Horizon (3 page)

The man still stared, but he obeyed, talking in the prison way, as Lennox had done, with his lips scarcely moving.

The German officer sensed a stirring in the mass of men in front of him, but their faces seemed quite expressionless. A rabble of common soldiers, he was thinking, and thank God for that; they would take orders, they knew nothing. He turned back to the entrance-hall, leaving the Commandant to hover hesitatingly in the doorway.

Lennox heard the German suddenly curse. “What’s
this now?” he was demanding of one of his own men. The Commandant’s curiosity moved his bulk through the doorway into the hall. Once more the prisoners who stood near the door could see the beginning of the staircase. The file of Allied officers was no longer ascending. The new arrivals were sitting on the steps, holding their bundles of possessions on their knees. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves immensely. Their innocence was too bland to be natural.

As the German captain stood hesitating, his eyes narrowed, his hands on his hips, a lazy American voice said to him mockingly, “Sorry, General, but there’s a traffic jam.”

One of the Englishmen said, “The rooms have not been cleared upstairs. We may as well sit down. We have a long journey ahead of us into Germany.” He had raised his voice for the last sentence, and it carried clearly into the dining-room. He smiled as he saw from the expression in the faces of the prisoners, who stood nearest to the door, that they had heard his words. And they had understood his meaning. These British and American officers were being shipped into Germany from Italy. Their appearance here was an emergency halt on that journey. They had been unexpected, and their arrival had thrown the camp into an uproar.

There was a burst of angry German commands. And then, in answer to them, a Scots voice shouted clearly downstairs, “We’re doing the best we can. Tell your own ten chaps to do it if you’re no’ pleased.” Now that look of quiet enjoyment on the officers’ faces was explained, too. This delay in the clearing of some rooms for them was no accident. Jock Stewart and his fatigue party had been detailed by the Italians to throw the soldiers’ possessions out, so as to make room for the new
arrivals. And the officers had passed word upstairs to tell Stewart and his party to take as long as possible. And unless the Germans
(ten,
Stewart had obligingly reported) actually did the work themselves, Stewart would see to it that it would take as long as possible.

It was then that the Commandant collected enough of his wits to close the door. The noises from the hall became muffled once more. All that could be heard was the shouting of the German guards, now subdued by the thick door into a blur of sound.

Ten of them, Lennox repeated to himself. Stewart had thought it important enough to say the exact number. There were five Italian guards in here; and there should be thirty-five other Italian guards round the camp, not to count the civilians who were employed either in the post office, or in the commissary or in the kitchen. Yet, come to think of it, there hadn’t been many Italians on view this afternoon. And when Falcone had left this room he had gone through the kitchen. And the kitchen was empty. Usually you could hear the Italians in there a mile off, as they wrangled over their share of the prisoners’ supplies before they started cooking. But this afternoon there was only silence. This afternoon there had been fewer guards round the wire fences. No movements had come from the watch-tower overlooking the walls. No movement from the guard-room.

Lennox felt his throat close in his excitement. His humorous neighbour was being serious for once. “What’s it all about?” he was asking.

Lennox stared at the heavy door which shut this room off from the hall. Behind there lay the answer. The officers knew; and Stewart and his party must have learned from them, for
they knew. Here, one could only guess. But the door blocked contact. If the men in here and the men outside could act simultaneously there would be a chance to escape. Not for one, but for all of them.

“A chance,” Lennox was saying, “a chance.” He was now staring at the Italians’ guns. Had Ferry guessed? Had Miller? If so there was indeed a chance. The humorist was looking at him. “What chance?” he kept repeating.

The kitchen door opened. But it wasn’t Falcone who entered. It was the boy Johann, a small bundle of letters in his hand, a bright smile on his round face, now flushed with excitement. He was alone. He moved quickly towards the middle of the wall along which the guards stood, their guns held ready as the captain had commanded, and then turned to face the men. He spoke as quickly as he had moved, and, strangely enough, he spoke in the Italian which he had been forced to learn at school. Lennox suddenly realised that Johann was talking more for the benefit of the Italians than for the roomful of men, only a tenth of whom could understand his words.

