The visitor had gone. That was no dream, that was no nightmare, unless the whole of life itself is a nightmare. Wonder if that poor chap was killed in this cell. That haunted figure looked as if he embodied the soul of suffering of this poor country which he belongs to. Rapidly Jons thoughts summed up the situation.
When the pale light peeped through the grid confirming it was day he gave himself a talking to. I'm still young. Got to survive. Got to keep what dignity I can. Not going to let these surroundings get me down. God! its difficult. I'm tired hungry and sore. Morale seems very low.
After weeks of starvation, loss of liberty, lack of mental stimulation and weak health, together with the continual brutal treatment from the sadistic guards Jon began to feel he was losing the battle of survival.
Whats the point of all this? Why should I go through all the pain? This morsel of a man Won't be missed. WHere's the high feeling I had after escaping? Thats all gone. My minds muggy, probably lack of food. Pain grips my stomach with octopus squeezes, and my bones ache with a never ending throb, like the midnight strike of Big Ben. Damn it, think I've had enough. Think I'll try and find a way out, other than breaking free. If only I had a belt I could use those irons on the wall. No belt or laces. Left with nothing to kill myself with. Havent even the strength to take on the guard. Hes gotta knife. Will try to get to that grid, see if that offers anything.
Assembling all the strength he could, and using the bed and a small ridge of the cell door as footholds, he levered himself to peer out of the grid. There he saw a sight which changed the pattern of his thoughts, giving him a plinth from which to hoist his morale and instigate hope.
God, look at that. That beautiful weak sun climbing over that mound beyond the stinking moat. Its making rainbows in the dewdrops. And look! Its even slanting into my cell. A rainbow in my cell, and in these conditions. can't believe it.
He held up his hand and the rainbow played around his wrist. There's still beauty in life, in spite of the conditions. Thank you, Intelligence of the world, thank you for making me see the need for survival. This tiny reminder that the journey of life can be full of wonder has made me stop short of surrender. What an experience! The reality of it puts the feeling of pain into perspective.
He sat on his bed and these lines flowed through his head, lines that he would never put on paper in his present circumstances.
A shaft of sunlight to a captive brought All problems of an enraged world to naught. Cuppd trembling hands these minute prisms held Expelling all except the joy it spelled. This union with the living air is more Than counted years not breathed before, If chosen, sight and feeling can survive Transforming time and place each day alive.
That night he slept well, and even a new throbbing ache of a tooth did not disturb him. But night after night and day after day the throb became an excruciating pain which beat about inside his head as if it were blacksmiths irons. Time and again he asked the guard to get permission to go to the camp dentist. The guard grinned and turned his back. This infuriated Jon, and on the tenth day of agony he was determined to attract attention to his rapidly swelling jaw. Jon stood by the small cell door and shouted and shouted and shouted. Anything he could think of, he shouted. Guards came running and slapped him down. Immediately they left, Jon started his shouting again. Black and blue by the end of the day, with his voice getting hoarse he still shouted. That evening he heard a different kind of footstep accompanying the heavy booted guards tread. There was the young M.O who had certified the diphtheria.
"Now what, Inglis? Guards told me you were shouting. Whats the protest?" The guard opened the door wider and the M.O peered into the gloom.
"Have a look, sir? Got a cheek like a football. Sure it is an abscess. Been asking for dental treatment for days. All they did was laugh. Can you fix it, sir? Driving me crazy, it is." Jon opened his mouth a little for the M.O.
"No need to do that," the M.O laughed. "I can see from your face. Shouldve been done a long time ago. I'll fix it for you to go tomorrow, first thing."
"Thank you, sir, thats great. Get a breath of fresh air too," Jon added with a rue smile.
The M.O spoke brusquely to the guard, who in turn looked sullen and angry.
But the next morning an older guard appeared, bullnecked, stout, and grim looking. He took Jons old shoes away and handed him a pair of wooden sabots of enormous size. Jon shrugged his shoulders and slipped his feet into them. It had rained in the night, and the sabots clopped along keeping his feet dry if not comfortable. There was about a mile to walk, Jon in front with the guard, pistol cocked, following close behind.
