Churchill's Iceman_The True Story of Geoffrey Pyke_Genius, Fugitive, Spy

by Henry Hemming

  Having stocked up on supplies – ham, cheese, cocoa, chocolate, sausages, eggs, dried soups, matches, string and soap – they went for dinner in Brusttuch, which was, and still is, the grandest hotel in Goslar. There followed a feast which began to wash away some of the depressing memories of their months in Ruhleben, a meal which they were both enjoying until the proprietor came over to ask politely about the food and whether they planned to stay for long in Goslar. Blumenthal explained that, with regret, they had to leave before sunset. Confused by this desire to hike after consuming an enormous meal, the proprietor suggested that they should spend the night in the hotel. Blumenthal thanked him but explained that their holiday was so short and they were so keen to sleep under the stars that they must refuse.

  A bed that night would have been heaven, but, as one needed valid papers to stay in a German hotel, it would have brought their escape to an end.

  They paid for their meal and slipped out into a warm, bustling street. A sharp climb took them out of Goslar to the saddle of a pine-clad hill where they paused to watch the sunset. Before them a timeline of valleys plunged into the distance and, as the sky became an imperial purple and the insects began to cluster, they were free for a moment from the nervous reality of their new lives as fugitives. With the sky gently darkening they found a sheltered spot where they cooked ham and eggs on their new gas stove before wrapping themselves in their Loden cloaks and smoking long into the night. For the first time since leaving Ruhleben both men experienced ‘a feeling of delicious security’.

  They awoke the next day to the sound of birdsong while ‘a bright sun streamed through the fragrant dew-spangled pines’. During the next twelve hours Falk and Pyke managed to cross most of central Germany by train, often sharing a carriage with off-duty soldiers to whom Falk cheerfully read out excerpts from his newspaper. That night they reached the mountainous Teutoburg Forest, which stretched like a wooded flyover across north-west Germany towards the Dutch frontier. Holland, neutral throughout the war, was their destination.

  After reading in a newspaper that since the outbreak of war the Teutoburg Forest had become deserted, they had decided to use this woodland like a ladder in a game of Snakes and Ladders. It would take them undetected to within striking distance of the Dutch frontier. For the first few days the plan worked magnificently. Amid heavy rain, the two Englishmen squelched down empty forest trails and encountered nobody. But in some ways it worked too well, for it was so quiet that they became overly confident. They soon agreed to take a short cut which would involve leaving the forest for a few hours. As they ventured down a quiet country lane, away from the protection of the trees, they began to talk in English. Not long after that they heard behind them a crack.

  It was a boy on a bicycle who had just run over a twig. Having crept up on them and apparently overheard their conversation he now raced off towards the nearest village, turning occasionally as if to memorise their faces. The two Englishmen shot off in the opposite direction.

  This was bad, they agreed – it must never happen again. In future they would march by night and leave the forest only when absolutely necessary. For several days this new regime seemed to work, until their sixth day on the run when they chose to spend the day resting up near a bilberry bush.

  Soon after settling down they heard in the distance the cheerful clamour of children rushing towards them, yet before they could move away they were surrounded. Their mistake was not that they were hiding by a bilberry bush but that bilberries were in season. ‘Fugitives please note,’ Falk later wrote, ‘avoid ripe fruit when selecting hiding places.’

  For the next hour the children played by the bush and ate its berries before a little girl caught sight of the two stubbly men. She stopped.

  ‘Got many bilberries, Elsa?’ asked Falk in his gentlest voice.

  She put her finger in her mouth and giggled, before being joined by a fellow berry-picker.

  ‘Well, Gretel, and what about you?’ Falk persevered. ‘Have you got many?’

  One by one the children came to stare at the strange-looking men sprawled out on the forest floor. Nobody knew quite what to do, and after more nervous laughter the youngsters ran off.

  Again the two men fled, heads buzzing with the impossible calculations of the fugitive. How would these children describe what they had seen? Would they be believed, and if so what would be the likely response? The same went for the boy on the bicycle. Perhaps the hotel proprietor in Goslar had alerted the authorities, or had they already been contacted by Wertheim’s? By now, surely, the Ruhleben camp commandant had tipped off the police. There were times when it could feel as if the entire German population might be after them. Yet there were other, more pressing problems to consider. One was the deteriorating condition of Pyke’s heart; another was their dwindling supply of food, a situation that Pyke hoped to remedy with the help of Arsène Lupin. He asked himself what Lupin would do in this situation. That was easy. As a gentleman-thief, naturally, he would thieve.

