“From here there is no escape...”

Germany, 1941

COLDITZ — THE NAME WAS ENOUGH to send a chill through the boldest prisoner of war. During the Second World War, the Germans turned this medieval castle into their greatest sonderlager: the highest-security, most heavily guarded camp for captured enemy soldiers. Hermann Goering, Hitler’s second in command, had personally declared the camp absolutely escape-proof. Here the Germans sent the troublemakers from every other prisoner of war camp — especially those determined to escape. As the war raged on outside, Colditz was home to hundreds of Allied soldiers — Polish, British, Canadian, French, Belgian. And in 1941, they were joined by 68 Dutch.

“For you the war is over,” the new prisoners were told by the German guards who herded them through the castle gates at gunpoint. As the young Dutch lieutenant Hans Larive looked around him, it wasn’t hard to believe. During their march through the town below he had admired the fairy-tale castle high on a cliff. But that illusion disappeared with a closer look. Inside, the castle’s high, gray stone walls blocked the sun. Glancing up from the damp courtyard, he spotted pale faces peering down through the barred windows all around him.

“Appell!” barked a German officer — time for roll call. The Dutch snapped to attention, forming neat ranks in the courtyard. With sideways glances they watched the other prisoners drift in. One by one they came, or ambling in pairs. Some wore torn uniforms ragged from battle, some were half-dressed — one seemed to be in his pajamas! The Germans’ frustration mounted as they tried to impose order, but every time they thought they’d finished counting they spotted an officer wandering out of his place or lined up with the wrong nation.

Larive was surprised by the chaos, but then slowly he understood the game the other prisoners were playing. Keep the guards frustrated and confused: it was a kind of psychological war. The French and British seemed to be the worst offenders of all. He watched as the British were lined up closest to the armed guards — obviously this was the “bad boys’” place during roll call. The Germans seemed to eye the Dutch with relief. They were so disciplined and quiet — at least there was one country they didn’t have to worry about!

Or so they thought. From the moment Larive arrived he watched for a chance — any chance — to get out. He had to rejoin the fighting! But as the days passed he learned that this was no ordinary camp. Everything about Colditz was a cruel reminder that escape was out of the question. Constant roll calls made sure no one was missing. Prisoners and their quarters were searched day and night. There were as many guards as prisoners, and they kept the inmates in check with guns and bayonets, with searchlights to spot them, microphones to listen in on them, dogs to sniff them out.

And yet one thing kept Larive’s hopes alive — the memory, still fresh in his mind, of a strange twist of events that had followed his capture. After escaping from another German camp, Larive had been caught near the border of neutral Switzerland. He was then taken for questioning by a Gestapo agent, a huge bull of a man who began by shouting threats. But when the agent had learned that Larive was Dutch, he relaxed. He had worked in Holland before the war and liked it there.

“The only clever thing you did was to get off the train at Singen — all the rest was stupid,” he had told Larive.

“Why?”

“You must have known that Singen was the last station where anyone could get off the train without showing an identity card.”

In fact, it had been a lucky guess. The “Bull” had then asked Larive why he hadn’t just walked across the border.

“I didn’t know how to get through the defense line,” Larive admitted.

“Defense line!” he stormed. “Defense against whom? The Swiss? What a crazy idea. There are no defenses at all. You could have walked straight across.”

To Larive’s amazement, the Bull even got out a map and showed him where the Swiss border jutted into Germany, and the road he could have taken to walk across it. How could he talk so carelessly? Larive wondered. Then he realized: of course, the Germans believe they will soon win the war. Where I’m going there’s no hope of escape, and I’d be a fool to get shot trying. Larive had nodded and listened — and memorized the map.

Larive settled into the prison’s dreary routine, but he kept wondering if there wasn’t more than met the eye at Colditz. He watched officers milling about the courtyard, lying on their bunks. So much time on their hands, he thought — surely enough time to plan escapes.

He had guessed right. Colditz was a maze of a castle, and Larive soon heard rumors of out-of-use passages and hidden rooms where prisoners worked on one scheme after another — from tunnels to disguises. The place is seething with escape plans, Larive realized, his pulse quickening at the idea. In fact there were so many in progress that the different “countries” began to cooperate so they wouldn’t mess up one another’s schemes by mistake.