"Thought you'd have something up your sleeve, you bastard!" Jon muttered in German. Everytime they passed a German guard or a group of fellow prisoners, Jons angry escort stood on the back of the sabots which tripped him, either to his knees or full length on the ground. The guard roared with laughter looking round to see if anyone had watched the ignominy of the prisoner. With his general weakness Jon took a long time to get up again. Then he saw a company of German soldiers being marched towards him.
"Do it again, you great bully. Have me on the floor again, just so those chaps can laugh at me. I know your type." As expected, as the Company of soldiers drew level, the guard stepped on the heel of the sabot. Down Jon went. "Come on laugh at me," he shouted in German. But the company marched straight on, not looking at Jons way.
"That'll serve you right," Jon turned to his guard. "Theyve got more humanity in their little finger, than the lot of you have. Ashamed of you they were, degrading an individual." The guard pretended he did not understand, but Jon felt better for expressing himself; he knew the guard was disappointed in the ordinary footsoldiers reactions.
"This'll hurt, Inglis. We've no anaesthestics. Shouldve been here ages ago. Mightve saved the tooth." The dentist made no bones about the conditions of Jons mouth. "Wish theyd bide by the Geneva Conventions. You mustve been in agony."
"Thats for sure, sir. Only one of the agonies though." Jon tried for a smile. "One less to contend with tonight." He looked round the bare shed, ordinary chair for the patient, tin bowl and bucket for water and waste. He looked for the drill and dental equipment. All he could see was a few metal implements laid out on a clean white cloth.
"Do my best for you. Havent any medicine for after. Just this clean swab for you to bite on to stop it bleeding. Got to get rid of the the tooth first and then the pus." The M.O busied himself. "Hope you keep clear of infection. Here, Sergeant. Come and hold Inglis head. Brave though he is, he might struggle." So Jon sat on the small chair and leant his head against the sergeants waist and opened his mouth as wide as he could.
"Wider," said the dentist, and the Sergeant gripped his head more firmly. An excruciating pain seared through the side of Jons head, and that was the last he remembered, the pain under natures guidance obliterating his senses. He woke up, lying on some boards, with the dentist leaning over him. "All over now. I'll keep you here this morning to let it drain, then you must go back. Take advantage of some hot food, but put it in the other side of your mouth. The Sergeant here will look after you. No running off, thats an order. Put us on the spot if you do. Our services would be stopped, and we can't afford that."
"Thank you sir," Jon tried to get up, but fell back on to the bed, dizziness overcoming him. "Dont think I could move far in this state. But I promise, sir. Thank you." Kindness, warmth and warm though simple food for one morning, and then the slog back to the cell. Without the pain in his mouth it was easier.
After the ninety days solitary, plus a few extra days ordered at whim by the guards, Jon was released into the main camp. With memories of the rainbow still held vividly in his mind, Jons will to live to the full was paramount, seconded by the wish to continue to plan for escape. His fervour to get back to England and re-engage in the war against an enemy he knew so closely burnt deep into his soul. He learnt to shake off the constant brutality like a duck shakes water off its back. He was never free of fear, yet he managed to project himself beyond the feeling of fear.
A great event had occurred while Jon had been in solitary. Red Cross parcels had started to arrive. Both Sefton, who in Jons absence had chummed up with Chalky White, greeted Jons return to his billet with wide smiles.
"Hi, there, Jon," called Sefton. "Good to see you. You must tell us all, all about it. Do us a bit of good to hear first hand news from the great outside. You look a bit like a scarecrow. Poor old Flightys still in hospital. Camps getting more and more crammed but were O.K"
"Gotta surprise for you, Ging," Chalkey chipped in. "Been guarding it night and day we have. Here, this is addressed to you. Several fellows got them. Hope they come more often." Chalkey handed Jon a square parcel wrapped in gunny, beautifully and firmly packed.
"Lets get to my bunk, then I can have a look. Still feel a bit groggy, and would like to sit as much as possible." Sitting on Jons bunk they carefully opened the parcel, cutting the stitches, one by one. The gunny laid out flat was a fair size.
