An old English car approached them head-on, driving stubbornly on the left, in defiance of the occupation rule. Of course the German column did not deviate. At the last moment the English car veered away, and Ernst glimpsed a shocked face behind a stern handlebar moustache, before the car ended up ramming itself into a ditch. The German troops cheered mockingly, and made Churchill V-for-Victory signs at the crashed car.
Viv laughed prettily. 'What a lark!'
Ernst said, 'These English aren't like the French, are they? Defiant.'
'Well, the English haven't experienced occupation, not for a thousand years. It's all new to them.'
'Churchill's still a hero to them, even though he was forced to resign over the invasion.' He was thinking of Fred Miller and his 'Nar-zees'.
'We all cheered when that old warmonger was pushed out, after barely six months in office after a lifetime of waiting for it, ha! But it wasn't the shame of the invasion, you know, but pragmatism. There are necessary dealings between England and the protectorate. Churchill adamantly refused to discuss even such matters as prisoners and wounded with us. So he had to step aside for Halifax, an altogether more reasonable gentleman. Churchill's still stirring up feeling against us, though, especially in America. The sooner some collaborator puts a bullet through his thick skull the better.'
'Sometimes the whole business of occupation seems absurd,' Ernst admitted. 'I mean, what are we doing here, so far from home? Who are we to lord it over these people?'
Josef glared at him. 'You always have to think, don't you, Ernst? Look, let me give you a bit of advice. Don't go native. If you want a girl, fine. Just remember who you are.'
Ernst, as always irritated at being lectured at, changed the subject. 'It's the issue of the prisoners you are going to discuss at the Objective today, yes?'
'That among other things.' Josef theatrically stifled a yawn with his gloved hand. 'Face to face, me and some pompous British oaf, mediated by a gum-chewing American and a Swiss or two. I have to admit the Americans provide the best lunches, however. Of course it is all a distraction from my work for the Ahnenerbe. You must come visit my installation at Richborough.'
'Still hoping to seduce Himmler with this nonsense of manipulating history, are you?'
'We'll see if it's nonsense in due course,' Josef said, not offended.
'If your work's so important, what are you doing trailing all the way out here?'
'We're all stretched a bit thin these days, aren't we? Now that half the detachments stationed in Britain have been reassigned to the eastern front.'
'You know, I heard nothing about the war against Russia until this morning.'
Josef grinned. 'Well, neither did Stalin. It is in the east that the truth of this war will unfold, Ernst – not Germans against English or French, but the volk against the Slav. It is magnificent, they say. Three army groups are on the move, in a front a thousand miles long – think of it.' He winked at Ernst. 'But spare me from serving there!' He glanced back at Viv, who smiled at him. 'What do you think, shall I drive a bit faster and see if I can make her skirt ride up?'
'You are coarse, Josef.'
III
It was nearly noon by the time they reached the First Objective. In this region the line tracked the main road that ran up from Portsmouth through Petersfield to Milford, and then south of Guildford to Reigate. The barrier itself was a sculpture of wire and concrete that stretched from horizon to English horizon. Watchtowers and searchlight batteries loomed over the fences on both sides. Josef said, 'The shade of Emperor Hadrian himself would be awed by such a monument.'
This was the protectorate's demarcation line, which it was illegal for any subject of the occupation to call the 'Winston Line'. It cut off a slice of south-east England, running from Gravesend on the Thames estuary and south-west towards Portsmouth. The wall roughly corresponded to the first operational objective of Army Group A during the invasion, hence the name that had stuck to it among the German forces. The advance had been halted there when German stormtroopers found themselves facing Americans in their hastily erected bases. It had been Churchill's final masterstroke, in the panicky days after the invasion, to give away such bases to the US all along the objective line; in September 1940 the Reich was unwilling to go to war with America, and the Panzers' advance had stalled.
There was no armistice, and perhaps no possibility of one. England and Germany bombed each others' cities, a desultory campaign of misery – though wise heads said the 'blitz' would have been worse if not for the presence of German troops on English soil, and British subjects under German occupation. At sea, U-boat packs hunted down the supply convoys that crossed the Atlantic, and the Royal Navy harassed the much shorter supply lines to Albion from the continent. Overseas the war was being waged by proxy in a variety of theatres. In southern Europe Britain had opposed Hitler's assault on Yugoslavia and Greece, and Britain had defeated the Italians in Egypt, forcing Hitler to commit the Afrika Corps under Rommel. But once the initial German advance had been halted there had been little active fighting on the British mainland.
And so the situation had held, already for nine months, and the 'Winston Line' had solidified. London, to the north of the line, was in the territory held by the Halifax government, but it was a city held hostage by immediate peril. The government itself had evacuated to York. Ernst had once seen a newsreel of the line as filmed from the air at night. In a country plunged in blackout darkness, the First Objective was like a double wound, parallel lines of light slashed across the passive countryside, extending from coast to coast. It was a genuine division which bisected counties, severed towns from their suburbs, and cut families in two, often quite arbitrarily.
And yet Ernst, by nature an optimist, clung to the line as a symbol of hope. It was the one place where the British and the Germans, two nations at war, were managing to work together peacefully, finding solutions to benefit the most vulnerable. Perhaps the future could be built on such impulses, rather than war, occupation and conquest.
The convoy broke up. The vehicles pulled off the road onto concrete hard-standing areas, and the passengers jumped down. A bridge had been laid across the ditches here and a gate cut into the Objective. Civilians queued on both sides of the gate, waiting to be processed, men, women and children with bags and bicycles, prams and pets. Once the shock of invasion was over, there had been a mass movement of people back from the English territories into German Albion: refugees wanting to return to their homes, livelihoods and families.
Surrounded by soldiers, Viv was restless, increasingly nervous. A country girl, she had seen little even of the disruption military life had brought to the towns.
Josef got out of the car and took a slim briefcase from the boot. He pointed through the wire. 'See over there, the Stars and Stripes? That's the Americans. Shalford Base.'
'I fought my way here,' said Ernst. 'This is where the advance stopped, for me. This very spot.'
'I know. Few men got any further. That's why I brought you here. Look, the Swiss flag is flying over that camp too.'
'What have the Swiss got to do with it?'
'Protecting Power for the POWs.' He slapped Ernst on the shoulder. 'My business will probably only take a couple of hours. Look around. Enjoy your picnic with your little girlfriend. Which reminds me.' He dug inside his jacket. 'A letter for you. You might want to keep it from your sweetie over there.'
'Who's it from?'