The Yuletide Escape

ESCAPE

TEXT BY LLOYD CLARK

ILLUSTRATIONS

BY PHIL BOATWRIGHT

'Twas the night before Christmas Eve, 1944,

And all through the prisoner of war compound Not a creature was stirring . . .

Lest their escape tunnel be found.

In the area northeast of Oak and 64th streets in what is today a residential area of Scottsdale, Arizona, there was intense preYuletide activity. But the performers were not Santa's helpers. They were German prisoners of war - preparing to escape their confinement via an ingenious tunnel. So stealthily did the 25 disappear from the Papago Park Prisoner of War Camp that it was not until one turned himself in some 17 hours after the last team had escaped that the U.S. authorities knew that any of their charges were absent.

It was Christmas Eve, and Herbert Fuchs Iwas tired, cold, and wet. The 22-yearold U-boat crewman hitchhiked a ride on East Van Buren Street and asked to be taken to the police.

A telephone call from the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office around 7:00 P.M., on Sunday, December 24, 1944, was the first notice Army officers at Papago Park had that the count was short in Compound 1A. To make matters worse, Fuchs refused to tell how he and the others got out.

Earlier that Christmas Eve morning, U-boat Commander Jürgen Wattenberg and two of the crewmen from his U-162, Walter Kozur and Johann (Hannes) Kremer, were still high with the excitement of their daring escape. They had slipped into the cold waist-deep waters of the Arizona Crosscut Canal shortly before midnight the fifth of 10 teams to exit the tunnel.

While they were making their way downstream, floodlights suddenly came on in the noncommissioned officers' compound. In that enclosure, the singing, breaking of bottles, and general hell-raising was serving its purpose: diverting the guards' attention from the adjacent compound where the POWs were burrowing their way to freedom.

Carrying their rucksacks containing dry clothing and supplies, the escapees eased several hundred yards through the frigid waters, then managed to pull themselves onto the east bank without mishap. In the bushes their wet trunks came off, and they dressed as Wattenberg noted "in our marching clothes, but only after taking generous shots from our schnapps bottles." The POWs had distilled the liquor from potatoes and citrus.

Hurriedly the trio gathered their gear and set off northwest across the desert. By 2:00 A.M. they were huddled in a citrus grove where they breakfasted on grapefruit and tried to sleep.

Rain, which had been frequent during the past 48 hours, began to fall again. A dilapidated shack offered shelter. There the threesome holed up on the morning of December 24. While two of them slept, the other kept alert. When his turn came to be on watch, the 24year-old Kremer remarked, "It's Christmas Eve." He took out his harmonica. Softly, he played "Stille Nacht," "Silent Night." At dusk their Christmas Eve dinner consisted of canned meat and milk, dried bread crumbs, chocolate bars, and other relatively nonperishable foodstuffs that had been hoarded from daily rations in camp. They talked of their loved ones and of their comrades wondering if they had been as fortunate in making their getaway. Later, Wattenberg was to recall, he and his companions spoke proudly of their escape and how well it had been pulled off. But there were periods of just sitting quietly, each mulling over his own thoughts. That night the trio bid auf Wiedersehen to the shack and resumed their northwesterly march.

By dawn of Christmas Day, they had entered a series of gullies (in an area traversed today by Stanford Drive between 32nd and 44th streets). They would remain concealed throughout the day and then explore the mountains to the north after dark. Wattenberg commented that there must be a cave somewhere in that rugged range (the Phoenix Mountains, with 2,608foot Squaw Peak at its western end). The American jailers were not in a "Merry Christmas" mood that December 25. Many had been called back from holiday leave to duty at Papago. In addition personnel at the Ninth Service Command, Fort Douglas, Utah; the Provost Marshal General's office in Washington, D.C.; the Federal Bureau of Investigation; and other governmental agencies were busily attempting to come up with some answers.

Col. William Holden, U.S. commander at Papago, that afternoon broke the news of the escape to the press. Meanwhile, Wattenberg, Kozur, and Kremer's objective in the rugged terrain northeast of the Arizona Biltmore hotel was to find shelter.

ESCAPE

"Tonight," Wattenberg said, "each of us will make a reconnaissance of two hour's duration, seeking the most likely place of cover and concealment for our 'headquarters." Kozur started the search, followed by the captain, but neither found a favorable campsite. Then Kremer set off. When he came back, he was smiling. "I think I have found us a home," he reported.They hastily gathered up their belongings and started up an arroyo, walking on the rocky banks to avoid leaving footprints. Within an hour they arrived at the site.

