Tom Moulson
Squadron Leader Roger Bushell was the Houdini of British POWs in World War II. Despite ever growing threats and sanctions by his German captors, he escaped time and again. For Bushell, escape was a matter of personal honour and patriotic duty. And required rare nerve. He was the principal organizer of the breakout from Stalag Luft III in 1944, the event on which the film The Great Escape is based. This account of Bushell’s escaping career begins with his shooting down over Dunkirk in 1940.
The first place to which they took him was Dulag Luft, a transit camp for aircrew prisoners near Frankfurt. After a period of solitary confinement, Bushell made a survey of the camp. In the playing field, and just outside the compound wiring, there was a goat in a kennel. If a hole were dug in the floor of the kennel and a trapdoor fitted to support the goat, a man could remain concealed from the sentries and stay outside the compound as the prisoners returned from the playing field after exercise. The hole was dug by relays of prisoners hiding in the kennel one by one, the sand being taken away in vessels used for feeding the goat. If the guards had counted the number of times the goat was fed their suspicions would have been aroused, but they did not. Bushell planned to hide in the kennel on the evening before a separate tunnel escape involving a number of prisoners; to climb the single wire surrounding the sports field as soon as it was dark, and thus to confuse his pursuers with the twenty-four hours’ start over the tunnelers.
On the prospect of staying in the kennel until dark, someone asked him, “What about the smell?” and Bushell replied, “Oh, the goat won’t mind that.”
It was an easy matter to falsify the roll call, and he got away smoothly. With his fluency in German and experience of the winter sports areas he set course for Switzerland, travelling by day in a civilian suit bought from one of the guards at Dulag Luft. He was able to engage safely in brief conversations, and navigating with the aid of guide books purchased from shops along the way he went to Tuttlingen by express train, and from there to Bonndorf by suburban line. His plan to throw the Germans at Dulag Luft off the scent was entirely successful, for none of the eighteen men who escaped by tunnel got farther than Hanover before being arrested, by which time he had outdistanced the radius of search.
From Bonndorf Bushell reached on foot the point he was making for, a few kilometres from the Swiss border. Things had gone almost too well and, being aware of his habitual overconfidence, he sat down for two hours and made himself generate caution for the last decisive stage. He had the alternatives of waiting for nightfall, with all its problems, or of bluffing it out by daylight. He chose the latter.
In the border village of Stühlingen he was halted by a guard. Pretending to be a drunken but amiable ski-ing instructor, Bushell was being conducted towards a check-point for an examination of his papers when he broke loose and bolted, dodging bullets, into a side street. The side street proved to be a cul-de-sac and he was run to earth within a minute. The officer to whom he was taken turned out to be a German he had known in his ski-ing days, and Bushell ventured to suggest that for old time’s sake he be set free with a ten minutes’ start. For once his persuasive charm had no effect, meeting only with a stony, Teutonic refusal.
Bushell served a punitive sentence in a Frankfurt goal, intended to soften his morale; but he was made of firmer stuff and on being moved to Barth, near the Baltic coast, he escaped again with a Polish officer.
The two men separated, and Bushell was stumbling along a road near the concentration camp at Auschwitz on a dark night when he blundered into a sentry he had not seen, knocking him to the ground. With an instinctive courtesy he helped the soldier to his feet, handed him his rifle and said, “Sorry!” The game was up once again.
It was decided to move this troublesome officer to a new camp, and he was herded into a cattle truck with several other prisoners and taken from Lübeck to Warburg. What pleasures awaited him there Bushell did not stay to see, and with five others prised open the truck’s floorboards and dropped on to the track as the train was moving. One of the prisoners dropped on to the rail and lost both legs as a truck rolled over him.
With a Czech named Zafouk, Bushell reached Czechoslovakia where the Resistance boarded them with a courageous family in Prague. Bushell appreciated this limited freedom and would dress in civilian clothes and take daily walks around the city while waiting for the Resistance to complete arrangements for his transfer to Yugoslavia. But the assassination of the tyrant Heydrich activated a house-to-house search for students suspected of the crime. At the time, Bushell happened to be in a cinema with the daughter of the household where he was staying, and the audience was ordered to file out for a check on identity cards. As Bushell could not speak the language, his girl companion did the talking, but he was suspected and sent to a Gestapo prison in Berlin.
