Authors: John McCallum
Camp life went on as usual for another two humdrum weeks, and then, like a bolt out of the blue, in the middle of the night my eyes shot open and it happened all over again. This attack seemed
worse than the first one. It followed the same pattern, leaving me totally wrung out and exhausted. The thought of these attacks recurring terrified me, and I felt from their severity that my body
would eventually succumb. A side-effect was that I became afraid to go to sleep.
Luckily, the acquisition of the radio intervened and took my mind off my own problems. It was the summer of 1943 and rumours were flying about regarding the state of the war. Up
here in the mountains it was hard to believe that there was a world war going on. The weather was great, and we had plenty of food and acceptable clothing, but we always had a thirst to know what
was going on in the real world. We felt the radio would be the answer, and if we were to start using the tunnel again it might as well be for the benefit of the whole camp.
The team having been picked, we decided to go out on the first clear moonless night. Most of the team had never broken out of camp before, so you can imagine the state of their nerves. Those of
us who had been out before had to calm them down and convince them it would be a doddle. Personally, I wasn’t looking forward to it one little bit. I knew my own capabilities in the dark, but
how would the first-timers take to the new environment? It was a gigantic gamble, considering six men had to get out of camp and get back in again in a very limited time. We had all played games
against the clock before for fun but this time we were laying our lives on the line. Was the prize really worth it? At least Jimmy and Bill were in the party, the other three being in the
strong-man class. They were needed to carry the radio back over the mountain; Bill and I couldn’t be relied on for this because of our gammy legs.
The weather held, the break-out sequence went like silk, the whole team behaving as if this were a nightly occurrence; with no untoward incidents we arrived at the target ahead of time. The
Gasthaus had just closed and the guests had all merrily departed. Bill and I reconnoitred the building to find a point of entry, which turned out to be a toilet window which had not yet been
closed. After making sure there was no one in, we quickly and silently entered, knowing that Jimmy and the others were posted outside and would warn us of any danger if it came along. I had
actually used this particular toilet on occasions and knew exactly where the room with the radio in it was. There was no one in the passageway, so we moved on, and while Bill stood guard at the
door with his right fist cocked, I rapidly disconnected the set. In a few seconds it was out the toilet window and into Busty’s waiting arms.
The return trip to camp was made in a state of high jubilation, and the clear winter air at over two thousand feet lent wings to our weary legs. With everyone except Bill and myself taking turns
at carrying our precious cargo, we made excellent time back to the camp. Speed was important in case the alarm was raised and our guard telephoned to check whether all his charges were safely
tucked up in bed. In the end, we never heard the theft mentioned in the village and we were never under suspicion. After all, who would think that such an escapade was possible?
Our triumphant return was greeted with great wonderment from the rest of the boys. After we had showed off our prize, it was stowed away in the kitchen tunnel entrance until we
decided on a permanent site for it. We all agreed it wasn’t sensible to keep it on the premises. Next night after roll-call, when we were safely locked in, the place was buzzing with
excitement as we unearthed our newfound source of information and prepared to connect it up to our power source. Within minutes we discovered what Rabbie Burns meant when he wrote, ‘The best
laid plans o’ mice and men gang aft agley’. We discovered to our horror that our mains was at a different voltage from that in the village where we had stolen the set. The next step was
to see if the whole of Karlsbrunn was on the same voltage as the camp. After a couple of days of asking around, we discovered that one side of the village was also on this different voltage. All we
had to do was find a working point for the radio on the other side of the main road from the camp.
After various other possibilities were discarded, I suggested the cellar of the hotel where Traudl lived, depending on the availability of a power supply to operate the set. The outside door to
the cellar was never locked but the door from the hotel to the cellar was locked and bolted from the inside. It was finally agreed to check this out as a first possible location, and within a
couple of days we found out that there was a really archaic system of wiring in the cellar. There were no conduits at all and the various lights were fed from two insulated wires which ran along
the arched roof. Halfway along the passageway we found a little empty room which didn’t appear to be in use, so we decided that if we dug a hole and boxed it we could put the radio safely in
there and make a lid which could be filled with earth, making it virtually undetectable. The insulation on the corridor wires would have to be tapped and two temporary leads connected to the set
and removed after use.
Finally, the big night came when we were to test the set. Along with Vic, an air force bloke masquerading as army, I had the privilege of doing the initial trial run. I’ll never forget
that night. We went through the tedious rigmarole of setting everything up, switched on and Vic tuned in to Victor Sylvester at the Hammersmith Palais. He was ecstatic; I had difficulty convincing
him he couldn’t listen to the end of the programme.
A listening rota was set up – two men going out together – and so our BBC information service came into being. For the first time, the real news of the war was available to us.
It was around this time that we were told we would be taking part in a historic piece of remodelling of the Altvater mountain servicing. The electricity supply at the mountain
top was from an old-fashioned generator and they wanted us to extend the supply cable from Karlsbrunn to the top of the mountain, about another two thousand feet. We were devastated and said that
it would be an impossible task for our small working party. To our surprise, the authorities agreed and said they were going to supplement our workforce with a dozen ditch-diggers from the land of
Oz.
The Aussies duly arrived and I have never seen such a hand-picked bunch of mobile muscle before or since. They were on a par with our own tame Aussie, Arthur. We had been told that there would
be no mechanical help in the ditch-digging, but when we saw our new assistants, the job became a possibility. The work distribution was to be ten yards of ditch per day per man and everything
worked out well, except when we struck solid rock. Then the dynamiter had to be called in.
