On 20 March
2017, during the week of the 73rd anniversary of the Great Escape, I presented
this talk to the Deakin Combined Probus Club.
Two hundred men tried to escape from Stalag Luft III on
the night of the 24th and 25th of March 1944—almost 73 years ago. Seventy-six
succeeded in fleeing the German prisoner of war camp. Six were Australian. Only
three made it home. Of the 73 who were recaptured, fifty were executed on
Hitler’s order. Five of those men were Australian. As we only have a short time,
rather than tell you about all of our compatriots who participated in the Great
Escape, I will just focus on two escapers: one who survived, and one who was
killed in the post-escape reprisals. Through the stories of Paul Royle and
Albert Hake, I hope you will gain a sense of the tragedy, the human cost, and
lasting impact of that singular event. Firstly, a bit of background about the two men.
Courtesy of the late Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Paul Royle was born on 17 January 1914 and
experienced a South Perth childhood many would consider idyllic. He lived close
to the river, swam whenever he had the chance, and his father built him a
little boat when he was about ten which he enjoyed sailing. When
he was fourteen, he was selected for a naval cadetship at Jervis Bay on the
other side of the country. He stuck it out for three and a half years but,
without ready contact with his family, was ‘absolutely devastated by
homesickness’ and pulled out.
Jobs weren’t easy to find in the
Depression but Paul was unemployed for only a short while. His father, who was
travelling around Western Australia inspecting aerodromes, came to his rescue.
He needed a driver. It wasn’t the most exciting job but Paul saw a lot of the
state and it had another advantage. ‘I was always interested in aeroplanes’, he
recalled, and often paid over the two-and-sixpence for joy rides. It was not
long before the thought of learning to fly began to appeal so he applied to
join the Royal Australian Air Force in September 1934. He was unsuccessful.
The job with his father ended, but he soon
found work in the Kalgoorlie gold mines. The lure of aviation was strong,
though, and Paul continued to dream of an air force career. War clouds were
looming but the young man gave no thought to them. ‘I was not particularly
concerned with the political aspects’ of the international situation, he
recalled. ‘I wanted to fly’.
With 20 hours as a passenger to his credit and an impressive sporting CV which
included rugby, hockey, cricket, boxing, swimming, tennis and lifesaving, as
well as some engineering subjects, Paul applied to the Royal Air Force. As 1938
closed, he received the welcome advice that he had been selected and so, the
25-year-old embarked for Britain and flying training in February 1939.
Courtesy of the late Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
As 1939 progressed, Paul—and almost everyone else
in England—expected ‘the worst’. When war was declared on 3 September, the full
significance took a while to ‘fully permeate’. He was at least relieved that,
‘at last the suspense is over’. He found that the lack of action during the
Phoney War period had a ‘perpetual depressing effect on me.’ He bemoaned the
fact that everything ‘seems to have petered out entirely with no air or land
activity at all. Wonder when it will start, if ever’. The waiting was getting
to him. ‘I can understand why many people take to drink.’ He hoped things would
improve when he received a posting to an operational squadron. ‘Even as he
regretted the lack of action, he came to appreciate the moral ambiguities of
warfare. ‘Gone are the days when [war] was a glorious adventure. Now it is just
subterfuge, cunning and murder.’
Courtesy of the late Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Paul completed his training on 13 May 1940: he was
a fully qualified Blenheim bomber pilot. He had demonstrated high skills during
training and was considered one of the most experienced on his course. He was
posted to northern France the next day, four days after Germany had launched
its mighty Blitzkrieg in Europe. France was under attack and the RAF had come
to her aid.
Courtesy of Charles Page.
On the 18th of May—on his very first operation with
53 Squadron RAF—Paul’s Blenheim
was attacked by enemy fighters. He and his two crew members force-landed in a French
field. The observer was wounded so Paul and his air gunner carried him to a
nearby village and left him in the care of a priest. The air gunner went in
search of an ambulance and, although injured, Paul returned to the Blenheim and
destroyed it. He hiked back to the village but passed out from his wounds.
