But Wednesday came and went and he still showed no signs of leaving. He told her he’d hurt his ankle coming ashore and wanted to wait until it healed. It will draw attention to me. She hadn’t spotted even a hint of a limp, but she thought better than to question him.

‘You’ll have to leave by Friday; there’re no trains over the weekend on that route.’

He told her he’d need to see how his ankle was. And maybe she could buy some beer? He liked strong beer, he told her. He’d heard most English beer could be very weak and he really didn’t want that.

He’d stayed the weekend, and on Sunday night told her Tuesday would be safer than Monday. He didn’t admit it to her, of course, but after all he’d been through, he was rather enjoying the rest, and also the opportunity it gave him to make his own arrangements. The past couple of months had been so hectic and stressful: he’d had no intention whatsoever of being conscripted, and believed he’d got away with it. He’d managed to assume a false identity in what even the Gestapo acknowledged was an expert manner and had started a new life in Leipzig, managing to convincingly add ten years to his age, which ought to have prevented him from being conscripted. But then a night of madness: too much to drink, a woman who was difficult but who he still shouldn’t have beaten up, and then arrest, a night in the police cells and his whole story began to unravel. Within days he was presented with a choice that wasn’t much of a choice: a punishment battalion on the Eastern Front or working for the Reich.

He’d chosen the latter, and by the time he discovered to his horror what this entailed, it was too late. You’ll make a good agent. You’ve already demonstrated you have many of the skills we require. And you speak good English. Some of the agents we’ve sent over there have been less than reliable and also unlucky. We hope you’ll be neither. It shouldn’t be too difficult, not once you get to Portsmouth…

He couldn’t help thinking they were mad: why on earth would anyone think he’d make a good spy? It was like he was reading a bad book, but he had no alternative but to go along with it. The training was exhausting, and he began to be quite fearful, regretting choosing this over the Eastern Front. By the time he boarded the U-boat – that voyage was a nightmare in itself – he’d determined that given half a chance, he’d avoid the journey to London and Portsmouth and instead find a quiet life for himself in England. It couldn’t be that hard.