SAS Band of Brothers Page 20

  Each evening the guard would order him to strip, taking away his British uniform as a disincentive to escape. No bother: he would work in his underclothes through the night hours. He’d place the bolster and the bucket tucked under the blanket, to mimic a person asleep in the bed, while he beavered away in secret. That first night Vaculik slaved away, feverishly attacking first the plaster, and then the brickwork, catching all the debris and lowering it to the floor. As the hours passed, he saw the light of the guard periodically glint through the peephole, but each time the bucket-and-bolster deception seemed to pass muster. At one stage he heard a lump of masonry tumble away from the far side, and land on a neighbouring roof with a tremendous clatter.

  Vaculik froze. Surely the guards must have heard. He swept up the plaster and debris and shunted it to one corner of the cupboard, before closing it with fevered hands and diving back into bed. For long minutes he waited, fearing discovery. But no one came. No one seemed to have noticed. Even so, Vaculik felt too shaken to continue. He tried to get some rest, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  Dawn found him back at work on the wall. By the time the guard arrived with his uniform and his morning mug of coffee, Vaculik was kneeling by his bed, hands clasped together. The guard seemed amused at Vaculik’s devoutness. In truth he was praying for God to give him the strength to make the escape attempt.

  Later that morning Vaculik received a huge boost, which could not have come at a better time. All of a sudden, an unmistakable voice rang out through the corridor. It was Paddy Barker, the irrepressibly good-humoured giant of an Irishman. He was yelling out news to the others, despite the guards doing all they could to silence him. From Barker, Vaculik learned that ‘Lieutenant Rex’ – Wiehe – was going to have some kind of operation for his injuries, and that Captain Garstin was on the mend, and was very likely going to join them.

  Vaculik felt his spirits soar. It seemed like impossibly good news right then. A while later, when Vassiliev came on duty, he learned that the SAS captain had indeed been moved into one of the nearby cells. It happened to be the room that Charlotte L. had been taken from, for her execution. On the way to the lavatory, Vaculik was allowed a few hurried words with the newly arrived prisoner. As the door swung open and Captain Garstin spied Vaculik, his face lit up in a brave smile. For each, it was as if the other had come back from the dead.

  ‘Hello, old boy,’ Garstin began, with an air of forced jollity. It was so good to see him again, but Vaculik could tell how weak and sickly he was. The SAS captain was hardly able to stand and his breath came in short, painful gasps. ‘The swine didn’t attend to me in hospital,’ he remarked, by way of explanation. ‘Just questioned me and questioned me, twisting my arms. My wounds open and festering. Treated me as if I were a spy. Cut off my ribbons and shoulder pips.’

  Vaculik clenched his fists in helpless rage at seeing his commander like this. Vassiliev was standing watch at the end of the corridor and it was obvious they didn’t have long.

  ‘If I don’t get away and you should happen to, let my wife know, will you,’ Garstin added. ‘You know the address.’

  ‘Of course I will, ’ Vaculik assured him. He felt so frustrated. There was nothing he could do to help a man he revered and counted as a dear friend. ‘The dirty louts will pay for this later,’ was the best he could manage.

  Garstin gave a smile of recognition for the other man’s fighting spirit. Several times the SAS captain had pointed out to their captors that he and his men were bona fide soldiers, he explained. It hadn’t seemed to do much good. ‘If you end up in a prisoner-of-war camp, let the English commander know. He’ll get a message through to London.’

  ‘I will,’ Vaculik promised. ‘You can rely on me for that.’

  Vassiliev signalled they had to go. The SS sergeant was making his rounds, and moving in their direction.

  Later, spurred on by everything that had happened, Vaculik went to work on his excavations with a vengeance, timing his digging to the sentry’s rounds. But somehow he must have made more noise than he’d imagined, for all of a sudden the door to his cell was flung open and four SS men rushed inside. In a flash, Vaculik was seized and bludgeoned over the head with a cosh, collapsing unconscious in the heap of telltale debris lying at the bottom of the cupboard.

  Some time later he came to. He seemed mired in a thick and suffocating blackness. He barely knew if he was dead or alive, and then an unmistakable voice cut through the shadows.