“I brought the letters, for there was no one else to bring them.” Johann’s smile broadened, as he watched the Italians’ faces. Miller was saying, “What’s up? Johann, what’s up?” Ferry was shouting, “Where’s Falcone, where are the other guards?”

Johann was still watching the Italians. He said, “All are gone. One after another. Just slipping away. Like that.” He moved his hand slowly in an arc, as if tracing the course of a sun which had risen, had stood high, and was now falling out of sight.

One of the Italians, with less will to believe than the others, said, “You lie.” But his voice didn’t sound too sure.

“Me?” Johann handed the small bundle of letters over to
Miller, who didn’t even begin to distribute them. The others had forgotten about the letters too. They were as silent as the Italians, but there was hope and expectancy in the prisoners’ faces.

“Why,” Johann was saying casually, “if you had been listening to the radio during the last half-hour, you would have heard the German announcement. It said just what I said when I came back from Bolzano this afternoon. Only some of you would believe me then. Now all, except you five dolts, believe me.”

“We have capitulated?” one guard asked slowly.

“Unconditionally,” Johann answered, with high good humour. “Unconditionally.” He was obviously fond of that word.

There was the beginning of a shout from the prisoners. Those who hadn’t understood the language fully, had yet understood the meaning. There was little need for those who were translating so enthusiastically.

Johann pointed warningly towards the hall. “
Warten Sie noch!
” he said in his own language. Miller and Ferry silenced the impatient men. “Not yet, not yet!” Miller repeated.

Peter Lennox watched Johann uneasily. Was he with them, or against them? “Wait,” he had said. But why wait? This chance might slip away. Now was the time. Why wait? Had this boy some plan which he had brought back from Bozen as well as the first news of the surrender? Or was he only enjoying this moment as any Tyrolese against the hated Italians?

One of the guards had tightened his grip on his gun. A hard, clever look came over his face as he kept the rifle pointed at the mass of men. He backed slowly towards the hall-door. Three
others wavered, and then followed his example. Peter Lennox cursed silently. The chance was slipping. The guards should have been rushed when the first shock of the news was upon them. Only, the prisoners had been too surprised themselves to be able to act then. Now there was only silence in the room.

“Fools!” Johann said quietly, looking at the hall-door. “No help for you there. The Germans are calling the Italians traitors. They are killing Italians in Naples.”

The guard, who had almost reached the hall-door, paused.

“The Germans are killing Italians, and the Italians are killing Germans,” Johann said very slowly. He was enjoying the idea so much that the Italians knew he spoke the truth. “Look,” he went on, now urgent and serious, “I give you warning, more warning than you gave my friends when you seized them for your army in Albania and in Greece. I give you fair warning. The Germans are taking over Northern Italy. The Italians are leaving Bolzano. The South Tyrol is no longer Italian.”

The guards were staring now at the boy’s triumphant smile. For over twenty years the Italians had tried to make the South Tyrol a part of Italy. Now, if their authority were removed, the Tyrolese would have a long-remembered score to settle. So the guards were silent, as if numbed by the fear which must have tormented them for many weeks now. The fear had been too real, too well-earned, to let them have any doubts of the truth in Johann’s words. First one, and then the others left the hall-door, and backed slowly along the wall towards the kitchen entrance. Their guns were no longer truculent. They were no longer the gaolers. These prisoners didn’t matter now that war was over. There was only one purpose now, and that was to reach the Italy where Italians lived. The guards, admitting that,
measured their own imminent danger. It grew with each hour of delay.

Lennox watched the strangely silent men, whose slow, uncertain movements were now beginning to take the shape of hurry.

As they reached the kitchen-door Johann spoke softly. “Your guns will show you are deserters. Best leave them here, so that if you meet any Germans they will think you are only going off duty.”

The Italians hesitated.

“All right. Don’t believe me,” Johann said. “Find out for yourselves. The only Italians who keep their guns are those who are going to fight the Germans. The Germans know that. But find it out for yourselves.” He held out his hand for the weapons. The Yorkshire sergeant-major, pushing his way through the mass of prisoners, pulled a rifle out of an unresisting hand and pointed with his thumb to the kitchen-door.