Bushell’s cell was one of a number on either side of a corridor, and when they had locked his door and withdrawn he put his face to the grill and asked softly: “Is anyone here British?” A voice four cells away in the direction of the latrines replied, “Yes, Flight-Lieutenant Marshall, RAF.”
Marshall, who had known Bushell before the war, was also an escaper and had been captured in the same cinema and at the same time. Conversation between the two was restricted to furtive whisperings of a few seconds’ duration whenever Bushell passed Marshall’s cell. It took several days for Bushell to explain that he was refusing to admit his identity for fear of repercussions on the Prague family, which would be telling the same story as his. He was tormented by the thought of what would happen to them. One evening he whispered that he had left a note in the lavatory. When Marshall found it tucked behind the cistern it contained Bushell’s service number, rank and full name. “They are going to shoot me,” it stated; “Please pass full particulars to the Red Cross.”
But Bushell learned that the Prague family had been executed and he admitted his identity. Until he did so he had consciously forfeited his right to protection by the Geneva Convention. Again a bona fide prisoner-of-war, he was sent to Stalag Luft III at the end of 1942, and it was here that he received his ultimatum: if he ever escaped again he would be shot.
Stalag Luft III, the large prison camp at Sagan, eighty miles east of Berlin, was a good camp and had only been opened the previous spring. The north compound to which Bushell was committed could almost have been a luxury camp; it held a thousand prisoners, was spacious and boasted private kitchens and washrooms with every barrack. There were excellent facilities for entertainment, and the commandant, Baron Von Lindeiner, hoped the British prisoners would enjoy their stay and even wish to remain in Germany after the war. His prisoners regretted that they had no desire to stay in Germany, war or no war, and bent their entire energies – diverted every useful item of food or material, subverted every sport or educational group, directed every imaginative talent – towards the predominant objective of escape.
The commandant and the senior British officer at Sagan both advised Bushell to take no further chances. “I can’t possibly stay here for long,” he replied; “the winters are terrible.” But first he had a spell in “The Cooler”, the camp gaol, to undergo.
“The Cooler” was so overcrowded with delinquent prisoners that those assigned to it had to wait their turn until a cell was available. When Bushell was called he again found himself a few cells away from Marshall, and while the guards were not paying much attention they resumed their discussion. Bushell was obsessed by the prospect of being mysteriously liquidated, or of the circumstances surrounding his death being mis-represented. He was less afraid of dying, though he cherished life, than of being shot in cold blood on a false pretext such as resisting arrest, a thing he was far too sensible to do. “If anything goes wrong,” he told Marshall, “you’ll know what to think.” He gave Marshall names and addresses of people to be informed in such an event.
Upon his release from “The Cooler” Bushell flung himself with such intensity into the theory and practice of escape that, after playing minor roles in several escape bids, he rose rapidly through posts of ascending seniority in the Escape Organisation to Intelligence Officer, and finally to its top position – Chief Executive or “Big X” of the North Compound. He studied case histories and learned from past mistakes; organised departments to take care of clothing, forged documents, rations, logistics, engineering and security, presiding over his cabinet like a prime minister. His nimble brain cut through to essentials quickly. Three tunnels were to be constructed, and they were to be of such refinement that discovery of any one would lead to the belief that it must be the only one. To avoid danger of a security leak the word “tunnel” was banned from all discussion. They were to be called “Tom”, “Dick” and “Harry”.
As “Big X” Bushell introduced a new and important concept – that of collectivism, the abandonment of unco-ordinated private enterprise and concentration on a highly efficient and centralised organisation. As a corollary, there were to be no more inflexible timetables, and if for any reason the guards’ (or “ferrets”) suspicions were aroused, all work was to cease immediately and not to be resumed until the security department gave the all-clear.
New arrivals at the compound were always impressed by their first encounter with Bushell, when he grilled them on what they had seen of the local area. His rather sinister appearance, with the gash over one eye, his forceful personality and well-developed powers of interrogation lent an awe-inspiring quality to the grim and clandestine surroundings of an improvised headquarters.
His intensity of purpose partially concealed a gentleness that was very real. “Goon baiting” – playing practical jokes on the guards and undermining their morale – was an understood responsibility of the prisoner, not just a game. Despite his mastery of the art, Bushell sometimes expressed a compulsive remorse. “It’s not really fair,” he would say, “some of these poor bastards are so simple they haven’t a chance.”