  In the days after the bilberry-bush incident Pyke tried out a new character, that of petty thief. His first haul was modest: some unripe potatoes from a field. But soon he graduated to lowly farmsteads where he scavenged for scraps of food left outside and filled their bottle from water-butts. Falk preferred to keep watch, admitting, ‘I lacked the nerve for this kind of enterprise.’

  Pyke found his new task exhilarating. After only a few days he was ‘extremely addicted to stealing’. ‘Burglary is the most absorbing work imaginable. Every instant you are ready to see an irate owner in a night-cap issue forth, shouting and bellowing, and then comes the great moment when one has to decide whether to crouch down with not a finger moving, as rigid as a rock, every particle of white, even one’s hands, covered up, trusting to luck that he will not see you, or whether to bolt as hard as possible into the darkness, trusting to luck that he will not catch you.’ It was hard to say whether his enjoyment stemmed from the satisfaction of providing himself and Falk with food or whether there a part of him which relished the thrill of deceit in the name of a worthwhile cause.

  Of course, this was not without risk, and only two days into Pyke’s new career as a petty thief he and Falk made their third mistake: they forgot to wind on their watches one night. Having found a cottage with a sizeable water-butt, Pyke crept towards it, thinking it was about midnight. When he had almost reached the building the door swung open and an angry-looking woman strode out.

  ‘The idea that I always followed on these occasions was the Red Indian dictum that anything that moves is twice as easily seen as anything still.’ He froze. Yet she continued in his direction. In another few seconds she would be upon him. At this point Falk decided to intervene.

  As Herr Blumenthal, Falk came bouncing out of the undergrowth, full of bluff bonhomie. The woman turned in fright. ‘In suave tones I explained that we were members of the Imperial Pedestrian Touring Club, slightly belated and very thirsty. “Well, you look a gentleman,” she replied, “but to tell you the truth I thought your friend had come to steal my cows.” Pyke withdrew into the shadows under cover of this conversation. With a cheerful “Good-night” I followed him leisurely.’

  Now they were in a spin. Unsure of the time or their location, they walked on in what they hoped was the direction of Holland. Down deserted country lanes, where their greatest fear was a silent gendarme coming up behind them on a bicycle, they looked for a place to hide. But the road only became wider and the landscape more congested until they arrived at the outskirts of Saerbeck, a town they had been at pains to avoid.

  It was now past midnight and rather than turn back they agreed to march on. Having sliced clean through this town they found no shelter on the other side, and instead walked into Emsdetten, an even larger town. Again they did not break their stride in case anyone noticed the hesitation. ‘How our boots echoed in those silent, cobbled streets!’

  They encountered no gendarmes in Emsdetten, no nightwatchmen, dogs or insomniac vigila
ntes, but walked without a word through to the country west of the town where they found a wood in which to sleep. It was here, less than a day later, that Falk and Pyke separated for the first time since leaving Ruhleben.

  Their objective for the night was simple: they had to cross the mighty Max-Clemens Canal, just under a mile away. Yet to swim this canal they would need all their strength and by now both men were flagging. Between them they had just one slice of sausage, a lump of cheese smaller than a matchbox and two biscuits, all of which had to last until Holland, some fifteen miles away.

  Pyke offered to get fresh supplies in Emsdetten, a plan that Falk described as ‘suicidal, in view of his extremely defective German’. He offered Pyke his share of their rations but the younger man would not budge. Finally Falk volunteered to return to Emsdetten. It was a terrible risk, one that flew in the face of every principle which they had agreed upon, but there seemed to be little choice.

  Using a Gillette safety razor and a drop of water Falk gave himself a crude shave before Pyke licked him clean, straightened his tie and reshaped his hat.

  ‘You’ll do nicely now.’

  ‘If I’m not back in three or four hours,’ replied Falk, ‘you must crawl on as best you can.’

