“Quite so! And I must say, the leaflets you sent last week have caused quite a stir in the camp.”

“Oh yes?”

“The prisoners seem to be looking forward to meeting you very much, although I doubt that your reception will be exactly friendly.”

“I didn’t expect to be welcomed with open arms.”

“They will take some convincing. I’m afraid those leaflets have been put to an unexpected use.”

“Really?”

“Apparently the prisoners have tied them together with string and hung them in the latrines.”

Lockhart was delighted, knowing that Pugh, who was following close behind, would have heard every word of their conversation. It seemed appropriate that his crude propaganda should be put to an even cruder end. Lockhart did his best to sound serious.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Herr Major.”

“Ach! Never mind! You know how inventive prisoners can be.”

“Quite. So, has there been any interest at all?”

“We have had two approaches so far—you shall meet them after your address. They’re not exactly the most upstanding members of the prison community, but I would have thought you would be interested in any potential recruits for your unit.”

“Very much so. I’m sure we’ll be able to whip them into shape.”

“I’m sure you will—the SS has quite a reputation for turning men against their true natures.”

Lockhart saw at once the major’s deliberate ambiguity. What did he mean? Was he in some way trying to get Lockhart to open up, to reveal that he wasn’t a real traitor? Or was it just a comment on the renowned brutality of the SS? Act dumb, thought Lockhart, idiot smile.

“I’m sorry, Major, I don’t know what you mean.”

Jüttner laughed.

“Oh Hauptsturmführer, I think you do! But never mind. Here are the cars. You come with me, and your men will go with mine. It’s about a twenty-minute drive and then we shall have some lunch, before you address the prisoners at half past two. You must be hungry, yes?”

“Starving.”

He was indeed starving, but he had no appetite. The thought of speaking to four hundred British POWs—all men and NCOs, brutalized by the toughness of the camp regime—and preaching to them of the rightness of the Nazi cause against the Russians was too much. Jüttner and two of his junior officers had been asking him questions all the way through lunch, and Lockhart had allowed his subconscious to answer. Where was he from in England? Oxford. They had heard of Oxford—a nice town? Very nice, thanks. And what did he study there? Classics. The classics, eh? So you are a very educated man, Mr…. sorry, Hauptsturmführer Lockhart. A little? Come, come—you are too modest! More wine?

The talk was too small, infinitesimal compared to the talk he had to give in a quarter of an hour. Lockhart had knocked back a couple of large glasses of the major’s adequate Riesling, grateful for its calming effect. He wanted to concentrate on Jüttner’s questions, hoping to distract himself, but it was no use. Instead, his mind turned to his lecture. He knew he couldn’t stop now, not when he would shortly be approaching the long climb out of treachery. He would have to invest a bit more before he could get out of debt.