Later that afternoon, the Germans arrived. The priest had betrayed them and
Paul was taken prisoner.
Courtesy of the late Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Paul had a brief stint in an
army camp where he was officially processed as a prisoner of war and issued
with his identification tags. He was then transferred to an air force camp where
he notched up much experience in the escape organisation.
Participating in the escape schemes seemed
a natural thing to Paul. He’d worked underground at Kalgoorlie so, ‘being in
the tunnels was nothing new to me’, he recalled. ‘I felt comfortable—at home
digging in the tunnel’. He did acknowledge, however that ‘it was pretty hard
work.’ At one point he was even in charge of tunnel operations. Despite the
best efforts of the camp’s keen potential escapers, however, Paul recalled
ruefully that ‘we did our bit unsuccessfully’.
While
Paul and his team dug, the German air force—the Luftwaffe—was building a new state-of-the-art prisoner of war camp located near
Sagan in the German province of Lower Silesia. In
March 1942, Paul and a large contingent were transferred to the recently
completed East Compound of Stalag Luft III, arriving just before Albert Hake.
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this one from.
But what of Albert?
What had been happening to him while Paul progressed from boy to pilot to
prisoner of war? It’s time to backtrack.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
Albert Hake was born in Sydney on 30 June 1916, almost
two-and-a-half years after Paul. He lived near the Parramatta River and, like
Paul, enjoyed mucking about on the water. A canoe satisfied his sailing urge
for a while but he decided he wanted something much grander so began building a
sailboat under the house.
Albert was academically bright and excelled in
mathematics, science, metalwork, woodwork and technical drawing. He was awarded
a scholarship to Sydney’s Central Technical School where he was assessed as
‘capable and painstaking’. It sounds like he might have been a swot but Albert
had a sense of adventure: he was a wannabe mountain climber. His house was
built on a rocky outcrop and, while the part facing the street was
single-storied, the back part was two stories. He decided it would be much more
daring entering his bedroom via the window which was about six metres from the
ground. So he drove spokes into the wall at regular intervals and climbed up
that way.
Albert had a sober side as well. He attended church
regularly, served as an altar boy, was confirmed an Anglican, and was a member
of the Boys Brigade. But the audacious, cheeky side was never too far away.
One day, he smuggled a possum into church. Naturally, it escaped from his
pocket and caused an uproar.
He gained an apprenticeship with an air conditioning
firm, working his way up to draftsman and, during his time off, was a keen
ice-skater. One day in early 1940, he met a striking brunette at the local ice
skating rink, and was smitten.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
We don’t know why Albert decided to join the air
force, whether it was through a passion for flying, like Paul, or an aversion
to the army, fostered through horror stories of trench warfare. Whatever the
reason, he turned up at the Woolloomooloo recruiting depot on 8 May 1940 and
filled out an application for air crew. He was 24-and-a-half when he was called
up on 4 January 1941.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
He and Noela married on 1 March and, four days later,
he was on his way to a training school.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
We may not know why Albert wanted to join the air
force, but we do know that he was a keen pilot. Noela later recalled that, when
he obtained his wings, ‘he was so proud of them’.
With hardly any time together during their marriage,
Albert embarked for the UK in September 1941. He was rated ‘above average’ and
ranked as one of the top three pilots on his operational training course and, on
21 January 1942, he was posted to 72 Squadron RAF, flying Spitfires.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
Over the next few weeks, Albert carried out convoy
patrols, sweeps across France, and escort duties. On 4 April, he took part in a
large escort for a bomber squadron which had been tasked with attacking a
French railway station. Just south of the target, the Luftwaffe pounced.
