By August 1978, apart from Alex, Steve and myself, only Jeremy had expressed any interest in the escape project. At that point in time we had not formulated any concrete plans as we wanted first to improve our ability to open locks. Jeremy approached the matter from an altogether different perspective: he insisted that we first work out a detailed plan so that our energies were not wasted on experimenting with keys that might never be needed. This difference in approach led to considerable tension and controversy, especially after others joined the escape group.
We believed that getting out was essentially a technical problem and as the comrades professed to be believers in the unity of theory and practice it surprised us that some of them looked at it as an intellectual problem. Theory, as we understood it, was to inform practice but practice had to serve as the basis on which the theory was to be constructed. Many of the comrades believed that the entire escape could be planned beforehand in the mind without knowing if or how it could be achieved in a practical sense.
Without wishing to divide ourselves into ‘pragmatists’ and ‘intellectuals’, our approach proved in the end the folly of trying to concoct complete escape plans before knowing everything that lies before you and the limits of your own capabilities. In August 1978, and for many months after, no one would have dreamt of escaping in the way that we finally did. The route eventually taken was not even considered as a remote possibility; it would have seemed a total fantasy. It was only after a long, frustrating process of experimenting and testing that we were able to overcome the barriers across our path. Our developing technical abilities suggested the route to take, not the converse.
Some of the schemes put forward by the comrades would have led to certain disaster. One suggestion was for us to sneak through the yard gate while the Captain was conducting his morning inspection of the stokkies in their yard. While inspections took place the armed guard on the pos stood to attention and it was thought that he might not notice a handful of prisoners making a quick getaway through the yard gate. Another plan proposed waiting for summer and a thundershower and then when there was no warder in the yard and the pos-warder was sheltering in his enclosed corner we would sneak out of the same yard gate.
At this early stage most of the comrades were reluctant to identify with us because they believed that our dabbling with locks and keys was but an expression of our anger at the sentences we’d been given. They told us later that they had expected us to carry on experimenting and looking for escape routes for a short while and then either get bored or give up when we found out that in fact it was impossible to get out. Our fanaticism was expected to wear off in due course.
For this reason there were at first no attempts to formalise the escape: no suggestions of establishing an escape committee or of planning the necessary steps collectively. In a sense this made our activities ‘undemocratic’ because they were carried on without consultation with the others. But from very early on we realised that if we took each problem to the ‘yard’ (i.e. to everyone) the day of departure would have been delayed and the screws would have been
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alerted. Besides, our problems at that stage were purely technical and none of the others were capable of offering much assistance.
The comrades’ reluctance to participate was buttressed by the fear that these ‘new guys’ were going to upset things by getting themselves caught. These fears were reasonable enough, especially from those who'd been inside for a long time. It had taken them 15 years of hard struggle to achieve the conditions that prevailed in the prison. The ‘privileges’ which had been won over the years could easily be removed and then it would be back to square one; the stable relationship with the prison staff, which at best was no more than a precarious state of truce, could easily be reversed. They could not stomach the thought of having to fight all the old battles again.
From August until November 1978 practically all escape-related activity was spent in attempting to open door two. For more than a month I struggled for up to two hours at night to open my door. I had made about six number two keys in the hope of getting one to work by trial and error.
There was no other way. I would try each key, file it a bit or build it up with epoxy and then try again, over and over. Each evening I was forced to stop, not by impending inspections, but by an aching arm caused by holding the crank out of my passage window for too long.
During the day I would make every effort to stare at the warders’ number two keys in an attempt to capture a mental image that I could then ‘measure’. But I couldn’t see any difference:
our keys looked exactly the same. After a while I began to wonder if there was some hidden secret we couldn’t see. Alex persuaded me not to get superstitious.
Towards the end of October I finally managed to get key two to turn in my door. It was almost annoying how smoothly and easily it suddenly turned, as if there had been no problem all along.
It could at least have jammed or nearly turned to let me know that I was getting close! The excitement combined with relief as the crank effortlessly turned the key was exhilarating. I felt dizzy with success and couldn’t stop myself dancing a jig on my bed.
Keeping in mind the earlier disaster with number two, I turned the key one and a half times only and then relocked it. Fortunately it relocked all the way. If it had not done so it wouldn’t have been too serious as the door would still have been locked one turn. I could not have been blamed for it being unmastered and even if the warders had suspected something there would have been no evidence that I had tampered with the lock as I would have disposed of all the keys down my toilet.
To make sure that it had not been a fluke that the key had worked I immediately filed all the other number two keys to the same dimensions as the one that had worked and tried them out.
