Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  “That’s odd, sir. What did you say he was?”

  “A prominente. Theoretically, they were leaders in their countries: members of the aristocracy, mayors of large cities, and the like. People of influence or their relatives. I only know that because he’s explained it to me as best he knows it. Then again, he’s a journalist, and not a well-known one at that. But he’s married to Winston Churchill’s niece. He’s kept in almost perpetual solitary, but he’s allowed personal items, including a gramophone. Sometimes you’ll hear his music playing into the courtyard and he can see out here.”

  Lance stared at the windows. “Who has the imagination to think up such things?” He took a quick look around the courtyard. It had emptied out, leaving only a few men making haste to another part of the compound against a cold wind. “The castle doesn’t look crowded. How many are here?”

  “I don’t know exactly, and it’s still filling. Nine of us Brits got here in early November right after the Poles arrived, and eight came in at the beginning of December.” He pointed to a row of low, more recently added buildings near the gate where Lance had entered. “At some point, you’ll undoubtedly make acquaintance with those charming places. Together, they compose punishment cells more commonly called ‘the cooler,’ and they’re used quite often.”

  Prompted by this last revelation, Lance grunted. “I was in them plenty in my last POW camp.” He asked his most pressing question. “And what about escape, sir? I can’t imagine staying in this dreary place for the length of the war.” He stopped walking and glanced at the lieutenant colonel. “And what do I call you? I imagine your last name can sometimes confuse conversation in this place.”

  “Right you are,” Guy said, laughing. “It’s a bit ironic with the name ‘German’ in a German POW camp, but keep in mind that the French call our hosts ‘les Allemands.’ The Poles call them ‘Niemieccys,’ or whatever epithet comes to mind. The other nationalities have their own words for them, and Germans call themselves ‘Deutsche,’ so my last name causes confusion only among we Brits.” He laughed again. “I guess I could mistakenly take offense if I heard one of our chaps say, ‘That damned German SOB.’

  “Anyway, I’m commonly called ‘SBO’ for senior British officer. That would be like me calling you ‘Sergeant.’ We’re quite informal, but if our Brit contingent swells, as I expect it might, more military formality might need to be imposed. Sooner or later, someone more senior than me is likely to show up. The Poles already have a general and an admiral here.”

  Guy turned his head, surveilling the tall gray buildings. “And our living quarters are all above ground-level.”

  They entered their barracks through a door midway along the back of the courtyard across from the gate. As they mounted the stone stairs to the third floor, Lance said, “I’m curious about one thing. I had expected a demoralized prison population, but that’s not what I’m seeing. The men who met me at the gate didn’t seem to be in despair. I saw plenty of that where I came from.”

  They climbed several more steps before Guy responded. “Good observation. Most POWs in any other camp will never attempt an escape. Those who try seem to absorb the notion of escape into their blood—a compulsion. They have purpose, they hone skills, they get creative. And in Colditz, you have a collection of such people who’ll share ideas and methods. There’s a sense of pride at being assigned here, and we all subdue our national differences in favor of frustrating our common enemy. For example, we have French prisoners here from both Vichy and occupied France, and even they keep in check whatever hostilities they might have toward each other. If you ask me, the Germans miscalculated. Eventually, some will find a way out.”

  “My compulsion is escape. I want out of here.”

  Guy laughed again. “You’re as keen to scoot as a hare, aren’t you? Let me show you a few more things first. For starters, you might have noticed on your way in that the German living section in the other courtyard where you first entered the castle is larger than ours. That’s not for their luxury. They have more guards than POWs here, and they expect to maintain that ratio.

  “We currently have three rooms. I stay in one reserved for senior officers from the various countries. Believe me, it’s no more comfortable than yours. I think the idea is that if the seniors get along, our countrymen will as well. Anyway, when we get to your room, you can look outside and see the walls, which at the base are nine feet thick. There’s a one-hundred-foot drop from the lowest windows, and they all have bars on them. The guards floodlight the entire place every night despite the wartime blackout, and they don’t miss inside corners or around outside ones. Down below, they’ve put in a thick palisade of barbed wire that’s constantly patrolled by sentries.”

  “You’re saying that breaking out is going to be tough,” Lance observed, and then grinned. “If they hope to hold ‘escape artists,’ I wouldn’t expect less. What are their weaknesses?”

  “Hmph. We need to qualify that bit about being escape artists. The fact is, Colditz is a bad boys’ camp where they send anyone they think is a problem. I didn’t even try to escape at Spangenburg—I wasn’t there long enough. I set fire to some German propaganda magazines. I gave the guards such a hard time that they decided I had that kind of potential. They preempted me by sending me here.

  “At some point, you’re bound to meet Padre Platt. He was also at Spangenburg. He was captured when he helped some doctors working to save nine hundred wounded during the German advance on Dunkirk. When he arrived at Spangenburg, he had a wire in his suitcase that he used to prop up the lid. The Germans called the wire a ‘housebreaking tool for escaping,’ charged him with a violation, and shipped him here.

  “So, you see, our stories and drives vary, but in Colditz you have people who are highly motivated, if not to attempt to escape then to help those who do.”

