Escape

by Paul Dowswell

  After the escape

  Blake was handsomely rewarded by his Soviet allies. He was made a colonel in the KGB (the Soviet security service) and put up in a comfortable apartment in Moscow. He had left behind a wife and three sons in England, but remarried a Russian woman and had another daughter. He was found work as a researcher in international politics and economics for Moscow University. Still alive today, he has no regrets about his past. When recently asked if he felt the collapse of communism in the Soviet Union had meant that all his efforts had been wasted, he said:

  “I think it is never wrong to give your life to a noble ideal, and to a noble experiment, even if it doesn’t succeed.”

  Sean Bourke’s future turned out bleaker. Not as well-known as Blake, he was able to slip out of the country on a false passport. He flew to Berlin, and was then sent on to Moscow and reunited with Blake. The two men got along so well, the Soviet authorities put them up in an apartment together. But they soon fell out. Blake had been charming when it suited him, but he could also be arrogant and ill-mannered. Bourke related that Blake had even hinted to the KGB that they should have him eliminated.

  Bourke eventually returned to his native Ireland and wrote a book about the escape called The Springing of George Blake. His account disguised the part Pottle and Randle played, to protect them from arrest. The book became a best seller and he turned full time to writing, but with no further success. He became an alcoholic and died alone in a mobile home in Ireland, in 1982.

  Pat Pottle and Michael Randle’s role in Blake’s getaway became public knowledge in 1989, when British newspapers published sensational accounts of the escape. The two men were prosecuted and brought to trial. Despite the fact that they had clearly broken the law, the jury was sympathetic to them and they were acquitted. Pat Pottle died in 2000, but Michael Randle is still a campaigning writer and journalist, and a research fellow at the Department of Peace Studies at the University of Bradford.

  The Dirty Docker

  If the guards at Donington Hall Prisoner of War Camp had known a bit more about Kapitänleutnant Gunther Plüschow, they might have kept a closer eye on him. To the men who watched over him, he was a genial, well-dressed fellow, who spoke very good English. He had a friendly smile, and was good at hockey, which he played at every opportunity. He was really quite charming.

  He was also extremely clever and, if he had anything to do with it, he was not going to be staying in Donington Hall for long.

  Plüschow’s background was exceptional. A cadet at Munich’s Military School from the age of 10, he excelled in everything he did. After an outstanding career as a marine in the German Imperial Army, he volunteered to become one of Germany’s first airforce pilots. After learning to fly he was sent to Tsingtao in China, which was a German colony. When the First World War broke out in 1914 Tsingtao was attacked by British and Japanese forces, and Plüschow gained a reputation as a daring flyer. While in China, he had had a dragon tattooed to his left arm, and his men took to calling him “The Dragon Master”.

  When it seemed certain that Tsingtao would fall, Plüschow was ordered to make his way back to Germany. He was captured by Chinese troops, but soon gave them the slip, and took a boat from Shanghai to San Francisco, USA. After making his way to New York, he took a boat to Italy. Unfortunately for him, the boat stopped at Gibraltar – a British port on the Mediterranean. Plüschow was arrested as a prisoner of war, and taken to England.

  He was taken to Donington Hall, an old stately home which had been turned into a prison camp. Life there was actually quite pleasant. Plüschow, who had arrived with all his luggage, was allowed to receive packages and letters from his family, and spent most of his time chatting to other officers and playing sports.

  The camp routine was very relaxed. Twice a day there was a parade for a roll call – a register to check on all the inmates. There was also a rule the men had to follow about a day boundary and a night boundary. The day boundary took in much of the grounds of the home, including a pleasant park, and had a high barbed wire fence around it. During the day the men were allowed to wander freely here. But after dark, prisoners were expected to keep within the area around their huts, which was called the night boundary.

  One of Plüschow’s companions was another officer named Oberleutnant Trefftz. Like Plüschow he spoke excellent English. He also knew the country well, having visited several times. They became friends and Plüschow suggested they escape together. Trefftz agreed and the two men set about planning their getaway.

