The Tunnel (22 page)

‘That’s why you’re letting your hair grow …’ Saunders stopped in admiration. ‘You’re pretty wide, you two. Where are you making for?’

‘Yugoslavia.’

‘You might get away with it,’ Saunders said. ‘You’re both dark enough to pass as Italians. It’s the sort of stupid effort that would succeed.’

‘I shouldn’t be—’

The whole room was silenced by the rifle shot. From outside, close at hand. The silence was shattered again by two more shots, one after the other; and then the shrill eerie whistle of the guard and chatter of a machine-gun.

‘Someone’s climbing the wire,’ John said.

Peter shivered. The silent room was drowned in a flood of conversation. ‘Shut up!’ someone shouted; and they all listened for further shots.

‘It came from behind the
abort,’
Saunders whispered.

‘No – I think it was from the other side.’

‘It was this side, I think – pretty loud.’

‘I thought it came from near the hospital,’ Hugo said.

They listened again, but heard only the rain beating on the shutters and the moaning of the wind round the roof of the barrack block.

‘Rotten night to try the wire.’ Saunders laughed nervously.

‘It’s the only sort of night,’ John said. ‘I suppose this means another delay.’

‘Depends what it was,’ Peter said. ‘May have been some trigger-happy goon shooting at his own shadow. Let’s hope so, anyway.’

Peter was dreaming. He lay on his back on the tough uncut grass of the Downs and far below he could hear the sea rubbing itself against the white chalk base of the cliffs. At his side the girl, (It was never Pat. Why did he never dream of Pat?), cool in a summer frock, leaned on bare brown arms and faced the sun. Under her frock her legs were long and smooth and brown. He could not see them but he knew it. The sun was on her face, reflecting from the slight moistness of her brow and nose and upper lip, making a halo of her hair. Behind her head was the far unfathomable blue of the sky with small white clouds like thistledown sailing slowly and steadily in from the sea.

When she turned to look at him her eyes were as blue and as deep as the sea and as she stooped towards him he saw the slow sweet curve of her breasts.

Suddenly she was without her frock, smooth and cool and warm at the same time. She bent to kiss him. The sound of the sea grew louder and everything was warm and damp and cold and damp, and when he awoke it was slowly and warmly and happily as though it had really happened. He lay in the narrow bunk in the darkness, trying to recapture the vision until, suddenly, at the far end of the long room he heard someone crying in his sleep, ‘Christ, we’re on fire! Jesus, Jesus! Jesus! … Bale out! Bale out! … Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ! …’

The next morning, as they were having breakfast, Stewart came into the mess.

‘Morning, chaps.’

‘Morning, Stewart,’ Peter said. ‘What was going on last night? Had any news?’

‘Yes.’ Stewart was unusually solemn. ‘I have, as a matter of fact. They shot Loveday last night.’

There was a shocked silence.

‘Who did?’ Saunders said. ‘The goons?’

‘The SBO just told me about it,’ Stewart said. ‘Apparently one of our orderlies had been told to stay with him the whole time, but he went off to his room to get some cigarettes and while he was away Loveday climbed up on to the roof in his pyjamas.’

‘Blimey, it was raining,’ Saunders said.

‘He got down off the roof,’ Stewart continued, ‘and then tried to climb the wire by the gate. A sentry saw him and told him to get down. Loveday ignored him so the sentry shot him through the stomach.’

‘Was he trying to escape?’ Saunders asked.

‘I don’t think so. The SBO said that he was singing and shouting at the top of his voice.’

‘The bloody murderer,’ Saunders said.

‘One of you must attend the funeral,’ Stewart told them. ‘It’s tomorrow afternoon. Whichever of you it is must wear service dress and a cap. The Germans are giving him military honours.’

When Stewart had gone the four men sat back and looked at one another.

‘I’m not going,’ Saunders said. Oh, no. I don’t like funerals. Anyway …’ he hesitated. ‘I’d rather not go, that’s all.’

‘I’ll go,’ Hugo said. ‘Be rather nice to get away from barbed wire for a few hours.’

Peter cleared his throat. ‘I don’t like to claim any privilege or anything like that – but it would be jolly, useful if John or I went. We could have a scout round outside and get the lie of the land.’

‘It’s obvious,’ Saunders said. ‘One of you two must go.’

‘Sorry,’ Hugo said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’d better toss up between you.’

‘You’d better go, Pete. You’re in the RAF. Besides, there isn’t a decent army uniform in the place.’

‘I’ll have to borrow the kit from somewhere,’ Peter said. ‘I wonder if Stewart would lend me his tunic.’

‘Wing commander for a day,’ Saunders said.

As Peter went down to the tunnel that morning he felt as though someone had given him a present. To go beyond the wire even for a few hours, to go through the village again and see people living normal lives. He tried to stifle this joy; to realize that he was going to Loveday’s funeral, then to excuse it by reminding himself that he was going to get the lie of the land for the tunnel break; but it was no good. He felt more as though he had won a sweepstake.

The tunnel was nearly finished, and as he lay hacking away at the hard, tenacious clay he felt that nothing could now stop them from getting out.

