The Grand Escape: Chapter 1

Although the murder lit the fuse of war, any number of acts could have stamped out the spark before the explosion, but hapless diplomats, and the leaders they served, failed to do so.

Hastening the disaster was an assembly of ossified empires, tangled alliances, inflexible war plans, massive standing armies, and the views of Germany, most prominently those of Kaiser Wilhelm II, that their country must choose “world power or downfall.”

Now the struggle became what some predicted it always would be—a war of attrition and annihilation that enveloped countries around the globe.

“Those vanquished in war are held to belong to the victor,” stated Aristotle, and, indeed, for most of the history of warfare, death or enslavement awaited anyone captured on the battlefield. Often their families suffered the same, their towns razed too.

“Those vanquished in war are held to belong to the victor,” stated Aristotle, and, indeed, for most of the history of warfare, death or enslavement awaited anyone captured on the battlefield. Often their families suffered the same, their towns razed too.

With the rise of professional armies in the eighteenth century, though, internment and POW (prisoner of war) exchanges became more standard.

Nonetheless, the British and French, particularly during the Napoleonic age, ran a race to the bottom in their handling of the captured, many of whom were interned in the dark, sodden underbellies of moored ships, or “hulks.”

Abraham Lincoln made a marked leap forward by codifying some principles of prisoner treatment in an army field manual, not the least of which stated that POWs should be given the basic needs of shelter, food, clothing, and medical attention.

Beyond stipulations on diplomacy, naval warfare, and restrictions over the use of poisonous gases and hollow-point bullets, the two international conferences set out clear rules about the treatment of prisoners.

Beyond stipulations on diplomacy, naval warfare, and restrictions over the use of poisonous gases and hollow-point bullets, the two international conferences set out clear rules about the treatment of prisoners.

The laundry list of dos and don’ts was so long and so comprehensive that a British international lawyer stated in 1911 that the future POW could expect “a halcyon time to be nursed fondly in memory, a kind of inexpensive rest-cure after the wearisome turmoil of fighting.”

The laundry list of dos and don’ts was so long and so comprehensive that a British international lawyer stated in 1911 that the future POW could expect “a halcyon time to be nursed fondly in memory, a kind of inexpensive rest-cure after the wearisome turmoil of fighting.”

Combatant nations struggled to confine and maintain this tide of men, and there was no sign that it would ebb any time soon.

They dug in the salt and coal mines, plowed fields, cut peat, split rocks in quarries, laid railroads, emptied barges, and worked in factories.

If an officer swore not to escape, he was also allowed to take parole, or temporary leave—typically for walks outside the camp. Such was the currency of a gentleman’s word being his bond and the vestiges of the old class system that once dominated all of Europe.

Still, imprisoned officers and rank-and-file men alike were subject to a German high command that connived against the Hague Conventions.

The German army issued a handbook to its troops that called attention to the Hague pledges but included amendments about how prisoners could be put to death for insubordination, for attempting to escape, in reprisal for similar measures by the enemy, and the very broad “in case of overwhelming necessity.”

Their rights under the Hague Conventions ignored or abused, prisoners in Germany were abandoned to fend for themselves against commandants who had a largely free hand in how they treated prisoners, regardless of their rank.

Far behind him, at the mouth of the tunnel underneath a narrow paneled staircase, David Gray, the number-two man, muscled the bellows and pumped air down to Kennard.

The sky lightened from gray to pink as the 70th Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps (RFC) prepared to take off from their base. Already the din of shelling sounded in the distance.

Seated in the aft cockpit behind Blain was Charles Griffiths, the observer, whose various tasks included radio communication, aerial reconnaissance, and manning the guns.

Seated in the aft cockpit behind Blain was Charles Griffiths, the observer, whose various tasks included radio communication, aerial reconnaissance, and manning the guns.

His face was slathered with whale oil and covered by a balaclava and goggles.

Its red, white, and blue roundels struck in sharp relief against the mud-green fuselage.

Banking eastward, they soon left behind the bundle of ramshackle cottages and simple church that made up the village of Fienvillers.

Once assembled in a V-shaped formation, the five Sopwiths set off eastward, the sky emblazoned bright orange ahead.

Their mission was reconnaissance of Maubeuge, deep behind German enemy lines, to locate some munitions factories and investigate whether an airship base was housing Zeppelins.

Compared to their maps—main roads clearly delineated in red, railways in black, forests in green—the French countryside was an endless patchwork of colored fields threaded with gray lines and shadowed by clouds.

A direct hit would crumple a plane in an instant, sending it in a precipitous drop from the sky, like a bird downed by a shotgun.

Everything looked okay. He glanced back at Griffiths, and they shared a thumbs-up. As quickly as the barrage began, it ended. They flew on toward Maubeuge to continue their reconnaissance.

The ancient city had been besieged and sacked many times over the centuries, handed between French, Spanish, and Austrian dukes and counts almost too many times to count.

He turned westward, pushing to maintain altitude. Any attempt to alter the carburetor mix or to clear the stuck valve failed. The acrid stench of hot metal soon overwhelmed, and the Sopwith bobbed slightly up and down in the airstream as it slowed.

Soon after fighting began, however, many credited the RFC’s bird’s-eye role tracking troop movements with staving off the German envelopment of British troops and an early knockout blow in the war.

In his pilots, Hugh Trenchard, the RFC commander in France, looked for “High spirits and resilience of youth...under twenty-five, and unmarried. Athletic, alert, cheerful, even happy-go-lucky, the paragon would also reveal initiative and a sense of humour. The greatest strength was an incurable optimism.”

In his pilots, Hugh Trenchard, the RFC commander in France, looked for “High spirits and resilience of youth...under twenty-five, and unmarried. Athletic, alert, cheerful, even happy-go-lucky, the paragon would also reveal initiative and a sense of humour. The greatest strength was an incurable optimism.”

They overturned in the air and spiraled out of control. There were midair collisions. Engines died. Petrol ran out. Wings became untethered. Rudders stuck.

They sailed over a French village, low enough to see its inhabitants looking up at them with incredulous faces.

The Germans brought the two men to the nearby town of Cambrai and put them in a sliver of a cell in the old stone fortress. First they noticed the stifling heat, then the foul smell.

When they tried to sleep, on two straw mattresses that filled the tiny space, they found their threadbare, soiled blankets were alive with lice.

A wounded soldier lay on a stone floor, his upper arm a fetid gob of open flesh, dried blood, dirt, and straw.