Albert’s Spitfire was hit by flak which smashed into
the propeller. He turned for home but was attacked by five enemy aircraft. He
collected a bullet through the leg of his trousers and his engine was set on
fire. Despite a crippled aircraft, Albert continued to fight and managed to
strike one of the enemy fighters. But his Spitfire was too damaged to cross the
Channel homeward. He was forced to bale and landed
close to a German troop depot.
Albert was captured almost immediately. After a stint
in hospital to recover from burns and shrapnel injuries, he was sent to Stalag Luft III. As a
warrant officer, Albert should have been confined to the non-commissioned
officers’ compound, but, as his rank insignia had burnt off, the Germans
assumed he was an officer because he’d been flying a Spitfire. Albert didn’t
disillusion them. And so, he joined Paul Royle in the East Compound.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
As far as POW camps were concerned, Stalag Luft III
wasn’t too bad. It was new, with lots of amenities, but it was still a prison
camp and Albert, for one, wasn’t happy at fetching up there.
Lifted from the Imperial War Museum.
‘I feel a cad
ending up like this darling’, he told Noela. This was a fairly common response.
Prisoners of war often felt that they had let the side down by being captured.
They somehow blamed themselves. Many agonised about being taken out of the war
effort. Some even felt deeply ashamed. They also worried that the folks at home
might think they were luxuriating out of harm’s way while others defended and
protected country and empire. Indeed, for Albert, it was important to reinforce
to Noela in his very first letter home after his capture that he had been
fighting right up to the last minute: ‘I
got one which evens up my loss.’
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
Despite his shame, Albert realised that, in a way, he
was fortunate, given how he had exited from his final aerial battle. ‘That
I am alive now is a miracle’, he told Noela. ‘When I think of [the] events
which landed me here I have to pinch myself to be sure I am whole.’ Further complicating
his already complex thoughts about his captivity, was the fact that, to all
intents and purposes, he was safely
out of harm’s way and so, he declared to Noela that ‘nothing will stop me from
returning to you now’.
Many of the prisoners tried to make light of their
circumstances. With tongue firmly in cheek, some referred to Stalag Luft III as
‘Heaven among the Pines’ while others likened it to a holiday camp. In the
early days, Albert also presented a rose-coloured portrait of captivity
because, he wanted Noela to ‘believe the pleasant
pictures of happy POWs which I am assured are portrayed to worried relatives’. He told her of
their ‘vegetable gardens, library, educational classes … and sports of all
kinds’, and sent photos where he looked happy and healthy with his new friends,
if not splendidly attired.
Courtesy of the Preen Family.
He took up sketching, and studied air conditioning
to upgrade or at least maintain his skills, as he and a friend planned to
establish their own business after the war. He also formed a band with his
roommates and was learning to play a banjo. ‘Don’t be deceived by thinking we
make music’, he joked to Noela.
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this one from.
Paul, too,
made the most of his life in captivity. He enjoyed the many shows put on by the
compound’s theatre crowd, he played sports, went ice-skating, and studied
engineering subjects. He made a great effort to stay mentally active. He
recalled that, ‘We spent our time talking, reading in our own language when
books arrived, and German newspapers after I had learnt to do so. I translated
German news bulletins … and pinned them up on a noticeboard daily.’
Courtesy of Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
So good
were his language skills that he even instructed in elementary German. He
studied maths and physics, ‘and passed an examination set in England’. As well
as wood carving, he turned his hand to making model aircraft. This, and his
other activities, ‘slightly alleviated the boredom of camp life … the drabness
of our existence’.
Courtesy of Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
But captivity is not an easy state and boredom and
drabness are only two of the discomforts.
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this from.
Imagine living in an environment where your
every movement is overlooked by guards, in such profound intimacy that every
breath, every sniff or snort, every tummy grumble, every nightmare, mood swing,
and shift on lumpy palliasse was heard by every other man in the overcrowded rooms.
