Nor was he as well fed as the German. He ate enough vegetables, and drank plenty of water, but he lacked protein, for the rationing hit hard. Joe knew those things made a difference. He’d make a fool of himself, but he couldn’t back out now.

They weighed in, like professionals. Weber met Joe’s eyes, a steady stare.

You can’t spook me, Wilhelm.

Strapped up, gloves on. Weber was left-handed. A southpaw. Get the measure of that. Don’t trade blows, he told himself. Don’t let him wrong-foot you. Tactics came flooding back. Counter that left hand.

Joe heard the audience as they settled down, loud, rowdy. The door opened. More squaddies, by the look of them. The room was full of cigarette smoke, and Joe could smell beer. German soldiers in their grey army uniforms. There were no civilians that Joe could see.

Weber threaded his way through the crowd as they roared their support. Joe followed in his dressing gown. No Jersey men present to cheer him on. This was how the Christians must have felt, he thought, going to the lions. You needed nerves for the fight. Good nerves that fired muscles into steel and tendons into springs. The crowd were chanting, ‘Weber, Weber’. He’d need some support, otherwise they’d bay only for Wilhelm. It was human nature, after all, to stick to your own.

Ignore them. Don’t get distracted.

There’d be three rounds. Point winners, unless one was knocked out. Joe was glad. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength or the stamina for a full bout.

Pierre was in his corner for him with a towel and water bottle. Joe clambered into the ring, could feel the adrenalin rise and pump through his body, taste its metal in his mouth. Weber was taller than Joe, with spidery legs and a haunted, bitter face. He’s not hungry, Joe thought. He’s angry. Boxing’s not a sport for angry men.

The referee, a German sergeant, called them over to the centre of the ring. Held their hands up, glove to glove.

‘Sauber kämpfen, Jungs,’ he said. ‘Play clean, boys.’

Joe took off his dressing gown. The bell went.

Watch his left ran through Joe’s brain like a mantra. Get your foot on the outside. Dancing, jabbing, left cross, right hook, Weber slammed into Joe’s chest between the ribs so Joe lost his breath and staggered to the ropes gasping for air, arms close to his body as Weber rained down the punches on Joe’s head and shoulders. Joe threw his right and left hand at Weber’s body as many ways as he could until he hit him in the liver and then between the ribs. Joe watched as the spindly man bent double and fell.

A hefty jeer went up from the crowd and they began to chant, ‘Weber, Weber!’