The Tunnel by Eric Williams Page A

cell. He wore a pilot’s badge on his tunic, and the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with bar. Peter, who had been sitting on the bed, rose to his feet feeling awkward in his ill-fitting khaki uniform. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
    ‘Good morning.’ The German’s accent was that of the West-End stage. ‘Thought I’d just pop in and say how do.’
    ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Peter said.
    The German sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and produced a packet of cigarettes. He smelled strongly of shaving lotion but even this was refreshing after the smell of disinfectant. ‘You flew very well,’ he said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I said you flew very well. It was I who had the good fortune to shoot you down.’
    Peter felt more at ease. This was pure Pop Dawson. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.
    ‘It was good luck. You put up a magnificent fight. It was just a fortune of war, old boy.’
    Peter thought this was rather overdoing it.
    ‘I would like to shake you by the hand,’ the German said.
    Peter took his hand, wondering when he was going to get the cigarette. Surely the cigarette came next?
    Yes, Pop had been right, the German offered him a cigarette. He noticed that it was an English one.
    He sat on the edge of the bed and smoked the first cigarette for days. He would have preferred a pipe, but as he inhaled he felt the nicotine release the sugar in his blood, relieve the nagging hunger, soothe his nerves.
    ‘The Wellington is not an easy aircraft to shoot down.’ The German’s soft insistent voice dragged him back to the subject.
    ‘No?’
    ‘Not with the Merlin engines. Yours had the Merlin engines, I suppose?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You don’t know?’ Then the pilot chuckled, the superior chuckle of pilots the world over. ‘Of course – you are the navigator. I have just been talking to your pilot. He tells me that you were lost.’
    So Wally was here, too. Peter felt an almost overpowering desire to ask about the rest of the crew, but realized that this was what the German was angling for. Perhaps it was a trap and they were still at large. He remained silent.
    ‘A bit off course, weren’t you, coming back from Hanover?’
    The German’s soft, insistent voice was urging him to defend his skill in navigation. But he saw the trap. ‘I’m sorry, you know I can’t talk about flying.’
    The German laughed, and Peter noticed his gold teeth. ‘Oh, I’m not an intelligence officer – I’m aircrew like yourself. I’m here on rest after my first tour of operations. I’ve been flying Junkers 88s. Have you tried your hand at flying?’
    ‘I’m not allowed to discuss flying.’
    ‘Look here, old boy – I only came in for a chat. I’m not interrogating you. Good Lord, I haven’t sunk as low as that.’ He rose to his feet, offended. ‘However, if you’re going to be stand-offish, I’ll go and talk to someone else.’
    Peter did not want him to go. Dangerous as he was, he represented the outside world. ‘I’m sorry. Naturally I’m pleased to have someone to talk to. But I’m afraid I’m not allowed to discuss Service matters.’
    ‘Well, of course not, old boy! It was just that both being fliers …’ He allowed himself to sit on the bed again. ‘Now what can I do for you? I’m only a visitor, don’t forget …’
    ‘Well – in the first place I’d like to shave. I’ve not been allowed to wash since I’ve been here. And then I’d like something to read. And to have the window of my cell open. It gets pretty stuffy in here.’
    ‘I’ll do what I can about it’ – then he forgot the part he was playing – ‘but I’m afraid that as you’re not willing to cooperate with us you’re going to find things a little hard at first. Life would be much easier for you y’know, if you would decide to be sensible and tell us the little things we ask. They’re not important things, you understand – we just want them for the records we make of all prisoners.’ ‘I’m sorry, I’m