The Tunnel (3 page)

In the early morning he came across some mounds in a field. In the frightening half-light of the lonely plain he thought that they were air raid shelters, that he had stumbled on to a shadow factory or a barracks. He paused for a time, looking at them, and discovered that they were only potato clamps. He dug some potatoes out with his hands and ate them. They were old and nearly as hard to stomach as the swedes.

In his determination to reach the Dutch border as soon as possible he did not choose a hiding-place until it was too late. Dawn caught him unprepared in a bleak and empty countryside. All around him, as far as he could see, there was nothing but an unending expanse of flat marshy ground, almost colourless in the early morning twilight. Now and again a patch of water caught the light, reflecting it back, cold and metallic-looking, against the murkiness of the ground. As colour swiftly hardened from the softness of the early dawn a chill wind came from the north-east, ruffling the water in the meadows, pressing the damp serge of his battledress trousers against his legs. He walked on in the ever-increasing light, until he came to a thin hedge which grew at the lip of a wide ditch. He followed this away from the road, and crawled beneath some brambles into the most uncomfortable hide-out he had yet chosen; damp, cold and only partially hidden from the road.

He slept fitfully for about an hour-and-a-half and then, wakened as usual by the cold, he lay shivering and muttering to himself. He tried to control the violent trembling of his limbs, but it was beyond control. It came in spasms like an ague, racking him from head to foot until his limbs ached with the violence of the shivering. He wriggled his body round inside his vest, rubbing his skin against the rough wool, hoping to create some warmth from the friction. He was not hungry now. His stomach was empty, aching high up behind the diaphragm, but the thought of food made him feel sick.

He lay there until early afternoon, never fully unconscious but numb and deadened by the cold and lack of sleep. At last he could stand it no longer. He had to move. Crawling out from under the bushes he limped towards a covert that he could see on the other side of some fields. Once in the wood, he felt, he would be able to last out until darkness. It was not far and he was so covered with mud that his uniform would not be recognized. He looked round him cautiously, but he could see no sign of life. The keen wind that blew across the flat expanse of grey and brown countryside drove before it a thin drizzle of fine rain. He walked on; his head bent against the wind.

He did not see the girls and the man until he was almost on top of them. Then he looked up and saw them, a knot of drab figures, their heads covered in sacks, loading some sort of root crop on to a cart. Although the path that he was following would take him within hailing distance of them, he was afraid to turn back. It would look suspicious. He plodded on towards them, head lowered, conscious of their inquiring gaze, and cursing himself for a reckless fool.

As he drew abreast of them he looked up. The man was middle-aged and wore a black cap with earflaps; his face was dark and hard, and he had a hostile look. The girls stopped working and were all facing him like a herd of cattle.

‘Heil Hitler!’
Peter said. He waved his right arm in a vague salute. The man did not reply, and he could feel his suspicious gaze all the way across the fields to the woods. He had pulled his trousers down over his flying boots, but the leather jacket was too obvious. Once under cover of the trees he began to run, knowing in his heart that he had thrown the game away. He knew it as certainly as if the man had voiced his obvious suspicion.

On the far side of the covert were more ploughed fields, and he skirted these at a shambling trot. There were flocks of great black crows here, sleek and bloated, walking obscenely and beating themselves slowly into the air as he approached. He was exhausted by the time he reached a small thicket beyond the ploughland and he threw himself down, too spent to worry about camouflage.

When he had regained his breath he got to his feet and pushed on towards the west. He must be nearly in Holland now. Behind him, he felt, the peasant would already have given the alarm. The whole countryside would be aroused. He must get across the border. It seemed to him, numbed as he was with cold and fatigue, that once in Holland he would be safe. With any luck he could cross the border that evening and get help from a friendly farmer.

He walked on blindly, must have been walking half-asleep, because, suddenly he was in a marshy plain studded with clumps of thick bushes. In front of him was a broad river, the water cold and deep, brimming to its earthen banks. This must be the Ems, the border could only be a few more miles from here. He thought of swimming, but could not face the dank yellowness of the water and the stark emptiness of the bank beyond. Turning to his right he walked downstream until he saw a concrete road bridge springing from earth ramparts on either side of the river. He worked away from the river bank and approached the bridge from the road. It was guarded by a soldier who was inspecting papers of everyone who crossed. This was the first enemy soldier that Peter had seen after three years of war, and he lay for some time hidden among the bushes at the side of the road, watching the stream of peasants passing the barrier.

