Almost a Great Escape Read online

  Jens was straight and he was honest and I have never seen him do what you would call a wrong thing to do. As long as I have known him I have never heard anybody criticize Jens, or anybody say anything bad about him. That was impossible, and here on our Station his ground crew and everybody else refuses to think that he is really gone and is not coming back. But Alice, I am afraid it is not going to be so and it is hard for you; hard for us all.

  I have never heard Jens refuse to do anybody a favour, he was always willing to help everybody and there were many who came to Jens and asked for favours and help of different kinds.

  As I told you before Alice I find it hard to write about what has so suddenly happened. I wish I was with you now and we could have talked together and it would have been so much easier.

  I would like you to write to me Alice and I want to help you in all the ways it is possible for me to do. If there is anything of Jens’s belongings that you would like to have to keep in memory of him please write and tell me.

  And so Alice I shall close this letter, my thoughts are with you and I know that you will keep the memory of Jens as all his other friends will do; the noblest and finest boy you have ever met!

  Love, Ottar

  AN ALICE STORY

  YOUR PICTURE IN THE SILVER FRAME

  Good morning. I couldn’t leave you too long with Ottar’s letter. Shot down Jens makes gravestones tremble. Could he still be alive? Will he come back for you as he promised?

  It took me a long time to stop asking about the where and why of My Goodbye Mother’s shot down railway station disappearance.

  We are in Springbank today. You always liked the view from our house on top of the hill, so I expect you are just as much here as at Eden Brook. Through the poplars we can see what’s left of the old Springbank dairies. The Hodgsons, the Longeways, the Andersons. That was fifty years ago. Only acreages now. I saw Dale Hodgson a few weeks ago and he reminded me that you were probably the first from the city to buy land at Springbank. The early 60s. Do you remember his parents, Claire and Alan? I used to wish we were like the Hodgsons, connected to a community of friends, parents, and relatives, chatting at school Christmas concerts, the curling rink, and the weddings. Claire had a little smile that made me feel she knew a secret that one day I might figure out. Alan talked arms folded about haying and cultivators and milking machines. He’s no fool, you said. Don’t underestimate Alan Hodgson.

  I won’t procrastinate anymore. I’m impatient, dying to show you what I brought today. A telegram dated July 23, 1942. The one that arrived 34 days after missing from operations. Not a word since then.

  A month ago you closed The Jens Album. The last line written. Shot down fate decided. Your Jens lost. Presumed dead. Now you are opening the Album to add four lines of life returned. A letter to follow. The pages ahead to be filled with future changed.

  July 23, 1942

  Dear Alice,

  I sent you a cable today young lady and I bet you were as glad to receive it as I was to send it to you. The thing that we all hoped, but never thought could be possible has happened. Jens is alive and he is now a P.O.W. somewhere in Germany. It all sounds like a miracle and as soon as the news [was] confirmed I sent you the cable.

  We have had a letter from him and in that he asks us to send him different things of his belongings and amongst it your picture in the silver frame. Well you know that I have returned it to you so I guess it is up to you to forward it to him and I guess also that you are only too glad to do that.

  The address is

  Jens Müller 2, LT 1007

  Stalag Luft 3

  Deutschland (Allemagne)

  Love, Ottar

  I don’t suppose Jens’s new address had much meaning to anybody in Montreal in 1942.

  Good News. Jens’s friend and fellow pilot Ottar Malm sends Alice the news that Jens is alive after being shot down over the British Channel. Photo courtesy of the author.

  A MESSAGE FROM JENS'S GRAVE

  SHOT DOWN

  The title’s a clue, isn’t it? How did I find his grave? Did an ember in your handful of ashes heart just flicker into flame? Did you think I was going to make this easy? Well, you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself as we go along.

  Here’s how Jens describes the day he was shot down. It begins with Squad­rons 331 (the Norwegians), 222, and 124 taking off to patrol the Belgian and Dutch coasts. Within half an hour the pilots attack their first target: three German ships anchored in the Schelde Delta. Jens is flying a Spitfire Mk Vb equipped with four 7.7 mm Browning machine guns and two 20 mm Hispano Mk II cannons.