  Lance glanced sideways at Guy, scrutinizing him. “All right, SBO, sir. On which side of the line do you stand?”

  Guy grinned back at him. “I said I wasn’t at the transit camp long enough to try. I didn’t say I wouldn’t give it a good college go.

  “The Poles have become master lockpicks,” he went on. “If they can get to the locks, there is nowhere they can’t get into. I think the French are tunneling already, but we don’t pry into each other’s business.”

  They had come to their rooms. “The noncoms are in this one,” Guy said as he turned the knob on one. “The day room is down the hall, and the privy. It’s not terrible right now, but when this place fills up, it won’t be pleasant regardless of how hard we try to keep it clean. Our captors’ housing plan looks to anticipate one stall per forty men.”

  Lance wrinkled his nose and frowned at the unpleasant thought. Guy showed him his room and announced him as they entered. Several other POWs looked up from conversing, reading, dozing, and other activities. On seeing the SBO, one of them called the room to attention. As the men rose to their feet, two more men entered with lieutenant insignias on their uniforms.

  “Carry on. We have a new guest,” Guy said, raising an eyebrow sardonically. “Please make him welcome.” He introduced Lance around to warm handshakes from his new roommates.

  The space was medium-sized with four two-tier bunkbeds arranged against the walls, various dividers assembled from scrounged odds and ends to attempt a vestige of privacy, and tables and chairs in the middle area. Guy indicated an unused upper bunk near a window. “That one’s probably a mite cold right now, but we’ll scrounge more blankets if you need them. You might appreciate the location in the summer. I’m guessing this place gets hot then.”

  “I might not be here that long,” Lance said. He took a quick glance outside. The impediments to escape were as forbidding as Guy had described them. Far below, the tops of black helmets on German sentries moved over a wide path between two lines of barbed wire, each with many stacked strands. On the other side, the Zwickauer Mulde River meandered past, though from this distance Lance could not tell whether it was frozen. Be
yond, wide, snow-covered fields spread out below low, distant hills.

  When he turned back into the room, Guy had taken a seat at one of the tables. The two lieutenants lounged against the wall behind him, and the noncom prisoners had pulled up chairs or sat on bunks across from him. “Have a seat,” Guy said. He looked around at one of the lieutenants. “Do we have a stooge posted?”

  The men nodded.

  “A measure of security,” Guy remarked. “I’m sure you did the same at Oberursel. We like to gather as much information as we can from new prisoners while it’s still fresh, but we don’t need the Germans listening in. If something you have to say is too sensitive, you can tell me later.”

  Over the next two hours, prompted by questions, Lance described entering fierce battle north of Dunkirk, fleeing across France with nine other soldiers among millions of refugees, finding himself shipwrecked at Saint-Nazaire, and subsequently being rescued and then captured. Then he told of how he had escaped, evaded recapture on the eastern side of France for several weeks, was betrayed near the German and Swiss borders, and attempted two more escapes.

  The RAF pilots listened, mesmerized. “That’s four attempts and several weeks of living among the enemy undetected,” Guy said. “Astonishing.” He chuckled. “Certainly, if anyone belongs in Colditz, that would be you. And you speak French and German fluently. That’s helpful. We need you on the escape committee. It’s just forming, and the idea is to pool our knowledge and resources to help anyone making an attempt. Would you mind?”

  “I’ll help any way I can. But you might think twice about putting me on that committee. I tried again on the first day they started to ship me here. I was originally slotted to come here back in September, but Colditz wasn’t open to British guests just yet, so I was held at the transit prison until mid-November. Then I tried to escape again on the day I was to be transferred.”

  Seeing the shocked reactions of his audience, he shrugged. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. The guards left me unguarded in their kübelwagen for a few minutes. When they came back, I was gone.” He grinned. “I took off running the same way I did the night I arrived there, across a field into some woods. They caught me the same way, with dogs.” He sighed. “I think I embarrassed them. My punishment was unusually harsh. Six weeks in their cooler before being transferred here.”

  Guy shook his head in disbelief. “Well, you’re here now, and we’d welcome you on the committee. You’ve been more successful than anyone here.” He added, laughing, “Or we wouldn’t still be here.”

  He turned his attention to one of the lieutenants, a tall blond man. “Pat, see to getting him on that committee, would you?” Receiving a nod, Guy said, “Pat Reid heads up our escape committee. He had some success before arriving here—”

  “Obviously not enough,” Pat chimed in, laughing good-naturedly. “Maybe if Sergeant Littlefield and I put our heads together, we’ll figure out a way to get all the way home.” The men erupted into laughter. “I’ll be glad to work with you.”

  “I stay away from escape planning,” Guy said, and added with a crooked smile, “except my own, of course. Things need to be that way so that I don’t trip up in dealing with the kommandant.” He gestured toward the other lieutenant, a darker-haired, lean, and shorter man. “Chip here is our intelligence officer.”

  Guy addressed Chip directly. “We need to get Sergeant Littlefield up to speed on coding techniques. Take care of that, would you?”

  “Will do, sir.” Chip shifted his eyes to Lance. “Have you done any? We get intel to and from London through encrypted letters sent via the Red Cross.”

