Ploesti

by Dugan; Stewart

  -- W. S. Gilbert, The Mikado

  14 THE GILDED CAGE

  As the fallen Americans settled into the Timisul de Jos camp, the Romanians brought the rest of their western Allied detainees to the new foreign colony in the Alps. There were not many of them, but they were unusual men. There were a stately Dutch admiral, L.A.C. Doorman, and his aide, Baron van Lyndon, a young esthete, who had refused to swear they would not take up arms again when the Germans smashed into Holland. Carried off to a stalag, they broke out and walked southeast, employing the admiral's five languages, but were recaptured in Romania. There were two Yugoslav pilots who had run out of gas in Romania while trying to reach the British lines as the Wehrmacht crashed into their country.

  Soon the oddest cage bird of them all arrived in the officers' stockade -- a slender man with a broken leg in a cast. He was wearing a Royal Air Force uniform, and his papers identified him as Flight Lieutenant Marcus Jacobson. In heavily accented English he explained that he had broken his leg in a parachute jump. The inmates thought everything about him was queer. There had been no R.A.F. raids on Romania. Americans who had served in the R.A.F. quickly ascertained that Jacobson knew nothing about that service. In fact, he was highly ignorant of airplanes. Furthermore, he spoke perfect Romanian. They concluded that the new man was a spy and shunned him.

  Jacobson took from his pocket two easel snapshots of young women and placed them on his bedside table. He got into bed and began knitting a sweater. His roommates waited expectantly for him to begin prying into military secrets, but he remained silent, sticking to his knitting. Clay Ferguson happened into the room and glanced at the snapshots. He left quickly for the game room and announced to the officers, "Jacobson's got a picture of my wife beside his bed." Nobody believed it. Ferguson said, "I'm absolutely sure of it. Why, I left the picture behind in Benghazi. Some of you guys saw it there." Suddenly there was a stream of visitors passing the bedside of the pariah. It was Mrs. Ferguson all right. A bombardier recognized his sister in the other photograph. They confronted the R.A.F. man.

  Jacobson said, "I have never met these beautiful ladies. These pictures were my visas to come to Romania and find you." He took off his mask and told them who he was. His real name was Lyova Gukovsky. He was a native of Bessarabia, the province that Queen Marie had mulcted for Greater Romania in 1920. Her rule was hard on Jews. Gukovsky emigrated to Palestine and became a goatherd and schoolteacher in a large communal farm, Kibbutz Yagour, where he found peace until the new war came.

  British Intelligence asked the Jewish Agency in Palestine for former Romanians to be parachuted into their native land to organize escape systems for Jews, politicals, and Allied airmen who would be raining down on the country when the next big bombing offensive came on Ploesti. Gukovsky volunteered and took parachute training. One night, carrying a bag of gold, he stepped into the air from a black plane over Romania and had the bad luck to land on the roof of a police station and break his leg.

  He ditched the gold before the police seized him. Because of his correct uniform and credentials they did not suspect the nature of his mission and passed him routinely into Timisul, sentenced to a life of ease instead of death in a Gestapo torture chamber, which was the fate of other Palestinian parachute agents. Thus did Antonescu, leader of the Legion of the Archangel Michael for the Christian and Racial Renovation of Romania, roll out the red carpet for a runaway Romanian Jew.

  The parachutist was fortunate in having a stout uniform. Most of the Americans had lost theirs in crackups and hospitals and were wearing parts of castoff Romanian uniforms and canvas underwear. The Red Cross shipped in some U.S. Army pants and blouses and an assortment of gaudy checkered shirts, which restored the individuality of costume essential to the morale of the American fighting man.

  With no camp labors to be performed, the captives amused themselves with bridge, poker, cribbage, torturing musical instruments, exercising in the gym, playing volleyball, and making fudge and wine. They taught their guards the game of craps and cleaned them out. A Bucharest professor came and offered Romanian language lessons. He opened his first class with a nostalgic description of Boston, Massachusetts, where he had spent some time as a young man. "I wish I had never come back here," he said. The pupils chorused, "You can say that again, Doc!"