Imagine living in those small rooms which had to be kept scrupulously neat so no
one could impinge on someone else’s private space. Imaging living where there
was no silence or alone time. Just imagine the tension building as men from all
walks tried to muddle along with people so different in personality that you
probably wouldn’t have bothered knowing them in ‘real life’! Consider trying to
be cheery, friendly and tolerant when all you wanted to do was wring the bloody
neck of the bloke who spilt the last of the real coffee.
Courtesy of Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
For some, the intellectual
and physical diversions were not enough to compensate for the fact that they
were prisoners. Life was going on elsewhere, the war was being won without
them, and perhaps there was a sense that they were forgotten. Those
who couldn’t adjust to captivity were more likely to suffer from depression or
worse: barbed wire psychosis.
Courtesy of Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Even Albert, whose first letters home had
appeared so upbeat and cheery soon had difficulty recording all the positive
things he had been doing in order to cope with his new existence. While
he never endured this psychological extreme, he often experienced mood swings, or what he called a ‘fluctuating
temperament’.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
Despite the circumstances, Albert was fortunate. He
had a lifeline which helped him cope: his strong, continuing connection to
home. Noela was a faithful wife, she regularly wrote letters, passed on news
from family and friends, and sent comfort parcels to her husband. They were as
close as could be, given the circumstances, but with letters taking four months or longer between Australia and
Germany—eight months in some cases to receive the response to a query—it was increasingly more difficult to nurture a long
distance marriage.
Albert’s frustration at being apart became obvious.
He needed something more than just memories of times past and a long-distance
relationship with Noela to help him cope with captivity. And so did Paul. As Paul
recalled, ‘our major pre-occupation’ and prime factor in coping with captivity,
‘was attempting to escape, over the wire, under it or through it’. And so, both
Paul and Albert participated in Stalag Luft III’s escape organisation.
Lifted from Walters, The Real Great Escape.
In April
1943, Paul and Albert left East Compound for the newly opened North Compound. There,
a new, audacious plan for two hundred men to escape via a tunnel was put into
action. But rather than build one tunnel, they started working on three. The
rationale was that, if one was found, there would be another.
Paul was one of those drafted to dispose of the dirt
excavated from the tunnels. Nicknamed penguins,
because of the way they waddled around with sausages made from towels hidden
under their outer clothes, Paul would surreptitiously shake his feet and the
soil would fall to the ground, to be kicked or dug in.
Secrecy was paramount. ‘You didn’t want to talk
to anybody about anything’, Paul recalled. ‘You all kept your mouth shut
because you never knew who was listening.’ And
they never knew when any of the Germans’
special security detail would be poking about. Called ferrets by the prisoners,
their sole task was to sniff out escape activity, hunt for tunnels, and unearth
hidden contraband and escape-related paraphernalia.
Lifted from http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3058534/Enola-Gay-pilots-flight-logs-Hiroshima-plans-sale.html
Paul became
a ‘watcher’ or ‘stooge’, where he kept a look out during tunnelling operations
for any sign of the ferrets or goons, as they called the guards. Albert too had
an important role in the preparations. He was in charge of compasses, which he meticulously crafted from Bakelite records, slivers of magnetised razor blades, glass from broken windows, and solder gleaned from the seals of tin cans.
Lifted from Brickhill: The Great Escape.
All were stamped, ‘Made in Stalag Luft III. Patent pending’.
Lifted from Brickhill and Norton: Escape to Danger.
Months of hard work passed. Paul kept watch while
others dug and concealed the evidence. Australian John Williams led the
carpentry team. Ably assisted by his compatriot, Reg Kierath, they filched bed
boards to shore up the tunnels. Tailors fashioned civilian clothes, forgers
created false papers. Others stole equipment and manufactured escape kits, all
of which contained Albert’s compasses. One tunnel was discovered. Another was
decommissioned. As March 1944 advanced, they were almost ready. They just had
to set the date but Albert and Paul had already secured tickets to escape.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
Albert needed to write to Noela before he left. The
Germans—and the prisoner hierarchy—censored everything so he had to be careful
that he didn’t reveal anything that would alert the Germans. He started
mundanely enough, thanking Noela for her most recent letters. He’d kept a
record of their correspondence and told her that ‘I have everything to date’.
