Rock, Paper, Scissors

By Lee Strong

Le Roc, near Grenoble, France

19 October 1917

Leutnant Frederich Wilhelm Eric von Mendeldorf und von Horst strode briskly across the grounds of Prisoner of War Camp 118, familiarly known as Le Roc [The Rock] to its French owners and by less pleasant names to its German captives. He had been up late the previous night and, unusually, had overslept as a result. It would be nice to sleep as long as he wanted and to rise when he wanted but, in the meantime, the life of an officer in the German army air forces demanded personal discipline. Even when that life was confined behind barbed wire and locked doors.

As usual, there was already a line of prisoners waiting to enter the camp post office. Letters and packages from home were a major part of the prisoners’ lives. Many German families, suffering from the strangulation of the Anglo-American naval blockade (and the High Command’s overly enthusiastic drafting of German farmers), deprived themselves to send a few comforts to their captive sons and husbands.

Von Horst took his place at the head of the line. The men he bypassed called friendly greetings as he passed, along with suggestions that he produce delicious meals and expensive gifts for the upcoming holidays. Von Horst bantered back, threatening them with Kris Kringle’s evil cousin Prince Eugen rather than the jolly elf.

The good natured chaffering suddenly cut off as a powerfully built German officer pushed his way to the head of the line. Ignoring muttering from men who had been patiently waiting, the newcomer planted his oversized feet squarely on the tiny porch of the post office building.

Von Horst came to attention, saluted and said, “Good morning, Herr Major Bruckmann.”

His superior returned the salute and ostentatiously looked at his expensive watch. He demanded, “Von Horst, why is not the post office open? It is late and I am expecting a package of medicines from home.” He glared at the young lieutenant.

Von Horst looked directly at Bruckmann, “Sir, Postal Inspector Corporal le Rond has not appeared yet. He has the keys to the building. I am merely the senior postal officer. Lieutenant Keller has gone to fetch….”

Bruckmann sniffed. “Senior postal clerk, you mean. And working for a French corporal at that! Rather a comedown for the grandson of a hero of the War of Unification and the son of the governor general of New Guinea, won’t you say?”

Von Horst bit his tongue and replied mildly, “Sir, we all have our duties. Commandant Duquesne appointed me postal officer….”

Bruckmann rudely cut his junior off. “Because you were wounded in the shoulder in the Berlin Raid and therefore can’t work in the camp farm. I know, I know. Still….”

Further pleasantries were cut off by the arrival of French Corporal Jean le Rond and German Lieutenant Hans Keller. The Frenchman shouted at the prisoners in execrable German and advanced to the door of the building, waving his arms like a berserk semaphore, keys in one hand and a small toolkit in the other. He was half Bruckmann’s height and seemingly twice his girth. He unlocked the door with a flourish and entered the simple building followed by Bruckmann, Von Horst, Keller and the first few waiting prisoners. All of the German officers held in The Rock outranked the little corporal but he was a captor while they were captives.

Once inside, le Rond inspected the neat office as if he suspected that Kris Kringle had deposited machine guns or hand grenades in the postal facility overnight. Instead, he found that the cabinets were full of bales of paper and cardboard, that the stove contained nothing but ashes, that the chair was exactly positioned beside the counter and in front of the parcels cage, and that the counter contained a few simple office supplies. All as expected; all exactly as it had been the previous evening. Bruckmann huffed loudly, longing to throttle the busybody. The other Germans waited more patiently.

Finally the inspection was over. Le Rond theatrically allowed that all was in order and began opening his tiny kingdom for the day’s business. He deposited the small toolkit on the counter and unlocked the cage that held parcels overnight. He then paraded to the chair and plumped his rotund body onto it. His eyes surveyed his domain.

Von Horst nodded to the imperious Frenchman and directed Keller to find Major Bruckmann’s package. While the junior lieutenant looked, he placed himself behind the counter like any good shopkeeper and retrieved the few worksheets and pencils that were the post office’s simple record keeping system.

Bruckmann huffed again and Von Horst suggested, “Sir, if you are busy, we can bring your parcel to your barracks. You live in Barracks 16 don’t you?”

The major looked at the young lieutenant as if he suspected a trick. Von Horst returned the glare impassively. Bruckmann made a rude noise. “Absolutely not. I wish to receive my medicines myself, not have them stolen by Fre… freeloaders!”

