The Tunnel by Eric Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

him towards the door.
    Outside in the darkness and the driving rain he stood for several seconds without a plan. The stars that had guided him fitfully throughout his journey were hidden behind the clouds. But he had little need of their guidance now, being no longer driven towards the west. He had crossed the border but was still lonely, still without the warmth of friendliness.
    He followed the lane to the main road and walked farther into Holland. Perhaps once out of the border country he would get more help. His trousers were already wet again and rain dripped down his nose and into the collar of his Irvin jacket.
    He walked all that night, more lonely and cold now that he had known the comfort that lay beyond the shuttered windows that he passed.
    By daylight he was still on the road, but managed to find a hiding-place between two haystacks near a farm. He lay there as long as he could but towards midday, impelled by hunger and loneliness, he decided to seek help at the farm. Looking carefully up and down the road he set out for the buildings that he could see a quarter of a mile away. Just as he was rehearsing what he would say to the farmer, he was overtaken swiftly and silently by two policemen on bicycles. It was useless to resist. He had lost the spirit to resist. They walked the few miles to the village without speaking.

Chapter Three
    He lay on his back in the narrow cell, trying to make maps and faces out of the damp patches which stained its lime-washed walls. He was so disgusted at having been captured that he refused to think of it. He lay on a wooden plank, and the thin grey blanket that covered him smelled abominably of ancient vomit. They had taken his flying boots and his sheepskin jacket, and he was cold. He had not eaten since early that morning and now it was late in the afternoon. The pale watery light creeping in through the small heavily-barred window fell obliquely on the bucket with its rough wooden seat, which stood in one corner of the cell. He could smell it from where he lay.
    He felt sick with remorse and self-disgust. It had been too silly. A long, straight, open road; the two policemen on bicycles. He had not even tried to run for it.
    There had been no cigarettes and schnapps this time. The cold dislike of the young policemen had been frightening. They had been to him, indistinguishable from the Germans – they may have been Germans. Anyway, their behaviour had been very different from that of the old policeman of two nights ago, and he had been glad when the door of the cell had closed behind them.
    He felt no bitterness against the Dutch. The interpreter had told him that for every airman discovered in hiding the Gestapo would shoot ten Dutchmen. For him, as the man had pointed out, it would only mean a slim chance to avoid eventual capture; for the Dutch it would mean much more.
    He sighed and stretched himself uncomfortably on his wooden bed. There would be no escape from this place, he was certain of that. Solid concrete, with a door that was inches thick. Even the bread and ersatz coffee that he had been given for breakfast had been pushed through a trap in the door. He would rest until they moved him again, and try to get away during the journey. He turned his face to the wall and presently he fell asleep.
    He was being shaken gently by the shoulder. He had been dreaming again, at first he thought it was his batman. Then he heard a voice calling, ‘’ Raus, ’raus!’ and became conscious of the scent. It was like the perfume they sprayed in cheap old-fashioned cinemas. He opened his eyes. A German soldier was bending over him, dragging him from the forgetfulness of sleep to the bleak reality of his cell. He sat up and pushed the hair back from his face. There were two soldiers, both armed with automatic pistols and carrying black imitation-leather briefcases.
    Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked at them. They were most unmilitary-looking soldiers. The one