by Lee Jackson
“They’re deploying, as expected, in three prongs: Army Group North is heading toward Leningrad with twenty-nine divisions, Army Group Center is aiming at Moscow with fifty divisions and two brigades, and Army Group South is marching toward Kiev with forty-six divisions.”
The commander nodded. “The strange thing is that Stalin isn’t responding. We’ve known that he didn’t believe Hitler would break their non-aggression treaty despite our warnings, but he seems to be still operating under that illusion. Reports we’re receiving through MI-6 tell us that he slept late and ordered no action at all once informed.” He sighed. “What a strange world we live in.”
Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York
“What do you make of Stalin’s lack of response?” Paul asked Stephenson.
“I have no idea why, and it’s costing him. His forces were caught flatfooted. The front is only hours old, and the Red Army is falling back. I believe the Wehrmacht has already advanced fifty miles in places.” He chuckled. “Hitler sprung his surprise at the same time and on the same day of the year that Napoleon invaded Russia. He must not have read through history far enough to know how that ended up.
“Stalin’s saving grace is that we can count on Adolf to make major strategic errors. Hitler’s demonstrated that many times, but most dramatically by this Soviet invasion. As for how Joseph is reacting: I imagine he’s in shock and probably humiliated by having ignored our warnings, but react he will. He’ll mobilize or be de-throned, and he’s in no mood to relinquish power. And then Hitler will learn viscerally of the industrial might Stalin orchestrated.”
He took a deep breath. “The carnage will surmount any in history. The photos of devastation and atrocity coming in are quite stark, and this is just the beginning.”
Oflag IV-C, Colditz, Germany
Lance re-read the letter in his hand. Purportedly from his sister, Claire, it made no sense, sharing memories of places they had never been and mentioning close friends he had never met. He realized with a sinking heart that no genuine news from home was contained in the missive. His duty was to turn it over to Chip, the British intelligence officer. He did so at morning roll call.
Then, while standing in formation waiting to be counted, he thought of his Polish friend and former fellow escapee, Miloš. The man had come to his room that morning shortly after dawn, and careful not to awaken the other prisoners in the room, he had poked lightly at Lance. When Lance opened his eyes, Miloš cautioned him to silence, and the two slipped out into the hall.
The Pole’s excitement had been palpable. “Germany invaded the Soviet Union. Now, today. We heard it on our radio. The two devils will tear each other’s limbs apart.”
Lance had stared at the man, speechless, not so much because of the news but because he was still groggy from sleep. But as he began to comprehend what Miloš had said, bewilderment set in. “Are you sure? They’re allies.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” came the animated reply, and Miloš continued with bright eyes in his broken English, which had improved since their escape attempts. “Your people will hear it when they wake up and listen to the BBC.” He clapped Lance’s shoulder and grinned. “I wanted you to be first to know it in the British. They like sleep.”
Word of the purported invasion spread rapidly through whispered conversations among the prisoners, electrifying the atmosphere, generating much speculation about the veracity of the story. The Brits picked up the news from the BBC on their hidden radio, as Miloš had predicted, but the idea of Germany invading its ally seemed preposterous on its face. Some reasoned that the Hun, being already engaged with Britain in England, North Africa, and the Baltics, would not only overextend its forces if it went after the Soviets, but would also lose the rear protection that the Soviets afforded. And if the report was true, could that be enough to bring the US into the war?
Many scoffed at the latter notion with disparaging comments. “Pshaw. The US is too self-absorbed to risk its neck.”
“We can’t have mama’s boy getting roughed up in a real fight.”
“Half of Americans support the Nazis.”
“Why would they come to save Britain? They still remember the Revolution.”
At mid-day, Chip sought Lance out while the latter played stoolball in the courtyard. Being one of the few competitive sports available to them as a pick-up game almost any time during daylight hours, the game was a favorite among the prisoners. Usually played on a grassy field, the game had been adapted to the constraints of the courtyard and its stone floor. As an ancient sport developed in Sussex and a possible ancestor to cricket, it required little equipment—a ball, a stool for a wicket, and anything that could be used for a bat.
Lance had been playing. When he saw Chip gesture to him, he called to another man on the sidelines to take his place, and, while wiping sweat from his brow, he joined the intelligence officer. “What’s up?”
“We’ve decoded your letter. It arrived somewhat late, but it confirms what we heard on the BBC this morning about the invasion into Soviet territory.”
Lance cast Chip a searching look. “That makes no sense. How could a letter mailed days or weeks ago confirm a report about an action that just took place today?”
Chip shrugged. “The decoded message simply said, ‘Big news on June 22.’ Granted, we’re assuming that the big news is the invasion, but I’d be more surprised now if that isn’t the case.”
“I suppose you’re right, but it would be nice to see another actual letter from home one of these days. Is that all you came to tell me?”
Chip shook his head. “No. The SBO would like to see you in his quarters.”
“Uh-oh. That sounds serious. Any idea what it’s about?”
Chip nodded grimly. “The kommandant received a report about your family on Sark. Guy will give you the specifics.”
