The Tunnel (21 page)

At last, when all the prisoners had been identified and released on to the circuit, a close line of guards walked methodically across the football pitch, turning over the loose soil with their jackboots. Peter, standing by the touchline, watched anxiously as penknives, compasses, maps, indian ink, packets of dye and other escape material were unearthed and placed in two large blankets which the ferrets carried off to the
Kommandantur.

As soon as the prisoners were allowed on the pitch he went to where he buried his things; but the compass and maps had gone.

During the next ten days the prisoners were awakened five or six times every night to be counted, landmines were placed in the earth outside the wire, and series of snap
appels
were held. These were carried out independently of the usual fixed roll-calls and were heralded by the blowing of a bugle. As soon as the bugle sounded the prisoners had to leave whatever they were doing and assemble outside the barrack blocks. While they were being counted ferrets searched the blocks, the
aborts,
the cookhouse and the wash-houses in the hope of finding a tunnel which the sudden roll-call had forced the prisoners to leave uncovered.

Under these conditions it was impossible to dig, and Tyson decided not to resume work on the cookhouse tunnel until this security mood of the guards and passed. Peter and John, chafing at the delay, passed the time in walking round the circuit to keep fit and in making their plans for the long journey across Poland and Hungary to Yugoslavia.

Gradually the excitement subsided and one by one, sometimes in pairs, the would-be escapers were brought back, grinning sheepishly, into the fold. The cooler was already filled with the victims of the
Kommandant’s
displeasure on the moming after the break, and the returned escapers were locked in the White House where they lay awaiting trial. Often on their daily walk round the circuit Peter and John would catch a glimpse of the white strained faces peering from the upper windows. A levy was made on all rations, and food was sent to these prisoners within a prison.

Eventually only Otto and an English lieutenant commander were still at large. As the days grew into weeks their fellow prisoners began to hope that these two had got clean away. When at last the news came that they had been ‘shot while resisting arrest,’ the camp refused to believe what they hoped was merely a rumour. Then it was announced publicly on parade by the SBO. And the prisoners were forced to accept it.

They retaliated by increasing their goon-baiting activities until there was open warfare between the prisoners and their guards. The Germans, frightened by this hatred, used their rifles to maintain order, and it was only the tact of the SBO that saved the lives of several of the wilder spirits.

After the news of Otto’s death Loveday seemed to retire into a world of his own. He rarely spoke to the others, and when he did it was to utter some vague defiant threat against
them.
Who
they
were, the others could never really understand. It was not merely the Germans, it was some malignant force that worked secretly in the darkness to undermine his significance.

Peter and John were less affected than the others by his gloom. They worked in the tunnel during the day and spent the long light evenings in the theatre. Hugo and Saunders, who saw more of him, were depressed by his long silences more than they had been by his earlier noisy argument. It seemed as though, even when silent, he could cast his spell over them, and they lived in a state of nervous anticipation.

Then, for no apparent reason, he announced that in future he would prepare his own food.

‘But you can’t do that,’ Peter said. ‘It’s not economical.’

‘It’s better than the other thing.’

‘What other thing?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘But I don’t know, Loveday.’

‘Then you take me for a bigger fool than I thought you did.’

Saunders as usual tried to joke him out of his mood but he was obdurate. He insisted that one food parcel out of five should be given to him to do with as he pleased. He cooked privately, in private tins, and ate at unusual times. His horror of eating anything that had been prepared by the others made it obvious that he suspected them of poisoning him.

Shortly after this, as Peter was returning from the tunnel, Hugo met him and suggested a walk around the circuit. Peter could tell by his manner that this was more than an ordinary request for company.

‘How are you getting on with the tunnel?’ Hugo asked.

‘We shan’t be out before the end of the month. It’s pretty slow.’

‘I can’t understand why you do it.’ Hugo smoothed his hair. There’s very little chance of getting away with it now, honestly, is there?’

‘We shouldn’t be trying if there weren’t a chance.’

‘Come on,’ Hugo said. ‘Be honest. How much chance d’you think you’ve got?’

‘Ninety per cent.’

‘Of getting out of the camp, yes. But what’s the use of that? Look at the last lot – all brought back except two. And they were killed. That’s a fine result, if you like.’

‘I still think it’s worth it,’ Peter said.

‘Why?’

Peter walked in silence for a moment, wondering what to say,- wondering how to describe his longing to get back to flying and the fear of flying, how to describe the challenge of that tall wire fence. It was too much like shooting a line. It seemed pointless to talk of freedom, of life in the world beyond the wire - Hugo probably wanted that as much as he did. But Hugo was prepared to wait for it. He gave it up. ‘It’s a way of passing the time,’ he said.

‘A pretty futile way of passing the time, I should say.’

‘But what are you doing?’ Peter asked. ‘You always seem to be doing something, but to boil it down, what do you actually do?’

‘Oh, I’m learning quite a lot.’

‘What?’

