by Martin Howe
“And it shall come to pass in the last days, that the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills; and all nations shall flow unto it.”
There it is. Adolf Hitler lives at Berchtesgaden high in the Alps. Ambassadors, prime ministers, kings all come to pay court to him there. Isaiah chapter eighteen, verse three, shows us how to recognize his coming,
“All ye inhabitants of the world, and dwellers on the earth, see, when he lifteth up an ensign on the mountains; and when he bloweth a trumpet, hear. And when he cometh among us, joybells will be rung”.
It’s so obvious to me brethren, that when his armies reach Britain, as they must, bells will be rung across the nation. A warning, so they think, but to us, the chosen few, a celebration, an exhortation, that the end is near, that our time has come.”
Exultant, St Barbe Baker stopped speaking to mop his brow again, joy in his eyes.
“Then, my brethren, the great reckoning will be upon us and we will take our rightful place as soldiers for the Lord. I am tired. I thank God I can see my message, his message, has struck home. Let Isaiah, that great prophet, once again point the way forward for you. Chapter sixty-six, verse twenty-four,
“And they shall go forth, and look upon the carcasses of the men that have transgressed against me; for their worm shall not die, neither shall their fire be quenched; and they shall be an abhorrence unto all flesh, Amen.”
I need say no more. Thank you for attending my modest gathering, my church by the sea. Have faith your enemies will perish and you will arise reborn anew in the kingdom of heaven.”
There was silence, then scattered applause, which St Barbe Baker stilled with a wave of his hand.
“Friends, please no. If this was the house of the Lord you wouldn’t clap. Please, I do not want such acclamation. I expect no reward on this earth, save that you listen, inwardly digest God’s word and pass it on.”
Prisoners began to get up and walk away quietly, stretching their stiff limbs, brushing grass from their clothing. Tony didn’t move, he closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the sun seeping into his skin and was lifted on a wave of contentment and infantile well-being. It was a brief passing moment. His head lolled heavily to one side and he awoke with a start. Captain St Barbe Baker was still there, whistling to himself as he packed away the altar, his wooden crucifix hanging lopsidedly from the wire. Tony stood up, waved vaguely in his direction and wearily began to climb the hill back to the house. He wondered what time it was. Not having a watch was one of the things he hated most about being locked up.
“Watching time pass,” he thought, “beats feeling it pass and it may even be quicker. Bugger it all. Adolf Hitler is Jesus Christ, do I believe that?”
“Tony, hold on, Tony.”
Eric ran up the hill behind him, sweating, damp hair plastered to his head.
“You haven’t been listening to that old fraud, have you?” he gasped as he came alongside, breathing rapidly. “He’s completely mad you know. Gassed in the last war, buried a couple of times by bomb blasts in the trenches, it all turned his mind. Used to come to the “Black House” all the time, pestering Mosley, saying he worked for British Intelligence and could act as a double agent passing on information about what they were plotting against us. Oswald used to humour him, you know, old soldier and all that, but he never came up with anything worthwhile as far as I know. Mad having him locked up here, in my opinion. He’s totally harmless. Should be in a mental hospital.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
Eric flung himself onto the grass, flicking back his greasy fringe with his hand.
“I’m bloody exhausted. I’ve just been swimming in the sea. It was wonderful. So refreshing. They’ve started letting us onto the beach in small groups. Every afternoon, around three. You should do it. Damn sight healthier than listening to that old crackpot.”
Tony sat down beside him and stared out to sea, the shimmering light was dazzling and he looked away.
“I don’t know,” he said distractedly, “it’s all very reassuring.”
“What is? Old St Barbed Bacon?”
“Being told what to believe, you know, certainties.”
“It certainly is.”
Eric struggled to keep a straight face.
“Some of it was odd, but he has such a lovely speaking voice. I could listen to it for hours.”
“Oh my God, but then he probably said that, didn’t he?”
Tony looked at him strangely as if only just becoming aware that he was there.
“Looks like a touch of the sun to me, but it could be the touch of God, eh? What do you think Tony?”
“What?”
“Tony, I wonder about you sometimes. Anyway, I’ve something very important I want to talk to you and the others about. Exciting news. I’ll tell you over dinner. Make sure you’re there won’t you?”