Lance sighed and dropped his head. “Ahh. If there’s a way to make this war more miserable, leave it to the Nazis to figure it out.”
Guy was apologetic. “You should know that you’ve been officially identified as a prominente. The kommandant informed me.”
“How will that affect me now?”
“At present, it doesn’t. The kommandant has no orders to transfer you, and I’ve convinced him that you’re in no danger from us.” He smirked. “As exalted as your lineage is, you’re not related to the prime minister or the king.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Then for now, there’s nothing to do but be aware of the situation and keep your background low-key. If it starts to become a concern, I’ll let you know promptly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Night fell, and silence settled. Then, a low, clear voice rang across the courtyard and echoed off the high inner walls of the dark castle and through the barracks within its cavernous interior. The singing was melodious, coming from the Polish section, and the tune was unmistakable, the “Song of the Volga Boatmen.” “Yo ho heave, ho…”
Lance raised himself to rest on his elbows and cocked his ear. The singing continued, intermingled with loud guffaws and jeering catcalls.
Lance got out of bed and went to a window at the opposite end of the noncom room overlooking the courtyard. His roommates grouped behind him to see what was happening. The single voice was joined by more, and then it was rapidly lost in a thunder of voices as prisoners all around the courtyard grouped around every window, thrusting and waving their arms between the bars and lustily singing the Volga song, echoing off the stone walls to mock the Germans and their invasion.
“You Nazis started too late,” someone yelled. “The winters will eat you alive.”
“You’ve never fought,” another man called, “until you’ve fought a mad Russian.”
“If Corporal Napoleon couldn’t do it, the Austrian corporal certainly cannot.”
In the courtyard, the sentries watched nervously, joined by reinforcements. These troops were new to the job, their unit having just relieved the previous one and
being unaccustomed to occasional outbursts among the prison population. Then an officer strode to the center of the courtyard. He yelled something that Lance surmised to be a call for silence, but his voice was lost in the cacophony that mixed with hundreds more voices joining in to sing, full-throated, “Yo ho heave, ho…”
A beer bottle shattered on the ground with a loud popping noise, followed by another. The second one had been well-shaken, and it exploded with an even louder sound that sent the guards scurrying and then looking up and about for any more flying missiles. A loud whistle screeched across the courtyard—a prisoner doing a life-like imitation of a falling bomb from a Stuka. More prisoners generated the noises of roaring fighters and dive-bomber engines and explosions that sent the sentries looking wildly about and seeking shelter in a pandemonium against the incessant accompaniment of the low octave singing, “Yo ho heave, ho…”
After twenty minutes, the main portal opened wide, and three officers and several noncoms strode into the center of the courtyard. One apparently called for silence, but his voice was lost in the chaos. He turned to his party and began pointing in various directions and up at the windows. The group split up, with the other two officers moving adroitly to opposite ends of the courtyard, taking their sergeants and men with them.
Moments later, the sentries had been formed in two lines, with the front one kneeling while the back one remained standing. Both lines, on command, lifted their rifles to point at the crowded windows.
In a flash, the spaces were dark, the courtyard silent, as within the barracks, prisoners scurried to hide under beds and tables, in corners, outside their rooms in halls, and anywhere else they could find shelter. In the courtyard, clear commands rang out followed by the concussive sound of rifle fire, shattering glass, splintering wood, and the smack and ricochet of bullets against walls. When the firing stopped, all was quiet.
A special roll call was ordered. Lance stumbled into the cold air with his mates and formed up. A German noncom checked to see that no gaps occurred in the ranks. Then he counted the number of rows and columns, multiplied the two numbers, and reported the total. In other parts of the courtyard, the contingents from the other nationalities accomplished the same actions.
The kommandant appeared and took a position in front of the formations. Lance strained to hear, but the man did not address the rank and file. Instead, he summoned the senior officer of each national group and instructed them in tones too low to be heard across the distance. Then the kommandant left the courtyard.
Guy returned to the front of the British formation and addressed his contingent, his face grim. “As fun as tonight was, there could be penalties. What the kommandant told the senior officers was, and I quote, ‘Throwing bottles at sentries is not gentlemanly behavior. In the future, you should not expect to be treated as gentlemen.’”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what steps he intends or how far he’ll take them, but I will tell you that he promised severe consequences if the bottle-throwing culprit doesn’t own up.” He rocked forward on his feet. “That’s all I have. Go to bed.”
At noon roll call, Lance once again stood in formation. Tension filled the air more than usual. The POWs generally remained quiet, and the guards were unusually alert. Otherwise, and surprisingly, the formation was conducted normally, with nothing untoward from either the prisoners or their captors.
After the formation was dismissed, Lance returned to his room where he found Miloš waiting for him. The Pole exhibited unusual and low morale. Lance studied his downcast demeanor. “How are things with your group after last night’s riot.”
Miloš shook his head slowly. “It’s not fair. One of our lieutenants, Lieutenant Micky Surmanowics, confessed, but I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
Taken aback, Lance prodded, “Didn’t he just come out of solitary?”
“He did.” Miloš’ eyes burned with ferocity. “He was there since the beginning of last November. That’s eight months. He’s one of the two who scaled down nearly four stories on a rope made from bedsheets.”
