At one moment a small sentry, his rifle slung over his shoulder, was pacing importantly across the half-way line. The next moment the ball had appeared from nowhere and struck him on the chest. He had barely time to utter a single, indignant bleat before the scrum had caught him, and he disappeared under a cataract of arms and legs.
The sentries on the walls were plainly in two minds. Outrages were being committed in front of their eyes, but they were unable to shoot. They relieved their feelings by screaming. The gates opened and a file of carabinieri doubled on, headed by Paoli. The scrimmage subsided and the sentry reappeared. He had lost his rifle and bayonet and, as became horribly apparent when he tried to stand up, his braces as well.
Goyles held his breath.
It was always touch and go at moments like this whether the Italian sense of humour or sense of dignity was going to come to the top. It was with mixed feelings that he saw that Captain Benucci had arrived and appeared to be taking command of the situation.
The groups separated and the dust settled.
To his surprise it became apparent that most of Captain Benucci’s wrath was concentrated against the sentry. His admonitory remarks practically reached the hut. The sentry, holding his rifle in reverse in one hand, and the top of his trousers with the other, scuttled off.
The game restarted.
Half an hour later a dishevelled and despondent Tony Long arrived and perched on Goyles’ bed.
‘You saw it?’ he said. ‘Seemed to go pretty well, didn’t it? Well, it was an absolute flop.’ He sat for a moment swinging his legs, and then said, ‘Wouldn’t you have thought it a safe bet that they’d have arrested the lot of us? We were all there, all six of us, as arranged, holding little bits of that sentry’s clothes and gear, all utterly arrestable. I had his hat and bayonet scabbard. If ever you could have betted you were on to a safe thing, I should have thought that was it. I was only scared they were going to machine gun the lot of us. Then Benucci arrived—’
‘I saw him,’ said Goyles. ‘What happened?’
‘What happened?’ said Long. ‘He laughed.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll do him this much justice,’ said Long. ‘He behaved exactly as an English officer would have behaved in the same circumstances. He tore the sentry off an awful strip – so far as I could follow what he was saying – for getting in the way of the game. He then told him to get back to barracks and get dressed. Then he gave everybody a sort of paternal tick-off. “Boys will be boys – don’t get carried away” – that sort of thing, and sauntered off.’
‘With the honours of war—’
‘Oh, Lord, yes,’ said Long. ‘With every honour that was going. I’ve never seen a bluff called more competently.’
‘You don’t have to be a good poker player,’ said Goyles, ‘to call a bluff when you know exactly what cards all your opponents are holding.’
‘Say that again.’
‘Look here,’ said Goyles, ‘either I’m mad or everyone else in this camp is blind. But isn’t it perfectly obvious that everything we do and say goes straight back to Benucci.’
Long suspended his undressing and stood for a moment, with his head on one side, looking anxiously at Goyles.
‘You’re not still delirious, are you?’ he said.
‘I’ve never been clearer headed in my life. You remember that first morning – when the Italians found Coutoules’ body in the Hut A tunnel. All that finger-printing and photographing and measuring marks in the roof of the tunnel. It stuck out a mile that they knew perfectly well that they were being offered a put-up job. I don’t go so far as to say that they knew where or how Coutoules was killed, but they knew that he had been put in that tunnel for them to find. That stuck out so far that even the Escape Committee noticed it.’
‘All right,’ said Long. ‘When else?’
‘Well, you remember my fiasco in the cooler. I thought at the time that poor little Biancelli might have blown his mouth off and got nabbed for indiscretion. Now I’m not so sure. And this business tonight makes me even less sure. You said yourself that it was unnatural. It was more than unnatural. It was plain bloody incredible.’
‘You realise what you’re saying, I suppose,’ said Long slowly. ‘Take those three cases alone. If Benucci got hold of them as quickly as you say he did, he’s got to have an informer who’s well in the swim. Not just anybody. I don’t suppose that more than a dozen people knew about any of them.’