  There was a farmhouse next to the camp. The men spent patient hours coaching a chicken to stick its neck through the wire. All evidence of the bird disappeared in prestidigious time. Lawrence Lancashire found a book on butchering and the boys went after big game outside the wire. During the weekly church parade to a chapel outside the camp the neat column passed close to a pig. When it was gone the pig was too. They were great churchgoers; Catholics and Protestants used the chapel on alternate Sundays. Many POW's professed to both creeds in order to march outside each week.

  The enlisted men did not fare as well as the officers in procuring spirits. They remedied the situation by stealing the gun of a guard and locking him in a room until he promised to deliver plum brandy.

  As their vigor returned the airmen related themselves to the war as best they could. On the railroad just outside the wire they saw long strings of tank cars running north from Ploesti and knew their work at the refineries had not succeeded. They longed for the bombers to come again.

  The railroad ran through the Predeal Pass over the Transylvanian Alps, and over it passed most of the German troops and supplies for the Ukrainian front and the Ploesti oil moving north. A spy could not have picked a better place to observe enemy movements. One of the caged birdmen professed a keen love of nature and sat long days by the wire counting troop, freight and tanker trains and German road convoys. He noted that Germans rode coaches and Romanian troops rode cattle cars. From Bucharest came a man in a green coat -- the identification Antonescu forced Jews to wear -- and gained admission to the compound as a dentist, volunteering to look after the prisoners' teeth. He brought a jar of powdered porcelain manufactured in Philadelphia, which gave a twinge of homesickness to the co-pilot of Pudgy, Wilmer Bassett, who came from there. (Bassett still has a stout front tooth of this material.) The man in the green coat actually was a dentist -- and more. He regularly collected the nature lover's tallies of German traffic and passed them on to a British Intelligence contact. It was probably the only instance in the history of espionage in which a prisoner of war continuously transmitted top-rated logistical reports.

  One day the guards announced, "No prisoner must go near the wire on pain of being shot by the Germans." The nature lover made himself small, until an American officer induced the commandant to give the reason: "The Germans complain of a prisoner who shouts terrible things at their troop carriages." It was Douglas Collins, humoring himself by yelling in German, "Bad luck for you! The Russians will kill you all. Auf Wiedersehen. " Collins was induced to stop taunting the foe. The heat died down and nature loving and dentistry resumed.

  The wealthy American market attracted two thieving Romanian officers, who opened a canteen in the camp, chased the farm women away, and doubled prices down the line. The Americans called them "Minnie the Moocher" and "Red the Thief." The pair levied rent on the POW billets and forced payment for firewood. They even charged for gasoline used in a wheezy chore truck. It was a rather galling note for men who came to destroy Romanian gasoline, not to purchase it.

  Princess Caterina Caradja visited the camp to look after "her boys." She was not a Red Cross official and had no claim to enter, but she persuaded the commandant to admit her to indoctrinate the Americans against the Russians. This was not a subterfuge: she brain-washed them constantly while looking after their comfort. She brought in a console radio and the fliers put up a map beflagged with the latest war fronts according to the British Broadcasting System's Overseas Service. Romanian officers dropped in to study and discuss the daily situation. Sometimes they heatedly disputed eastern front positions. A navigator caught on. He told his comrades, "Don't argue with them. They're getting the front-line situation f
rom secret enemy reports. Don't ask for proof, just milk it out of them." After that, when differences arose, the prisoners let the Romanians move the pins. Timisul de Jos became one of the most accurately informed war rooms in Europe, although its generals commanded nothing.

  Prominent Romanians visited Timisul from mixed motives of sympathy, curiosity and a desire to court the nationals of what could be the winning side. They spoke to the Americans as though the Soviet were a common foe. Most of the prisoners remembered that the United States was at war with Romania and allied with the Soviet Union. The split concept of the war at Timisul was typified by a colloquy between a Romanian officer and a naughty U.S. sergeant. The jailor said, "If you are not a good boy, the Russians will get you." The prisoner replied, "Watch how you're talkin', you grafter, or we'll send you to the Russian front."