“Tom” was discovered by sentries, and “Dick” was then used solely as a repository for sand as work proceeded with “Harry”, now the only chance. Food and escape equipment was provided by the organisation for over two hundred escapers, considered the most optimistic estimate of the number which would get through the tunnel before it was discovered. If everything worked perfectly it would be possible for one man to go through every two minutes, making a total of two hundred and fifty during the eight hours of darkness. Long experience had taught, however, that there would always be hitches beyond the planners’ control.
“Harry” was a miracle of planning and improvisation. With a length of 336 feet, 28 feet deep at the entrance in the north compound and 20 feet high at the exit among trees outside the double electrified wiring, it was furnished with electric lighting, manually operated air conditioning and relays of trolleys connecting three “half-way houses” to carry prone escapers singly to the far end. “Harry” had taken two hundred and fifty men working full time a year to dispose of the sand it displaced. A highly co-ordinated teamwork was devised to despatch the maximum number of men in the minimum time. Except for about forty priorities who were thought to have the best chance of reaching England, each man on the escape list got there by drawing from a hat. He had his belongings checked by the inspection committee to obviate jamming in the tunnel through the carrying of excessively bulky packages, was given an allotted time to arrive at Hut 104, which housed the entrance, and was thoroughly indoctrinated in his drill.
The organisation fixed the night of 24th March 1944 as the one for the break-out, twelve months after the commencement of work on “Tom”, “Dick” and “Harry”. Every known factor had been weighed: the weather would be suitable for travellers on foot (“walkers”); there would be no moon; a strong wind would disturb the adjacent pine forest and drown any sounds made by leaving the tunnel.
From mid-day the engineers finished off final details, connecting wiring and installing extra lights, while the forgery department filled in dates on the forged papers. A little after nine o’clock two engineers went to open the exit. Every man was in his place, and zero hour was nine-thirty. Then there occurred a train of mishaps: there was a delay in opening the shaft, and not until ten o’clock did those waiting down the shaft feel the gust of cool air which told them the surface had been broken. Word was then passed back that the exit, contrary to plan, was several yards short of the trees. As the papers were all date-stamped Bushell decided that the escape must continue, and hurriedly conferred with his colleagues on the escape committee to work out a revised method of control at the exit, necessary to avoid detection by the guards in their look-out posts. As the escapers moved forward on their trollies, further delays were caused by those who had broken the baggage regulations and got stuck in the tunnel with the bulkiness of their suitcases. The rate of departure dropped from two to twelve minutes per man. To add to these complications, an unexpected air raid on Berlin caused the camp electricity to be switched off, and with it the tunnel lighting. Over half an hour was lost as margarine lamps were substituted.
Bushell was noticed to be calm but more thoughtful than usual. Dressed as a businessman he had teamed up with Lieutenant Scheidhauer of the Free French Air Force, with whom he planned to travel by train to Alsace. Both were on the priority list and were among the first to leave. As the delays multiplied Bushell, in smart civilian suit and converted service overcoat, with astrakhan collar and felt hat, an efficient-looking briefcase in his hand, glanced at his watch and called down the shaft: “Tell those devils to get a move on; I’ve got a train to catch.”
Bushell and Scheidhauer caught their train at Sagan station. Two days later, during the most extensive search the Reich had ever been forced to mount for escaped prisoners of war, they were recaptured at Saarbruecken railway station by security policeman and taken to Lerchesflur gaol. There they were interrogated by the Kriminal-polizei and admitted being escapers from Stalag Luft III.
When he learned of the escape, Hitler was incensed; he was angered at the tying-up of German resources in a time of great national stress and particularly afraid of an uprising among the foreign workers. At a stormy meeting with Goering, Himmler and Keitel, he gave instructions for the prisoners to be shot.
On orders received by teleprinter from Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, Bushell and Scheidhauer were handcuffed behind their backs and driven in a car along the autobahn leading to Kaiserslauten. The car was stopped after a few miles, the handcuffs removed, and the prisoners allowed to get out and relieve themselves. They must have known what was coming. Both were shot in the back, Scheidhauer dying instantly, Bushell after a few minutes. It was 28th March 1944.
Seventy-six prisoners escaped through the tunnel. Three made “home runs”, the rest were recaptured. Of these, the Gestapo shot fifty.