  ‘You’ll get caught right enough,’ Pyke teased. ‘See you in prison later.’

  With that, Teddy Falk walked into Emsdetten. All was not as he had hoped. It was a Catholic holiday which meant that almost every shop was shut. As Falk roamed the streets with a look of growing consternation on his face, a crowd of boys began to follow him, peppering him with awkward questions. Again it was the children of Germany who seemed alive to the fact that something about these two men was not quite right.

  Falk was about to give up when he came across a shop run by a Protestant family. Behind the counter was ‘a buxom dame’ who stared in silence. He began by asking for four pounds of chocolate.

  ‘Four pounds!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely you can’t eat all of that?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Falk replied. ‘The truth is, it’s my fiancée who is so fond of it, and, well, I want to spoil her. Now,’ he said, producing a notebook, ‘let me see what my housekeeper wanted. Ah,’ he went on, ‘sugar, margarine, soup squares, and cheese. Do you have any sausages or ham?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘No – what a pity. And nowhere else in town?’

  No again.

  ‘This dreadful war. Your husband is at the front, of course?’

  He carried on like this in the mounting certainty that as soon as he stopped, her interrogation would begin. At last he paused for breath. She asked what his business was in Emsdetten.

  ‘My business, madam? I have been sent by the government to repair the canal locks. Yes, a pound of sugar and one of margarine, please.’

  ‘Which canal?’

  ‘Why, the one to the west, a few miles out.’ The Max-Clemens Canal. ‘You never heard of it? Remarkable how few people I meet on my journeys seem to know their native towns well. I’ll take two pounds of that cheese, please.’

  ‘It’s strange that nobody ever mentioned the canal to me in all these years that I’ve been here,’ the woman said.

  Falk had almost everything he needed and was about to pay when he saw a packet of biscuits. Could he buy these without a bread ticket? He stared longingly at the biscuits before musing out loud, ‘I’d like to take my children some of these home . . .’

  ‘I thought you just said you were engaged,’ came the reply.

  She had got him. He had indeed said that he was engaged and now he was talking about children. It was a rare slip from this light-footed civil servant. Most people at a moment like this would feel a flush in their cheeks and perhaps clam up, but not Teddy Falk.

  Instead, with just a hint of melodrama, he leaned forward, grabbed the counter with both hands and whispered: ‘She’s my second one. But don’t you tell anybody. And now for the bill, please.’

  This seemed to work.

  ‘Where should I send the parcel to?’ she asked, perhaps testing him one last time.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, pausing for thought, ‘in these days those who cannot fight at the front must help by assisting to economise labour. Although my physician has beseeched me not to over-exert my feeble frame, I intend to carry that parcel home myself, heavy though it is. I wish your husband a safe return home.’

  Perhaps it was the mention of her husband that did it, for as Falk left the shopkeeper gave him a cigar.

  The two fugitives ate well that evening and later that night arrived at the Max-Clemens Canal. No wonder the shop-keeper had sounded so confused. The canal had lain derelict for years. All that remained was a grassy trough that they were able to walk across easily.

  In spite of just having had a substantial meal and being close to the Dutch frontier, both men were starting to fray at the ends. After twelve days on the run Falk found himself haunted by what he called ‘that hunted feeling’. When he was playing the part of Herr Blumenthal he was confident and calm, and could improvise his way out of most situations, yet in those longueurs between performances he experienced a creeping sense of paranoia. Pyke’s discomfort was physical rather than psychological: his heart seemed to be getting weaker every day. For different reasons each man was becoming addled and reckless, and on the night after crossing the Max-Clemens Canal, as they marched through the rain, the two fugitives made no attempt to talk quietly. Instead they entered into a full-blooded debate on ‘the respective merits of our universities, the probable duration of the war, the progress of religious thought, or women’s suffrage’. Indeed, they were enjoying their conversation so much that they failed to notice that the road had become increasingly well kempt. Nor did they pause to investigate the wall of light one had seen beyond the trees or the strange humming sound. Instead they carried on, their voices a talisman against the unfamiliarity of their setting, the darkness and the rain, only to turn the corner and find that night had become day.

