by Damien Lewis
After thoroughly inspecting the insignia, the German commander spoke some words to the young officer, who escorted Byrne to a medic. The German doctor carefully cleaned the congealed mess of blood and sand from Byrne’s face. He stitched closed the gashes on his nose and eyebrow, and extracted two of Byrne’s teeth, which had been damaged when he had fallen heavily on the ground. The doctor explained that some shards of tooth were still embedded in Byrne’s lip, but there was not much he could do about that. Byrne’s face was bandaged all over, leaving only one eye visible, and breathing holes for his nose and mouth. He was given water and instructed to sit in the shade.
The young officer outlined to Byrne that he was to be sent to a prisoner-of-war camp for Allied airmen, in Germany. Byrne protested that he was a soldier, not an airman. The general had ordered that he ‘be classified as a flier’, the German officer explained, glancing at the parachutists’ wings gracing Byrne’s chest.
He escorted Byrne to a nearby infantry camp, where he was briefly patted down. To his relief, the rudimentary search didn’t unearth his fighting knife, nor the various items of escape equipment concealed in his specially modified uniform. MI9, the Allied ‘Escape Factory’, had taken to inserting hidden items into the tunics of all flying officers and parachutists, to aid the escape of any who might be shot down or on the run in enemy territory. Byrne’s concealed a rubber-coated hacksaw blade secreted in the breast pocket, a silk map of North Africa sewn into the lining, plus a map of Europe printed on high-strength, weather-resistant tissue paper hidden in his belt.
After the search, Byrne was handed over to an elderly German officer for interrogation. He offered the man his name, rank and service number, nothing more. At that his interrogator scoffed, declaring that he knew very well that Byrne was a member of the Special Air Service. He added that he knew that his overall commander was David Stirling, while urging Byrne to try to recall other details of the unit with which he served.
By now, the SAS had acquired a legendary status among members of the Afrika Korps. Byrne’s reputation and that of his fellow troopers – a team of hardened raiders who came stealing out of the sand dunes and disappeared like cats in the night, seemingly striking anywhere along the North African coastline – went before them. The presence of these desert warriors and their enigmatic leader – already known as ‘The Phantom Major’ to the Germans – brought an element of British romantic heroism and eccentric derring-do to this otherwise savage and bloody conflict.
After his initial interrogation, Byrne was treated to both threats and promises, his captors seeming desperate to discover ‘the nature of the operation on which [he] had been engaged’. While held at an Italian police station in Benghazi, Byrne was locked inside a bare cell. Finding himself finally alone, he took out his fighting knife and stuck it between two of the joints of the bed frame, for he knew it would not go well for him if the enemy discovered he was still carrying a weapon. With that safely stashed, he climbed onto the bed and gratefully slept.
His first sleep in a real bed for many weeks was prematurely interrupted, when two men entered the room. One spoke reasonably good English and was dressed in the uniform of an officer in the British Fleet Air Arm. The other was apparently a sergeant in a British Anti-tank Battery. They were friendly to Byrne, perhaps overly so, particularly the Fleet Air Arm officer, who had a bandage wrapped round his head, which he claimed to be the result of recent fighting. The three men talked and smoked for a while, until the Fleet Air Arm officer left the room.
The moment he was gone, the sergeant leaned closer to Byrne. ‘I think that bastard’s an informer,’ he whispered. ‘Be careful.’
When the man returned, he kept up the pretence of friendliness, asking Byrne about the unit with which he served and offering to send a message home to his family. At that, Byrne slipped from his uniform his concealed hacksaw blade, warning that he knew full well how the Italians employed stool pigeons. If ever he met one, Byrne announced, with quiet menace, ‘I would like nothing better than to use this on his throat.’
Most often, such ‘stool pigeons’ were German or Italian intelligence officers who had spent time in Britain, America or other English-speaking countries before the war, as students or on business. Now, serving as agents of the Reich, they used their British or American accents to deceive POWs into dropping their guard. At Byrne’s words the suspected stool pigeon blanched. He hammered on the door and was released by the guards, after which Byrne never saw him again. Sometime later the sergeant was also taken away, along with Byrne’s SAS uniform. An old Italian tunic was tossed into the cell instead.
