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
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 with me, Constable. Now then, where is that mayor of yours?'
XXIV
So, at about eight p.m. that Sunday evening, George found himself gazing at the back of a Wehrmacht soldier's crisply shaven neck as he was driven in Standartenfuhrer Trojan's Bentley at speed along the road to Battle. The mayor had to content himself with a ride in a Kubelwagen following on behind. Of course this was a not very subtle slight, but Harry Burdon had shrugged. 'We'll have to put up with a lot worse before this wretched business is over, George.'
There were still refugees from the day's earlier flight limping up the road, lumps of misery and humiliation, some of them heading back to the town. Trojan insisted that the driver stick to the right, and men, women and children had to scramble out of the way; George was only glad that they got through the journey without anyone being run down.
At Battle more refugees lined up in the streets of the tiny old town, sitting on the pavements, hundreds of them controlled by a handful of strutting German soldiers. Remarkably a couple of officers were making their way through the crowd, asking questions, jotting down notes. Always methodical, the Germans, it seemed. The town itself showed signs of war damage – blown-out windows, the tarmac chewed up by tank tracks.
The car pulled up outside the Abbey gatehouse. The standartenfuhrer looked around curiously. 'So this is Battle; this is the Abbey – commissioned by William the Conqueror to commemorate his famous victory, am I correct?'