Free The Great Escape by Paul Brickhill Page A

they seemed naked and defenseless. You could bribe 90 percent of them — including the officers — with a little coffee or chocolate.
    In a way, I don’t think you could blame them. Valenta’s contacts were like white ants, nibbling away a little at a time at the German faith in victory. Hitler had said that if you tell a big enough lie, people will believe it, but he rather overlooked the fact that once the lie is exposed, everything else you’ve said is also disbelieved. It wasn’t hard to get a German thinking that Hitler wasn’t the angel of virtue, and then the rest of his edifice of wishful faith came tumbling down.
    The contacts sympathized with their Germans that they had to fight Hitler’s war, lamented with them about Gestapo persecution, and poured out a stream of irresistible logic to show that Germany could never win.
    “Why then,” they said, “regard us as enemies? Soon, you will want us as friends.”
    The talking wasn’t only one-way. Delicate steering had the ferrets talking about the security measures they planned, about conditions in Germany, details of the area around the camp. Dozens of little snippets were picked up, and Valenta, who had done an intelligence course at Prague Staff College, put them all together with Roger.
    Soon they knew all the paths around the camp, how far the woods stretched, and the layout of Sagan town. They had timetables of all trains out of Sagan Station and the prices of all tickets. They knew what foods were ration-free, where the Swedish ships lay in Stettin and Danzig, what guards were around them, what guards covered the Swiss frontier and the Danish frontier, and a thousand other handy hints on how to get out of the Third Reich.
    Some of the most useful information was gathered by Bill Webster from the German officers. Webster was an American, though born in South Africa and educated there and in England. He was always impeccably dressed and had a man-of-the-world air about him that encouraged the Germans to believe that he would never do anything so vulgar as to engage in escape activities.
    Bill did nothing to disabuse them of this belief. Whenever one of them dropped in on him he would graciously make his visitor welcome, and a pleasant chat would follow. Ultimately they would get around to lamenting the disruptions the war had caused — disruptions especially galling to men of the world like themselves.
    “It is all so insufferable,” the German would say.
    Bill would give a heart-felt sigh and nod his head.
    “Even I must now have a special pass to visit Berlin,” the German would continue.
    This, Bill would say politely, was an outrage.
    And so on. By the time the tête-à-tête was over, Bill would know all about the special pass, the trains to Berlin, and conditions in the city.
    Bill also interrogated all the newly-arrived prisoners to get from them every scrap of information about conditions outside that would be useful in an escape. This sort of work was going on in all the compounds, and we were pretty successful in exchanging the information.
     
    “Why do you make such a bloody mess when you search the huts?” Axel asked the Keen Type.
    “We have to be thorough,” said the ferret. “Germans are always thorough. We have to take everything apart or we are in trouble with Glemnitz. And if we waste time putting everything together again, we are in more trouble with Glemnitz.”
    “You never find anything.”
    “Orders,” said Keen Type virtuously, “are orders.”
    “Orders don’t say you have to make a bloody mess wherever you go,” said Axel, who’d reached the stage where he could be a little stern with the Keen Type. “Last time you people went through my room, you pinched half the wood-shavings out of my paillasse, and it was spread all over the floor. It took me half an hour to clear up.”
    “It wasn’t me,” the Keen Type said apologetically. “I will do your room myself next time.” He added reproachfully, “You must