For two days Byrne was kept in solitary confinement and deprived of any food. Then, on 5 April 1942 he was taken to the main transit camp for Allied POWs, where he was finally allowed to mix freely with other prisoners. At first, many of them treated him with outright suspicion. Byrne could hardly blame them. His appearance was wild beyond measure. He was thickly bearded, had ‘hair sprouting through bandages’, was ‘filthy’ and dressed mostly in scraps of Italian uniform. Even so, he took comfort from being around his own people, after so long alone in the desert and then in the hands of his enemies.
But his relief was to be short-lived. The next day four Italian soldiers appeared, pulled Byrne roughly away and shoved him into the back of a vehicle. As they hurtled along the Libyan roads at breakneck speed the tension in that car was palpable, and Byrne could hazard a guess at the cause of the soldiers’ ire. They must have found the fighting knife that he had hidden in the bedstead.
The car arrived at its destination. The soldiers used Byrne’s bandaged face to smash open the door of an interrogation room and they manhandled him inside. They stripped him of the Italian tunic, one of them holding his old SAS uniform before him, tauntingly. Grinning, he proceeded to wrap the fabric around his fist, before slamming it directly into Byrne’s damaged nose. His stitches burst open, blood pouring from the freshly opened wound.
They held Byrne by his arms, as a thuggish-looking Italian officer carrying a long black cane entered. He raised it threateningly, before bringing the full force of it down upon the crown of Byrne’s head. Using all his strength, the officer ‘continued to strike at my face, knees, shins and ankles’, Byrne recalled. The man lashed out anywhere and everywhere, as Byrne did his best to escape the savage blows, twisting and turning, flinging himself from side to side, stamping on the feet of the men holding him and kicking out at the figure at his front. But all resistance proved fruitless. The pain was close to unendurable, and Byrne started to retch and vomit with agony.
Byrne’s suspicions were confirmed when the officer finally laid down his cane and picked up the fighting knife that Byrne had left hidden in the bedpost. With that in hand, the officer sliced open the pockets of Byrne’s SAS tunic, revealing where M19 had hidden the rubber-covered hacksaw blade. He removed it theatrically, before slashing at the tunic some more. He continued to cut and slice, revealing both the tissue paper and silk maps. It later transpired that the Germans had discovered the secrets of M19’s escape-adapted tunics, and all Axis forces were now aware of what they concealed.
By the time the Italian officer was finished, Byrne’s tunic hung in tatters, where the knife had sliced through the fabric. Byrne stood there, cowed and panting when, without warning, one of his captors kicked out his legs from under him and he went crashing to the floor. All four of them unleashed upon his prone form.
Having kicked him all over and ripped apart his clothing, they finished off by jumping on Byrne’s stomach and stamping on his bare hands. Byrne lay there, pretending to be unconscious, until finally his assailants decided he’d had enough. Naked except for his boots, his entire body was bruised and bleeding, and what remained of his bandages hung in shreds around his neck. His hands and knees were swelling badly and one of his fingers jutted out at an unnatural angle.
One of the Italians threw a pair of shorts and a shirt in Byr
ne’s direction. He did his best to pull them on, though his hands were too swollen to do up the flies. From there he was taken to a square building, which looked like a disused stable. The Italians shoved him roughly through the door, locking it shut behind him, leaving Byrne in solitary confinement for several days.
On 12 April Byrne was taken to an airport under escort and flown to Crete, and from there to Athens. By now he was dressed as a Greek airman, for that was the only Allied uniform his captors had been able to lay their hands on. He was under the guard of two German soldiers who were heading home on leave. They treated him with respect and even, at times, with kindness.
From Athens the three caught a train towards Berlin, and then onwards three hundred miles or so, to the Dulag Luft transit camp, near Frankfurt, where captured Allied airmen were detained before being sent to more permanent places of incarceration. Rumours of torturous Nazi interrogation techniques were rife at Dulag Luft, but luckily for Byrne, the officer who interviewed him seemed to have very little interest in his story, after it was confirmed that he was not an airman after all, but a soldier.
