by Damien Lewis
Filling their pockets with as much food and cigarettes as possible, each of the would-be escapees lined up, and waited for the train to slow enough to chance a leap. Two South Africans went first, followed by another pair of desperate fugitives. As Paterson poked his head out, readying himself to follow, he saw one of the figures ahead of him inch his way onto the coupling linking the two carriages. Suddenly, the train gave an almighty jolt, knocking the figure off his feet and throwing him beneath the wheels.
Paterson looked on in horror, but the men behind – unaware of the tragedy – were growing restless. Plucking up his courage, Paterson squeezed himself out onto the coupling. By now the train was powering down into a valley and picking up speed. He would be killed outright if he jumped. Eventually the train slowed and the Big Canadian summoned up his courage . . . and leapt. Seconds later he crashed onto the sharp stones of the gravel embankment, where, despite the pain he was in, he forced himself to lie utterly still.
Spreadeagled on the ground, Patterson’s mind raced. Would a guard see him and open fire? As the carriages flashed past, he braced himself for a burst of bullets in the back. But eventually, the red tail-light zipped by and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was to be short-lived. Some eighty yards further on, the train ground to a halt. The rattle of semi-automatic gunfire broke the silence, with bullets spraying along the tracks. Had he been spotted? If he stayed put, the guards could leap down and race back towards him, and he would be finished.
Glancing around, to his right lay only a steep mountainside; there was no escape that way. But on the opposite side of the tracks lay a scrub-covered hillside running down to a broad river. Paterson decided he would have to chance it. Jumping to his feet, he dashed over the rail-tracks, before rolling down the bank into the undergrowth on the far side. In a low crouch, he proceeded to race down the hill, brambles and branches tearing at him, his only focus being to get away. Finally, his way was barred by the river.
Knowing he had to press on, he removed his clothes and boots, bundling everything together, before strapping it onto a piece of wood lying near by. Entering the icy mountain water, he gasped. Pushing the bundle before him, he started swimming, but the current was stronger than he had imagined and it began to sweep him away. Gradually, he made progress, but then an eddy – a fierce current forming a small whirlpool – snatched his precious bundle, wrenching it from his grasp. Though he tried desperately to recover it, within seconds his possessions had been sucked out of reach.
More crawling than swimming, Paterson made the far bank, where he collapsed, struggling to catch his breath. As he looked down at himself, he realised his dire predicament: he was on the run in hostile country and stark naked. With night-time setting in he had only one choice: he would have to get moving to stay warm, hoping to find some clothing and shelter along the way. Shuffling forward and limping noticeably, he made slow progress through the darkening terrain, conscious all the time of his nakedness.
He felt terribly weary and desperately in need of sleep. To his left he spied the lights of what looked like a small village, plus a nearer farmhouse. Moving warily, he noticed an open basement window. Taking his chances, he lowered himself down to what appeared to be a vegetable storehouse. Over in one corner, he found a pile of old sacks. Craving rest, he lay down and covering himself with the makeshift bedding fell quickly asleep.
Unbeknown to Paterson, David Stirling was among those who’d failed to break free from the train carriages. ‘I escaped, he didn’t,’ was how Paterson would write of this parting of the ways, after the war. Stirling would go on to be incarcerated in Colditz Castle, in the German state of Saxony, a high-security facility for Allied officers who were seriously ‘troublesome’, until the end of the war.
Hours after drifting into an exhausted sleep, Paterson awoke to footsteps moving about in the house above him. It was still barely light outside and he knew he must find clothing and seek help. When he climbed back out through the window, the morning air was cold on his skin. To the rear of the house, he saw some bedsheets hanging on a washing line. Grabbing one, he wrapped himself in it, before pounding on the farmstead’s door.
Silence. Paterson knocked again and finally there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, whereupon the door was swung open by a dark-haired girl.
‘Signorina,’ Paterson began, but before he could utter another word, the girl had shrieked and run off, clearly shocked by the sight of Paterson’s almost naked body draped in one of their best bedsheets.
