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 they were managing to land their tanks and heavy equipment at ports like Folkestone, though their engineers had to clear the harbours of rubble. 'Things will get worse before they get better, George,' Harry Burdon had said gloomily.
George's head was spinning after all that had happened. The worst of it was worry for his daughter, his little girl in her WAAF uniform, caught up in the middle of a lethal conflict. He'd heard nothing of her since Friday, when they had parted in the middle of a row. But he had his duty to fulfil. He took deep breaths of the fresh air, trying to clear his thoughts.
When he got to the town hall the mayor was just arriving. He was carrying a suitcase. 'Morning, George. Sleep well?'
'As well as can be expected, I suppose, Harry. You?'
'Tossed and turned. That bonkers business at the Abbey.'
'Why the suitcase?'
'Well, I'm moving in. Orders of the SS. Me and my family. They don't use the word "hostages but that's what it amounts to.'
'Hmm. We have to behave or you come to harm, is that the idea?'
'That's it. Of course since no bugger cared for me before the war I'm in a pickle, aren't I?' He smiled, but it was forced.
'It's bloody, Harry.'
A German truck drove up. A couple of soldiers got out, quite young, one bespectacled, talking rapidly. They hauled cardboard file boxes out of the back of the truck and walked up to the door, still talking. They entirely ignored Burdon and George, until they realised that the door was closed. Then they broke off and stared at the two of them.
George said, 'Let me-'
'No, no,' the mayor said, red-faced. He pulled the door back and held it while the two Germans passed through, without further acknowledgement.
George murmured, 'It's going to be a long day.'
Harry Burdon plucked George's sleeve. 'Listen, George,' he murmured, 'Never mind little pricks like those two. There's a bit more news.'
'Where from?'
'Never you mind. Churchill's talking to the Americans. There may be some kind of deal. That's what I've heard. We're not done yet, lad.'
Harry Burdon was a round, sleek sort of man, tall and a bit overweight, with a full head of greying hair and a penchant for old-fashioned waistcoats and fob watches. He looked like a munificent businessman from Victorian times: competent, solid, successful in his modest way, willing to give something back through his elected office. And yet now, behind Harry's unprepossessing figure, George glimpsed a shadow world of secret communications channels – covert phone lines, wireless sets tucked behind panelled walls. He was a man who knew who to trust. And he was a man who was preparing to accept the grim realities of his own new position, as hostage and servant of the new authority, and do what he believed was his duty.