From Dulag Luft Byrne was transferred to Stalag Luft III, a prisoner-of-war camp in the town of Sagan (modern-day Żagań), situated around one hundred miles south-east of Berlin, close to the border with German-occupied Poland. He reached the camp on 23 April and was quickly informed that a Lieutenant Charles Bonington of L-Detachment SAS was being held in the officers’ section of the camp. Byrne’s spirits leapt: Bonington had been one of those they had lost on Operation Squatter, the SAS’s disastrous first mission. His fate had been unknown, but, like so many others, they’d feared him dead.
Stalag Luft III was divided into separate compounds – including an eastern block, where Byrne was held, containing British NCOs, and a western one containing British and American officers. At a pre-arranged time, Byrne walked down the fence separating the two and was able to speak through the wire to Bonington. From him he learned that Captain Thompson, another SAS man believed lost, was also in the camp. Byrne was hugely heartened to know they had survived. For their part, they were keen to hear news of the fortunes of the SAS. Byrne related their numerous successes in the Western Desert, regaling Bonington with tales of the SAS’s growing infamy, interspersed with the sad news of comrades who had been killed in the line of duty.
Byrne learned that the Germans considered Stalag Luft III to be escape-proof. It was surrounded by dense barbed-wire fences, and had watchtowers set at regular intervals around the perimeter that were manned by guards ‘armed with machine guns and equipped with searchlights’. The huts themselves were supposedly tunnel-proof, and were regularly searched by the camp guards. The unrivalled security of the camp made it the ideal place to incarcerate those who had tried to escape before – the so-called bad boys. Though disappointed that he had ended up in such a high-security establishment, Byrne was heartened to be surrounded by fellow escapees – men with keen brains, opportunistic natures and the bravery and guts to attempt a breakout.
In their company, he became obsessed with escaping, spending his days mooching around the perimeter ‘trying to find a loophole in the system’, and his ‘evenings and nights scheming’. He made contact with the group of officers who formed the camp’s escape committee, those who played a vital part in overseeing breakouts. Each escape plan had to be submitted to the committee, to make sure it was feasible and that it did not clash with existing schemes. The escape committee would organise various ruses and diversions to keep the guards busy during such attempts, and would cover up the evidence of any escapes for as long as possible, to give the prisoners the best chance of getting away.
The committee also kept in touch with M19 via doctored letters and clandestine radio sets, and could request maps, fake identity papers, local currency and other vital escape aids. These were smuggled in by ingenious methods, including being loaded into parcels sent to non-existent prisoners, concealed inside the covers of books donated by fictitious charities, or secreted inside food packages and shaving supplies.
Byrne learned about all sorts of incredible escape attempts, noting how many ‘individual tunnel schemes’ were being excavated, using tools fashioned from the powdered milk tins included in their Red Cross parcels. Inspired by such ingenuity, he fashioned himself a compass from a broken wristwatch, using a needle made from a magnetised razorblade. With the inner mechanism removed it was possible to get a north–south reading by ‘balancing the needle on a tiny post in the centre of the casing’. He kept the components for the compass with him at all times – the broken watch strapped to his wrist and the razorblade concealed inside a cigarette – and waited for his chance.
Byrne’s tenacious desire for freedom would go on to win him a Distinguished Service Order. His medal citation describes how, despite his dislike of rank and hierarchy, ‘he volunteered to act as an officer’s batman as he thought this would give him a better opportunity of escaping.’ Stalag Luft III was becoming overcrowded and he hoped that as an ‘officer’s servant’ he might be transferred elsewhere. Five months after arriving in Germany, in September 1942, his wish came true. Along with around a hundred officers, fifteen NCOs were transferred to Oflag XXI-B, an officer’s camp in occupied Poland, which Byrne described roguishly as ‘an escaper’s dream’.
At Oflag XXI-B Byrne volunteered to help in the kitchens, hoping that might provide him with the chance to sneak past the perimeter. The perfect opportunity soon presented itself. Food was scarce in wartime Poland and the kitchen workers kept a handful of pigs, fattened up on camp leftovers. Byrne noted how every day, one POW would head down to the camp pigsties with a cartload of swill, escorted by a German guard. That guard was quite old and carried his rifle ‘bandolier fashion’ across his back, as he pushed a bicycle along. Byrne reckoned that if he could get onto the pigswill duty, he might steal the guard’s bike and be off and away before he had time to make ready his weapon.
