The Tunnel (20 page)

‘For nine hours these have been away from earth,
Sucking oxygen through narrow tubes,
Cold and cramped and deaf with noise,
Each in his lonely station;
While searchlights, flak and fighters all combine
To tear them down;
To tear them fiercely burning from the sky,
In which they try in vain to hide themselves.

‘So slowly down they clamber,
Remove their masks and sniff the air;
They light a cigarette and stretch their arms
And look around them at the sky.
They are glad to be alive these men;
These seven leather-huge dwarf men
As thick-booted gloved and helmeted they stand
Beneath the belly of that monstrous bird.’

‘That’s not a poem,’ Saunders said. ‘It doesn’t rhyme.’

‘You didn’t write it, did you?’ Peter spoke to John.

‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘I don’t know. I found it when we were putting the dummies in the bunks.’

‘If you want some poetry,’ Saunders said, ‘I know a bit of
Gunga Din.’

‘I wonder who wrote it,’ Peter said.

‘Kipling, of course!’ Saunders said it with scom.

‘No – I mean this. Let’s have a look, John.’ He took the paper from John’s hand. ‘Why, this is Otto’s writing.’

‘Blimey,’ Saunders said. ‘I didn’t know Otto was a poet. He couldn’t speak English, hardly.’

‘His English was good,’ John said. ‘It was only his accent that was a bit ropey.’

‘That happens to be my property,’ Loveday said, from his bunk, ‘and I’ll thank you to give it to me.’

‘Sorry.’ Peter passed the piece of paper to Loveday who took it, folded it and put it under his pillow.

‘I think it’s jolly good.’ Peter would have said more, have tried to tell Loveday that they understood, that they realized that this evening meant more to him than it did to them. But it had grown beyond that. Loveday had put himself beyond their reach.

‘Come on, Saunders, let’s have that story.’ Hugo beckoned them away from Loveday’s bunk.

‘OK. Where was I?’

‘In Montreal,’ John said. ‘You’d just met the old dame, and she’d shown you into a room on the left of the hall.’

‘No – it was on the right of the hall, just as you came in through the door.’

‘OK, it was the right. What happened then?’

‘I told you about the drawings, didn’t I?’

‘Yes – you didn’t describe them.’

‘God, what drawings they were! It’d shake old Mueller if I had ’em here. All the colour they were. Makes me sweat to think of them. And the whole place smelled of bath salts, a sort of choky, expensive smell. We sat on one of the seats and the old girl said, “The girls won’t be a moment,” and waddled off down the hall. We thought she meant the waitresses.’

‘Come off it,’ Hugo said.

‘Honestly! We both thought we were going to get our tea. I asked old Dicky about it afterwards, and he still thought we were getting our tea.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, we sat there for a bit, then I got up and walked around, looking at the drawings. Jolly good they were, too. Then I heard footsteps and darted back and sat down next to Dicky. Then the old dame came in followed by a lot of girls, and we realized that it wasn’t a tea-shop after all.’ He stopped abruptly.

‘Go on,’ Hugo said.

‘Give it a rest tonight,’ Saunders said. ‘I told you, I’m not in the mood. I can’t keep on talking while that goes on outside. Let’s play cards or something.’

‘It must be about our turn for the stove,’ Hugo said. ‘Come on.’

While Hugo and Saunders were preparing dinner Peter sat and listened for the sound of activity from outside, but heard nothing.

He went to the latrine whose window looked out on to the wire, and found Tyson there, gazing intently out into the darkness.

‘Anything happening?’ Peter asked.

‘They must be all away by now,’ Tyson said. ‘I’d give my ears to be with them.’

‘We’ll be out soon,’ Peter said.

‘It’s too much to hope for, two tunnels so close together,’ Tyson said. ‘We’ll be lucky if we survive the search.’

When Peter got back to the mess the others were sitting round the table, eating and discussing poetry. ‘Come on, Pete,’ John said, ‘yours is getting cold.’

‘I can never understand how people can remember poetry,’ Hugo was saying. ‘There was a chap at school who knew the whole of
Paradise Lost
by heart.’

‘It’s perfectly easy,’ John said. ‘Merely a matter of application. This pie’s jolly good, Hugo.’

‘It’s not overcooked,’ Hugo said. ‘The secret is a slow but constant heat.’

‘My God, you make me sick!’ Loveday shouted. ‘Talk – talk – talk! Why can’t some of you keep quiet for a change!’

‘Listen to who’s talking now,’ Saunders said.

‘Give it a rest tonight Saunders,’ Hugo said.

