The prisoners had to content themselves with an exchange of side-glances, as they marched in obedience to Falcone’s shouts through the stone cavern of a hall into the room where thin meals were doled out. Yet this was not the time for food. Usually at this hour of the afternoon those whose names had appeared on the day’s Letter list would be taken to the post office in the Administrative side of the building; those who were less fortunate would be marched to their rooms and locked into bare boredom to await their shift for the mess-hall. And now they had been gathered together, jammed up against the long tables and fixed benches in a room which had never been built to contain so many at once. This break with routine stirred the men for a moment, but the sudden undercurrent of excitement ebbed away as the solid door, which separated this room from the hall, was closed decisively. There was coughing, shuffling of feet as men tried to keep their balance in the crowd. There was Falcone’s vigilant eyes and sharp tongue calling “Attention!”
From the courtyard at the back of the castle came the sound of grinding brakes. The trucks had arrived. But speculation was already dying. The boarded windows blotted out sight of a sky stretching to freedom. Under the naked bulbs, with their wavering electric light, the prisoners’ faces were still more haggard. The animation of the exercise yard had gone, and with it the moment’s forgetfulness. Here they remembered again.
2
The men waited, outwardly patient (so much they had learned during their captivity) even if their thoughts were unprintable, and chalked up another petty annoyance on the Italian score. There weren’t any cases of open brutality at this camp. Not since the Swiss Representative had two of the worst bullies removed from the guard room. The rest of the gaolers weren’t so bad, considering how bad the deposed two had been; for the most part they were inoffensive creatures, with weak hearts and stout stomachs, determined to keep their jobs so pleasantly far from the battlefield, and not averse to stretching their own rations with a pilfered package or two. The prisoners had been quick to learn: a package, with a tin of meat or a slab of chocolate neatly filched out while it was being examined for contraband, meant a bribable gaoler. Not that judicious bribing meant real kindness. But it did mean a cigarette from the town, or some little item which the Camp Commissary didn’t have on sale, even if the price charged by the obliging gaoler secured him a 600 per cent profit.
* * *
The minutes passed. The men were still held to attention. Then the uneasy silence was broken suddenly, and the men’s thoughts switched from their own grievances over to the dulled sound of heavy boots shuffling through the hall outside. Peter Lennox’s eyes left Falcone’s savage little face and turned towards the door. Its solid thickness depressed him still more. What’s going on? he wondered again. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Any new developments in this camp meant complications in his escape. It was too near, he thought, it was too near... The nagging worry of today and yesterday suddenly sharpened into anger.
“Hell!” Ferry said suddenly, and relaxed ostentatiously. That would mean another two weeks of “solitary” in a basement cell. Ferry had only recently completed such a turn. But his name had been on the Letter list this morning, and he hadn’t received any mail for over four months. “Hell!” he said again, and stared into Falcone’s bulging eyes.
“And hell!” another voice said. Someone laughed, and the laughter increased. The Italian guards glanced uneasily at each other: here was another of these mad outbursts by the Inglesi. It began with nothing; just a laugh like this one now. And then it would spread into a chant—no violence, just chanting. You hadn’t any justification for shooting at them. The most you could do, if you didn’t want the Swiss to complain about the way this camp was run, was to choose the ringleaders (the basement cells being unfortunately inadequate in number for all the prisoners) and shut them up in darkness for a week or two. You could also cancel all privileges for the rest of the camp, and keep them confined to quarters. That was the most you could do: but the prisoners either couldn’t or wouldn’t learn.
Of all the guards Falcone enjoyed these outbursts least. He always seemed to think that they were an insult specially directed against his dignity. Now his dark face turned into a ripe pomegranate. The veins in his neck swelled. His hand was on his revolver. As the chorus of “Where are our letters? Where are our letters?” increased in volume his voice rose and was all the more ludicrous lost in the uproar. His eyes turned towards the doorway. He was worried as well as angry, almost nervous. Those who noticed that look paused for a moment, and then resumed their song with still greater enthusiasm. I’m a fool, Lennox was thinking: we’ll be jugged for this, and the chances to escape will be more difficult. I’m a fool... But the intoxication of this moment of small triumph, of seeing Falcone no longer assured and somehow shaken, couldn’t be resisted. His voice joined the chorus even as he told himself just what size of a fool he was.
As the door half-opened the men realised at last what had been worrying Falcone. The Commandant himself had come, fat of face, sad-eyed, with his pouting lips ready to say so very gently “Such bad boys!” That was his usual phrase when he was about to order the meanest form of punishment he could give. But somehow, today the words weren’t spoken. Lennox thought, he’s worried too. What is wrong, anyway? The Italians hadn’t lost so much composure since the day that Mussolini’s fall was announced over the Rome radio, and the prisoners had all started a song with scurrilous additions about Humpty Dumpty. (It was after this unfortunately frank radio announcement that the wireless set in the prisoners’ dining-room suddenly went out of order and was never repaired.) Since then the only news had come through Johann’s asides to Miller, working beside him in the post office. What was wrong, anyway? The other men near Lennox had sensed something too. They might still be the prisoners, and these Italians were their keepers, but in this minute it was the prisoners who were victorious. Their answer was given once more by the door. It opened fully, and the prisoners could see a line of uniformed men, slowly filing through the hall towards the staircase. There were some heavily armed guards. There was an officer, now standing in the doorway. He was German. So were the strange guards. But the men in the dining-room staring into the hall at the slowly moving file there stopped their chanting.