They had recently come to a layer of large, flat, smooth stones which, Tyson said, had probably once formed the bed of a river. The ground was even wetter here, but once beyond it they had begun to drive the tunnel upwards towards the surface where it was drier. But the air was bad at the head of the tunnel owing to the upward slope, and Peter was forced to crawl back to the bottom of the slope at intervals for air. He had just returned to the face for another spell of work when the lamp at his head guttered out and filled the tunnel with its acrid smoke.

I’ll crawl back and have a chat with John, he thought. Give the air time to clear a bit.

He crawled back to the lower shaft where John should have been working, but there was no one there. Thinking this odd, he climbed the ladder in the darkness and edged along the upper tunnel. There was no light, only the darkness and the silence, and he had a sudden fear and quickened his crawl towards the chamber at the base of the upper shaft, fighting hard to keep from utter panic. He thought that he was alone, that the others had gone and sealed him down. He could hear himself panting in the darkness as he pulled his body through the puddled clay.

Suddenly he bumped into John. ‘What the hell’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Why are all the lights out?’

‘The goons are searching the cookhouse,’ John whispered. ‘I was coming to fetch you. The chaps have shut the trap down – we’ll have to stay here until the search is over.’

‘Hope they don’t call an
appel.’
Tyson’s voice came softly out of the darkness. ‘We’ve had it if they do.’

‘D’you think they suspect anything?’

‘I doubt it,’ Tyson whispered. ‘Just a routine check, I should think. It’s getting bloody cold down here.’

Peter realized that he, too, was cold; that the damp clay was drawing all the warmth from his body. He shivered. ‘I’ll go for a crawl up the tunnel, I think.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ John said.

They stopped at the top of the lower shaft for breath. ‘How long shall we have to stay down here, I wonder?’ Peter said.

‘It’ll be lunchtime soon – they’re bound to pack it in by then.’

They sat opposite one another in the upper tunnel, their legs dangling down the shaft.

‘Getting pretty stuffy down here, isn’t it?’ Peter said.

‘I could do with a smoke.’

‘That’d make it worse. God knows what it’ll be like when there are about forty of us lying down here waiting to get out.’

‘We’ll have the exit open then, that will let some air in,’ John said. ‘I’m glad we shall be up at the front end, in more ways than one.’

‘So am I,’ Peter said. ‘I don’t think this air will last much longer.’

‘It’ll see us out,’ John said. There’s enough down here to last for hours.’

‘Let’s go back and see what’s happening.’ Peter wanted to get back near the shaft, away from the compressing darkness of the tunnel. They felt their way back to where Tyson crouched at the bottom of the upper shaft.

‘There was a hell of a row going on just now,’ he told them. ‘It sounded as though the whole German army were in the cookhouse.’

‘Probably a blitz search,’ John said.

‘The air’s pretty bad down here.’ Tyson sounded worried. ‘We’d better give ’em a bit longer, then if we hear nothing we’ll assume that the goons have cleared everyone out. If we lift the trap carefully we can have a look round and get some air.’

For the next half hour they lay panting in the darkness of the tunnel. The air was getting worse, so bad that it was advisable not to move about. By huddling together in the chamber at the bottom of the shaft they were able to generate some warmth. Tyson had disconnected the tube from the air pump and worked the pump to change the air at intervals.

Peter sat with his back propped against the wall of the chamber and hoped that the Germans would not find them. He realized now that he had banked everything on this tunnel; that the nearer they got to breaking out the more important the tunnel had become. It was strange this, because ever since Loveday had gone he had almost enjoyed his imprisonment.

And now Loveday was dead. He wondered what had been in Loveday’s mind to make him climb the wire like that. They had been talking about him when it happened, or about that time. He thought of their remarks when they had heard the shots, of how they had wondered if it would affect their tunnel – this tunnel. And now he was dead. Perhaps it was better that way. He comforted himself with the old cliché – as though death could be better than any sort of life. What had possessed the man to climb out of the hospital window on to the roof, in his pyjamas? Singing and shouting, Stewart had said. Then he had climbed down to the ground, and crossed to the wire. Still singing, he had started to climb the fence. The outside sentry, walking down the wire, had stopped opposite him, and told him to get down. The sentry had warned him that he would shoot, but Loveday took no notice. It had been raining, and Peter could picture the wild figure, pyjamas too short in the leg, hair plastered all over his face, climbing the wire and singing. Singing while the rain soaked into his thin pyjamas. What had he been singing? A hymn perhaps. The sentry, in his panic, had shot him through the stomach. Three shots, and then the machine-gun from the tower had started up – firing blindly, hysterically, into the darkness. And Loveday, his entrails pushed through his back, had stopped his singing.

Peter felt sick inside. Perhaps it had been partly his fault. Perhaps if they had been more understanding … He pushed the thought away; but it was no good. He must accept some of the blame. He could have tried a little harder. He remembered Hugo’s words: ‘It was in the man – it was nothing to do with us.’ But he could not accept them. How bound up they were, how dependent. How impossible to live a life ‘free from all businesses.’ What was it Marcus Aurelius had said?
At what time soever thou wilt, it is in thy power to retire into thyself, and to be at rest, and free from all businesses?