Within minutes an older woman appeared. In his make-do Italian, learned during his months in captivity, Paterson explained that he was an Allied prisoner of war on the run and desperately in need of clothing and food. Could she help? The woman, although clearly frightened, seemed sympathetic.
‘You need to see the village priest,’ she told him, ‘for he may be able to help. My daughter will accompany you there.’
The girl reappeared. Now, she seemed more curious than shocked as she led Paterson along the village street. She stopped outside a house and knocked. An elderly woman answered. Once more, Paterson explained his predicament. The woman beckoned him inside, before leading him into a small, stark room with only a crucifix for decoration. At the table, a priest in a threadbare robe sat having his breakfast.
Paterson retold his story while the priest listened attentively. Once he was done, the holy man explained that Paterson could not stay there, for the Germans were in the next village and would surely find him. However, he would find Paterson some clothes and his housekeeper would give him a meal. Paterson felt his spirits lift at the kindly priest’s offer of help.
Half an hour later, the priest returned with an assortment of garments and a pair of boots. At six-foot-three, it was a struggle for Paterson to prise himself into the clothing, which proved too tight and short, and the boots impossibly small. The priest hurried off again, and minutes later he was back with an ancient pair, with soles that were cracked and worn. But at least he could get his feet into them.
Thus attired, Paterson was led to the door and pointed towards a series of hills. ‘Past those is Lake Garda,’ the priest explained. ‘Travel on the north side, then work south-west. You will find passes from there that lead into Switzerland. It is a long journey, may God be with you.’
Thanking the priest, Paterson set out under a warm September sun. That day he marched across meadows and up wild and rugged hills, until in the late afternoon he caught sight of Lake Garda shimmering beyond. As he headed down from the heights, hunger and tiredness overtook him. Ahead he could see a small village with a church. Perhaps the priest there might also help. As he approached, he saw the congregation leaving, after the early evening service.
When the priest appeared, Paterson moved towards him. ‘Padre, I’m a Canadian officer on the run from the Germans,’ he explained. ‘Can you help?’
The priest, evidently well fed by the look of his plump cheeks, responded with outright hostility. ‘No, not at all! You must leave immediately.’
Paterson didn’t see the point in arguing. This ‘holy man’ clearly had sympathies with the wrong side. He hurried away. Tired, hungry and cold, and with his feet throbbing in his old, worn boots, he had no option but to make for a small clump of bushes high on a barren hillside. There, he tucked himself away for the night as best he could.
The following day matters hardly improved. With few streams near by, his thirst worsened. By afternoon he had made it to a shepherd’s hut, where an elderly woman offered him some bread and milk, but with nowhere to sleep he again spent the night in the open. By morning he knew he had to find food, water and shelter, and he resigned himself to taking his chances on the road. The going would be easier and maybe he would find a church or a monastery that would take him in.
By midday, the sun was beating down and Paterson was utterly spent. He knew that if he lay out in the open, people would become curious. Fortunately
, he spotted a dry culvert – a water drain – which he could crawl into and rest. By mid-afternoon the sun’s heat had lessened and he dragged himself out. A sign ahead on the road declared: ‘Brescia 5 Kilometres’. He knew that if he couldn’t find help in that town, he was finished.
As Paterson entered the outskirts, his shabby, ill-fitting attire began to draw attention. Out in the fields he’d gone largely unnoticed; here in the town’s streets he looked distinctly out of place. His mouth and lips parched with thirst, he could do nothing but stumble forward, desperately searching for somewhere he might find sanctuary.
A cyclist stopped and turned his head, staring back at Paterson. The rider, who looked to be in his thirties, was small, with dark hair and dressed like a workman. He seemed to be waiting for Paterson to catch up.
‘Inglese?’ he whispered, just as soon as Paterson was within earshot.
Paterson nodded. English was as good as Canadian around these parts, he figured.
The cyclist explained that he had helped another Englishman and he could help Paterson. Too tired to resist or argue, Paterson allowed himself to be led along narrow streets and back alleys, until they reached a courtyard where a group of children were playing.