  Then the German Focke-Wulfs arrive.

  June 19, 1942. There are still no enemy planes in sight. My engine is going full bore. I look around in all directions, mostly to the rear, from where attacks usually come. There! Right under me to the left is a Spitfire with a Focke-Wulf following it closely. Another Focke-Wulf appears! Neither of them have seen me. I see no others. Why not have a shot at one of those down there? I am at a safe distance and there ought to be quite some ammunition left.

  I turn round sharply and dive on the German. The guns work fine, when suddenly I see the tracer shots.

  This means that ammunition is almost used up. The guns work for a second or two, then stop one after another.

  I’m unarmed and quite helpless if anyone attacks. Best to get home while there is still time.

  I swing around sharply, looking around for Germans. There is one! He is a long way off — a kilometre, perhaps further — and above me. The plane is silhouetted clearly against the sky, it is making straight for me. He may not have seen me. I alter course. The German also changes course. He has spotted me.

  I gave full throttle long ago and now only hope the motor will hold. I climb into some thin clouds, behind which I hope to hide. The clouds are too thin, more transparent than I thought.

  The German is much closer. Every time I head into a bit of cloud the German comes out of the last one. Confound it! There is another German! And yet another! The first fellow must have used his radio.

  Now they open fire, their shots go past to one side of my plane. I had been expecting this for some minutes. I make a short sharp turn to get out of range of their fire, and succeed. I continue turning. It is now useless to fly straight ahead, and the twist and turns slow me down a lot.

  A few minutes later the Focke-Wulfs are so close that I have to make violent turns and manoeuvres to stay out of their fire. They are now close on my tail. All I can do is dodge and that I do so the sweat pours. The Germans use a lot of tracer ammunition. It is easy to see the smoke trails in the sunlight, and easy to dodge them.

  Two other Germans join the party. Now there are five of them on my tail. It is only a question of time and I am done for. A couple of sharp reports right at the back of my backrest confirm this thought. The smell of gunpowder stings my nose. Then there is a loud explosion in my engine. A shell! The Rolls (engine) starts coughing, slows down, loses power, dies out.

  I cannot realize that this must be the end of my journey. I still hear my friends talking over the wireless.

  A couple of shots more bring me to. I dodge, pull the nose of the plane up in order to slow down a bit. I turn the plane on to its back while I undo the safety straps and telephone wires. Then open the hood of the cockpit (the bottom is up). I push the stick forward and am thrown out of the plane.

  A GOODBYE MOTHER STORY

  CRAZINESS

  I loved your Canmore craziness. The way you tied our toboggan behind the station wagon and tore through the snow, wheels spinning, spraying blinding banks of ice storms until we tumbled off, rolling and wondering if dead was cold.

  Fingers frozen. Eyes blinking ice. Teddy finds me. The station wagon circling over the miners’ golf course to pick us up. Toques slapped on our legs to break the packed snow. You righted the toboggan and away we went again.

  You were fearless for us. You cracked the long whip, accelerating us on the circu
mference of a sliding circle. The tow rope thrumming sideways through the wake. We bounced over ruts and into the air, leaning into the centre, fingers wrapped in the toboggan’s ropes. Teddy shouting to hang on. And we crashed.

  I suppose you saw the empty toboggan and laughed.

  What lovely craziness. Without you I’d never have gone so fast so far.

  And when we were older, we had skis and tracked one behind the other on the same rope, arguing over who went in the front. We skied over top of whoever fell, not wanting to let go. What horrible tangled heaps of calling each other assholes. Do you remember the old bear trap bindings? Skis broke or legs broke. And we begged for speed and you floored that 1950s wood-panelled station wagon. Mitts frozen to the rope, we went again. Geoffrey in the back window cheering the falls. And him riding on the roof when we cruised back to the cabin.