“British,” Miller was yelling. “Canadian.”
“American,” Ferry added to that. “Hi there, Yanks!”
“And officers,” Lennox heard his own voice shouting. The men stared, each at his neighbour. “Officers? What’s the bright idea?” “Officers? What are they doing here?”
The German captain looked savagely at the Italian Commandant. “What discipline!” he said. “Keep those men quiet.” He turned to Falcone. “Keep these men quiet. What’s wrong?”
“They want their letters—”
“Give them their letters.” And then the captain turned to the prisoners, now silenced by their curiosity. “Any more of this and we will consider it mutiny. We will shoot.” To the Italian guards he said, “Keep your guns ready.”
“But—” the Commandant began.
“No time for ‘buts.’ Give them their letters. Send that man for them.” He pointed to Falcone. “At once!”
Falcone, taking the short-cut to the post office, moved quickly through the back door of the mess-hall into the kitchen.
The German captain looked round the room, his eyes narrowed. He spoke once more to the Commandant. “Keep them quiet.” His tone was so savage that Lennox, Miller, Ferry, and a score of others exchanged glances. The rest of the prisoners were either content that they were to be given the letters, or were still speculating why any officers should be brought to this camp. But Ferry and Miller had a different look in their eyes, and there was a grin on their lips. They were guessing, and the guesses were very comforting.
“Shut up,” Lennox said quietly to the clown next him, who could only think of raising a smile at this moment by his “Officers? What next? I’m going to complain to the manageme
nt.”
“Shut up!” And then as the man looked at him with a blank expression, he said quickly, “They can’t have enough guards. They’ve got to bribe us to keep quiet. They can’t even detail guards to take us to the post office. So shut up. And get ready. Pass the word along.”
The man still stared, but he obeyed, talking in the prison way, as Lennox had done, with his lips scarcely moving.
The German officer sensed a stirring in the mass of men in front of him, but their faces seemed quite expressionless. A rabble of common soldiers, he was thinking, and thank God for that; they would take orders, they knew nothing. He turned back to the entrance-hall, leaving the Commandant to hover hesitatingly in the doorway.
Lennox heard the German suddenly curse. “What’s this now?” he was demanding of one of his own men. The Commandant’s curiosity moved his bulk through the doorway into the hall. Once more the prisoners who stood near the door could see the beginning of the staircase. The file of Allied officers was no longer ascending. The new arrivals were sitting on the steps, holding their bundles of possessions on their knees. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves immensely. Their innocence was too bland to be natural.
As the German captain stood hesitating, his eyes narrowed, his hands on his hips, a lazy American voice said to him mockingly, “Sorry, General, but there’s a traffic jam.”
One of the Englishmen said, “The rooms have not been cleared upstairs. We may as well sit down. We have a long journey ahead of us into Germany.” He had raised his voice for the last sentence, and it carried clearly into the dining-room. He smiled as he saw from the expression in the faces of the prisoners, who stood nearest to the door, that they had heard his words. And they had understood his meaning. These British and American officers were being shipped into Germany from Italy. Their appearance here was an emergency halt on that journey. They had been unexpected, and their arrival had thrown the camp into an uproar.
There was a burst of angry German commands. And then, in answer to them, a Scots voice shouted clearly downstairs, “We’re doing the best we can. Tell your own ten chaps to do it if you’re no’ pleased.” Now that look of quiet enjoyment on the officers’ faces was explained, too. This delay in the clearing of some rooms for them was no accident. Jock Stewart and his fatigue party had been detailed by the Italians to throw the soldiers’ possessions out, so as to make room for the new arrivals. And the officers had passed word upstairs to tell Stewart and his party to take as long as possible. And unless the Germans (ten, Stewart had obligingly reported) actually did the work themselves, Stewart would see to it that it would take as long as possible.
It was then that the Commandant collected enough of his wits to close the door. The noises from the hall became muffled once more. All that could be heard was the shouting of the German guards, now subdued by the thick door into a blur of sound.
Ten of them, Lennox repeated to himself. Stewart had thought it important enough to say the exact number. There were five Italian guards in here; and there should be thirty-five other Italian guards round the camp, not to count the civilians who were employed either in the post office, or in the commissary or in the kitchen. Yet, come to think of it, there hadn’t been many Italians on view this afternoon. And when Falcone had left this room he had gone through the kitchen. And the kitchen was empty. Usually you could hear the Italians in there a mile off, as they wrangled over their share of the prisoners’ supplies before they started cooking. But this afternoon there was only silence. This afternoon there had been fewer guards round the wire fences. No movements had come from the watch-tower overlooking the walls. No movement from the guard-room.
Lennox felt his throat close in his excitement. His humorous neighbour was being serious for once. “What’s it all about?” he was asking.