All worked with equal facility. I shouted to Alex and he stuck his shaving mirror out of his window to see what I was carrying on about. When I gave a thumbs-up – the agreed sign for a success – he shouted back to confirm that I had indeed achieved the long-awaited breakthrough.
He was so overjoyed at the news that he for a long time after he could be heard praising the Lord.
The excitement was short-lived though. The following night Alex tried the keys in his number two and found that not one of them worked. This had us completely baffled because we knew that the warders used the same key in his number two as in mine. Why our keys should then have worked in my door and not in his we could not understand.
I took the keys back the next day and made some alterations for him to try the next night.
Again none of them worked. Disappointment on top of the recent success caused a serious ebb in morale, but we kept at it. One night Alex would try out some of the keys while I modified the
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others; the next night he would try out the ones I’d altered while I changed the ones he’d tried the previous night. This procedure went on for another month. It was a slow and tedious process, but eventually he got one to turn. I knew because I could hear him singing in his cell that night.
I tried the successful key in my own door the following night and found that it turned as easily as the one I’d got to work a month earlier. I then cut all the other number twos to the same dimensions as the successful one and found them to work in both our doors. At last we were certain that we’d got the measurements right.
The problem as far as we could work out was caused by not having the overall heights of the key-cuts correct: the relative heights having been established when the first one worked in my door. There seemed to be some tolerance in the overall dimensions but there was no way of knowing this at the time, forcing us to employ the trial and error methods that we did.
It had been discovered early on that not all the number two doors used the same key. Starting from my cell at the beginning of the section, each alternate cell used the same number two key which had given us so much trouble; the others used a number one key. Why this was so we could never figure out. Perhaps it was to confuse new warders who found it inordinately difficult to get the sections unlocked.
This duplication of keys actually simplified matters for us because it allowed us to use our number one keys, of which we had made several. They were of a much simpler and robust design than the complicated number twos. It was also possible to test them during shower-time and on Fridays from the open-door position. All appeared to work, but as experience had taught us, there was no certainty they would work from the door-closed position.
Stephen’s was one of these number one key number two doors but the prospect of having to go through the same rigmarole to test a key in it that we’d gone through to test our own drove us to think of an alternative scheme.
During October those prisoners who were allowed to study could remain in their cells over weekends to complete their studies before exams. Alex was one of these ‘students’ so he requested one Saturday to be locked in his cell ‘to catch up on some work’. The usual practice when this happened was for the grille to be locked but for the outer door (number two) to be left open. Stephen happened to ‘fall ill’ on the same day and asked to be locked in his cell. He requested that his outer door be locked ‘to prevent draughts’. I remained in the yard – the normal place to be on a Saturday – to signal to Alex when it looked like the warders were relaxing and unlikely to enter our section. When I gave the all-clear by lifting from the ground the book I was reading, Alex opened his grille with the number one key he had with him, crept down the passage to Stephen’s cell and tested his number two lock with the same key. It worked perfectly.
After successfully opening our number twos Denis and Dave K wondered if the keys would work in their doors. We were sure they would but our earlier experiences informed us that to be certain they had to be tested.
Since both had doors that used the problematic number two key, they had to be tested with the crank from the door-closed position – i.e. at night. We gave Dave K the crank and a couple of keys to try out one evening. Our hearts thumped when he missed the keyhole trying to get the key in with the crank. Eventually he managed to get it in but he could not get it to turn. I was sure that he was trying to turn it the wrong way but he swore that he wasn’t. Alex and I watched with our mirrors as he struggled for a long time to get the key out. After what felt like a heart- seizing eternity the key suddenly shot out and he pulled the crank back through his window and
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into his cell. Almost as he did so the night-warder came into the section on an unscheduled inspection round.
After that we decided it would be less risky for Alex or me to come out of our cells one night and test the locks directly. As Denis’ and Dave’s cells were closest to mine and because I’d gained the most experience in opening doors the task fell upon me.
It was not a difficult mission but it required more courage than I imagined I possessed.
Actually coming out of my cell was altogether a different matter to sticking a broomstick out of a window. If a warder came into the section while I was out of my cell it would be the end: there would be no way of turning it into an escape.
But all went well. I opened my doors after the music had stopped, as I’d done many times before, came out when I could hear no movements from downstairs and headed down the passage towards Denis’ and Dave’s cells. It was an eerie sensation as I stood in the passage: I was experiencing a situation which many prisoners had dreamt about but which no prisoner in that prison had ever experienced. I tried the key in Dave’s door first and then in Denis’ – it worked perfectly in both. Then back into my cell. I’d never felt happier to be locked securely in my cell than I did then. The whole operation had taken less than a minute, but more than a year off my lifespan.
