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then to join in. But teams were demarcated, skins or shirts. His scars might be noticed and he couldn’t risk that
.
    Fear had raced through the camp like a wind. First, a big white Bentley arrived and the driver, a typical tweedy Englishman, upper crust, had hurried over to the major’s tent. Nobody’d seen him before, but one man said he was the local squire. One of the guards at the gate was summoned and he quick-marched to fetch the translator. The squire stayed about half an hour, then drove off fast. A while later, one of their regular sentries had bicycled into the grounds. There was usually two of them arriving in a lorry. The soldier, an older man, had also gone straight to the major’s tent. This unusual activity had started to attract attention and rumours sprang out of nowhere that the second soldier was dead, shot by a Jerry parachutist. Something was up. More whispering. Another rumour. The Nazis had taken London. The beginning of the invasion. Churchill was dead
.
    The older sentry emerged and went to the guard towers where he had a confab with the sentries. Must be the invasion. All activities stopped. The men started to gather around the camp father, Dr. Bruno Beck. He had been a psychiatrist by profession
and it stood him in good stead. He listened to the agitated comments and questions of the internees and reassured them that there was no invasion imminent, nor was Churchill dead. The commandant would tell them soon enough what was afoot
.
    Yet another car drove in. Not a toff but a man with authority. He too went into the commandant’s tent
.
    He wondered what his next orders would be. Hold tight, look and listen. “Never show them your fear, they will turn on you like a pack. No matter what you feel, no matter how much pain you are experiencing, never ever show it.” That had been drilled into him in the early days, and time after time in the training sessions, he had been put to the test. And never failed. Truth was he missed that. Longed to show his mettle again, to be commended and praised. It was all very well to say he’d been specially selected for this important task, but there was nothing exciting about being stuck behind barbed wire for months, with nothing to do but watch and wait
.
    One of the guards came with the message to gather in the tent. Roll call was going to be taken. He joined the others and squeezed himself into the back row. There weren’t enough tables for everybody to sit in one shift, and getting all the internees together meant many of them had to stand. There was a lot of grumbling and, in spite of Dr. Beck’s reassurance, the anxiety in the air was palpable. Dr. Beck set the roll call in motion, each section leader checking off his list
.
    Finally, they were done and the group fell silent. Three people from outside the wire, plus a guard, were coming through the gate: the commandant, the female translator, and the man who had been the last to arrive. The major, stick under his arm, led the way. He was soft and out of shape and he always looked worried
.
    He had only contempt for such transparency
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    The woman was different, which was why he rather admired
her, although she wasn’t really his type. Too long in the tooth and too thin. He liked his women young, coarse, and full-bodied. Nevertheless, he had to admit she had presence, a cool English elegance that he could see would be attractive. She had an erect carriage, head high, chin up. Her clothes were of good quality but not ostentatious. In her dealings with the internees, she was invariably pleasant and had quickly become popular in this woman-starved environment. However, he found her hard to read. He wasn’t sure if her aloofness was a typical characteristic of the well-bred Englishwoman, or if it was from some other cause
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    The third member of the trio was walking at her side. He was above medium height, with carrot red hair, and he looked as if he’d been in the sun too long. But he wasn’t a milksop