‘It must need a peculiar sort of brain to remember poetry,’ Peter said. ‘I once knew a fellow who could do an extraordinary thing. If you gave him a list of thirty perfectly unconnected words and allowed him to look at it for five minutes, he could put the list away and repeat it from memory – from top to bottom and from bottom to top. Then he could start from number fifteen and repeat them backwards to number one, go back to number sixteen and repeat down to number thirty.’

‘It must be a very peculiar sort of brain,’ Saunders said.

‘I reckon I could do it,’ John said.

‘Don’t talk cock!’ Loveday exploded all his pent-up personal animosity, all his rage and fear, in the single sentence.

‘I said that I reckon I could do it.’

‘Bet you two bars of chocolate you can’t.’ Loveday glared at him in challenge.

The mess. was silent. Two bars of chocolate was a big stake.

Two bars of chocolate represented a fortune. Peter and John had been saving their chocolate for weeks now; refusing to eat it, hiding it in the back of their locker and going to look at it now and again – just to see that it was still there – but keeping it for the escape, hoarding it with a few dried raisins and the odd Horlicks tablet they had begged from the British doctor in the camp hospital. Now it was hidden outside with the rest of their kit. Loveday, apparently, did not set so much store by chocoate.

‘I’ll take you on,’ John said.

‘Well, don’t do it until after I’ve cleared the dinner things away,’ Hugo told him. ‘This is going to be interesting.’

‘I must have complete quiet,’ John said.

‘Right,’ Peter said. ‘Now, quiet, chaps – it’s only for five minutes.’

John sat with his elbows on the table, head between his hands, gazing at the piece of paper on which Hugo had printed the list of words. The others watched; Peter and Hugo at each end of the table, Saunders and Loveday from their bunks. John folded the paper, and handed it to Peter. Slowly he began: ‘Smoke …

milk …

rafters …

window …

anticipation …

rogue …

paper…

bathe …

clog …

onomatopoeia …

meat-roll …’

He paused for a moment.

‘Cliff …

steeplechase …

rapids …

stooge …

rationalise …

lipstick …

chesterfield …

baggage …

clay …

beefsteak …

pipe …

sanitation …’

He paused again, for longer this time, while Peter willed him to remember.

‘Jargon …

Chanel Five …

eggs …

theatre …

goon …

table …

triumph.’

‘Good show!’ Peter said. ‘Now from bottom to top.’ John sat with his head in his hands and repeated very slowly, ‘Triumph, table …’ all the way through to ‘cliff.’

‘Very good indeed,’ Peter said. ‘Now from “stooge” to the top.’

‘Give ’im the chocolate!’ Saunders said.

‘No,’ Peter said, ‘he can do it.’ He wanted him to win it fairly.

John held up his hand for silence. Slowly and deliberately he repeated the first fifteen backwards, then from sixteen to thirty.

‘I’d never have believed it possible.’ Peter said.

There’s nothing outstanding in that,’ Loveday said. ‘Visual memory, that’s all.’

‘It’s cost you two bars of chocolate anyway,’ Saunders told him.

‘That’s as may be.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘How do you know Howard wasn’t prompting?’

‘Because I was watching. So were you for that matter.’

‘I’m not convinced.’

‘What more proof d’you want?’ Peter said. ‘You saw him do it. Come on, give him the chocolate.’

‘I haven’t got two bars of chocolate anyway.’

‘Well!’ Saunders said. ‘You bastard!’

Loveday jumped to his feet, but stood transfixed. A queer rasping cry broke from his lips. The others watched him, appalled. Slowly a tremor ran through his body, his face began to twitch. There was a fixed, murderous, yet frightened look in his eyes. He took one step towards Saunders, who, also frightened, began to rise from his bunk; then Loveday crashed to the ground, panting for breath and blubbering, his lips flecked with reddish foam.

‘Get him on to the bed,’ Peter said. He took out his hankerchief and tried to force it between Loveday’s teeth, but they were tightly clenched.

‘Get the MO,’ Hugo said.

‘We can’t – the doors are locked.’

‘Get Stewart.’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ Saunders said. He giggled nervously. ‘He’s halfway across Poland by now.’

‘It’s all right,’ Peter said. ‘He’ll be all right.’ He covered Loveday with a blanket, and loosened the collar round his neck.

‘What the hell’s wrong with him?’ Saunders asked.

‘Epileptic fit,’ Peter said.

‘D’you think I caused it?’

‘You shouldn’t have called him a bastard,’ Hugo said. ‘Some people can’t stand that.’

‘Some people are bastards.’ Saunders was recovering.

Slowly Loveday’s breathing grew more normal, till he seemed merely to be sleeping.

