The Last Escaper by Peter Tunstall

Author:Peter Tunstall [Tunstall, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Military, Personal Memoirs, World War II, History
ISBN: 9781468311556
Google: qmkjCQAAQBAJ
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2015-01-08T20:39:13+00:00

Chapter Eight

“What’s the plan?”

John Milner and I were separated, and on return to Fort 15 at Thorn our treatment was unpleasant. It is something to be said for the Germans that we were never actually beaten up, but we were pushed around and bawled at quite a bit, which is dangerous. I have never resented having a strip torn off me by a senior officer I admired and respected, but I will not be shouted at by my inferiors. Nor will I be manhandled with impunity. I am not a brawler, largely because I do not like getting hurt. But if oafs push me around or shout at me, I am liable to cut loose, which is why such provocative treatment is dangerous. Maybe it was calculated to provoke us into conduct which would justify being beaten up or killed. It is quite possible.

I saw nothing of Millie for days. Meanwhile, I was slung into the most disgusting hole I had ever seen. It was at the bottom of the moat close to the open ditch and was, literally, a hole in the outside wall. It had a curved brick arch for the roof and a similar inverted arch for the floor. The iron bed stood across the bottom of the arch, cutting off the segment of a circle. The door was a heavy wooden one, and in the brickwork on each side of it there was an open rifle slit. What was left of the straw litter from the bed had been stuffed into the rifle slits by a previous occupant, probably Airey Neave or “Brickie” Forbes, presumably to keep out the cold. It also kept out the light. It was very chilly, especially at night, so I left the straw where it was and lived in the semi-darkness. Sanitation was the usual jam tin and this had not been emptied. It was half full of old faeces and mould. Once a day, a guard came with some slop and a hunk of bread, and twice an officer came who ranted about sabotage and the prospect of shooting me. I was not allowed to wash and spent most of the time shivering from a mixture of cold and apprehension.

I had never been very religious and my ideas about the whole subject were pretty muddled. It therefore seemed to me a despicable thing to start praying for deliverance as if one had really enjoyed faith all along but had only just realised it in the nick of time. On the other hand, here was a situation that demanded no stone be left unturned. If God was there, standing by just waiting to be asked for a helping hand, how could I possibly address Him? After all, you couldn’t expect to con God even if you wanted to—which I did not. I pondered the situation for a long time and eventually decided to give it a go. I remember the substance of my prayer quite clearly.

“God, if You are there, I

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