  ‘What have you been up to? To have the honour of being dumped in the cellars?’

  It was Ginger Jones, and Vaculik felt his heart skip with joy. ‘I tried to escape,’ he replied, as he felt his head tenderly, where the cosh had struck. If Jones was also locked here in the dark, he too must have ‘incurred the Germans’ displeasure for some reason’, Vaculik supposed.

  Jones laughed. ‘I was halfway up the chimney when they dragged me down. The swine didn’t even give me a chance to clean the soot off.’ Jones had been trying to climb onto the roof, to make a break for it, just as Vaculik was attempting to tunnel through the wall. ‘Got a dog-end by any chance?’ Jones added, hopefully.

  Vaculik scrabbled around in his pockets and managed to retrieve a few strands of tobacco. He presented it to his friend. ‘But I haven’t got any cigarette papers, Ginger.’

  ‘All right, we’ll ask for some.’ They were locked in the cellar of 3 Place des États Unis, and Jones made his way to the low door, rapping on it noisily. A light flickered on, and a voice yelled out: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Paper, Russky! Paper for cigarettes!’ Jones yelled.

  ‘No, no!’ the guard shot back. ‘No paper!’

  The light was extinguished, as Jones heaped every insult imaginable on the head of the guard.

  ‘Is it day or night?’ Vaculik asked, once the rumpus had died down.

  ‘Night. Must be about two or three in the morning.’

  From that Vaculik determined that he’d been unconscious for most of the day. Jones was still inclined to berate the Russian guard, and every now and then he fired a string of invective in his direction. ‘And to think that up to now I’ve always thrown my dog-ends away,’ he lamented. ‘I swear I’ll never do so again. They’re too precious.’

  ‘Just like the time you swore you’d give up beer,’ Vaculik needled him.

  Despite their predicament – the cellar looked utterly escape-proof – it was great to be back in the company of his old friend. Still, after his beating with the cosh, Vaculik felt shattered. He told Jones he was going to try to get some rest, wishing his friend sweet dreams.

  ‘I can only dream with a pint of beer in front of me,’ Jones objected, ‘and plenty more where that came from.’

  In due course Jones was able to acquaint Vaculik with some more news. He’d got to speak with Paddy Barker direct. Barker seemed to be making a half-decent recovery, despite the lack of any medical treatment. Jones had also managed a few snatched words with Garstin. The SAS captain had heard that one of their number had died at the hospital. If it wasn’t Howard Lutton, who’d been judged dead-upon-arrival, it could only be Lieutenant Wiehe. Jones was particularly saddened that such a gentleman and a gentle soul – his good friend – might have succumbed to his injuries.

  Jones needn’t have worried. Despite his parlous state, Captain Garstin was taken away for three days’ interrogation at Avenue Foch, and when finally he returned his spirits seemed to have brightened. He brought good news. Lieutenant Wiehe appeared to be through the worst. It was Howard Lutton who had died at the hospital. Otherwise, all eight of the captives seemed to have survived their various ordeals.

  Not only that, but Captain Garstin had argued most forcibly that far from being ‘terrorists’, he and his men were soldiers serving in uniform, and were entitled to all the protections due prisoners of war. He was convinced that their captors at 84 Avenue Foch had finally decided to listen. By way of response, they had promised to organise a prisoner exchange, whereby the SAS would be swap
ped for some German agents held by the British. All they were waiting for was Lieutenant Wiehe to get better, whereupon ‘the whole party would be moved to England’.

  On one point at least the Gestapo – Kieffer – had been truthful. Wiehe seemed to be through the worst. In a poignant diary entry, under the page headed ‘Tues. 25 July, St James. Sun Rises, 4.12; Sets, 7.59 (GMT)’, he’d written: ‘Operated on by German surgeon who removed two 9mm bullets.’ They had let twenty days pass before attending to Wiehe’s injuries, but at least finally they had done so. Indeed, the German surgeon had performed a laminectomy, opening up his spinal cord to relieve pressure on his damaged nerves, removing two bullets from his open wounds.

