The Tunnel (6 page)

The corporal was the bullying type, one of those big fair corporals with a pale acned face, protuberant blue eyes and an air of frustrated spite. It had probably taken him years to get his two stripes, and he knew that in a few months most of the casual civilians who stood before him would be sergeants or pilot officers – and it rankled.

They were all new to the Air Force and they were careful. It wasn’t that they were afraid of the man, as a man, but they were all keen to get into aircrew, and they’d heard that a bad report, even from a corporal, was enough to get you pushed off the course. So they stood there in silence as the corporal walked slowly up and down the ranks, picking out one after another as the butt of his sarcastic wit. Finally he stood back and told them collectively what he thought of them. ‘Don’t think that just because you’re going to wear Air Force blue you’re going to become a lot of heroes – because you’re not. Nine-tenths of you won’t get through the course anyway, by the look of you. You’re just a lot of bloody conscripts to me and the sooner you realize it the better it’s going to be for you.’ He stood glaring at them, his whole tightly-belted figure expressing his contempt for the effete civilians who were intruding on his service life.

Then Bob spoke. ‘Corporal,’ he said; and there was something in his voice that made Peter wince, some compulsion behind his words that made him wish the man would say no more.

‘Well,’ the corporal said. ‘What is it? Out with it!’ And he stood there arms akimbo waiting for what the soft-looking bastard had to say.

Bob was obviously nervous. His face was pale but his voice was even, and it was only when you watched him closely that you saw how hard he was driving himself to say what he had to say. But he said it. He explained to the corporal that they were not conscripts but volunteers, and he made the corporal apologize before they were dismissed and sent to their sleeping quarters. Peter thought at the time that Bob had been unwise, but admired the moral courage that had forced him to speak when the rest of them were silent.

As the week’s initial training stretched into months he became very friendly with Bob, realizing what a spirit there was inside the man to force him on in the way that he was determined to go. He was rather old for aircrew, he wasn’t the aircrew type; he was too earnest, he worried too much. It was obvious that he would find it difficult when they came to fly. Even in those days he admitted that the thought of flying frightened him. He had only volunteered for aircrew because in that way he felt that he could do his best to help to win the war.

He proved to be a good navigator, careful in calculation and meticulous in plotting; but he worried too much and tended to ‘flap’ in the air. He disdained the slapdash methods which often got the others round the course and back to base without knowing exactly how they had done it. He refused to cheat too, and swotted in his room at night while the others went down to the village pub.

On the eve of the final ‘Wings’ exam they all wrote cribs on cigarette packets and small pieces of paper to be held in the palm of the hand. Some of them even took their class notes in with them, tucked inside their tunics so that they could read the answers to the questions in the lavatory at the end of the corridor. It wasn’t cheating in the ordinary sense of the word. They weren’t cheating one another; there were no honours to be gained. They knew that they could navigate and they just wanted to get on to operational flying as soon as possible. But Bob didn’t cheat, he learned the stuff.

They all passed the exam, some high on the list, others – the lazy or those who found it difficult to express themselves – lower down. Bob came out about halfway up the list, but he got his wings, and he got them the way he wanted them.

Bob and he had both been posted to the same Operational Training Unit. They were flying Wellingtons and Bob was working hard, forcing himself to become a first-class navigator. But he didn’t like flying and Peter could tell by his jerky manner, his preoccupied air and the strained look round his eyes that it was getting him down. There had been no accidents at the Navigation School, but here at OTU there was a fatal accident nearly every week.

And then one night while Bob’s crew were out on a cross-country flight the wireless broke down, and they ran into foul weather and lost themselves. He could just imagine Bob checking and rechecking his course and refusing to land at some unknown airfield having failed to complete the exercise. At last he got them home. Just as they were making the circuit of the airfield, one of the engines cut from lack of petrol. The pilot carried out his single-engine procedure, but as he made his approach the other engine cut and they crashed. Six of the crew got out without much damage, but the pilot was killed.

