They’d arrived at another Stalag two months later to find there was no food, shelter or bedding, and after a week, they’d been sent on another march east. But the weather was now more clement and liberation was finally at hand, for the POWs and their captors could hear the growing thunder of the approaching Allied artillery, and although this imbued some spirit into the survivors, they simply didn’t have the energy to celebrate. Freddy could barely put one foot in front of the other, and although Randolph held him up and forced him onwards, he knew he too was suffering, and if they should stumble, they’d never get up.

Three weeks later they were sprawled in a ditch next to what they’d been told was the River Elbe near Lauenburg. Of the eight thousand that had set out, almost a quarter had perished. Now sick and starving, it was doubtful the survivors could walk any further, and they would die where they lay. The German guards were in no better state, and although many of them had just abandoned their duties, some of them were as weak as their prisoners and remained with them. Rumours of the war’s end were rife, but for all of them, the focus was on just staying alive.

Freddy was slipping in and out of consciousness, and Randolph was delirious from fever when there was the sound of heavy gunfire very close by. Freddy blearily forced his eyes open and could hardly believe it when he saw the few German guards being rounded up by a large contingent of British troops.

‘Randy. Randy, wake up,’ he urged, nudging him. ‘Look, look. It really is over. We’re going home.’

Randy mumbled something incoherent as he was overtaken by a fit of terrible shivering, and Freddy slipped back into oblivion.

Lubeck, Germany

Air Commodore Martin Black had never felt so weak and useless, despite the reviving hot tea and thick bully beef sandwich he’d just consumed, and the wonderful news that the war was over, and they were all going home. Determined to help his even weaker wingman, Roger Makepeace, who was suffering from trench foot and diphtheria, he gently hauled him to his feet, shocked at how light he seemed to be.

They’d been together since the start of the war, and would remain together now it was over. Waving away the offer of help from one of their American liberators, he put his arm around Roger’s waist and steadied him. ‘Come on, old chap,’ he muttered. ‘Mustn’t give in now. We’re on our way home to Cliffehaven.’

‘Jolly good,’ mumbled Roger, slumping against him as he tried to walk on his rotting feet, and breathe through the thick phlegm that was filling his lungs.