Hugo laughed. ‘How to pass the time, for one thing. I seem to have spent most of my life doing that. Y’know, my aunt leaves me over a hundred thousand when she dies. All I have to do is wait for it. Now I should look pretty silly if I crawled out of a tunnel and got a bullet in my guts, shouldn’t I?’

‘I suppose so. That’s the aunt with the cat, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, she’s the only relative I’ve got. I hate the old bitch. She’s inherited all the family property bit by bit and now she owns everything – because of a damn’ silly will my grandfather made.’

‘How old is she?’

‘About eighty. It can’t be long now. I just make the time pass as quickly as I can. That’s all most of you tunnellers are doing – you say so yourself. Some of you get so fond of your damn tunnels that you forget what they’re for, and just go on digging for the fun of it. I reckon some of you dread the day when you have to come to the end of them.’

It’s no use trying to tell him, Peter thought. I suppose he’s right in a way. I do spend more time than I need in the tunnel. He wondered why Hugo had suggested the walk. Surely not to talk about tunnels – Hugo, who could not possibly be less interested. Or was it all an elaborate bluff? Was he going to ask for a place in it now that they were nearly finished?

‘I’m rather worried about Loveday,’ Hugo said. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Pete. I found a knife in his bed the other day.’

‘Well, there’s nothing in that. You should see the stuff I find in my bed sometimes.’

‘No – I’m serious. He hadn’t just left it there by accident. I saw him hiding it.’ There was something in Hugo’s voice that made Peter realize that he meant what he said. Hugo, ususally so detached, was not one to panic easily over a thing like this. ‘I taxed him with it,’ he continued. ‘He told me some garbled yarn about having to protect himself.’

‘Protect himself? From whom?’

‘I don’t know. You know how he is. He got all mysterious and then shut up like a clam. He makes me nervous.’

‘What d’you think we ought to do?’

‘I think we should see Stewart about it. Loveday should be where he can be properly looked after.’

‘I saw the SBO the morning after he had that fit,’ Peter said. ‘It’s no good. The goons say he’s not ill enough to go to hospital. They suspect he’s swinging the lead for a “repat.”’

‘Then I think he should be moved to another mess.’

‘It seems a little like admitting defeat.’

‘Either he or John should move.’ Hugo seemed emphatic about this.

‘Why John in particular?’

‘He seems to upset him more than the others. It seems that he somehow can’t bear to see John reading. It drives him into a frenzy.’

‘He seems to be getting worse since Otto went,’ Peter admitted.

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘What d’you suggest?’

‘Either he or John should go. I think there’ll be trouble if they’re not separated.’

Peter did not reply. He was still trying to remember Loveday’s particular animosity towards John. He certainly hadn’t noticed it; Loveday seemed to treat them all with equal distrust.

‘What about it?’ Hugo said. ‘I’m worried about him, Pete.’

‘It won’t be for much longer,’ Peter said. ‘We’ll be gone by the end of the month.’

‘You can’t bank on that.’

‘All right – I’ll go and see Stewart,’ Peter said. ‘We’ve had him for nearly four months. It’s time somebody else had a go.’

When they got back to the barrack block they found the place in an uproar. There was a strong smell of burning wood and the room was filled with smoke. The prisoners were crowding towards the end of the block, towards their mess.

They pushed their way through and found Saunders, his normally red face a dirty grey, standing over a pile of burned bedding which lay in the middle of the floor.

‘What the hell’s wrong?’ Peter asked.

‘That fool Loveday! He set fire to the bedding and then threw all John’s books on to it. Flames were damn’ nearly up to the ceiling. Dancing round it, he was, and singing at the top of his voice.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘They took him to the hospital.’

‘Where’s John?’

‘Dunno – haven’t seen him since lunch.’

Peter knew a moment’s panic, then remembered that John had gone straight down to the theatre. ‘We’d better clear the place up,’ he said.

‘Mad as a hatter,’ Saunders said. ‘Singing and dancing round and flinging the books on. He nearly killed me – got me by the throat. The place was so thick with smoke anyway, the other chaps hadn’t noticed anything. I walked in and there he was.’

‘Never mind,’ Peter said. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a little peace for a change.’

For Peter the next few weeks sped by remarkably quickly. They had been prisoners for nearly four months, and had by now acquired some of the equanimity that he had so admired in the old kriegies. The moods of depression and desperation still visited them, but they had learned to control this feeling, to consider its effect on their fellow prisoners. Their tunnel, now the only escape route undiscovered by the Germans, was moving steadily nearer and nearer to the wire, and the evenings, without Loveday, had become periods of quiet enjoyment.

Oddly enough, the nearer he got to escape, the more virtue Peter found in the prison life. He found companionship, unselfishness and a certain personal freedom such as he had never known before. But, he told himself, he was only a recent prisoner. The novelty of this would wear off, the lack of responsibility would take its toll. He must push on with his plans for the journey, work to ensure that his escape from the camp was a permanent one; and yet at the same time make the most of imprisonment’s rather negative virtues. He was busy on the designs for the scenery of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and John was learning the part of Lysander. Saunders had been roped in to play Bottom while even Hugo had roused himself sufficiently to accept the role of Peter Quince The Carpenter.

