June 10, 1962
Alcatraz
Walton MacNally stood at the bars as the correctional officer moved along the B-Block cell fronts, doing his morning count. MacNally was hoping this would be the last one he would have to endure, as all the pieces were in place and now it was a matter of days-today, tomorrow-it was a function of when they could break through the blower vent above B-block.
Once West had completed painting all the individual cells, he informed the cellhouse duty officer that he needed scaffolding to reach the expansive ceiling, which had begun peeling in the caustic sea air. Shortly thereafter, West was climbing the metal framework, which gave him an ideal look at the area above the third tier of the institution-and the ceiling above B-block, in particular. It was a gated, locked area that would require an officer to provide admittance each day. But once he scouted the mechanism in person, West described to MacNally the blower and attached ductwork.
MacNally then set out to secure the tools they would need to disassemble the pieces-which would give them access to the metal tunnel that led to the roof. It was a process that demanded patience and extreme care. One inmate known to trip the metal detector due to a plate in his skull was often used as a conduit to pass through small tools and hardware that would’ve otherwise set the snitch box in a tizzy. Over a period that spanned eleven months, piece by piece, they secured their stash.
Finally, with everything falling into place, West explained in March that in order to work atop the cellblock in the evenings, he would need to convince the officer in charge that it was necessary to hang tarps along the interior periphery of the caged area.
None of them thought that was possible-but somehow, the credibility West had built during the past year of providing trouble-free, quality, and dependable craftsmanship while painting the cellhouse won him the benefit of any doubt the penitentiary leadership may-and should-have had. The tarps were permitted and the men got to work.
Their efforts were assisted by Alcatraz’s music hour, a loosening of the once-stringent rules implemented by prior wardens charged with running the nation’s toughest federal penitentiary. Playing an instrument thus became a popular pastime on The Rock, with inmates of all skill levels taking up the challenge of making music. Some of it was downright awful-and for those who were good musicians, it did not matter-dozens of men simultaneously playing different songs on wind and string instruments in a cement- walled structure blended the good and bad into an echoing disharmony of cacophonous noise.
But for Morris, the Anglins, and MacNally working on top of the cell block with tools, prying, screwing, at times banging-that noise was like a world-class symphony; it was, in a sense, music to their ears.
By now, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had all dug out the concrete around their cell vents and constructed faux grilles out of cigar box interiors and binder covers, slathered with mint green paint courtesy of West’s access to the A-Block storage area. They had also sculpted dummy masks from Portland cement powder, soap flakes, magazine pages, wire, and electrical tape.
Fellow inmate Leon Thompson taught Morris how to mix oil paints to create facial pigment tones, and Clarence Anglin had collected hair from the barber shop, where he worked on a daily basis. When inserted in bed, these surprisingly realistic masks, with the covers drawn up to the “chins,” gave the illusion the men were asleep during the night counts. As a result, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had been able to work all hours of the night on top of the cellhouse, removing the blower mechanism.
Once done, however, they discovered yet another challenge: a steel grate with cross bars blocked the opening.
“Now what?” Morris asked. He swiped with a shirt sleeve at the perspiration that poured down his face. It was sweltering in the small space with the tarps blocking the airflow through the cellhouse.
MacNally peered up at the grille. “Take too long to cut through those bars. But look here.” He moved his body, careful not to fall off the disassembled blower housing he was perched on-and pointed. “Rivets along the edge. If we can get a flat slotted screwdriver in the opening, we can pry ’em off.”
Morris nodded. “I should be able to do that.”
“Get to work on that. I’m going back down to my cell.”
Morris and MacNally had made progress over the course of two nights, defeating several of the rivets with the screwdriver. It was difficult, painful work. Their wrists were sore but they had no complaints: their goal was now within reach.
Morris had also purchased a concertina-a bellows-type accordion-that he was certain they could use, at the water’s edge, to inflate the two rafts they had constructed.
Now, during the early morning hours of June 10th, nearly all their escape materials were assembled atop the cell block, beneath the blower vent, hidden by the tarps that were- miraculously-still permitted to hang from the ceiling.
MacNally and Morris returned to their cells, replaced the fake grilles, and crawled into bed.
Morris whispered to Anglin, who passed it on to his brother in the adjacent cell: “All set. Should have the thing out tomorrow night.”
MacNally checked his clock: it was 3:00am. He closed his eyes, thinking of the escape, of all the things he had missed during his incarceration: Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in an NBA game; an astronaut orbited the Earth in a space capsule; and a massive wall was erected in Berlin, dividing the region and causing political and social upheaval. While he’d heard or read about each of them, he felt strangely detached, as if they were news items rather than historical events he had lived through.
Shortly before MacNally drifted off, his thoughts turned to Henry- which, above all, made him feel the most content. Everything else in life that he had missed certainly served as motivation to avoid imprisonment. But seeing-and holding-his son was a reason to risk his life breaking out.
The morning whistles blew, and MacNally dressed quickly. Despite being tired due to months of sleep deprivation while working nights atop the cellblock, he felt invigorated by the thought that in fourteen hours, he would crawl out of his cell through the wall vent, and never return.
Sunday morning breakfast went quickly, and as he walked into the recreation yard to relax, he took a long look at the city and Golden Gate Bridge. Though these sights normally brought sadness, today they infused him with energy. He would be amongst the masses in a matter of hours-in disguise and existing without money-but he would be free and on his way, somehow, to finding his