Things didn’t go too well with our new workmates, who tried to take over the nice quiet running of our camp. This led to continual resetting of Bill’s knuckles as he dealt with them
one at a time. But, just as all good things come to an end, so too did this bad job. Our gallant allies were duly returned whence they came and the normal routine returned. This also meant that I
could safely resume my love life with Traudl, which had ceased on the arrival of the Aussies as they were never told anything of our nocturnal activities. We also suffered a news blackout during
this period.
The war news was turning very much in our favour now and the effect was beginning to show in a variety of ways. Any mention of the Eastern Front brought a look of terror to the
face of any German. The war was going badly in Russia and troops returning home on leave were telling horror stories of conditions at the front. The enormous numbers of wounded returning home also
told their own story.
Can you imagine the impact of the loss of 240,000 men in the Stalingrad area alone through fighting, hunger, cold and disease? It was now January 1943. There was still no significant
breakthrough and talk of a second front in France was still only talk. The death-toll continued to rise on all fronts.
The flags and banners with their Swastika inserts seemed to hang rather limply now, the German chins seemed to droop a bit and the buoyancy that had been there a couple of years before was
missing. We were not having to endure the full impact of war because places like Sudetenland and East Prussia lived fairly comfortably off their local produce and were not strategic targets for the
Allied bombers.
The war had no effect on my love life and I was seeing Traudl about once or twice a week, though how she put up with my immature lovemaking I’ll never know. The snowy winters provided a
number of problems for us. Our arrangements for my entry to the hotel, through her unlatched bedroom window, worked fine in beautiful summer weather but it was not feasible after a fresh fall of
snow; the local gossips would have had a field day. Traudl decided to provide me with a front door key as there was always a well trodden path to the door. We agreed that if fresh snow fell after
lights out, my visit would automatically be cancelled.
Since I had started making these night visits, I had learned how to move quietly, and in situations where there was total darkness to feel with both my hands and feet as I moved. Even to this
day I get shouted at for creeping up on people because I move so quietly.
Traudl came up with a brilliant idea during our first winter in Karlsbrunn. The snow at altitude is perfect for much of the time, and like most of the villagers Traudl had been brought up on
skis. She and her younger brother were about the most daring skiers in the village. Sometimes I could hardly bear to watch their dangerous antics through the trees, but Traudl just laughed and said
there was nothing to it. When I remonstrated with her to be more careful, she suggested that the way to cure my fear for her was to learn to ski myself.
Traudl said that there was an old pair of her father’s skis in the attic and she had spare sticks which I could use, so all we had to do was arrange a suitable day and time for my first
lesson. The guard knew I had been having bad headaches so he was quite amenable to my having a day off. During his time off, I left the camp and went to meet Traudl on the mountain. After about two
hours’ tuition from an accomplished skier like her I was able to do the basic snowplough and eventually a pretty poor Christiana. Other lessons followed when possible, and eventually I could
herringbone up the slopes and ski down them.
The skiing era didn’t last very long, because when some of the other lads miraculously acquired skis, it didn’t take long for the guard to ferret out the hiding places of all the
skis, which then disappeared forever.
Fate must have decided that we had had things too good for too long. Our nice guard was removed and replaced by two ‘Wasser Polaks’. This happened about the
beginning of 1944 and the new policy was a general tightening up as regards POWs. Our value was increasing as the German situation deteriorated. Apparently, if five or more prisoners escaped
together, the matter had to be reported directly to the Führer. For us the holiday was over, and slowly a feeling of animosity crept in between the guards and ourselves.
This erupted violently one day. We were all returning to camp in the evening after work; as we entered the compound, the younger of the two guards decided to help matters along and pushed the
prisoner in front of him through the gate. The unfortunate guard didn’t know that there were two men in our camp you didn’t push around, one being Bill James and the other Davey Jay. I
don’t know what Bill’s reaction would have been but Davey’s was instantaneous.
A quick shuffle of feet brought him round to face the guard, another fast adjustment to balance his body properly, then a lightning short right which hit the guard between the eyes with the full
force of Davey’s weight behind it. Another shuffle of feet brought Davey round again and he completed his entry into the barrack-room. Those of us who saw the incident were shocked at how
quickly it happened and very smartly got into our compound, closing the gate behind us. We knew there would be an aftermath but none of us could have guessed just how horrible this would be.
Pandemonium reigned in our hut as word of what had happened went round the others. One of the lads watching at the window reported that the guard had crawled into his own hut. The calmest bloke
in our hut was Davey, who sat on his bunk and tried to ignore all the fuss, though possibly he was going over in his mind the trouble that would arise from his uncontrolled action.
The waiting became intolerable. The guard who had been hit was trying to piece together what had happened when the other guard asked him if he had seen his damaged face, so he looked in the
mirror. Right on cue we heard the screams of rage from the guards’ hut. Within seconds, two very angry guards were in our hut and all hell broke loose. When we actually saw the damage that
one punch from Davey had done we were shocked. Both the guard’s eyes were rapidly discolouring and the bridge of his nose was swelling and taking on horrible rainbow hues. Somewhere he had
lost his forage cap but in his right hand he had his unsheathed bayonet and his fellow guard had his rifle at the ready.
In a blind, mad rage the guard was swinging his bayonet in wide circles until finally he had Davey cornered alone. The other guard had the rest of us herded at the other end of the room and made
it clear to us there was a bullet up the spout and the safety catch was off.
Davey was sitting on the edge of his bunk; the guard’s vicious swing with the bayonet caught him unawares and hit him on the crown of the head. Blood spurted and we all shouted or screamed
but the guard with the rifle again made his intentions quite clear. He would brook no interference in what was going on behind him. Davey saw the next blow coming and held up his hand to ward it
off. The blade sliced down through his fingers, causing another surge of blood and more screams from us.