bottles. Courtyard gossip had it that the real culprits have failed tocome forward and Micky has done so
pro bono public
. Courtyard gossip, however, is worth little. He is now back in solitary.
The
Kommandant
had intimated that serious consequences would ensue for all unless the bottle-throwing culprit owned up. He would be court-martialled in July.
On 25 June I was in a group of POWs marching down to the park when an attractive German girl passed by, going up the ramp towards the courtyard. The prisoners whistled their admiration, for she was a veritable bronze-haired Rhine Maiden, smartly dressed and handsomeâa fitting consort for a Germanic deity.
As she swept by, her stylish wristwatch fell from her arm to the feet of Squadron-Leader Paddon. The Rhine Maiden did not notice, but Paddon, ever the gentleman, picked it up and shouted: âHey, Miss, youâve lost your watch.â
The girl had already passed out of sight, so Paddon signed to the nearest guard and called out â
Das Fräulein hat ihre Uhr verloren.
â The guard took the watch and, running back up the ramp, shouted to a sentry in the courtyard to stop the girl. As he made to do so, the sentry suddenly noticed something wrong. A momentâs scrutiny was enough. By the time our guard arrived panting with the watch, the Rhine Maiden was exposed. Her fine hat and abundant wig were off, revealing beneath the bald head of Lieutenant Boulé, who unhappily neither spoke nor understood German. He was a reserve officer, about forty-five years old, whose baldness and fresh complexion may have been the inspiration behind his disguise.
Loudspeakers in the prisonersâ dayrooms were switched on from the guardhouse in the afternoons. POWs were regaled with concert music, news bulletins and propaganda. Lord Haw-Hawâs nightly talks in English were treated with contempt. Another entertaining form of propaganda was known as a
Sondermeldung
(special report). The program would suddenly be interrupted. With a crackling sound, extra power would be switched on. A fanfare of trumpets would herald an important announcement. A Liszt prelude would hold the expectant audience for some bars, followed by a tattoo of drums. Then the announcerâs voice would report in sonorous tones the latest victory on land, sea or air. Most commonly in 1941
Sondermeldungs
concerned Allied shipping sunk by German U-boats. A brass band would then strike up the war song â
Wir fahren gegen Engeland
.â To the further accompaniment of falling bombs, thunder of artillery and crackle of machine guns, the interlude would culminate with a fanfare heralding victory.
The intention was to demoralize the enemy. In Colditz windows everywhere would fly open. Musical instruments, the louder the better, would emerge and a cacophony of sound would fill the courtyard, reverberating down into the streets of the town. Knowledgeable prisoners calculated that the Germans had sunk the Allied merchant fleets more than once.
Gradually the loudspeakers were silenced one by one: not because of the broadcasts, but because their insides were of use to the escaping fraternity.
5
Tameless and Proud
Early Summer 1941
L IEUTENANT PIERRE MAIRESSE LEBRUN , a handsome French cavalry officer, had succeeded in escaping from Colditz once before, on 9 June. On one of the park outings, a very small Belgian officer, Sous-Lieutenant Verkest, had been hidden during the outgoing ânumbering offâ parades. He had simply clamped his legs around a colleagueâs thighs while two others supported him by the elbows. The man in the middle wrapped his coat and some blankets round the Belgian and then nonchalantly unfolded a German newspaper. During the recreation period, Lebrun, aided by a series of diversions, climbed into the rafters of an open-sided pavilion in the middle of the park. He was not missed at the return counts because Verkest of course stood in for him. Nor did the dogs, sent in
pro bono public
. Courtyard gossip, however, is worth little. He is now back in solitary.
The
Kommandant
had intimated that serious consequences would ensue for all unless the bottle-throwing culprit owned up. He would be court-martialled in July.
On 25 June I was in a group of POWs marching down to the park when an attractive German girl passed by, going up the ramp towards the courtyard. The prisoners whistled their admiration, for she was a veritable bronze-haired Rhine Maiden, smartly dressed and handsomeâa fitting consort for a Germanic deity.
As she swept by, her stylish wristwatch fell from her arm to the feet of Squadron-Leader Paddon. The Rhine Maiden did not notice, but Paddon, ever the gentleman, picked it up and shouted: âHey, Miss, youâve lost your watch.â
The girl had already passed out of sight, so Paddon signed to the nearest guard and called out â
Das Fräulein hat ihre Uhr verloren.
â The guard took the watch and, running back up the ramp, shouted to a sentry in the courtyard to stop the girl. As he made to do so, the sentry suddenly noticed something wrong. A momentâs scrutiny was enough. By the time our guard arrived panting with the watch, the Rhine Maiden was exposed. Her fine hat and abundant wig were off, revealing beneath the bald head of Lieutenant Boulé, who unhappily neither spoke nor understood German. He was a reserve officer, about forty-five years old, whose baldness and fresh complexion may have been the inspiration behind his disguise.
Loudspeakers in the prisonersâ dayrooms were switched on from the guardhouse in the afternoons. POWs were regaled with concert music, news bulletins and propaganda. Lord Haw-Hawâs nightly talks in English were treated with contempt. Another entertaining form of propaganda was known as a
Sondermeldung
(special report). The program would suddenly be interrupted. With a crackling sound, extra power would be switched on. A fanfare of trumpets would herald an important announcement. A Liszt prelude would hold the expectant audience for some bars, followed by a tattoo of drums. Then the announcerâs voice would report in sonorous tones the latest victory on land, sea or air. Most commonly in 1941
Sondermeldungs
concerned Allied shipping sunk by German U-boats. A brass band would then strike up the war song â
Wir fahren gegen Engeland
.â To the further accompaniment of falling bombs, thunder of artillery and crackle of machine guns, the interlude would culminate with a fanfare heralding victory.
The intention was to demoralize the enemy. In Colditz windows everywhere would fly open. Musical instruments, the louder the better, would emerge and a cacophony of sound would fill the courtyard, reverberating down into the streets of the town. Knowledgeable prisoners calculated that the Germans had sunk the Allied merchant fleets more than once.
Gradually the loudspeakers were silenced one by one: not because of the broadcasts, but because their insides were of use to the escaping fraternity.
5
Tameless and Proud
Early Summer 1941
L IEUTENANT PIERRE MAIRESSE LEBRUN , a handsome French cavalry officer, had succeeded in escaping from Colditz once before, on 9 June. On one of the park outings, a very small Belgian officer, Sous-Lieutenant Verkest, had been hidden during the outgoing ânumbering offâ parades. He had simply clamped his legs around a colleagueâs thighs while two others supported him by the elbows. The man in the middle wrapped his coat and some blankets round the Belgian and then nonchalantly unfolded a German newspaper. During the recreation period, Lebrun, aided by a series of diversions, climbed into the rafters of an open-sided pavilion in the middle of the park. He was not missed at the return counts because Verkest of course stood in for him. Nor did the dogs, sent in
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