"Material for sand," muttered Jon. "If you dig a tunnel you've got to get rid of the sand and earth somehow."
"Still on about that! can't you think of anything else. You've only just got back . . " Sefton remonstrated, but Jon firmly retorted, "I can think of nothing else, and this time I'll be on my own." He frowned.
"Dont spoil fun of opening the parcel," said Chalky. "Lets look whats inside." The cardboard box was packed meticulously, with no spare space, nothing had rattled. There was a pair of handknitted socks, soap, corned beef, oxo cubes, sugar cubes, a pencil and pad, chocolate and tea, and of course cigarettes. A printed goodwill card from the Red Cross was an attempt at the human touch.
"My! what a collection! But what can I do with it? Lots of the things I want to keep for when I'm on the run. Cigarettes are a good currency, and chocolate doesnt take up much room. Well share the corned beef." Jons active mind allocated a use for each item.
"Youre crazy. Still blabbing about escaping," Sefton sounded miffed. "After all the trouble weve had keeping it safe for you. Carried it round all day."
"Thats what everyone does whos had a parcel," explained Chalky. "Looks right funny too. Grown men hugging a cardboard box. Wouldnt last long if they left it on their bunks. So, Ging, you've got to get used to lugging that thing around."
"Ill put it under the floor boards," muttered Jon, feeling threatened. "But lets have a party tonight. Oxo, bully and proper cigarettes, and tea. Celebrate my return to civilisation!"
"Some civilisation!" muttered Chalky under his breath. "And I'll get the Drinks committee to see if they can rustle up some alchohol. Maybe swop some cigs? That O.K?"
"Anything you say," Jon happily agreed. "Feel like getting drunk. Wish Id got a bitta skirt though. Getting starved I am. Missed one by a whisker when I was on the run. Didnt want to let Flighty down."
"Youre not the only one starved," Chalky agreed. "We all are. There's a tunnel starting under B hut. Words come to us that the locals are sex starved too. All their men are on the Eastern front. Game for a go on the tunnel, Ging, when you're stronger? Out for a night, have a fling with a dame, and back to bed! What a plan! Old Sefton, hes playing safe. Not going to get into trouble."
"Too right you are. I'm sitting tight till we can all go home in one piece. Dont want my missus to see me with something missing." Sefton always became serious when escaping was mentioned.
"Things HAVE livened up a bit since I've been away," Jon said. "First, our party, then I must dispose of these things safely. can't see me lugging a cardboard box round all day. Then I must work to get stronger, and so on to the tunnel. My! Thats fine to have a plan to work to."
"We're on the railway now," Chalky explained. "Laying new sleepers. Not too bad. Not like the graphite mine. Twenty minutes out, twenty minutes back standing in a cattle truck. When you going to start?"
"Straight away. Got no sick leave. Maybe There's a chance to sabotage the rail track!" Jon laughed in anticipation of the thought.
"Youre incorrigible," Sefton chided. "Youll be the most unpopular man in the camp if you do something that can be spotted, and we all get the venom of the guards in addition to every other horror they can rake up. Just calm down and take a bit o care."
Jon toughened himself up as well as he could on the meagre diet. He joined in the fatique work on the track, moving slowly and avoided heavy lifting. The guards did not notice, and no one seemed to mind. After work and with what energy he had left, Jon entered into the camp entertainment world. Another surprise awaited him. It happened during an arranged evening concert of light music.
"Strange sort of fellow, the pianist," explained Sefton, "but my! Can he play! Dont go too much on that kind of music, but.."
"Hes super," interrupted Chalky. "Puts up with a lot too."
"What do you mean puts up with?" asked Jon. "If hes a Hun, why should he put up with?"
"Wait and see," replied Chalky mysteriously.
When the pianist entered the large hut used for group meetings, Jon heard hisses and boos. He saw a tall thin man in the usual tunic and breeches, but the cut of the tunic was tailored to the point of femininity. In spite of the rude welcome, the pianist turned waved and smiled. He held up his hand for silence.
