The Escape Artists

by Neal Bascomb

  After Bennett and Campbell-Martin split off from Bousfield, he traveled with the two Irishmen, Morrogh and Smith. They had run into their share of Germans, but their closest shave came while hiding in the only place they could find one morning—a strip of wheat bordered on either side by stacks of cut rye. They had their boots off and were making tea when some farmhands and a small dog came out to the field. While the three fugitives lay still on the ground, the farmers hauled out some of the harvest from either side of them. All was well until Bousfield sneezed. The farmers surely heard the sound. The three fugitives readied to sprint away, boots in hand, but luckily the Germans continued with their work, probably thinking the sound had come from one of their fellow farmers on the opposite side of the wheat patch.

  Bennett and Campbell-Martin would need ample supplies of luck, endurance, and skill as they marched on toward the border. They were almost out of food, their bodies were weary, their nerves frayed. And the riskiest leg of their journey was about to begin.

  The dogs were barking in Twiehausen. Rain poured from the sky, and the surrounding land was too thick with mud to allow them to circumvent the hamlet easily. Gray, Kennard, and Blain thought they wouldn’t have any trouble passing unnoticed through the single lane of cottages in the middle of the night. But with every cottage they passed, it seemed, another dog began to howl. They would have had a better chance tiptoeing stealthily through a kennel with cuts of steak around their necks. The only cover was provided by the cottages’ front gardens, so they stuck to the lane, despite the din of dogs barking and scratching at windows. A few doors opened, with villagers peering out to see what was causing the ruckus. Earlier in their journey, they might have sped through the hamlet or avoided it altogether. But more than a week without proper rest, hiking miles every day, sleeping outdoors, eating half rations, and wearing damp clothes had left them cavalier in the face of risk.

  Finally, they cleared Twiehausen, the cacophony of barking dogs fading into the distance. They hadn’t been stopped that time, but the three knew well that it would take only a single mistake—the misreading of a sign, a careless hiding spot, an inquisitive passerby—for all to be lost. They had already passed the longest time any of them had been out on the run before.

  The next night, the sky was bright with stars. Navigation would have been easy except they spent hours trudging through the swamp that encircled much of Dümmer Lake. Mosquitoes bedeviled them. By the time they reached dry land, they were covered in bites. It was almost dawn, on August 1, but they continued until they had gone around the town of Damme. Every one of the eleven miles they traversed had been a painful slog. Finally spent, they hid in some woods to rest. All three men had lost weight during their almost two years of captivity, and after the past several days of strain, little nutrition, and limited water, they were like skeletons. Their clothes hung loosely on their frames, their eyes stared listlessly, and they were all suffering from colds. When the afternoon sun blazed directly over their resting spot, they barely grunted in conversation. Blain’s eyes were creased and his cheeks sunken; he looked twice his age. Gray tried to lighten the mood, pointing out that they were now only fourteen miles south of Vechta. They might as well simply head up to the insane asylum, he joked; they looked like they belonged there. Blain and Kennard managed a grin—laughter took too much effort.

  After dusk, they pushed through their exhaustion and marched at a swift pace down the road to Vehs. Due south of their route was Osnabrück, where they had first banded together to escape. It felt like a lifetime ago. They covered sixteen miles that night, but in their ambition stopped too late to find anywhere other than a narrow thicket of trees in which to hide. By their map, Gray determined that they were roughly forty-five miles from Sellingen, the Dutch border town, and that they should make their cross to freedom in four nights. They had rations enough for only two. Determination would need to cover the rest.

  Twenty-three

  As the sky brightened on Friday, August 2, Bennett and Campbell-Martin came to a road at the edge of a moor, roughly fifteen miles from the border. The only places where they could hide for the day were an open ditch leading into the wetlands or a hedgerow near a farmhouse a short distance away. They chose the hedge and crept inside its twist of branches.