Kremer pointed down and along the jagged channel that ages of cloudbursts had carved into the slope. Numerous eroded alcoves were visible. One had an overhang of six or seven feet. Desert growth atop the ravine offered concealment also. Wattenberg pronounced it suitable, and he and his companions set about arranging their new quarters. A few sizable boulders were rolled across the opening. With an ax that Kozur had the foresight to include in his gear, they cut enough brush to obscure the portal from distant view. Kremer scooped out a pit for a fire, and a pot of coffee was brewing before sunrise.

"It was better that we went north out into the mountains," Wattenberg told his men. He believed that the desert plains to the south would give trackers an advantage, especially because the ground had been softened by rains. On the day after Christmas, he did not know, however, that six of the POWs had been taken into custody the night following their escape. Besides Fuchs - the U-boat crewman who had hitchhiked a ride into Phoenix and then surrendered at the sheriff's office - five of the others had been apprehended in Tempe.

The three "cavemen" also were unaware that early the same afternoon American Army Private First Class Lawrence Jorgensen, a member of the search detail, had discovered the camouflaged exit hatch in the brush along the Arizona Crosscut Canal. Jorgensen, who now lives in Scottsdale, volunteered to enter the opening. He found that the burrow coursed from under a coal bin beside the bathhouse, located approximately at the present-day intersection of Sheridan and 66th streets in Scottsdale. It went easterly approximately 180 feet, beneath the fence and the patrol road, and turned sharply upward on the canal's west bank. A 12-foot ladder served the final passage. The Germans' method of escape was finally resolved.

While the Americans investigated the tunnel, Wattenberg and his two crewmen were wondering where the search parties were. They had observed a light plane the day before, but there had been no hounds baying, no sign of posses. Could they safely venture down the mountain into the farm areas and orchards?

The answer to that question, decided Wattenberg, was in the doing. For the next two nights, they scouted their environs. On the second night probe (Wednesday, December 27), all three went to the area east of the Arizona Biltmore hotel, crossing the 32nd Street bridge over the Arizona Canal at intervals. Creeping through a citrus grove, they heard voices. A dog barked. They lay low. Around midnight they discovered an irrigation pipe, quickly filled their canteens, and returned without incident to their cave.

The next day, Thursday, they lolled around their rocky alcove. By late afternoon, Kozur wanted to know from Wattenberg what the "orders for the night" were. "Another reconnaissance, perhaps?"

"No, tonight we will rest and celebrate." "Celebrate, Herr Kapitan?"

"Yes," Wattenberg replied, reaching for his bottle of schnapps. "It's my birthday."

Wattenberg stated convincingly that everything would be all right. "Think of what we've been through. Our U-162 was attacked and sunk. We survived. We didn't falter under interrogation. And the tunnel and our great escape. We are ahead, my lads!"

When finally the younger men dozed off, Wattenberg stepped from under the earthen ledge to view the heavens, so brightly atwinkle on that crisp night.

Later he returned to the cave, still musing. Then one more swig of schnapps and to sleep.

During the first days of their nomadic sojourn, the U-boaters adjusted to their surroundings. Although they had been isolated for the past week, the approach of the New Year was anticipated, as usual, as heralding better times. Wattenberg suggested a New Year's Eve diversion. He had a map contact and work out a method for future supply drops, Kremer said he would attempt to get back into the camp. He could infiltrate one of the work details, he believed, and get back inside without detection by the guards. Kremer was halfway successful. He made it back into the camp all right. But during a surprise shakedown inspection of Compound 4 on the afternoon of Tuesday, January 23, he was discovered.

ESCAPE

By the next morning, Wattenberg had the feeling that something had gone awry. As in all situations that appeared bleak, however, he considered the positive. Likely, at this very moment, he thought, Kremer was gathering items from German Red Cross packages received by the POWs. He would be returning soon with fresh supplies and information. These expectations sustained Wattenberg through Thursday.

Unknown to him at the time, Walter Kozur had come down a hill after sundown on Wednesday and was met by three soldiers who made him the 24th of the 25 escapees to be accounted for.

As Saturday dawned, Wattenberg contemplated his course of action. He would go into Phoenix where he might obtain a job as a dishwasher. Or maybe he could hop a freight train for some unknown destination where he might find work on a farm. He again looked at the newspapers from which he had already clipped stories pertaining to the escape. Church notices caught his attention. Why not try to get help from a Catholic priest? He might be able to help me under the privacy of confession, Wattenberg reasoned. That might seem farfetched, he realized, but desperation prompted strange scheming. So he cut out the section with church addresses and folded it neatly with the other clippings.

