The Tunnel (11 page)

The gates were thrown open and the long straggling line of prisoners marched into the camp, peering through the darkness for some hint of what they were to expect. They could only see the wire, bright and hard in the light of the arc lamps, and the black and red striped sentry box. Untidily they closed up on the leading ranks, who had halted. The gates were shut behind them with a creak and clatter of chains.

The prisoners eased the bundles from their shoulders. Some of them lit cigarettes, a
Feldwebel
ran up and down the column telling them not to smoke, but they took no notice. The falling snow settled on their heads and shoulders as they stood waiting in the horizontal beam of the searchlight.

Then they were counted again, several times. Peter heard the Germans arguing about the count, and was filled with a feeling of sick futility. He stood in the cold muddy snow of the compound dumbly waiting for the guards to make a move. All he wanted was to get out of the snow. He thought with nostalgia of the dry room at
Dulag-Luft.
Even the railway carriage would have been better than this.

At last the guards agreed on the count, and the prisoners were marched into a large cement-faced building which stood just beyond the light of the arc lamps.

As he stood in the long queue, Peter wondered why they must be searched again. They had been searched before leaving
Dulag-Luft;
what could the Germans imagine they would have picked up during the journey? When his turn came, he stood and watched the guard trying to unravel the series of elaborate knots with which he had tied his bundle – the Germans never used knives, too salvage conscious, he supposed. He wished he had added a few more knots for luck. The things the doctor had given him, together with the small brass compass and the maps he had copied from the encyclopaedia were safe in their hidden pockets, and he managed to get them through undiscovered.

When the last man had been searched the prisoners were taken to a large hall, where they were handed over to the Senior British Officer. There were tables and forms set out in the hall, and the newcomers were given a cup of tea and two slices of black bread thinly spread with jam. When they had eaten they were addressed by the tall lean group captain, whose lined face looked haggard under his battered service cap.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘before you go to your new quarters I should like to say a few words about the general running of this camp. The organization is simple, and I want to keep it that way. I, as Senior British Officer, am responsible to the German authorities for all that goes on inside the camp; but I’ll tell you more about that later.

The building you are in is known as the White House. It was once a reformatory, but no prisoners sleep here now. It is used for the camp theatre and lecture rooms and for the library. Normally no prisoners are allowed in the building after dark.

There are ten barrack blocks in the compound. Each barrack block is divided into twelve messes. In each mess there are eight officers. Each barrack block is under the command of a wing commander or a squadron leader. Each mess has a senior officer, who is responsible to the block commander for the conduct of his mess.

All discipline is self-imposed. You will find, before you have been very long in the camp, that most of our energy is devoted to a ceaseless war against the enemy. To carry on this war, a spirit of loyalty and service is essential. You will find such a spirit in this camp.

Our foremost activity is – escape. Do not forget that there are men here who have been escaping ever since they were captured. At the moment there is a tunnel halfway towards the wire. No – don’t be alarmed. I can speak freely. The guards have gone, and we have stooges posted at every window. I tell you this because I want to warn you against ill-considered attempts at escape. If you rashly take the first chance that offers itself, it is more than likely that you will fail. That is not important; what is important is that, in failing, you may uncover another, long-planned scheme that, but for your interference, might have succeeded.

There is a special body of officers in this camp known as the Escape Committee. It is their job to coordinate and assist all escape attempts. If you have an idea, take it to them. Do not be afraid that by doing so you will lose control of the scheme. It is your scheme, and you will be the first man to leave the camp by means of it, if it succeeds. The Escape Committee will arrange for your forged passports and civilian clothes. We have special departments whose only job is making these things. If you have a scheme of escape, take it to the Committee. They are all experienced men, and they will give you all the help they can.

The Germans have their own security branch. It is known as the
Abwehr.
They employ specially trained men we call ‘ferrets.’ You will recognize them in the camp by their blue overalls and the long steel spikes they carry. These men are dangerous. They all speak English and are expert in the discovery of escape activity. You will find them hiding under the floor and in the roof, listening at the keyhole and the windows. Look out for them.