  In the late morning, Bennett was on watch while Campbell-Martin slept. He heard the chatter of young children approaching. They must have seen their footprints or a break in the hedge. The voices came closer and closer. As they drew near enough to peek inside the tangle of brush, Bennett shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep, not wanting to scare them. The children grew excited, but Bennett had no idea what they were saying. A moment later, the kids fled toward the farmhouse, calling out to their parents in alarm.

  Bennett shook Campbell-Martin awake. They grabbed their rucksacks and scrambled from the hedge. Shouts rose from the farm as they dashed across the road and into the moor. They slogged through the shallow channels that extended like laneways through the soggy bracken and moss. It was an exhausting effort, but they gained some distance from the farmhouse. After an hour, although they were still stuck in the open moor, they thought they were clear from any pursuers. Then they spotted a pair of cavalry officers leading their horses into the bog. Bennett and Campbell-Martin knew there was no chance they could outpace the horses.

  Panic soon gave way to a plan, as devised by Bennett. From the horses’ movement up and down the ditches, it was clear that the Germans had a systematic search plan. He decided to use the soldiers’ rigid pattern against them. As the horses labored down the channel next to the one in which they were hidden, Bennett readied to give Campbell-Martin the sign to go. The cavalry reached the end and directed their horses up and out of that channel and into the one occupied by the two fugitives.

  In the narrow window of time while the horses heaved themselves through the soup of peat, thick grasses, and low shrubs, Bennett and Campbell-Martin doubled back into the channel the cavalry had just vacated. They hid themselves, bodies pressed flat against the walls of the ditch. Their timing was flawless, and the cavalry unwittingly moved over the exact spot in which they had been hidden seconds before.

  They remained hidden on the edge of the channel until the early afternoon, when their pursuers were but specks in the distance. After reaching the outskirts of the moor, they spent the rest of the day inside a drainage pipe that ran underneath a country lane.

  Later that day, after dark, they came to the Dortmund-Ems Canal. Running parallel to the Ems River, the waterway was built to transport coal and other goods between the port of Emden and the industrial Ruhr Valley. It was yet another barrier the escapees would have to overcome before they reached Holland. Campbell-Martin had already shown himself to be a poor swimmer on their first night out when they were crossing the Weser, but neither of them wanted to chance using one of the canal’s many bridges, particularly since the authorities were clearly on close watch for any of the Holzminden fugitives. A bridge that appeared unguarded at first glance could be hiding soldiers on the opposite side, just waiting to challenge anyone who crossed.

  They would not have known that Bousfield, Morrogh, and Smith were planning to take exactly this risk that very same night, crossing a canal bridge to the south. Only Bousfield, the Cambridge champion runner, eluded capture, and he nearly took a bullet in the back as he sprinted away.

  In the dark, Bennett and Campbell-Martin could not gauge how far they would have to swim to cross the canal, but they suspected it would be at least fifty yards. They had made a pair of water wings from the sleeves of Campbell-Martin’s Burberry jacket to help him stay afloat. Bennett leaped in—to find that the canal was only three feet deep on its eastern shore. Campbell-Martin slipped down into the water with less of an abrupt splash. Both kept their clothes on, since they were already soaked through after their wade through the moor.

  Water wings secure, Campbell-Martin held onto Bennett’s shoulders. The canal soon grew deep, and Bennett lost hi
s purchase on its bottom. They were almost halfway across when Bennett started to struggle against the current. Wanting to help, Campbell-Martin turned onto his back so he could kick with his legs. As he did, one of his water wings split open. Off balance, he flailed with his arm only to rupture the other water wing. Bennett grabbed him before he went under. Campbell-Martin held onto Bennett’s back while he pushed his way to the west bank. To their surprise, the embankment was almost a sheer wall, ten feet high. There was no way to scale it, and Bennett was losing strength as he fought against the drag of the water on his clothes.