‘I agree,’ said Goyles. ‘And it means a good deal more than that, too. Benucci’s not a fool. He must know that we’re capable of working this out. Why should he practically go out of his way to give us the information? Why should he come and rub my nose in it, as he did over that Biancelli job?’
‘You tell me,’ said Long.
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said Goyles. ‘I don’t think he cares a brass farthing for the safety and well-being of his informer in this camp. Any more than he did for his other stooge, Coutoules. And I’m beginning to think – and hope – that the reason for this is simply that he realises, better than we do, that time is running out. We can’t see the line running off the end of the reel, but he can.’
‘Hang on to that,’ said Long soberly. ‘It’s almost the only hope left for Roger that I can see.’
3
Very late that night Colonel Baird was sitting in Colonel Lavery’s room. They had been talking for a long time. Neither of them felt much desire for bed.
Breaking the silence, Baird said, ‘I don’t believe he’ll do it. I don’t believe anyone in his position would risk it.’
Colonel Lavery had no need to ask him who he was talking about. ‘Anyone but Benucci, no.’
‘He’s a tough character,’ agreed Baird.
Another silence.
‘Do you remember once telling me,’ said Colonel Lavery, ‘about the time when you had a German prison camp under your command in the Delta? About the Nazis who ganged up on one of the prisoners and tried him and executed him? You had the ring-leaders shot – very properly, in my opinion – you can’t allow mob law like that in a prison camp – or anywhere else.’
‘Certainly I remember it,’ said Baird.
‘Did it ever occur to you that Benucci – who’s a pure Nazi, if I’m any judge – might be taking a sort of back-handed swipe at you for that incident? It’s got all the usual Nazi trimmings. You manacle ten of our prisoners, we manacle twenty of yours. That sort of thing.’
‘You mean,’ said Baird slowly, ‘that because I have three men shot who are murderers, self-confessed murderers – he’s going to shoot an innocent man?’
‘That’s about it. With all suitable display of justice and washing of hands, but that’s about what it boils down to. I got the idea from something Benucci said when he broke the news to me about Byfold. “Injustices are apt to happen in prison camps. They happen in your camps and in ours.” ’
‘If you’re right about that,’ said Baird, ‘we shouldn’t kid ourselves that there’s much hope, should we?’
‘The only glimmer I can see is in a report I had this evening from our “I” people. I can’t make very much of it, but apparently the Fascist Supreme Council had an emergency meeting yesterday afternoon. It seems to have lasted until after midnight.’
‘Another of Musso’s gags?’
‘I suppose so. The only thing is that one usually reliable source says that the meeting wasn’t called by Mussolini at all. Some people think it was Roatta. There’s another school of thought that it was Graziano.’
‘One Wop’s very like another to me,’ said Baird. He sat for a few minutes puffing at his empty pipe. ‘I’m inclined to fall back on the old infantry motto: “When in doubt, dig.” It may be a waste of tune, but we’ve got so far with that tunnel I think we ought to bring it through.’
‘I hear you had some trouble.’
‘Yes. Some sand came away under the outer wall. It’s always apt to fall if it’s been disturbed from
above. We’ve got it all under control again now.’
‘How far are you going?’
‘That may depend on the time element. I want to go at least another fifty feet. We’re twenty feet below the surface now. If we go straight on for fifty feet we shall hit the slope of the hill over the crest and out of sight of the wall. It should make a very snug exit.’
‘Provided it doesn’t collapse again,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘I take it you’d thought of that. It’ll be more vulnerable as it comes nearer the surface.’
‘It will be, and we had thought of it. From now on every inch of that tunnel’s going to be revetted, if it means using every last bed board in the camp. Let ’em sleep on the floor. It’ll harden them up for what’s ahead of them.’
Colonel Baird got to his feet, and added, à propos of nothing at all that had gone before.
