Read Online The Great Escape by Paul Brickhill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Brickhill
Tags: General, History, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, World War II, World War; 1939-1945, Military, Poland, World War; 1939-1945 - Prisoners and prisons; German, Prisoners and prisons; German, Veterans, Escapes, Prisoners of war - Poland - Zagan, Zagan, Personal narratives; British, Escapes - Poland - Zagan, Brickhill; Paul, Stalag Luft III
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chimney of the block beside the trap, a dead weight of about five tons. The crumbly sand below was so undermined that the whole thing was liable to come crashing down and wreck everything, including anyone who happened to be down there.
His number two digger joined him at the bottom of the shaft, saw the damage, and had the same thought.
“I should think,” said Marshall, “that the chimney is held up just now purely by sky-hooks and the grace of God. You’d better go up on top again and give me plenty of room to clear this up.”
He got a blunt refusal and the two of them set to work to patch up the damage, making nervous jokes about the glories of a martyr’s death. They cleared away the mess, fitted new double-strength shoring, and through a small gap in the side of the shaft packed sand for hour after hour into the great domelike cavity left by the fall above the roof of the tunnel. When it was done, they carried on where they’d left off the previous day, burrowing into the blind face of the tunnel to win a few more feet.
After evening appell, the penguins got rid of most of the sand dug during the day, but not quite all. The Keen Type was in the compound again. He was a short man with blond hair, a long sharp nose, and a tight little mouth, and he tramped tirelessly up and down and around the huts, in one and out the other end, and then darted to the next. He had a sharp, suspicious eye, and every trap had to be closed a couple of times as he entered the area. Once he came almost at a trot out of Block 109, turned straight for 123, and walked in the door. The trapfuehrer had had about seven seconds’ warning.
The penguin controller had been sitting on the ground a few yards away directing his penguins by signs. He half got to his feet as the Keen Type bowled into the hut and then he sank back, his palms sweating a little. There was nothing he could do.
Keen Type just missed his promotion. He was three paces from the alcove where the trapfuehrer was lowering the heavy concrete slab over the mouth of the shaft when a door burst open, a body came hurtling out pursued by shouts of wrath from behind and crashed headlong into him. They both went down on the floor, the Keen Type underneath. He tried to get up, but the body was lying heavily on him, groaning.
Several people came out of the room and gathered about, helping both to their feet and brushing them down. George Harsh was holding his knee, his face twisted in pain, and trying to apologize. The ferret didn’t understand English, and Harsh made signs that he didn’t understand German. Someone offered to translate, and in a prolonged three-sided conversation George reviled himself for his clumsiness. The ferret was too winded to be impressively angry, and eventually, with a rather icy smile, he walked on.
The trapfuehrer had had time to replace the trap, camouflage it, and smoke a cigarette.
“Thanks, George,” he said, “it was nicely timed.”
Harsh was swearing too much to listen. He really had hurt his knee.
Chapter 5
Valenta had put Axel Zillessen on to the Keen Type. Axel wasn’t his real name, but the one he’d chosen to use if he ever escaped from the compound so that he could travel as a Swede. He got everyone to call him Axel so he’d get used to answering to it. Actually he was a wool buyer from Bradford, a tall young man with a slightly hooked nose and kinky hair; and with a charming and infectious enthusiasm, Axel could talk the leg off an iron pot almost as fluently in German as in English.
The next time Keen Type came in the duty pilot’s runner went and told Axel, and Axel strolled into the dusty compound where Keen Type was patrolling. He passed him a couple of times without speaking and on the third time gave him a casual greeting and they exchanged a few words about the weather. The same thing happened the next day. The third day they spoke for about five minutes.
Keen Type came in every day, and as soon as he did, the
His number two digger joined him at the bottom of the shaft, saw the damage, and had the same thought.
“I should think,” said Marshall, “that the chimney is held up just now purely by sky-hooks and the grace of God. You’d better go up on top again and give me plenty of room to clear this up.”
He got a blunt refusal and the two of them set to work to patch up the damage, making nervous jokes about the glories of a martyr’s death. They cleared away the mess, fitted new double-strength shoring, and through a small gap in the side of the shaft packed sand for hour after hour into the great domelike cavity left by the fall above the roof of the tunnel. When it was done, they carried on where they’d left off the previous day, burrowing into the blind face of the tunnel to win a few more feet.
After evening appell, the penguins got rid of most of the sand dug during the day, but not quite all. The Keen Type was in the compound again. He was a short man with blond hair, a long sharp nose, and a tight little mouth, and he tramped tirelessly up and down and around the huts, in one and out the other end, and then darted to the next. He had a sharp, suspicious eye, and every trap had to be closed a couple of times as he entered the area. Once he came almost at a trot out of Block 109, turned straight for 123, and walked in the door. The trapfuehrer had had about seven seconds’ warning.
The penguin controller had been sitting on the ground a few yards away directing his penguins by signs. He half got to his feet as the Keen Type bowled into the hut and then he sank back, his palms sweating a little. There was nothing he could do.
Keen Type just missed his promotion. He was three paces from the alcove where the trapfuehrer was lowering the heavy concrete slab over the mouth of the shaft when a door burst open, a body came hurtling out pursued by shouts of wrath from behind and crashed headlong into him. They both went down on the floor, the Keen Type underneath. He tried to get up, but the body was lying heavily on him, groaning.
Several people came out of the room and gathered about, helping both to their feet and brushing them down. George Harsh was holding his knee, his face twisted in pain, and trying to apologize. The ferret didn’t understand English, and Harsh made signs that he didn’t understand German. Someone offered to translate, and in a prolonged three-sided conversation George reviled himself for his clumsiness. The ferret was too winded to be impressively angry, and eventually, with a rather icy smile, he walked on.
The trapfuehrer had had time to replace the trap, camouflage it, and smoke a cigarette.
“Thanks, George,” he said, “it was nicely timed.”
Harsh was swearing too much to listen. He really had hurt his knee.
Chapter 5
Valenta had put Axel Zillessen on to the Keen Type. Axel wasn’t his real name, but the one he’d chosen to use if he ever escaped from the compound so that he could travel as a Swede. He got everyone to call him Axel so he’d get used to answering to it. Actually he was a wool buyer from Bradford, a tall young man with a slightly hooked nose and kinky hair; and with a charming and infectious enthusiasm, Axel could talk the leg off an iron pot almost as fluently in German as in English.
The next time Keen Type came in the duty pilot’s runner went and told Axel, and Axel strolled into the dusty compound where Keen Type was patrolling. He passed him a couple of times without speaking and on the third time gave him a casual greeting and they exchanged a few words about the weather. The same thing happened the next day. The third day they spoke for about five minutes.
Keen Type came in every day, and as soon as he did, the
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