“Ah, ah, not so fast, Hauptsturm-whatever-you-are.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” said Lockhart.

“Am I?”

“Yes. I’m not what you think I am.”

“And what are you then?”

Lockhart sighed. He grabbed the mop handle with both hands, and attempted to push it out of his way. But the man’s grip was very strong.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said the corporal.

“Are you refusing to let me go, Corporal?”

“That depends. I thought we could have a little chat.”

“Oh really?” said Lockhart, raising his eyebrows in feigned amusement. “And what would you like to chat about?”

“I’d like to know—”

Lockhart gave an almighty shove toward the corporal. At first, his effort seemed to have worked, as the corporal was knocked back a few feet. But the man’s reactions were quick, and he took a swing at Lockhart’s stomach with the mop. The handle connected with Lockhart’s ribs, causing him to bend double in agony.

“There,” said the corporal. “Take that, you fucking traitor!”

Lockhart felt the handle smash down on his back. The pain enraged him, and headfirst, like a bull, he charged at the corporal, sending them both flying into the door of a cubicle. The door smashed open, and they fell on the floor at the foot of the lavatory pan, the corporal’s head narrowly missing the rim.

Lockhart now had the advantage. Pinning his assailant to the ground with the mop handle, he forced him down, securing him to the floor. He didn’t want to hurt the corporal, who was now attempting to struggle free with his legs.

“Just listen to me,” said Lockhart in between grunts. “Just stop it for a moment, I’m not going to bloody hurt you!”

The corporal spat in Lockhart’s face. Lockhart didn’t wipe it off, for fear that the corporal would take advantage of Lockhart loosening his grip on the mop. He would have to tell him the truth, whether the man believed him or not.

“Just stop it!” yelled Lockhart, then, under his breath, “I’m not a traitor! I’m not a bloody traitor.”

“Oh yeah? So who are you then? Robin fucking Hood?”

“No, my name’s Lockhart, John Lockhart. I’m a captain—not a German one, but an English one, understand?”

The corporal briefly stopped struggling.

“I’m not some German stooge,” Lockhart continued. “I’m just pretending to be.”

“Bollocks,” said the corporal, groaning under Lockhart’s weight.

Christ, how could he convince him?

“Listen,” said Lockhart, “I’ve got something in my pocket that will prove to you that I’m not a traitor.”

“What?” said the corporal.

“Do you promise not to move if I let go?”

The corporal stared at him from under his huge eyebrows. He nodded slightly. Lockhart released his grip gently, bracing himself for the man to go against his word. He didn’t, so Lockhart stood up, wincing slightly at the pain in his ribs. He reached inside his tunic pocket, and fished out the letter to “Hattie.”

“This letter,” said Lockhart, looking straight into the corporal’s eyes, “it’s vital that it gets to London.”