Historical Perspectives: The Incredible Story Of The Great Escape From Stalag Luft III And The Rolexes Given To POWs

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In the winter of 1943, the men of Stalag Luft III, a German prisoner-of-war camp deep in the cold, bleak countryside of Poland, were enduring the unrelenting grip of captivity. Each day was an agonizing repeat of the last, filled with monotonous routines designed to break their spirits. These men, mostly Allied airmen, had been captured during various operations across Europe. The once-daring pilots, now reduced to prisoners, could do little more than wait. Wait for the war to end. Wait for their captors to make their next move. Or wait for something—anything—that could pull them out of this desperate situation. But here, in this remote part of the world, a small flicker of hope remained.

Stalag Luft III was infamous among the POWs for its strict security and its deep isolation. It was a camp designed to imprison not just the body, but the mind. The fences were high, the sentries unyielding, and the barracks were cold and overcrowded. Prisoners were forced to work, their labor a reminder of their powerlessness. Some worked on construction projects, others were sent to labor camps, and many were subjected to the brutal physical and mental toll of being a pawn in a war they could not control.

But even in this grim place, escape remained a distant dream. The men here knew that even if it seemed impossible, they had to keep the idea of freedom alive. It was what separated the broken men from the strong ones, what kept the will to survive from being crushed. They had to find a way out, even if it was through a series of calculated risks, daring plans, and an unwavering belief that they could beat the odds.

Among these prisoners was RAF Corporal James Nutting. He had been shot down over enemy territory, captured in 1941, and transported to Stalag Luft III. By the time the winter of 1943 had set in, Nutting had learned the routines of the camp intimately. The sounds of boots marching along the gravel paths. The guard dogs barking at every movement. The endless droning of voices over the camp loudspeakers, reading off the names of prisoners called for interrogation. The small, daily humiliations—like the forced roll calls in the bitter cold. Nutting had learned to adapt to this new reality, as had the other men around him. The sheer monotony, the soul-crushing repetition of days without end, became the new normal.

Yet, in the middle of this misery, Nutting and his fellow prisoners found their own small ways to rebel against the crushing weight of captivity. They communicated in secret, shared news of the outside world when they could, and offered a kind of solidarity that helped ease the pain of the hours. And most importantly, they kept alive the dream of escape. Some worked on digging tunnels beneath the very camp that held them. Others plotted more audacious methods of escape, like organizing an underground railroad to the Soviet border. It was dangerous, it was ambitious, and in many cases, it was foolhardy, but it was the one thing that kept these men from surrendering completely to despair.

But then, something remarkable happened. A rumor began circulating in the camp, something unexpected that gave the prisoners a sense of hope that hadn’t existed before. The rumor was about a new opportunity—a glimmer of light in the dark.

Hans Wilsdorf, the founder of Rolex, a man whose name had been largely unknown to the POWs before this, had made a decision. As a neutral power, Switzerland was not caught in the ravages of war, and Wilsdorf’s company was still operational, even under the pressures of a global conflict. With the war dragging on and no end in sight, Wilsdorf decided to make an extraordinary offer to the prisoners. He would send them Rolex watches. The catch? The watches could be ‘purchased’ now, but payment could only be made when the war was over and they were free. Wilsdorf understood the uncertainty of the situation—nobody knew when the war would end, and nobody knew which side would ultimately win—but he believed in the power of hope.

This wasn’t Wilsdorf’s initiative, of course. It all started with Nutting’s letter to Rolex. He decided to order a stainless-steel Rolex Oyster 3525 Chronograph. In his letter, Nutting wrote that he intended to pay for the watch with money he would save working as a shoemaker at the camp. The offer was also not one of simple charity. It was, in many ways, a clever business move. Wilsdorf understood the morale of the men in the camp. He knew that the one thing these men craved, more than food, more than comforts, was a reminder that there was something beyond the fences. And for those who could afford the luxury, the Rolex watch represented that hope. The watches, precision-engineered symbols of quality, were as much about defiance as they were about elegance. A prisoner of war wearing a Rolex was saying, “I am not just a captive. I am someone who has not given up.”

