Anna looked more sensational than he could have imagined. When he first saw her, arm in arm with her father, he felt an enormous sense of calm, an instinctive—rather than a merely rational—realization that he was doing the right thing, that this was who he had always wanted to be with. The church, the world felt still, and to him there was no noise, just the sight of her graceful approach. His leg stopped shaking, although he had to force himself to stop worrying about the drop of sweat that he could feel crawling down from his forehead.

By the time she was standing next to him, he felt completely serene. His eyes studied every part of her veiled face, and she was doing the same to him. Every few seconds, an uncharacteristic bashfulness on both their parts meant they both looked away, but it was only for a few seconds. Neither of them really sang “Guide me, O Thou Great Redeemer,” but just mouthed the words, all the time gazing at each other. Anna’s father made up for them, singing both loudly and mostly in tune.

As the train drew into Thorn station, Lockhart noticed that they had a welcoming committee on the platform.

“Looks as though we’ve got the commandant himself,” he said, addressing the men, who were buttoning up their tunics and replacing their caps. Although it was noon, both Worstead and Pugh looked tired, still recovering from the excesses of the previous evening. Butcher looked alert, having shunned the company of his half-Japanese conquest and turned in early. Lockhart, typically, had slept badly, although anxiety at what the afternoon might bring negated any exhaustion. The train drew to a halt, and the men got up, Lockhart putting on his overcoat and his cap. It looked bloody cold outside, judging by the NCOs shuffling their feet and rubbing their gloveless hands.

They stepped out onto the platform. A paunchy middle-aged Wehrmacht major came forward to greet them. He had a pleasant enough face, like that of the typical jolly butcher, thought Lockhart, albeit with a huge graying Prussian moustache.

“Hauptsturmführer Lockhart?”

“That’s right.”

“Major Jüttner at your service.”

Lockhart was relieved to see that Jüttner gave him a normal military salute, and not a Heil Hitler. Lockhart saluted back.

“Thank you, Major,” he said. “And these are Oberscharführers Butcher and Worstead, and Rottenführer Pugh.”

The men saluted the major in turn, Pugh and Butcher showing off their most fanatical Heil Hitlers, as if to make up for the traditional salutes of Lockhart and Jüttner, who was indicating that they should make their way to the cars at the station entrance.

“I must say, Hauptsturmführer Lockhart, I have been looking forward to meeting the legendary members of the British Free Corps.”

“I didn’t realize we were legendary, Herr Major.”

“Oh but you are! It’s quite something when one learns that the British are helping us to fight the Russians.”

Lockhart practiced his idiot smile.

“Well, they are the real enemy.”