He had taken Bob down to the local for a few beers that evening, but it had been no good. Bob wasn’t the type for whom a few gills of beer would make black white, or wrong anything else but wrong. He was convinced that the whole thing had been his fault, and nothing that Peter could say would make him change his view. He pointed out that the petrol cocks were the pilot’s responsibility but Bob simply said that it was his fault for getting lost, and took the whole blame upon himself.

A few days after that they strolled down to the ‘flights’ after breakfast and, just as they arrived, an aircraft crashed on take-off. One of the engines had cut, and the pilot tried to turn, spun into the deck and burst into flames. Bob turned round, walked straight into the flight commander’s office and said that he wouldn’t fly again. The flight commander suggested that he went on leave, but Bob said that wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t change his mind.

Afterwards he told Peter that he had always been frightened of flying but had thought he could force himself to carry on. Now he found that he couldn’t, and he thought the best thing was to say so, and quit. Peter remembered telling him that they were all scared but lacked the courage to admit it. He suggested that Bob should apply for a posting as an instructor. Bob said he couldn’t instruct others to do what he was afraid to do himself.

He was sent down south for a special board. When he came back he told them that he was off flying. His papers were ‘LMF’ – lack of moral fibre.

Peter wondered what he was doing now.

Later that evening they steamed into Cologne.

The platform was crowded, and the corporal made them remain in the compartment until all the passengers had left the train and the platform was clear. Then he drew his pistol and marched Peter down the deserted platform towards the booking hall. It was icy cold after the damp cold of the railway carriage, and Peter began to wonder whether it would be a better idea to wait until he reached the prison camp before he attempted to escape. He was very conscious of the muzzle of the automatic pistol a few inches from his back. After all, he would have time to prepare in the camp, make civilian clothes and collect food. If he got away now; in uniform, in the heart of Cologne, he would not last for long.

Again the corporal cleared all the passengers out of the waiting-room, and Peter noticed that they resented the bullying way in which they were ordered out. The corporal treated them exactly as he had treated the Dutch, shouting at them, ignoring their angry protestations.

An hour later they went out on to the platform to wait for the Frankfurt train. As they stood on the platform a train on the opposite track began to move out. It was a goods train. Peter glanced quickly around. Two steps would take him to the edge of the platform, four more across the track – and he could jump on to the couplings of the slowly-moving train. The corporal would not fire for fear of hitting the public – or would he?

While he hesitated, the older guard stepped between him and the edge of the platform, unconsciously thwarting his attempt. The goods train stopped again a few yards outside the station. Lucky I didn’t dash for it, Peter thought, wouldn’t have got very far if I had.

The Frankfurt train was crowded but this time the corporal got one of the girl porters to empty a compartment for them. She was a big girl, blondely bulging under her rough blue serge uniform. She wore jackboots with high heels, rather like the Russian boots that Peter could remember his mother wearing when he was a child.

After the train had left the station the girl came into the compartment and chatted with the corporal. She looked at Peter with obvious interest. He wondered if she would help him to escape, but dismissed the idea as fantastic. She seemed to be fascinated by his appearance and repeatedly urged the corporal to take some course of action which Peter could not understand. Finally the corporal agreed and, apologizing in English, asked if the girl could have some sort of trinket to keep as a souvenir. Thinking that she might be helpful later in the journey he gave her a penny, a halfpenny and a sixpence; but shortly after this she left the compartment and did not return.

As the train covered mile after mile in an eastward direction, Peter felt that his chance of escape was growing more and more remote. His guards were less nervous now, and he decided to try to jump from the window of the lavatory at the end of the corridor. He had been there several times during the day and one or other of his escort had gone with him, insisting that the door should be left open so that they could watch him.

This time the corporal came and Peter, explaining that this was to be a more protracted visit, gained his permission to close the door.

As soon as he had locked the door he turned to the window. It was a rise-and-fall window and was not secured in any way. He lowered it and looked out. The train was moving quite slowly along a grass embankment. He looked towards the rear of the train. Leaning from the next window were the head and shoulders of the corporal, who smugly waved his automatic pistol in admonition. Peter grinned ruefully and joined him in the corridor, ‘I wanted to get a spot of fresh air,’ he explained.

