Nevertheless, Lockhart slept better that evening, his mind having been put partially at rest by the appearance of another bottle of beer with his supper. Fasshauer had seemed pleased with him, and even Dietrich had passed by and inquired after Lockhart’s health in an avuncular way. No, he had no news about his wife, but surely Lockhart knew that German bureaucracy was probably the same as British bureaucracy? Slow, inefficient, unreliable. He would let Lockhart know as soon as he did, and only then would he be “released” back to the andartes.

Lockhart was woken by Fasshauer at seven o’clock the next morning.

“Get up, Lockhart. The oberstleutnant wants you.”

Fasshauer’s tone had reverted to one of menace. Gone was the near-friendliness of yesterday and back was the voice of the torturer. Lockhart eased himself out of bed. Despite his nakedness, Fasshauer continued to observe him closely—perhaps he was going to give out another kicking, or maybe he was a queer.

After Lockhart had put his peasant clothes back on, Fasshauer motioned him out of the room, through the ward and into the raw morning light. Lockhart realized that he hadn’t been out in daylight in three days. The fresh air and light felt good, and it lifted him. They were walking over a parade ground, and to the right he could see the prison block. It looked harmless from the outside and innocent of its cruelties. Lockhart knew this short walk was a valuable opportunity to gather information about the barracks. The only Cretans who had seen this much were dead ones. He started memorizing the layout, the positions of the guards, the number of trucks.

But he had little time to do so. Fasshauer had noticed that he was slowing down, and grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him forward.

“Move it, you asshole.”

Something had riled him. Knowing Fasshauer the little he did, Lockhart suspected he had been deprived of some violent little task. He knew that if Fasshauer had had his way, he would have been exterminated a couple of days ago. Fasshauer plainly thought of himself as being Dietrich’s intellectual superior, and Lockhart could tell that the younger man had to exercise a lot of restraint. Could Fasshauer’s bad mood be good news for him? Was Dietrich really going to allow him to leave?

They were now entering the office block, and they had to wait while a guard checked Fasshauer’s papers. Fasshauer snapped at the young NCO.

“Come on, you fucking idiot, you know who I am.”

“Of course, sir, but I have orders….”

“Yes, yes. Come on, let me through.”

Practically pushing the guard to one side, Fasshauer propelled Lockhart through to a large flagstoned corridor with whitewashed walls. Various NCOs and officers walked past, all saluting Fasshauer with a mixture of fear and curiosity at this strange couple. It must have been unusual to see an officer frogmarching a prisoner without an NCO. Evidently Dietrich wanted Lockhart to have minimal contact with his men.