‘I’m sorry if we haven’t seen eye to eye in the past. That’s all over now. I’m on your side.’
He was gone before Colonel Lavery could frame any suitable reply.
Chapter 11
Colonel Lavery Takes Over
1
Goyles was lying propped up on one elbow, on his bunk. He was looking out of the window. It was six o’clock in the morning and it was as quiet and peaceful as the beginning of time.
The sun had come up from behind the eastern wall and was sucking the dregs of the early morning mist. Everything in camp was silent. Only faintly from outside came the sounds of the little village at the foot of the hill as it woke. An occasional car went past on the lower road. A woman could be heard shouting something in a high-pitched voice. The bells of two churches were wrangling for an early service.
Goyles sensed that Tony Long was awake, too.
‘They can’t do it,’ he said, without turning his head. ‘Not on a morning like this.’
Tony said nothing.
There was a shuffle of steps in the passage and the door opened. It was Doctor Simmonds. He was fully dressed.
‘Would you come along here,’ he said, ‘and see what you make of this.’
‘Make of what?’
‘I may be imagining things. Come and see.’
Goyles and Long both pulled on some clothes and followed the doctor along the passage to the small room at the other end of the hut which he shared with the padre.
From this room you could see most of the northern wall of the camp.
‘What’s up?’ said Goyles. ‘The sentries seem very pleased with themselves.’
‘That’s not all of it,’ said Doctor Simmonds. ‘Where are the caribs?’
‘You’re right,’ said Long. “There’s not one in sight.’
The sentry on the platform nearest to them caught sight of the faces at the window and a wide grin split his face. He put down his rifle, extended his left arm, and executed that indescribable Italian gesture which is made by chopping the forearm with the palm of the right hand.
‘What does he mean?’ said Long.
‘It’s usually a sign that someone’s bought it,’ said Goyles grimly. ‘You don’t think the little bastard means—?’
‘He’s pointing at the camp gate – what the devil’s up?’
‘We can see the gate from our room,’ said Goyles. ‘Come on.’
The three of them raced back.
When they got to the window of their own room they saw that something unusual was, indeed, happening. Normally, no Italian ever came near the camp before eight o’clock. Now there was a small crowd in the compound and the inner gate was being thrown open.
‘My God,’ said Goyles. ‘My God, it’s Roger.’
A small procession had entered the camp. There were two figures in front, one of whom was undoubtedly Roger Byfold. The other looked like Colonel Aletti.
‘I’m going out,’ said Goyles suddenly.
Before anyone could stop him he opened the top of the window level with his bunk, pushed his long legs through and slid to the ground.
The sentry on the near platform must have seen him, but he made no move.
Trying to look as if it was the most natural thing in the world to break out of your hut in broad daylight, Goyles strolled across to the next line of huts, walked along the side of Hut D, and peered round.
The deputation had passed him and had reached the Senior Officers’ Hut. Colonel Baird, Colonel Lavery and the Adjutant had all come out to meet it.
Goyles, realising that nobody was worrying about him at all, sidled up and attached himself to the group. Everybody was talking at once. Roger Byfold caught Goyles’ eye and grinned, and at that moment Colonel Lavery turned round and saw him.
‘Please, sir,’ said Goyles, ‘what’s happened?’
‘What’s happened?’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘Mussolini’s fallen. Graziano’s taken over. The Fascists are out.’
2
‘It doesn’t mean that they’re going to open the gates, you know, and let us all go,’ said Colonel Baird.
‘I suppose not,’ said Byfold. He had eaten an enormous breakfast, and apart from a tendency to grin at everyone who spoke to him, was showing little outward signs of what had passed.
‘I suppose,’ he added, ‘that life should be a bit easier.’
‘In a way,’ said Colonel Baird.
‘All the really top-line thugs have gone, sir. They melted last night. Benucci and Mordaci and that horrible little Mariescalo Butsi – the one we called the Butcher.’