When they arrived at Frankfurt the corporal dismissed the other guard and took Peter into the busy street. They waited in a queue of patient civilians at a tram stop, and he wondered at the banality of his arrival. He had expected an armed escort and at least a truck, and here he was about to travel, in a tramcar with a crowd of civilians going home from work.

The corporal did not speak as they stood in the queue, and Peter also thought it better not to advertise the fact that he was English.

They stood on the platform of the tramcar, well away from the step, and swayed for miles through the soft night air that was redolent with a strange perfume, almost of incense. Later he discovered that this was the odour of burning brown coal blocks. It was to be an odour that would for ever, for him, be associated with that crowded tramcar swaying through the heart of an enemy countryside.

The prison camp, as they approached it, walking silently down the soft earth road, looked stark and hard; an arpeggio of upright posts and taut barbed wire. There were shaded arc lamps suspended from gallows above the wire, and these cast a band of concentrated brilliance about thirty feet wide entirely round the camp. The small compound in which stood the long squat shapes of the blacked-out huts was in darkness, but searchlights stabbed and blazed across it, moving nervously in hesitant sweeps over the grey roofs of the huts, caressing the wire with their long probing fingers of light.

Sentries, muffled against the cold, stamped their feet and scuffed the loose dust of the road outside the wire, their breath pluming like smoke in the light of the arc lamps. Outside, there was light and animation. Inside, everything was silent and in darkness.

The corporal showed his pass at the gate and they were allowed to enter – without ceremony, Peter thought, into a place with such a tenacious air.

He was left alone in a large room while the corporal went to report their arrival. It was obviously a dining-hall. He sat at one of the long tables and studied a portrait of Hitler which hung on the end wall. The
Führer
was wearing a khaki uniform that looked a size too large, but in this dim light his gaze appeared hypnotic. He became bored with looking at Hitler, and examined a noticeboard which was fixed to the wall near the door. He could not read the notices, but they had a familiar look – daily routine orders.

He heard footsteps behind him and, glancing over his shoulder, saw a soldier in grey fatigue uniform, without a cap, standing in the doorway. The soldier, ignoring him, stood with eyes fixed on the portrait of his
Führer
and raised his arm in silent salute. Then he crossed to the noticeboard and began to read the orders.

While Peter waited for the corporal several soldiers came to read the orders, and each of them stood with arm upraised before he entered the room. The gesture of the upraised arm, so amusing when burlesqued on the stage or screen, here had a servile, fanatical strength. It was not a formal salute, such as he himself gave the national flag when passing. It was homage to the man, febrile and frightening.

In the small grey-walled office, the corporal handed his prisoner over to a stout
Feldwebel
who sat, tunic unbuttoned, behind a wooden desk. The corporal produced a long envelope and obtained in return the
Feldwebel’s
signature on a form. It was as though he had delivered a parcel. He smiled at Peter: ‘I go now to be with my girl in Frankfurt.’ He made a curving gesture with his hands and clicked his tongue.

‘All right,’ Peter said. ‘I know. For me the war is over.’ He began to tell the
Feldwebel
about the theft of his flying jacket.

The
Feldwebel,
who spoke English with an American accent, wrote down the story of the flying jacket in laborious manuscript; but Peter felt, as he dictated, that the matter would not get beyond this – that the man was only writing because he had nothing better to do with his time. He’s as much a prisoner as I am, he thought; bet he’d be with his girl in Frankfurt if he could.

The
Feldwebel
at last laid down his pen, and took his grey forage cap from one of the drawers in the desk. He led Peter down a long passage, the walls of which were composed of two rows of identical doors. The passage was grey and airless but clean, and their footsteps were loud on its wooden floor.

As they passed door after door, Peter noticed that each carried a number above a small grille, which could be concealed by a sliding panel. Some of the grilles were covered and some were not, and outside most of the doors were shoes or flying boots, put out as though for cleaning. He also noticed that from the wall by some of the doors a small red wooden arm projected like a railway signal.

