by Neal Bascomb
Blain and Kennard returned to their own bunks shortly before 9 p.m. They put on their escape outfits with their pajamas over them. The pajamas would keep their clothes clean while they were crawling through the tunnel. 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. One hour more to wait. They kept an ear out for the footsteps of the guard. If they heard him coming into 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 lit up the sky. Rain had yet to fall, but it would start before long. If they did manage to break out, they would be soaked to the skin before they even reached the river. At 10 p.m., as was his routine, the guard finished his last check and exited the building, locking the door behind him. 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 going ahead and that each man should be ready when his time came. Some tried to cajole and bribe him to know their place on the list, but Durnford was incorruptible.
Boots in hand, all 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 stairs to the attic. The handle of the swing doors was removed, and they entered the attic floor. They assembled one last time in the room with the hidden panel. There was no need for speeches, nor any final instructions. They were all prepared for what lay ahead.
They wished each other well—Good luck, Godspeed—then Butler, the first on the list, disappeared into the eaves. Outside, the storm howled. As one officer described it, thunder cracked and boomed like the “finale of a gigantic orchestra.” They could not have asked for better weather to sneak into the night.
A religious man, Butler muttered a short prayer before pushing his kitbag into the tunnel and following it in. He had crawled his way through the sap scores of times, but it had never felt so important as now. One of the best and fastest sappers on the team, the others were depending on him like never before. His burrowing up to the surface could not be detected by the guards. Otherwise, nine months of labor and heartache would have been for nothing. Worse still, it might result in some of them being shot. Kit in one hand, candle in the other, he squirmed through the tunnel. The first stretch, with its downward slope, was easy going. He knew every turn, dip, hollow, and rise by heart. He knew when to duck his head and when to 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 taking a break, he started digging straight upward. The trowel made easy work of the soft dirt and clay, which poured down on top of him—coating his hair, sticking in his eyes and ears, trickling down his neck. He paid no mind to the discomfort. The sooner he got to the surface, the more time they would all have to get away. What was more, any delay meant that fewer officers in the ruck would be able to escape as well. Within a half hour, he reached the surface and took his first breath of fresh free air. Rain pelted down, and the light from the camp arc lamps looked unnaturally bright. His hole was only six inches in diameter, but it was a start. He dug faster now that he could kneel up in the tunnel and extend his arm, faster too no doubt because freedom was within reach.
The next two officers on the list, Andrew Clouston and William Langran, joined him after a half hour, as planned, and the two of them packed the earth piling up around Butler into the offshoot chamber. By 11:40, the hole was wide enough to climb through to the surface. First, Butler pushed his kit up out of the tunnel into the field. Then, using his arms and feet to brace the sides of the six-foot-deep hole, he slowly rose. His hair was soaked, and rain mixed with dirt poured down his grimy face. As he eased his head overground, he was pleased to discover that the exit came out beyond the first two rows of beans. He climbed up into the field and crawled on his belly to where the bean plants started. Hiding amid the dense leaves, he searched for the guard stationed outside the prison wall. The arc lamps and the shadows they cast made it hard to see. For all he knew, the guard might be standing still, eyes fixed on the tunnel exit because he had spotted some kind of movement there. Then the guard coughed, and Butler saw him at last against the darkness of the wall. He was pacing to and fro, obviously unconcerned and unalarmed. In that moment, the rain halted, the clouds overhead gave way, and moonlight shone down on the field.
Holzminden from the outside, with fields in foreground.
Minutes before the rain stopped, Private Ernest Collinson, an Army Service Corp driver and one of the orderlies, had been staring at 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. He should have cut through to the surface by now. Perhaps, Collinson thought, he had missed him because of the lights and the sheeting rain. He might already be in the rye field or on his way to 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 to tell them.
Gradually, the moon broke through the clouds. There, amid the bean rows, Collinson spotted a hunched figure. In the next moment, the man crawled toward the stalks of rye, followed soon after by two others. Collinson hurried from his observation post to the stairwell. In his socks, he barely made a sound. Once up on the attic floor, he clambered through the small door, quickly crossed the eaves, and knocked on the panel into the officers’ quarters. Grieve pulled it aside. “Butler made it,” Collinson said. Little else was needed. The next batch of tunnelers—including Blain, Kennard, and Gray—filed into the eaves. Collinson followed them back into the orderly quarters. When he offered to lead them down to the cellars, Kennard said, “Don’t bother, Collinson, we’ll see ourselves out.”
“Chocks away,” Blain said, tossing his kit ahead of him into the hole, but the bravado he had maintained throughout the evening quickly dissipated as he crawled in after it. Kennard followed, then Gray. Those who had gone before had left a few tin-can lamps burning along the path, but, given the passage’s many kinks and turns, the three crawled mostly in pitch darkness. They did not want to waste time by holding candles. Blain kept up a good pace, pushing his rucksack ahead of him. He wriggled a few inches on his elbows. Pushed the rucksack. Wriggled. Pushed. When his jacket caught on a rock or when he slowed to take a breath, he felt Kennard’s bag push up against his feet.
