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 radioannouncement 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 manfor them.” He pointed to Falcone. “At