In spite of his exhaustion he found it exciting to watch the soldier on the bridge – the well known silhouette with its scuttle-shaped helmet and long full-skirted greatcoat. He had seen it so often in illustrations and in films that now it seemed familiar. There was only one soldier, at this end of the bridge, and after watching for some time he came to the conclusion that this must be the border. The barrier was a temporary affair and by the attitude of the peasants it seemed that the soldier was not usually there.

He made up his mind to wait until nightfall and try to cross under cover of darkness. He studied the construction of the bridge, and decided that he would be able to climb it from the river bank and edge his way across outside the parapet. He crept back to a clump of bushes below the level of the road, and composed himself to wait.

He must have fallen asleep, for it was nearly dark and he could hear German voices around him in the bushes. There were shouts and the sound of men beating the dead grass aside with sticks. He looked carefully out from his hiding-place and saw a long line of men in green uniforms, armed with shotguns and rifles. They were about twelve feet apart and were beating steadily towards him.

Once again he knew the fear that he had known as a child, a fear that he had forgotten until he started flying over Germany. The rising of the stomach, the dizziness, the nausea. Then came the sudden calmness, the desire to laugh, the joy when he had overcome the fear.

He must get out of this. He was nearly home. To get caught now would be stupid. One more effort and he would be over the border. The Germans were beating towards the river, hemming him in between themselves and the water. If he could slip quietly into the river and swim across … Cautiously he rose to his feet, tumed round, and found himself face to face with the policeman.

He was a wizened little man in a bottle-green uniform with breeches and jackboots. Under the narrow-brimmed helmet his face was stern, his jaw set beneath a straggling grey moustache. On his hand the old-fashioned revolver, pointing uncertainly at Peter’s stomach, looked incongruously lethal. He stood, a yard between them, dangerous in the very strangeness of his unaccustomed role.

Peter hesitated. There was only the old man between him and river, but behind him were the foresters with their guns. Slowly he raised his hands above his head.

Now that the hunt was over he could not help thinking how theatrical the whole thing seemed. He stood self-consciously with his hands above his head, while the policeman prodded him nervously in the stomach with the revolver. The foresters, guns levelled, stood in a solemn half-circle behind him. No one appeared to know what to do next. He half-lowered his hands, but a sharp jab with the revolver reminded him that, to his captors at least, he was an object of considerable menace.

The policeman held out his left hand.
‘Papiere!’

Peter did not understand.

‘Papiere!’
the policeman repeated, and impatiently rubbed his thumb and forefingers together.

‘I have no papers,’ Peter said.

‘Papiere, Papiere!’
The policeman was getting angry. Peter lowered his arms, this time with the policeman’s consent, and made the motions of tearing paper and throwing away the pieces.

‘Jude!’
The policeman spat the word, his old face screwed into an expression of distaste.

Yuda,
thought Peter, what the hell’s
Yuda? … Jude!
Christ, he thinks I’m a Jew.
‘Nicht Jude!’
he said and shook his head.

The policeman seemed to be forcing himself into some kind of rage. He scowled again.
‘Roosevelt Jude.’

‘Roosevelt nicht Jude,’
Peter said.

‘Churchill Jude.’

Peter looked around at the foresters. He was tired and he did not feel up to a political argument. He did not feel up to any sort of argument. Racial hatred had always frightened him. He was frightened now that they might take him for Jew and shoot him out of hand.

‘Churchill nicht Jude,’
he said.

The policeman’s attention was distracted by some small boys who had been following the beaters and were now crowding in, peering with interest at the ragged and mud-caked figure of the quarry. The policeman moved them back and, remembering his drill, handed the revolver to one of the foresters while he searched Peter’s clothes for firearms or a knife. He patted the pockets, under the armpits and down the sides of the trouser legs. He found the escape kit, looked at it and handed it back. Now that he was certain that his captive was unarmed he relaxed, took out a battered metal case and offered Peter a cigarette. He took one himself and lit them both with an old-fashioned cigarette-lighter, which he had great difficulty in working. It was like a day’s rough shooting at home. The foresters, leaning on their guns, had retired into private daydreams of their own. Tobacco smoke curled lazily into the winter air. Even the small boys were quiet.

The policeman finished his cigarette, spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was time to move. He motioned Peter to raise his hands above his head again and walked towards the road.

He was marched, at the end of the revolver, out of the bushes and down the road towards a level crossing. It was nearly dark, and the lighted windows of the village looked warm and comforting. He was almost glad that they had caught him. Now perhaps they would give him something to eat. The thought of food made him suddenly ill, and he was afraid that he would vomit in the street.