  As the months passed with no Allied raids on Ploesti the prisoners began to wonder if their sacrifices had gone for nothing. They did not know what was happening in Italy. The Allies had captured the Puglia Valley, under the spur of the Italian boot, and were laying out bomber bases 500 miles nearer to Ploesti than were the plains of Benghazi.

  Norman Appold and the Liberators were based at San Pancrazio near Bari. Again the low-level experimentalist became bored with routine high-level missions and began solo depredations in a weird fighter assembled by his service squadron from wrecks of five aircraft. It was nominally a Curtiss Warhawk (P-40), a type that had given its best service with the American Volunteer Group in China four years earlier. The name of the private Appold air force was Bon-Bon. Without putting himself on record, he began racing across the Adriatic on the wave tops and shooting up German road convoys in Yugoslavia.

  One day three spray-walking Spitfires nearly potted Bon Bon, which had a silhouette resembling the Me-109. U.S. Brigadier Charles ("Muzzle Blast") Bourne "suggested" that Appold surrender Bon-Bon to a fighter outfit at Foggia. Appold obediently delivered the Warhawk, but the fighter people were getting racy new Mustangs and scorned the shopworn gift. The little pilot parked Bon-Bon at Foggia until Muzzle Blast's attentions were diverted elsewhere, and then sneaked her back to an inconspicuous corner at San Pancrazio.

  The third generation of air crews thronged in from the United States, inculcated with realistic gunnery theory. At General Ent's behest Squadron Leader George Barwell had been borrowed from the R.A.F. to instruct air gunners in the United States. (In Colorado, Barwell won a half ton of prizes in rodeo marksmanship contests.) The Italian bases were filling up with silvery, unpainted B-24's and B-17's. Appold took over as master of ceremonies on their practice missions. He would climb Bon-Bon over the gathering fleet and radiophone, "Number Two, tuck in closer to your lead man and I'll make a fighter pass at six o'clock high." The petrel would dart through the frigate birds calling, "White Leader. Alert your crews. I am making a low attack at three o'clock." The new gunners silently tracked Bon-Bon. "Next will be a frontal attack on Red Leader Two. Now, let's not accidentally fire your guns." Buzzing through Red Force, Bon-Bon called, "Number Two and Number Three not tucked in. You let me through. You should've got me." Appold was preparing them for the next assault on the deadliest target in Europe.

  In the mountain camp above the target the POW's felt homesick as the trees turned red and gold against the blue Carpathians. Russell Huntley accosted Collins and Lancaster. "Look," said he, "I figure you guys are planning a getaway. I want in on it. Some of the other guys will come in too." Collins said, "Okay, Limey, bring them to a meeting in the main barracks after lights out."

  Thirty Americans came. Collins put it to them bluntly: "There is precious little chance of getting clean away. We are deep in enemy territory. The Russian front is five hundred miles away, and patrols from both sides will be looking for strangers mucking about in no man's land. Another direction is Yugoslavia. Now, Teddy and I were in Yugoslavia and the people nearly had heart attacks when they learned we were British. They were as scared of Mikhailovitch and the Chetniks as they were of the Germans. The third route is cross-country through Bulgaria, trying to make the European part of Turkey. It's a long way, but I think it's the best." Fourteen airmen volunteered. Afterward Lancaster opined that sixteen men were enough for a tunneling operation. Collins said, "Yes, I give the Yanks good marks. We got one out of five men in the ruddy compound. Not bad at all."

  They started tunneling through the floor of main barracks, aiming to clear the wire after digging forty feet. Getting rid of the dirt was the hardest part. They carried it upstairs in pillow cases and hid it in nooks and crannies. They used bed boards for pit props and a home-made oil lamp that gave off poisonous fumes. After fifteen feet of excavation the lamp would go out from lack of oxygen, and some of the diggers blacked out.

