Free The Tunnel by Eric Williams Page B

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