By now the villagers were beginning to gather, and the policeman formed his company into some semblence of order. First walked two foresters dressed in green knickerbockers and carrying shotguns at the shoulder; then Peter, wearing mud-covered battledress, sodden flying boots and a brightly-spotted silk handkerchief round his neck. With four days’ growth of beard and hands held at shoulder height, he felt like the villain in a Wild West film. During his early operational days he had always flown with a revolver in its holster at his waist. If he had this now, he thought, the picture would be complete. After him came the policeman, gently prodding his prisoner in the small of the back with the revolver. Behind them marched a solid phalanx of foresters, followed at a respectful distance by an ever-increasing crowd of curious villagers.

Halfway down the village street they were met by an Army officer. He was wearing a tight-fitting, olive-green uniform and badly cut breeches whose seat was one enormous leather patch. He carried an ornamental dagger slung from his belt by silver chains and in jackboots he looked out of place on his decrepit bicycle. He dismounted when he saw the procession and stood, holding the bicycle, waiting for them to draw near.

The policeman stopped in front of the officer, bringing the procession to an abrupt halt. He raised his arm in an exaggerated Nazi salute and said,
‘Heil Hitler!’

The officer replied with a military salute. He was young, fair and pink. His blue eyes looked at Peter for a moment, but flickered away again. He spoke to the policeman in German; he seemed to be asking a question.

The policeman made a long statement. Peter lowered his arms, but raised them again when he felt the muzzle of a shotgun in the small of his back.

The officer spoke again. He ignored the prisoner, carefully not looking in his direction. Peter stood listening to the strange tongue, not understanding it, knowing that they were talking about him, and feeling acutely conscious of his beard and the jagged rent in his trouser leg. He wished that they would let him lower his arms. He was cold again now, trembling, and he was worried in case the officer should think that he was frightened.

The officer and policeman exchanged salutes, and the procession continued its triumphal march down the village street to a small hotel by the railway station.

They had allowed him to wash and now he sat in the small private room, with its stiff ancestral photographs and lace curtains, trying to appear at ease. The policeman was explaining something to him in German, but he did not even begin to understand what it was all about. At times one or other of the foresters would say something to him, apparently speaking a dialect because he could not pick out a single familiar word. The policeman had a notebook in which he had so far written nothing but the date.

When the naval officer arrived they all stood up. He was young and his face was tanned by the weather. As he held out his hand to Peter he made it an act of friendliness. ‘My name is Friedrichs,’ he said. ‘I have come because I speak English.’

‘How d’you do.’ Peter shook his hand.

‘The policeman would like some information from you.’

There was a common disregard for the non-fighting services in his manner.

‘I would prefer to wait until I am in a prison camp.’

The officer smiled. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I would have said the same in your place.’ He spoke to the policeman in German.

The policeman looked disappointed. He fingered the notebook, and said something emphatically in the same language.

‘He wants your name and details for his report,’ the officer explained. He took out a cigarette case and handed Peter a cigarette. ‘I am here unofficially. I live here in the village. If there is anything I can do for you …’

‘Where shall I be taken?’ Peter asked.

The officer spoke again to the policeman. ‘An escort is on its way to fetch you. You will be taken to a prison camp, probably Frankfurt.’ He smiled. ‘It is not too bad. You are alive at least.’

Peter did not answer.

The officer emptied his cigarette case. ‘I will leave you these. You need not tell the policeman anything.’ He looked suddenly young and shy. ‘Good luck. It is all the fortune of war. You were only a few kilometres from the Dutch border.’

Peter’s barriers were nearly down, the dammed-up words of days of loneliness were waiting to be released to this man who spoke to him in English. But he held himself in check. They stood for a moment in silence, awkwardly, before the German, after shaking hands again, saluted and left the room.

When he had gone a girl brought sandwiches of black bread and a cup of
ersatz
coffee. She was young and dark, and when she put them on the table in front of Peter she smiled.

‘Essen,’
the policeman said, and pointed to his mouth.

Peter handed the sandwiches round the table but the foresters would not eat them, urging him to go ahead. They left him alone at one end of the table while they engaged in low-voiced discussion at the other end.

He tried to eat, but could not swallow. He tried to drink the coffee but it was too hot. Once he started eating, the sandwiches vanished quickly and when he had finished he drank the coffee, feeling its bitter warmth restore his spirits. He lit one of the naval officer’s cigarettes and wondered how long his escort would be.

