Great Escapes (26 page)

For the next hour he sat opposite the building on a bench in a small park. Ten minutes before the train was due to leave, he made his way back to the station. The journey to Namur was uneventful, except for a number of unexplained stops. But on reaching Namur, he was alarmed momentarily when he saw German
feldgendarmerei
(field police), stopping people in the queue of people leaving the train. It was only when he got closer that he saw they were examining the passes of German soldiers.

Handing in his ticket, Bill Randle quickly made his way out of the station. Time was getting on and he knew that he would have to get away from the town and find a place to stay before the curfew came into force.

Walking out of the town he quickly found himself in the country. Fortunately the weather was warm and he headed towards the French border. As the sun started to set, he realised that soon he would have to find somewhere to sleep and he was becoming increasingly hungry. Dusk was settling fast when he saw an old man digging up potatoes in a field. Going up to the man he said in his schoolboy French,
‘Monsieur, je suis un aviator Anglais. S’il vous plait, aidez-moi. J’ai faim.’
For a moment the man continued to dig and said nothing, then looking up he replied,
‘Restez là, mon ami.’

Bill went over the side of the road and sat down wearily. When it was dark the old man stopped digging, put the potatoes and spade into a wheelbarrow, beckoned Bill to follow him and set off down the road.

On reaching a small farmhouse, Bill was taken into the kitchen and introduced to the man’s wife, his son and his daughter-in-law. The two women became somewhat alarmed about his presence, but the old man insisted that a plate of stew be placed on the table and indicated that Bill should join them. They asked him questions during the meal, and it was the son whom Bill found easiest to understand. When he told them that he had been bombing Germany when he had been shot down, they all shouted joyfully,
‘a bas les Boches’
and the tense atmosphere disappeared. The next minute, the meal having been finished, a large bottle of cognac appeared and toasts all round became the order of the day.

Then the son left and the old man’s wife took him upstairs so that he could have a wash. Returning downstairs, the old man led him out to a barn with a bed of straw and within minutes of lying down Bill Randle was fast asleep. He was suddenly awakened by the sound of the barn door creaking open. Lying perfectly still, but now wide awake, he suddenly felt a pair of hands grab his shoulders and a bright light was shone in his face. Something was shouted at him in German and terrified he blurted out that he was English. A calm voice then said in English, ‘It’s all right. Calm yourself. We are here to help you.’

One of the men lit a lantern and Bill Randle could see three men, one of whom was the farmer’s son. The English-speaking man told him that they were going to take him to a safe house in Namur and that he was to follow him. Bidding a grateful farewell to the farmer’s son, Bill Randle stepped out into the yard and followed one of the men. The other man walked behind and the three men walked across fields in silence and in single file until they reached a large house on the outskirts of the town.

One of the men rang a bell and a small, barred window in the door opened. A conversation took place and then Bill was told to climb over the wall, which he did with help from the two men. Dropping to the ground on the other side, he was shocked to come face to face with a cowled monk. The man took him by the hand and led him inside the house.

Bill Randle awoke with a start the following morning and for a moment he thought he was in a prison cell. He looked around and saw a narrow slit window at one end of the tiny room and a big, heavy door with a grill set in it. Then he remembered that he had been given sanctuary in a monastery and this was obviously a monk’s cell. On a small table stood a washbasin together with some toiletries. On the wall was a picture of the Virgin Mary and child under which were the words ‘
Notre-Dame de Chevremont’
. Looking round he saw that his clothes were missing but on the back of a small wooden chair in the corner was a brown robe.

Getting out of bed, he washed and shaved and slipped the robe over his head. After a few minutes the door suddenly opened and in walked a short, tubby monk in his late forties, carrying a tray of food, which consisted of sliced cheese and ham, some bread and a large glass of milk. In good English he told Bill to eat and when he had finished he would return. Bill enjoyed the food and then the monk returned and introduced himself as Father Marcel and said that the Father Abbot had given him the responsibility of looking after him.

Bill asked Father Marcel where he was, but the only reply he got was that he was in good hands and that the least he knew about them and his whereabouts the better. The two men talked for most of the morning, during which Bill discovered that Father Marcel had once been a soldier in the Belgian army and that he had an intense hatred of the Germans. German soldiers had murdered his mother, father and grandfather during the looting and massacre of the town of Dinant in 1914. He had joined up in 1935, fought during the Blitzkrieg and had been defending the Albert Canal when he was shot and wounded. He had been captured and taken to Germany as a prisoner of war. There he had studied to take Holy Orders and was released after completing his studies.

When Bill Randle asked what would become of him, Father Marcel replied that he did not know at present, but others were dealing with that side of things. Father Marcel then left saying that he would try and find some books for Bill to read and that if he wanted to he could join the brothers in prayer at any time.

He returned just after lunch saying that there had been some disquiet regarding him being there. Most of the monks were Belgian, but there were a couple of Germans, an Irishman and some Spaniards, who objected to his presence. They had sent a petition to the Father Prior stating that either Bill was to leave, or be handed over to the Belgian police. The latter option would have meant that he would have been handed over to the Germans. The monks were concerned that if the German authorities found out they would all be arrested and the penalty for harbouring a British airman was death.

Bill Randle immediately asked for his clothes and said that he would go and take his chances; he did not want to be responsible for the possible deaths of such good men. Father Marcel put his mind at rest by saying that the Father Prior had remedied the situation by admonishing those who had petitioned him, saying that it was their Christian duty to help those in need. He also added that they appeared to be concerned more for their own safety than the safety of others, and as such, they were to be sent to the monastery at Chevremont for an indefinite period, where the brothers there were bound by a vow of complete silence.

With the pressure removed, Bill Randle settled down to a monastic life for a time, enjoying the good food and the company of Father Marcel. He began to enjoy the traditional chants that the monks sang on a regular basis and the exercise of walking within the safety of the walled gardens.