  Before them a startling scene was illuminated by a concentration of electric arc-lamps. What had been a hum was now a roar. Fifty yards away was a cordon of armed sentries, bayonets glinting like shark’s teeth, guarding an enormous factory. In their attempt to slip out of Germany undetected Falk and Pyke had walked up to one of the world’s largest munitions factories. The road before them led directly and irresistibly towards it and they knew that to pause, even for a second, would be to invite suspicion. So they continued, like two cartoon characters who have run off a cliff, until they reached the sentries guarding the factory.

  ‘Good evening,’ Falk grunted at one of the uniformed men.

  No reply.

  They carried on past the soldiers into the heart of the factory complex. The sound of the plant was thunderous now. On either side of them was a dystopic sprawl of bright-lit huts, barracks and chimneys. They were surrounded by munitions that would soon be raining down on their fellow countrymen but were unable to stop and stare. Instead each man summoned up an artificial calm and continued along the road until they arrived at a barrier blocking their path.

  For Falk, it was all over. ‘This must be the end of our journey, I felt. We had had no time to consult when a figure stepped forth, and apologising for delaying us flung open the barrier.’ They marched on in silence before being enveloped again by the night.

  The sentries must have mistaken them for two engineers coming off duty. Later that night they settled down in a dank copse, perhaps wondering to themselves what they had to do to get caught.

  Pyke woke up the next morning amid the sound of pounding hooves. He was also aware of a jabbing pain in his abdomen. It was Falk digging him in the ribs.

  ‘Get your legs in, you fool,’ Falk whispered. ‘There is a squadron of cavalry all around us.’

  Pyke pressed his body deep into a clump of sodden heather and lay still as the damp spread through his clothes. Beyond the undergrowth horses and men were busying about. ‘There was nothing exciting about thi
s. There was no dramatic suspense. If you were caught, you were caught, a truism that seemed to cover everything. The ground was still just as wet, the air just as cold, and the heather roots just as rough as before these gentlemen on horses made their presence heard.’ Indeed, he was so unmoved that he fell asleep.

  When Pyke came to again the cavalry squadron was still there. There was no way out of this, he told himself, before starting to picture the interrogation that was bound to begin. Who would ask the questions? Probably the man issuing orders, ‘a very stiff frightful Prussian’ who had just shouted:

  ‘Section A will now send a man to see if this copse is clear of the enemy.’

  He was referring to the copse they were in.

  It was not very big.

  Pressing himself deeper into the heather, Pyke watched as a mounted soldier advanced into their wood. He was ‘a bored young farmer, his belly encircled with a belt with “Gott mit uns” inscribed on it’, God with us, who was carried about by a ‘beautiful jet-black beast’. Like hobbits hiding from a ring-wraith the two Englishmen pulled their loden cloaks over them and pressed themselves harder into the undergrowth. The mounted soldier passed by within several metres of them before carrying on out of the copse. After this the squadron gathered itself up and rumbled off into the distance as if to war.

  That night the wind picked up and the two men marched into what felt like a typhoon. The landscape looked different now. It had become a chopped-up, muddling mess, a dismal matrix of fields and patches of pine about a kilometre square, delineated by barbed-wire fences and ditches. They were on edge now. At the slightest sound, anything at all, they would drop to the ground as if felled by machine-gun fire.

  Pyke’s condition was getting worse. Walking felt like rowing through molasses and every twenty minutes Falk stopped to let him catch his breath. He would count down the ten-minute break while Pyke lay very still ‘with the one wish that the last of the ten minutes might never come. In a few minutes the earth became spongy and it was even harder to go on. I remember keeping my eyes on Falk, and wondering why one should walk on one’s feet instead of one’s hands.’ He was listing now. Nothing was quite as it seemed as they entered the Gildehauser Venn, a peat bog notorious for swallowing up travellers who strayed from the path. In this anaemic, moonless gloom a silvery puddle could become a sandy hump, and back again. Was the light ahead the dawn coming on or the nearby town of Ochtrup? The world had become monochrome and empty, a ghostly hinterland, and Pyke could no longer tell where they were going or why, which way was up, how this would end, when all at once he felt his heart ‘give a sickening leap, as if it would break itself against my ribs, and the sky and heath had disappeared. Great masses of earth were being hurled about, and one hit my head so that it almost fell off my neck.’