As in most of his previous letters, Albert looked to the future he hoped to
build with Noela beyond barbed wire. ‘Send me some wool you sweet kid and I’ll
help knit those baby clothes.’ Even though the escape would be long in the past
by the time she received this letter, Albert couldn’t resist dropping a hint
about his intentions. It ‘shouldn’t be much longer darling and I’ll relieve you
from the perpetual grind of your daily life. I hope.’
That ‘I hope’ seems to indicate that Albert had a
sense of foreboding that something would go wrong, and it’s no wonder. He
didn’t have a chance of getting home. For one, rather than being issued with
train tickets as part of his escape kit, Albert was what they called a
hard-arser—he had to make his way, as best he could, on foot, to neutral
Switzerland—700 kilometres away as the crow flies. Of course, Albert could not
take a direct route. Once the alert was sounded, there would be a Reich-wide
manhunt, forcing him to avoid towns, roadblocks, and roving patrols.
Lifted from Brickhill: The Great Escape.
Even if he could avoid the patrols, how easy would it
be to trek cross country to Switzerland? It was still winter. He didn’t have
decent footwear. His clothing was totally inadequate. The odds were stacked
against him.
With so little chance of success, it’s not surprising
that Albert was uneasy. It seems he realised this could be his last letter to
Noela and, between the lines—and with the benefit of 20–20 hindsight—we can see
his fears that he might not survive the escape attempt. While he usually signed
off with a simple declaration such as ‘All my love’, or ‘I love you’, followed
by a happy ‘Cheerio’, this time his farewell was more sombre: ‘I love you as
always. I hope I can justify your faith in me, dearest, one of these days.
Remember me. Albert.’ And three final kisses.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
The date was settled on. The night of the 24th of March was freezing,
moonless, and snow covered the ground. The escapers gathered in Hut 104 where the
tunnel’s entrance was located, anxiously awaiting their turn to enter the
tunnel. ‘All of us were nervous in
some way or another. We didn’t want to be caught,’ recalled Paul who, like
Albert, was a hard-arser. He was Number 55 to go down the tunnel, and Albert
was Number 70.
Lifted from the Australian War Memorial.
At 8.30 pm, the first escaper was on his way. But the breakout had got
off to a bad start. The exit
trap door had frozen solid. Then they discovered they’d miscalculated the length of the tunnel so it stopped short of the
forest. Each man had to time his dash to the trees to ensure he was not espied
by the guards, and that slowed things down. There was an air raid and the power
went off, delaying proceedings further. Over-large blanket rolls got stuck as
the men trolleyed to the exit. A frame was knocked out, causing a fall of sand
which had to be cleared. Another was knocked out, and more sand had to be
cleared.
They were way
behind schedule when Paul climbed into the tunnel, with just the bare
necessities. ‘Everything we had was in our pockets’—a map, one of Albert’s
compasses, and some escape supplies. But that was about it.
Courtesy of the Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Then, ‘we were pulled on the
trolley and that took us from the hut where it started, up to the discharge
point. We got to that point [and] climbed up’. It was 2.30 a.m. on 25 March.
Lifted from Brickhill and Norton: Escape to Danger.
‘It was very cold when we got out of the tunnel’, Paul recalled, ‘and all we could see was pine trees up above and snow banked up against the trunks … and snow underfoot’. Then, he ‘looked up at the stars, and … back at the watchtower and the barbed wire.’ It was exhilarating; such ‘an achievement’. After almost four years in captivity, the 30-year-old was free. He ran for the pine trees.
Paul’s
group headed off. But despite all the months of planning, they hadn’t really
thought much beyond the actual breakout. ‘I don’t know what our plan was,
except we would head for Switzerland’, Paul recalled. After about an hour
trudging through the snow, the party split up and Paul and his partner travelled
south. By that stage, Albert was probably struggling his way through the forest
as well.
