by Neal Bascomb
The woods were empty but for a soldier and his girlfriend, who were in the middle of undressing as Rathborne passed. The young woman caught his eye, but a simple gute nacht kept the two lovers to their embraces. Rathborne continued on.
By dawn on the twenty-sixth, he was within a dozen miles of Göttingen. His boots and pants were soaked from walking through the rugged countryside, damp with morning dew. Discretion should have kept him in hiding during daylight hours, but the thought of another ant assault and a hot afternoon without fresh water drove him to take only a short rest before continuing. With any luck, he could catch a train that evening. After brushing off his suit, straightening his hair, and doing whatever else he could do to make himself look presentable, he hiked along the road.
By 3:00 p.m. he was headed into the outskirts of Göttingen. Set on the river Leine, Göttingen was a university town, surrounded by ramparts. On his way into its town center, Rathborne came across a tavern. He wanted to test out his ability to pass as a German civilian, but more than that, he needed something for his parched throat. He figured that as long as he kept any talk brief, nobody would be any the wiser that German was not his mother tongue.
The tavern’s owner, an old woman who looked as much a part of the place as the scuffed bar, slid him a beer. Rathborne had drunk fine-quality drafts in the past, in Berlin and Munich, but none tasted better in his lifetime than that beer that afternoon. Furthermore, his short conversation with the barkeep boosted his confidence that he could pass himself off as German.
After leaving the tavern, Rathborne walked on, but without a map of the town he soon found himself lost in its tangle of streets. Half-timbered houses and steepled churches abounded in every direction. It would not do to ask for directions, even if he figured it unlikely that the manhunt would extend to Göttingen. Finally, he came to a sign pointing to the station. Along the way, he dropped into a stationery store that was sure to have a train timetable. There would be too many authorities, police and soldiers alike, to risk wandering about the train station. When he arrived, he wanted to buy his ticket and board straightaway.
There was a five o’clock train south to Bebra. From there, he should be able to find a connection farther south to Fulda, then one due west to Cologne. If he had any luck, he could be out of German territory within thirty-six hours at most. Shortly before his train was due to depart, he headed through the rounded stone entrance of Göttingen’s main station. At the ticket window, valise in hand, he bought a ticket to Bebra. The clerk did not pay him a second glance.
But when he showed his ticket to the gate attendant, he was informed that there was no five o’clock train to Bebra. His confusion seemed to pique the attendant’s suspicions. Rathborne quickly apologized for his mistake, then exited the station as calmly as he could. A glance behind him reassured him he wasn’t being followed. A few blocks away, he checked the timetable again. The train he had thought left in the evening had departed at 5:00 a.m. that morning, but there was a train at 8:00 p.m.
Not wanting to be seen loitering, he bought a ticket to the cinema. The film was unmemorable, but the newsreel showing the macabre scene of the kaiser’s soldiers standing over Rathborne’s fallen countrymen during the spring German offensive, struck him to the core. The war had seemed at a remove during his time in prison.
Minutes before eight o’clock, he returned to the station and boarded his train. From his comfortable seat, he watched the fields and hills he had marched through that morning pass by in a blur.
Jim Bennett and Peter Campbell-Martin earned every mile it took to get to the border. They could take no unnecessary risks. There would be no train rides, no beers in pubs, no gifts of food. Neither of them spoke more than a few words of German, and if they ran into a patrol or a villager out for a stroll they would have to run or hide.
Although they traveled only at night, they took special care nonetheless. They scouted every road and railway line, never crossing until they were sure it was clear. Bridges were forbidden territory, and any towns had to be circumvented, regardless of the distance required. When they spotted even the most harmless-looking civilian, they took cover and waited them out. As a further caution, they always walked twenty yards apart from one another. This kept their talking to a safe minimum, and, if confronted from the front or behind, one of them would have the opportunity to escape.
They often came across huts or barns that would have made for better, warmer lodgings than another hideout in the woods or in a field, but they resisted the temptation, fearing a farmer might discover them. They also kept a strict schedule of alternating watches during the day while one of them slept.