Larive and the other Dutch wasted no time fitting in. They would need to choose a leader for their own escape “team.” The obvious choice was the burly, quick-minded Captain Machiel van den Heuvel, whom the British quickly nicknamed “Vandy.” It was an important job, but there was a catch. The escape officer was not allowed to escape himself — he would mastermind escapes for others, and always stay behind. Vandy accepted.

Larive and Vandy soon discovered that the Germans had made a mistake when they locked up all the troublemakers in one prison. Now every kind of escape artist — from lock pickers to explosives experts — was in one place. Some had gained valuable experience on their failed escape attempts. Larive was one of them.

Vandy was all ears as Larive told him in hushed tones the story of his capture and questioning by the Gestapo. Now the Dutch at Colditz knew a way across the border, but how could they get out of the castle? That was the puzzle Vandy set his mind to. The outer walls were monstrous and heavily guarded. But prisoners had one opportunity to be outside the walls — even if it was under an armed escort. The key had to be “the walk.”

Exercise was impossible in the castle’s cramped courtyard. And so the prisoners were regularly marched to a nearby park surrounded by a high fence. The guards knew this was the weakest point in their security and grumbled about the extra trouble it caused — the manpower needed to take the prisoners back and forth, plus all the roll calls before, during, and after to keep track of the men.

It was also a prime opportunity for the prisoners’ favorite pastime — annoying the guards, or “goon-baiting.” When called for the walk they would show up slowly one by one, then drop things and stroll back for them. Vandy knew the Germans were glad that at least the Dutch didn’t stoop to these games. They were always orderly and easy to count. That could be useful too, Vandy mused.

As Vandy strolled around the park, he noted the armed sentries along the fence, the barbed wire, the guard dogs. He sighed and looked down. What he saw at his feet made him pause — a cement square set into the ground, covered with a wooden lid. It was shut with a heavy nut and a bolt, and dotted with small air-holes. He quickly looked up and kept walking before the guards could see what had caught his attention. But his mind was racing.

On the next trip to the park, Vandy casually sat down on the wooden lid and pretended to watch the prisoners’ rugby game. Never moving his eyes from the players, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pebble he had tied to a long piece of string. Slowly he fed it through one of the small airholes. How far down would it go? He lowered it further and further. Two feet, three feet, four, five — plop! The pebble hit water. So it was an old well! He lowered it further, and it dropped another five feet or so before hitting the bottom of the well. Perfect! Vandy’s expression didn’t change, but he was so pleased it was hard not to smile.

In the days that followed, the German guards shrugged when they noticed the Bible study club Captain van den Heuvel had started leading during the exercise hour. What was the harm? Sitting quietly in a circle, always on the same spot, the men were easier to track. It also served Vandy’s purposes nicely. With the well hidden from view, he set to work measuring the nut and bolt, making plans, barely hearing the voices that droned on around him.

Hans Larive walked aimlessly around the park, too anxious to join in the rugby, too restless to sit down. The waiting was driving him crazy. Nights ago, he had helped prepare two Dutch officers for their escape, drilling them on the route to the Swiss border. He knew the escape plan concerned the well in the park, but he was puzzled. The well was a dead end, so how did they get out? The scheme appeared to have worked, but Vandy had not let him in on the details, not yet. He kicked at the dirt. When would his turn come? On the grass, a shadow lengthened and moved toward him. Looking up, he saw the large form of his escape officer striding toward him, a smile on his broad, ruddy face. Before Vandy spoke the words — “Are you ready?” — Larive’s answer was already on his lips, a confident “Yes.”

On a hot August afternoon, Larive took his place in line to march to the park. Ahead of him he could see his friend Flanti Steinmetz, the other Dutchman who would make the break today. Almost every Dutch officer had a role to play. Vandy had gone over each man’s part and had stressed the obstacles to be overcome. Somehow Larive and Steinmetz had to get into the well unseen by the guards. Then the guards and their dogs must be kept from closely searching the grounds, even though the Dutch would be two men short at the roll call that ended the exercise hour. And the Germans must stay confused for as long as possible to let the escapers get a head start.