"Thats right," he said in perfect English. "Laugh, just keep on laughing, even though its at me. Do you good. There can't be much for you all to laugh at. Now, I hope you enjoy some of the old familiar tunes, tunes which both you and I know and love." The audience became silent. Some looked ashamed.
What a man! thought Jon. What an exceptional man. Pity these chaps can't see his sensitivity. Glad to know some Germans have feelings.
"My! can't he play," Jon whispered to Sefton. "What a godsend for us to have him here. What else does he do?"
"Hes our interpreter. Always around when orders are given," explained Chalky. After the concert had finished, and when the loud ovation had ended, the interpreter stood up and called for silence.
"I have something to say," he started. "The Commandant reports that lights have been seen in the billets after ten oclock. I know you fellows will understand what the punishments for disobedience are, but from someone who wants to see you all get home safe and sound I would wish you to obey the lights out ruling. Goodnight everyone, and I hope you enjoyed the music. Remember, that I am willing to help if possible." He turned to go, waving, and walked with small mincing steps to the door. This time there were catcalls and whistles, but they were friendly.
"What an extraordinary man! What does it matter if hes a queer? Hes a lot kinder..." Jon tossed the remarks to Sefton and Chalky.
"Hope the guards dont give him a rough time. That sergeant Griffin, the one you dont like, eyes him with distaste. Perhaps hell squeal on the interpreter saying that hes too soft for the job." Sefton looked anxious.
"Hed better not. I long to clobber that man, and thisd give me the opportunity." Jons neck reddened dangerously. Fortunately the incident was soon forgotten.
The toilet facilities for a camp of thirty thousand were very basic. The urinals were separate, just a trough at a slant leading to a covered drain. No water for sluicing down. The other facet of the calls of nature were even more primitive. Two long wooden poles were hung in an open sided hut, just far enough apart to lean a posterior over and hang on with one hand. All excreta went into a trough, which then flowed into an open ditch, and that slowly meandered down to the lowest part of the camp. To walk round the perimeters of the camp when taking exercise meant that this outflow had to be crossed by a series of planks. A dangerous health risk and a slippery area when wet.
Another hazard started to present itself. Information was gleaned that Thorun was an industrial town, and the P.O.WS were not surprised to hear the sounds of heavy planes, followed by the crump of bombing.
"Must be our chaps, having a go," Sefton nodded wisely.
"Hope they dont take us for something else. That would make life even more difficult. Its bad enough as it is, just to exist and hope." Chalky became subdued. "And have you noticed that youngun?" Chalky pointed to a soldier who seemed no more than a school boy.
"I chatted with him yesterday," Jon informed. "Told me hes from New Zealand, Derk hes called. Copped it in Africa, early on. Why dyou ask? He seemed O.K."
"Just you watch him when the bombers start. Shakes like a leaf, he does." Chalky seemed concerned.
Over the next few days the British bombers changed tactics. They took a line for their target flying directly over the camp, lower and lower they came, louder and louder. The pilot and navigator were clearly seen. The bombing became closer and closer, as if the target was adjacent to the camp. All the inmates lay flat on the ground time and time again, covering their heads with their arms. Griffin, the sergeant, stood in a sheltered door way and laughed.
"Lotta bleeding funkies," he shouted. "Behave like men, and stop grovelling. Still on mothers milk, are yer? Sefton, be yer age. Extra fatigues if I see yer on yer knees. Coward are yer?"
This last jibe did it. Infuriated and out of control, Jon marched up to Griffin. "Take that back, you great shit. You dont call my buddy a coward. Take it back, will you or I'll ..." Jon didnt finish his sentence. A huge bomber, slightly weaving, with smoke pouring from one engine roared over lower than before. Two enormous explosions. Buildings shook. Dust in the ears and mouth. Everyone prostrate, even Griffin. A few seconds later an even greater explosion.
"Thats the Wellington. Poor buggers. They copped some flack. Made a nasty mess." Sefton had lifted his head and assessed the situation, the challenge to Griffin forgotten.
Chalky and Jon both peered around him. "Hells teeth. Someones in the cess pit. Mustve slipped with the shock."