  Both men knew that getting out of the camp would be fairly easy, but what came after would be difficult. Donington was near the town of Derby, which lay a few miles to the north. Here they could catch a train to London, and then stowaway on board a boat heading for Holland – a neutral country where they could make their way to Germany.

  Plüschow and Trefftz hatched a simple but ingenious plan based on their knowledge of the guards’ routine. They also asked their fellow prisoners to help them with their escape and to give them money to buy food and pay for their journey. On July 4th, 1915 the two men claimed to be ill, and the camp doctor placed them on the official sick list. This meant they were excused from the daily roll call parades.

  At 4:00pm that afternoon, after a day resting in bed, they both got up and dressed in civilian clothes. Plüschow had brought a stylish suit from China, a blue sweater and a smart grey overcoat. The men were supposed to wear their uniforms at the camp, so they put on their officer’s caps and coats as well.

  After they dressed, they gobbled down all the buttered rolls that had been left in the hut for the prisoners’ afternoon snack. It could be several days before they ate again. Then they prepared to leave. Outside it was raining cats and dogs. Normally they would curse such dull British weather, but as Plüschow pointed out, this was perfect for their escape.

  “Trefftz, my dear fellow,” he said, “the Gods are on our side. The guards are going to be shivering and dripping wet in their little guard boxes. They’re not going to be paying much attention to us!”

  “A guard box will be a better place to spend the next four hours than what we’re planning to do,” said Trefftz, who was not looking forward to being soaked to the bone.

  The two men walked out of their hut and into the rain. They ambled rather stiffly in their many layers of clothing, and made their way over to the park. There, near the barbed wire boundary, lay a pile of deck chairs. After a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching them, the two men stooped down and hid among the chairs.

  After an hour the rain stopped, and Plüschow and Trefftz shivered and cursed in their cramped hiding place. Both were now feeling quite anxious about their escape attempt, and this tedious wait was making them jumpy.

  The camp clock struck six, and the prisoners came out of their huts for the evening roll call.

  “Stage one,” said Plüschow. “If this fails, expect to see some bad-tempered guards with bayonets on their rifles, poking around in the undergrowth.”

  The two men peeked out from the chairs, as their fellow prisoners assembled. The ritual of the roll call drifted across the park, each prisoner barking a curt yes as his name was called. Plüschow and Trefftz’s names were unanswered of course, but they were reported sick. As soon as the roll call was over, two of their fellow officers rushed back to occupy their beds. The camp guard sent to check that they were there, saw what he thought were two sleeping figures, and assumed it was them.

  Plüschow and Trefftz waited, anticipating an alarm or call-out for the guards, which would tell them that their plan had failed. But everything seemed to go on as usual.

  After evening roll call, the day boundary was out of bounds, and the guards withdrew to the night boundary. So all Plüschow and Trefftz had to do now was climb over an unguarded barbed wire fence. But there was one more problem with the camp routine which had to be overcome.

  A slow summer dusk fell over Donington Hall, and turned to a black moonless night. At
bedtime, a guard checked every bed, and once again the escapers’ fellow officers would help them. Because all the prisoners were so familiar with the guards’ routine, they knew the exact order in which each hut would be visited. Two men from a hut the guards always checked first sneaked over to Plüschow and Trefftz’s hut and got into their beds.

  Again, in their cramped, damp hiding place the two escapers listened out for any clue that their escape had been discovered. But the dull routine of Donington Hall seemed as unchanging as ever.

  “So far, so good,” said Plüschow, “so let’s go!”

  “For Heaven’s sake don’t knock anything over.” said Trefftz with a grin. “Any noise and we’ll have dogs barking and alarm bells ringing, and we’ll be finished.”

  Like dark shadows the two men rose from the tangle of chairs, and made their way to the wire.

  “Watch out for the fourth strand up,” said Plüschow. “That one is electric. Touch that and it sets an alarm off in the camp.”

  “How did you know that?” said Trefftz.