‘This is my home,’ the man declared simply, introducing himself as Luigi.
Once he’d been ushered into the front room, Paterson collapsed in the nearest chair. Under Luigi’s instructions, the ladies of the house got to work removing Paterson’s ill-fitting boots and bathing and bandaging his blistered and bleeding feet. Spaghetti and coarse bread were produced, plus wine. Luigi explained that he and his friends loathed the ‘German pigs’, and would do anything they could to resist their occupation of Italy.
Paterson, feeling utterly relieved to be among friends, and with his hunger and thirst quenched, began to close his eyes. Luigi, noticing his fatigue, helped him to his feet and suggested that he stay at his sister-in-law’s house, just near by. Her husband was away in the army, so there was space. Luigi led Paterson to the house, where they made for the bedroom. Opening the door, there was a panicked shriek, as a young naked woman leapt from the bed and fled, leaving an equally naked man looking more than a little embarrassed.
Luigi laughed. ‘This is the other Inglese.’
‘I’m Corporal Jack Harris,’ explained the red-faced figure. ‘I arrived five days back and have been looked after by these wonderful people.’
‘So I see,’ replied Paterson, drily, before slumping down, exhaustedly, and falling into a deep slumber.
After a few days’ rest Paterson’s feet started to heal, but he was anxious at just how safe he – and Harris – were. Luigi’s open hatred of the Germans surely would draw unwanted attention. Harris, who was fluent in Italian – he, too, had learned it first in the POW camps – had heard Luigi and his friends talking about ‘the partisans’ – the Italian resistance. Maybe they would be safer out in the countryside with the partisans. As Paterson was an expert in explosives, and Harris a dab-hand at wireless communications, they would be an asset to any guerrilla force seeking to take the fight to the enemy.
They shared their idea with Luigi, who seemed equally enthused. A day or so later they set off for the country on bicycles. After several hours they arrived at the partisans’ headquarters – a stone barn set amid a small pasture and surrounded by trees. Inside, amid the firelight, twenty figures were ranged around the floor. After Luigi had made the introductions, they greeted Paterson and Harris warmly. Over wine and food, they shared their stories, plus their hatred of the Germans, before sleep took over.
The following morning, Paterson and Harris set about getting to grips with the partisans’ set-up, but far from being a proper fighting unit, they seemed more like a poorly run boy scout troop. There was little discipline or purpose, few weapons to speak of and hopeless security. Everyone seemed to have big dreams about what they would do to the enemy but no means to achieve it. Meanwhile, those living in the nearby villages knew the whereabouts of their camp and it was only a matter of time before someone would talk.
Paterson knew they weren’t safe here. He requested Luigi’s help to get them to Milan, some thirty kilometres short of the border with Switzerland. From there, they would have to find their own way across. Within a couple of days Luigi had made appropriate arrangements, furnishing Paterson and Harris with bicycles, whereupon a young woman arrived riding her own bike.
‘This is your guide,’ declared Luigi. ‘She will take you to your next hiding place.’
After bicycling through open countryside for a day, the trio arrived at a large farmhouse. The girl knocked on the door and after a brief conversation, she beckoned Harris and Paterson to come forward. ‘The Riccinis will look after you,’ she announced. ‘You will be safe here.’ With that, she bade them farewell and cycled off.
Signora Riccini stood there with Gabi, her attractive, dark-haired daughter, welcoming Harris and Paterson like true heroes and offering assurances that they would do all they could to help. At dinner they met the man of the house – Signor Riccini – who announced that they were welcome to stay as long as they needed. Signora Riccini told them that her husband’s tailor would arrange for new sets of clothing, after which she would link them up with a man who could guide them to the border.
She warned that it might take a week or so before everything was arranged. As life with the Riccinis was proving a happy and enjoyable interlude, Paterson wasn’t overly worried. In Gabi, their pretty nineteen-year-old daughter, he had found a willing teacher of Italian, and despite the rationing, food was plentiful on the Riccinis’ farm.