  The Explorers. Alice led never turn back hiking and riding expeditions to the high meadows of the Rockies where the wild storms and long trails challenged her. (L to R) Hilda Anderson, Tyler, Teddy, Dr. Jim Anderson, Mary Anderson, and Alice. Photo courtesy of the author.

  He would be the family daredevil. The downhill skier who didn’t give a fuck about crashing. You taught him that language and that fearlessness. God how you loved him. He’d try anything. If I said no, he said yes. He’d do it. And what an unrelenting physical genius he was. Like you. And he battled you at everything.

  We take the horses for a gallop, jumping every log and brush pile we see. Geoff, me, Teddy, and you. We look back. Geoff’s off. You’re with him. I don’t know if there’s been an accident or another argument. What happened? Geoffrey fell and the horse stepped on his hand. It looks to us like his thumb is cut off. Blood everywhere. Get back on you tell him. No. He’s walking. Too far, get on. No. You grab the little bastard by the back of his shirt and throw him on. He’s hunched up in the saddle, barely moving. His mouth set hard, like yours. Lips tight. You get on behind and are galloping home. Trixie shies and you both fall, breaking his collarbone. Back on. He’s not hurt as much as pissed off.

  Over to Dr. Anderson’s for stitches. A weekend and he’s had a few drinks. No matter, he’ll stitch him up. You lay him in the back of the station wagon. He remembers your calm hardness. The unflinching set of your jaw. No excitement. Just determination. Don’t fight me now Geoffrey. The hospital is closed. You and Dr. Anderson break a window and find the medical supplies. No anaesthetic. You hold his hand down while Dr. Anderson stitches. Geoff was the only one as tough as you. He’s still mad a week later when we ride out from the cabin to camp at Spray Lakes. He has to stay home. He may never forgive us.

  And when Ruthie Anderson came running. Geoff’s in the bottom of the pool. And Daddy running across the grass kicking off his sneakers and diving in and pulling him out. Laid him on the bricks and pumped the water out.

  Geoff was coughing water mad. I can swim. And you walk up and say no you can’t. But tomorrow you will learn.

  The Canmore cabin pool is murky green Bow River water freezing cold and in you throw him. The deep end. Swim. He paddles wild eyed for the side. You push him off. Swim. One length. And he’s yelling all your swears back at you and you’re pushing him from the edge. Swim with your mouth shut. It’s easier. He makes the shallow end and you haul him out by his arm. You did it. You can swim.

  He yells his fuck words and you offer him another swim. He runs off and you spend the rest of your life chasing him down.

  What a great one arm twist you had. Even Teddy got the one arm march. One twist and we were obedient. Not Geoff. He stood and called you a sonofabitch. With one hand on his arm you kicked his ass lifting both his feet from the ground. Who’s the sonofabitch? You are. Kick. Who’s the sonofabitch? You are. Kick. It was great seeing him bounce with each kick. We cheered for both of you. He was flying. Mother of five and you kicked like one of us. You owned the yard.

  Even my teenage friends were afraid of your one arm twist. I remember you marching Doug out of the Banff dance hall. Home by midnight we had promised. And in you came at 12:30 and caught him on the dance floor. He was home by 12:45. I saw his picture in the business section last year. He tracks down business crooks and marches them off to jail. I thought of phoning him and asking if he uses the arm twist you taught him.

  That’s the crazy you were. Don’t sneak. Don’t whine when things don’t work out. Get back on the horse. Go again. You want to have fun in life, or do you want to whine about it. Whiners. Boy, you despised whiners. Maybe that’s why you always forgave Geoff’s transgressions.

  Do you want another ride on the toboggan or are you going to whine? If you are, you’re going home. Another ride. Who was as tough or as crazy as you?

  And then one day you’re sick. Or drunk. And nobody is getting their ass kicked across the yard. Nobody is learning how much fun it is to be brave and cold and sore and have their thumb almost cut off and here’s a broken collarbone too. Nobody is learning to see you die. It took you years to die a second time and you didn’t bitch about it.

  You told me you wake up with pain and that’s how it’s going to be all day. You had a real fuck you attitude toward cancer.

