The distant drone of an aeroplane. Joe and Ernst sat in silence as the sound came closer. Louder. Not one aeroplane. A squadron. Heavy bombers. They came from England, heading to France. And boom. Boom. The Germans fired up at them, heavy weaponry which shook the earth but fell short of their targets. Joe stood up on the step, peered through the wire fencing, saw the coast of France blasting orange and red, the smoke from the bombs furling mushrooms into the clouds. He fancied he could feel the heat from the fires that burned on the Normandy coast, breathe in the smoke from the blasts, taste the cordite on his tongue.

He smiled, the first time for months.

Gulls and guillemots. Shags and cormorants. Even before they climbed onto deck, Joe knew they were back in Jersey. He could see them through the hatch, flying low, silent in the storm. Too rough to sail to France. Or dangerous. If the skies swarmed with Allied bombers, the seas would be full of their ships. Early July the order had come from Berlin to evacuate Alderney, send the prisoners to repair the defences in France. They had filed out after Appell, down to the harbour and the boats. Joe waited on the wharf. The ship was called the Minotaure. The monster that ate humans, Joe recalled. Hundreds were shoved into the hold before the hatch was closed.

Joe was directed towards a neighbouring vessel. Crossed the gangplank, onto the deck, into the damp, dark space beneath. Schnell. Schnell. The vessel was much smaller than the Minotaure. Joe reckoned there must have been fifty prisoners or so crammed in the space with no air or water and a single bucket for their use. The ship began to rock, rain hammered on the deck above, and Joe heard the wind tear through the harbour buildings. The weather had broken.

A crowd of civilians had gathered and watched the prisoners as they stood in the sun on the quayside in St Helier. Why would anyone want to gawp at them? Was misery so compelling? A spectator sport? Joe hoped no one recognised him. He kept his eyes to the ground, his face out of their gaze. But if they did spot him, he thought, could they not plead for him? This man shouldn’t be here. Let him go. He looked up. He saw no one he knew.

Now the prisoners mustered, five abreast. There were other prisoners, too, some in striped shirts and trousers, others in rags, like Joe. He wasn’t sure whether they were waiting to embark or had just come off some other ship. They were silent and sullen, dulled by starvation. But of the Sylt men, word got round. The Minotaure had gone down. Blown to smithereens. Ernst with it. Joe prayed he hadn’t felt a thing. Drowning, they said, was a peaceful death.