Joe lifted his field glasses. He’d train them onto the woody hillside first, start there before he’d focus on the shoreline. He caught Geoffrey’s farmhouse in his sights. Quiet and peaceful in the June sunshine, a bicycle against the wall next to the front door, an old iron shoe-scraper to its side. Listen. The chug-chug of a Kübelwagen broke the silence. He trained his glasses. The top road could be glimpsed through the copse and he saw a jeep driving along, followed by a second. They turned the corner, came into view along the lane. Joe watched as they drew up in front of the farmhouse and four men in the distinctive grey uniform of the Geheime Feldpolizei, two from each vehicle, spilled out. The secret police. Joe had heard of them. Everybody had. The first two hammered on the front door, the last two ran into the yard behind the house.

No one opened the door, and the Feldpolizei at the front joined the others at the back of the building. Joe heard their shouts echo round the farmyard, the sharp splinter of wood. He stood, his glasses trained on the house, tasting the adrenalin from his stomach, feeling his heart race and his hands grow cold and clammy. Something terrible was amiss. They were taking their time inside the house. Why had they come? The farm was such an insignificant little holding.

In time, the front door opened and Geoffrey stumbled out, his hands tied behind his back. Behind him came the nurse. She had lost her cap. Her hands were tied behind her, too. Two Feldpolizisten pushed them forward with their rifles. One grabbed the nurse and threw her towards the first Kübelwagen, another pushed Geoffrey towards the second.

Two more men, arms pulled behind their backs, staggered from the house, prodded by the other Feldpolizisten.

‘Abschaum!’ Shoving them forward. ‘Russen!’

The men wore tattered, grey rags. Labourers, from the OT gangs. Joe saw them squint in the sunlight, as if they were coming out of a cave. A Feldpolizist grabbed one, the shorter of the two, pulled out his pistol, placed it against his temple.

The crack echoed round the farm and the man slumped to the ground, blood pumping from his head. The soldier aimed again at the body, and shot again. And again.

The glasses slipped from Joe’s grasp and he stifled a cry. Picked them up and trained them once more. The body lay still now, blood blackening the cobblestones. The Feldpolizisten were busy securing a rope to the other prisoner, one end tied round his feet, the other attached to the Kübelwagen, pistol-whipping him as they did so, forcing the prisoner to duck and jump. No, Joe opened his mouth, no, but the words dried. He moved forward, pushing his way through the field.