It’s the longest car I have ever seen: a Mercedes-Benz, open-topped so that everyone can see the occupants of the three rows of seats – although there is only one that anyone cares about.

In the back row are two grey-uniformed soldiers, staring warily at the crowd. In front of them, in the middle row, are two more officers. And riding up front next to the driver is the man everyone is cheering. He stands, unsmiling, throwing out his stiff-armed salute to the crowd, who return it, with grins and hoots of joy.

My heart thumps in my chest. He is so familiar to me from countless pictures, and YouTube clips, and movies and TV shows, and yet here he is in front of me, his car coming along the shore straight towards me and Seb.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask Seb again and he nods.

‘Ready, Freddie!’ he says.

The two of us step calmly from the front row and raise our blue plastic guns, ready to go down in history.

Malcolm and Sebastian Bell: the British boys who shot Adolf Hitler with Nerf guns.

Chapter 40

The driver of the big black Mercedes sees us first, before the officers who are seated behind him, and before Hitler, who is looking out, smirking now, at the cheering crowd.

I look at the driver and a puzzled expression crosses his face. The car’s not travelling fast, so he has plenty of time to brake as he gets closer. The sudden slowing of the vehicle causes Hitler to jolt forward, grab the top edge of the windscreen and look crossly first at his driver, and then ahead at me and my brother.

There can’t be many people alive who have seen Adolf Hitler in real life. (I know: you’re probably thinking, Well, neither have you, but it really feels like I have.) He’s shorter than I expected and his face is fleshy and pale. The little square moustache is unmistakable, though, and his cold blue eyes are furious at this interruption to his parade.

The next few moments appear to pass in slow motion.

The driver gesticulates angrily with his arm and barks at us, but I don’t understand a word: they are probably ones that Miss Linton won’t ever teach us. At the same time, two of the officers from the car leap out and start coming towards Seb and me.

‘Now!’ I shout. ‘Fire!’

Together we pull the triggers of our guns, unleashing a volley of orange sponge darts at the man they called the Führer. Our aim is rubbish, though: most of the darts ping off the windscreen of the car, leaving Hitler startled but clearly unharmed. A gasp goes up from the crowd.

‘Look out!’ I yell at Seb. Then, ‘Reload!’