Almost a Great Escape Read online

  A MESSAGE FROM JENS'S GRAVE

  THE TUNNEL NAMED HARRY

  “Harry’s” entrance was made in barracks 140, in a room on the west side and at the northern end of the building. In this barrack each room had a small wrought-iron stove. The stove weighed 50 kilo and two men could lift it quite easily. It stood in the corner nearest the door. The floor in this corner was covered with tiles as protection against falling embers. The tile-covered area measured some 12 metre each way and rested on the brick foundation under the barrack. The Poles lifted out the tiles first. They then removed sufficient bricks from the middle of the foundation so that one man could get down into the hole quite comfortably, continuing until sand was reached.

  The department to which I belonged was to be responsible for making three air pumps, and trolleys to carry sand from the tunnel face back to the shaft. All the Norwegians were employed in different other departments.

  The weeks passed and “Tom” had now come so far that the work face was under the fence. Then it was discovered.

  The Germans were triumphant and blasted the whole thing with dynamite. Like “Dick” and “Harry,” “Tom” was constructed and equip­ped as solidly as possible. It was completely lined with wooden boards; it had electric light, trolleys running on rails for conveying personnel and sand, and an air pump to pump fresh air into the tunnel. The Germans were impressed and condescendingly complimented the prisoners on their good work. We gathered by what they said that they believed “Tom” was our only project of this kind. Which suited Big X just fine.

  “Harry” had progressed farthest, but it was getting so late in the year that it could not be finished before winter and the bad weather set in. Work on “Dick” and “Harry” was therefore stopped, and the camp took more peaceful occupations.

  Pete [Per Berglund] got a little “holiday” for fourteen days that Autumn, for going out of camp one evening after dark. Pete had been a student in Germany before the war and spoke the language very well, and was given a chance to attempt escape. Dressed as a German who daily patrolled the camp [with the wooden carbine Jens made him], he sauntered out of the camp when the guards were changing. All went well until a German guard who was going the same way wanted company and found out that something was wrong. They walked along together for a while but the German finally grew suspicious and Pete was nabbed.

  When the New Year festivities were over “Big X” decided the time was ripe to start serious work again. All efforts should be centered on completing “Harry.” In spite of the snow, work was started. During the long winter months this last great effort had been planned down to the minutest details, and a good deal of preliminary work done.

  The main task was to dig the last 70 metres so quickly that even if the Germans suspected something was brewing they would not take action and come down on us before it was too late.

  A GOODBYE MOTHER STORY

  THE LAST SUMMER RIDE

  My memories aren’t date stamped. Like old photographs, they aren’t easy to sort. Sometimes I find an event that I use as a marker, placing others before and after it. This story begins with this marker: The Trans-Canada Highway from Calgary to Banff was begun in 1957.

  Before 1957, we drove to Canmore from Calgary along the narrow High­way 1A following the north side of the Bow River through Cochrane and west to Canmore.

  That’s how I remembered something special you did for me. In 1956 survey crews had marked a trail for the new highway from Canmore to Calgary.

  I turn seven over the summer and Teddy is eleven. That fall we ride from Canmore to Calgary. I’m on Dolly and Teddy is on Twinkle and we’re leading two other horses along the survey trail — just a narrow slash through chopped down spruce and fir, mudholes, and rock slides into creeks. On the first day we cross Dead Man’s Flats where Mrs. McBride said the dead man had been found in the cabin by the corner of the meadow. Never look inside. The murderer will get you too. And Teddy for once treating me like I wasn’t always difficult. But letting me lead on the trail sometimes and find the crossings over the creeks.

  And there’s your camp by a stream waiting for us. The station wagon loaded with supplies. Did we find you or did you find us? I never knew. The fire is smoking as we hobble and bell the horses. Dead men tired we joke. Tarp the saddles. Grin and act like there are no ghosts. Brush off the mosquitoes.

  I see you now. A drink and a du Maurier. A frying pan on the fire. You who rode like a boy giving up your last summer mountain ride and are happy to see the doing it ourselves fun we are having. I remember your happiness.