  “Wing Commander Day and a squadron leader at Oberursel made sure I learned coding,” Lance replied.

  While the exchange of questions and comments had gone on, Guy had sat quietly, studying Lance. “I should inform you that we’ve already vetted you,” he said. “We received word from Day through London that you might come this way. Your story checks out with what we already knew.” He peered closely at Lance, who listened with a blank expression. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I would have expected nothing less.”

  Guy stirred in his chair. “Fair enough. What questions do you have?”

  Lance thought a moment. “How is the kommandant?”

  Guy smirked slightly. “We’re in a rather curious situation. You’ll meet the kommandant at some point, Oberstleutnant Schmidt. He’s from the old school of German military: stern but fair and dedicated to carrying out his orders. He treats us with respect even to the extent of telling prisoners to be at ease as soon as he enters one of our rooms or the courtyard outside, so we give him the same measure of respect. He understands our duty to try to escape. He disciplines according to the Geneva Convention, which specifies that punishment can be no greater than the most severe penalty meted out to a German officer. So far, he has not been abusive when he captures an escapee or when someone violates camp rules.”

  “That’s different from what I’ve heard about other places,” Lance interjected.

  Guy agreed. “Or even here. Colditz was a transit prison until late October. Three of our Brits had escaped during that time and were beaten brutally on their recapture and even taken out and treated to their own fake execution for the amusement of their guards. Schmidt came in after that, and he won’t tolerate such behavior.

  “He has a difficult task, though. The Germans are careful about how they treat pilots because of the investment in us. They hope that we’ll do the same with their captured pilots. So, the idea, as far as I can deduce, is to do everything possible to prevent and discourage escape attempts, keep us as busy as possible with activities to keep our minds and hands occupied, and otherwise leave us to ourselves.”

  When he grinned again, mischief played in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “But they’ve gathered here, in one place, the men most likely to attempt and succeed. Most importantly, most of these prisoners are bent on escape.”

  Lance smiled at the irony. “What about the staff and guards?”

  “That’s a curious situation. The kommandant’s subordinates reflect his values and attitudes. Major Menz, the second in command, is purely professional, as is the adjutant. Our primary interactions are with Hauptman Priem and his assistant, Leutnant Eggers. Priem seems to be held in by the kommandant’s attitudes while Eggers seems like a genuinely professional man.”

  “How so?”

  Guy took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Priem concerns himself with the administration and discipline of the POWs, while Eggers watches over security.

  “Priem was here when the first permanent POW arrived, a Pole named Jedrzej. He had been here while it was a transit prison and had been held in the cooler for weeks. Priem spent a lot of time visiting him. Apparently, they talked in a pleasant way about everything under the sun. Then Jedrzej was sent away for some reason. When he came back, more Poles had arrived, Priem had been promoted from lieutenant to captain, and the two greeted each other like long-lost friends.”

  Lance shook his head in disbelief. “Friendship between captors and captives? Is that remarkable or deplorable.”

  “That’s an interesting question, but it gets better. I mentioned Padre Platt—”

  Lance affirmed.

  “He arrived with five other POWs. Lieutenant Eggers greeted them by saying, ‘Good evening, my English friends.’ As it turns out, Eggers went to school in England, and later he had hosted a man studying for the ministry in Germany who had been a roommate of Platt’s brother. When that was discovered within a few minutes of arrival, Platt and Eggers carried on like people who’ve discovered a common friend. The interaction strengthened a tone of comity that started with Priem and Jedrzej.”

  Guy frowned. “Make no mistake,” he continued, “we and Schmidt and his staff are combatants on opposite sides in this war. If given the provocation or if ordered by Berlin, they will shoot any of us—and we would do the same if we had the means, and the circumstance
s warranted. However, for pragmatic reasons, while we understand each other’s intentions—ours to escape and theirs to stop us—we’ve somehow developed a balance of respect and at least courteous tolerance that allows them to do their jobs while we do ours. So, while we annoy the guards with catcalls and jeers, we don’t try to kill them or physically assault them, and they treat us with sullen indifference as long as we observe the rules.” He added, “I should say that while you’ll find our chaps maligning the guards quite frequently, we discourage it, and if it gets too out of hand, I take disciplinary action.”

  Lance locked eyes with Guy. “I don’t know what to say. Does that make our job of escaping harder or easier?”

  Guy chuckled. “You have a one-track mind, Lance, don’t you? Our jailers would not like what I’ll say next: the situation makes things easier for us. You’ll be surprised at the things we can do behind these walls in darkness, and even in daylight.”

  He stood and addressed everyone in the room. “That wraps things up. You can all go on about your business.” Turning to Lance, he said, “I have one more thing for you, if you’ll step with me into the corridor.”

  Lance followed him while the men dispersed. Out in the hall, Guy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bundle of letters. “These are letters from home. I didn’t want to give them to you until we’d checked you out.”

  As he handed them over, Lance’s eyes locked on his mother’s strong cursive lettering. He suddenly felt lightheaded and leaned against the wall. Looking up, he tried to thank Guy but found that his voice had suddenly gone, and his jaw quivered.