But Strasser was interrupted by the group all starting to speak as one.

“Quiet!” he shouted. “This really is like school! One at a time.”

It was Lee who caught his eye.

“I’m afraid that there already is a British Legion—it’s a veterans’ group from the last war.”

“I see,” said Strasser. “Hardly appropriate. Any other suggestions?”

The room went quiet again, until Marston tentatively put up his hand. He looked like a boy, thought Strasser, with his gawky, slightly mischievous face and large eyes.

“I was reading Signal the other day, and in it I saw that the Danes have an SS legion called the Freikorps Danmark. Couldn’t we call our legion something like that?”

“What? Freikorps Gross Britannien?”

“I was thinking, sir,” replied Marston, “of something like ‘the British Free Corps.’”

Strasser pondered it. There was no doubt, it did sound good.

“What does everyone else think?”

The table nodded, each man looking at the others for guidance.

“Good!” exclaimed Strasser. “Well done, Marston. Subject to higher approval, we’ll go with your name. The British Free Corps it is.”

In the truck on the way back to Rethimno, Lockhart sat in a daze. His hands were tied behind him, which meant that he could not steady himself as the vehicle blundered over the rough Cretan roads. One pothole was so bad that he was tossed onto the floor at the feet of the grinning Fasshauer.

“You might as well stay there!” the German laughed, the two guards joining in.

Lockhart swore under his breath. The metal runners dug into his ribs, the pain magnified by each jolt. It was all he deserved. Every time he shut his eyes, the vision of Manoli’s head disintegrating played in front of him. And now he felt extra guilt for Vangeli and Gregori, who were in the other truck, en route to their graves. He wanted to cry, like he had done when Mother had died, his father’s awkward hands clutching the five-year-old Lockhart’s sniveling face to his chest. But he couldn’t cry, not in front of Fasshauer.