Great Escapes (25 page)

The creation of the escape line was greatly helped when Jean-Pierre Nouveau, the son of Louis Nouveau, made a successful escape to Spain over the Pyrenees. With Nouveau in Spain, arrangements were made to recruit guides who knew the mountains. These men had to be available to guide escapees and evaders through the treacherous mountains in all weathers. Amongst the guides was a Basque by the name of Florentino Goikoetxea. He was to become the most famous of all the guides, and after the war he was awarded the George Medal, Legion d’Honnoeur and the Croix de Guerre.

When James Langley was repatriated he was immediately contacted by Colonel Norman Crockatt who wanted his help in setting up escape and evasion lines throughout Europe. The distinction has to be drawn between an escapee and an evader. Escapees were those who had been captured, even for just minutes or hours, and who escaped. Evaders were those who had never been captured and had evaded those who were looking for them.

Being awakened after only a few hours’ sleep to be told that he and his crew were on standby was not the best of starts to the day for Sergeant Bill Randle. They had only just returned from laying mines at Wangerooge, an island off the coast of Germany, and this would be their second trip to Germany within twenty-four hours. That afternoon the crew air-tested their Wellington bomber ‘Z’ for Zebra and checked out all the systems. Amongst the crew was an American, Sgt Dal Mounts, serving in the RCAF, who was making his first trip. The target that night was Essen and the crews were told that they would be assisted by a 130mph tail wind above 15,000ft.

The last to take off, Bill Randle, set a course that would take them over the Dutch coast near Zwolle. As they crossed the coast at 22,000ft they could see anti-aircraft fire opening up and hear the flak as it exploded close to the aircraft. They continued on toward the Ruhr Valley, or ‘Happy Valley’ as it was known amongst bomber crews, which was lit up like a fairground. Searchlights swept the sky, whilst marker flares and bursting bombs laid a carpet of fire beneath them. Around them flak was bursting continuously, rocking the aircraft every few seconds. Struggling to maintain control, Bill Randle set the bomber over the target, whilst his bomb-aimer released their 400lb bomb.

As he turned the big bomber away from the scene, the port engine shut down and Bill Randle had no choice but to feather it. The aircraft had also suffered a considerable amount of flak damage causing the aircraft to fly in circles. The problem that faced him now was that he knew he was not going to get the aircraft back to England on one engine and with the controls badly damaged. They were also flying into a 130mph head wind and this cut the aircraft’s speed down to just below 100mph and it was losing altitude rapidly. Bill Randle realised that the aircraft was slowly being pushed backwards into Germany.

Reluctantly he informed the crew that he was not going to be able to get the aircraft back to England and they should prepare themselves to bale out. The aircraft was continuing to lose altitude but Bill Randle managed to keep it steady enough for the rest of the crew to make their exit. With the crew all gone, he set the controls and made his way to the escape hatch. Just as he set himself on the edge of the hatch, the aircraft lurched downwards and Bill Randle felt a blow to the side of his head and then he was falling. He managed to grasp the D-ring attached to his parachute as he fell and automatically pulled it. The next thing he remembered he was floating down through the clouds into trees.

The situation felt unreal for a few moments, one moment he had been in an aircraft and now he was standing up beneath a tree supported by his parachute harness which had been caught up in the branches. All the talks and information given to aircrew who might find themselves in this situation now meant nothing. He felt lost and alone in a country in whose language he only had a little knowledge, and he was now being hunted by German soldiers, who an hour earlier had been subjected to bombing from his aircraft.

For almost an hour Bill Randle sat beneath the tree collecting his thoughts. He was naturally scared, but then realised that the only sound he could hear was that of a dog barking in the distance. He checked himself for injuries and felt a small cut beneath his eye and saw another cut on the back of his hand. He attempted to hide his parachute, but it was tangled up in the branches of the tree so badly that no amount of tugging or pulling could free it. He decided that he had spent enough time with this, so taking off his bright yellow Mae West he threw it on the ground beneath the tree, as there was no point in trying to hide that either.