‘We have our counter-ferrets. We call them ‘stooges.’ Every ferret that comes into the camp is shadowed by a stooge. There are stooges standing at every window and door as I am talking. Before I began, they searched every possible hiding place within hearing distance of this room. You also, will be asked to volunteer for this duty. It is practically the only duty you will be asked to perform, and I hope you will do it cheerfully.

If you attempt to escape – and I hope you will – you will find it an ungrateful task. Its greatest function is that it boosts the morale of your fellow prisoners. They feel that while there is an escape attempt in operation we are doing something against the enemy – not just vegetating. As I told you when we first met, there is a wonderful spirit in this camp. I hope that you will foster that spirit.’

When the group captain had gone, the new purge was divided into groups to be distributed among the ten barrack blocks. Peter and John Clinton made up a party with Saunders, the air-gunner, and Hugo, the tall immaculate flight lieutenant.

As they made their way down the stairs of the White House Peter felt the warmth and integrity of the group captain still with him. Here was a man to follow, a man with something positive to offer. What a difference between this and the weak opportunism of
Dulag-Luft.
He was almost cheerful again, eager to take his part in the war that would continue in this camp.

Outside, it was still snowing. The roofs of the barrack blocks were covered in snow, but the ground inside the compound had been churned into thick black sludge. Duckboard rafts outside the doors of the long low barracks were half under water, and the newcomers cursed as they squelched their way through the darkness.

The door to their barrack block was secured by lock and bar – a modern lock, Peter noticed, and a wooden bar four inches thick, resting in heavy iron brackets. The guard unfastened the door and led them into a small vestibule. The by now familiar stench, which had so astonished them during their first days at
Dulag-Luft,
told them what lay beyond the door which faced them – typical German POW sanitation.

There were two more double doors on their right, and these the guards kicked open without ceremony.

After the freshness of the night, the fug inside was overpowering. The big low room was almost in darkness. Through the gloom of smoke and steam, Peter could see row upon row of two-tier wooden bunks diminishing into hazy perspective. As his eyes grew accustomed to the smoke he noticed that the bunks had been pulled out from the walls to form a series of small rooms. In each room stood a wooden table on which a guttering home-made lamp shed a feeble dull red glow. Smoke from these lamps joined with steam from rows and rows of damp washing which hung on lines almost down to head level, to form clouds which billowed and eddied under the roof. The concrete floor was puddled with the water which dripped incessantly from the rows of washing. There were windows in each of the side walls, but these were covered from the outside by blackout shutters. There seemed to be no ventilation whatever.

Round each small table sat a group of prisoners playing cards or trying to read by the light of the home-made lamps, which threw weird and distorted shadows on the walls, once whitewashed, now grey and smeared by smoke and steam. Most of the men were wearing beards, their hair was long, and they shuffled round in wooden clogs or sat huddled on their bunks, blankets hunched round their shoulders, merging with the shadows that surrounded every feeble light. There was a buzz of conversation which dropped into curious silences as the new arrivals entered.

In one corner of the room a reedy gramophone ground out a dance tune, strident in the sudden hush.

A figure emerged from the shadows and came towards them. He was wearing a worn RAF tunic on which, below the pilot’s wings, was the ribbon of the DFC with bar. On the sleeves, almost worn away, were the three rings of a wing commander. He was dark and bearded, and his feet were thrust into huge wooden clogs which he scraped along the concrete floor as he walked.

‘Hallo, chaps – are you the new lot from
Dulag?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good show. Sorry about the light – it’ll come on again presently, I expect. Bloody goon reprisal. My name’s Stewart. Had a rough journey?’

‘Pretty grim, sir, yes.’

‘Well, we’ve got some food fixed up for you. And by the way, don’t call me “sir” – we dispense with that sort of thing here. You’ll want a wash before you eat. Just drop your things, and I’ll show you round. You’ve got soap and towels, I expect.’