By the end of 1978 there was a feeling among some of the comrades that we were just messing around and not concentrating on developing a proper plan. Perhaps in an attempt to ensure that the escape planning took a more collectively inspired course the ‘Washing Committee’ (‘WC’) was set up, ostensibly as an escape committee to co-ordinate activities and liaise with the comrades. A point had been reached where it was evident to all that we were serious about our intentions and doubts about our motivations had been dispelled. It was therefore decided by the yard that a committee should be set up to bring our activities under the mantle of the yard democracy. This did not mean that henceforth every move had to have the blessing of the entire yard, but that the yard wanted some connection with the escape group and some say in affairs that would affect everyone in this regard. It was never clear exactly what the mandate of the WC was and it seemed to vary with time and depending on who was considering its functions.
However, after a time its functions became accepted and its mandate became structured by practice rather than by a formal constitution.
Alex, Steve and I, at first not too pleased that our wings had been clipped, eventually welcomed the formation of the WC because it seemed to give our activities, if not approval, then at least an air of acceptance.
The committee finally accepted by the yard consisted of Alex and Dave Kitson. One member of the Committee had to be one of the three of us and this fell upon Alex because he was the most vociferous. I was more involved with the technical side and as everyone knew, not much of a negotiator.
Despite what was ever intended for it the WC served in practice a vital function, especially at a later stage when more people were involved in the plans. It became responsible for informing the yard that particular escape activities were to take place and that everyone should be on their guard. It also served as a focus for ideas and suggestions and for spreading these to other members of the escape group.
Before going on to discuss the first concrete escape plans which were contrived before the end of 1978, it would be worth describing in more detail how we went about making our keys, how we
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managed to smuggle the necessary bits and pieces into and out of our cells and how we concealed the contraband.
Only seven of the ten of us worked in the workshop. Dave K was the official gardener so was excused from workshop duty. Denis used to be one of the best carpenters and even passed a trade test in carpentry while in prison, but was excused by the doctor because he had a gammy back.
He had injured it in his youth while playing rugby and standing behind a bench for several hours gave him severe backache. He was the chief dishwasher, tea and milk maker and cleaner, but these were not particularly arduous tasks. Tony assisted him in this important work, so the chores were quickly done and the two of them were able to get on with the more important job of keeping themselves amused. Tony was excused from workshop duty because he had a co- ordination problem and could not handle tools at all. A short test proved that he would have severely damaged prison property, that is, himself.
In the workshop were four workbenches. Raymond and Dave R worked at the first next to the door and to where the warder usually sat; I worked alone at the second; Jeremy and Johnny at the next and Steve and Alex at the last. Alex, fortunately, had the best position for making illicit articles. Not only was he against the back wall of the workshop but between him and the wall was a tall rack of shelves on which were kept the parts we had to assemble for the prisons. The shelves and piles of wood gave him excellent hiding places for contraband.
Each bench had its own locker of woodworking tools that was unlocked at the beginning of the day by the warder on duty and in theory should have been relocked by him at the end of the day after checking that all the tools had been replaced. In practice it did not work like this. The prisoners closed their own lockers and seldom were there checks for missing tools. The
‘security’ cupboard containing the files and hacksaws, amongst other things, stood in the corner next to the door leading into the storeroom. This would be opened on request if anything was needed out of it, but it was easy enough to return less to it than had been taken out.
While the rest of us dutifully sanded our items of prison woodwork, Alex was more often than not busy cutting out the bits of wood needed to make the keys. He would prop up the piece of furniture on which he was meant to be working in such a way that it would obscure what he was really doing. He also had an uncanny ability to appear to be doing the prison’s work while actually doing something else. He did take twice as long as everyone else to complete his quota but he had always been the slowest so they did not suspect he was up to anything.
None of the objects Alex made on the side were recognisable to the warders, so even if he had been caught there would have been no serious consequences. In fact he, and for that matter all of us, were regularly ‘caught’ by the warders making personal things. So long as you had a good excuse, such as that you were making chess pieces or a pen holder, they didn’t mind. Sometimes they would even get us to make or mend things for them. Johnny, who had proved himself over the years to be a competent fix-it-all, spent most of his time repairing damaged prison items and doing odd jobs for the warders.
Workshop duty for the warders was a singularly boring task as it involved sitting doing nothing for three hours in the morning and two and a half in the afternoon. Usually the sessions were totally uneventful: only occasionally would one of us speak to them and then only to comment about rugby, the cost of living or some other inane topic. We were generally well behaved and got on with the work, which was probably not the case in most other prisons.
Most of the warders took a turn at workshop duty but one particular warder was assigned more or less permanently to the post. His name was Van Loggerenberg, or ‘Loggie’ as we called him.
He was a fat, lazy hulk of a man with a drooping moustache and pointed pixie ears. I always said