The lorry edged to the side of the road, revved its engine hard. The crowd was too dense to move. Above them, scudding clouds and a late spring sun filled the cupola of sky, like a Constable painting, John thought. The same sky had hung over this part of the world when it tore itself to pieces in all the wars that had gone before. The Great War. The Schleswig Wars. The Seven Years’ War. Thirty Years’ War. Now that was a war. Almost wiped out Europe and those it didn’t kill it pushed around. Movement. People. Refugees. This was what was meant by dis-location, to un-place. Dis-place. Displaced Persons.

‘So who’s in charge?’ Arthur was saying. ‘Now Hitler’s gone.’

John dragged on his cigarette, his mind away, playing with words. He focused his gaze on Arthur.

‘I think his name is Dönitz. It can’t be long now, before it’s over.’ Added, ‘They’re not in Berlin anymore, so I heard.’

‘Who’s not?’

‘The German government. They left.’

‘Then who’s in Berlin?’

‘The Russians.’

He finished his cigarette, flipped it over the side of the lorry.

They left the refugees behind and the truck picked up speed, skirting the potholes. On either side of the road, the fields and dykes of the north German countryside lay flat and wasted. Now they were moving there was a chill in the air, reminding them that spring still had a bite. But the breeze was fresh and salty, and screeling above them John spotted seagulls. They couldn’t be far from the sea.

‘So where is it this time?’ Arthur said.

‘Kiel,’ John said. ‘Walterwerke.’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘We shall find out more later,’ John said. ‘They made torpedoes, U-boats. Rockets. Fuel.’

‘Oh,’ Arthur said. ‘Bastards. Especially those doodlebugs.’ His mouth twitched, as if he was thinking aloud. ‘So do you understand it all? What they’re saying, all those scientists?’

John laughed. ‘I translate,’ he said. ‘I haven’t a clue about the physics.’ He tapped his pockets. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

Arthur pulled out a pack and offered it. John had a twenty a day habit now, more in the hard times, or the bored times, like now, churning over the miles for days on end.

‘Still,’ he said, cupping his hand around the match flame and dragging on his cigarette, ‘the scientists seem to understand each other. It’s a kind of code to them, I guess.’

‘That makes sense.’ Arthur paused for a moment, gazing into the distance, his mouth moving with silent thoughts. ‘I wish I’d had your chances. I would’ve liked to have learned a language. Force for peace, I reckon.’

‘Never too late to learn.’ John smiled. ‘What’ll you do when the war’s over, Arthur?’

Arthur shrugged, twisted his mouth.