The Tunnel by Eric Williams

who had been shaking him was young and dark, with an unhappy full-lipped face. He wore a collar and tie with his Luftwaffe uniform, and the long dark hair under his forage cap was slightly waved. The silver chevrons on his sleeve gave him a theatrical, musical-comedy appearance, but the automatic pistol in his hand looked real enough.
    ‘You can put that thing away,’ Peter told him.
    ‘So long as we understand one another.’ The corporal spoke suprisingly good English. He straightened himself up and put the pistol back in its holster.
    The older man, who was not an NCO, handed Peter his flying boots.
    ‘You must come now,’ the corporal said.
    Peter pulled on the still damp flying boots and followed the two soldiers out into the corridor. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
    The corporal grinned knowingly. ‘You will find out in good time. For you the war is over. You do not ask questions – you do not think any more. You do as you are told, no?’
    ‘No.’ Peter said flatly.
    ‘So? Then you will find life very difficult. You will find here the German discipline.’
    ‘I should like my Irvin jacket, please.’ He felt that in making the demand he was making one last bid for self-respect.
    ‘Your jacket?’
    ‘My sheepskin flying jacket. The policeman took it from me last night with the boots.’
    ‘I know nothing of such a jacket.’
    ‘Let me see the policeman.’
    ‘I have not come here to talk about flying jackets. I have come to take you away. Now we have wasted enough time. Come!’
    ‘I demand my flying jacket!’ He was suddenly overcome with fury, more annoyed about the possible loss of the jacket than he had been about tearing his trousers on the barbed wire. Normally an even-tempered man, he was perturbed by these sudden irrational fits of rage. He managed to control his voice. ‘It is military equipment and you have no right to take it.’
    ‘I have not taken the jacket.’
    ‘Then I demand to see the policeman.’
    ‘You are a prisoner. You cannot demand any longer.’
    The corporal was getting excited, shouting and waving his arms in emphasis.
    Peter raised his voice in reply. ‘I am an officer and I demand to see an officer of my own rank before I leave this building.’ It sounded silly to him as he said it, but its effect on the corporal was surprising. He turned abruptly and led the way back into the cell.
    ‘Wait here, please. I will bring the police officer.’ Peter and the other soldier stood in the cell and listened to the footsteps of the corporal receding down the corridor. The soldier looked at Peter and smiled in conciliation. Peter scowled.
    The police officer, when he came, was indignant. He was a big man with closely-cropped dark hair and a heavy-jowled coarse, unshaven face. There was a mark round his head where the cap had been, and his small pig-like eyes were shot with red. There had been no such jacket, he said. The prisoner had been captured as he was standing now. If there had been such a jacket it would naturally have been returned to the prisoner. Peter saw that it was hopeless. Choking with rage, he was marched down the corridor and out into the cold early morning air.
    They walked to the railway station in silence, and found that the train would not arrive for another hour. Leaving the older man to guard the prisoner, the corporal went to the waiting room and turned everyone out on to the platform, shouting at them as though they were half-witted recruits on the barrack square. As the passengers filed out, Peter could see anger and hatred for the invader written on their faces. Some of them smiled when they recognized his uniform, and several raised their fingers in the victory sign. The corporal must have noticed this, but he said nothing. He motioned Peter into the waiting room and stood inside with his back against the door. ‘The flying jacket will probably go to the troops on the East Front.’
    ‘Then you know I had a jacket?’
    ‘You say so.’ He had