  A MESSAGE FROM JEN'S GRAVE

  THE LUFTWAFFE PILOTS

  In the 34 days between when Jens parachuted from his Spitfire and when Ottar telegrammed to say he was in a POW camp — while you were arguing with your parents to allow you to attend McGill — here’s what happened:

  After parachuting from his Spitfire Jens paddled his dinghy for three days toward England — a coincidence with Santiago’s three days. The current was too strong and Jens washed ashore on the Belgian coast where a German patrol captured him. The patrol marched him to their guardhouse where he was interrogated but refused to give anything but “Name, Nationality, Number, Force.”

  During the night, two girls cleaned his uniform and hid a Catholic med­allion in his pocket — not knowing he was an atheist. The next day he was transported to Durchgangslager der Luftwaffe, a temporary camp at Frankfurt for captured airmen. Along the way to this camp, Poker Face Jens Müller had some fun when his guard stopped for a meal in a Luftwaffe pilot mess hall. Here’s how Jens remembers it:

  While we sat there asking about each other’s equipment, planes were taking off and landing, all Focke-Wulfs 190. It looked as though this type of plane was difficult to land, as most of them swerved to one side on landing, which could also mean that German airmen were not well trained. Four machines were parked 25 metres from our table, but I got no chance to have a look at them. At last I asked outright if I could look into one of the cockpits. They laughed heartily at this, as I had expected them to.

  Later they told me one thing before we left was that some days ago they had shot down two Spitfires at the mouth of the Schelde. This gave me food for thought.

  LETTERS

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  After another interrogation, the Germans released Jens into Dulag Luft I near Frankfurt where he was allowed to send a letter to you.

  Like all his letters after his capture it was written on official folded twice Kriegsgefangenenpost letter forms read and stamped by the Nazi censors. Then by Allied censors. Maybe by Big Marjorie. Crumbly dry now pasted in your Jens Album.

  June 26, 1942

  Dearest,

  Things have been happening rather quickly lately, & I have ended up in a situation which isn’t exactly to my taste. However so far everything is all right. I had to bale out, & I was taken prisoner. I’ll tell you about it when we meet again. I only hope you haven’t received too bad news about me dear, & that you haven’t worried, because I suppose Ottar has told you I was missing. The treatment we get is O.K. But I would appreciate if you would send me some food, & if you do don’t forget the peanut butter! How about some thick stockings for the winter, & the pullover you promised me?!

  Thank heavens I always brought one of the photos I took of you at the hill just behind your house up north. It is somewhat worn by seawater, because I
spent three days in the dinghy, but I can tell you that I treasure it. As always Alice I love you with all my heart, & shall forever. And please write often Dearest.

  Your Jens

  Kriegsgefangenenpost from Stammlager Luft III. Jens never hinted to Alice about the escape plans in his letters, only repeating his promise to return for her . . . and that he would always love her. Photo courtesy of author.

  Typical Jens, isn’t it? He loves you with all his heart. He hopes his misfortune didn’t cause you to worry. The best line, of course, is about your photo “some­what worn by seawater.” I expect some German collected your pin from his helmet.

  Jens would be kept at Dulag Luft I in Germany for almost two weeks before being transported by train to Stalag Luft III in Poland. There is so much of him in this letter. He’s not concerned about himself . . . “it is quite an interesting experience,” but he’s worried about the money you’ll need to buy him books and food (as if you were broke!). All he wants from you is a photo. How many men did you know like that?

  July 5, 1942

  Dearest,

  I am now at a permanent camp & longing very much to hear from you, & when you write, please send photos of you all! I am in a room with four Canadians one from N.Z. & one from England. Very nice fellows too. However I know better things to do the rest of the time this war will last, although it is quite an interesting experience.

  There is lots of time in which to read & study as you can imagine, & the library here is not too bad. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to do some work for me again. If you find it possible please send me food-parcels through the Red Cross. Here they say the best way is to send through the American Red Cross. Parcel no. 6. Any kind of food.