order thus emerged: (1) Butler, Langran, and Clouston; (2) Morris and Paddison; (3) Blain, Kennard, and Gray; (4) Mardock and Laurence; and (5) McLeod, Wainwright, and Robertson.

  Once they were in the clear, the rest of the team would start to move. First off would be Rathborne. Then Bennett and Campbell-Martin, followed by Bousfield and Lyon, and finally Tullis, Purves, and Leggatt.

  There were also others to consider: “the ruck.” The team drew up a list of other officers who had contributed in some way to the escape. The more important their contribution, the higher on the list their name appeared. Outside of these individuals, each tunneler was allowed to nominate an officer they trusted to be included in the attempt. In total, there were sixty men on the list, almost 10 percent of the total camp population. To maintain secrecy, the men in the ruck would only be informed that the escape was in progress after lockup. Those willing to join would be instructed to ready what kits they could and await the signal to go. Allowing the tunnelers a head start, the ruck would begin to move an hour after the last of the core team was out of the sap.

  None of the orderlies involved in the plot, including Dick Cash, were willing to trade Holzminden for a coal or salt mine, which would surely be their punishment if they were caught participating in the actual escape. They would not attempt a tunnel breakout. It would be reward enough for them to know that they had helped the officers successfully flee Holzminden. Humiliating Niemeyer was icing on the cake.

  To oversee the escape operation in the barracks, the tunnelers nominated two officers who had volunteered to help. Captain Durnford, Rathborne’s adjutant and a friend of David Gray, was selected to manage the list. He would be responsible for alerting each officer when it was time to go. Lieutenant Louis “Swaggy” Grieve would serve as doorman on the attic floor. Nobody would get past the short, barrel-chested Australian without his permission, not least because he was well loved by the whole camp for his Sydney cheer.

  On the opposite side, four orderlies would take control: one to oversee passage out of the eaves, one to lead each officer down the stairwell, and two in the chamber itself sending men into the tunnel. All decided, the men went outside to the Spielplatz for what they hoped would be one of their last roll calls at Holzminden.

  Commandant Niemeyer paraded through the rows of officers, decidedly less cocksure about the imminent victory of Germany over the Allies than he had been during the March offensive. Instead of boasting that the war would soon be over, he now spoke of how the conflict would never end.

  He had good reason. The latest issues of the Continental Times chronicled U-boats sinking ship after ship in the Channel, and a British prime minister who proffered only “impossible peace ideas” that Germany would never tolerate. More accurate military reports from the Western Front brought far darker news. Three days before, on a fog-ridden morning, nineteen French divisions reinforced by four divisions of American troops mounted an offensive against the Germans in what would be called the Second Battle of the Marne. Allied forces were spearheaded by a barrage of artillery and a line of tanks. The French and Americans quickly tore through Ludendorff’s front. Hounded by the RFC, the generals of the retreating German Army informed Berlin, “The situation is terrible.”

  Meanwhile, the Spanish flu was ravaging men in both sides of the trenches. By July, hundreds of thousands of soldiers were infected. Initial treatments of bloodletting and cold compresses did nothing to prevent its spread and little to abate the men’s suffering from fevers and chills, rapid heart rates, lethargy, coughs, aching joints, and, in many cases, death.

  Ludendorff was unfazed, saying only that his armies needed to grow accustomed to being outnumbered by the enemy. As for the influenza, he denied its very existence. With the flu beginning to advance across the German prison-camp system, commandants like Niemeyer would not have that option. But if the flu was Niemeyer’s concern, he did not mention it at the last roll call of the day on July 21. Instead, as if sensing something afoot, warned his charges that they would never find a way out of Holzminden before peace was declared. “Well, gentlemen,” he joked, “I guess, you know, if you want to escape, you must give me a couple days’ notice!”

  The next night, without giving Niemeyer the requested two days of notice, Gray gave the go-ahead. The tunnelers ate the heartiest meals they could assemble, donned their clothes for the journey, and inspected their rucksacks one last time before cinching them closed. At 9:00 p.m., the doors to Block B were locked. The men waited for the guard to complete his last check of the corridors and rooms and leave the barracks for the night.

  And then the men found themselves facing an unexpected obstacle. Livewire, the ringleader of the proposed Block A escape plot, was discovered to have secreted himself in B. He had heard that the breakout was scheduled to come off that night and was determined to be a part of it. The officers were not about to accommodate him. First, Livewire was not on the list. Second, if it was discovered that he was missing from his own barracks during the final check of the night, an alarm would be raised. Rathborne quickly took control of the situation, ordering Livewire to present himself to the guard on duty and state that he had mistakenly found himself in Block B after lockup. Maybe he had lost track of time, maybe he had fallen asleep—whatever the stated reason, he had to go. Defeated, Livewire heeded the order.

