blew up the harbour with its wharves and cranes.
Some German units had made it over the Channel today. But the hinge of the invasion would come overnight, when the bulk of the second echelon would try to make it across to their landing points at dawn on Monday. In advance of that a major battle was unfolding in the Channel. The RAF was strafing the flows of shipping and bombing the embarkation ports, all the while battling it out with the Luftwaffe, and trying to fend off bomber attacks on London and other inland cities. Its resources spread thin, the RAF was near collapse, so the rumours went. The Royal Navy also had split objectives, with a mandate to protect the Atlantic convoys even while the invasion was underway. But today the Home Fleet was fully deployed in the Channel. The destroyers and torpedo boats were taking on the Kriegsmarine, and were getting among the lines of barges and tugs returning from England.
And in Hastings, the Germans were here.
The first German troops arrived on bicycles at about six in the evening. They were soldiers, Wehrmacht as far as George knew, and they must have been scouts. They cycled casually, their rifles on their backs. They were unopposed. George stood at his post at the door of the town hall just off Queens Road, in his police uniform, helmet on, his canvas gas-mask bag slung over his shoulder. The scouts looked him over but otherwise ignored him.
Next came more infantry. They moved cautiously, walking so they hugged the walls to either side of the street, their rifles raised. They peered at upstairs windows, evidently fearful of snipers. But some of them kicked in the front doors of houses or smashed shop windows, and went in to emerge with clocks or bits of silver. After them came a motor-cycle detachment with route signs in German, replacements for the signs long taken down, cardboard placards which they strapped to lamp-posts and nailed to doorways.
Then followed a group of military policeman, the feldgendarmerie, with some junior Wehrmacht troopers. The MPs studied the town hall, and glared at George. Muttering in German, they picked out the building on a map. They ordered two of the soldiers to remain here, evidently on sentry duty. Then they strode on.
The men posted here looked at George, but, seeing he had no weapon and no intention of impeding them, got on with their work. They took a hammer and nails from a canvas bag, and nailed a poster to the town hall door. When they were done they took up their own position by the door, lounging, ignoring George, sharing a cigarette.
George glanced at the poster. It read,
PROCLAMATION TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND: ONE. ENGLISH TERRITORY OCCUPIED BY GERMAN TROOPS WILL BE PLACED UNDER MILITARY GOVERNMENT. TWO. MILITARY COMMANDERS WILL ISSUE DECREES NECESSARY FOR THE PROTECTION OF THE TROOPS AND THE MAINTENANCE OF GENERAL LAW AND ORDER…
And finally
SIX. I WARN ALL CIVILIANS THAT IF THEY UNDERTAKE ACTIVE OPERATIONS AGAINST THE GERMAN FORCES, THEY WILL BE CONDEMNED TO DEATH INEXORABLY.
It was signed by Field Marshal von Brauchitsch, 'Army Commander-in-Chief'. George supposed that where the Germans had up to now been a blank faceless mass, an amorphous enemy, now he would need to learn names such as this. He turned away.
Shortly after that, a more substantial column came rolling through the town: a couple of tanks, trucks, men on foot, horse-drawn carts and weapons. The troops looked weary to George; he saw salt stains on their boots.
At the head of the column was a rather fine car, a magnificent Bentley, silver grey. George wondered where they had liberated this beauty from – he could see why its owner hadn't had the heart to follow orders and disable it. A Wehrmacht soldier chauffeured it for a man in a black uniform, accompanied by a woman in a similar uniform, with bright blonde hair.
The car pulled up outside the town hall. The driver opened the car for the officer and the woman; the two sentries smartened up and saluted, military style. The man in black responded with his right arm outstretched. 'Heil Hitler.' It was the first time George had ever seen a Nazi salute, save in the newsreels.
The man and his woman companion approached George. 'Well, well,' the woman said. 'A British bobby! Years since I've seen one of these specimens. And look, Josef, he's not afraid of you.'
'Good for him,' the man said, also in English. 'Constable, is it?'
George felt confused. The man's accent was German, but the woman's was icy upper-crust English, Noel Coward stuff. And there was something very unsettling in the way she stared at him: blonde, tall, she was extremely beautiful. He said, 'I am Police Constable George Tanner, number-'
The man waved him silent. 'Yes, yes, man, I can see your wretched number on your shoulder board. I am Standartenfuhrer Trojan, and this is Unterscharfuhrer Fiveash. We are of the Schutszstaffel. That is the security service you may know as the SS. Do you understand me?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Oh, how formal,' the woman said.
George blinked. 'You're English,' he said to the woman.
'As you are,' said Trojan, 'but rather brighter, as she is fighting on the right side in this unnecessary war. So tell me, this is the centre of your town government? Your mayor is here?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I shall need to speak to him. We have much to discuss, the details of the occupation, and so forth.'
'I'll call him for you-'
'No.' Trojan held up a hand. 'Not yet. You will do for now. I think I rather like you, Constable Tanner! Now tell me – who is left in this town? It's pretty much deserted, isn't it?'
'We've tried to move out the bulk of the population, yes, sir. But there are a few who couldn't be moved – or wouldn't. The hospital is pretty full, what with the air raids and the land battles. The nurses and some of the doctors have stayed on for that. The mayor's essential staff are here, as are units of the police.'
'Very good. But why are you here, Constable Tanner? Why aren't you in the hills taking pot-shots at our tanks? Are you going to prove a useful collaborator?'
Fiveash laughed.
George stiffened. 'I have my orders. I'm here for the benefit of the remaining civilian population. Not to collaborate.'
Trojan nodded. 'No doubt that will be a fine distinction to make in the coming months.'
'I imagine it will, sir.'
'Well, we will have orders for you to implement. A census to be taken. Identity cards to be issued. Wireless sets to be collected from the population. Soon we will be arranging the delivery of food, and so forth. We will get your pretty little town functioning again, Constable!'
George said, 'What about clean-up?'
'Clean-up?'
George gestured. 'The bomb damage.' Buildings reduced to heaps of bricks and beams were visible even from here, and the air was still stained by the smoke of the fires.
'Oh, I don't think we're terribly interested in that. As long as you all have roofs over your heads – yes? Now' – he studied George – 'do you know where 'Battle is, man?'
'Of course I know. Sir.'
'I intend to drive there later this evening.' He glanced at his watch. 'Another hour or two should see the place secured. This Wehrmacht fellow of mine is rather an oaf, and a clumsy driver. We are in England; it would be appropriate for me to have an English bobby as my driver, don't you think?'
Fiveash laughed. 'Oh, what a spiffing idea! But, mind, Constable, the Germans will insist on your driving on the right, continental style.'
George kept his voice steady. 'If you order me to come with you to Battle, I'll do it, sir. But I won't drive for you.'
'Ah, that fine distinction already! Even knowing that I could have you shot in a second if you refuse my requests?'
George said nothing; he stared back at Trojan, unblinking.
Trojan turned away. 'It would be a pity to waste such a promising character so quickly. And besides, I need to give these Wehrmacht chaps something to do while the SS gets the country sorted out. Very well, then – ride