‘Come on, Saunders,’ Hugo said.
‘Let us hear, sweet Bottom.’

‘I’d like to do Act One again,’ Saunders said. ‘The beginning of Scene Two.’

‘OK. Will you prompt, Pete?’ Hugo handed him the book and cleared his throat.
‘Is all our company here?’

‘You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the script.’
Saunders spoke in a false, hollow voice, absolutely without inflection.

‘
Appel
up,’ John said. He was copying a map of Yugoslavia that they had borrowed from the Escape Committee.

Hugo ignored him.
‘Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and Duchess on their wedding night.’

‘It’s not
on their wedding night,’
Peter said. ‘It’s
on his wedding day at night
.’

‘Must be a misprint,’ Saunders said.

‘That’s what it says here.’

‘It doesn’t scan properly,’ Hugo said. ‘Why
on his wedding day at night!
After all, they’re both getting married. I’ll say
on their wedding night.’

Saunders was horrified. ‘You can’t do that – you’ve got to say it according to the script.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s Shakespeare!’

‘Let’s rewrite the whole thing,’ John said. ‘Do it kriegie fashion, like this: ‘Say, bum, is everyone on
appel?
Better call the roll,
Was haben Sie?
These are the bods, they all act well,
Blond genug –
what part’s for me?’

‘It’s no use,’ Saunders said. ‘I can’t work in this madhouse. We’ll do it on the circuit in the morning.’

‘You’ve got weeks to learn it in,’ Hugo said, ‘and nothing else to do. You’ll get stale if you learn it too soon.’

‘That’s true.’ Saunders said it with relief. ‘I think I’ll get on with making that oven.’ He got out his sheets of tin and started hammering.

‘It’s been pretty quiet since Loveday left,’ Peter said.

‘What did you say?’ John shouted.

‘I SAID IT’S BEEN PRETTY QUIET SINCE LOVEDAY LEFT!’

‘I wonder how he’s getting on!’

‘He’s still in the hospital,’ Hugo told him. ‘I called in there this morning. The MO’s trying to get him sent to Obermassfeld but the goons won’t move. He’s told them he won’t be responsible if they keep him here.’

‘I miss him, you know, in a way.’ Saunders stopped hammering and sat astride the bench. ‘He’s a good chap in a way, you know.’

‘He’s too selfish for prison life,’ John said.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘He isn’t selfish enough, that’s the trouble.’ Peter fetched his drawing materals from the shelf above his head. ‘He’s too interested in other people’s affairs. It’s a sort of generosity – he wants to share his thoughts all the time.’

‘It’s selfishness really,’ John said. ‘He can’t bear not to be in on everything.’

‘It’s uncertainty,’ Hugo said. ‘He wants to be reassured all the time. He wants to feel that people need him.’

‘He didn’t go the right way about it then.’

‘He’s a nice chap, really,’ Saunders insisted. ‘He only burned your books because he thought you’d be better off without ’em.’

‘Thanks – that’s a comfort.’

‘I suppose we could have done more to help him,’ Peter said.

‘It wouldn’t have been any use,’ Hugo told him. ‘It’s in the man – it’s nothing to do with us.’

‘I wonder who’ll take his place.’ Saunders pushed his woollen cap to the back of his head. ‘They won’t leave us with only four in the mess.’

There’ll be a new purge in soon,’ Hugo said. ‘We’ll be eight then.’

‘More’s the pity.’ Peter was working on a design for Snout’s costume: a Red Cross packing case suspended from the shoulders round the waist, and painted to represent the Wall. ‘I reckon four is just about the right number for a mess.’

‘We shall get four more when the next purge comes in.’ Hugo was emphatic about this. ‘Now that Loveday’s gone there’s no excuse for only having six in the mess.’

‘You’ll need
six
more,’ John said. ‘And a new Lysander.’

‘Go on, you haven’t a hope,’ Saunders said.

‘That’s what you think.’

‘How far’ve you got since you opened it up again?’

‘Thirty feet.’

‘When d’you think you’ll break?’

‘Another week should see us through,’ John said.

‘Go on!’

‘It’s a fact,’ Peter told him.

‘How are you going?’ Saunders seemed, only now, to think it possible that they were really going.

‘I’m going as an Italian,’ Peter said. ‘John’s going as my daughter.’

‘Stow it!’

‘Honestly. We’ve thought the whole thing out. We’ll walk at night, and if anyone sees us we just go into a clinch in a hedge or up against a wall – and no one would dream of disturbing us. The most natural thing in the world.’

‘
Un
natural,’ Hugo said. ‘It’s incest.’

‘I think they’ve got something,’ Saunders said. ‘What about clothes?’

‘I’m making a skirt out of a greatcoat,’ John said. ‘I’ll wear a sort of sweater with a built-up brassière, and a scarf round my head.’