He must have been knocked out for a moment or two: when he came round, he had no idea at first where he was or how long he’d been there. He was surrounded by explosions and choking dust, and covered in rubble. Although he was disorientated and confused, he gradually became aware of something heavy pressing on his leg. He realised that the Allies must be carrying out a bombing raid on the port, and it struck him how admirable it was that they felt able to do this in daytime: he must remember to tell Gilbey that. He would be pleased to hear it. The raid was still going on, and he decided to stay where he was. The rubble was acting as a form of protection.

After a few minutes, the noise abated: no more explosions, no more sound of aircraft above or anti-aircraft fire from the ground. There was a strange ringing in his ears. In the distance he could hear shouting, and nearer to him there were screams, but nothing else. He managed to free his leg and tentatively checked himself out. He could move all his limbs and couldn’t feel any obvious pain. He pushed the rubble aside and looked around. The lorry they’d been supposed to unload must have taken a direct hit: little remained of it other than a tangled mess of metal. All around lay the bodies of the guards, the port policemen and the other prisoners, none of them moving, few of them in one piece. The ship they were loading had been hit too: black smoke billowed from it and it was listing heavily.

Prince clambered up, dusted himself down, then ran as fast as he could back along the quay towards the ship that had caught his attention earlier. It was still there and appeared to be unscathed, though there was frantic activity on deck: the crew were clearly in a hurry to leave port, and he could hardly blame them. He kept running, undecided whether to call out or just climb on board.

At that moment, the ship’s horn sounded again and its bow swivelled away from the dock, pointing towards the port gates. Two sailors were frantically untying the ropes at the stern. Prince took a running jump, landing painfully on the deck, his fall cushioned by a pile of netting. He could feel the ship picking up speed as it headed out of the port.

The two sailors stood above him and between them he could make out the name of the ship on the bridge, picked out in white along with the name of its home port. It was this and the flag above it that had caught his attention, and it was the home port where he hoped the ship was heading to now.

Strand Stjerne. København.