'Pretty boys!' They glanced over. Unteroffizier Fischer, crouching in the dirt, was waving. 'Leave him for the mop-up units. We're moving on.'
They scrambled back towards him. The three of them huddled by the side of the road, crouching, flinching from the shell fire and the bursts of automatic fire that sporadically raked the column. But the column was forming up again, the tanks and trucks lumbering back onto the road.
Kieser shouted, 'Unteroffizier? Are you serious?'
'That's the order. Listen to me. The English have fielded everything they've got, but we're still standing. And what's left of the second wave is heading our way. Always reinforce success – isn't that what the Fuhrer says? And we're the spearhead. Let the English slice away at our rear, let us lose half our bloody vehicles for lack of fuel – what of it? Mobility, that has been the key to this war – our mobility. If Seventh Panzer can only get into Guildford, with us following up – it's only a few more miles – if just a few of us can only get that far tonight, then we will have a chance of establishing a bridgehead. And tomorrow, when the English are exhausted, we can consolidate. Do you see?' He grinned. 'The order has come from Guderian himself, it is said. Berlin is sceptical, but Berlin is far away. What a man! Come on, get back into the truck.'
So, with the air war screaming overhead and the English assault continuing furiously from the left, the column roared on towards Guildford, led by the remnants of Seventh Panzer. The English shells hailed all around, and one by one the trucks and tanks and field guns were knocked out, and others died from lack of fuel, yet the rest simply closed up and moved on. The English desperately tried to throw up road blocks, even shoving their own vehicles across the road, but the tanks simply smashed through.
For Ernst this was a dash through hell. The men in the troop carriers could do nothing but cower, each of them waiting for the bit of shrapnel or the sniper bullet or the automatic-weapons burst from some English plane that would end his life. But they whooped and roared as the truck clattered over the pocked road, throwing them around like toys in a box, and Ernst found it impossible not to join in. This was madness. They wouldn't have the fuel even to drive back to the coast. But maybe, just maybe, this bold stroke was going to work, the English defences would be scattered and the Battle of England won.
But now they approached a crossroads. A mesh fence had been thrown across it, with barbed wire and a few tank traps. Ernst expected the Panzers simply to blast this lot out of the way and move on. He was astonished when the Panzers slowed with a grinding of their huge gears, and his own truck squealed to a stop.
Ernst exchanged a look with Heinz Kieser. Kieser just shrugged.
Unteroffizier Fischer jumped down to the road surface, and Ernst followed. The fence stretched to left and right across the road, and off into the fields beyond. A flag, a Stars and Stripes, flew boldly from a pole rising from beyond the fence. A single soldier armed with an automatic weapon stood right before the muzzle of the lead Panzer. He was short, burly, with belt and straps heavy with grenades and ammunition clips. His uniform looked crumpled. Apparently fearless, he was chewing gum.
There was a sign fixed to the fence, neatly lettered. Ernst squinted to make it out: LUCKY STRIKE BASE SHALFORD US EIGHTH ARMY SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA DO NOT ENTER
'Shit,' said Unteroffizier Fischer. 'We're going to have to pass this back up the line. Even Guderian can't declare war on America on his own initiative. Churchill. That wily bastard must have something to do with this. Shit, shit.'
The American soldier grinned. In English he called, 'Can I help you guys?'
II
PRISONER
I
23 June 1941
The family were all at breakfast that Monday morning, Fred, Irma, Alfie, Viv, the four of them in the farmhouse kitchen working their way silently through toast and powdered egg, when Ernst walked in with his gift. He placed it on the table, an anonymous cardboard box stamped with swastikas.
'Good morning, Obergefreiter,' said Irma. She pushed her way out of her chair, leaning on the wooden table for support. 'The usual? A bit of toast?' In her forties, she was heavily pregnant, her eyes shadowed, her face drawn of blood. 'The tea might be stewed.'
Alfie's eyes were on the gift. He chewed on rubbery toast, his legs swinging so that his whole body jerked about. He was fourteen but he looked younger, Ernst thought, skinny, always hungry-looking. 'What's in the box, Ernst?'
'Let the poor man get his breakfast, Alfie.' Irma went to the range.
'I'll get the tea,' said Vivien, getting up brightly. She ran to the sink and rinsed out a tin mug. She was a year older than her brother. She wore a blouse and skirt for school today, with thick dark stockings and clumpy shoes. Her mother was a fair seamstress, but you could see the panels of parachute silk where she had let out the blouse as Viv had grown.
Viv came over to Ernst with the tin mug. The drink was fairly repulsive, made from repeatedly stewed leaves and with lumps floating on the surface from the powdered milk. She leaned close enough to Ernst for a few strands of her strawberry blonde hair to brush against his face.
'Thank you.'
She said, in German, 'It's my pleasure.'
Alfie laughed. 'You're a right tart, our Viv, you really are.'
'Oh, leave her alone,' Irma said tiredly, and she set a plate with a bit of toast and a heap of runny powdered egg before Ernst. 'Is that enough, Obergefreiter?'
'Yes, thank you, Mrs Miller.' He made a show of cutting off some toast and tucking it into his mouth. He turned to Viv. 'But, you know, you need not have prepared for school. There will be no school today.'
Fred glared. 'How so?'
'A holiday has been declared. It is the King's birthday!' Ernst smiled.
Fred folded his arms. 'Not my bloody king. I'm a subject of King George, not of his Nazi-loving ninny of a brother who should have stayed abdicated.' He pronounced 'Nazi' the way Churchill always had, 'Nar-zee'. The father of the family was a squat man, his farmer's arms muscular, but his lower body was weaker, his wounded right leg withered, so that he had a rather unbalanced look. His greying hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, making his face angular, hawk-like. He wore his work coat, an old suit jacket from which the pockets had long been removed, leaving ghostly outlines of stitches.
Irma sighed. 'Oh, come on, Fred, have a bit of spirit. Edward's not so bad. He's got his job to do like everybody else. Binding the wounds, as they say. Although I hadn't heard about the holiday, Obergefreiter.'
'Well, we wouldn't,' Alfie said. 'Dad won't buy a newspaper. 'Hoare and his bloody collaborators' rag.'
'Language, Alfie,' said Irma sharply. 'Mind you, we argue about that, Herr Obergefreiter. I mean, I can't see what harm a bit of news does. And I do so miss my stars.'
'Well, you are hearing about it now,' Ernst said, keeping up his smile. 'A day off for the whole of the protectorate, except for essential services.'
'I'll go and tell my cows I'm having a day off bloody milking them, shall I?' Fred said.
Irma looked concerned. 'I'd been hoping to get into Hastings today to see if there's any news about Jack and the prisoner release programme.'
'There will be emergency cover at the town hall,' Ernst assured her. He worked there himself, one of a number of soldiers with the necessary skills who had been seconded to supplement the civil servants brought