  Something needed to be done, and quickly. As Campbell-Martin held onto the embankment to keep them steady, Bennett stripped off his clothes. He handed them to his friend, who balled them up and threw them onto the embankment to retrieve later. Now unburdened by the wet clothes, Bennett slipped downstream with Campbell-Martin beside him. Two hundred yards away, they found a place where they could climb out of the canal. Naked and exhausted, Bennett hiked back up the canal to find his clothes, but could not locate them among the reeds. The two got a good laugh out of his predicament. Bennett might well be the first to make his home run to Holland in nothing but his birthday suit. They hunted back and forth along the embankment until Bennett finally located the bundle of clothes underneath a bush.

  They still had the Ems to cross the next night, followed by the border. They marched onward in their drenched clothes and sopping boots, their brief moment of mirth having given way to misery.

  One foot after the other. In the late hours of Saturday, August 3, Gray was leading from the front, compass in hand. For their twelfth night out, he kept them mostly on the road. They never moved faster than a slow trudge, but it was a steady one, without detour for several miles. Near the hamlet of Wieste, the road took a sharp turn away from their northwestward course. They left its easy track for a tramp through a deep marsh, their boots sticking in the mud. The only sounds in the night were their grunts of exertion and the sucking sound of the mud taking hold of each step. Neither Gray nor Blain and Kennard had the energy to speak.

  Over sixteen miles after they began, they collapsed in some woods before daybreak on Sunday. They slept soundly. Then, once dusk settled over the countryside, they set off on yet another trek. They passed through cultivated farmland from time to time, but their efforts to forage from the fields yielded nothing. The best nourishment they found was some rotten turnips that turned the stomach and raw potatoes that were better for cracking teeth than eating. Before morning, they intended to cross a point where the Ems River and canal met. That swim alone was enough to occupy their fears.

  The same Sunday evening, southwest of Blenheim, perched high in the branches of a tree, Jim Bennett watched German soldiers go in and out of a camp just three hundred yards away. The camp housed the sentries who served the frontier a short distance from its gates. Early that morning, he and Campbell-Martin had taken cover in the tree’s dense foliage. While there, they surveyed the best way to penetrate into Holland. It was one thing to see the border on the map, another to see its exact location and surroundings and to determine the best place to cross.

  Armed sentries patrolled the 350-mile border, but there was no great high wall to separate Germany and the Netherlands, no single line of defense. In some places, there were manmade earthen embankments; in others, a canal or road to separate the two countries. There were woods and open fields divided by electrified fences or barbwire, and there were stretches where it was impossible to know whether you had passed the border or not unless you came across a guard or sentry post. In some senses, the border’s irregularity, often dictated by terrain, was its own defense. The longer you looked for an undefended spot, the surer you were to be caught by roving patrols or by a farmer who would be rewarded handsomely if you were apprehended.

  By observing the movements of the frontier sentries, Bennett had a good idea of where the border line was. He figured their best opportunity lay where it ran through some woods. Because of the nearby camp, he figured there might be an electrified fence serving as a barrier, but they were too far away to see. There were dogs, for sure.

  Stuck in the tree until dark, the day passed slowly. There was nothing for them to do but watch the guard and try to forget how thirsty and hungry they were. They had eaten the last scraps of their food after swimming the Ems the night before. Connoisseurs of puddle water, they were desperate for something fresh to drink. Late in the day, a storm settled over them, turning the sky black. Rain beat down through the trees, and the thunder cracked and boomed in every direction. After a few hours, it was still fairly dark, and they might have set out early, but then the clouds broke, and the sun shone brightly. They waited in their perch until the sun set and night stole completely over the countryside.

  The two men then dropped down to the ground, fixed their compass for southwest, and started off across the moor. Thoughts coursed through Bennett’s head about what might prevent him reaching freedom—electrified fences, dogs, burly sentries—and how he would overcome each. His general strategy would be to run as quickly and boldly as possible through any gap he could find. Only a bullet, and maybe not even that, would stop him setting foot in Holland before dawn the next day.

