The Tunnel Read Online Free Page B

racking him from head to foot until his limbs ached with the violence of the shivering. He wriggled his body round inside his vest, rubbing his skin against the rough wool, hoping to create some warmth from the friction. He was not hungry now. His stomach was empty, aching high up behind the diaphragm, but the thought of food made him feel sick.
    He lay there until early afternoon, never fully unconscious but numb and deadened by the cold and lack of sleep. At last he could stand it no longer. He had to move. Crawling out from under the bushes he limped towards a covert that he could see on the other side of some fields. Once in the wood, he felt, he would be able to last out until darkness. It was not far and he was so covered with mud that his uniform would not be recognized. He looked round him cautiously, but he could see no sign of life. The keen wind that blew across the flat expanse of grey and brown countryside drove before it a thin drizzle of fine rain. He walked on; his head bent against the wind.
    He did not see the girls and the man until he was almost on top of them. Then he looked up and saw them, a knot of drab figures, their heads covered in sacks, loading some sort of root crop on to a cart. Although the path that he was following would take him within hailing distance of them, he was afraid to turn back. It would look suspicious. He plodded on towards them, head lowered, conscious of their inquiring gaze, and cursing himself for a reckless fool.
    As he drew abreast of them he looked up. The man was middle-aged and wore a black cap with earflaps; his face was dark and hard, and he had a hostile look. The girls stopped working and were all facing him like a herd of cattle.
    ‘Heil Hitler!’ Peter said. He waved his right arm in a vague salute. The man did not reply, and he could feel his suspicious gaze all the way across the fields to the woods. He had pulled his trousers down over his flying boots, but the leather jacket was too obvious. Once under cover of the trees he began to run, knowing in his heart that he had thrown the game away. He knew it as certainly as if the man had voiced his obvious suspicion.
    On the far side of the covert were more ploughed fields, and he skirted these at a shambling trot. There were flocks of great black crows here, sleek and bloated, walking obscenely and beating themselves slowly into the air as he approached. He was exhausted by the time he reached a small thicket beyond the ploughland and he threw himself down, too spent to worry about camouflage.
    When he had regained his breath he got to his feet and pushed on towards the west. He must be nearly in Holland now. Behind him, he felt, the peasant would already have given the alarm. The whole countryside would be aroused. He must get across the border. It seemed to him, numbed as he was with cold and fatigue, that once in Holland he would be safe. With any luck he could cross the border that evening and get help from a friendly farmer.
    He walked on blindly, must have been walking half-asleep, because, suddenly he was in a marshy plain studded with clumps of thick bushes. In front of him was a broad river, the water cold and deep, brimming to its earthen banks. This must be the Ems, the border could only be a few more miles from here. He thought of swimming, but could not face the dank yellowness of the water and the stark emptiness of the bank beyond. Turning to his right he walked downstream until he saw a concrete road bridge springing from earth ramparts on either side of the river. He worked away from the river bank and approached the bridge from the road. It was guarded by a soldier who was inspecting papers of everyone who crossed. This was the first enemy soldier that Peter had seen after three years of war, and he lay for some time hidden among the bushes at the side of the road, watching the stream of peasants passing the barrier.
    In spite of his exhaustion he found it exciting to watch the soldier on the