“Why did he confess?”
“Because he’s a good man and didn’t want everyone else to suffer. He’s going to be court-martialed next month. He’s back in solitary now.”
Lance grasped his friend’s shoulder. “Miloš, we have to get out of here.”
57
June 29, 1941
Oflag IV-C, Colditz, Germany
Stretched on a thin mattress with protruding steel springs that passed for a bed, Lance heard the jangling of keys before they were inserted into the lock, and then the clanging of tumblers as the lock turned and the door opened. Guy stepped inside the cell, a frown etched on his face.
Lance looked up at him, and then rose from his bunk and stood at attention. “I’m sorry, SBO. No excuse.”
Guy heaved a sigh and sat in the single chair in the room at a small writing table across from the bunk. “Sit, sit. I won’t stand on formality in here. I’m allowed by the Geneva Convention to visit you, to monitor your health and treatment.” He looked around the cell dolefully. “This is a pretty dismal place.”
“I’ve been in worse.”
Guy nodded. “I will say that I’m a bit disappointed. I thought you understood the rules, and that there was a waiting list for escapes. You preempted everyone with your attempt, and your own reservation on the list was coming up.” He scrutinized Lance, who had sat on the edge of the bed. “You know that some of our chaps confide in no one, and attempt escapes irrespective of rules and priorities. None have yet succeeded.
“I had thought you were above flouting our procedures. When prospective escapees go through our process, the escape committee provides money, food, clothing, maps, reconnaissance reports, forged papers, and whatever else is within our power to contribute. You went out with none of that.
“POWs who try on their own usually plan only for getting over the wall and not how they’ll survive and get through the country, much less how they’ll get across the border. Furthermore, they make things more difficult for those who follow the rules, sometimes interfering with others’ plans by either making a simultaneous attempt or using an escape route that’s discovered by the guards, closing it off for others.”
Lance glanced at him with a worried look. “Did we do that, sir?”
Guy nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid you did—not a scheduling conflict, but the method.” He chuckled despite the seriousness. “Jumping on the back of a rubbish truck as it was heading out of the gate was ingenious, but now the guards inspect it every time. That route had been selected for an attempt by two others going together. Now they’ll have to find another way, and they’re likely to miss their dates. If that happens, their travel documents will have to be forged again.” He waved his hand. “Etcetera.”
Shamefaced, Lance returned Guy’s steady gaze. He took a deep breath. “I truly am sorry, sir. I should have known better.”
Guy studied Lance in silence and then said, “I’m going to ask you a question, and then, depending on your response, I’ll request a favor.”
“I’ll answer as best I can.”
“Why did you go? It’s as if you decided on the spur of the moment.”
“I did, sir. I was put off by that bit about being classified as a prominente and felt I had to get out. The prospect of languishing in a cell like Romily’s and then being used as a bargaining chip is not one I wish to encounter. I also saw how despondent Miloš became over Lieutenant Surmanowics’ confession and court martial. By the way, is there any word on Miloš?”
Guy shook his head. “None yet. He might have made it home. Why were you re-captured right away, and he wasn’t?”
“Hmph.” Lance smirked. “He was smart enough to bring a bar of soap and a second set of clothing tightly wrapped. When we got off the truck, he went into an alley to find a faucet to wash off the smell, change clothes, and be on his merry way. I intended to steal some clothes. I found some hanging on a clothesline, b
ut the frau saw me and came at me waving a broom and screaming. I took off at a run. Her neighbors heard the commotion and joined the chase. Then came the soldiers, and I was done in. Simple as that.” He grinned. “I have to laugh, heartbreaking as my sob story is.”
Guy laughed. “I admire your spirit.” He sat quietly gathering his thoughts. Through a small, barred window, shouts and dull thumps drifted in from men playing stoolball in the courtyard with the occasional sharp order of a guard. Fortunately, the cell was dry and large enough to move about. “Are they feeding you well?”
Lance grinned. “They’re feeding me. The term ‘well’ is relative. I’ll survive.”
“I’ll press the kommandant to let me share some Red Cross packages with you.” His expression changed to one of concern. “I had not thought about how being listed as a prominente might affect your mentality. It’s not a pleasant prospect.”
“You had a request, sir?”
“Yes.” Guy hesitated. “It was hard enough to ask before you revealed the worries of being a prominente. What you’ve just told me makes the request even more difficult.”
“Ask away, sir. If it’s within my power—”
“Don’t finish that sentence until you’ve heard what I’m asking.” Guy took a deep breath. “I’d like you to serve as assistant escape officer to Pat, and if he leaves, I’d like for you to take over for him. He’s agreed to stay in place until late next year.”
Dumbstruck, at first Lance could only stare. “Sir, you’re asking me to volunteer not to escape?”
Guy’s reluctance increased. “That’s right. If you accept, you’ll help prospective escapees with planning the details of their escapes, gathering materials, and coordinating whatever operational support they require. There is no reward for taking the job, and precious little that the honor will ever do for you. It’s as purely selfless as you can get, but it’s necessary.”