  Collins wanted candles. One Sunday he marched out to the Roman Catholic service and braced the priest. "I'm not a Catholic," he said, "but we Anglicans have a custom of burning tapers on Saint George's Day." Tears sprang to the cleric's eyes and he thrust an armload of candles on the pious soldier. "The priest never checked up on that Saint George's Day rot," said Collins.

  Soon tunneling had to stop again. The barracks were sagging from the earth hidden upstairs. Lancaster had been surveying the heavy, padlocked outside door to the barracks basement and noted that nobody went in and out of it. He started another hole through the barracks floor in to the disused cellar to use it as a dump. It took him a week to breach the foot-thick foundation slab. Then tunneling resumed at a great rate. Occasionally men dropped into the cellar to spread out the mound of dirt.

  Jack Ross and a friend were down there one day shoveling when a pair of guards entered through the outside door. The Romanians had sneaked in to steal potatoes from a storage bin. Their flashlight happened to shine on the two frozen Americans. The guards and the prisoners looked at each other without saying a word. The guards went out the door and locked it. "They didn't squeal on us and we didn't squeal on them," said Ross.

  As the shaft neared the wire, men began to have second thoughts about the ordeal ahead. Collins said, "It was always understood that a man could drop out any time he had the slightest doubt about the deal. No one thought there was anything cowardly about it. In fact, Lancaster and I encouraged drop-outs among the guys we thought didn't stand much chance of making it. The fewer that got out, the better our prospects were." As they came to the last feet of excavation, there were eight men left of the original sixteen.

  The British Vanishers' experience had been that dusk was the best time for emerging from escape tunnels. Then the guards' vision was adjusting to floodlights. Accordingly the breakout was scheduled for 6 p.m., which gave the party three hours before roll call. A man went into the tunnel and broke through the last inches to the surface. He came back and announced, "Christ. It's like daylight out there." The floodlights were on.

  Collins went down to lead the escape. "In a jump of this sort," he said, "one always feels nervous, like a jockey before the gate goes up. It was so bright outside the hole, it seemed impossible that one could stick one's head up and not be seen. But for national pride, I most certainly would have gone back. I foolishly put my hat up on a stick to see whether it would be shot at. I was under the influence of American movies. To my secret disappointment, nothing occurred. I heaved a sigh and pushed my face out."

  He slithered to the surface and crawled for a stockade fence outside the wire. The floodlights were so placed that they cast a long, deep shadow under the fence. Collins intended to employ the shadow to hide his men until they reached a sentry box at the high corner of the stockade. If they could get past the sentry undetected, they were free in the nearby woods. He paused momentarily in the shadow and saw Lancaster crawling toward him. Behind were Limey Huntley, Harry Baughn, Philip Rurak, James Brittain and Joseph Brown. * When the British Vanishers were together, they scrambled past the sentry, got safely into the wooded mountain slope, and started running.

  * The escapees did not remember the identity of the eighth man.
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  As they reached the top of a ridge, firing started in the camp. Collins said, "Teddy and I crossed the hill and ran down the other side like a couple of Jesse Owenses."

  About a mile away there was a road intersection with a clearing a hundred feet wide, which they had to cross. It would be the first interception point for patrols pursuing the tunnelers. The moon came out and lighted up the road crossing. Collins and Lancaster dashed across. A truckload of guards arrived, set up machine guns, and began raking the trees into which they had disappeared. Bullets sprinkled twigs on their heads as they hurled themselves up the slope. The fire came so low they had to stop and huddle to the ground. Lancaster said, "I can hear your bloody heart beating." "So can I," said his partner. "I just hope the Romanians don't hear it."

  Back near the fence, five of the escapers were being rounded up. Their chances of freedom had been lost when the eighth man imagined a guard had seen him crawling along the fence. He got up and ran, which did attract the guard. Baughn was the only man other than the two Britons who remained at large. He had to sacrifice his heavy pack of food to make it over the first hill. Without provisions, alone in a strange forest, he thought of the Tidal Wave escape instructions warning of wolves and bears in the Carpathians, but he kept on going.