"Rather die than jump in that." Jon pufffed. Regardless of further waves of bombers Chalky and Jon ran to the smelly open drain. It was Derk, slavering and bubbling in the muck and slime, shutting his eyes and crying. Every time the planes flew over, or there was an explosion, Derk ducked back under the excreta, between times he scrabbled to get out, sanity temporarily returning.
"Give me you hand, Derk. Quick." Jon lay on the side of the sewer and stretched his hand out. Another wave of bombers flew over. Derk ducked again under the stinking muck. His head came up nearer the edge. Jon raised his fist, prepared to knock the fellow out to get him out of his misery and haul him to the edge. Then he saw Derks eyes staring at him, beseeching him, pleading. "Cant knock the bugger out," he muttered to Chalky, who was lying beside him. "Be easier to haul him in if I could stop him being frightened." Jon paused, and wondered what to do next. "Listen, you hold my legs, and I'll lean out as far as I can and see if I can catch hold. Hold tight. Here goes."
With stomach muscles stretched to beyond aching point, Chalky firmly straddled on his legs, Jon managed to get a hand to the slippery, slimy arm. Slowly he eased Derk through the muck, and on to the firm ground. Derk cried softly. The raid fortunately had abated, so Derk did not struggle. As if from nowhere the Interpreter appeared, bustling along with a - drum of water and two jam jars, and the three of them slowly sloshed the excreta away, no words spoken, understanding flowed instead. Derk stopped shivering, and became coherent.
"Sorry, chaps. can't stand the bombing. Does something to my head."
The Interpreter interrupted, "Any human being can snap at times."
Derk looked puzzled. "Why are you here? Youll be in the soup too, helping us, and it'll be my fault."
"Its O.K. I'll go now." The Interpreter disappeared quietly with no further comment.
Derk continued, "Had too much in Africa. Lost my mates. Registered loopy, I was for a time. Stayed in hospital. I'm better now, cept for noise. Dont let old Griffin know. Scares me stiff, he does. Keeps threatening me. Seems to want my rations." His story came out in short rasps.
"Hes not our favourite sergeant," Chalky tried to lighten the moment. "Lets forget him." He winked at Sefton, who had arrived with some more clean water. "Cant have a fight on our hands." The three men splashed the water over the luckless Derk, and rigged him out with an assortment of clothes. Incident closed, but not quite forgotten.
"Feel he needs a bit o help," Jon said to Sefton. "Dont feel our C.O is sympathetic enough. Too rigid with army regulations. Would like to have a word with that Interpreter. Just to talk to him may be useful."
"Good idea," agreed both Sefton and Chalky.
That evening their part of the camp was assembled in the square. The Interpreter stood on a chair, white-faced. He had tears running down his cheeks. He kept shaking his head. Then he called for silence. In a strained voice he said, "I have been told to tell you that one of your bombs landed on the other side of the camp. In all twenty-six people have been killed." He paused to collect himself. "I had hoped to look after you ALL and get you all safe home, and now this." The assembled company went to their billets in silence, heavy hearted.
"Not a good time to chat to him about Derk," said Jon in a small voice.
"Wonderful to see a man with so much sympathy for his enemy. Hes a great chap, German or no German." Sefton nodded his head.
"Hell be about again. Next time ll do," Jon added. But there was not to be a next time. The Interpreter himself was killed with one of the British bombs on his way home. The mood of the camp was sombre indeed.
While what strength he could regain with the meagre rations was slowly returning Jon found out more about the tunnel. He tried to persuade Chalky to enter into the fun.
"Do you know what the sentence is if were caught having intercourse with the enemies women?" asked Chalky anxiously.
"Anything up to five years. But were not going to get caught. We Won't be the first. Too many ahead of us on the list. My only worry is that with so many people knowing about it someone might squeal," Jon replied. "I'm starting tomorrow to work on the damn thing. Hope I can manage it." Chalky demurred, and decided to wait for the outcome of events.
