The Long Way Home (11 page)

When the dreaded moment came, I detached myself completely and watched from outside as my body went to the window, asked for the tickets, paid for them and received the change, then turned and
walked away almost jauntily. Jimmy and Joe congratulated me on my cool behaviour, but I didn’t tell them how it had been done.

I thought that the most difficult part of the journey was over. The problem of buying the tickets had been giving me nightmares ever since I had been elected to do it. I had
thought that three fit young men in civilian clothes would stick out like a sore thumb, when we should have been wearing a uniform of some kind – any kind. I can only imagine that we had
spent so much time in France that perhaps we had picked up a slightly French aura. As the Laval scheme, which used French civilian workers, was in full swing, maybe we were mistaken for
Frenchmen.

Our train was due to leave in about five minutes, and a fair number of people were hanging about waiting to board, so we just followed the general trend of looking tired and fed up. Soon we were
seated uncomfortably on the hard benches in the quietest part of the coach we could find. Following almost everyone else’s example, we leaned back and closed our eyes as the train slowly and
noisily left the station. It turned out to be one of those trains we had heard about – the kind you could get off to pick flowers while it’s in motion and rejoin. It also seemed to stop
at the least excuse and very often for no reason at all. But it was better than walking and there would be faster sections on the way north, we hoped. Otherwise, it seemed, we were doomed to spend
the rest of our lives on this train.

Sagan surprised us at about midday, and quite a few passengers got off with us. We found ourselves walking stiffly, like John Wayne. Maybe he travelled a lot on old trains with wooden seats. It
certainly knocks hell out of your circulation.

If our intelligence information turned out to be correct, then there was a fairly large French civilian camp just outside the town, and this was our first target; we wanted to find out if their
hospitality was really as good as we had been led to believe. Under no circumstances would we ever approach any Poles for help; all the escapees who had done so seemed to end up back in camp
– though there must have been exceptions to this.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of people standing about but it could have been in aid of some sort of celebration or special market day. We shrugged off any thoughts we had about this
and went on our way to find our French friends. How do you find a Frenchman in a country full of Germans? Our time in France must have helped us, because within minutes we spotted two blokes who
just had to be what we were looking for. When we got closer and could hear them talking, we knew that we had hit the jackpot. We asked them to take us to their leader – or words to that
effect – and, with the few French words that we knew added, they got the message and pointed out to us the man we were looking for in a shop across the road.

When he came out, we crossed over to introduce ourselves, but when we explained to him that we were three Scottish soldiers on the run from a prisoner-of-war camp, the poor man went very pale
and almost wobbled at the knees. Thinking that maybe he had heard some strange stories about the Scots, we told him that we were only looking for some temporary shelter and perhaps a bite to eat.
He was slowly regaining his natural sallow colouring and, having got over the shock of hearing who we were, told us in good and fluent English to please leave his presence at once as he did not
wish to be seen speaking to us. This was not what we expected to hear from a gallant ally. As he started to move away, we more or less surrounded him and asked what his problem was; had we said
something to offend him?

Realising that we wanted an answer, he quickly explained that a mass escape had taken place the previous day from the local RAF camp, namely Stalag Luft Drei, and that it could only be minutes
before we were questioned and arrested. Now it was our turn to go pale. With a short apology for not being able to help us, the camp leader smartly disappeared. We looked at each other in stunned
silence, and slowly a picture formed in my mind of all the strange-looking people we had seen in the railway station when we arrived. They began to take shape as members of the Gestapo, the German
CID, and many other punitive organisations. They were all looking for escaped POWs – not us, necessarily, but that would make no difference. Short of carrying a placard stating that we had
escaped from Sudetenland and not from the RAF camp, there was no way out of this dilemma.

Our brains began to function again, and without a word being said, we slowly walked away from the station till we reached a nice quiet spot where we could talk safely. We agreed that we were in
it right up to our necks and that there couldn’t possibly be a way out; the whole area must be alive with forces with just one thought in mind.