One evening there was a visitor, a Roberto Oreste, who was the man who would help get them to Switzerland. While it wouldn’t be easy, Oreste knew a Spaniard living in Milan who would help. After saying their heartfelt farewells, Paterson and Harris left the Riccinis’ place, setting off with Oreste for the nearest train station. Now dressed smartly, like affluent businessmen, they could pass as native Italians going about their daily routine. With no identity papers, they feared they might have to dodge the police at the railway station, but as luck would have it their smart attire saw them through.
Upon arrival in Milan they followed Oreste out of the busy station, and it wasn’t long before they reached an apartment block. Oreste knocked on one of the apartment doors which was opened by a thin man with burning eyes. ‘This is Pedro, my Spanish friend who hates Franco,’ Oreste declared. ‘He will help us.’ By ‘Franco’, he meant General Franco, the Fascist dictator of Spain.
As a plump blonde – Pedro’s girlfriend – helped them to coffee, Pedro explained that many POWs had made it across into Switzerland, but it was becoming more and more difficult, for the Germans had strengthened their border patrols. They would need a guide. Pedro knew of a woman who was strongly anti-fascist and who had friends living around the border. Her name was Maria Resta and she would be able to help.
Shortly, Paterson and Harris were taken to a luxury apartment in a fashionable neighbourhood of Milan. There they met a young woman, plainly dressed, who was Maria Resta.
She explained that she had two acquaintances who were involved in cross-border smuggling, who might be prepared to act as guides. She would have to track them down but knew the wine bars they tended to frequent. If Paterson and Harris were willing to accompany her, they would travel there that very afternoon.
The four made their way to Lecco, a resort lying at the foothills of the Bergamo Alps, in the far north of Italy and on the shores of Lake Como. Over several hours, they trailed Maria Resta around a succession of wine bars, but no one had seen or heard of her smuggler-acquaintances for some time. As dusk began to set in, Maria Resta suggested that the only sensible thing to do was to return with her to Milan.
Paterson resisted, arguing that they should try to steal a boat to get across the lake, for the Swiss border lay tantalisingly close on the far side. But Maria
was adamant that hundreds of guards patrolled the area between there and the border. ‘Only a guide who knows the way can get you safely across,’ she warned. Paterson and Harris reluctantly took the train back to Milan. Over a late meal of spaghetti and wine, Maria suggested there was another man they should talk to. He had assisted many POWs. The following day, she led Paterson and Harris to a meeting with Signor Rossi, a well-dressed, middle-aged man who spoke near-perfect English. An engineer by trade, Signor Rossi welcomed the two fugitives into his office, asking them to explain how they had arrived in Italy. After listening attentively, he announced himself satisfied that they were who they said they were, and not Gestapo agents out to trap him.
Signor Rossi explained that his wife was English, hence his ability to speak the language so well, and that he had helped several prisoners to cross the border. He would be willing to do the same for them, but . . . He paused. If they were prepared to stay, he could put them to good use. After Italy had surrendered, hundreds of POWs had taken advantage of the resulting confusion to disappear, heading deep into the countryside. He needed help to track them down and to assist them in their escape, before the Gestapo caught up with them. Since Paterson and Harris both spoke Italian and could stay at the Riccinis’, he would be grateful for their help.
He left the two to consider his surprise offer. Paterson’s immediate sense was to refuse. He was tired of being on the run and he wanted to get out, especially as they were this close to the border. But upon reflection, he realised that Signor Rossi’s plan had merit. The Italian had impressed him with his focus and purpose. Also, if he and Harris agreed, they would no longer be ‘the hunted’. Instead, they would be able to strike back at the enemy.
‘I think we should agree,’ Paterson told Harris. ‘He’s working for our men and I’m willing to stay.’
Paterson’s one concern was how it might affect the Riccinis. It was dangerous for them to have hosted POWs for just a few days, and he didn’t want to further encumber them with their presence. He needn’t have worried. When they returned to the Riccinis’ house, Signora Riccini declared herself overjoyed that she could help foil the enemy. Gabi, too, seemed very happy at the return of Paterson, but for quite different reasons.