Byrne outlined his plan to the camp’s escape committee who gave their approval. With their blessing he began preparing the items he would need, gathering together chocolate, raisins, cheese and cigarettes from the Red Cross parcels. He still had his homemade compass and the escape committee provided him with maps to aid his getaway. They also offered to furnish Byrne with a counterfeit Ausweis – a German identity card – but he declined, reasoning that it would be a waste of time, for anyone who got close enough to ask for his identity card would quickly realise he couldn’t speak German. Finally, he needed a disguise. He still had the Greek airman’s uniform, in which his captors had despatched him into captivity in Germany. He removed the buttons and pockets, to give it a non-military look, and fashioned a civilian-style cap sewn from blankets.
Thus equipped, late in October 1942 – seven months after his capture in the desert – Byrne sallied forth on pigswill duty, accompanied by the guard. Once at the sties, Byrne manhandled the handcart carrying the pigswill so it blocked the entrance, effectively trapping the guard. That done, he sprinted around the corner, seized the guard’s bike, jumped aboard and pedalled off at top speed, jamming the ‘civilian’ cap on his head as he did so.
Elated at the guard’s failure to open fire, Byrne turned right onto the main road and followed a sign for the city of Bromberg (modern-day Bydgoszcz), some fifteen miles north-west of the camp. He sped into the first town but was spotted by a local man who immediately seemed suspicious. The man stepped into the road, and when Byrne tried to swerve around him, he lunged and grabbed hold of the front of the bicycle. Byrne tumbled off and was quickly set upon by a crowd. There was no escape. Byrne was marched to the nearest police station and searched, from where he was delivered, feeling foolish and dejected, back to Oflag XXI-B.
Despite his failure, Byrne reasoned all was not lost. ‘My maps were hidden inside my belt and my compass inside my wristwatch,’ he reported, and neither had been discovered. Sentencing him to twenty-eight days in the ‘punishment block’,
the camp commandant stipulated that he should be fed a punishment diet of ‘bread and water with a bowl of soup every fourth day’. The cell was small and spartan, with a barred window set high in the wall. There was one narrow bunk, which had no mattress, and only a wooden pillow, with a rough depression where he could rest his head.
In solitary, Byrne was allowed no exercise and he spent his days lying on his bunk – fully clothed, for there were no blankets – living in his imagination. Fellow prisoners tried to sneak him extra food, but by the end of his sentence he was half-starved. At this point he was brought before the camp commandant again but ended up being condemned to a further twenty-eight days on the same rations, for ‘looking at a German officer with insolence’.
Byrne returned to the punishment block in a state of disbelief. By now, he had been under arrest or punishment more times than he cared to remember. The first had been at the regimental HQ of the Gordon Highlanders, in the Bridge of Don barracks, Aberdeen. There, serving as a young recruit, Byrne had been thrown in the cells for ‘refusing to polish the brass cannon on the edge of the barrack square’. His last spell in the cells had been for striking his troop sergeant major! But never had he been confined for so long, alone, and on such pitiful rations.
Towards the end of Byrne’s second stretch in solitary, an RAF officer in the next-door cell complained to the guard that his floor was filthy and needed sweeping. Moments later Byrne’s door was unlocked and the sentry handed him a broom. Byrne took it and swept out his own cell. The guard gestured towards the RAF officer’s, next door, the message being clear. Byrne felt it was wrong that he – an experienced Special Forces raider with an impressive combat history – should face the indignity of clearing out another man’s cell, no matter what his rank. He propped the broom against the wall and sat on his bunk, immovable, despite the guard’s enraged yells.
For this ‘wilful defiance of authority’, Byrne was duly given his third twenty-eight days in solitary. At the end of that sentence, the sentry opened Byrne’s door, handed him the broom and ordered him to sweep out the whole of the cell block. Byrne, of course, refused – he would not allow them to break his spirit. He was duly punished with a further twenty-eight days, bringing his total sentence to 112 days of solitary confinement: four months trapped in a tiny cell, alone, on starvation rations.