During one stretch, which was lit by candlelight, Blain suddenly found himself staring straight into the face of a rat. Its eyes were like black beads. He had seen many rodents while working in the tunnel, but the sight still sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could brush it away, the rat disappeared into the darkness, its senses no doubt alive to an exit ahead. The tunnel had never felt so long nor looked so ominous. Blain found himself panting for breath, and his arms grew heavy from pushing his kit ahead of him. The shadows cast about the narrow, misshapen bore resembled monsters awaiting to attack. He wanted nothing more than to be free of it. Then he saw a light up ahead, shining down into the tunnel. He panicked. The Germans must have found the sap exit. They were lost.
The entrance to the Holzminden tunnel, July 1918.
He would have scrambled away had there been anywhere to go. Instead, he lay flat and motionless as a stone. “What’s up?” Kennard asked, his voice little more than a muffled mutter. His claustrophobia was making him more anxious than ever. Blain angled his head to the side, his eyes adjusting enough to see that the light was simply the glare of the arc lamps through the hole. But he now found himself stuck. Gray added his muffled demand to know what the problem was. Kennard thumped the back of Blain’s boots. Finally, the young pilot wrenched free and moved ahead again, his heart be
ating like a drum in his chest. After a couple more feet of crawling, he reached the tunnel exit and breathed a cool draft of fresh air. He rose to his knees, then to his feet, in what he figured might well become his vertical grave. Only the encouragement from Kennard and Gray kept him moving. He eased his kit out into the field, then squirmed himself upward. As his head rose out of the tunnel, he fully expected to hear the crack of a gunshot. When he was met only by the patter of raindrops, Blain finally caught his breath and calmed down.
Sixty yards away, Holzminden was cast in a ghostly white pallor by the arc lamps swinging in the wind. The guard paced back and forth by the wall, his rifle tucked under his arm, his coat collar tight around his neck. The wind blew from the southwest, stealing away any sound Blain might make. Taking care anyway, he eased himself slowly up into the field and kept his body low as he scrambled through the rows of beans. Then he stopped and looked back toward the tunnel exit. Kennard, then Gray, then the others behind them emerged in close succession. It looked like their heads and feet were connected, and they resembled a huge, mud-splattered crocodile. Blain almost laughed at the spectacle.
At last he reached the rye field. Some of the fallen stalks rustled loudly underfoot. Afraid that the guard would hear the racket, he waited at the edge of the field for Gray and Kennard to catch up. In whispers, they debated advancing into the rye versus crawling along the edge of the field until they were far enough away from the camp. Taking charge, Gray decided to go through the stalks. It was the quickest way, and he was sure that the rainfall would deaden any noise. They crunched their way into the field, Blain convinced that the guard would hear them and that cries of alarm were bound to follow—no doubt with dogs soon after. When nothing happened, he relaxed enough to straighten up from his crouched walk and speed up. After the rye field, they came to the main road that ran between Holzminden and Arholzen, the nearest town to the northwest. They knew from their German accomplices that during the night the police patrolled this stretch of road on bicycles, and they were sure to wait until they were confident that the coast was clear. Then Gray led them northward through more fields of rye and corn, to the top of a low hill.
There they dropped their rucksacks to the ground and took a brief rest. In the distance, the town of Holzminden seemed to float in a sea of darkness. At last, they were able to savor their freedom. They were masters of their own fate again. The air never tasted fresher; the hunk of Caley’s Marching Chocolate never sweeter. “Bet Niemeyer wouldn’t be sleeping so well if he knew where we were,” Blain said.
“Let’s hope nothing disturbs his slumbers until morning,” Kennard replied.
“Just let’s make sure,” Gray said, “we never see that bastard again.” They let the thought linger, then tramped down the hill to the Weser. The river served as a natural barrier to any escape westward. Bridges over it were patrolled, and its fast, deep waters had delayed—or altogether foiled—earlier escape bids. They needed to cross to its opposite bank before first light of dawn, at roughly 4:30 a.m. Otherwise, they were sure to be recaptured.
Charles Rathborne thrust his body into the tunnel, the fit almost as tight as a cork being pushed into a bottle. The already stout officer had been made stouter by the two suits he wore: one to get dirty and be thrown away, the other his disguise—a German civilian on a cross-country train journey. He had only been down into the sap once before and had never gone through its full length. He was quite unaccustomed to the claustrophobic environment and the effort it took to crawl through. The fact that his face was almost level with the dirt floor only deepened his discomfort. Nonetheless, he kept pushing himself forward, grunting and sweating as he went. Jim Bennett was behind him, like a race horse behind a mule, but there was no way around the senior officer, nor could he do anything about the walls and roof of the tunnel being disturbed by Rathborne’s movement.
Rathborne was not the first to disturb the already shaky structural integrity of the tunnel. What with their kits and their eagerness to reach the exit, the officers of the first group of 13 who had gone before had knocked out struts, loosened rocks, and left chunks of dirt (as well as tins of food fallen from their rucksacks) along the path. Once the ruck arrived, the state of the tunnel would surely deteriorate further. After over an hour in the tunnel, Rathborne finally squirmed free. Stretched out in the bean rows he was certain he could hear the sentry breathing.