Once at the park, every man took his place. Far from the well, several of the Dutch began a noisy game of rugby. The bored guards turned to watch. Larive and Steinmetz, meanwhile, joined a circle of officers who were lazily throwing a ball to one another across the well cover. At the same time, Lieutenant Gerrit Dames settled down against the fence between two guards and quietly read a book. Another officer strolled aimlessly along the barbed wire. The minutes passed.

Vandy gave the agreed-upon signal. This was it! The circle around the well started closing in. The rugby game got rougher and noisier than ever. The officer near the fence began to pull playfully at the wire like a naughty schoolboy. And Dames, still looking at his book, began to slowly cut a hole in the fence behind his back.

Finally, a guard lost his temper at the Dutchman playing with the wire, and his angry shouts caught the attention of the other guards. Screened from view, one of the officers around the well dropped to the ground. From his pocket he drew the homemade wrench Vandy had built over many nights, sized just right to loosen the nut and bolt on the well cover. Working fast, he removed the bolt and passed it to Larive, who stashed it in his pocket. The shouts of the guards continued in the distance as they led the troublesome officer away from the fence.

In a flash, the lid was lifted and Steinmetz slipped into the darkness below, followed by Larive. Above them, their helper closed the lid and put the finishing touch in place. It was Vandy’s small stroke of genius. He smiled as he gently centered the new “bolt” — a carefully painted piece of glass that looked just like the real thing, but would smash easily when the lid was lifted from inside.

By now Dames had finished cutting his hole in the fence. He turned around and, with clumsy slowness, began to creep through. As expected, a guard’s whistle pierced the air. Dames shouted toward the woods beyond the fence, “Run, run!” He felt the barrel of a rifle at his back and, slowly drawing his head out of the hole, raised his hands in the air. Seconds ticked by. Dames exhaled heavily — they weren’t going to shoot.

A quick count of the prisoners was taken in the park. Two men missing! The German guards combed the park with their dogs, but found no one. They gave the well cover a quick glance, but it was clearly undisturbed with the bolt still in place. Their suspicions were confirmed: the two men must have escaped into the woods before the guards had spotted the third man, Dames. The Dutch were marched back to Colditz, while a widespread search of the woods began.

“Sonderappell!” Back in Colditz castle, the other prisoners weren’t surprised by the shouts announcing a surprise roll call. A common nuisance. But as they streamed into the courtyard they noticed the atmosphere was tenser than usual. Guards were rushing back and forth, commanders talking in small groups. Then whispered rumors began to make their way through the ranks of prisoners. It’s the Dutch... someone is missing! The British officers nearest the guards strained to overhear. No, make that two men. Wait a minute, I think it’s more... four, five... seven missing? Impossible!

The Dutch group was marched in at gunpoint. All faces turned to look at them, but as usual their dignified expressions gave nothing away. The lines of prisoners made way as the Dutch were marched past their usual place in the courtyard. Then the guards ordered the British and French ranks to stand aside. A cheer went up through the prisoners as Vandy and his countrymen were led straight to the bad boys’ place nearest the guards. Applause and whistles echoed through the courtyard, but the Dutchmen looked calmly ahead.

In fact, seven men weren’t missing, but four were. Vandy had succeeded in tricking the guards. Two men had left through the well days ago, and the Poles had helped Vandy make up the numbers at roll call. Now, while Larive and Steinmetz hid in the well, three more men were hiding in the castle itself to help confuse the guards. Vandy knew the Germans’ Operation Mousetrap would spring into action. Rail and police stations in the area would be alerted, and guards would scour towns and roads for miles around the camp, quickly spreading a net to catch the escapers. But they would be looking for seven men, not two. And those two weren’t running to a station or town, not yet. They were hanging inside a well under the feet of the guards looking for them.

Vandy wasn’t finished with the well, either. He wanted to get two more officers out fast, before the Germans found it, before they’d expect another attempt. He knew he couldn’t use the fence trick twice, so the “third man” was out. Vandy stared straight ahead, barely hearing the German officers shouting around him. His mind was already forming a new scheme. His thoughts went back to the fake glass bolt he had painted. And to his friends in the Polish group, particularly one who was a sculptor. And to how appearances can be deceiving, especially when there’s something you expect to see.

Larive’s arms ached and his back was sore from crouching. For hours he had been hanging from the iron rungs on the side of the well, half of his body underwater.

