Strasser looked slowly around the table, sizing them up. They mostly looked like scum, useless scum skimmed off the surface. He breathed out theatrically, and pinching his pencil so it stood upright on the table, let his thumb and forefinger slide slowly down it. When they reached the bottom, he lifted the pencil up, and turned the top end down to the table, whereupon he tapped it down again and repeated the process. He did this at least thirty or forty times, the silence only broken by the rhythmic tapping and the occasional nervous cough.

“Right,” Strasser eventually began. “I am Hauptsturmführer Carl Strasser, and I am your officer in charge. You will report directly to me. Is that understood?”

A low murmur went around the table.

“Good. I’d also like you to remember one thing above all else. You are each here because we want you here. That is a great, great privilege. So, if any of you give me a reason, no matter how small, to throw you out, then I’ll do so. You will go straight to a punishment camp, which will not be pleasant at this time of year. You can forget about going back to your original camps. I hardly think your fellow countrymen will welcome you back with big smiles. Is that also understood?”

Another low murmur of assent.

“Good. Now, to business. Oh yes, and another thing—everybody speaks through me. You are effectively back at school. So, hand up if you want to talk. I see from your files that you’ve all been to school, so I’m sure you know how it works.”

The men smiled nervously.

“So,” continued Strasser, “the first thing is the name of the unit. At present you’re to be known as ‘the Legion of Saint George’—any problems with that?”

The men stayed silent.

“Well?” asked Strasser.

A hand went up. It was Butcher’s.

“Yes, Unterscharführer?”

Butcher coughed.

“Some of us feel, Herr Hauptsturmführer, that it sounds a little too…religious. It sounds like we’re a band of nuns tending to the sick.”

Everybody laughed, including Strasser. Butcher looked taken aback at the laughter—he had not intended his comment as a joke. He didn’t look like a natural comedian: his face was thin and sallow, and his eyes were deep-set beneath thick eyebrows. His black hair was greased back, showing a pronounced widow’s peak.

“But surely Saint George is England’s great hero?” asked Strasser. “Surely many Englishmen would rally around him?”

Lee raised his hand. Strasser nodded.

“That’s partly the problem,” Lee began. “You’d only get Englishmen. The Scots, Welsh and Irish would never fight for Saint George.”

Strasser chewed his lip—it was a good point.

“Well then,” he said, “why don’t we call it…the British Legion? That would keep in well with our other foreign legions. After all, we have a French Legion—”