While
they tramped, the escape continued but with so many delays, there was no hope
that two hundred men would be able to escape. Just before 5.00 am, it was decided that the 87th escaper would be the
last. Just as he disappeared down the shaft, a shot was heard. The Germans had
discovered the escape. It was bedlam in Hut 104
as the prisoners covered up or destroyed all traces
of the enterprise. Guards rampaged through the camp looking for signs of a
tunnel. Outside, a manhunt, was initiated. Police, armed forces, Hitler Youth,
and thousands of factory and field workers were mobilised to search for the
escapers.
Meanwhile
both Paul and Albert were doing their best to head to Switzerland.
Paul
and his companion walked as far as they could. At about eight o’clock in the
morning, they rested, burrowing into the depths of the pine forest, hiding
themselves from view. It was bitterly cold. Twelve hours later, under cover of
deep darkness, they resumed their trek south.
Somewhere
around 2.30 a.m. on the 26th, they entered a small village and were stopped by
three members of the German auxiliary police. ‘We were apprehended’, Paul
bluntly recalled. They had been free for just 24 hours and had travelled
perhaps 36 kilometres.
Paul
and his partner were held locally at first, then, in the morning, they were
taken to Sagan and incarcerated in the town’s gaol. Then, with twenty other
escapers, he was moved to Gorlitz Gaol. It was ‘an awful place’, he recalled.
Crowded, dirty, no blankets, nothing but black bread and watery soup to eat.
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this from.
No one knows for sure what happened to Albert after he
exited the tunnel but it is believed he was captured near Gorlitz, less than 65
kilometres south south-west of Sagan. It seems he had been on the loose for longer
than Paul but certainly no more than 72 hours. We do know that his journey
through snow and icy water was arduous because he suffered excruciating
frostbite. It was so bad he could barely walk when he was escorted to the cell
at Gorlitz Gaol where he met up with the other escapers.
Courtesy of the Paul Royle via Charles Page.
The
prisoners were interrogated. They were
asked if they were married, if they had any children. Some were roughed up and
threatened. Some were told that they had been sentenced to death. Paul’s
interrogator warned that he could be made to disappear if he did not reveal
full details of his involvement in the escape, and would automatically be
blamed if any acts of sabotage in the area were discovered. Undeterred, Paul declared to his interrogator that ‘I’m
afraid I’ve told you all I can’. The questioner pressed him, but Paul was
deliberately vague, claiming only that he was tired of being in prison and had
decided to take a chance at freedom.
Each man returned to his cell after questioning. A day
or so later, Paul watched as some of his fellow
prisoners, including his escape partner, were led away. Albert was also taken from his cell. He was so
debilitated by frostbite that those looking out of the window thought that he
was being sent to hospital. Paul and the others who
remained assumed their other comrades were on their way back to Stalag Luft
III. But six of them, including Albert and fellow Australian
Tom Leigh, were driven to a wood.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
Courtesy of the Chevalier family.
The prisoners got out of the cars and were lined up
next to each other. They were told that ‘the sentence was about to be carried
out’. Albert and his fellow escapers showed considerable calm. And then the
order to fire was given. A second salvo was delivered, and all the prisoners
were dead. Three other Australians were executed in
similar scenes: John Williams, Reg Kierath and Jimmy Catanach. They and their
fellows—fifty men in total—were cremated.
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this from.
Courtesy of the Kierath family.
Lifted from Walters: The Real Great Escape.