  “It pays to eavesdrop!” said Plüschow. “I overheard two of the guards talking about it.”

  Slowly, slowly, one by one, the two men climbed the wire. If they were careful, and they took care to untangle any bit of clothing that had caught on a barb, it was quite easy to get over. But still, Plüschow made a large rip in his trousers when he jumped the final six feet down to the ground.

  Away from the wire, and into a dense forest that stood by the road away from the camp, they buried their uniform coats and caps under drifting leaves and brushwood.

  “Now, which way to Derby?” said Trefftz.

  But even as he spoke, a soldier loomed out of the dark towards them. Plüschow immediately grabbed Trefftz, hugged him tightly and began to kiss him!

  Trefftz was too startled to do anything but go along with this ploy, and when the soldier walked past them hurriedly, tutting with embarrassment, he had to grit his teeth to stop giggling.

  The danger passed, Plüschow released his companion with a smirk.

  “Unseemly conduct for an officer and a gentleman,” said Trefftz primly.

  They hurried down the road, wanting to get as far away from the camp and anyone who might recognize them as quickly as possible. An hour or so later, they came to a crossroads.

  A sign stood at the corner of the road, but it was so dark they could not see what it said. Plüschow climbed up it and traced the letters with his finger.

  “D… E… R… B…”

  “Derby. Yes, this is it. Let’s go!”

  They walked all night, spurred on by the knowledge that as soon as their escape was discovered, the station was the first place the police and army would look.

  As dawn broke they stopped to tidy themselves up. Plüschow repaired his trousers with a needle and thread he always carried, and both men shaved, using their own spit as shaving foam. Doing this was faintly repulsive, but anything that gave a policeman or soldier any clue that they might be two runaways, rather than a couple of well-dressed fellows, had to be avoided at all costs.

  Shortly after, they reached the railway station and bought railway tickets to London. Standing on the near deserted platform with a handful of early morning commuters made Plüschow feel uneasy.

  “Look, my friend,” he said to Trefftz, “we’re too obvious together. Let’s split up. I’ll see you in London, on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, at 7:00pm tonight.”

  Trefftz could immediately see the sense in Plüschow’s suggestion. He gave his friend a wink, then wandered to the other end of the platform.

  The train arrived, the two men got on and Plüschow’s journey passed in a sleepy haze. Once in London he headed for St. Paul’s, but Trefftz did not appear. Plüschow waited an hour, then headed for Hyde Park, where he thought he could hide and sleep.

  But the park was closed, and so Plüschow crept into the grounds of a house nearby, and hid in the bushes at the bottom of the garden. Unlike the night before, this summer evening was dry and warm, and Plüschow began to nod off to sleep. Then a noise disturbed him and he came to his senses with a start.

  A party was going on in the house, and some of the guests had come out onto the lawn to enjoy the night air. Plüschow froze in the bushes, hardly daring to breathe. A few feet away elegant gentlemen and ladies in long ball gowns swanned around making conversation. Once he got used to it, Plüschow found it all quite funny, and enjoyed listening to the party guests as they traded scandalous gossip, or complained about their servants.

  As he began to relax, the sound of a piano and a woman singing a beautiful song drifted from an open French window. The guests all returned to the party to hear this performance, and Plüschow fell asleep, lulled by the soft music.

  Time passed, and footsteps woke him again. This time it was a couple of patrolling policemen on the other side of the wall. Dawn was breaking, and Plüschow decided this garden was not the best place to be lurking. When the coast was clear he leaped over the wall and headed again for Hyde Park, which opened at dawn.

  Here he found a bench to lie on and slept until nine. Then he headed down to nearby South Kensington to buy his breakfast. Tucking into a bacon and egg sandwich, he began to feel that his escape was all going rather well. But then he heard a cry that made his blood turn to ice.

  “Readallllabaaaahhht it!” yelled a paper boy. “German officers in camp breakout!”

  Next to the boy a huge poster carried news of his escape.