Apparently the policeman and the foresters had reached a decision for, rising to their feet, they made signs for him to accompany them to the bar. They made him sit on a chair in the middle of the room, and opened the door to allow in a long queue of curious villagers. At first he was irritated by this, but the policeman’s pride was so naive that he could not be angry. He supposed that he was the first Englishman they had seen; so he sat there, patient but embarrassed, hoping that the naval officer would return and rescue him.

After the last civilian had left, the policeman made Peter remove his flying boots which he took and placed behind the bar. The foresters then drew chairs around the central stove and invited their prisoner to drink.
Schnapps
was poured from a large wicker-covered bottle behind the bar. They drank
schnapps
and beer, and one of the foresters smoked a pipe. Peter had a pipe in his pocket and the forester gave him some tobacco. It was light and dry and burned his tongue.

It was warm in the bar and the faint odour of stale food and beer was soon drowned in the pungent smell of German tobacco. Peter, his feet on the rail that enclosed the nearly hot stove, felt warm and almost happy. There was a glass of
schnapps
in his hand – six of its predecessors were already making the blood course warmly through his veins. He was happier than he had been for a long time.

The policeman was feeling good, too. It had obviously been a great day for him, a day that he would talk of here in the same bar for years to come. He meant to make it an evening worth remembering.

As he drank with them Peter wondered why they did not lock him up. Was it because they hadn’t a spare room, or did they think he had shot his bolt? Or were they being courteous? He remembered wryly what the people of his village had threatened to do to any German airman that they found. Pitchforks, carving knives and horsewhips flashed through his memory. Would they really have done it? These people gave him food and cigarettes and
schnapps.
Did the people at home do the same for a German airman?

The policeman had opened his wallet and was showing him pictures of his infantry platoon in the 1914 War. He was bigger then, and had a big, serious-looking moustache. All the men were serious-looking, as though war were a serious thing in those days. Then he remembered the ancestral pictures on the wall. No, it was not war that had been serious in those days, but photography. He giggled inwardly at the silly joke.

The policeman also had an Iron Cross in his wallet; he wore the ribbon on his tunic. He was growing maudlin, and repeated over and over again a long explanation. It had something to do with the war. Peter gathered that he considered that the war had been a mistake.

One by one the foresters said
‘Heil Hitlerl’
took up their shotguns and departed, until there were only the policeman and two of the foresters left with Peter in the bar. One of the foresters was already drunk. He wore a shapeless hat with a tuft of boar bristles pinned to the side, and the buttons of his short green tunic were carved from horn. The other, not so drunk, smoked a pipe with a carved soft bowl which had been burned down at one side by constant lighting. It was past midnight and they had nearly finished the crock of
schnapps.

Through a haze of fatigue and alcohol Peter saw the face of the policeman pressing close to his. The old man’s tunic was unbuttoned showing a grey collarless flannel shirt and braces underneath. In his hand was the notebook. He pointed to the swastika on his tunic, and grabbed Peter by the arm.
‘Nicht hier,’
he said, pointing to the badge,
‘hier!’
and he tapped a forefinger on his chest beneath the tunic. Obviously he was trying to say that it was not the official who wanted the information, but the man. He had written his own name and address at the top of the page, and indicated that he wanted Peter to sign below.

Peter took the notebook. All that he was allowed to give were his rank, name and number. He thought of Pop Dawson as he wrote:
Flight Lieutenant Peter Howard, 1174667, RAF., Captured by the above, 20.12.42.

He remembered Pop Dawson and was overcome with shame. Here he was sitting with the enemy, drinking
schnapps
with them. He wasn’t really captured yet. He might still get away. When the escort arrived he would be taken to Frankfurt – the naval type had told him that, also that they were almost on the Dutch border. He would never be nearer England than he was now. He glanced at the policeman who was putting the Iron Cross back into his wallet, at the foresters engaged in fuddled conversation. If he managed to give these chaps the slip, would there be a guard in the street, outside the door? The lavatory was useless as an avenue of escape. He had been there several times during the evening – the window was barred. There were two other doors to the bar, one leading to the private room where he had eaten and the other to the street outside. The policeman, with the flap of his revolver holster unbuttoned, sat between him and the door. Behind him was the staircase up which the girl had gone to bed; but even if he managed to reach the top without being hit, there was still the possibility of a guard outside the house. He must find out.

He would sing. He would get the others to join in, and they would make so much noise that if there were a man outside he would look in to see what all the row was about. But it must look natural. He was not the singing type; organized singsongs usually filled him with embarrassment. And it must be a song in which the others would join. It would have to be a song of the last war … Simulating drunkenness, he caught the policeman by the arm and began a personal, almost tuneless version of
Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag.