The Tunnel by Eric Williams

to the forbidden topic.
    On the tenth morning – he had counted them by scoring lines on the windowsill with the metal clip that he had torn from the wall – the gaoler brought him a book. It was a long book, and he began to read it carefully. He felt that he would be there for a long time, so he read every word, refusing to skip to get the sense as he usually did. He lingered over every line, seeking the author’s intention, appreciating his choice of words, living intensely the lives of the characters in the book.
    He had just finished the fourth chapter when a guard came to return his uniform and tell him to get ready to go across to the main camp, and he was surprised to find that he did not want to go. The cell had become a known, familiar place, had changed imperceptibly from a prison into a refuge. He asked if he could take the book with him, but was told that this was ‘streng verboten.’
    Standing in the corridor, ready to go with him to the main camp, were some dozen other prisoners. He glanced swiftly at their faces, but saw none of his crew nor anyone he recognized. They were dressed in every sort of uniform from RAF blue battledress to khaki bush-shirts and shorts, from flying boots to wooden clogs; but they were alike in their pallor and unkempt appearance.
    After some shuffling about they were all assembled in a long straggling line and marched between armed guards out into the strong light of the open compound.

Chapter Five
    It was exciting to be out in the open air again, after the close disinfected atmosphere of the cell. The air was hard and cool, strong with the scent of the pine forests which surrounded the camp. Surprisingly, the ground was covered with snow, and shouting children on skis swooped round them as they marched the few hundred yards down to the camp in the valley below. There was a lot of talking among the prisoners. Peter heard snatches of excuse and explanation. ‘So we just nipped across to look at Hamburg on the way back—’ ‘—pumped us full of lead—’ ‘—navigator took us smack over Cologne.’ ‘There we were, light as bloody day—’ ‘—tried to fight our way out of it but—’ ‘Absolutely useless—’
    For himself, he did not want to talk. The spell of solitary confinement had dried his flow of speech instead of damming it. For the moment he did not care if he never spoke of flying again.
    By his side a young Army officer, a captain in khaki battledress, wearing a fringe of soft dark beard, hummed quietly to himself, also withdrawn from the crossfire of verbal cannon shells.
    Lining the road were wooden houses built like Swiss chalets, with balconies extending the whole length of the house. They were toylike with their high-pitched roofs and carved wooden gables, and Peter would have liked to stop and look inside. He imagined what the interior would be – the chequered linen and the honest wooden furniture.
    The new arrivals were met at the gates of the compound by a small reception committee of older prisoners. There were three of them, three uncouth figures standing in the black slush of the compound waiting to welcome the new unfortunates. The first - he seemed to be in charge – was a portly middle-aged man wearing a round knitted hat, a khaki cloak fastened at the neck with a metal clip and wooden clogs. He introduced himself as the British adjutant; the other two, he said, were the doctor and the padre.
    While the others were shaking hands Peter looked round him at the long green wooden huts, with their snow-covered roofs, the high double-fenced barbed wire and the raised sentry boxes above the wire. As they stood there, a British soldier, brawny in his collarless khaki shirt, came from behind one of the huts, dragging a strange-looking wooden cart piled high with empty boxes. He spoke in German to the greatcoated guard at the gate. He spoke abruptly, obviously telling him to open the gate and to look sharp about it. The guard obeyed with surprising