Escape from Stalag 42B

“Gutten day,” he said, “I am the new prisoner.”

“Hello,” I said, “I’m Terry, grab a bunk and locker and make yourself at home.”

“Thank you Terry. I am Klaus Schmidt,” he paused awkwardly for a moment, “though my friends call me Chas Smith.”

“Welcome to Stalag 42B Chas,” said Captain Tuffers, taking command of the situation as was his way “what part of England are you from?”

“I am in your Blackpool being given birth to,” Chas said.

“Ah, I thought I recognised your accent, home of the leaning tower.”

“Yes, das ist righty. I am having great fun eating your fish and chips and climbing your leaning tower.”

We left Chas to settle in, place his few personal possessions in his locker and find out how hard and uncomfortable his bunk was in the his own time.

“I tell you what old chap,” Tuffers whispered to me when we were out of earshot, “I believe this new boy’s really a German spy.”

“Really?” I said in genuine surprise.

“Yes, you may not have noticed but I wrongly described Blackpool Tower as the leaning tower, and he didn’t correct me.”

“Gosh,” I said, “what a cunning ruse. But why would the German’s spy on their own prisoners?”

“To find out our escape plans of course.” Tuffers paused to wink mischievously at me. “I think we can work this thing to our advantage now we know who he is,” he said.

The next day we were exercising in the yard when Chas Smith came up to us for a chat. Sure enough, within a few minutes he had asked about our escape plans.

“So, wot are you doing to escape?” he asked.

“There’s a tunnel,” Tuffers replied, “from the shower unit to the woods over there, in line with the control tower.” He pointed at a convenient clump of woodland, perfect for escaping prisoners to hide in.

“A tunnel, yes, and ze Germans know nothing about it. This ist very amusing,” Chas said. “Will you show me ze tunnel?”

Captain Tuffers led us to the shower unit and lifted one of the paving slabs, revealing the hard earth underneath.

“But das ist no tunnel,” Chas protested, “das ist still soil.”

“That’s the clever part old boy, why the German’s will never know about it. It’s an anti-matter tunnel, we replaced all the soil with anti-matter earth as we dug. All we have to do is switch the anti-matter off and walk through the tunnel when the German’s aren’t looking.”

“Das ist very clever,” Chas agreed, “the Germans will never expect that.”

“Anti-matter tunnel?” I asked Tuffers when Chas was out of sight, “what on earth is that all about.”

“Simply a ruse, dear boy, wait and see.”

That afternoon the German guards occupied the shower block. Ever few minutes one of them would come out to deposit a bucket of soil.

“What is going on?” I asked Tuffers.

“Simple, dear boy, the Germans are removing what they think is anti-matter, to prevent us escaping. In reality they’re digging the tunnel for us. We’ll wait until they’ve finished, then tell Chas we’ve changed our plan, trick them into moving the guards elsewhere and simply use the tunnel ourselves.”

“Have you heard Tuffers’ mad plan about the tunnel,” Boffo asked me in the hut later that day, “sheer madness. There’s no way the Germans are that stupid, they’re going to be waiting for us at the other end of the tunnel and shoot us for escaping. I’ve got a much better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Simple, I’m going to walk out the front gate.”

“You can’t do that surely.”

“That’s the beauty of it, nobody’s ever thought of it before. Ever escape plan is tunnels, cutting through the fence, dressing up as a German, the last thing they’ll be thinking of is anyone just walking through the gate.”

I sat with Tombo for supper that night. I mentioned the escape plan fever that was taking over the hut.

“They’re all fools,” Tombo said, “you can’t just walk out the front gate, there are two control towers with gunmen trained on it at all time. As for the tunnel scheme, sheer folly.” He lowered his spoon and his voice simultaneously “Listen,” he whispered from behind his spoon, “I’ve got a plan that’s foolproof, but I need a bit of help. I’ve built a glider from toilet rolls, I just need someone to help me launch it.”

I had wondered why we were continuously out of toilet paper. It was the main reason I hadn’t been able to read a newspaper for over a month.

After supper I went to see the camp commandant.

“All the British prisoners are breaking out,” I told him, “Tuffers’ group are using the tunnel, Tombo’s built a glider and Boffo’s walking out the front gate.”

“The front gate, eh, very clever. And papers, they all have identity papers, passports, money, maps, travel passes, phrasebooks.”

“That’s all sorted commandant, they have passports, identify papers, money, maps, phrasebooks, travel passes and Rough Guides to the towns they’re visiting.”

“Good, very sensible, the last thing we want is for them to be caught and sent back to us. And the Rough Guide is a good idea, it’ll allow them to explore the towns they’re staying in, see a bit of the culture.”

“So what happens now?”

The commandant stood up from his desk, went over to a cupboard and took out a bottle of champagne. “I’ve been saving this,” he said, “but now we have something to celebrate. With all the prisoners gone we can put our feet up for the rest of the war. I hate guarding, it’s such hard work.”

“What do we tell Berlin though?”

“We tell Berlin nothing, that way they keep sending us the money for food and cigarettes for the prisoners. It’ll make us a nice little pension for after the war.”

“To a long war with no more prisoners,” he said, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass in turn, wondering as I did so why neither myself nor the commandant spoke a word of German.