“Go on,” he said encouragingly. “We won’t shoot you.” The Italians hadn’t understood his words, but they caught their meaning. They went, with a haste so precipitous that even the sergeant-major looked somewhat amazed at the five rifles stacked in his arms.

Lennox felt an emotion which was almost pity. It isn’t pleasant to see men realise that they are trapped and helpless, that now it’s their turn to be kicked about. And then he was telling himself to keep his pity for those who deserved it. None of these guards had ever done a spontaneous, decent thing for any of the prisoners: their occasional kindnesses had been granted when the payment—in food from the prisoners’ boxes—had been exorbitantly extracted. Humanity had been
lowered to the level of barter and grab. Even now none of the guards had volunteered to fight along with the prisoners: now they were only thinking of how to save their own skins and property as they scrabbled their way through the kitchen-door. Let him keep his pity for those who had practised pity.

There was a movement as if the prisoners had decided something too. The mass of men came to life. Even those who were ill, who had propped their bodies against the tables in the room, watched with eager eyes. They were waiting, ready.

Miller, talking urgently to Johann, had now started to tell the sergeant-major the boy’s suggestion. It had sufficient possibilities, because the sergeant-major nodded and selected five men. Johann, it seemed, was to be entrusted with a gun; he and the five men were already leaving the room by the kitchen-door. Lennox edged his way to where Miller stood.

“What’s the idea?” he asked, more quietly than he felt. Fool, he was thinking, to sacrifice a gun to Johann... What good would that do?

“They will reach the courtyard through one of the kitchen-doors. There are three German lorries under guard in the courtyard.”

It wasn’t a very perfect explanation. Miller was too busy trying to persuade the sergeant-major that he could use a rifle as well as the next man. But the word “courtyard” caught Lennox’s ear. In the courtyard was the guard-house, where other weapons, including machine guns, could be found. The five men would march in good order across the courtyard, as if they had been detailed for some camp duty. If the Germans guarding their lorries were to turn their attention on the prisoners, then Johann, armed and in correct uniform, would
give the authentic touch of control to the scene. The Germans were strangers here and ignorant of the camp’s routine.

“What about the Italians in the guard-room?”

“Gone. So Johann said.”

Lennox’s mouth twisted. “So Johann said,” he mimicked, but Miller had followed the others, who, realising that the remaining guns could only arm four men, were now invading the deserted kitchen. Quickly they passed out to the mess-hall any choppers, pans, ladles, rolling-pins, they could find. Ferry was testing a carving knife thoughtfully; Miller had compromised on a meat mallet. Lennox refused a Chianti bottle and made his way into the kitchen to choose his own weapon. He came back into the dining-room gripping in his left hand a length of iron chain which had once held a soup-pot suspended over the kitchen fire. He knotted it loosely at the end, and a slow grin came over his tight mouth as he tested the chain’s weight. He glanced at his taut wrist. His watch said it was now thirty-five minutes past six. Johann had brought the letters at six twenty-six. Nine minutes had passed. Nine minutes against seven months. Seven months of worry and sweat to prepare for an escape. And here it was in nine minutes, flat.

The sergeant-major held up his hand. He was standing at the hall-door, ready to swing it open.

To the three sharpshooters he had chosen he said, “I take the captain. You, the man to his left. You, the man to his right. You, the German at the top of the stairs. After that, pick off the nearest. You others, start rushing when we stop shooting. When I give the signal everyone yell his bloody head off. Ready, boys?”

The men nodded, and tightened their grasp round their weapons. Those who had nothing but their bare hands, gathered
together in a solid mass behind the crudely armed spear-head.

The sergeant-major held his hand raised. He’s waiting, Lennox guessed, for the courtyard: the men who had marched towards the guard-room with Johann should have taken possession of the machine guns by this time. He glanced quickly at the tense, waiting faces around him, and then at his watch. Another minute and a half had gone. His muscles tautened, and he felt a drop of perspiration trickle over his upper lip. He stared at the door as the others did. Each slipping second could spell disaster.