Free The Tunnel by Eric Williams Page A

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.