Like him, they had barely slept, and some were already up, checking their weapons. They looked at him in silence, their young faces registering the deep terror that this might be their last morning, that today they might all be swept away. The poor buggers. For a moment, Lockhart felt guilty that he was leading them to their deaths, but he knew that it wasn’t his fault. It was their duty to go to Mittelbau; it was their duty to ensure that their fellow countrymen were not murdered in their millions. And it was his duty to see that these men did theirs.

This was their chance to atone, to make good. Today, they were no longer traitors, but brave men; not yet heroes, but brave all the same. Even if history got it wrong, each of them would face his individual end knowing that he was doing something right. Better a young righteous death than a traitor’s drawn-out seedy shuffling to oblivion, dying in some obscure seaside town in his eighties, always looking over his shoulder, his heart black with shame and guilt.

The men assembled at the truck within ten minutes. Catchpole had lined them up, and Lockhart walked up and down their two small ranks, inspecting them in the cool light of dawn. They were well turned out, even Maclaren. Lockhart said a few words of encouragement to each man, bucking them up, letting them know that he was looking out for them. He preferred to spend a few seconds of intimacy on each man than dole out a general pep talk. It was important, even if they were terrified, that they felt capable, felt that they were being supported. Of course each man was an island, thought Lockhart, but they were connected by causeways, causeways built on mutual support. Those links would be their only chance of survival.

“Right,” said Lockhart, looking at his watch. “I want the truck loaded up in ten minutes. After that, breakfast. We shall be leaving at six o’clock and no later. Malcolm and Nichols—check the truck over. I don’t want us breaking down. Catchpole—you supervise the loading.”

“Yes, sir,” said Catchpole, his voice quavering a little.

By five to six, the men were once more lined up next to the truck.

“Is everything ready, Catchpole?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Have you checked every man’s weapon?”

“Sir!”

“Grenades primed?”

“Sir!”

“The chamber?”

“Sir!”

“Hull?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you to carry a small pack of explosives and fuses, just in case. Never take it off, I repeat, never take it off.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Malcolm?”

“Sir?”

“Is the truck in good order?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Right, let’s get on board. I’ll sit in the front with Malcolm, the rest of you in the back.”

Malcolm dropped the truck’s tailgate, and the men climbed aboard. Catchpole waited until the last had got on, and then turned to Lockhart.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering, sir, whether you wished me to sit in the front. There is room for three and I thought—”