  ‘Garstin was convinced that everything would be alright, it was only a matter of time,’ Jones noted. While some were visibly lifted by the news of Wiehe’s miraculous recovery, plus that of the promised prisoner exchange, Vaculik and Jones remained sceptical. Rather than any prisoner swap, they feared they were still for the hatchet.

  Locked in the hot, airless cells of 3 Place des États Unis, the days seemed to merge into one. In such conditions, Garstin’s injuries were hardly about to improve. Apart from the difficulty he had walking, one arm was hanging limp and ‘almost useless’, Jones observed. Via a mixture of pleading and browbeating the guards, he secured permission to help Garstin ‘dress and undress, morning and night’. The SAS captain’s injuries were proving too debilitating to manage on his own.

  By now it was the dying days of July ’44. Though none of the Paris captives could know it, Trooper Castelow – parachutist number twelve – was still at large, wreaking havoc with the Resistance band at Vert-le-Petit . And to the north of there, Troopers Norman and Morrison – numbers ten and eleven – were still at liberty. For several nights they’d pushed north through forest and village, dodging enemy patrols. At one stage they’d bedded down in a wood, only to have an entire German infantry column camp up in the very same location. They’d spent the night with scores of enemy troops barely a dozen yards away.

  On another occasion they’d gone to cross a major road, only to dash out into the path of a German sentry. By sheer luck he happened to be looking in the opposite direction and they’d made it into some cover without being seen. Surviving mostly on gifts of bread, milk and eggs from friendly farmers, plus the chocolate from their rations, they’d discarded all but the bare necessities, to lighten their loads. Like that they’d pressed on following a compass bearing, carrying only their haversacks and their sleeping bags.

  On the night of 13 July they’d reached a patch of woodland west of the town of Saint Chéron, to the southwest of Paris, where they threw themselves down to rest. Parched, they searched for water, but could find none. The following morning they approached a nearby farm, where the occupants proved hugely helpful. Having pressed ample food and drink upon the two SAS men, the farmer did his utmost to persuade them to stay. Allied forces could not be so very far away, and all the two would achieve if they headed onwards was to risk getting caught by the enemy.

  They could camp in the woodland in comparative safety, and he would see to it that they were fed and protected. Norman and Morrison agreed to stay as ‘guests’ of the French farmer, but there would be several near misses in the days that followed. On one occasion, they were invited to lunch with the farmer, and were just leaving his house as a German officer strode up the garden path. Fortunately, both SAS men had discarded their uniforms by now, and were dressed in clothes provided by the locals.

  Spying the enemy officer – who had come to buy eggs – Trooper Morrison calmly walked past and slipped out the garden gate, while Trooper Norman shooed some ducks out of the way of the jackbooted visitor, before disappearing around a corner of the farmhouse. Both got away with it. A little later, a local schoolteacher, who had become their main source of intelligence and morale, was caught by the Gestapo. In an act of selfless bravery he gave neither of the SAS fugitives away, but was shot for his courageous refusal to talk.

  Trooper Castelow, meanwhile, had fallen under the Gestapo’s spotlight. They had got wise to his presence amongst the Vert-le-Petit Resistance, whereupon ‘it became too dangerous to remain’. Castelow’s only option was to try to make Allied lines. Dressed in a gendarme’s uniform – that of the French police force – the lone fugitive set off, bicycling towards Normandy, around 150 miles away. He made fair progress, until he was caught up in a massive German military convoy.

  To make matters worse, his bicycle was stolen, and ‘unfortunately, upon discovering this, I swore in English’, Castelow would report. He was overheard by some German troops, who pounced upon Castelow, threatening him with immediate execution as a spy. But a senior German officer intervened, deciding to send Castelow under escort further into German-occupied territory, 200 miles east to Verdun. There Castelow was imprisoned, interrogated and tortured, but he declined to talk.

  ‘I refused . . . to tell them what I had been doing or that I was a paratrooper.’ From there, Castelow was loaded aboard a truck, to be dispatched to Germany. If he was spirited into the Fatherland itself, the lone fugitive feared that he was done for. He would need to make a break for it, and quickly, for the German border was less than 100 miles away.