At sundown he departed his mountain lair. After some two hours he came to what appeared to be Phoenix's principal east/west thoroughfare: East Van Buren. Autos went by. People passed. But no one bothered to notice him. The bright lights, the blinking neon signs. It was such a contrast to his recent environment.

Wattenberg passed numerous motels where Americans in uniform were much in evidence. It was a weekend, and the Arizona posts and bases had released thousands of service personnel on passes. What if he should see one of the guards from Papago? He stepped briskly by the entrances to the motels.

After getting into the central business district, Wattenberg spotted a restaurant called the American Kitchen. He entered, ordered in as crisp English as he could, and his hunger was soon satisfied by noodle soup with beef, washed down with a cold beer. He picked up a discarded copy of that afternoon's Phoenix Gazette.

Wattenberg then went to several small hotels and tried to get a room for the night. But all were full. Wandering back to the heart of downtown, he came to the Hotel Adams. The front desk clerk told him there likely would be a room available in the morning. Wattenberg turned away, wearily. Noticing a vacant lobby chair, he sank into the cushioned furniture and opened the afternoon newspaper. Within moments he was sleeping soundly.

About an hour later, the Papago Park tunnel master awakened and detected the curious glances of a bellhop. He wondered if the man had seen his photo in a newspaper or on an FBI circular. Or could he have discerned that the trousers Wattenberg wore actually were brown U.S. Army issue, dyed blue? He decided to leave. The time, as Ken Vance, the bell-hop, reported later, was about 1:30 A.M., Sunday, January 28.

Awake but groggy, Wattenberg thought he might find a railroad boxcar for shelter the rest of the night. He left the Adams and headed north. At Central and Van Buren, he stopped Clarence V. Cherry, a City of Phoenix street foreman, and asked directions to the railroad station.

When Wattenberg moved on, Cherry hailed Sgt. Gilbert Brady of the Phoenix Police Department. He told the officer that he was suspicious of the tall man in the yellow checked shirt. "He had a German accent," the 42-year old foreman said.

Brady caught up with the suspect at Third Avenue and Van Buren. "Sir, could I see your Selective Service registration?" the police officer asked. Wattenberg replied that he had left it at home.

"Where is home?" "Glendale."

"Glendale, Arizona, or Glendale, California?" Brady wanted to know. "Glendale uh, Glendale, back east," Wattenberg replied.

"You will come with me to the police station," Brady ordered. A few minutes later, Wattenberg admitted that he was "the 'big shot' you fellows have been looking for."

Brady offered his captive a cigarette. Wattenberg accepted, lit up, took a deep drag, and exhaled forcefully. "The game's up, and I lost," he said.

Searched at the Phoenix police station, Wattenberg's possessions included 50 cents in coins, a blank notebook, and several newspaper clippings some about the escape, others of restaurant and nightclub advertisements, and the Saturday church directory of January 13. A subsequent newspaper story noted somewhat ironically that German prisoners apparently were interested in "going to church even while in flight."

When Wattenberg was returned to Papago, he was taken to the hospital, where "I had a wonderful Sunday dinner: beef broth, roast chicken, vegetables, ice cream. How good it all tasted."

Afterward Wattenberg was taken to Pima Camp, a stockade that had less space than his previous camp quarters, no access to the canteen or library, and bread and water rations.

When his comrades in Pima many of whom were serving time for having attempted to escape saw him approaching, they began cheering.

By March, 1946, the last of the Papago Park POWs were repatriated, departing the U.S. from ports in New York City and San Francisco. On June 16, 1946, Wattenberg was reunited with his wife and two sons at Neustadt, Holstein, a seaport village on the Baltic Sea.

EPILOGUE Today a residential subdivision occupies most of the former locale of the German prisoner of war compounds. The Papago Park Prisoner of War Camp Commission held a commemorative observance at the campsite January 5, 1985. It was attended by mayors of Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe and U-boat Commander Jürgen Wattenberg.

Ninety-three years old this month, Wattenberg lives in Hamburg, Germany.

Lloyd Clark, a historian and teacher, was a reporter for The Phoenix Gazette in 1954 when he was assigned to write about the 10th anniversary of the escape from the Papago Park Prisoner of War Camp.

Dallas-based Phil Boatwright has illustrated events that took place in the days of the Old West and during the Civil War, but this was his first opportunity to work on a subject related to World War II.