“As the Major wishes,” confirmed Von Horst blandly.

Keller returned with a sizeable package that he placed on the counter. Bruckmann reached for it….

“Non!” stated le Rond firmly. “All packages must be inspected by camp authorities – in this case, myself – to insure that no harmful items have been included.” He levered himself off his throne and advanced to the counter. Bruckmann purpled….

“Is this necessary, Corporal?” asked Von Horst before the major could explode. “I am sure that the gate guards inspected the package before it entered the camp.”

“No,” repeated le Rond. “All packages must be inspected as often as necessary.”

“As the Corporal wishes,” stated Von Horst. The package was a wooden box covered in paper and tied up with string. Von Horst carefully tilted the box so that le Rond could see that it was addressed to Bruckmann. Then he untied the string and paper, setting both aside at the far end of the counter. He used a small pry bar from the toolkit to wrench the box’s top off. It had been opened at least once before and poorly closed up again. Inside were 12 bottles of various medicines – rare enough in peacetime and almost priceless in wartime – padded in paper and cardboard. Von Horst carefully unpacked each bottle and showed them to le Rond. The latter glared fiercely at each one as he puzzled out the German medical terminology.

Finally, the inspection was over. Von Horst brought out a cardboard box and placed the bottles into it; then he pushed the box across the counter to Bruckmann.

The major pointed angrily to the original box. “I wish to have the box that my family sent me, not this ersatz paperboard box!”

“Sir, I am afraid that is not allowed,” explained Von Horst patiently. “If you wish to have additional furniture in your quarters, you must request the privilege from Commandant Duquesne.”

Bruckmann grunted in disgust. He blustered, “Duquesne is probably afraid that I will build a great wooden cannon and destroy his office with wooden cannonballs. Very well; he may keep my box.”

He moved to pick up the substitute box and stopped, looking at the debris on the far end of the counter. “What about my wrapping paper and cardboard?”

“Sir, with Corporal le Rond’s permission, we trim the paper into toilet paper and burn the cardboard to keep warm in cold weather.” Von Horst gestured to indicate the office’s primitive stove.

Bruckmann paused. “An excellent idea. Let me have some toilet paper.”

“As the major wishes. Please step this way. Lieutenant Keller, please assist the next officer.” Under le Rond’s basilisk eye, Von Horst stepped over to one cabinet, opened it and extracted a packet of paper, neatly bound with string, which he handed to the major. Bruckmann could see more paper stored in the cabinet. He nodded an ungracious thanks and marched out of the post office, taking his medicines, toilet paper and ego with him.

Von Horst returned to the counter and collected the Bruckmann family box. He stowed it in the cage where it should be safe until the camp carpentry shop workers could pick it up and convert it into authorized furniture.

With the box safely deposited, Von Horst resumed distributing the mail. Interestingly, le Rond saw no need to personally inspect the other prisoners’ letters and parcels and merely smiled benignly as the Germans worked.

Eventually, evening came. Le Rond stretched himself and announced grandiosely that it was time to close the post office. The two Germans had been making work for the last hour or so in any event. Keller cheerfully agreed, put his broom away and began closing the window shutters.

Von Horst had been trimming wrapping paper into toilet paper. He returned the camp’s scissors to the kit where the pry bar and other potential weapons already rested. He said, “Corporal le Rond. A moment of your time, if you please.”

The little Frenchman perked up. “Yes, Lieutenant Von Horst?” He stepped over to the counter rather more eagerly than his superiors might expect.

“The officers of Camp 118 have asked me to express their appreciation for your efficient administration of the camp postal system.” Von Horst removed a box from under the counter and handed it to le Rond. “You will find it contains a small collection of jellies and jams to improve the flavor of the camp food.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. Please thank them for me.” Le Rond’s face glowed. The rotund fellow was a martyr to the camp’s undistinguished food.

“And another thing, corporal,” said Von Horst. He leaned forward confidentially.

Le Rond leaned forward as well.

“The diehards in Barracks 16 are attempting to tunnel under the west side of the camp. I believe that the tunnel begins in the room allocated to the senior prisoner.”

