Death In Captivity

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘He might have meant Coutoules.’

  Colonel Lavery considered this. ‘He might have done,’ he agreed. ‘Coutoules didn’t look much like a German.’

  ‘Did he say whether he was posing as an officer or as one of the orderlies?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘If it’s one of the officers,’ said Colonel Baird, ‘I’ll eat my desert boots, in public.’

  2

  When he thought about it afterwards Colonel Lavery came to the conclusion that the most remarkable feature of this period was the slow almost imperceptible, but very steady rise in the morale of the camp. There was no lack of grumblers when his orders were first made known, but the majority opinion was so solidly behind him that he felt strong enough to ignore them.

  Through that boiling month of August – and it was hot even by Italian standards – organisation and discipline improved and the camp ceased very gradually to be a collection of individuals and became a community, inspired by an object. What that object was – what precise hand fate and the Italian Government were going to deal – nobody knew. It was sufficient, at the moment, if they put themselves in the best position to play the cards as they fell.

  Hut Commanders instructed their assistants and cursed their black sheep. Colonel Baird drove his digging teams to more and more furious endeavour, and Colonel Lavery found every morning on arising one new grey hair on his head.

  Some of the most surprising converts to military enthusiasm were the Old Hirburnians.

  ‘I must confess, I never saw much sense in that escaping nonsense,’ said Tag Burchnall, ‘but give me a decent, limited, military objective and I’m for it. It might be an idea if we green blancoed our webbing, don’t you think, before parade tonight. It’ll wipe the eye of “B” Section, if it does nothing else.’

  It was about this time also that Roger Byfold began his keep-fit campaign. Like everything else that he undertook he went into it with rational and compelling enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought,’ he said to Goyles and Long. ‘As I told you, it’s quite clear that the time is coming when some special effort will be demanded of every one. I am not sure what form this effort will take. It may demand a rapid gymnastic feat, such as the scaling of these walls, or the jumping from a moving lorry or train – we must therefore maintain bodily suppleness and agility by means of Muller’s exercises before breakfast and a regular physical training class at least once a day. Further, since the initial break will undoubtedly be followed by a long period of marching, we will harden our feet by making first ten, then twenty and later thirty circuits of the compound every evening, in our heaviest boots. Finally, since we shall be traversing a friendly or neutral countryside, we had better brush up our Italian. Tony is the best linguist – he shall give us both an hour of colloquial Italian each day after lunch. Thus, when the moment comes, we shall be armed at all points.’

  ‘Speriamo,’ said Long in his best colloquial Italian.

  It was during this period, too, that Goyles realised the truth about the death of Coutoules. He did not reach his conclusions by any blinding flash of intuition. Like all problems long and seriously thought over, the answer arrived in instalments. New and apparently irrelevant facts came to light, and old facts, long sifted and half-forgotten, assumed a new significance, until finally, as to one who stares into the red heart of the fire, the shapeless began to assume a shape and the formless to take form.

  One such odd fact came out of a conversation with the padre, a tall Etonian, who had done good work all the previous winter in one of the ‘other-ranks’ camps; had nearly died of enteritis, and had been moved to Campo 127 direct from hospital.

  He and Goyles attended the same Greek class, and it was coming away from a morning session that the conversation turned to the remarkable difference between the ancient and the modern inhabitants of Greece, and so, by easy stages, to the late Cyriakos Coutoules.

  The padre said, ‘I suppose I was the only person who met Coutoules before he came to this camp.’

  ‘How’s that?’ said Goyles, surprised. ‘I thought this was his first camp.’

  ‘Indeed not. He was in the Modena other-ranks camp with me last autumn. I believe there was some doubt at that time about his officer status. Then he got himself shifted to Cremona.’

  ‘Was that the camp at Modena where they nearly had a mutiny?’

  ‘That was the one.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘The prisoners found out that the Italian staff were appropriating Red Cross parcels for their private use and lodged a complaint. The authorities then stopped all Red Cross issues and halved the ration—’

  ‘And a lot of the prisoners nearly starved?’

  ‘It wasn’t a question of “nearly”,’ said the padre shortly.

  ‘I see,’ said Goyles. He turned this over for a moment in his mind. ‘Is it known who was responsible?’

  ‘I think so,’ said the padre. ‘Yes, I think we know all right. Nominally it was the commandant who gave the orders, but I think the real villain of the piece was his second-in-command, Captain Bernadi.’

  ‘A carib?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I hope someone’s got a note of it,’ said Goyles.

  At the time the information made no further impression on him.

  It was some days later that he heard the word Cremona mentioned in conversation and linked it up by an effort of memory with what the padre had told him.

  The speaker was a submariner, a naval lieutenant who contrived (it is a secret known only to the Navy) to combine a look of youthful innocence with a huge red beard.

  ‘Were you at Cremona?’ said Goyles.

  ‘For my sins, yes,’ said the submariner.

  ‘Was it a strafe camp?’