‘Half and hour must be up,’ John said.

‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Tyson said. ‘I’ll go and have a shufti.’ He climbed the ladder, but came down a few minutes later. ‘I’d forgotten – you can’t open the trap from the inside. The boiler has to be moved.’

‘Then we’ll have to wait,’ John said.

Peter thought of the argument they had had about the sentry; of how Saunders had blamed him, saying it was murder, and of how he, Peter had made excuses for the man. Was the German to be blamed? How could he have known that Loveday was round the bend? Supposing he had been sane – supposing the sentry had let him climb down the outside of the wire, and had led him back inside again? Someone else would have tried it sooner or later. Eventually someone fully clothed under his pyjamas would have tried to climb the wire. A handful of armed men controlling a thousand prisoners must shoot when they say they’ll shoot, otherwise they would have no control. He could have shot to maim, Saunders had said – in the arm, or the leg. Hardly, on a wet and stormy night like that. Besides, the man was frightened. Who would not be frightened of a wild and singing figure, climbing the wire in the rain. Poor old Loveday, what a way to end your life.

‘It must be well after lunchtime,’ John said.

‘I expect the goons have called another
appel,
Tyson said.

‘What’ll happen when they find we’re missing?’

‘They won’t, if the chaps can manage it. They should be able to cover our absence all right – after all, we’re only three.’

That’s what it is, Peter thought, they must be on
appel.
The others will cover us all right. They
must
cover us, we can’t be discovered now. A few more days and we shall be away. They can’t possibly discover us now.

He thought of Loveday again, wished that he could honestly acquit himself of all responsibility. But he could not. He could not retire into himself. Loveday, the Russian prisoners, Otto’s torture and death – these things were everyone’s responsibility. But what to do about it? The thing was too big to start at the top. If everyone started at the bottom now, if everyone made certain that his own personal relationships were not tainted with the cruelty … If only Loveday were alive that he could start at once – start a small pocket of resistance against the cruelty that enslaved the world. He imagined millions of small pockets of resistance working upwards from the bottom, millions of men working outwards from within the cruelty, refusing to retire into themselves.

They heard the thud of footsteps on the floor above, the scrape of the stove being moved. The trap was lifted. The head and shoulders of one of the stooges appeared in the opening.

‘Sorry, you chaps. It was the Swedish Commission. Some Red Cross blokes came in to inspect the cookhouse. We thought we’d never get rid of them. You’d better hurry up – the goons have laid on a special lunch.’

‘We’ve saved your lunch.’ Hugo indicated the two bowls of barley soup, two small pieces of raw looking sausage and two rolls of white bread which stood on the table.

‘The tea’s still hot,’ Saunders said. ‘I put the jug on the stove.’

‘I suppose you’ve heard the news,’ Hugo said.

‘About the Swedish Commission?’ Peter asked.

‘About the move.’

‘Move?’ Peter stopped eating. The sausage felt like lead in his throat. He knew before he said it what Hugo was about to say.

‘We’re going in about four purges.
Stalag-Luft III,
I think they call it. Supposed to be a pretty good camp.’

‘When are we going?’ Peter managed to ask. Perhaps there would be time to finish the tunnel before the move. Perhaps there was still a chance.

‘First thing Monday morning. We’re going in four purges,’ Hugo repeated. ‘Personally I shall be jolly glad to get out of the place.’

Peter could have murdered him. He sat in front of the special lunch, feeling that everything was finished. To have been discovered would have been bad enough; but to be moved to another camp just before breaking was the last straw. He turned to John.

‘We’ll just have to leave it, that’s all,’ John said. There’s another week’s work at least. We can’t possibly do it before the move.’ He spoke lightly, as though the tunnel were of no importance; but Peter knew what it meant to him, knew the control he must be exercising to be able to speak like this.

‘It’s jolly tough luck,’ Saunders said. ‘Especially after you’d got as far as that.’

‘Is the whole camp going?’ Peter could hardly believe it, even now.

‘Every man jack,’ Hugo said.

‘Who’s coming into this camp after us?’ Peter asked.

‘They say it’s not going to be used as a military camp any more,’ Hugo said. ‘Too insanitary. They’ll probably turn it over to the
Gestapo.’

‘What a find, for anyone who does come in!’ Saunders chuckled. A ready made tunnel, just waiting for ’em.’

‘Don’t talk about it,’ John said. He opened a book and began to read.

‘Why did it happen so suddenly?’ Peter wanted to get it straight.

‘Orders from Berlin,’ Hugo said. ‘After the last escape, I expect.’

‘But that was weeks ago.’

‘The news just got through, I expect. Everyone has to be evacuated within forty-eight hours.’

‘I bet it was the Swedish Commission,’ Saunders said. ‘I bet they said the place wasn’t fit to live in.’

‘No; it wouldn’t be that,’ Hugo said. ‘They wouldn’t work so fast on that recommendation. The Berlin rumour seems more like it.’