‘When did you hear about it?’
‘Late yesterday evening. I was lying on my bunk practically composing my own funeral oration—’
‘You knew what was going to happen to you?’
‘Oh, yes. Benucci told me yesterday morning. In detail.’
‘I see,’ said Colonel Baird. ‘Please go on.’
‘Well, about nine o’clock last night I think it must have been, there was a lot of coming and going. I take it that was Benucci and Co. packing up. About an hour later, the Commandant arrived and after a good deal of huffing and blowing said that the dawn firing party had been postponed. I said that was all right so far as I was concerned.’
‘He didn’t tell you about Mussolini?’
‘No. But a bit later I noticed that I’d got a new sentry – an ordinary eyetie – not a carib. He was bursting with the news. Didn’t need any prompting. He told me the whole thing. I gathered from him, incidentally, that he wasn’t really a Fascist at heart. Just an ordinary citizen who did what the brutal Fascisti told him to.’
‘I expect we shall meet a lot of those,’ said Baird dryly. ‘When you said that all the top-line thugs had gone, what exactly did you mean? Have all the carabinieri cleared out?’
‘Oh, no, sir. At least, I don’t think so. Paoli’s still here – he was looking a bit sea-sick last time I saw him – and the ordinary carib is just running round looking for someone to give him orders.’
‘I see,’ said Baird. ‘As I said before, this doesn’t mean that we’re all going to be set loose. It’s bound to make a difference though. Everybody must know, now, that Italy’s going to pack up their piece of the war. That’s bound to affect their attitude towards us.’
‘They’ll be ever so tender-hearted,’ agreed Byfold.
‘Another thing. You realise that the gentry who cleared out last night were all the real anti-escape experts. That’s going to make life a bit easier.’
‘There’s something I meant to say about that,’ said Byfold. ‘I got the impression that Benucci knew about the Hut C tunnel—’
‘You’re not the first person who’s thought that,’ said Baird. ‘How did you get the idea?’
‘Something he said – I can’t remember exactly what it was – not in so many words. But I remember thinking that he did know about the tunnel, and that it was just like him to tell me that he knew, when he imagined I was going to be – well, when he thought I couldn’t do anything about it.’
‘I see.’
‘Then, when I was thinking it over last night,
I couldn’t help thinking what a joke it would be if Benucci and his own particular buddies did know about the tunnel, but in the general excitement they had pulled out and had forgotten to pass the information on to anyone else.’
‘Either forgotten, or not bothered,’ said Baird. ‘I don’t suppose there was much love lost between the two gangs. Was there anything else you picked up that might be useful?’
‘Well – no. Nothing in particular.’ For a moment Byfold looked almost embarrassed.
‘Certain?’
‘Yes. Quite certain. If I do think of anything I’ll let you know.’
‘All right. The S.B.O. wants a word with you before you go back to your hut. You might go and see him now. I think he’s in his room.’
Colonel Baird paused. He felt that the occasion demanded something. ‘I’m glad they didn’t shoot you,’ he said.
3
‘All I really wanted to see you about,’ said Colonel Lavery, ‘—do sit on the bed, it’s much more comfortable than the chair – is to get your ideas on the present setup on the other side of the wire. You’re probably in a better position than any of us to judge it. In particular I’d like to know what you make of our Commandant. He’s going to be the important factor now that Benucci’s gone.’
‘I didn’t see a great deal of Colonel Aletti,’ said Byfold. ‘I was kept to the carib quarters. He presided at both of my official examinations – if you can call them that, they were hardly trials – more like a Court of Enquiry in the Army. He never said much and left most of the talking to Benucci. I don’t know whether he knew what was in the offing, but I think he was quite glad to put most of the responsibility on to Benucci’s shoulders.’
‘I expect he feels that now,’ agreed Colonel Lavery. ‘What I was really getting at was, what sort of person you thought he was?’
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