  ‘Not really. We called it the sorting house. I think it was the sort of camp you got sent to if the Italians weren’t certain about you. If they came to the conclusion that you were a hard case you probably went up to Campo 5 at Gavi. They evidently decided that I was innocuous and sent me on here.’

  ‘Do you remember Coutoules at Cremona?’

  ‘Yes, more or less. His last week there was about my first. We weren’t chums. Anyway, there wasn’t much time for beautiful friendships at Cremona. Life was grim and life was earnest and the end, in a number of cases, was the grave.’

  ‘I heard it wasn’t very pleasant,’ said Goyles. ‘Who was the cause of it all?’

  ‘The real villain was the Intelligence Officer, a deep blot called Marchese. He had one eye and no morals.’

  ‘He was a bit of a terror, was he?’

  ‘He was a swine,’ said the submariner.

  ‘He can’t have been much worse than Benucci.’

  ‘Put them in the same cage in the Zoo,’ said the submariner, ‘and there wouldn’t have been a cloven hoof’s difference between them.’

  ‘Hmph,’ said Goyles.

  He picked up the next thread in the Theatre Hut. He had strolled in one morning and was sitting quietly at the back watching one of the final rehearsals of The Barretts of Wimpole Street.

  He could not help thinking that Rolf-Callender, for all his faults, was an extremely accomplished actor. On the stage, even without make-up or broad-cloth, he opened out, somehow, into the flamboyant personality of Robert Browning. Off-stage he was insignificant. Behind the footlights he was a person.

  As the rehearsal was breaking up Captain Abercrowther caught sight of Goyles and came across to talk to him.

  ‘Good show, Angus,’ said Goyles. ‘You looked as if you really enjoyed bullying all those children.’

  ‘It answers a deep-felt want in my nature,’ agreed Captain Abercrowther. ‘But that wasn’t what I had to say to you. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time.’

  Whereupon he repeated to Goyles the observations which Captain the McInstalker had already made to him about the strange movements of the I
talian laundry van.

  ‘Look here,’ said Goyles, ‘are you absolutely certain that was the night that Coutoules—?’

  ‘July 1st?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Captain Abercrowther took out a small diary and consulted it.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ he said, ‘we were both going to dinner that night with Lady Pat Keyne – Basingstoke’s youngest, you know – and that was why we particularly wanted our shirts.’

  ‘Did you see where the van stopped on its way round the camp?’

  ‘It only stopped in front of the Senior Officers’ Hut. We were hoping it would come on here, but it didn’t. When it went, it went straight out.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Between half-past nine and ten. It was getting a bit dark.’

  Goyles mentioned this conversation to Tony Long that evening, and Tony was able to confirm it.

  ‘I saw the van going out,’ he said. ‘I was at the cooler window. I should have said that it was nearer ten than half-past nine. What’s it all about?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Goyles.

  Nevertheless, the pieces were beginning to join together.

  3

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Colonel Lavery to his Adjutant, ‘that the Commandant is no longer quite the old friend that he used to be.’

  ‘I thought it was too good to last,’ agreed the Adjutant. ‘I expect yesterday’s fiasco upset him a bit.’

  He referred to an unfortunate moment on roll-call on the previous evening. Evening roll-call, under the new régime, was now a smart, reasonably well-turned-out parade. It was also becoming apparent to the Italians that it was a parade which was conducted almost wholly by and for the benefit of the prisoners themselves.

  Companies fell in under their Company Commanders, were inspected, and stood at ease. When the Italian orderly officer was signalled, Colonel Lavery appeared, and the parade was called to attention and handed over to him. At the end of the roll-call – which took about a quarter of the time it had done in the old, disorderly days – the parade was again called-up and properly dismissed.

  On the evening referred to, Colonel Aletti had elected to come and watch proceedings for himself.

  At their conclusion, when the last name had been called, he had given the order, ‘You may fall out.’

  No one had moved an inch. Thinking that he might have been misunderstood, he had repeated the order. Upon which Colonel Lavery had given the order, ‘Parade dismiss.’

  It was not perhaps the most tactful way of demonstrating to Colonel Aletti that the control of his camp was changing hands.

  ‘We shall have to butter him up a bit,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘We can’t afford to get at cross-purposes just now.’

  ‘The Italians will have to make their minds up soon which way to jump,’ said the Adjutant. ‘It’s more than a month since Sicily was finished. We must land in Italy before long.’

  ‘I wish we weren’t quite so far north,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘With the best will in the world, it’s going to be tricky, and if the Italians turn sour – Yes, who is it? Oh, come in, Baird.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to hear this,’ said Colonel Baird. It was difficult to say whether he was amused or annoyed. ‘We’ve just had our first security search since the fall of Mussolini.’

  ‘Was it a thorough one?’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘Did you lose much?’

  ‘I should have described it as concentrated rather than thorough,’ said Baird. ‘Paoli brought in a dozen soldiers and caribs and a few workmen. They went straight to the kitchen and took up the whole of the floor, including the stove which they removed bodily and the slab it stands on – they seemed mighty suspicious of that stove.’