  At 84 Avenue Foch meanwhile, Hans Kieffer was getting more than a little anxious and frustrated. Twice he had sent messages to Berlin, asking for guidance on the fate of the SAS captives. Twice Kopkow, still dealing with the fallout of Operation Valkyrie, had failed to respond. Berlin’s decision ‘was overdue for a long time’, Kieffer noted, which riled him considerably. The Gestapo’s Paris jails were full to overflowing as it was, and he needed rid of the SAS men, who had become something of an encumbrance.

  Finally, Kopkow sent a response by teleprint. Kieffer gathered with Standartenführer Knochen, plus several others of the Avenue Foch higher echelons, as they read the missive from Berlin: ‘The Führer and Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht has ordered that the men of the enemy Commando, which collaborated with the French Resistance movement, are to be shot. The sentence has to be previously made known to them. They are to be shot in civilian clothes.’

  ‘Report of completion is to be made within twenty-four hours,’ the order continued, ‘so that higher headquarters may be informed.’ For the avoidance of doubt, the order was to be carried out in the ‘strictest secrecy’. After weeks of silence, Hitler himself had intervened, as all in that room understood perfectly now. Of course, they were well aware that none of the SAS captives had faced any kind of trial or due legal process. No charges had been prepared, no prosecution appointed, no defence lawyers hired, nor any hearing held before any kind of judges, military or civilian.

  But at the same time they knew that in the case of Allied troops caught behind the lines, supposedly Hitler’s word was the law. All had been acquainted with das Kommandobefehl – the Commando Order – issued on 18 October 1942 from the Führer’s headquarters. ‘Henceforth, all enemy troops encountered by German troops during so-called Commando operations . . . though they appear to be soldiers in uniform or demolition groups, armed or unarmed, are to be exterminated to the last man . . . If such men appear to be about to surrender, no quarter should be given to them.’

  German officers were charged to ‘Report daily the number of saboteurs thus liquidated . . . The number of executions must appear in the daily communications of the Wehrmacht to serve as a warning to potential terrorists.’ Any such troops were to be held captive only for as long as the Gestapo or SD needed, in order to interrogate them. The Führer’s order ended with a telling threat: ‘I will summon before the tribunal of war all leaders and officers who fail to carry out these instructions – either by failure to inform their men or by their disobedience of this order in action.’

  Since the Kommandobefehl’s issuance, certain developments had forced the Nazi hierarchy to consider holding show trials for those facing execution. In December 1943, the first German war crimes suspects had stood trial – not in t
he west, but in the city of Kharkov, in the Soviet Union. Three German officers, including an SS lieutenant, were tried for mass murders committed in the city, along with one Russian collaborator. After the city of Kharkov’s seizure, the Einsatzgruppen – Hitler’s mobile death squads – had killed tens of thousands of Jews, communists and Soviet POWs, as well as other Nazi ‘undesirables’. Shootings, hangings and mobile gas vans were the means of liquidation, and the victims were thrown into mass graves.

  The conviction of the four accused and their subsequent public hanging had made headline news around the world, including in Germany. Hitler and his propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, had mooted a riposte. They’d proposed holding show trials for captured Allied agents, who would be tried for acts of sabotage and the targeting of German soldiers – including senior commanders – behind the lines. But it seemed that cooler heads had prevailed. In term of propaganda, this risked backfiring most spectacularly. Such actions, when weighed against the mass murders of thousands on the Eastern Front by Hitler’s Einsatzgruppen, paled into insignificance.

  Then, in the run-up to the D-Day landings, a group of senior German commanders – Colonel Knochen included – had sought to challenge the legality of the Kommandobefehl itself. Surely, they argued, the order had to be rescinded. ‘The military operations caused by the invasion [the D-Day landings] would bring about fluid fronts,’ they pointed out, whereupon the implementation of the Commando Order would prove impossible. Such a fast-moving situation would leave individual commanders ‘uncertain as to how they should deal with the order in individual cases’.

  But Hitler was unmoved. Indeed, the Führer went one step further. His office issued a supplementary order, which read: ‘In spite of the Anglo-American landings in France, the Führer’s order of 18 October 1942, regarding the destruction of saboteurs and terrorists, remains fully valid . . . all parachutists encountered outside the immediate combat zone are to be executed.’