‘Leave him now,’ Peter said. ‘When he wakes he’ll have forgotten all about it.’

‘He scared the pants off me,’ Saunders said.

They sat in silence for a while listening to Loveday’s heavy breathing.

‘We ought to get him put in the hospital,’ Peter said.

‘They wouldn’t accept him,’ John said. ‘He’s perfectly normal for most of the time.’

‘I wouldn’t go so far as that,’ Saunders said.

That night Peter could not sleep. He lay on his bunk wondering about the escapers, where they were and what they were doing. He imagined those who had decided to go on foot walking along the deserted roads of the Polish countryside; free. Free to go wherever they liked. And now, if the cookhouse tunnel weathered the search and was not discovered, they could start on theirs again. He and John were well up on the list. The bad air and the damp of the tunnel had already taken its toll of the diggers. One by one they had dropped out, and place by place he and John had crept towards the top. Now they were well within the coveted ‘first ten’ and would be certain of getting away when the tunnel broke.

He would soon have to arrange for the rest of his civilian clothes and his papers; he wouldn’t worry about these until after the search. Too bad to get all ready and then lose the lot. Far better not to make too many preparations – too much to lose if you were discovered.

In the early morning, still unable to sleep, he went out to the washhouse for a mug of water. The place was lit by a feeble low-powered bulb, and beneath the light Tyson, muffled in coats and blankets, sat reading a book. He did not look up as Peter entered the room, nor did he speak. As Peter filled his mug quietly, anxious not to disturb him, Tyson slowly turned a page, and when he left the washhouse the man was still sitting there, his head bent to the book in the dim light, alone in the night-quiet washhouse.

The following morning the usual body of miserable green-clad German soldiers with fixed bayonets marched into the compound, separated to the various barrack blocks, unlocked the doors and shouted their usual ‘
’Raus, ’raus!’
to call the prisoners to another day. In Peter’s block the prisoners shouted back their usual reply.

But here ended the similarity to any other morning. Instead of breakfast of three thin slices of black bread, Saunders and Hugo had prepared a substantial meal – not as a celebration, but because very soon the whole camp would be turned out on to the football pitch to stand, perhaps all day, while the tunnel was excavated and the barracks searched.

This morning, to make the columns look their normal length, the prisoners paraded in ranks of three instead of five. They were all fully dressed and carried sandwiches, some of them cardboard boxes full of food. No one knew what to expect, and it was wise to be prepared.

To Hauptmann Mueller as he walked up the hill, everything looked as it normally did. There were the long lines of prisoners, each line nearly as long as the barrack before which it stood. Peter’s block was the first to be counted, Wing Commander Stewart’s place being taken by Tyson, who in unaccustomed full uniform looked tired and apprehensive.

As Mueller approached, Tyson saluted. The German returned his salute.

‘Where is Mr Stewart?’

‘He is not here this morning.’

‘Ach so?’
Mueller looked slowly down the ranks of grinning men. It was not until the guards began the count that he became aware that everything was not in order. His round face turned white, then red, then white again. Peter could see the effort that he was exerting to retain control.

He turned to Tyson. ‘In fives, please,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Always in fives, Mr Tyson.’

‘OK, chaps – close up!’

Untidily the long straggling line of prisoners closed up to a compact bunch three-quarters of its normal length. Mueller, determined not to betray his feelings, stood silent while the count was taken. There were fifteen prisoners missing.

He moved to the next block, where the same performance was repeated. He counted all the blocks, and then stood talking to the
Lagerfeldwebel
in the middle of the square. By now the triumphant prisoners could see from his face that he was beside himself with worry. Presently the
Feldwebel
called one of the guards, who saluted and set off at the double to the
Kommandantur.

The prisoners waited expectantly. Then the rumour got around that Mueller had sent for the
Kommandant.
He was an almost mythical being, rarely seen in the compound. Mueller walked up and down, his hands behind his back, while the
Feldwebel
loosened stones from the path with the toes of his jackboot and kicked them against the wall of the barrack block.

Presently the compound gates were opened, and a squad of guards, armed with tommy guns and wearing steel helmets, marched towards the football pitch. They were halted and turned to face the prisoners, their tommy guns at the ready.

‘Mass execution at
Oflag XXIB,’
John muttered.

‘They’re only closing the stable door,’ Peter assured him. In spite of the danger to their tunnel, he was enjoying himself, as most of the prisoners were enjoying this break in the normal routine.