He then headed off across the fields, keeping to the hedgerows and small wooded areas, hoping to find a road that had a signpost or something that would give him an indication as to where he was. As dawn approached he decided to find somewhere to rest up and take stock of his situation. Spotting a dense copse, he pushed his way in and curled up to try and get some rest. A few hours passed and then he was awakened violently by the roar of engines and as he looked up a Junkers Ju52, with its flaps fully down for landing, passed no more than 50ft above him. He had found a spot on the edge of a German airfield.

For the rest of the morning he waited crouched inside the dense copse, listening to the sound of aircraft engines and road traffic going in and out of the airfield. Taking out his escape kit, he examined what it contained. There were silk maps of northern France, Belgium and Holland, together with currency from the respective countries, one penknife, a sewing kit, Benzedrine pills, Horlicks tablets, and two rubber water bottles. He also had on him a total of nine miniature compasses, one in a collar stud, one each in his cuff links, two in the fly buttons and four sewn into the waistband of his trousers. There were also two passport-sized photographs taken in civilian clothes in case they were needed for permits or identification cards.

As darkness approached Bill Randle navigated by the stars and headed away from the airfield as quickly as he could. He then set a north-westerly course hoping it would place him into the western area of Belgium or the Netherlands. After walking for around seven hours, he realised that the landscape was changing into more and more cultivated farmland areas. Having been brought up in the countryside of Devon, he suddenly felt more relaxed and at home. As a Boy Scout he had practised living off the land and this was to put him in good stead when acquiring food.

The clouds began to gather and then a slight drizzle set in. This also meant that he had lost the use of the stars and would now have to resort to using one of the compasses. Keeping to the roads as long as he could, Bill Randle continued walking. On a number of occasions he had to take cover as the hooded headlights of German vehicles sped along the roads. With the rain getting heavier and his clothes getting wetter, he though it might be the right time to find some shelter. In the meantime pangs of hunger started to gnaw away at him. Entering a field he selected some small turnips and some carrots.

In the corner of the field he saw a derelict cottage and making his way to it, he was delighted to see that at least the roof had remained intact and the inside was quite dry. By this time he was literally soaked through to the skin and his feet excruciatingly sore. Taking off his wet clothes he spread them as best he could to get them dry. Then peeling off his flying boots he saw that his feet were covered in blisters, some of which were bleeding. Taking a needle from his sewing kit, he pricked each blister and drained them off, washing them with water from his water bottle.

Making a nest of sorts Bill Randle curled up in a corner of the room and fell soundly asleep. He awoke to sun streaming through one of the dirt-covered windows. The temperature had gone up considerably, so taking the still very damp clothes he placed them on the grass at the rear of the cottage. He then went back inside the cottage and peeled the turnips and carrots. Deciding against building a fire in case it attracted attention, he chopped the turnips and carrots into small pieces and ate them, washing them down with water.

Deciding to wait until dark before setting out again, Bill Randle rested as best he could, aware that he might be discovered at any time. As soon as darkness fell he got dressed, thankful that now his clothes had dried out. Pulling on his flying boots was extremely painful, but once on he steeled himself against the pain and started off. He realised that he would soon have to look for help, as there was no way he could continue for much longer because of the state of his feet. Each step was very painful, but still he kept going. All through the night he walked down the country lanes, glimpsing lights of farmhouses in the distance. He heard the drone of bombers in the distance and saw searchlights scanning the skies for them. Then, because his attention was not on the road, he collided with a man on a bicycle.

The man stared at Bill Randle for a few seconds, during which time Bill had regained his composure and said,
‘Morgen – Guten Morgen
’. The man stepped closer and looked at Bill’s RAF wings on his battledress. ‘RAF, RAF?’ said the man excitedly. ‘Yes,’ replied Bill Randle. The man hurled himself at Bill giving him a bear hug and kissing him on both cheeks, then shook him by the hand vigorously. Indicating that Bill should get on the crossbar of his bicycle, he set off pedalling furiously back the way he had come, jabbering constantly in a language which sounded Dutch, but turned out to be Flemish.

