Weaver

To his surprise the man understood. 'You a refugee from the Nazis, then? I saw plenty of them in France.'

'You were with the BEF?'

'Yep. Barely got out of that without my arse being blown up by Stuka bombers, and after five minutes over here I've been jugged. Not having a good year, am I?'

'I guess not. I don't recognise your accent. Are you Scottish?'

'Not likely. I'm Scouse. From Liverpool. Used to be a house painter before the war.'

'So did Hitler,' someone said, and there was a rumble of weary laughter.

'Danny,' the Liverpudlian said. 'Danny Adams.'

'I'm Ben.'

'You just hold on, Ben, you'll be all right.'

'Yeah.'

When the dawn came the trucks jolted to a halt, and Ben was shaken awake. The backs of the trucks were opened up, and to German shouts the men jumped down to the ground. They were clumsy and stiff, and many fell, after a night spent standing up. But they helped each other, the fifty or so men in Ben's truck. Within a few minutes they were all standing in a rough huddle, surrounded by German troopers with rifles, and dogs, three big Alsatians, on leads.

'Bad news, lads,' someone called on seeing the dogs. 'They've shipped their girlfriends over.' That was met with a snarl in German. 'All right, Funf, keep your helmet on.'

By the dawn light Ben tried to see what kind of place he had been brought to. He was in what seemed to be an open field, coated with green grass, on a raised rectangular scrap of ground. Truck wheels had churned the turf. The earth was cut up by grassy ditches, and the whole space was enclosed by a ruined wall. At the heart of the site Ben made out a concrete platform with the remains of a kind of cross structure embedded in it. Two Germans in the black uniform of the SS were strutting about this centrepiece, pointing at it with swagger sticks and gazing around at the site.

The air was fresh; he could smell the sea. 'Where the hell are we?'

A murmur went around the men. One of them, a local, recognised the place. This was Richborough, at the very eastern extremity of Kent. Another old Roman ruin, now in the hands of the Nazis.

A party of Germans came forward, laden with shovels. One of their officers put his hands on his hips and shouted at the POWs: 'Welcome to your holiday camp, gentlemen. We must ask you to pay for your deposits by digging out your latrines.' The soldiers threw the shovels on the floor.

'Oh, good,' said Danny Adams. 'A German comedian. I feel better already.'

The men moved forward, grumbling.

XXVI

23 September

Mary was woken by a smart rap at the door, a German voice.

A crack in the blackout curtains let her see her watch; it was six a.m. Oddly she remembered what day it was, a Monday. But not for the first time recently she had trouble remembering where she was.

As an American, Standartenfuhrer Trojan had made it clear, she was an honoured guest. So on the Sunday night the Germans had given Mary this billet, a kind of store room in the school that had been built into Battle Abbey, a box with a few mops, a stink of bleach, and no furniture but a heap of English army blankets. But the power was on, and there was a bathroom nearby, with running water, thanks to the efficiency of the German engineers who had already restored the supply. Mary had been racked with guilt at the thought of the people she'd walked with, who were going to be spending the night out on the street. But there was nothing she could do for them, and, by God, she needed sleep. Now she washed quickly, used the toilet, and dressed and gathered up her shabby possessions.

No later than a quarter past six, she stepped out of the room.

The young German soldier waiting for her bowed. 'Bitte.'

She followed him out of the Abbey. It was a surreal experience, as if she were being escorted by a footman out of some old-fashioned hotel.

In the grounds, a bus was waiting. It was a mundane sight, covered with advertising panels for Typhoo Tea and Bovril. Another young German soldier sat behind the wheel. There were a few people already aboard, and the engine was running. Evidently the bus was waiting for her.

And here came Josef Trojan, brisk and smart in a fresh uniform. He bowed to her and reached out to take her hand, but she flinched back. 'Mrs Wooler. I hope you slept well.'

'I suppose I did. In the end exhaustion overwhelms everything else, doesn't it?'

'Indeed. As the armies of the English will discover in the next few days. We have provided transport for you, as you can see. Along with these others, who also have reasons to be protected.'

'Where will we be taken?'

'Only a few miles north-west of here, to a place called – ah' – he checked a schedule – 'Hurst Green. This is on the current line held by Army Group A, which we call the covering line. Do you understand?'

'You're taking me out of the occupied territory.'

'Exactly. We have been in contact with the British military authorities, over this and other matters. It is all very civilised, as you can see. At Hurst Green you will be collected by a bus to take you to, ah, Tunbridge Wells. And from then on you are free to travel on to London or wherever you wish.' He smiled at her. 'Personally I hope you will remain in Britain, and continue to report for your audience in the United States on the civilising progress we intend to make here in England, as in Europe. Now you must forgive me, Mrs Wooler, I have appointments. Please board the bus; you will be quite safe.'

What choice did she have? And, she had to admit, a large part of her longed to be out of this damn war zone.

None of the handful of people on the bus met Mary's eye. They were mostly women, some quite expensively dressed, and a couple of men, youngish, who sat near the front. What had they done to deserve this privileged treatment? Were they more foreign nationals, or collaborators of some kind?

The driver settled at his wheel. A second German soldier sat behind him with a weapon across his lap. The bus pulled out, turned, and rolled through the gatehouse.

As they passed through Battle Mary saw that the people she had walked with, after a night out in the open, were being prodded to their feet by German soldiers. She couldn't bear to look for long; she turned away in shame.

It was not yet seven a.m.

XXVII

George set off for work at the town hall. He was due at eight a.m.

It was a bright September day, a Monday morning, sunny and clear, with just a hint of chill in the air. There were no planes in the sky, and the noise of the war was distant. The only vehicles on the roads, dodging heaps of rubble, were German trucks. A bakery was, astonishingly, open, and a lengthy queue had formed, mostly old folk, all clutching their ration books. A couple of nervous-looking German soldiers watched them, rifles hanging from their shoulders. The town stank of sewage and dust, but the breeze off the sea was fresh, and he thought he could just detect the wood-smoke smell of autumn leaves.

He felt as if he was floating. He wasn't sure he'd slept a wink.

And he'd been got out of bed by a phone call from the mayor, news about the invasion. Since dawn, elements of the Germans' second echelon had been landing, all along the coast. Their losses were ferocious, the Navy and RAF pounding away, worse probably than the first wave. But nevertheless some of them were getting through. And