Then he heard the sound of cries from one of the cells and muffled thuds as though a man were beating the other side of the thick door with his fists; but the
Feldwebel
ignored this and continued to the end of the corridor where a gaoler sat on a wooden chair reading a magazine. He was an elderly man, bespectacled, and looked more like an attendant at a public lavatory than a soldier. He rose to his feet as the
Feldwebel
approached, and unlocked one of the doors.

‘Here it is,’ the
Feldwebel
said. ‘Better get stripped down now.’

‘What for?’

The
Feldwebel
was patient. ‘I got to search you. It’s my duty to see that you’re not hiding arms or escape material – see?’ He grinned, a mouth full of bad teeth. ‘Wouldn’t get very far if you did escape because we take your boots at night – see?’

‘I have the right to be searched by an officer of my own rank,’ Peter said.

‘I know, I know, they all say that.’ For the
Feldwebel
it was obviously a well worn routine. He was not aggressive, but Peter felt that he would not get very far with his objections. ‘Now be sensible,’ the
Feldwebel
said. ‘All the officers have gone home for the night. See? Besides the underclothing of the English is often so dirty that the officers don’t like to search them.’

As Peter undressed he had to admit to himself that there was something in what the fellow said. His underclothes were plastered with mud, his feet were filthy and his fingernails were rimmed with black. He thought of explaining that he was not always like this, that this was the result of days and nights in the country; but he thought that the
Feldwebel
would probably know about that too.

As he undressed the
Feldwebel
took the clothes one by one and dropped them in a dismal heap in the corner of the cell, to be taken away – he told Peter – for X-ray examination. The gaoler who collected the clothes left in their place a pile of khaki uniform that smelled strongly of disinfectant.

When Peter was quite naked the
Feldwebel
made him stand astride with arms raised while he, somewhat disdainfully, carried out an embarrassingly intimate search. Finding nothing concealed in the usual places, he expressed his satisfaction and told Peter to get to bed as the light would be switched out very soon.

The noise made by the guard removing the blackout shutters from outside the window jerked him into wakefulness. It was morning, and the sunlight, filtering in through the obscured glass of the window, made a silhouette of iron bars and the guard’s head and shoulders as he fastened back the wooden shutters.

He looked round him at the cell which he had been too tired to examine the night before. It was about ten feet long by five feet wide, and the walls were grey; plain pale grey plaster dirtied above the wooden bunk by the heads and shoulders of earlier prisoners. On the narrow bunk was a sackful of wood shavings or straw, which had gone lumpy and crackled when he moved. He had slept well enough, but now he was stiff and raised himself painfully on his elbow. There was a table in one corner of the cell and a small four-legged stool. On the table were a metal jug and a thick glass tumbler, chipped at the edge. Underneath the table was a metal chamberpot. The cell seemed dry and clean enough, but frighteningly impersonal. It had the smell of an institution; the smell of dirt kept under by brute force and disinfectant. He felt more immured than he had felt since he had been captured. The place seemed too efficient.

He got off the bed, and gingerly pulled the rough khaki uniform over his filthy limbs. It was a French or Polish Army uniform, with full baggy breeches and a tight high-necked tunic. The sleeves were too short, and he was unable to button the breeches at the waist. They had taken his flying boots so he sat on the bed with his feet under the still-warm blankets. They had also taken his watch, and he had no idea of the time. He was hungry, and wanted to relieve himself, but he would not use the chamberpot.

The
Feldwebel
had told him that to call the guard he must turn the knob on the wall near the door. This would release the red signal arm outside in the corridor. He got up from the bed, turned the knob, and went back to the bed to wait. Nothing happened. Nothing happened for ten minutes. He realized that once the signal arm was down there was nothing he could do; the arm could only be put up again from the outside cell. Now he could only wait until the guard noticed it, or until he came to unlock the door if he had already seen it. He was suddenly angry again. He leapt from the bed and hammered on the door with his fists. All the frustration and anger of imprisonment were in the frantic beating on the door. He beat until his fists were sore and then, in the after silence, he heard footsteps outside in the corridor and someone shouting in German.