He took them down the central gangway formed by narrow wooden lockers, which screened off the ‘rooms’ which lay behind them. ‘You’ll find us a bit bolshie, I expect, but the morale is pretty good – the Hun can’t do a thing with us.’

Peter, glancing in through the narrow doorways between the lockers, saw that the messes were divided one from the other by bunks standing at right angles to the wall. Each mess had a table and two long wooden forms, and seemed isolated, drawn round its own centre of fitful light. The effect of a squalid prolific slum was intensified by the festoons of washing which hung everywhere.

As they entered the washroom at the far end of the block, the electric light came on. There was a round of ironic cheers from the prisoners in the larger room.

‘It won’t be for long,’ Stewart told them. ‘The goons do it for fun. You’d better take advantage of it and get washed up while you can.’

Peter looked at the two long cement troughs, above which ran an iron pipe with taps at intervals. There were wooden duckboards on the floor, which was awash with greasy water. ‘The drains have stopped up again,’ Stewart explained. ‘We complain about it every day, but it doesn’t do any good.’

The newcomers set about removing some of the accumulated dirt of the four days’ journey. The water was cold. As Peter washed, he thought of the wing commander’s description ‘bolshie.’ What did he mean by bolshie? The place was certainly primitive enough. He looked round him at the flooded floor and dirty walls.

There was a sudden burst of conversation and loud laughter from the large room, as the door opened and a man came out carrying a large tin which he began to fill under one of the taps. He was dressed in a short sleeveless jacket roughly cobbled from blankets. His hair was cropped down to a quarter of an inch in length, and as he waited for the tin to fill he sang softly to himself. Peter watched him furtively; it seemed almost unbelievable that this could be a British officer. He felt as he had felt on his first day at school. When the man had gone, he looked across the trough at John, who was washing his beard. ‘What d’you make of this?’ he asked.

‘Better than the last place,’ John said. ‘It’s got a sort of discipline. You know where you are, in a place like this.’

‘Looks pretty grim to me.’ Hugo ran a wet comb through his hair, patting waves into shape with his hand. ‘Almost a boy scout atmosphere.’

‘It’ll be all right.’ Saunders was holding his dental plate under the running tap. Without his teeth his face looked old and drawn. ‘Better than the flak over Duisburg, any road.’

‘I didn’t mind the flak.’ Hugo was now combing his moustache. ‘You can put up with almost anything if you’ve got civilized living conditions.’

‘Listen to him,’ Saunders said. ‘Civilized living conditions! He doesn’t know he’s alive,’ To Hugo, ‘I bet you’ve never been hungry in your life.’

‘Not until I came to Germany.’

‘Then you’ve been lucky,’ Saunders told him.

The wing commander called them together. Under the shadow of his beard his face was thin. ‘I know you’ve just had a pi-jaw from the SBO, so I’ll make mine as short as possible. I’m going to put you chaps in the end mess, but for dinner this evening you will each go to a different mess, partly because we’ve drawn no rations for you yet and partly’ – he grinned - ‘so that you can give all the gen about home. You’re the first batch from England since we arrived here, so you’ll have to answer a lot of questions. Do it as cheerfully as you can – the chaps have been away a long time.

Flight Lieutenant Tyson is the hut representative on the Escape Committee, and if you want to escape we’ll give you all the help we can. Your chances of getting back are practically nil. I’m telling you this because we don’t want the game cluttered up with chaps who aren’t prepared to put in everything they’ve got.

Another thing: don’t be polite to the Hun. Don’t let him be polite to you. If we behaved ourselves he could do with a tenth of the number of guards he has to use now. Relax for a moment, say a polite word to him – and you’ll find yourself becoming a dead-beat. Don’t forget for a single second that these are your enemies. Do everything in your power to make their job as difficult as you can.

I’m putting you in the end mess. There’s a chap there you might find a bit of a strain at first, he’s a queer type. But there will only be six of you instead of the usual eight. You should be able to cope. Stick it as long as you can anyway, and if you find it too much let me know.’