At first he and Steinmetz had crouched on the rungs, but they realized that if the guards opened the lid they’d be seen immediately. Quietly, they had lowered themselves into the water, then draped a gray blanket they’d brought over their heads. If things went wrong and the guards opened the well, they’d see a gray mass — maybe they’d think it was the dirty water below and move on.

Hanging in the darkness, they listened to the guards’ whistles and shouts above their heads and the sound of running feet. Then dogs barking in the distance. A murmur of voices nearby, growing fainter. And finally silence. Hours passed. The lid had closed over their heads at three o’clock, and it wouldn’t be safe to come out until nine or ten, when darkness forced the Germans to call off their search for the night.

Time crawled by slowly. Larive’s head was splitting and it was getting harder to think straight. He tried to take a deep breath, and his lungs heaved slowly with the effort. He watched Steinmetz’s chest move up and down, as if he were panting.

“We are breathing like fish on land,” Larive gasped. And then he realized why — not enough oxygen. They were slowly suffocating!

Steinmetz dragged himself up the rungs toward the lid. Slowly he pushed it open a crack and, careful not to break the glass bolt, propped it up with his pocketknife. He and Larive put their mouths to the opening and drank in the fresh air.

Outside, dusk was turning to darkness. They peered out the narrow opening. No lights, no sounds. It was time. They pushed up the lid, smashing the glass bolt as planned. Steinmetz hopped out and picked up the broken pieces, while Larive fished the real bolt out of his pocket and replaced it on the closed lid.

Quickly scrambling over the fence, they walked and crawled toward the nearest rail station, hoping to catch the first train at dawn. It was a gamble. Police would already be looking for anyone suspicious. They’d have to count on the civilian clothes they had faked and Steinmetz’s perfect German to help them pass as tourists.

Luck stayed with them all the way to Singen — the last train stop before their walk to the Swiss border. As they set out along the dirt road that ran next to the tracks, Larive had an eerie sense of coming home. He had traveled the same road after his last escape — and had landed in front of the Gestapo. In his mind he went over the Gestapo agent’s words: “Did you see where the road split from the tracks? An hour more of walking, a left turn through some fields, and the border would have been straight ahead of you.”

The road veered from the tracks and led into the woods. Remember, Larive told himself, the Bull said there’s no defense line. But he couldn’t shake a feeling of dread as they entered the forest.

Then, rounding a corner, he saw something that turned his blood cold: a German guard up ahead, moving toward them along the same side of the road. Larive and Steinmetz slowed down. What now? If they turned back, he’d suspect them for sure. Maybe he wasn’t there to check papers.

“Let’s cross the road,” Larive whispered. “If he crosses, too, we’ll know he means to check up on us.”

Casually they strolled to the other side of the road.

“He is crossing!” Steinmetz exclaimed under his breath.

A few steps ahead Larive saw a narrow path heading off the road through the trees. But it led away from the border! No choice now. The guard was closing in and picking up his pace. “Turn right up the path — and run,” Larive whispered. The two men bolted.

“Halt!” they heard the guard shout from behind. Larive forced his tired legs to move faster.

A shot was fired, and a bullet whistled past Larive’s head. They dove off the path and kept running through the trees, the leaves and branches whipping their sides and faces. Larive waited for another shot but none came. He slowed a little to look back. No guard. He’s gone back to raise the alarm, thought Larive. The two men slowed down and circled back, creeping from shrub to shrub to the edge of the woods. Crouching deep in a thicket, they watched the road.

Across a field they could see some commotion at a distant guardhouse. The sky grew darker and Larive felt a few drops of rain. Good, he thought. The harder the better. It will make us tough to spot tonight. Soldiers were now leaving the guardhouse and taking up posts along the road. The road they needed to cross to get to Switzerland! Suddenly, rifle shots made Larive jump. Then loud barking. The hunt had started.

“They’re trying to scare us into running, so the dogs will hear us and pick up our trail,” Larive whispered. He and Steinmetz sunk further into the thicket and covered themselves with their blanket. Their best chance was to stay quiet and perfectly still.

The barking grew louder and voices were getting clearer. More shots, closer this time. Larive’s heart was pounding as he willed himself not to move, not to breathe too loudly. The guards’ footsteps were very close now. This is crazy, thought Larive. Even if they don’t see us they’ll step on us! Then slowly the voices became dimmer, the barking moved further off. Soon only the rain falling on the leaves broke the silence.

