The Tunnel Read Online Free PDF

policeman’s attention was distracted by some small boys who had been following the beaters and were now crowding in, peering with interest at the ragged and mud-caked figure of the quarry. The policeman moved them back and, remembering his drill, handed the revolver to one of the foresters while he searched Peter’s clothes for firearms or a knife. He patted the pockets, under the armpits and down the sides of the trouser legs. He found the escape kit, looked at it and handed it back. Now that he was certain that his captive was unarmed he relaxed, took out a battered metal case and offered Peter a cigarette. He took one himself and lit them both with an old-fashioned cigarette-lighter, which he had great difficulty in working. It was like a day’s rough shooting at home. The foresters, leaning on their guns, had retired into private daydreams of their own. Tobacco smoke curled lazily into the winter air. Even the small boys were quiet.
    The policeman finished his cigarette, spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was time to move. He motioned Peter to raise his hands above his head again and walked towards the road.
    He was marched, at the end of the revolver, out of the bushes and down the road towards a level crossing. It was nearly dark, and the lighted windows of the village looked warm and comforting. He was almost glad that they had caught him. Now perhaps they would give him something to eat. The thought of food made him suddenly ill, and he was afraid that he would vomit in the street.
    By now the villagers were beginning to gather, and the policeman formed his company into some semblence of order. First walked two foresters dressed in green knickerbockers and carrying shotguns at the shoulder; then Peter, wearing mud-covered battledress, sodden flying boots and a brightly-spotted silk handkerchief round his neck. With four days’ growth of beard and hands held at shoulder height, he felt like the villain in a Wild West film. During his early operational days he had always flown with a revolver in its holster at his waist. If he had this now, he thought, the picture would be complete. After him came the policeman, gently prodding his prisoner in the small of the back with the revolver. Behind them marched a solid phalanx of foresters, followed at a respectful distance by an ever-increasing crowd of curious villagers.
    Halfway down the village street they were met by an Army officer. He was wearing a tight-fitting, olive-green uniform and badly cut breeches whose seat was one enormous leather patch. He carried an ornamental dagger slung from his belt by silver chains and in jackboots he looked out of place on his decrepit bicycle. He dismounted when he saw the procession and stood, holding the bicycle, waiting for them to draw near.
    The policeman stopped in front of the officer, bringing the procession to an abrupt halt. He raised his arm in an exaggerated Nazi salute and said, ‘Heil Hitler!’
    The officer replied with a military salute. He was young, fair and pink. His blue eyes looked at Peter for a moment, but flickered away again. He spoke to the policeman in German; he seemed to be asking a question.
    The policeman made a long statement. Peter lowered his arms, but raised them again when he felt the muzzle of a shotgun in the small of his back.
    The officer spoke again. He ignored the prisoner, carefully not looking in his direction. Peter stood listening to the strange tongue, not understanding it, knowing that they were talking about him, and feeling acutely conscious of his beard and the jagged rent in his trouser leg. He wished that they would let him lower his arms. He was cold again now, trembling, and he was worried in case the officer should think that he was frightened.
    The officer and policeman exchanged salutes, and the procession continued its triumphal march down the village street to a small hotel by the railway station.
    They had allowed him to wash and now he sat in the