“To you, Hauptsturmführers Strasser and Lockhart, and to the success of the British Free Corps!”

“Thank you, Oskar,” said Strasser, and drained his glass.

Lockhart drained his too, hesitantly acknowledging the toast.

“Another?” asked Lange.

Just as Lockhart was offering his glass forward, Strasser said, “No, Oskar, we must go and see the men.”

Lange looked a little crestfallen.

“Come on, Oskar,” said Strasser. “There will be plenty more later.”

“Ach—you’re right. Fine—I’m coming.”

They walked out into the night. It was snowing, and Lockhart felt cold under his tunic. He rubbed his hands together.

“I’ll see if I can get you a coat and some gloves,” said Strasser.

“I’d appreciate that,” Lockhart replied, genuinely grateful. It must have been ten below.

“An officer should always have a coat!” said Lange, a little too boisterously.

The guard at the gate to the prisoners’ part of the camp saluted them keenly. They all saluted back, Lockhart halfheartedly.

“Well done, Hauptsturmführer,” said Strasser under his breath.

Lockhart ignored the patronizing comment.

“By the way,” he said, “you still haven’t told me how many men have enlisted.”

“So far, we have eight….”

“Eight!”

“…and more will come shortly.”

“Eight?!”

Lockhart’s voice went up an octave. He stopped and addressed Strasser directly, pointing his finger at his chest.

“This is ridiculous! You can’t call eight men a corps—it’s not even a bloody football team!”

Strasser stayed calm.

“I know, Lockhart, I know, but we are actively looking for more. With you on board, I’m sure many more will join.”

Lockhart let his hand drop to his side.

“You didn’t tell me anything about recruiting.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask. Anyway, we’re nearly at their quarters—we can continue this conversation tomorrow. And before I forget—I’ve told them you’ve joined up because you think the Allies are going to lose the war.”

Lange led the way up the steps to a sectioned-off part of one of the two large prisoner huts. He opened the door, candlelight spilling onto the snow-covered steps. He could hear English voices, evidently already fueled by drink. As the three men stepped into the crude dormitory, the revelers stood to attention.

“Men,” said Strasser, “I would like to present your new officer-in-charge, Hauptsturmführer John Lockhart. Hauptsturmführer Lockhart will be…”

But Lockhart was no longer listening. Instead, he was looking straight at the flushed and shocked face of Andrew Worstead.

AUGUST 1939

It’s time to leave, time to get out of England, away from this rotten state corrupted by Jews and Commies. It’s time to embrace a new life, a life where they will be free to speak their minds, in a place where their views will be respected. But time is against them and they must hurry. He knows it will be war soon—everybody knows it will be war soon—and as far as he’s concerned, he wants to help fight it somewhere else.