  Plüschow bought a paper and scuttled onto the underground to read it. Trefftz had been caught the previous day, so the police were now concentrating all their efforts on finding Plüschow. The description it gave made him feel even more uncomfortable:

  “He is particularly smart and dapper in appearance, has very good teeth, which he shows somewhat prominently when talking or smiling, is very English in manner and knows this country well.”

  Ordinarily, he would have been flattered by such a description, but this was all too accurate. Knowing he might be recognized at any time made Plüschow extremely nervous. He would have to change his appearance at once.

  The overcoat was the first thing to go. Plüschow was so fond of it he couldn’t bear to throw it away. So, rather foolishly, he took it to a cloakroom at Blackfriars Station. When he handed it over the attendant asked him his name. By now he was badly flustered and fearful of being arrested at any second. His anxiety got the better of him, and he replied in German.

  “Meinen?” (meaning “Mine?”)

  “Oh, I see,” said the attendant, mishearing him. “Mr. Mine. M.I.N.E. OK then,” and he handed over a receipt.

  Two policemen nearby stared over, wondering why this fashionable young man was looking so terrified. Plüschow headed for the exit and walked towards the Thames. Wandering along the embankment he took off his hat, collar and tie and dropped them discreetly into the river.

  Next, he dropped into a general store and bought a tube of Vaseline and a tin of black boot polish. Then, he visited a hat shop to buy a worker’s flat cap. Heading into a quiet alley, he mixed the Vaseline and boot polish with coal dust he found on the street, and worked it carefully into his blond hair. He dirtied his tailored suit and scuffed his shoes, and rubbed more coal dust into his new hat.

  Placing the cap on his head he caught his reflection in a window. Dashing Kapitänleutnant Gunther Plüschow had gone. Before him stood George Mine – a docker in desperate need of a good bath. Plüschow laughed when he saw himself, but he still looked too brisk and soldierly. He thought he ought to slouch a bit more. He put his hands in his pockets, and spat on the pavement, as he imagined dock workers did. His disguise in place, he ambled back to Hyde Park, trying hard not to revert back to the proud, upright military man he had spent most of his previous life being.

  Plüschow had plenty of time to find a safe hiding place before the park closed. Next day, while on a bus, he heard two business men talking about a boat called the Mecklenburg, that sailed
from Tilbury Docks to Holland at 2:00am every night. He immediately took a train down to Tilbury, which was just outside London, and sure enough, there she was – a sea-going ferry operating a daily service between London and Holland. Plüschow hid as close to the ship as he dared and waited for nightfall. He tried to sleep to conserve his energy. Getting aboard was not going to be easy.

  Around 10.00pm that night Plüschow waded out into the river, but he immediately sank up to his hips in oozing mud. He made a desperate grab for a discarded plank, and saved himself from a horrible death. After struggling out of the mud, he had no energy for another attempt to reach the ship. Plüschow washed his mud-soaked clothes as best he could and sat on the riverbank, shivering in the dark. Very early the next morning, the Mecklenburg sailed away without him. Too cold to sleep, Plüschow watched the dark silhouette of the ferry disappear into the distance. He had never felt so miserable in his life.

  The next day was scorching hot, and his clothes dried quickly in the morning sun. They smelled terribly musty, and Plüschow congratulated himself again on his authentic dirty docker’s disguise! He wandered down to the town to buy a hot sausage sandwich and a sweet cup of tea. Sitting in the sun, wolfing down his breakfast, he felt full of hope again. Today, he told himself, was the day he would leave England for good.

  That night Plüschow made another attempt to get out to the Mecklenburg. On his travels around the river front he had noticed a small rowing boat with the oars carelessly left inside. When night fell, he sneaked down to the riverbank and pushed the boat into the water. But his troubles were not yet over. Halfway out to the Mecklenburg his little boat had filled up with so much water it sank. As he floundered in the river, Plüschow mouthed a silent series of bloodcurdling curses. He threw off his jacket and began to swim towards the ship. Luckily for him, the tide was with him. A less athletic man would have drowned, but all those games of hockey at Donington had kept him fit.