Joe suggested that we head out into the open country and try to work our way north. I pointed out that we had made no provision for travelling in this manner and it would be far too slow. Apart
from that, it would be very difficult to find places to stop for the night before curfew. Also, not having a detailed map of the whole area between here and Stettin made it virtually impossible.
Jimmy quietly asked what I had in mind. When I told them, they both looked at me in astonishment, then all three of us burst into hilarious laughter at such a frighteningly stupid idea. My
proposition was that we return to the station and carry on with our original plan of moving on to Frankfurt after our stop at Sagan.

The tall, lean French camp leader might have exaggerated the whole business and his idea of a mass escape might have been five or six airmen – in which case there was probably no need for
our present panic. The only way to verify this was to return to the station. We kicked the idea around for a few minutes and came up with a unanimous decision to take the easy way out. As soon as
we re-entered the station, we knew that the bloke had not exaggerated. Practically all the men in the station were being stopped and asked to produce their papers by a variety of stern-faced teams
of two and three. I remembered something that Traudl had told me about coupon-free soup and, after we established that our train didn’t leave for another forty minutes, we headed in the
direction of the station restaurant and ordered three plates of the same. The waiter scowled at us in a most unfriendly manner, but I suppose it could have been because he had had a row with his
wife or, even worse, his girlfriend. Half an hour soon passed and we prepared to leave. Just as we were going through the door, Jimmy turned round and, to our amazement, stared right at the waiter
and rapped out a loud ‘Heil Hitler’. The waiter reacted as if he had been shot but came smartly to attention and answered Jimmy’s greeting. Outside we asked Jimmy why he had done
it. He admitted that it had been totally spontaneous but he did feel that the waiter needed smartening up a bit and it would certainly remove any suspicion from his mind.

In fear and trepidation I now went to buy our tickets to Frankfurt. After paying for them I checked which platform we departed from. With the skin on my back crawling with fear, we headed for
the platform, feeling we were never going to make it. Five minutes later the train pulled out; we hadn’t been stopped. I could hardly believe our luck. We were not invisible, because I could
still see Jimmy and Joe as large as life. We had sprung the booby trap and come out unscathed. Our problem now was to reach Frankfurt in time to find help before curfew. Would you believe it, the
first thing we heard on our arrival at Frankfurt was the happy chattering of four Frenchmen, almost as if they had been waiting for us.

It took a few minutes to convince them of who we were. Retaining their happy mood, they escorted us to their camp, which was not very far away. The camp leader was a real charmer who spoke some
English; he made a very thorough job of interrogating us. When he was satisfied, he agreed we could stay for one night – which was all we wanted. Then they generously gave us something to eat
and turned down our offer of a couple of bars of chocolate in return, saying that we would probably need them before our journey was over. Conversation proved to be difficult so, when we were shown
where to bunk down for the night, we gladly got our heads down. It took quite a while to stop our minds turning over the events of the day time and again. Exhaustion eventually won and a dreamless
sleep ensued.

All three of us woke next morning feeling fully recuperated and happily able to talk freely in English which, of course, we were unable to do most of the day. Fortunately, we
had been living and working together so long that quite often a look or an inclination of the head could convey the message. Our telepathy was put strenuously to the test during our trip, but
worked wonderfully well.

Over a cup of ersatz coffee and a roll, we went through the events of the previous day. None of us could come up with a plausible explanation of what had transpired in Sagan station. We had seen
the Controls stopping people and checking their documents. Joe had also spotted the French camp leader in the station, no doubt waiting to see us being arrested. He too was probably left wondering
why we hadn’t been stopped.

Anyway, the next step was to wash and shave in comfort. After having thanked the camp leader for his hospitality, and accepted his kind offer of a guide to take us back to the railway station,
we gave him a big Gallic hug. Then we moved back into the harsh real world outside, wondering what Fate had in store for us on this bright sunny day. We had decided to book all the way from
Frankfurt to Stettin, not stopping at Angermunde as we had originally planned.

