It’s a bit of a doddle now. Even a bit boring. Can’t tell you how much I’m missing home, and Sunday lunch. Roast lamb with all the trimmings. Apple crumble. Promise me you’ll make me that when I’m next on leave, even if it isn’t a Sunday. He looked at his watch, checked the time. In Berlin now. I have a day’s leave tomorrow so plan to see a bit of the sights with my sergeant, an amiable Londoner called Arthur. We’ll be here some time so it will be nice not to be on the move. Need to go now. Your loving son, John.

An hour to kill before dinner. He’d welcome a bath, or even a shower, but there was a rota and his turn wasn’t yet. He took his towel and walked along the corridor to the bathrooms, turned on the tap in the basin and watched as it spluttered and spat until a steady brown drizzle came out. He splashed water over his face, under his arms, across his chest, behind his neck. Cat’s lick, that’s what his mother would call it. Still, it was better than nothing.

He dried and dressed and wandered out into the grounds. If there had ever been gardens here, it would be hard to know. What might have been beds filled with marigolds or snapdragons were now buried beneath contours of dirt and neglect. The single shrub in which the blackbirds had made their nest was standing, but that was all, apart from buddleia pushing its way through the rubble. The lime trees had survived, though, their leaves in the flush of early summer, unfurled and brilliant. They were in full bloom too, their scent overwhelming with sweetness and promise. He breathed in, letting the fragrance fill his lungs, blowing out the fetid decay that wafted from the Spree, filling his nostrils with its cloying, suffocating stench. He understood now why they’d carried posies before their noses in the Middle Ages. It couldn’t stem death, but it could hide it. He’d hoped that here, in Spandau, the smell wouldn’t be so bad. He knew the town had taken its toll of bombing and killings and guessed the river had swallowed more than its fair share of corpses.

He leaned against the corner of the barracks building, one boot up against the wall, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, sucking the smoke deep inside and letting it snake out through his nostrils. A silent, solitary moment. Precious few of those in the army.

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