  When they neared the woods, they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled into the trees. The earlier rain had done little to dampen the vegetation on the forest floor, which crackled beneath their weight. It seemed that the closer they were to where they thought the border was located, the more noise they unwittingly made in their advance. They both grabbed heavy sticks to use in the event they met with resistance. Finally, they straightened up and eased forward. Ahead, the darkness was lifting. Bennett figured they must be close to the edge of the woods. A few minutes later, he spotted the line of a barbwire fence. The border. It was a hundred yards away at the most. A lone sentry stood between them and freedom.

  The two men crept through the trees. As of yet they had neither seen nor heard any dogs. But then a rustling sound came from the woods just a short distance away. Bennett stopped cold, and Campbell-Martin drew up alongside him. For a long moment, the two waited. There were no other sounds, yet Bennett sensed someone in the darkness ahead—someone on alert. He was sure of it. Still he advanced; there was no turning back now. He’d gone just a few steps when he heard the distinct cocking of a rifle.

  “Halt!” a German sentry ordered.

  Bennett and Campbell-Martin knew what they had to do. They barely gave each other a look before charging straight through the trees at the sentry, their sticks readied to swing. Their sudden movement came as a surprise to the guard, who stood motionless as Bennett swept past, running so quickly he did not have the time, nor the need, to use his stick. Campbell-Martin followed on his heels.

  Finding a break in the barbwire fence, the two men raced through it. “Halt!” the sentry shouted again. The crack of a rifle echoed behind as the two officers charged headlong into Holland. The first shot, then the next, missed their mark. The men kept running and running until they both spilled into the Dinkel River, free of Germany at last.

  Collapsing on the opposite bank, the two shook hands. “We’ve made it,” they said at the same time.

  On the morning of August 5, hidden in a stretch of woods outside Lathen, beyond the Ems River, Gray, Kennard, and Blain had their last meal—some Horlicks tablets (a mix of dried milk, barley, and wheat). Other than a couple of squares of chocolate each, they were completely out of food. To warm them, Blain served out the few ounces of cognac left in his flask. They had long since smoked their last cigarettes, but the spirits offered some relief before the rising chatter of birds in the trees signaled that it was time to sleep.

  At twilight, Gray laid out the last remaining section of the map. This was reason enough to be encouraged. He sensed his partners’ spirits needed bolstering—and maybe his own too. They were eight miles from the border now. Along their path, almost due west, there were no major roads to cross and but a few sma
ll hamlets to circumvent. Only the amorphous dark form representing the Walchumer Moor separated them from Holland. A single night’s march and they would be past the map’s border line by morning, hopefully eating a rich breakfast. Or, if things went the other way, dodging rifle fire.

  The three airmen soon fell into the maw of the Walchumer. They trudged through its narrow channels, across islands of peat, and into hollows waist-deep in fetid water. Every step was unsure footing, their boots almost always either in a stream or buried in sticky mud. They slipped and stumbled, floundered backwards, sideways, every which way. Often it was impossible to move forward without one of them leaning on another—or asking for a hand or a yank on the rucksack straps to loosen them from the moor’s sucking grasp. Night crawlers slithered underneath their clothes, and clouds of insects swarmed around them. If the three had known more about the Walchumer, they would have circumvented it for sure.

  Hour after hour, they slogged their way through, never on a straight compass line. If there had been a trail left in their wake, it would have looked like a drunkard’s tramp. Rain pelted down, mixing with the sweat in their eyes, and the sky was black. After fourteen nights of marching, the last two on little more than nibbles of chocolate, they had only their last reserves of mental endurance to drive them onward. They drew from the shame, unwarranted though it was, of being shot down and captured. The months, years, stolen from their lives. The separation from their squadrons and their families. The narrow escapes, only to be recaptured. The spells in solitary, sometimes at the brink of madness and death. The deprivations of Holzminden. The endless hours of tunneling, the terror of the dark, the fear of collapse, of being buried alive in the bowels of the earth. And Karl Niemeyer. The thought of Niemeyer, of the moment he would realize they had beaten him, was reason enough to continue.