The Grand Escape: Chapters 2–6

At Le Hameau aerodrome in northern France, Captain David Gray accepted these orders with his usual aplomb.

His stern glance, accentuated by a ruler-straight part in his hair, high forehead, trim mustache, and hatchet nose, marked an officer who brooked no compromise with himself, or his command.

His stern glance, accentuated by a ruler-straight part in his hair, high forehead, trim mustache, and hatchet nose, marked an officer who brooked no compromise with himself, or his command.

Air crews were not issued with parachutes, and when they prepared emergency kits, with rations, maps, and other gear to allow them to survive if shot down, their commanders castigated them for showing an unwillingness to fight to the bitter end.

There was comfort in the farmhouses and chateaus where they were billeted, and they tried to forget the wouft-wouft of anti-artillery and the sight of friends plummeting in corkscrews to the earth, their planes on fire or split into two.

A shrill trumpet called reveille at 6:15 a.m.

His record read: “A capable and efficient officer. Good eye for country. Has tact and judgment. Energetic and self-reliant.” Positions as quartermaster and adjutant followed, then a promotion to captain.

His record read: “A capable and efficient officer. Good eye for country. Has tact and judgment. Energetic and self-reliant.” Positions as quartermaster and adjutant followed, then a promotion to captain.

His record read: “A capable and efficient officer. Good eye for country. Has tact and judgment. Energetic and self-reliant.” Positions as quartermaster and adjutant followed, then a promotion to captain.

Besides English, he spoke French, German, Russian, Bengali, Hindi, and Arabic, as well as a healthy smattering of several other languages.

Their transport steamed up the Persian Gulf and anchored at the mouth of the Shatt al-Arab, the river created from the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates.

For that, they had to maintain dominance in the region, first by wresting control of Basra from the Turks.

They swarmed the British with the bewildering force and speed that would earn them their sobriquet “The Flying Circus.”

Ground approaching, the world a dizzying swirl of sky and black smoke, Gray fought to recover from the spin. Nothing worked. The altimeter quickly spun downward: 4,000 feet...3,000...2,000.

The following morning, waking up on a straw mattress, Gray found lice inside his shirt. Such a fastidious man, the discovery disgusted him.

Then, with a shuddering jolt, they hit the ground. The tail of the plane almost sheared off. They bounced and careened through a field before coming to a halt.

At first, Kennard kept to himself, preoccupied with brooding over his capture and scouring Osnabrück for a means of escape.

The British Red Cross helped facilitate these deliveries and also sent parcels of food to British captives every two weeks.

Osnabrück also ran a brisk business out of its canteen that supplemented the meager, often putrid, meals served by the Germans.

Disciplined and uncompromising, Gray was not one to involve himself in any foolhardy ideas.

The three men started with milk. Every school child knew that it could be used as invisible ink. Dip a fountain pen in milk, scrawl a message on a blank sheet of paper, write a note on top of that in ink, then send.

The floor of the latrine was like an ice-skating rink in the cold, so Gray demanded coal for its stove. He also pushed for bigger exercise grounds. Blankenstein, who turned out to be a reasonable man, acceded to both.

Then, on December 17, Gray was informed that he was to be moved to another camp. The three were shattered by the news. Their cabal was broken.

Two months passed at Osnabrück, and, at last, suspicion over an escape attempt abated—and the sharpshooters disappeared.

Even his own countrymen despised Allouche, a stickler for rules, who dressed every day with his crowd of medals on his uniform.

Blain and Kennard were fine with the news—a new prison might offer better escape opportunities—but they had no intention of leaving without first exacting retribution on the “evil swine” Allouche.

Blain was proudest of all about his preparation: a one-pound tin of Morton’s Black Treacle, courtesy of his mother.

Awakened by the ruckus, prisoners emerged from their rooms.

Captain David Gray regarded himself in the mirror. Mustache trimmed. Suit fitted. Forged pass in jacket pocket. Wallet stuffed with marks. Folded map, secret report, and some provisions in his valise.

He came to a tram stop and waited for the next tram.

Most escape efforts, though, were focused on tunneling under the barracks, causing the ground under Crefeld to resemble a busy ant warren. The discovery of each burrow seemed only to embolden others to try.

Half an hour into his hike, trousers muddy up to his knees, he reckoned he had reached the border. If there had been a demarcation, he had missed it.

They built a six-hole golf course, staged boxing matches, and had a theater troupe, bridge tournament, gambling den, and language lessons.

Blain and Kennard were a different breed—they fell into the small but distinct class of men that one veteran labeled “escape fiends.” They were indefatigable.

It was tough going and also made for an awful din. During the noisiest bits, the prisoners distracted the guards by holding boisterous tennis matches.

The Canadian lieutenant, 28 years of age and 6 foot 6 in height, had proved his mettle on the front.

One day, in broad daylight, Colquhoun cut a hole in the fence around Clausthal, stepped through, and ran. Such was the brazenness of the attempt that the guards didn’t notice.

The isolation, the absence of physical exercise, the interminable days and nights with nothing to do but brood—all could sap a prisoner of hope or drive him mad.

Wolfe made sure the two inveterate escape artists would not be escaping together from his camp.

To their chagrin, the commandant removed Kennard to a different camp, breaking their partnership.