  To be on the safe side, the tunnelers postponed zero hour for the following night.

  Part IV

  Breakout

  Nineteen

  “Tonight!” All through Tuesday, July 23, the tunnelers whispered the same promise to one another. Roused from their beds and herded onto the Spielplatz for morning roll call. “Tonight!” Drinking tea, eating stale biscuits for breakfast, waiting in line for one last parcel or letter. “Tonight!” Another roll call, shuffling about the yard, watching an impromptu game of soccer, spying for any change in the guard, a tasteless lunch. “Tonight!” Reading in their rooms, checking their kits again, debating the merits of the U.S. Army, playing poker, sitting, another roll call. “Tonight!” A gusting wind surged across the camp . . . a storm coming. Another circle of the yard, a stretch of the legs, a pot of coffee. “Tonight!” Talk of crossing t
he Weser, of the dogs the Germans used for manhunts, of soldiers on night watch in the town. The evening roll call, a final harangue from Niemeyer. Murky brown soup for dinner, since they needed to save their own food supplies for their run. “Tonight.”

  At 6:00 p.m., Gray assembled the team in the barracks. Their long captivity was almost over, and they were anxious, knowing well the perils that lay ahead. The men needed to be ready after lockup, he said. The halls and rooms were to be swept of any officers who did not belong in Block B. He needed lookouts at the entrance to deter Livewire or any other interlopers. There could not be another postponement.

  The tunnelers left to prepare, and Gray met quickly with Durnford. The two were of similar age and experience and shared a particular style: well-trimmed mustaches and a military bearing. A decorated officer of the Royal Field Artillery, Durnford was captured in the Ypres Salient after getting lost amid the ruined, featureless landscape in August 1917. He had known about the tunnel for months but considered it nothing but a fool’s errand, sure to be discovered. Now that it was finished, he regretted not being on the list to escape, but he swore to do everything he could to see it come off smoothly. “If B house harbored no aliens that night,” Gray told him, “the escape would take place.” Durnford left to inform Swaggy Grieve, the hulking Australian guarding access to the eaves.

  As the sky darkened and clouds swept across the rising moon, Gray waited with Blain and Kennard in his room. The three passed the time until lockup, examining their maps again, going over their plan for the first few hours of their run to Holland. Blain turned over and over in his hand his silver cigarette lighter, on which he had prematurely inscribed “Holzminden—Escaped July 22.” Kennard wandered about the small room, practicing for his role as the madman. He rolled his eyes, jabbered incoherently, blew spit bubbles, and whimpered like a wounded animal. “Oh, shut up and listen for a minute!” Gray interrupted at one point, drawing his attention back to the maps. The tunnel’s leader was feeling the tension just like all the other men.

  Throughout Block B, officers were nervously waiting. They ate what food they could stomach and smoked cigarettes. Some drank a glass of wine to bolster their courage. Others refused, believing a drink might dull their senses when they most needed their wits about them. Bennett remained sober. In his mind, he played out the journey through the tunnel, then the swim across the Weser. Once on the opposite bank, he hoped to navigate quickly—and quietly—through the surrounding fields of corn and rye, eluding any pursuers. Rathborne strode the barracks hallways and checked with the watch at the entrance to ensure there were no more surprise visits from Livewire. He stopped in to say goodbye to Durnford. When he put on his feathered cap and glasses to show his disguise, Durnford praised his look as “wonderfully Teutonic.” Then he wished him good luck.

  Blain and Kennard returned to their own bunks shortly before 9:00 p.m. At the turn of the hour, the door to Block B was shut and locked on the inside by the lone guard. No matter how long the officers had been prisoners, that resonating clang never lost its impact. Rathborne confirmed that there were no interlopers inside the barracks. One hour more to wait. They put on their escape outfits, layering their pajamas over them. These would keep their clothes clean on the crawl through the tunnel.

  All the while, they kept an ear out for the passing footsteps of the guard making one last round of the barracks. If they heard him entering any of their rooms, the tunnelers knew to jump into bed and throw their blankets up over their clothes.

  The minutes ticked away. The wind continued to gust, and the occasional flash of lightning illuminated the sky in the distance. Rain had yet to fall, but surely it would soon start. If they did manage to break out from the tunnel, the storm would leave them soaked to the bone before they even reached the Weser. Finally, at 10:00 p.m., as was his routine, the guard finished his last check and exited the building. The door locked shut again.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gray informed Durnford that all was clear. Time to go. Durnford made his way through the corridors, alerting those in the ruck that the escape was moving ahead and that each man should be ready when his time came. Some tried to cajole and bribe him into revealing their place on the list, but Durnford was incorruptible.