Despite all these measures, they were spotted by a policeman on a bicycle early in their flight to Holland. He shouted at them to stop, but even after he drew his pistol Bennett and Campbell-Martin ran, bolting in separate directions. In the moment of hesitation it took the policeman to decide who to shoot, they both managed to get out of range. The policeman took off after Bennett on his bike. Bennett eluded him, but then an attachment of German Army cavalry chased after him. Running faster than he ever had in his life, Bennett finally shook them loose. It took a while to reconnect with Campbell-Martin, and by then he was too exhausted to go much farther.
With incidents like this and all their precautions, they were making slow progress on their 150-mile journey. Every hour they spent on the run heightened the risk of being captured. Equally troublesome, they had only limited food stores, and attempts to forage something to eat at the farms they passed proved fruitless. Their one hot meal a day was usually a fistful of oats mixed with Oxo cubes, but they quickly understood that only stricter rationing would see them to the border without starving.
Twenty-two
After their antics in Gellersen, Gray, Blain, and Kennard slept in a copse of trees instead of attempting to cross the road to Arzen. They had barely left the woods after sundown on July 25 when they spotted a company of soldiers. Scrambling into the forest, they hid in the underbrush. They were close enough to the soldiers to see their bootlaces. Gray deciphered from their conversation that another patrol had nabbed an escaped prisoner down the road. There was nothing they could do to help him.
After the soldiers had trailed away, Blain struck his lighter, and Gray examined the map. Every alteration of their route was laden with compromise. A longer distance weighed against a smaller risk of encountering another patrol; moving quickly down a roadside balanced against the safer but more taxing option of a hike through the countryside.
They struck through some fields to circle around the soldiers before crossing at a well-hidden stretch of road. Then they marched on a northwestern course, at times cutting through farms and forested hillsides, at others keeping to the winding roads. Every couple of hours, they took a break and smoked cigarettes, hands cupped over the ends so the orange glow was not seen in the dark. By sunrise the next day, as they headed toward Hohenhorn, they took advantage of some dense woods to hike on through the daylight and make up for lost time.
Over the next two nights, much of the hours spent in a steady downpour, there were no main roads to follow. They took a yeoman’s journey, down country lanes and muddy paths, halting often at the sight of soldiers and civilians who were clearly part of the Holzminden manhunt. They never stopped for any length of time, knowing well that a tracker or a bloodhound might be closing in on their trail. The patter of the rain was their only cover.
As the bright red dawn of Sunday, July 28, was breaking, they reached the outskirts of Exter—only thirty-six miles from Holzminden as the crow flies. With the many twists and turns of their journey, they had trekked much farther in their five nights on the run. And they still had a long way to go.
Twenty-four hours earlier, Rathborne had arrived into Berba. After resting outside town, hiding himself in a stack of corn, he had a late breakfast of beer at a local tavern, listening to his waitress’s bitter complaints about the shortage of potatoes. He then returned to the s
tation and headed on to Fulda. His train came in too late for him to go straight to Cologne, so he bought a ticket to Frankfurt. He rode in a third-class carriage on a slow local train, as had been his plan. From experience, he knew that conductors and the police were much more rigorous in their inspections of express trains and better-class carriages than the ones he was on.
The train stopped in almost every town along the route. A downside of third class, beyond the relative discomfort, was that it was full of chatty passengers with too much idle time on their hands. A German soldier on leave from the front railed against the nefarious Brits and even thrust a propaganda leaflet, dropped by the RFC, into his hand. A young girl across from Rathborne chattered away as well.
On his arrival at Frankfurt, he cleared out of the station as quickly as he could to avoid any chance encounters with the authorities. His gray suit was dirty, but that was nothing compared to his white shirt, which was so soiled he might well have spent the night in a coal mine. He stopped into a tailor’s shop to replace it, but when asked what size he needed, he could offer only a blank stare, then made a fast exit. He had no knowledge whatsoever of German sizes.