“Major Bruckmann?!” Le Rond’s eyes seemed to swell to twice their normal size. Guards who uncovered escape attempts were rewarded with extra privileges. A postal inspector seldom had a chance to earn such rewards. “I shall have a word with the barracks searchers. If nothing else, a surprise inspection will remind the diehards who is in charge of le Roc.”

Von Horst smiled and the two clerks left the office under the Frenchman’s benevolent but still watchful eye. Le Rond closed the door and locked it behind him. He bid the clerks good night and turned to walk towards Barracks 16, keys in pocket, toolkit under one arm and “donations” under the other.

Behind him, the two Germans stretched and chatted about their anticipated evening meal, giving no sign that they had a care in the world. As they chatted, however, their eyes swept the area for observers. The prisoners had dispersed earlier and, for the moment, the immediate area was clear of roving French patrols. There were guard towers along the camp perimeters in every direction but those guards directed most of their attention to the camp fences and the cleared areas separating fences and barracks.

When the Frenchman had departed, Von Horst positioned himself near the wall of the post office and whispered, “He’s gone. Boost me up.”

Instead, Keller stiffened, “Herr Leutnant, a question if you please.” His tone was very formal, even for a German officer.

Von Horst turned to look at his junior, his face frowning. This was unlike the loyal airman. “What do you wish, Lieutenant?”

“Why did you betray the tunnelers in Barracks 16? To gain favor with le Rond? Or to take petty revenge on Bruckmann? Are these things worthy of a German officer?” Keller’s voice was level and professional but the words stung.

Von Horst looked directly at his questioner. “Both. But I saved German lives. The Escape Committee engineers say that the tunnel is about to collapse because it’s not properly braced and timbered. The French are too efficient about keeping lumber out of our hands. If it collapses with men in it, lives will be lost because Major Bruckmann is too anxious to plan a good escape. I volunteered to ‘rat him out’ as my American mother might say because someone has to save German lives.”

“And because you won’t be here for Bruckmann to take revenge on.”

“True. And, the excitement of the search will provide a distraction for our escape. Assuming you still want to come. Moreover, le Rond will be a hero to his superiors and thus will inadvertently help other Germans when we’re gone.

“Now, do you wish to go with me?”

Keller was still for a moment, then spoke firmly but softly. “Definitely, Herr Leutnant. Please excuse my impertinence. Let’s go home.” He made a step with his hands and leaned against the post office wall to steady himself.

Von Horst placed his foot in Keller’s hands and vaulted upward. Keller pushed at the same time. The airman landed quietly on the wooden roof. He reached down and pulled his co-conspirator upward with his good arm. His other arm was functional but still healing.

Once on the roof, they both walked carefully to the peak, scouted for observers once again, and pulled upward on inconspicuous handholds that were not on the original French plans for the cheap building. A quarter of the wooden slope lifted away. Working quietly for many nights, the two Germans had removed the nails holding the roof boards to the rafters of the simple building and refastened the boards to timbers removed from various shipping boxes. The result was a giant trapdoor. Now, the Germans slipped through the opening and lowered themselves to the counter. They quietly lowered the trapdoor back into position with practiced ease.

Jumping down from the counter, Von Horst opened the “toilet paper” cabinet and began removing a huge mass of carefully folded, black colored paper and string. Previously, it had been masked by bundles of toilet paper. Now, it was almost invisible in the wan light coming in through the shuttered windows. He unfolded it as carefully as a Swiss watchmaker might assemble a valuable timepiece, guided by knots tied to the string netting. As he was doing so, Keller opened the “kindling” cabinet and removed masses of cardboard scavenged from dozens of cheap boxes flowing through the post office. He set several long boxes aside and began stuffing cardboard into the banked stove. When the fire was burning merrily, he began fitting the boxes together. Soon, he had a long, flexible cardboard tube.

Von Horst continued to unfold the mass of paper and string netting. The netting enfolded the paper construction, connecting it with a woven basket that the German airman laid on the counter and to two twine ropes made of multiple strings pleated together. He looped the ropes under the countertop and resumed unfolding. Keller closed the cabinets and made the room look as normal as possible. As his partner continued unfolding, he alternated feeding cardboard into the stove and watching for signs of French interest.

About an hour after the post office had closed, an alarm sounded outside and French soldiers went running past. They were headed for Barracks 16 and ignored the apparently empty post office. Keller peered cautiously through the shutters and signaled an All Clear. The two Germans resumed working.