Wilsdorf’s decision was audacious, but it was also brilliant. He was offering a tangible connection to a world outside, to a life that was waiting on the other side of the barbed wire. There were risks involved for him as well. If the shipments of watches were intercepted, the loss would be substantial. And yet, Wilsdorf, perhaps driven by a sense of moral duty, or perhaps by the belief that the war would one day end in favor of the Allies, proceeded. The watches would be delivered through Switzerland, where they would be smuggled past German authorities, and into the hands of the men at Stalag Luft III.

When the news broke that the Rolex watches would be arriving soon, it spread like wildfire through the camp. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an electric sense of excitement. It was as though, in the middle of their dark captivity, these men had been given a lifeline, a connection to something beyond the fences and the searchlights. It was not just about the watches themselves—it was about what they represented. The idea that a neutral company, through a mix of charity and shrewd marketing, would reach out to them in their moment of greatest need was profoundly moving.

The Rolex watches were delivered to the camp in a highly secretive manner, arriving in parcels marked for other purposes, smuggled through channels that had been established by the Swiss. And when Nutting finally received his own Rolex, he was overwhelmed with the strange sensation of owning something so beautiful and so far removed from the horrors of captivity. It was more than just a timepiece—it was a reminder of a future beyond the war, a future where time, once again, would be his own to manage.

As the winter of 1943 gave way to the spring of 1944, the men of Stalag Luft III found themselves deeply entrenched in a secret war—one not of gunfire, but of cunning and engineering. The Germans had made it nearly impossible to escape, but the prisoners, led by men like RAF Squadron Leader Roger Bushell, had refused to surrender to the grim reality of their captivity. For nearly a year, these men had been constructing an elaborate network of tunnels, using every scrap of material they could scrounge to burrow beneath the ground that held them prisoner.

James Nutting, like so many others, had a deep yearning to escape. The camp was a daily battle, and while he and his fellow POWs kept the morale alive with talks of freedom, the reality of the situation was grim. There were whispers among the prisoners about a tunnel system—three separate tunnels, all of which had been given names: Tom, Dick, and Harry. They had been dug secretly, in the dead of night, by men who understood the risks but also understood the need to act. The POWs had to work with extreme caution, constantly aware of the brutal consequences of being caught.

The first challenge was secrecy. Stalag Luft III was filled with microphones buried deep in the sand, planted by the Germans to listen for the sound of digging. Guards patrolled the perimeter, and the camp itself was surrounded by a tall, electrified fence that was constantly watched. The prisoners had no tools—only the scraps of wood and metal that they could get their hands on. And yet, despite these limitations, they persevered. It wasn't just the digging itself that was difficult, but the shoring up of the tunnels. They had to use bed slats, broken furniture, and whatever materials they could gather to support the walls, ensuring they wouldn't collapse under the weight of the earth above. They would carefully disguise the sounds of digging by covering them with blankets, masking the noises of their labor. And to avoid detection, the workers would dig beneath the huts, hiding their progress in plain sight, beneath the very structures that housed them.

As Nutting, along with countless others, toiled away, there was a shared sense of purpose, a feeling that grew stronger with every shovel of sand moved. The idea of escape was more than just about getting out—it was about reclaiming their dignity. It was about making sure the Germans knew they hadn’t been broken, no matter how many days, months, or years they were kept locked in those barracks. For Nutting, his Rolex Oyster 3525 Chronograph, which had been delivered earlier that year, was a constant reminder of the world beyond the camp.

As the men dug deeper, the stakes grew higher. They had to be smarter than the Germans, faster than their guards, and more precise than the enemy could anticipate. The tunnel system was designed to be a multi-pronged attack. The men didn’t want to rely on just one escape route; instead, they worked tirelessly to build three different tunnels—each one a potential pathway to freedom.