The train we were to catch was listed as an express; we had no illusions about what this meant, as we had been warned about long delays and possible diversions due to bombing raids. But suppose
we were caught in a town which had just been bombed, where they were still digging out the dead and dying; what would happen to us? In our imaginations we thought we would be torn to pieces. This
threat hung over every escapee. The moment you donned civilian clothes, you gave up the right to be treated as a POW and could quite correctly be prosecuted for espionage, which could carry the
death penalty. If you were daft enough to escape and travel in your own national uniform, however, you would be safe if recaptured, as you would merely be returned to camp and punished.

Our biggest worry now was whether we would reach Stettin in time to make contact with our indispensable French allies before curfew time. The train left on time, so at least we were off to a
good start, but we had only been travelling for about fifteen minutes when a heart-stopping incident occurred. The compartment was fairly full, with one small boy restlessly wandering up and down
the aisle between the seats. After passing by several times he suddenly approached his mother, and pointing to us, told her that we were ‘Engländers’. The three of us heard him
quite clearly, and I’m sure that everyone could see the colour draining from our faces. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable to happen. Mummy quietly asked her son what gave him
such a strange idea and his reply was that he could smell chocolate when he passed us. His mother gave an apologetic smile in our direction and told him to sit still and stop wandering about. They
got off at the next stop.

We had failed to anticipate this method of being detected, but the remainder of the chocolate was wrapped more carefully, so that the smell didn’t alert anybody else deprived of the taste.
All the experience and knowledge we had accumulated in the past four years could have been nullified by a small boy who knew that the Engländers received chocolate in their Red Cross parcels.
Someone probably told him this when they were explaining to him why he couldn’t have any.

I glanced at Jimmy and Joe, who looked relaxed, yet my nerves felt completely shredded. I remember at one stage even thinking that if we were caught we could at least finally return to a normal
way of living as POWs. Looking back on my nervous attacks in Karlsbrunn, which were still occurring but thankfully at longer intervals, I realised this trip could lead to a complete nervous
breakdown. On the positive side, though, I was drawing strength from Jimmy and Joe all the time.

The landscape in this part of Germany was dull and boring, and we couldn’t converse in English, so I spent most of the time with my eyes closed. Again and again my mind went back to Sagan
station and the riddle of why we hadn’t been stopped for a document check. The hypnotic rumble of the train finally helped me to come up with a possible solution. Supposing there had been
someone in overall control of the checking operation and, again, supposing this person had seen us arriving on the train from the Breslau direction, then it would be noted that we were coming into
Sagan and not trying to get out. Later, when we were leaving, this very efficient person remembered us and signalled that we were OK and not to waste time on us. Either that, or we had the luck of
the devil.

I came back to reality with a bump as the brakes began to squeal in pain and we started the slow entry into Angermunde. The three of us exchanged smiles as this was the penultimate stop before
Stettin. But we should have known better than to tempt Fate. Lined up on the platform was a group of German soldiers wearing ‘Kontrolle’ shields round their necks. When our train
stopped, they spread out and began to enter the different carriages. Jimmy quickly leaned forward and whispered that there were to be no heroics, and if any one of us was caught, then all three of
us would go quietly. We nodded and sat back to wait for the inevitable to happen.

It was only now that I thought what a stupid waste of time the making of the identity cards had been. Although they had given us a sense of security, we never thought that if
anyone seriously looked at them they could believe they were genuine. I remember feeling the whole thing was finally over, but we had acquitted ourselves well and at least the Escape Committee
would have to take us seriously now. If they had helped us instead of the losers, the documents they would have provided might have seen us through this check. The little guard was slowly working
his way towards us. He looked to be in his forties and was probably not physically fit enough to fight and die on the Eastern Front, but here he was about to recapture three British prisoners, for
which he would probably be awarded the Iron Cross.