  I do not know how you got the station wagon there or how you found us every evening. I don’t know the how or why of ’56. All I know is that we made the ride to Calgary safely, two boys and four horses thanks to a mum who gave up her adventure to prove we could do it on our own.

  Some mothers teach their children. You showed me I could do anything that summer.

  That’s how much you loved me and how much I loved you.

  Learning to Ride. Too small to reach the stirrups, Tyler tucked his feet into the leathers and was ready for any adventure. Photo courtesy of author.

  AN ALICE STORY

  OF COURSE NOT

  I had planned to tell you the last part of Jens and the Great Escape while sitting on a platform bench in the CPR’s Calgary train station, our goodbye before your years of dying. I changed my mind at the last minute and now we’re on the west edge of Calgary — where the tracks cross the Bow River. This is about as close to train stations as I like to get. You had an I’m not here look that afternoon. I never knew where you went.

  On January 18, 1944, you write Jens an I still love you letter. However, you make it clear that when you are reunited you both may have changed. That will be the time to decide about your future together. It has been three years since you were last together. He will receive this letter in March while the prisoners are digging the last 330 feet of Harry. Jens has to think over his reply to you while he waits for the Escape Committee to choose the day for the escape and name the 200 men who will get a chance at freedom. What will he write if he is chosen? If he is not chosen? He can’t hint about the escape. What if the worst happens? What should he say in his last letter to you?

  Poker-faced Jens does not know the long odds he faces: 200 will try; only 76 will pass through the tunnel before the first shot is fired; 73 will be recaptured by early April. Of those, 50 would be executed by roadsides and in prisons while “attempting to escape.” Only 3 will make it home.

  If you knew the odds, would you have asked him to wait safely until the war was over?

  He is thinking about what to write. About seeing you again. Holding you. About being together.

  While he prepares, you spend your evenings in your room. Alone. Thinking about becoming a writer. Won’t that be a knockout. All the stories, poems, and letters you’ve been working on won’t be for nothing. Maybe a New Yorker story one day. But keep that dream to yourself. Keep Jens to yourself.

  Big Marjorie has been relentless in her negotiations since you broke off the engagement to Don. Get married! Choose or I will. You still wonder how things got so out of hand with Don. And why it ended so badly at the party. He didn’t deserve that. You kept all his love you letters. Not in an album like Jens’s but you kept them.

  Big Marjorie is in her bedroom. Sitting in her maroon velvet armchair that Bert says is a mistake. She is always suffering and always demanding. Her silver bell rings. Bring me this. Don’t be so noisy. She never quits.

  We’re Tylers, Big Marjorie reminds you. Fine to do our part supporting the fighting men. We can entertain them. Show them what they are dying for. But marriage? Never. No foreigners. No artists. Nobody embarrass­ing. It’s bad enough that you are wasting your time at McGill. What for? Who will you meet there?

  She lines fresh suitors up for judgement. Thank you for the flowers. Sit down. Have a drink. What does your father do? Where do you live? No, Alice won’t continue at McGill a
fter she’s married. Of course not.

  Jens. His arms long since around you. Now eighteen months in Stalag Luft III. Will this war go on forever? I can hear your thoughts My Goodbye Mother who can’t write about this. I will listen and I will write.

  Does Jens know my loneliness? My despair? Each day is a battle to protect our secret. Marjorie suspects. Subtle devious questions. I bleed into my stories. Into my poems. Where can I find relief? So many lies to protect one promise.

  I am 19. Almost 20. Still unmarried. Everybody asks what’s wrong with me. Dad says I study too hard. What’s my alternative? Marry somebody I don’t love? Marry a name, an estate, a family fortune? Make my mother happy.

  This McGill is new thinking. Wordsworth. The Romantics. The freedom of the individual. The French Revolution. Everyday man freed from chains. William Blake. (“To share with Tyler,” you write years later in your book of romantic poetry and prose.)

  Westmount Society. I can be freed from that. Freed from Big Marjorie’s social climb to the top of Westmount Boulevard. Her pulpit to piss down on her world. I could find a life of poetry and love. Jens is poetry. Jens is love. Jens is outside the world of Westmount Alpine Inn debutantes coming out parties introductions family connections bank accounts and who’s the most beautiful.