  There was a moment of horrified silence.

  ‘Then they’ve found the Hut C tunnel,’ said Colonel Lavery.

  ‘Fortunately no,’ said Baird. ‘Indeed, they had very little chance of doing so, since the kitchen they elected to demolish so thoroughly was the one in Hut A.’

  ‘But—’ said Colonel Lavery.

  ‘What—?’ said the Adjutant.

  ‘By the time they had finished operations,’ went on Colonel Baird smoothly, ‘and had discovered absolutely nothing for their pains except the undisturbed sub-soil of the hut, I had caused to be gathered a large and sympathetic crowd of onlookers who gave them very generous applause as they came out empty-handed. They didn’t look pleased.’

  ‘So I should imagine,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘What’s your idea of it?’

  ‘Unless we’re being made the victims of a gigantic and rather pointless double bluff, the answer seems to me to be plain. Benucci and his immediate circle knew about the Hut C tunnel. When they quitted the camp in such a hurry they either forgot to tell – or didn’t bother to tell – anyone else.’

  ‘The latter, I should think,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘It would suit their book much better if the opposition made fools of themselves.’

  ‘Well, I should imagine that Paoli – who was about twenty-five per cent in Benucci’s confidence – may have had an idea that the tunnel started from one of the hut kitchens – or he may have been deliberately misinformed, and told that it started from Hut A. Hence this afternoon’s demonstration.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Colonel Lavery. ‘How is the tunnel going?’

  ‘Much too well to want to lose it now. We’ve taken it straight on, without raising the level at all. That means that it is going to run out into the slope of the hill over the crest from the camp wall.’

  ‘How long will it be before you’re out?’

  ‘We could break any day. We’re going slowly and tidying it all up as we go. It’s a beautiful job.’

  ‘I hope you’re right about Paoli,’ said Colonel Lavery thoughtfully.

  4

  ‘Tony,’ said Goyles, ‘will you cast your mind back to that evening you were in the cooler.’

  ‘The night Coutoules was killed?’

  ‘Yes. What I really want to establish is some definite timings.’

  Long cocked an eyebrow at him.

  ‘The great detective?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Goyles. ‘The great detective at work. And I’ll tell you something about this detecting business which you may find it hard to believe. Once you pick it up you can’t put it down even if you want to.’

  ‘Like a dog with a piece of stinking rabbit,’ suggested Long helpfully.

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Goyles. ‘If you want the truth, I don’t believe anyone ever will be so as to prove it. A lot of people who know about it are scattered able to say exactly what happened to Coutoules that night – not already, and when the British land in Italy the rest of the cast will be dispersed too. All the same, I can’t stop. The fascination of guessing and filling in the gaps is too strong. It’s like trying to finish a crossword puzzle in a train going headlong towards a crash.’

  ‘All right,’ said Long. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to establish the times,’ said Goyles – he sounded quite serious – ‘when the wireless set in the carabinieri quarters was playing jazz that evening.’

  ‘You mean when they had the set full on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was rather odd, now you come to mention it,’ said Long. ‘It wasn’t just loud, it was fortissimo – almost as if someone had turned the control knob full on and forgotten about it. We heard it from time to time afterwards, but nothing like that evening.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Now you’re asking something,’ said Long. He reflected. ‘I was standing looking out of the window – I think it was about ten o’clock when the laundry van went out – I was noticing all the absurd precautions they took at the two gates. I stood there for quite a long time, waiting for it to get dark enough for me to start up on to the roof. I guess it was about eleven before I was able to get going. I should have said that the wireless came on at about half-time.’
r />   ‘That would be about half-past ten?’

  ‘Yes. I remember hoping that it would keep going long enough for me to get up on to the roof under cover of the row it was making.’

  ‘And it did?’

  ‘Yes – just. It was switched off or turned down about five minutes after I got up.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Goyles. He made a methodical note in his book.

  ‘Glad to be of assistance,’ said Long. ‘Don’t get carried away by it, though. Remember you’re due on P.T. in ten minutes time. After that, colloquial Italian till lunch.’

  That afternoon Goyles sought an interview with Colonel Lavery and put a question to him which seemed to puzzle the S.B.O. considerably.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten about it. But as a matter of fact it’s quite true. Coutoules came to see me that afternoon. In fact, it was the last time I spoke to him – and the last time but one that I saw him—’

  ‘The last time but one, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him, of course, on roll-call that evening. Not being attached to any hut he was one of the last to have his name called. He walked off just ahead of me, towards our hut. As far as I know he was making for his room.’

  ‘That afternoon,’ said Goyles. ‘Can you remember anything – did anything strike you as out of the ordinary?’

  ‘The whole thing was extraordinary. He was easily the most unpopular person in the camp. I’d arranged for him to have a room by himself, partly to stop stories that he was spying on people, but chiefly because I didn’t want to see him lynched.’

  ‘And then he asked you to have him moved back?’

  ‘Asked,’ said Colonel Lavery, ‘is an understatement. He begged me to put him back. He practically went down on his knees.’