Soon, almost the entire volume of the camp post office was filled by the giant paper construction. Von Horst whispered “Now” and held out a circular opening. Keller plugged the cardboard tube into the opening and tied the paper tightly around the tube. Then he carefully twisted part of the stove’s chimney pipe aside and inserted the other end of the tube over the lower half.

Hot air began flowing into the bag. Already filling much of the room, the bag began to swell in size.

Keller said something barely audible. Von Horst asked if something was wrong as his hands guided the rapidly inflating bag towards the trapdoor.

The junior lieutenant shook his head, a motion that Von Horst sensed rather than saw. “Last minute nerves, sir. I can’t believe that we’re going to fly over the fence in a paper bag glued together with paste you made from corn starch and blackened with boot polish.”

Von Horst smiled. “You’re spoiled by 20^th Century technology. In 1783, two Frenchmen flew 9,000 meters in a paper bag lifted by heat from burning straw and pushed by the wind. We only have to fly 25 meters up and 500 meters east to escape this so-called Rock. Once we get back to Germany, you can have the latest airship from the Zeppelin or Opel works, complete with all the trimmings.”

“And a captain’s commission as well! If you please, Herr Chancellor!” replied the junior lieutenant puckishly. The two conspirators smiled and shook hands.

Von Horst and Keller stepped up onto the counter and opened the trapdoor. Keller braced it open with a wooden prop attached to the underside. The huge bag swelled out of the opening into the night air guided by Von Horst’s hands. Soon a black cloud hung over the post office, straining to be free but held in position by the twine rope running under the countertop. The padded basket now waited on the building’s roof.

Once again, both Germans looked carefully around. The black colored balloon was hidden by the nocturnal darkness. One thing that Von Horst had learned during flights over England and France was that it was surprisingly difficult for even trained and prepared ground observers to see silver colored balloons in the dark much less black ones. And all of the potential observers had their attention on places other than the quiet post office anyway. Confused crowd noises came from the west side of the camp. Both French and German voices shouted hoarsely and mostly incoherently. Von Horst could distinguish Bruckmann’s bellicose bellowing over the uproar.

“In,” whispered Von Horst. Keller settled himself into the basket. Von Horst disconnected the cardboard heat pipe and reconnected the stove’s chimney. Keller hauled the heat pipe into the basket with one hand. His other hand clutched a handhold that the Germans had fastened to the immobile half of the roof, tethering the balloon in place until Von Horst could close the trapdoor. The balloon strained upward, eager to soar on the night wind.

Von Horst cut the twine ropes holding the balloon with his shaving razor. The French controlled scissors and knives as potential weapons but considered safety razors harmless. The young airman climbed onto the roof.

Behind him, the post office was once again completely normal. Packets of toilet paper again masked the back of their cabinet. The fire was dying from lack of fuel. By morning, no one could tell that the building had been an airship hangar.

Certainly, sometime tomorrow the French would discover that Von Horst and Keller had escaped. But they would not know how or when the Germans had done so. A second tunnel would be the logical guess. Duquesne might suspect something about the post office but the evidence would have flown away. Le Rond’s lips would be sealed by guilt. Other Germans could take the high road to freedom.

Von Horst refolded the prop and began to lower the trapdoor into place. Keller tried to reel the twine ropes into the basket one handed.

The handhold broke loose. Keller grunted “Hurry up! Sir!” Designed to carry two men but only lifting one, the balloon leaped away from its impromptu launching pad.

Von Horst dropped the trapdoor as quickly as he could. The door slammed noisily into place. The thump seemed loud enough to wake the dead in Niflheim but no guards were near enough to notice.

The young German officer tensed his muscles and leaped for the escaping balloon. Keller held out his hands….

Von Horst missed his co-pilot and their woven flying compartment. Arms flailing, he fell towards the ground. The balloon sailed serenely onward and upward.

Von Horst’s windmilling arms touched a dangling twine rope. His good hand clamped down like Thor’s gauntlets of magical power. Twentieth Century technology or not, German airmen were trained to climb like monkeys among the ropes and latticework of their great dirigibles. With Keller’s help, he raised himself into the balloon’s passenger basket.

The wind caught them, wafting the aeronauts towards the wire – and freedom.

~ The End ~