“Maybe,” Lockhart shrugged. “More likely to be the wine.”

Lockhart was aware of Pugh and Butcher tutting behind him.

“Very well,” said Jüttner with a smile, “but don’t be long—the men are eager to hear you.”

“Well, you know how it is with eager crowds,” said Lockhart. “Keep them waiting—makes them more eager.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” said Jüttner. “You know where it is?”

“It’s just around the back of your admin block, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll see you in a minute.”

Lockhart walked off quickly. He certainly was nervous, but he would be damned if he was going to talk to a mob of British soldiers on a full bladder. Besides, he needed a minute or two to himself, time to collect his thoughts, take a few deep breaths. This was going to be hell, he knew it, but he told himself to think of Nicolas, presumably now dead, but who had died hoping that the man in the next cell would be able to continue what he couldn’t finish. He reached the latrine, a predictably grim wooden affair with a badly tiled floor, six cubicles, and a basic metal urinal. What was not so predictable was the presence of a POW cleaning the floor.

The two men looked at each other. The POW must have been about forty, slightly overweight, and mostly bald except for patches of hair at his temples and remarkably bushy eyebrows. He was leaning on his mop when Lockhart walked in. His uniform indicated that he was a corporal. Lockhart had half a mind to use one of the cubicles, but he refused to be intimidated by the man’s stare.

He walked past the man, stood at the urinal, unbuttoned his flies, and started to urinate. He could feel the corporal’s eyes on the back of his neck. At any moment, he expected a push from behind, but none came. The corporal continued mopping the floor until Lockhart had finished.

As he turned away, Lockhart found the corporal standing right behind him. A little shorter than Lockhart, he was looking at him aggressively, clutching his mop so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“Can I ask you a question?” said the corporal, his accent East End, his tone indicating that Lockhart did not have much choice.

“Certainly,” said Lockhart.

“Are you one of them fucking idiots who thinks we should be fighting against the Russkis?”

“No,” said Lockhart. “No, I’m not.”

“Then why,” said the corporal, his eyes bulging now, “why are you wearing a fucking Kraut uniform then?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Lockhart.

“Oh isn’t it? We know all about you lot, you and your bloody leaflets. You know what we do with them? We wipe our arses on them, that’s what we do, wipe our bleeding arses on them.”

This was getting nowhere, thought Lockhart. He was frustrated that he couldn’t tell this man the truth; he would never believe him. He tried to walk away, but the corporal put his mop handle out in front of him, blocking Lockhart’s exit.