“Yeh, yeh I’ll be there.”
“Good, see you later.”
“Where is Eric? He tells us to be here and then he’s late, bloody typical.”
“He’ll be here Ray, give him a bit more time, it’s not as if we’re going anywhere or got anything better to do.”
“I could be digging the garden, lovely evening like this. Takes my mind off things, instead I’m stuck inside waiting for Eric.”
“Come on, it’s not that bad and we’ll be eating soon. Sid’ll surprise us with another culinary masterpiece. We’ll have a beer and Eric will tell us his story and all will be fine with the world.”
“Well Tony, if you’re so bothered about my welfare give us a fag.”
“Sorry, I’m a bit short myself, almost used up this week’s ration.”
“No, I thought not. What are we having Sid?”
“Fish bloody stew, what do you bloody well think. It’s stinking the house out, you can’t bloody miss it.”
Sid yelled from the kitchen at the rear of house. The others were sitting in the back room watching the orange orb of the sun sink slowly though a blood-red sky.
“Spuds, any spuds?”
“Yes, bloody mashed spuds. Soddin’ different ain’t it. A right royal bloody treat.”
Sid appeared at the door wreathed in steam.
“There’s no need to bloody shout, I’m not deaf. Ray you can bloody do this tomorrow.”
He ducked back into the kitchen as a cushion missed his head by inches.
“Not bloody likely mate, you’re getting too good.”
“Sod off.”
Eric appeared at the back door.
“Children, children, leave you alone for a few minutes and…”
“Where’ve you been? We’ve all been waiting.”
“Ray, Ray, patience. I’ve been checking a few details, wait and see. Is everyone here, right. How long till grub’s up Sid?”
“Twenty minutes or so.”
“Fine, let’s go through to the front. Should all be a bit clearer in there.”
The curtains were drawn and the room was in semi-darkness. The two Biff Boys slept there and bed-sheets and blankets were strewn everywhere, two old battered leather chairs piled high with dirty clothes.
“God it stinks in here, don’t you ever let in any fresh air? It’s worst than my dog’s kennel.”
“Leave it,” snapped Eric, as Sid moved towards the window, “we don’t want any nosy neighbours listening in. Grab a seat and pay attention.”
Sid angrily flung himself into one of the armchairs and glared at Eric who sat down opposite him in the other chair. Eric waited for the rest to find a space on the floor, then began to speak in a half-whisper.
“Now you all know that they’ve been bringing more and more detainees in here since we arrived, and not all good fascists like us. Italians, Germans, Irish, you name it, they’re shipping th
em in. Well, I met one of them, an Irishman name of Ed Flaherty, well, it was more he introduced himself to me. He has an interesting…”
“What’s he here for?”
“Didn’t ask him, but there’s three or four of them. I’m sure they must be IRA. They’re dead keen to get out of here and return home. Well you can almost see Ireland on a clear day, it’s that close.”
“What do you mean get home? How?”
“That’s what’s interesting. They’ve checked out the camp and reckon they can escape.”
Sid whistled and shook his head.
“Escape? If you get out of the camp, you’ve still got to get off the island, they’re mad.”
“No, Ray listen. Our house is one of the closest to the wire, it’s also opposite that path that runs through to the fields at the back. And you all know its dead quiet up here most of the time. We hardly ever see a guard, even with the sodding guardhouse opposite. I’ve been watching it, they come and go at the back, never the front.”
“So what are they talking about? Going over the wire? It’d be bloody dangerous.”
“No, a tunnel.”
“Whaaaat, they’re not serious?”
They all looked aghast at Eric.
“They are and they want us in. They’ve been checking us out.”
“But a tunnel?”
“Look, Ray, you’ll know better than the rest that the soil round here is easy to dig. It’s clayey but well drained…”
Ray nodded.
“…and it’s not that far from this room to the other side of the road, the other side of the fence. What, thirty odd feet at the most?”
They all began looking around the room, seeing it for the first time in a different light.
“There’s plenty of wood around to shore up the tunnel and we get rid of the soil in the garden, Ray’s always out there pottering around.”
“How many would be digging?”
“The six of us and three or four of them.”