He hammered on the door again in a sudden renewal of blind rage. ‘Come on, you clot!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door! Open this bloody door, you clot!’

‘You think I don’t speak English.’ The German accent came thickly through the heavy door. ‘But I do speak English … You call me a clot – now I make you wait, see!’ And he heard the footsteps recede firmly down the corridor.

He sat down on the bed again, trembling. He could wait. He wouldn’t use the chamberpot for any bloody German. Drawing his knees up to his chin he clasped his arms around his shins, and waited.

Some time later the door was opened by a soldier armed with an automatic pistol. He was a young man, with a white thick-skinned face which twitched nervously as he peered into the cell.

‘Toilet,’ Peter said. ‘Wash!’

‘Toilette besetzt’
The solider said it impatiently.

‘Breakfast,’ Peter said. ‘Food—’ He pointed to his mouth.

The soldier showed his wristwatch and traced his forefinger round half the dial.
‘Halbe stunde,’
he said.

‘Toilet,’ Peter repeated.

‘Toilette besetzt,’
the soldier said, and locked the door.

Hours seemed to pass while he sat uncomfortably on the bed and tried to ignore his distended bladder. It had become a point of honour not to use the chamberpot. Eventually he heard the key turn in the lock and the soldier – angel of mercy now – filled the doorway.
‘Toilette frei,’
he said, and handed Peter his flying boots.

Peter hobbled down the corridor. The soldier followed, and watched him through the doorless doorway. Peter did not care. The next few seconds were pure bliss.

Back in his cell he examined the flying boots. The compass was still where he had hidden it, under the sheepskin lining. He decided to leave it there for want of a better hiding-place.

He sat there waiting for his breakfast. The minutes dragged by. He heard footsteps in the corridor again and the sound of metal on metal. By the time the breakfast got halfway down the corridor he could hear the cell doors open and close. He waited in a fever of impatience. Then he thought they had passed his door. Perhaps he was to get no breakfast. At last the key turned in the lock and the breakfast was pushed in – two very thin slices of black bread and a small glass of pale thin tea. He cupped his hands round the thick glass and sipped his ‘tea.’ It was made from some sort of herb and tasted faintly of mint. He ate the sour black bread as slowly as he could, making each mouthful last as long as possible.

Later in the morning the gaoler unlocked the door and handed him a broom. Peter raised his eyebrows in interrogation. The man made signs that he was to sweep out the cell; but he shook his head in refusal. The gaoler took the broom and relocked the door. The cell remained unswept.

He lay on his back on the bed, and waited for lunch. The fact that he had no watch worried him. He felt that it must be four o’clock at least. When the lunch did come, he asked the gaoler the time. It was half past one.

The lunch was a plate of boiled white cabbage and three potatoes cooked in their jackets.

He lay on his back on the bed and waited for dinner. When it got dark and the lights were switched on from outside the cell and a guard came round outside the hut and put up the blackout shutters. With the shutters in place the room seemed smaller, ãnd he had to fight down a moment’s panic, hold back an impulse to hammer at the door and demand to be released.

Dinner was two thin slices of black bread and a cup of
ersatz
coffee.

After dinner the gaoler came in and asked him for his boots. As he watched him put them down outside the door, he laughed again at his original impression that they had been put out to be cleaned.

Shortly after this the light flickered twice. He thought that perhaps there had been a failure, or that they were changing over circuits; and he was unprepared when five minutes later the lights were extinguished for the night. He undressed in the darkness; but the next night, and for every night that he remained in the cell, he understood and obeyed the signal.

The next day, after breakfast, the gaoler again offered him the broom. Again he refused, and again the cell remained unswept.

One of the things about the cell that worried him most was the obscured glass of the window. The light came through it satisfactorily, but the thought of what lay beyond it – country, town or further prison - tantalised him. He tried peering through the uneven surface from every angle, but could see nothing. The window had been locked with a square key and he could not unfasten it.