On the outskirts of a village, they came to a large house. Bill Randle was taken inside into the kitchen and was greeted by the smell of bread being baked. Within minutes the room seemed full of people slapping him on the back and wanting to shake his hand. They were all speaking the same guttural language and not one word could he understand. Then a smart, slim woman entered the room and asked him if he spoke French. Bill replied that he could a little, but she would have to speak slower because his schoolboy French was not that good. She turned out to be the village schoolteacher and as such seemed to take over the proceedings.

Bill Randle told her, in his fractured French, that he was a bomber pilot and had been shot down whilst on a bombing raid over Essen. He added that he had been walking for two nights trying to reach the coast. It was his intention to try and contact one of the escape organisations that might be operating in the area. The latter part of the conversation she obviously did not understand and left the room. His hosts then took him into another room, where on the table was a large plate of ham and eggs and some large chunks of freshly baked bread.

Invited to eat, Bill Randle made short work of clearing the plate of food, and no sooner had he finished than the schoolmistress returned, this time with three men. One of them turned out to be the local doctor who examined his cuts and bruises. He was then taken upstairs to a small bathroom where he climbed into a warm bath. In the meantime his uniform was taken away and, as he found out later, burnt. The doctor then examined his feet and treated them. Putting on a dressing gown, he made his way downstairs where the other two men were still waiting with the schoolmistress. She explained that there was no Resistance organisation in the area, and that they would have to get him away from the village that afternoon because there was a curfew in force in the evenings and the Germans searched the area regularly.

Tired and exhausted, Bill Randle felt total despair. Here he was in a foreign country, not knowing the language and having no idea what he was going to do next. He asked if he could stay there over night, but a shake of the head told him that that was not possible. Getting to the coast was not an option either, because the Germans were building coastal defences and the areas around them restricted.

The only option was to head for Marseilles in the South of France, but that was hundreds of miles away and the only practical way to do that was by train. Bill was taken into another room where there were some clothes. A dirty grey shirt without a collar, a pair of striped trousers that were far too big in the waistband and too short in the leg, a thin jacket, a workman’s cap and a pair of shoes – which surprisingly fitted very well.

Looking at himself in a mirror, Bill Randle looked like a tramp down on his luck, and this, together with an unshaven face and a black eye, completed his disguise.

The schoolmistress then asked him for his dog tags from around his neck. He was reluctant to give them to her because these were the only things that would identify him as a British airman. She explained that if he was captured and the dog tags found, he would more than likely be shot as a spy. Bill asked about his uniform and was told that it had been destroyed.

The schoolmistress explained that they were taking him to the railway station and that she had already acquired a ticket for him to a small town called Namur but he would probably have to change at Tirlemont. Going outside he was surprised to see a number of people waiting to see him and almost all shook his hand or slapped him on the back. Then one Belgian woman came up to him and thrust a bundle of Belgian banknotes into his hand. Embarrassed, Bill Randle mumbled his thanks and then set off towards the station with his hosts.

Within minutes of arriving at the station, the train pulled in and he climbed aboard. Waving goodbye, he realised that he never knew the names of any of his hosts, but if he were to be captured later maybe that was a good thing. Settling back in the corner of the carriage, he watched the countryside slip by, but all the time he felt very apprehensive. At one stop a woman got into the carriage, and on seeing him in the corner, looked disdainfully down her nose and sat as far away from him as she could.

The train pulled into Tirlemont and all the passengers disembarked. Leaving the station Bill found a timetable, which told him that the next train to Namur was in two hours. Deciding to walk into the town Bill saw his first Germans and followed them into the Town Square. They entered a large building, outside which fluttered a large Swastika flag. All around the town there were posters warning the inhabitants that the penalty for helping ‘
Terrorfliegers’
was death.