  AN ALICE AND JENS STORY

  ARRANGEMENTS

  The 63 Days begin with a broken ankle and end with a broken heart.

  You are skiing at the Alpine Inn. Bert and Big Marjorie are on the veranda watching the last races of the day. The slow afternoon snow is turning to fast ice as the last racers of the day prepare their skis. This is your chance to risk everything. To dare the speed Jens taught you. To win.

  Day 1. March 9, 1944. The Alpine Inn

  The sweeping drop above the lodge. Your skis chatter on the frozen ruts. They won’t hold the turn. Too late. Crack! Your ankle breaks. You are shot down at the icy bottom of Hill 60.

  Day 3. March 11, 1944. The Alpine Inn

  There is a dance this evening. You are paired with strangers. Awkward. Ankle in plaster. Behind your blue eyes are tears. Behind your good evening how do you do smile the frustration clots and scabs. How much respectability can you endure?

  A group of men are drinking in the lounge. You notice one in particular. Dark hair. Dark eyes. So unlike slender tall blond Jens. So unlike him. The dark one smiles catches your eye and raises his glass in polished acknowledgement.

  He introduces himself. Sure of himself isn’t he? Ted Trafford. A British engineer on holiday with his mother. Could she meet your parents . . . the Tylers . . . the owners of the Alpine Inn? He knows well the intricacies of the courtship ritual leading to a family alliance.

  Day 3. March 11, 1944. Stalag Luft III

  Jens receives your “I still love you” letter written January 18. He is reassured. The days of waiting are coming to an end.

  Day 6. March 14, 1944. Stalag Luft III

  The tunnel is within six inches of the surface. Big X calls a meeting of the Escape Committee. The breakout will take place on the moonless Friday night of March 24/25. We know the German trains will be running regular schedules on Saturday. Be on time. Don’t attract attention.

  Which men? Stalag Luft III holds over 10,000 men, all of whom want to escape. More than 600 have helped. The Escape Committee rules 220 will get the chance. The maximum that can make it through the tunnel before the morning roll call. The first 70 have been selected based on contribution and likelihood of success. The next 150 to be chosen by draw.

  Jens is selected Number 13. Per Bergsland is Number 14. Good numbers. They’ll be long gone before any alarm sounds.

  Jens: wear your POW dog tags. “Stalag Luft 3 Nr. 296.” The Germans shoot suspected spies.

  Day 7. March 15, 1944. The Alpine Inn

  The Trafford-Tyler matrimonial negotiations begin. Jens makes his prep­arations to waste no time coming to you. Big Marjorie encourages you to enjoy the parties at the Alpine Inn. Here’s that British engineer again. Ted Trafford. Charming. Very suitable. He is staying three weeks.

  Good evening, Mrs. Tyler. As beautiful as your daughter. Her eyelids flutter high in delight. He is so sophisticated. A blue blood.

  Don’t let a broken ankle spoil this evening. Let him sweep you off your feet. He has brought his mother to Quebec for a rest. Sigh. How wonderful it must be to have a son who takes you on vacation. I’m not well, you know. Sigh. Dance with him. So handsome. So polished. So presentable. I can always spot a Cambridge man.

  Ted, Big Marjorie says her gunner eyes aimed, I would like to talk with your mother again. Sya. Such a delightfully Continental name. She wears her family crest splendidly. Show me your gold ring again. Edward LeMarchant Trafford. Authentic French as well. Even better. I’m sure us mothers will get along. Come to some arrangement.

  Now you two go and enjoy your young lives. You don’t have forever.

  Day 12. March 20, 1944. The Alpine Inn

  Ted and his mother, Sya, are interested in Big Marjorie’s proposition. They have six days of vacation left. They agree Ted will propose marriage.

  LETTERS

  DAY 12. MARCH 20, 1944

  Jens writes his last letter to you from the camp. He has been a POW for 21 months. In four days he will be on his way to you. He must leave your sea stained photograph behind.