Nutting, like the others, was fully aware of the dangers involved. The men knew that if they were caught tunneling, the consequences would be severe. They risked being put in solitary confinement or even executed. The German guards were notorious for their brutality, and the risk of discovery was ever-present. Yet, despite the overwhelming fear of failure, these men worked with a singular determination to succeed.

When it came time to put the plan into action, the men were ready. The escape would take place under the cover of darkness, as it had always been planned. The prisoners would leave the camp in small groups, using the tunnels as their gateway to freedom. The men who had worked tirelessly on the tunnel system knew that the risk was immense. They had already lost countless hours of sleep and endured endless stress. But this was their moment—the moment that could either bring them liberation or lead to their demise.

On the night of March 24, 1944, the escape began. The first of the three tunnels, Tom, had reached the fence, and the prisoners began to crawl through it, one by one. Each man had his plan—some would try to blend into the night, others would head to the nearby forests, hoping to find their way to safety. For many, it was a gamble, one that could cost them their lives if they were caught.

But as the prisoners emerged from the tunnels into the frigid night, they quickly realized how difficult the escape would be. The men were deep inside enemy territory, and the risk of discovery was imminent. Yet, even as they began to flee, the sight of freedom, however brief, was intoxicating. There were moments, fleeting and precious, where these men tasted what it was like to be free again, to be more than just prisoners of war.

And yet, the German authorities were swift to respond. The guards, noticing the sudden absence of men, quickly raised the alarm. Roadblocks were set up, searchlights illuminated the darkened forests, and the manhunt began. For two weeks, the Germans scoured the countryside, hunting down the escapees. But the POWs had outsmarted the Germans in one critical way—many of them had fled in the direction of Sweden, where a neutral country could provide asylum.

Despite the valiant efforts of the prisoners, only three men made it to safety. Two Norwegians managed to hide on a freighter bound for Sweden, and a Dutchman made his way to Gibraltar. The price for the attempted escape was steep. Seventy-three of the prisoners were recaptured, and in an act of ruthless vengeance, Hitler ordered the execution of fifty men as a warning to the others.

James Nutting was among those who had not yet attempted the escape when the Germans discovered the tunnel. In a strange twist of fate, this would save his life. He was not caught in the manhunt that followed, and his escape, like many others, would remain an unfulfilled dream. But the Rolex—the watch that had been given to him as a symbol of hope—remained, a reminder of the determination that had driven him and the others to risk everything for freedom.

The connection between Rolex and the POWs, wasn’t just this one of James Nutting in Stalag Luft III. While the exact number of watches distributed to prisoners of war during World War II remains a subject of debate, the most commonly cited figure is around 3,000. As historian accounts of the war often describe, the simple act of wearing a watch gave these men a sense of normalcy, a touchstone that stood apart from the chaos surrounding them. They would have looked at their wrists, counted the seconds, and felt a sense of time—both the present moment and the one that awaited them beyond the barbed wire and the guard towers.

Fast-forward to the 1960s, and the story of Rolex and the Second World War would take on a new, unexpected layer. Hollywood legend Steve McQueen, known as the "King of Cool" for his iconic role in The Great Escape, would later become synonymous with the brand. While McQueen famously wore various watches throughout his career, it was his connection to the Rolex Submariner—particularly the reference 5513—that has become legendary. While his role as Captain Virgil Hilts was fictional, the parallels to the real-life POWs were unmistakable. McQueen’s character was not just a tough, resourceful escape artist but a reflection of the very spirit that had driven men like Corporal Nutting and his fellow prisoners of war to attempt the impossible. And best of all, McQueen reportedly wore a Rolex in the movie, a Rolex Speedking which was no doubt a subtle homage to the very real men who had escaped captivity in the dead of night.

-Vuk