'But why do you fight?'
'For my father,' Ernst said simply. 'My brother might tell you differently, but he joined the SS. My father fought in the first war. He saw the ruin of the country after the unjust Versailles settlement. And he nursed an old wound that made it impossible for him to work. We were impoverished. He was a proud man, my father. He died bitter. I was pleased when the war came. I fight for my country, for my father.'
'But the soldiers in England have fathers too.' Claudine found one image in the book, of a place called Hastings. It was evidently taken from a postcard; it showed a shingle beach crowded with families. 'I wonder if children will ever play on these beaches again.'
'There is no reason why not,' Ernst said primly. 'Provided that such play does not conflict with the goals of the occupation.'
She laughed again. 'Ah, Ernst. Perhaps it will be mockery that defeats you Germans in the end, not guns.'
They were distracted by a new noise from the sea, a throaty roar. A different sort of boat ripped across the water, running parallel to the shore; jet black and sleek, it created a wake that sent lesser craft bobbing. The men on the beaches whooped and applauded.
Claudine swore softly. 'And what is that?'
Ernst's heart sank. 'It is a schnelleboote. Powered by an aircraft engine. Designed to roar across the Channel and dance up the beaches of England. More noise than performance…'
'It's stopping,' Claudine said. 'Look. Somebody's waving at us!' She waved back.
'And that,' said Ernst, his gloom deepening, 'is my older brother. Who can't leave me alone for one day.'
'Oh, don't be so grumpy. How exciting, a brother in the SS!'
The schnelleboote turned and made for the shore.
And a flight of planes, the bombers and fighters of the Luftwaffe, poured suddenly over their heads, making them duck. It had been going on since the beginning of the month, assaults on English ports and railways and aerodromes and factories, all part of the great softening-up. The planes roared on, wave after wave, a three-dimensional armada that towered thrillingly into the sky.
V
Josef, in the crisp black uniform of the Waffen SS, was nothing but good manners. 'Mademoiselle,' he said correctly, in German. 'How you must illuminate the shadowy life of my stunted brother!' He bowed and kissed Claudine's hand, holding it just a little too long, Ernst thought.
Claudine laughed in her pretty way, laughed with Josef. Of course Ernst knew they were laughing at him. His brother was ten years older than Ernst, that bit taller, that bit better looking; he and Claudine, side by side, looked as if they belonged together much more than Ernst and Claudine ever did.
It made it worse that Josef had turned up with a girl still more stunning than Claudine. Tall, blonde, she too was in uniform, that of an SS-unterscharfuhrer; she carried a small canvas bag. Her name was Julia Fiveash, and she was, surprisingly, English. She was in an SS unit called the Legion of St George, made up of British subjects. She barely seemed to notice Claudine, and she looked at Ernst haughtily. But she made the black SS uniform she wore almost unbearably glamorous.
Josef brought them to a bar near the harbour. They sat in the open air, at a polished table with a pretty lace covering, and Josef ordered coffee and cognac for them all. The servile barkeeper insisted he would take no payment from an officer of the SS; Josef, just as politely, insisted that he would, and handed over crisp mark notes.
When Julia spoke to Ernst her German was crisp and precise, with barely a trace of an English accent. 'Josef is an SS-standartenfuhrer, which I believe corresponds roughly to colonel in the English army,' she said. 'Whereas you, Ernst?'
'I am a gefreiter,' he said uncomfortably. 'A Wehrmacht rank-'
'Different from the SS. Lower than a corporal? But then you are so much younger than Josef, aren't you? One must make allowances, I suppose.'
Josef laughed. 'Even Julia outranks you. She has already risen to unterscharfuhrer.'
Julia said, 'Or as we would say, sergeant. In fact we generally speak English in the Legion…'
The barkeeper brought their drinks; he laid them out as quickly as he could and scuttled away, head averted.
'Of course,' Josef said to Claudine silkily, 'you don't have ranks in your profession, as such, do you?'
That confused Ernst. 'She is a teacher.'
'Ah, but I meant your new profession, my dear.' He reached down and casually lifted up Claudine's skirt.
Claudine did not flinch, or show any fear.
Ernst slapped his brother's hand away. 'Leave her alone. It's not like that.'
'Oh, come, Ernst, don't be naive. All collaborators are whores; it's just a question of the price. I mean, do you really imagine a girl like this would be seen with a man like you if not for the war?' He winked. 'It's not as if you need to spend your money, you know. The SS will soon have their brothels set up. I could get you a pass. Come to that, as we are of good Aryan stock, it would be doing your country a service to spend your seed between the thighs of some busty blonde maiden.'
Julia laughed, blowing out smoke. 'It will be an Aryan paradise when the SS gets things sorted out, will it, Josef?'
'For us it will be, yes, my dear.' He peered at Claudine's complexion disapprovingly, and plucked at a lock of her hair. 'I suppose this one will do for now. I doubt if she will meet the racial criteria. Pity. I wouldn't mind riding her myself.' Ernst grew angry, but before he could speak Josef sipped his coffee, then spat it out on the ground. 'Ach, what is this muck? Made from acorns, is it?' He called more loudly, 'Are you trying to poison us, barkeeper?'
The barkeeper hurried to pour out replacements.
Julia poked Josef's elbow. 'Don't be so cruel to the poor old man.'
'Well, he deserves it. I mean, look around you. I could have been posted to Paris. Boulogne! This must be the arsehole of all France.'
Claudine said evenly, 'And you are the turd that is passing through it, I suppose?'
Ernst gasped. Even Julia looked shocked.
Josef stared at her, then laughed out loud. 'My word, Ernst, this half-breed of yours has a bit of spirit!'
'Yes, she does,' Ernst said testily.
'So, Ernst, your training is going well? All that seasickness and lumping it up the beaches?'
'The preparations are proceeding,' Ernst said neutrally.
'Yes, they are, in fact, at levels more elevated from you than the eagle flies,' Josef said. 'The Fuhrer has issued a final directive, I am told. The invasion of England even has a name now. Operation Sea Lion! But the details are still being argued over among the military command. I need something to draw on.' He patted his pockets. 'Damn.' He lifted the cups and glasses from the table, and pulled away the lace tablecloth to expose a surface of old wood, dark and so polished it had the look of satin. He took out a pocket knife and with brisk strokes scraped a map into the table's surface. 'This will have to do.
'Look here. This bit of coastline is the most suitable to mount an invasion, for it is here that Europe comes closest to England. One can simply hop across the Channel and assail the coasts of Sussex and Kent, and be only a few hours' drive from London. The Navy want to plan on the basis of a narrow front, for that is more defensible from the sea than a long stretch of the Channel; the Army, though, don't want to be bottled up on land, and argue for a wider front…'
He continued to sketch with his knife, drawing attack lines and defensive perimeters, cutting and splintering the tabletop. Ernst watched the faces of the women; neither of them reacted to this bit of petty vandalism.
Claudine asked, 'You are a mere standartenfuhrer. Why would you know all this? Perhaps you are simply trying to impress a woman you have called a whore.'
'You do have spirit, don't you? I am here advising the Waffen SS. The military arm of the SS, which strictly speaking is a Party organisation. But I work with the Ahnenerbe.'