Meanwhile,
Paul was sent back to Stalag Luft III. He was astonished to find that those
escapers who had left before him had not returned. When he and his fellow
prisoners discovered that fifty had been killed, they were stunned and
horrified. No one had anticipated that the escapers would be murdered. They
donned black armbands, conducted memorial services and built a memorial,
designed by Australian, Wylton Todd.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
Later,
when the prisoners tried to rationalise the mass escape attempt, many claimed
that, although there was little possibility of success, it was their duty to try. Moreover, they believed a
large-scale breakout would divert a good proportion of German resources into
recapturing them. Albert’s motivation, however, clearly focused on Noela: ‘Well, dammit all, I’ll be home for our next
anniversary, darling’, he declared. Neither duty, diversion nor even love played a part in Paul’s rationale. In a brave, late-life honesty that is contrary to the accepted narrative, he admitted that the idea was simply ‘not in my mind. No thought of it. We only thought of ourselves getting out.’
I'm a bit vague about where I lifted this from.
As
for the consequences, the murder of fifty of his comrades, including his escape
partner and Albert Hake, Paul was pragmatic. ‘You couldn’t foresee these
things, you just wanted to get out, then what happens would happen.’ Even so,
Paul, like the other survivors, had to live with the ‘what happens would
happen’ and, even at the end of a long, full life, he still hadn’t ‘a clue as
to why I wasn’t chosen’; why he had survived when others had been murdered.
Paul
remembered few details of his captivity after the Great Escape. Those events
overshadowed everything else. He was eventually liberated and began a new life
beyond captivity. He wanted to fly but there was no place for him in the
post-war air force. Even so, his star shone professionally with a good career
in mining and engineering which took him around the world. It was a different
matter, however, on the home front. He married quickly after the war but that
relationship did not work out. True conjugal bliss of over half a century’s
standing came only after his 1961 wedding to his second wife. He admitted few
long term consequences of captivity but he was
reticent about his experiences for four decades and, when he started talking
about it, he only gave scant details. The deep emotion of those events can only
be read between the lines, and in the long pauses of his recorded interviews.
It seems he bore the guilt of survival until the very end of his long life.
Courtesy of Paul Royle, via Charles Page.
Paul
died on 23 August 2015. He was 101. Despite his career success, publicly, at
least, it seems as if the events preceding his 24 hours of freedom seventy-one
years earlier had defined his life. But they did not. ‘That was a minor part of
my life, only a matter of a couple of days’, he stressed.
And
what of the consequences of Albert Hake’s part in the Great Escape?
Courtesy of the Preen family.
At the most basic level, Noela,
of course, lost her husband. They may have spent most of their brief marriage
apart, but he was dearly loved, and sadly missed. And that was the inscription
she placed on his memorial headstone.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
But the ramifications were more profound.
As he was sailing away to England, Albert wrote to his
friend Ray Preen who eventually married Noela’s sister and announced ‘I’m
going to place you under a few obligations’. He told Ray bluntly that, ‘If I
don’t come back, I want Noel[a] to marry again’. He didn’t want Ray to find her
a husband, he just wanted his friend to quietly make her understand that it ‘was
my wish’.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
He recognised that Noela ‘is still young and a type that should be
married’. He believed that, ‘for such a girl to live out her life unmarried,
would be a crime’. But Noela did not
marry again. Instead, as Albert had begged in his final letter to her, she remembered.
She put in memoriam notices in the paper, year after year, as did other members
of his family.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
She relived the handful of days they had spent together. She
recalled their future plans but they never had the children they wanted. She
treasured Albert’s personal effects, returned after the war. She kept safe the
certificate which stated that Albert had been mentioned in despatches for
distinguished service.
Courtesy of the Preen family.
She read and reread her husband’s letters, just as he
had done with hers, while he was in Stalag Luft III. She cherished the
knowledge that Albert’s fellow prisoners regarded him as ‘one of nature’s
gentlemen’. 
Courtesy of Geoff Swallow.
Fifty deaths was a tragic outcome of the Great Escape.
But so too was the effect on those who were left behind. Those, like Paul
Royle, who suffered survivor’s guilt. The fatherless children. The children who
were never born. The widows. Those who never lived the life they’d planned. Those
who remembered. Like Noela.
Lifted from Brickhill and Norton: Escape to Danger.