There was more trouble when he went to eat dinner at a restaurant. The garrulous owner said that he could not quite place his accent. Rathborne replied that he was Polish by birth, but he did not stay for dessert in case he had to explain any more about his background. The next couple of hours he spent in the cinema before it was time for his overnight train to Cologne. He slept fitfully on the one-hundred-mile journey, arriving at the station on Sunday morning at 9:00 a.m.
Although the skyline of Cologne was still dominated by the twin Gothic spires of its main cathedral, the city was in a sorrowful state. Most of the shops were shuttered, and those that were open—butcher, bakers, and grocers—had long lines snaking out the door. People on the streets had a forlorn gaze, and men, both young and old, hobbled past with war injuries.
Concerned about his appearance, Rathborne visited a barber for a shave and a haircut. His next train—to Aachen, the spa town a mere five miles from the Dutch frontier—departed that evening. He spent the afternoon in parks, beer halls, and the cinema. He was becoming an expert in whittling away the hours, seen but unseen, and had become accustomed to presenting himself at the ticket booth: a travel-weary businessman who just wanted to get home.
At 9:00 p.m., two hours after his train rumbled out of Cologne, Rathborne arrived into Aachen. He hopped on a tram that terminated at the Ponttor, the medieval gateway northwest of the old city center. From there, he walked to the town’s outskirts. He had a meal and a glass of gin at a small bar, fortifying himself for the last leg of his escape. Then he hid out behind a railway embankment. With map and compass in hand, he charted a route to the border that kept clear of any roads or villages.
At 11:30 p.m., the sky completely dark, he stashed his valise by the embankment and started west. He had gone only a short distance and was walking through fields when a steady rain started to fall. The pitter-patter masked the sound of the crackling stalks underfoot. For an hour he pushed his way through the crops. Then all of a sudden a pack of dogs started barking. He dropped down and laid flat, sure that the dogs were close enough to chase him out. When the dogs quieted, he heard the voices of soldiers. For a long while, he remained absolutely still as the rain soaked through his clothes, leaving his skin cold. Neither the barking nor the voices came any closer. Finally, Rathborne decided to move ahead.
He crawled on his hands and knees, fallen corn stalks cutting his hands as he went. He heard soldiers now and again but decided that his best chance was to continue. He was uncertain as to how far he had gone—with the dense stalks it was slow going. On he crawled, hoping the border would come sooner than the pounce of its sentries. He must be so close now.
On their own, or in bands of twos and threes, many of the tunnelers and the ruck were recaptured and returned to Holzminden. Captain Frank Sharpe and Lieutenant Bernard Luscombe, numbers 28 and 29 out of the tunnel, were the first to come back through the gates. Niemeyer glowered at them as they passed. The two had made little preparation and had only a slim head start before the tunnel was discovered. Soldiers nabbed them fifteen miles downriver, on the banks of the Weser. With the return of each tunneler, the mood among the Holzminden prisoners darkened. Would any of the escapees manage the home run to Holland?
Although filthy and stinking, Sharpe and Luscombe were sent immediately to the cellars. No bath and no change of clothes were offered, and they were put on a bread and water diet.
When Niemeyer finally appeared down in solitary, he was in a venomous mood. He removed Sharpe’s gold watch from his wrist and put it on the table. Then, using a knife, he stabbed and crushed the family heirloom into bits. He ordered the guard to tear the civilian outfits Sharpe and Luscombe were wearing into “ribbons.” The two were left half-naked with strict orders that nobody was to communicate with them nor provide them with any additional food. As far as Niemeyer cared, they could rot in the cells. He promised to make that official with a court-martial.
Others soon joined them. The police, soldiers, and bloodhounds sent out on the manhunt had less impact than the countless German citizens marshaled to look out for the escaped prisoners. Whether it was out of patriotism or greed for the reward, they were incredibly effective. Butler, the first out of the tunnel, was nabbed after he stole a bicycle in a village. Others were flushed out of fields or seized at crossroads. When guards brought in Mardock and Laurence, morale among the prisoners deflated. It looked like none of the fugitives would make it to Holland.