There was a murmur of appreciation as the
Kommandant,
a slight figure in cavalry breeches and a long flowing cloak, appeared at the gates. He walked stiffly, like an ancient crow, his cloak held tightly across his narrow chest.
Hauptmann
Mueller walked down to meet him, the roll fluttering in his hand. They met, watched by nine hundred prisoners. The
Lageroffizier
saluted and stood stiffly to attention while the
Kommandant,
having returned the salute, stood arms akimbo, his cloak blowing in the wind.

‘He’s tearing old Mueller off a terrific strip,’ John said.

‘Wouldn’t be in his shoes,’ Saunders said. ‘Not for six months off my sentence.’ He chuckled nervously.

The two Germans talked for some minutes while the troops drawn up on the football pitch stood stiffly, pointing their tommy guns at the prisoners. Then Mueller saluted again, tumed on his heel, and walked back towards the barrack blocks. When he reached the top of the hill his face was set in a frozen grin; the British prisoners must see that he was ‘sporting.’

‘You will return to your quarters, gentlemen,’ he said.

The prisoners filed back into their barrack blocks, and were locked in.

The rumour spread quickly; the
Kommandant
had sent to Berlin for the
Gestapo.
In Peter’s block there were long queues for the windows that looked out on to the football pitch. The fortunate ones who had obtained the point of vantage were relaying the news to those inside the room.

‘Here come some more goons.’

‘They must have turned out the whole unit,’ another said. ‘There are hundreds of goons marching down the road.’

‘They’ve deployed into the fields now – they’re surrounding the camp. They’re making a loose cordon about fifty yards deep.’

‘They’ve no idea where the tunnel comes out, that’s why.’

‘They’ve no idea where it starts either.’

There was a silence, while those at the back grew restless.

‘What’s happening now?’

‘Nothing much – they’re just hanging around looking stupid.’

‘Here come the dogs.’

‘Where – I can’t see them!’

‘There, look – coming along the road behind the sentry-box.’

‘Hell, yes – it won’t be long now, chaps.’

‘Here comes a car. Two cars – three – a whole convoy. They’re Mercs, they’re stopping outside the gates. Brown uniform – must be the
Gestapo.
They’re all saluting one another now. Heiling Hitler as hard as they can go.’

‘What are the dogs doing?’

They’re quartering the fields outside the wire. They’ve found the tunnel!’ – excitedly – ‘they’re hopping about like mad – they’re shouting their heads off at one another. How typical, how bloody typical! Someone’s run off for the
Kommandant.
He’s fallen over his rifle. What clots – they’re pointing their rifles down the hole – as though anyone’s still down there!’ - shouting out of the window – ‘You clots, you damned silly clots! They went hours ago!’

‘Shut up, Bill,’ someone said. ‘They’ll put a bullet in here if you don’t shut up.’

‘Sorry, but they
are
silly clots. Look at them standing there as though they expect the whole camp to come out of the hole.’

‘Here comes the
Kommandant.
And the Wily Gestapo. And the cameramen. They look as though they’re going to a funeral.’

‘Have you fellows had enough yet? Let someone else have a look.’

The window party squeezed their way out, those immediately behind taking their places.

‘What’s happening now?’

‘They’ve got to the hole. They’re all waving their arms about. I can’t see what they’re doing, I think the
Kommandant
is telling old Mueller to go down the hole. He’s refusing to go.’

‘Mueller’s telling one of the goons to go down – he’s refusing to go too.’

‘Good show, that’s mutiny. Hope they shoot the whole bloody lot.’

‘What are they doing now?’ – impatiently.

‘One of them’s got a bicycle – he’s cycling back to the compound.’

‘The
Kommandant’s
lighting a cigarette. They’re taking a photograph of the hole. Fat lot of good that’s going to be.’

‘That’s for the records, old boy. The Scene Of The Amazing Break At
Oflag XXIB.
Thirty Desperadoes Loose in Poland. The
Luft-Gangsters’
Break For Freedom.’

‘Hello, there’s a squad of goons coming into the compound. They’re marching across to the
abort.
They must know the tunnel starts from there.’

‘Left right, left right, left right …’ the prisoners chanted in time with the marching soldiers. Slowly they changed the time of their shouting, and burst into laughter as the Germans altered step. It’s just like school, Peter thought. He stood at the back of the crowd listening to the running commentary. He felt the victory of the prisoners over their guards and, as always in moments of victory, he felt pity for the vanquished.

‘Left right, left right …’ There was the sudden rattle of a stick brushed across corrugated iron as a salvo of tommy gun fire flew low across the roof of the barrack block.

‘Better pack it in, chaps, someone said. ‘The next lot’ll be through the windows.’

‘What’s happening now?’

‘They’ve locked the door of the
abort,
and posted a couple of goons outside.’

‘Perhaps now they’ve found the tunnel they’ll let us out of here.’