Lennox stared at the heavy door which shut this room off from the hall. Behind there lay the answer. The officers knew; and Stewart and his party must have learned from them, for they knew. Here, one could only guess. But the door blocked contact. If the men in here and the men outside could act simultaneously there would be a chance to escape. Not for one, but for all of them.
“A chance,” Lennox was saying, “a chance.” He was now staring at the Italians’ guns. Had Ferry guessed? Had Miller? If so there was indeed a chance. The humorist was looking at him. “What chance?” he kept repeating.
The kitchen door opened. But it wasn’t Falcone who entered. It was the boy Johann, a small bundle of letters in his hand, a bright smile on his round face, now flushed with excitement. He was alone. He moved quickly towards the middle of the wall along which the guards stood, their guns held ready as the captain had commanded, and then turned to face the men. He spoke as quickly as he had moved, and, strangely enough, he spoke in the Italian which he had been forced to learn at school. Lennox suddenly realised that Johann was talking more for the benefit of the Italians than for the roomful of men, only a tenth of whom could understand his words.
“I brought the letters, for there was no one else to bring them.” Johann’s smile broadened, as he watched the Italians’ faces. Miller was saying, “What’s up? Johann, what’s up?” Ferry was shouting, “Where’s Falcone, where are the other guards?”
Johann was still watching the Italians. He said, “All are gone. One after another. Just slipping away. Like that.” He moved his hand slowly in an arc, as if tracing the course of a sun which had risen, had stood high, and was now falling out of sight.
One of the Italians, with less will to believe than the others, said, “You lie.” But his voice didn’t sound too sure.
“Me?” Johann handed the small bundle of letters over to Miller, who didn’t even begin to distribute them. The others had forgotten about the letters too. They were as silent as the Italians, but there was hope and expectancy in the prisoners’ faces.
“Why,” Johann was saying casually, “if you had been listening to the radio during the last half-hour, you would have heard the German announcement. It said just what I said when I came back from Bolzano this afternoon. Only some of you would believe me then. Now all, except you five dolts, believe me.”
“We have capitulated?” one guard asked slowly.
“Unconditionally,” Johann answered, with high good humour. “Unconditionally.” He was obviously fond of that word.
There was the beginning of a shout from the prisoners. Those who hadn’t understood the language fully, had yet understood the meaning. There was little need for those who were translating so enthusiastically.
Johann pointed warningly towards the hall. “Warten Sie noch!” he said in his own language. Miller and Ferry silenced the impatient men. “Not yet, not yet!” Miller repeated.
Peter Lennox watched Johann uneasily. Was he with them, or against them? “Wait,” he had said. But why wait? This chance might slip away. Now was the time. Why wait? Had this boy some plan which he had brought back from Bozen as well as the first news of the surrender? Or was he only enjoying this moment as any Tyrolese against the hated Italians?
One of the guards had tightened his grip on his gun. A hard, clever look came over his face as he kept the rifle pointed at the mass of men. He backed slowly towards the hall-door. Three others wavered, and then followed his example. Peter Lennox cursed silently. The chance was slipping. The guards should have been rushed when the first shock of the news was upon them. Only, the prisoners had been too surprised themselves to be able to act then. Now there was only silence in the room.
“Fools!” Johann said quietly, looking at the hall-door. “No help for you there. The Germans are calling the Italians traitors. They are killing Italians in Naples.”
The guard, who had almost reached the hall-door, paused.
“The Germans are killing Italians, and the Italians are killing Germans,” Johann said very slowly. He was enjoying the idea so much that the Italians knew he spoke the truth. “Look,” he went on, now urgent and serious, “I give you warning, more warning than y
ou gave my friends when you seized them for your army in Albania and in Greece. I give you fair warning. The Germans are taking over Northern Italy. The Italians are leaving Bolzano. The South Tyrol is no longer Italian.”
The guards were staring now at the boy’s triumphant smile. For over twenty years the Italians had tried to make the South Tyrol a part of Italy. Now, if their authority were removed, the Tyrolese would have a long-remembered score to settle. So the guards were silent, as if numbed by the fear which must have tormented them for many weeks now. The fear had been too real, too well-earned, to let them have any doubts of the truth in Johann’s words. First one, and then the others left the hall-door, and backed slowly along the wall towards the kitchen entrance. Their guns were no longer truculent. They were no longer the gaolers. These prisoners didn’t matter now that war was over. There was only one purpose now, and that was to reach the Italy where Italians lived. The guards, admitting that, measured their own imminent danger. It grew with each hour of delay.
Lennox watched the strangely silent men, whose slow, uncertain movements were now beginning to take the shape of hurry.
As they reached the kitchen-door Johann spoke softly. “Your guns will show you are deserters. Best leave them here, so that if you meet any Germans they will think you are only going off duty.”
The Italians hesitated.
“All right. Don’t believe me,” Johann said. “Find out for yourselves. The only Italians who keep their guns are those who are going to fight the Germans. The Germans know that. But find it out for yourselves.” He held out his hand for the weapons. The Yorkshire sergeant-major, pushing his way through the mass of prisoners, pulled a rifle out of an unresisting hand and pointed with his thumb to the kitchen-door.
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