By Monday, July 29, ten of the twenty-nine escapees had been returned to the camp. The men’s sorry states—grubby outfits, sallow faces, bodies narrowed from loss of weight—only further darkened the mood in the camp.
Niemeyer swelled pridefully in his blue greatcoat with each recapture. Never one to let good fortune pass by without boasting about his own hand in it, he shepherded in reporters to chronicle each return. They wrote down what Niemeyer dictated, with embellishments for color. Without exception, Niemeyer insisted that the prisoners had only succeeded in their escapes because of British accomplices outside the camp. There was an army of spies in the vicinity, he claimed, with no end to their abilities when it came to providing clothing, food, intelligence, and even a spare sapper or two.
Although Niemeyer tried to wring a confession from the captured escapees, none of them admitted to even using the tunnel, let alone having dug it. All of his attempts to bribe the orderlies, Cash included, into informing on the conspiracy and its members also failed.
These efforts, and Niemeyer’s abuse of the returned prisoners, stirred the pot of rebellion throughout Holzminden. Stokes-Roberts believed that the mass escape would surely see Niemeyer removed from his position. But when General Hänisch sent an officer to investigate the events, he made clear that Niemeyer would stay. No war crime or level of incompetence seemed capable of dislodging him from power.
Silent resistance continued nonetheless. One day, the officers lit cigarettes and pipes at roll call. Such was the amount of smoke that the parade ground looked like a bustling factory. Another day, they refused to answer their names when called. Another day, they came out bare-chested. Each time, Niemeyer sent in his guards to herd them back into the barracks, each time with a little more violence. So many prisoners had been arrested for violations that they eventually had to be housed in the town jail.
Niemeyer focused most of his attention on seeing the fugitives returned. By July’s end, fifteen prisoners remained out. But Holland was a long way away. By looking at where the other escapees had been caught, Niemeyer drew a bead on the remaining men’s westward line of flight: Holzminden, Bodenwerder, Hamelin, Lohne, Bielefeld, Ahaus, Gronau, and on to the Dutch border. He called for local assistance along that path. Even if the prisoners did find their way to the border, Niemeyer knew well that in their bedraggled and half-starved state, they would be easy pickings for the G
erman sentries. He was confident that he would win out in the end.
Then one day while in the Kommandantur, he received a telegram sent from Holland. It was written by Lieutenant Colonel Charles Rathborne. It said: “Having a lovely time [STOP] If I ever find you in London will break your neck [STOP].”
The first of the breakout artists had made it.
Always careful, but as fast as they could manage. That was the maxim of Bennett and Campbell-Martin. By dawn on July 31, they had made up for their earlier slow pace, and the Dutch border was now only some fifty miles away. Another few nights of trekking, avoiding trouble or misdirection, and they should be within reach of a crossing.
They had become skilled interlopers. Rye fields could not be trusted for a daytime hideout because the harvest was beginning. Corn and wheat fields were better. Whenever they reached one, they made sure to enter it without leaving a trace of a broken stalk or a heavy footprint. After they were inside the rows, they could march more swiftly: nobody but a search plane would see the damage, and the Germans had yet to bring these to bear in their hunt. Villagers were trouble enough, and the whole countryside seemed to be pocked with hamlets that time had clearly forgot.
A few times, they crossed paths with bands of their fellow tunnelers—evidence of like minds and a shared map. There was little time for a “cheerio,” let alone swapping stories, but they all had plenty to tell. Tullis and Purves had linked up with Edward Leggatt by the railway line between Hövelhof and Bielefeld, a large industrial town. Together they had accidentally knocked a German off his bicycle, been chased by three middle-aged women, avoided a patrol of teenage Boy Scouts by climbing a tree, and watched a lover’s quarrel while hidden under a bridge. In between these episodes, Leggatt sketched scenes of their escape in his notebook while Tullis and Purves took turns reading a book on polar expeditions they had brought with them. The diversions kept the miseries of their daily marches—including Leggatt’s feet, blistered raw from ill-fitting boots—temporarily at bay.