Despite the peaceful lifestyle he was now leading, Bill Randle was impatient to be on his way and get back to Britain. Every time he asked Father Marcel for information, none was forthcoming, only a shrug of the shoulders and an assurance that everything was in hand.

Then one morning Father Marcel asked Bill for his dog tags. They were wanted by members of the Resistance so that they could verify that he was who he said he was. Bill told him that the dog tags had been destroyed along with his uniform when he had been sheltered in a house in Flanders. Father Marcel then asked Bill if he could give some information about his squadron, his crew, his aircraft and what kind of bomb load it carried – anything that would show that he was in fact a British airman and not a Gestapo ‘plant’. Bill replied that he could only disclose his number, rank and name. Father Marcel said that he did not think that this would be enough to satisfy them and could he give just a little bit more. Bill replied that he could not.

The days passed and still nothing from the Resistance, but then one warm, sunny afternoon, when he was dozing in the orchard, Bill was awakened by a hand on his shoulder. Father Marcel told him that it was time for him to leave and to follow him. Returning to his cell, Bill saw that there was a smart, dark suit laid out on the bed together with a shirt, tie and some shoes. Quickly getting dressed, Bill said goodbye to Father Marcel, who gave him a small, gold crucifix and chain, saying that he would like Bill to wear it and that it had been blessed in his name.

Vowing to return after the war to say thank you properly, Bill followed Father Marcel to a small side door in the monastery wall. Bill was told that there would be a man outside who he was to follow. Saying a final goodbye, Bill stepped outside to where a thin-faced man was waiting. Without saying a word, the man turned on his heel and walked away with Bill Randle following at a discreet distance.

As it was just starting to turn to dusk there were still a number of people about including German soldiers as they entered the town of Namur. After walking for about twenty minutes the man stopped outside an empty house. Glancing around for a moment, he entered the garden and made his way around to the back of the house with Bill following. After mounting the stairs they entered a room in which there was a long trestle table with three men sitting behind. His guide nodded to the men, then turned around and left.

For a few moments no one spoke and then the man in the middle of the three asked Bill in perfect English if he had anything that could prove that he was a British flyer. Bill replied that all of his uniform and identity discs had been destroyed, and all that he was obliged to give was his number, rank and name that he stated were 1385872 Sergeant W.S.O. Randle.

There was silence, then the man told him that they would need far more than that to convince them – or else. The implied threat sent a shiver down Bill Randle’s spine. It was quite obvious what was meant and he knew that these men were more than capable of carrying out the ‘or else’. There was a need for him to answer more questions and at this point Bill realised that he was going to have to comply. For the next hour the questions came, ranging from questions on cricket, his schooldays and the names of teachers, his parents and grandparents and where they were born. Finally they appeared to be convinced and the tense atmosphere relaxed. He was to be taken by a guide to an apartment in Namur and from now on, wherever he went there would be a guide in close proximity, whom he was on no account ever to approach.

One of the men got up from the table and beckoned for Bill to follow him. Leaving the empty house, the two men walked in single file into the town. The centre of the town was bustling as last-minute shoppers bought goods from the market. Leaving the town centre they walked up a tree-lined avenue until they reached a large house with a short driveway. The moment they knocked on the door it opened and the two men entered. This was the home of Madame Davreux and her two daughters and Bill was to stay there for the next four days. He was to discover later that he was in the safe hands of the Comète Line, one of the most successful of all escape organisations.

The following morning Bill and one of the daughters, Madeline, went in to town for photographs to be taken. These were to be used in forged travel documents and permits that he was going to need for his journey to Spain. At the photographer’s, it was quite obvious that the photographer knew why the photographs were being taken and appeared to be very nervous from the moment the pair entered his shop. He, like all the others who operated on the fringe of the Resistance, risked his life almost daily trying to help – but help he did.

Whilst they were waiting for the photographs to be developed and printed, Madeline took Bill into town for a coffee. She bought him a copy of
Der Spiegel (The Mirror)
and whilst glancing at the pictures inside, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a young German soldier who had entered the café just after them smiling and approving of Bill’s choice of reading material.

With the photographs collected, Bill and Madeline headed back towards the house. The photographs were collected later that evening and by the next morning Bill’s ‘
laissez-passer
’ (free movement pass) was ready, showing a stamp stating that the pass had been issued in Antwerp. Bill Randle was now Andre De Voulgelaar, a Flemish commercial traveller in agricultural machinery and fertiliser. The pass also contained a permit to travel in France, the Low Countries and of all places, Biarritz.

With all the documents in place, the Davreux family set about reeducating him about his manners and how to conduct himself. It was customary in Belgium when having finished a meal to leave the knife and fork east to west across the plate, not south to north as was common in England. He had to alter the way he walked, not like the military man he was, but more like a tired traveller.

On the day he was to leave, Bill was introduced to a young girl who was just slightly older than himself. Her name was Andrée de Jongh, also known as Dedée, and she was to be his guide for the first part of his journey. Her English was very good and she made it clear from the start that if anything went wrong during the journey he was on his own and was to try and make his way back to Namur. She gave him a railway ticket to Brussels and told him that he was to follow her to the station. When the train came in, he was to sit in the same carriage but well away from her. When they arrived in Brussels, there would be another courier to take him on to the next stage. He would then be taken to a large Catholic church where he was to sit in the third row of chairs in the right-hand side aisle. A man wearing a Belgian red, black and yellow
boutonnière
would contact him.

The family asked him if he had ever been in a Catholic church, to which he replied no. They then went through the ritual of how he should dip his fingers in the Holy Water on entering and then make the sign of the cross on his chest in front of the altar, whilst bending his knee.