“And what happens when we get out of the camp? We swim for it?”
“No, they can get a boat, then over to Ireland in a couple of hours and away. No more of this bloody drudgery. What do you think?”
There was silence.
“Do we all get to go?”
“Of course you do Tony, no problem.”
“And if we don’t want to?”
“You don’t have to, but I wouldn’t want to be around here when they discover we’ve gone and you were living in the same house and knew all about what was going on and didn’t say anything.”
They all laughed.
“Anyway Tony, I’d have thought you’d be dead keen. You said Emily was ill and wouldn’t be able to make it over here to visit. This would be your chance to go and see her. You’ve nothing to lose. Are you in? ’cause I am.”
Tony thought for a moment, leaning back rubbing his lower jaw with his hand, hoping his ambivalent feelings about the whole enterprise wouldn’t be obvious.
It was true that the last he’d heard, Emily was having chest problems and didn’t think she’d be moving around much in the next few months. But it was tempting to stick it out here, keep your head down and not get into trouble. They were already letting a steady stream of people go and he couldn’t be far from top of the list to be released. But, and it was a big but, Eric was his friend – a friend who’d stitched him up, the bastard – there was no way he’d be allowed to not take part as, by the sound of it, there were some hard men involved. And if I get caught, I’ll get sent back to Walton, which is closer to home. So I can’t bloody lose can I?
“I’m in,” he said grimly.
A smile flickered across Eric’s face.
“Thanks matey, you won’t regret it. Come on, you other dogs, how about some digging?”
The two Biff boys nodded their assent in unison. Sid called out, “I’ll be happy to get out of this bloody place, sign me up Eric,” as he headed back to the kitchen. “Show these fucking swine. If they treat us like dogs, they get dogs, eh?”
Yelps could be heard amid the clatter of pots and pans, then maniacal barking.
“Keep it down Sid, we don’t want them to lock you up early, do we?”
Ray had got up and was standing in front of the dusty fireplace, looking apprehensively at the others.
“Look, Eric, I’m not sure about this. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do it. The thought of tunneling puts the wind up me. The whole idea, you know underground, closed in with all that earth up above you. I’ve never liked small rooms.”
Wringing his hands, Ray looked from face to face, desperately seeking reassurance.
“You know, I can’t bear it.”
Eric got to his feet and placed an arm around Ray’s shoulder.
“I know what you mean. I’m not so keen on it myself. But tell you what I’ll do if you come in with us, you won’t have to do the digging.”
Ray looked relieved.
“You can be our logistics man, getting rid of the soil, collecting wood that sort of thing. How about…”
Ray eagerly cut Eric off.
“Yeah, I’ll do it. Look, I’m sorry, you know?”
“Don’t worry, this calls for a celebration. Sid?”
“What?”
“Any beers left?”
“Bloody hell, give us a minute. Two.”
“Bring ’em in here will you old chap, time for a toast.”
“Fetch ’em yourself. I’m up to my bloody eyeballs with your fucking dinner.”
Eric turned away from Ray and began to squeeze himself past the armchair towards the door, hissing under his breath.
“God, that little runt really annoys me sometimes.”
Tony touched him on the arm.
“Forget it Eric, I’ll go.”
Tony returned holding a tray with two brown bottles, open and frothing, and four chipped white enamel mugs.
“Watch it, you’re spilling it, you stupid sod. Bloody precious stuff that is.”
The mugs were passed round, Ray took his sheepishly and placed it on the mantelpiece, the others were grabbed eagerly.
“Hold on everyone, I want to make a toast.”
Eric took one of the bottles and raised it above his head.
“To King, country and home by Christmas.”
“Home by Christmas,” echoed round the room. Bottles and mugs were drained. Ray looked marginally happier. Sid belched.
“God, delicious. Grub’s up.”
“Before we dine gents, I’ve something to show you.”
Everyone stared at Eric, who moved over to the window.
“Here, give us a hand to shift this chair.”
Underneath was a filthy frayed rug. Eric raised a corner and flung it to one side. A number of the floorboards were free from dust and edged in places by pale splintered wood, where they had been prized loose. Eric lifted each board in turn to reveal a pit about a yard square and a couple of feet deep dug into the hard packed earth that lay a foot below the floor. The air smelled stale and musty.