‘Not a hope, we’ll be here for days.’

‘I bet they don’t find the trap from this end. We sealed it down pretty thoroughly.’

‘Here come the working party. They’ve got some Ruskis with spades. The’re going to make ’em dig it up.’

‘Where from? The
abort
end?’

‘No – the exit. They’re telling a Ruski to go down - they’re putting a Ruski down the hole. Poor devil, he’ll come out right into the trench of the
abort
.’

‘He’s lucky – they’ll have to give him a bath now.’

‘He’ll never get through it. I expect half the chaps left their food down there because they couldn’t carry it all.’

‘Old Kee went out loaded like a camel.’

There was silence as the green-clad Russian prisoner was seen to crawl headfirst into the tunnel. Presently there was more excitement.

‘Look – here come some charabancs. They’re pulling up outside the camp. They’re full of goons – hundreds of ’em – complete with kit and everything.’

Saunders came and joined Peter and Loveday at the back of the crowd. ‘They haven’t got a chance,’ he said.

‘There are too many of them,’ Peter said. ‘If only one or two had gone they wouldn’t have taken all this trouble. Thirty going all at once has scared them stiff. They’re turning half the army out.’

‘It’s going to make it difficult for your lot when you break,’ Saunders said.

They’ll forget all about it before then,’ Peter told him.

‘I hope Otto gets away,’ Saunders said. ‘I reckon he’s got more chance than the others.’

‘More chance of getting shot if he’s caught.’ Peter saw the look on Loveday’s face and wished that he had not spoken.

The prisoners were locked in the barrack blocks all that day and night, and the following morning the whole camp was herded on to the football pitch, where they were surrounded by a ring of armed guards while the buildings were searched. They spent the morning sitting and standing – there was not room for them all to sit at the same time – or queuing to use the temporary latrine that had been erected in one corner of the pitch. Saunders had brought his patent portable
Stufa
and Peter and a few prisoners who surrounded them were able to drink a mug of lukewarm tea.

Later in the morning the Germans set up a trestle-table under one of the goalposts. One by one the prisoners were made to approach the table, where they were identified with the complete personal record kept by the Germans – photograph, fingerprints, birthmarks and a chart of tooth fillings. After each man had been identified he was stripped and searched; and then he was released to walk freely round the circuit, but was not allowed to enter the barrack blocks.

The prisoners quickly realised that the longer they could spin out this identity parade, the greater start would the escapers have. They milled around inside the cordon of guards, each one, as he was caught and taken to the table hanging back like a frightened steer about to be branded. Once he was in front of the table deliberate misunderstanding and stupidity, if handled intelligently, could gain a valuable ten minutes. After half an hour of this the guards used their bayonets to enforce their commands, and the identification was speeded up.

As the football pitch thinned out and Peter realized that it would soon be his turn to be identified, he began to worry about the few
verboten
possessions that were hidden in his clothes. There would be a serious shortage of maps and compasses for the next few weeks and he did not want to go out unprepared. In spite of Tyson’s pessimism he was still confident that their tunnel would remain undiscovered. Surely the goons would be content with one tunnel unearthed this week.

Looking round him to see what the others were doing, he could see several earnest bearded figures diligently but furtively scraping away with their hands at the loose earth of the football pitch, or patting the surface soil tenderly back into place. He knew a moment’s indecision and then quickly slid his maps and compass from their hiding-place in the waistband of his trousers and buried them in the ground. Shortly afterwards he was taken by the guards and marched to the trestle-table where Mueller, a chastened man, sat glowering through his round, dark-rimmed spectacles.

‘Number?’

‘Eh?’

‘Number?’

‘Number?’

Mueller kept his temper. ‘Your POW identity number!’

‘Oh … I’ve forgotten it.’

‘Where is your disc?’

‘Disc?’

Mueller signalled to one of the guards, who lowered his rifle and gently pushed the bayonet into the small of Peter’s back.

‘Oh, my
disc
’ Peter fumbled with the front of his shirt, taking as long as he could to discover the metal disc which hung from a piece of string round his neck. When, at last, he found it, the string was too short to enable him to read the number. He leaned across the table and held the disc in front of the officer’s face.

Mueller drew back hastily.
‘So! Neunundachtzig!’
He flicked through a small box file and extracted a card, in one corner of which Peter could see a photograph of himself with set expression, holding a number across his chest.

‘Flight Lieutenant Peter Howard.’ Mueller studied the photograph, then looked hard at Peter. ‘So you have been in bad company. Do not congratulate yourself, my friend. They will not be out for long.’ He signalled the guard to take him along to be searched.