  March 20, 1944

  Dearest,

  Your letter dated Jan 18th arrived here on Mar. 11th, & if you remember the contents of that letter you will appreciate my feelings. As a matter of fact, I have been waiting for such a letter from you for more than a year, & I was very glad to receive it, to say the least. Irrespective of that (whatever it is) which you refer to as having happened during these two years, what remains most important to me is the fact that you still remember me & the delightful times we spent in each others company well enough to write me such a letter as this last one. As you say Alice, owing to these long years of separation nothing can be sure regarding our feelings towards each other before we meet again. But then it is wrong of me to ask you to wait like this, because I might then appeal to some feeling in you that has nothing to do with love & affection. Therefore your letter was a very great relief in many ways. — Alice dear, I wish I could tell you that I have very definite plans as to the future after the war, plans which are as ambitious as I imagine you would like them to be & consequently would form a fairly substantial basis for your faith in me, but my plans do not amount to more than what I have already told you in previous letters. But those plans I am going to carry through with the necessary modifications to make them practicable. — You once taught me that I could get anything I wanted badly enough & that the main thing for us was to have faith in each other. Anyhow Alice, these waiting years seem to be at their end & I promise I shall not waste any time in coming to you then.

  With all my love I remain,

  Your Jens

  As always, he offers his love without terms. Not a word about the tunnel. One promise — “Anyhow Alice, these waiting years seem to be at their end & I promise I shall not waste any time in coming to you then.”

  Ahead of Jens is . . . Shot whilst trying to escape. But there is also you, Dearest Alice. For you he will risk his life. He is Your Jens and he will not waste any time in coming to you.

  A MESSAGE FROM JENS'S GRAVE

  DAY 16. MARCH 24, 1944

  On the morning of March 24th our “marshal” came and gave us the code word: “Tonight’s the night.”

  I had waited for this a long time and was prepared for it, still, when I heard it a cold shiver ran down my back. All during the day I noticed a new, tense and expectant expression on the faces of my companions. The thought of leaving this hated god-forsaken place made us go about as in a dream. But, at the same time, peace came to our thoughts. After the intense period of waiting and preparation it was good at last to know that now it was going to happen, and to concentrate on it.

  There were many more smiling faces to be seen about
than usual. But of course there were those whose preparations were not yet com­pleted and their faces did not look exactly peaceful. I myself was getting a sixpence cap ready.

  After lunch we received our papers. I had expected them to be well made out, but had never dreamed they would be so perfect. Even though I knew that each of the five papers I received were false and made by hand I could scarcely detect the swindle.

  It was 12:30 before Pete and I Nos. 14 and 13 respectively were ordered into the corridor to stand in readiness to go down the shaft. Those who were still in their rooms at 12 o’clock, when all lights went out, had been told to turn in. Boots and equipment remained in the corridor, to avoid rummaging and noise in the dark rooms. The atmosphere was charged with excitement, the marshals’ low-toned orders and quick, stealthy footsteps going back and forth along the corridor did not relieve the tension. The marshals were at this time short tempered and got worked up at the slightest impediment of traffic through the tunnel. Orders were given that those who were found to be overloaded and too bulky after the last check would be forbidden to go through.

  Pete and I sat quite close to the door leading into the room where the shaft was. One by one men disappeared through the door, but we could not see the room from where we sat. Something or other started worrying my middle regions. I could hardly sit still. At last my turn came. I got up and went through the door. Four cupboards stood in front of the window so the light from the kerosene lamps would not be seen outside. The shaft descended in one corner of the room. The marshal checked my kit for the last time. All day they had been considering my suitcase and wondering if I could take it through with me. But, I climbed down the ladder with the suitcase on my shoulder, and noticed nothing wrong. Three men were waiting at the bottom of the shaft, so I had to hang on to the ladder before going right down. Then I was told to wait in the discharge room, and this took a couple minutes. My middle regions had quieted. I was no longer nervous. The trolley returned. I put my suitcase in front on the trolley rails, crawling on behind and wriggled into place. A few seconds later I lay comfortably on my stomach on the trolley, grabbed the trunk with outstretched arms and lifted it in front of me. Then I ducked my head and gave the “all clear” signal.