Darkness came, and the two men crawled slowly out of the woods on their stomachs. Larive looked for some landmark to guide them, but everything looked the same in the pitch-black night. They found another dirt road, but was it the right one? They kept going. In the distance, Larive could make out the shapes of houses. That might be the Swiss village on the other side of the border. Or the town they had just left — were they going in circles? They passed signs but couldn’t read them in the dark. Steinmetz climbed a signpost and struck a match before the words. In a flash, he dropped down. “German Customs!” he hissed.

Half running, half stumbling, they came upon a small group of houses. Were they Swiss or German? It was too dark to tell. Steinmetz leaned against a wall to catch his breath out of the rain. Larive joined him.

They discussed the situation in hoarse whispers. Maybe it was best to stay put and not get more lost. At dawn, they could get their bearings and make a final dash for the border. Larive leaned back. He’d never been so tired. Two and a half days on the run, without sleep and almost nothing to eat. His clothes were soaked and he felt cold and numb. Stay sharp, he told himself. This is when your mind dulls, and you do something stupid.

Suddenly the white beam of a flashlight stung his eyes, blinding him. He and Steinmetz froze, as if pinned to the wall by the light. Larive could hear the sound of boots squishing in the mud, coming closer. But he could see nothing beyond the glare of the light. Then a voice confirmed his worst fears — it spoke in German.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Tears stung Larive’s eyes. Not again! They couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards from the border. Then anger replaced his exhaustion. No, he thought. I won’t go back this time.

The beam of light moved to Steinmetz and back again. Behind it, Larive glimpsed a soldier with a rifle strapped across his back. It would take a few seconds for him to grab his weapon and aim.

Larive whispered to Steinmetz, “We must kick hard, both at the same time, then run. I’ll say when.” Steinmetz nodded grimly.

As the soldier came closer, they slowly lifted their right legs and pushed their hands against the wall behind them.

“Where did you come from? Are you prisoners of war?”

Larive took a deep breath. As he opened his mouth to say “Now!” the voice spoke again.

“You are in Switzerland. You’ll have to come with me.”

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. They were free.

In a corner of the Dutch quarters at Colditz, Vandy frowned as he inspected the two dummy heads from different angles. At last, he stepped back and gave a grunt of satisfaction. They were remarkable! His Polish friend had outdone himself. The amateur sculptor had modeled them out of plaster — obtained from a castle repairman who was always willing to take a bribe. The faces had then been painted by a Dutch lieutenant, who had snuck paints from a prisoners’ art class.

Attached to frames, draped with long Dutch coats, and topped with officers’ caps, the dummies — which the Dutch nicknamed “Max” and “Moritz” — were ready for action. Two more officers were about to escape through the well in the park. While they made their run for the border, Max and Moritz would stand in for them at roll calls, hiding their absence for as long as possible.

Vandy had noticed that the guards now took a shortcut when counting the Dutch prisoners. The orderly Dutch always stood in neat rows of five. The guards simply counted the rows, and so many rows times five gave them the right number. During the noise and confusion before roll call, while the British and French were stalling and goon-baiting, the Dutch walked out in a large group. They tucked Max and Moritz in the center, held by the officers on either side, who slid two extra pairs of boots under the dummies at the last minute.

It worked brilliantly — for a time. Months after the well escapes, a suspicious German guard took a closer look at the Dutch.

He raised his hand. “All from here to the right, move to the right. All from here to the left, move to the left,” he ordered.

As the prisoners shifted position, one was left alone in the middle. The guard pointed at the prisoner with the blank expression and repeated his order. No response. The guard stormed toward him, and his anger turned to astonishment. Max had been found out. But Vandy didn’t mind — by this time his two escapers had followed Larive and Steinmetz to freedom in Switzerland.

Escape attempts continued at Colditz, some ingenious, some outrageous — through a trapdoor under the theater stage; hidden in garbage; disguised as German officers, workers, women. In a secret attic room, the British even built a glider to carry escapers over the castle’s high walls to the valley below. The glider never had a chance to take flight, however. It was found by the amazed American GIs who liberated the castle in 1945.