The tunnel was well under way when Jon first went down. The Tunnel Planning organisation was excellent, everyone was detailed a specific job from lookout, to earth hiders. The work was dangerous because tunnelling in the wet sandy earth sometimes led to disaster. The bed boards used for supporting the sides were not strong enough to take the strain, and several prisoners had been killed or injured through suffocation due to subsidence. After an hours work in the tunnel, which was now beyond the main external fence, the air became foul due to the fumes from the lamp. There was little oxygen and consequently heart palpitations and pounding pains in the head led to a shorter working time. The series of pulleys conveying the flat homemade truck was designated to a rota of two people at a time. There was only one digger, the tunnel was not wide enough for two people to pass. Jon struggled and wriggled to the end, and started to dig and scrape. Very quickly he became dizzy and sweated heavily.
Cant give in just yet. Those chaps have done all the work. Did they feel like this? The inside of his head spun round and round and he felt his lungs would burst. Is it the weak state I'm in, or am I just a jerk? Unable to continue and feeling very ashamed, Jon wriggled backwards struggling for air.
"Sorry, lads. Couldnt do much," Jon apologised to those at the mouth of the tunnel.
"Never mind," said the self-appointed leader. "We know what you've been through. You can give us advice about the world outside instead. Any tips?" Jon sat with the committee and they talked long and hard. Jon explained that when the time was ripe he hoped try for another escape.
"O.K," relied the leader. "But best you let the Escape Committee know. can't have too many people going at once. They can help too with clothes, and forged passports."
"Whew! Things are getting organised," Jon remarked in admiration. Then his brow darkened. "But how do you keep it all secret? So many people knowing. Do you trust everybody?"
"Beggers can't be choosers. So far only one tunnels been detected. There several on the go. Did you know that?"
Jon shook his head. "Didnt know of anything when I nipped out of the main gates. Couldve done with back-up."
"Its all taken off in these last weeks. Probably hearing you got out inspired them to action." The leader smiled encouragingly. "Still this tunnel is not for escape, at least not that I know of. Its more for gathering information, and you know what."
"Its the you know what that I'm after," Jon replied with an impish smile around his lips. "Sex starved I am. Buggery and masturbations no good for me. Got plenty of sex in my other life."
"What did you do?" asked the leader.
"Spent two years on a mobile boxing booth," replied Jon.
"Ah! That explains it," the leader added cryptically.
"Explains what?" interjected Jon.
"Rumour has it that old Griffins got it in for you. Fancy challenging a Sergeant. You must be crazy. And, rumour has it that you also speak German."
"Yes," answered Jon without hesitation. "Its getting better. Learnt it in camp, specially for being on the run."
"O.K," finalised the leader. "No more work on this tunnel for you, but when you're out and had your dame for the night, you can do some spade work and find out what you can. Where and how to get clothes, possible local passports, local money. Anything helpful. Think you can manage it? If you can, well put you to the top of the list."
"Too true I can, sir. " Jons spirits rose, he soon forgot the ignominy of his quick ø-(: - retreat from work.
"And I think you like working on your own?"
"Wherever did you get that from? Grapevine seems to tell you everything, but its true. Ones easier to dissolve in a crowd than two." Jon felt comfortable talking with these people, he trusted them.
"Ask for a chat with the Escape Committee soonest poss," encouraged the leader, and rose as if to end the meeting.
Two weeks later word went round that the tunnel was ready for operation. Jon was one of four called to the Tunnel Committee. They were detailed to operate separately, and the time limit for outside the camp was four hours. Trusted, but sexually active Polish women would be waiting in the small wooded area outside the camp. No one was to go into the town till proper civilian gear could be scrounged. The leader had a special word for Jon.
"Over to you now, Inglis. Make them understand that they must send a German or English speaking girl this time to-morrow. can't leave it much later or the moon will be up, and well have to stop for a time. Say you will be there yourself."
"Blimey sir, two nights in a row. Not sure if my sexual apparatus will stand it! Do my best sir, do my best."
Grubby with the dirt from the tunnel, and his heart crashing around with the excess adrenalin, Jon outside the camp perimeters, walked towards a thicket, a thicket already hidden amongst the trees. He gave a low whistle, and a whistle was returned. Then he saw a glimpse of a white blouse.