  Boots in hand, the better to keep quiet, and kit bags looped over their shoulders, the core group of tunnelers crept out of their rooms. Together, they climbed the stairwell to the attic. The handle of the swing doors was removed, and they entered into the attic of Block B. In the room fitted with the hidden panel, the team assembled one last time. There was no need for speeches, nor last-minute instructions. They wished one another well—Good luck, Godspeed—then Butler disappeared into the eaves. Outside, the storm howled. As one officer described, thunder cracked and boomed like the “finale of a gigantic orchestra.” The tunnelers could not have asked for better weather to mask their movements on breakout night.

  A religious man, Butler muttered a short prayer before pushing his kit bag into the tunnel and following it in. The only other officers in the chamber, Andrew Clouston and William Langran, would join him in thirty minutes, giving him time to cut through to the surface. The first stretch, with its downward slope, was easy going. Scores of times he had crawled his way through the sap, but this time was different: the others were depending on him like never before. He needed to move quickly, and his burrow to the surface must escape detection from the guards. Otherwise, nine months of heartache and labor would amount to nothing. Worse still, it might get them all shot. Kit in one hand, candle in the other, he managed to squirm through the tunnel with efficiency. He knew every turn, dip, hollow, and rise by heart. He knew when to duck his head or worm sideways to avoid a protruding stone. He continued to pray as he went.

  At the tunnel’s end, he put his kit to the side. Sweat soaked his hair and collar. Without pause, he started digging a path straight upward. The trowel made easy work of the soft dirt and clay, which poured down on top of him—coating his hair, covering his eyes and ears, trickling down his neck—yet he paid no mind to the discomfort. The quicker he bored to the surface, the more time they would all have to get away from Holzminden. Any delay would mean fewer officers in the ruck would be able to make the escape.

  Finally reaching the surface, Butler took his first breath of fresh, free air. At best, his hole was only six inches in diameter, but it was a start. Rain pelted down, and the light from the camp arc lamps shone brightly.

  He dug faster now that he could kneel up in the tunnel and lengthen his arm, energized by the fact that freedom was within reach.

  Langran and Clouston joined him as planned, and the two of them packed the earth piling up around Butler into the offshoot chamber. Clean air poured into the tunnel from the expanding exit. By 11:40, the hole was wide enough to climb through to the surface. First, Butler pushed his kit out of the tunnel into the field. Then, using his arms and feet to brace the side of the six-foot-deep hole, he slowly rose. His hair was sopping, and rain mixed with dirt poured down his grimy face. As he eased his head out of the tunnel, he was pleased to discover that the exit was just past the first two rows of beans. He emerged into the field. There was no time to rest before his partners joined him.

  He crawled forward on his belly to the first row of beans. Hiding amid the dense leaves, he searched for the guard stationed outside the wall. The arc lamps and the shadows their light cast made it hard to see. As far as Butler knew, the German might be standing still, looking directly toward the tunnel exit, having detected movement of some kind. Then the guard coughed, and Butler saw him against the darkness of the wall. He was pacing to and fro, obviously unalarmed. In that second, the rain halted, the clouds overhead gave way, and moonlight shone down on the field.

  Minutes before, Private Ernest Collinson, an Army Service Corp driver, had been staring toward the bean rows from the first-floor window of Block B’s orderly quarters. For over half an hour he had searched through the darkness for any sign of Butler. By now he should
have cut through to the field. Perhaps, Collinson thought, he had missed him because of the lights and the sheeting rain. Butler might already be in the rye field or moving toward the Weser, but he had no way of knowing for sure. And Gray and his team needed to know definitively that Butler had made it out before they proceeded into the tunnel themselves. They were depending on Collinson.

  Gradually, the moon broke through the clouds. There, amid the bean rows, he spotted a hunched shape. Butler. In the next moment, the figure crawled toward the stalks of rye, followed soon after by two others.

  Collinson hurried from his observation post toward the stairwell. In his socks, he barely made a sound. On the attic floor, he clambered through the small door, quickly crossed the eaves, and knocked on the two-foot-square panel leading into the officers’ quarters. Grieve pulled aside the panel. Butler made it, Collinson reported. Little else needed to be said.

  The next batch of tunnelers began filing into the eaves. “Mr. Blain,” Collinson said, impressed by the sight of the Blain’s civilian suit underneath his pajamas. “You’re all togged up like a proper toff.” Blain widened his arms, as if offering an embrace. “Dance?” The officers laughed quietly, then continued down the eaves. Collinson followed them through into the orderly quarters. When he offered to lead them down to the entrance chamber, Kennard said, “Don’t bother, Collinson, we’ll see ourselves out.”

  They shook hands, and Gray thanked Collinson for his efforts on the men’s behalf. No doubt Dick Cash was also there to see them go, now with a new set of teeth thanks to a collection the officers had taken up to pay a local dentist. “Go on with you,” Collinson said. As the tunnelers moved toward the stairwell, Collinson called out, “The best of luck to all of you—and don’t forget to drop my missus a line when you get home.”