“Don’t look so surprised. I had to check it was possible.”
“But when did you do it?”
“When you were all out the other day. This …, “ he pointed triumphantly into the hole, “took me less than an hour. It’s dead easy. It shouldn’t take us long, then freedom.”
Ray flinched, thinking of the cold damp earth closing in on him, and stepped back feeling hot and faint, but nobody noticed in the dim light. Over dinner Eric talked incessantly about digging rotas, hiding the tools, shoring up the tunnel, putting in electric lighting, spreading the soil in the garden.
“Eric’s in his element,” thought Tony, “he’s loving every minute. Fooling the guards and other inmates, covering his tracks, subterfuge.”
The tunnel imposed its own routine, independent of, yet integral to their life in the camp. The eight men involved directly in the digging divided themselves into four teams, each spending two hours a day underground tunneling. The original plan had been for each person to work an hour at the soil face and an hour shifting earth and keeping watch. But cleaning up afterwards was more of a problem than they had anticipated, due to the shortage of water in the houses along the Ballarat Road. So, to minimize the numbers needing to wash, one man would dig for two hours one day and then move earth for two hours the next. Digging started after early roll-call. At the outset, the Irish were keen to press on and excavating would continue after the evening meal, but exhaustion and the increased danger of being overheard by prisoners in the neighbouring houses, led to the extra shifts being dropped. Ray took his duties seriously, the newly dug earth was rapidly spread across the vegetable garden and there was a constant supply of planking, cut to the correct length, stored in the space under the floorboards at the entrance to the tunnel.
Security was a concern when they first began the dig and they posted look-outs at the front and back of the house, kept the curtains drawn and the rug covering the hole whenever they were getting rid of the soil in the garden. They even ran practice drills to see how quickly they could hide the tunnel entrance and replace the furniture and they rehearsed standard replies to any questions about noises people had heard or things they may have seen. But as the weeks went by they realized that the camp guards rarely patrolled inside the wire and when they did, they never went into any of the houses, unless there was trouble. And none of their fellow prisoners appeared to notice, so they became increasingly relaxed. Life settled down into a productive routine.
Tony paired up with Eric and they worked the late afternoon digging shift, which suited Tony perfectly. Early in his internment at Peveril, he had volunteered to fetch fresh milk for the camp every morning from Ballawattleworth Farm, a quarter of a mile or so inland from Peel. Immediately after reveille he and five other prisoners escorted by four guards would pull a cart loaded with empty milk churns along a dusty dirt track between high hedges to the dairy. It was an escape, a brief respite from the snagging restrictions of life behind the wire. Outside you could move freely, Tony convinced himself, bask in the expansive air beneath an unmarred sky, absorb the rich textures of the open countryside and breathe in the natural scent of the burgeoning fields and the warm fecundity of animals. But above all he looked forward to the rich creamy smell of warm milk and the pungent rancidity of the creamery, not to mention the fleeting presence of the dairy maid. Yvonne always stopped and smiled at the prisoners as they drew up in the yard, before slipping into the dairy to reappear seconds later carrying a brimming churn, her cheeks flushed with the exertion. The farmer would not allow the prisoners inside any of his farm buildings, so they had to wait for Yvonne before loading them on to the cart. Tony would stand with the others and admire her muscular arms, the moving folds of her skirt as she bent over to position the heavy churns in the doorway, the sweat glistening on her forehead, dampening the wisps of blond hair that escaped from under her white cap; and imagine himself in love. Nobody ever said a word and they would slowly return to the camp, loaded down with slopping churns. These trips to the dairy excused him from other more onerous camp duties and the rest of the morning was free for football, swimming and playing cards. In the early afternoon he was a look-out and spent the time reading a book with his feet up in a shady spot in the back garden. He raised the alarm only once and that was to put the wind up Sid, who had been annoying everyone all morning. It worked up to a point. Sid was trapped petrified in the tunnel for over half an hour, while Tony and Eric crashed around above his head, moving furniture and tapping the floor with a stick. He was quiet for days afterwards, but refused to do any cooking, until an extra bottle of beer and a word from Eric won him round.