Bennett rose from the sap after him, followed by fellow airman Peter Campbell-Martin. They wished each other well, then Rathborne wriggled on his belly into the rye stalks. Once deep inside the field, he lifted up to his hands and knees and continued at a crawl. Beyond the rye field was one of corn. Such was the denseness of its narrow rows that he almost felt trapped by the crop. At last he broke free. He crossed a cabbage field, then brazenly hiked along the road that led south from Holzminden. While the others were headed west, in the direction Niemeyer would immediately suspect and send his guards, Rathborne had decided to go the opposite way. He planned to catch a train, the first of several, in Göttingen, 35 miles to the southeast.
Bennett and Campbell-Martin threaded 300 yards through the same rye and cornfields as Rathborne, albeit traveling much more quickly and in the opposite direction. They may have been moving in the direction Niemeyer would suspect, but they intended to do so at such a pace that nobody would catch up with them.
In Block B, Durnford was making his rounds, peeking into rooms, whispering to members of the ruck when they could start their escape now that the core team of tunnelers were out. At 12:45 p.m., he knocked on the door of Major Jack Morrogh of the Royal Irish Regiment, number 22 on the list. “Your turn, Major, and God bless you,” Durnford said. Morrogh thanked him and rushed up the two flights of stairs to the attic. In the attic room, Grieve told him he would have to wait a bit longer. Someone was stuck in the tunnel. Morrogh hunkered down beside the dormer window, listening to the gale and intermittent rain. Now and again, he looked out the window to watch the German guards on their rounds. Little did the one stationed outside the wall know that there were men several feet directly underneath him.
“All clear,” an orderly announced from the eaves. Grieve allowed Morrogh and several other officers to pass. They crept along the length of the barracks through the eaves, down the stairs, and into the chamber. After shaking hands with a fellow Irishman, Corporal Mackay, Morrogh entered the tunnel. It was the first time he had ever been in it. Following a quick descent of the initial slope, he found himself in pitch black. The tightness did not surprise him as much as the roar of sound. The long snake of men ahead of him—their heavy breathing, wriggling bodies, clanging kit bags, and curses—made for an almighty din. The guard aboveground must be able to hear them for sure.
He inched forward, wrestling past broken struts and piles of dirt and stone. The tunnel was in a sorrowful shape. Just as he began to gather some kind of rhythm, using his grip on his rucksack to pull himself forward, he felt like he hit a wall. Then the wall started to back itself up against him. The man in front was attempting to reverse. Morrogh tried to shout at him, but with his face inches from the damp earth, his voice came out muffled. Stuck and panicking, the man in front thrashed about, kicking his legs and twisting back and forth. Meanwhile, the officer behind Morrogh pushed at his heels. Crushed between the two, Morrogh was terrified. At last, the man ahead jerked himself free, moved on, and Morrogh was able to start crawling again. He was tired, desperate for fresh air, and harried by the continuous noise.
He managed only a few feet before he encountered a large stone blocking his path. The officer in front must have dislodged it in his panic. Using his rucksack, Morrogh shoved the stone a few inches forward, hoping to find the place on the tunnel’s wall where it had broken loose. If it had fallen from the roof, there would be no hope. Bracing his legs, he thrust against the stone. Then again. Then again. He was damaging the sides of the tunnel, but he had no choice. Feeling with his hands, he found the place where the rock had come off the wall.
With one last shove, he returned it to its place. The tunnel was disintegrating with the ruck’s every movement. Morrogh feared he might never find his way out.
David Gray scanned the river for the narrowest point to cross. The storm had roiled the black waters, and the distance to the opposite shore looked like an ocean. Kennard was scouting the banks and spotted a dilapidated fence bordering a nearby field. He had an idea and started breaking off slats. Bound together, the wood could serve as a raft for their clothes and rucksacks. By the time he and Blain had gathered enough wood, Gray had found a point to begin their swim. It would still be at least 150 yards across to the other bank. They stripped down to their underwear, bound up their clothes, and put everything on the roped-together fence slats. Their watches read 2:15 A.M.—before they too went into the rucksacks.
The men were already soaked through by the rain when they slipped into the tepid water. The shifting clouds overhead cast the river alternately in darkness and moonlight. Fearing a patrol, they waited for it to be dark before pushing away from the bank. They swam furiously for the other side, each holding on to a side of the raft to keep it steady. Waves swept over their heads, and by the movement of the trees on the opposite shore, they could tell that the currents were dragging them swiftly downstream. On they went, kicking their legs and swinging their arms. Halfway across, they were already breathing heavily, their limbs weary. A whitecap almost pitched over their raft, but they managed to keep it afloat. Desperation and nothing else drove them to reach the western shore. At last, they climbed onto the bank and collapsed with relief. After recovering a little, they emptied the raft. The wind and rain chilled them to the bone as they put their damp clothes back on. Kennard dragged the raft a few hundred yards up the bank to throw off the German bloodhounds that were sure to follow on their trail.
