Free The Tunnel by Eric Williams

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,