'What counterattack? General Brooke doesn't have the men, I'll tell you that. If the BEF wasn't locked up in jail on the continent-'

Ben shook his head. 'You know, Johnnie, I've got to know a few soldiers in my time in England, and they're all miserable bastards. But you take the biscuit. Don't the Brits have any chance?'

'Well, maybe one. It all depends on how tough they are.'

'Tough? What do you mean?'

'You got your gas-mask with you?'

XVII

It took until noon before Pevensey Bay was secured, with the railway line crossed at the halt, and the road to Bexhill taken, and the assault groups were at last able to form up, ready to move out. The tide had long since turned, and the barges and motor boats were desperately trying to reach the sea, for they were needed to bring across the second echelon, but they were having trouble finding clear water through the wreckage of boats and the tangles of corpses. The casualty rate must be high, Ernst thought, a quarter, a third of this first wave lost; he was lucky to be alive. But he had been forced to watch many comrades die.

And then, after all that, four hours after Ernst landed, the gas came.

Just one shell was dropped by a Blenheim bomber, onto the beach where Ernst himself had landed. It seemed to detonate harmlessly, causing few casualties. But then the gas spread, and men fell, crying out, clawing at their eyes and their blistering skin. Those officers with experience of the first war knew what this was: mustard gas. Fear spread through the ranks of the men, still massed tight on the beaches. They scrambled for gas-masks, fearing they might have been ruined by immersion in the sea.

But there was only that one plane, that one shell. Perhaps this attack was carried out by a rogue unit, disaffected officers of the RAF. The British did not quite have the inhumanity to use this last resort – or, some said, the courage.

Whatever, the incident served only to enrage the men. Ernst felt it himself.

He was in the group that took Pevensey Castle. The defences here were feeble, and surrendered quickly when a flame tank, a flammenpanzer, forced its way through the west gate. Ernst was one of the first into a garrison that had been built into the ruins of the inner bailey, and he himself took several prisoners.

One small man, dark, in the uniform of the Home Guard, dared to speak to them in German: 'Welcome to England.' Ernst used his rifle-butt to club him to silence.

XVIII

22 September

Around seven a.m. on the Sunday morning, the day after the invasion started, the raids let up for a bit.

The WVS coordinator was a plump, brisk woman of around fifty called Mollie. She practically shoved Mary away. 'Get some rest. You're no use to anybody dead on your feet. I dare say the Jerries will be at it again when you come back.'

So Mary complied. After all, she hadn't slept at all on the Friday night, had worked all Saturday, and had stayed awake that night too.

She picked up her stuff, her rucksack and handbag, the briefcase that she'd taken to slinging around her neck on a bit of string, and she stumbled home, to George's little terraced house in the Old Town. It took her only minutes to get there. It shocked her, actually, how close to home all this destruction and injury and death was. It was as if the whole of the war had focused down on this little bit of England, into her life.

The house itself looked intact. But the front door stuck when she tried to open it, and she had to barge it with her shoulder. She felt the frame splinter as the door gave way. The corridor was dark, and the light didn't turn on when she snapped the switch. Everything was quiet, eerily so after all the commotion outside. The carpets were covered with a patina of plaster dust. For Mary, lacking sleep, it was very odd to be here again. When she'd left on Friday night she hadn't really expected to come back, not for a long while.

She pulled off her gas-mask and rucksack, and dumped the felt hat and green WVS jacket she had been loaned. She made straight for the bathroom. Like the other WVS ladies, with embarrassed averted gazes or sometimes a giggle, she had been relieving herself behind heaps of rubble, in the smashed-up ruins of what had so recently been homes. The toilet flushed, but she could hear the cistern wasn't refilling. She wasn't surprised. Even as the raids continued she had seen teams of workers trying to patch up water mains, gas pipes, electric cables.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was a mask of greasy sweat and soot, her cheeks and forehead smeared where she had rubbed them with the backs of her hands.

Nothing came out of the taps, but the water she had poured out on Friday stood in the sink, covered by a skim of plaster dust. She scraped the dust off with her palm and bent to soak her face. The water stung her hands. She saw that under the dirt she had blisters, burned patches. But the dirt floated off easily, and the cold of the water revived her a bit. She longed for a bath, and to wash her hair properly.

She made her way to the kitchen. More in hope than in expectation she tried the gas ring on the cooker, but that didn't work either. A cup of tea was off the menu, then, unless she built a fire in the living room and used the iron stand. It seemed a lengthy project, getting the coal, finding matches and a bit of paper and kindling, building the fire – she decided she couldn't face it. Anyhow there was some milk, and more scummy water, and she knew there was a bit of bread; she could make a sandwich.

She heard a clatter from the front door, a muffled curse. It was George. She walked back to the hall.

He was experimenting with the door, which wouldn't fit back in its frame. His uniform was dust-smeared and the left knee was torn badly. His face was black with dust and dirt and soot, as hers had been. He glanced at her. 'Thought you'd still be around. The door – can you see, the whole frame is distorted? It'll be a nightmare to get hold of a builder. Bloody Goering. Are you all right? You look done in.'

'No worse than you,' she said defiantly.

'What happened to your hands?' He took her hands and turned them over; his own hands were caked in dirt. 'You need to do something about these blisters. We've got a bit of ointment somewhere.'

'Do you want a cup of tea?'

He followed her back towards the kitchen. 'Is the gas on, then?'

'No. But I was thinking of building a fire.'

He shook his head. 'No time for that. Look, let's just have something quick. I need to get back to work. And you need to get out of here. Out of town, I mean.' In the kitchen he put his helmet and gas-mask on the wooden table, opened a few buttons of his uniform jacket, and washed his hands in the sink.

They began to make a rough breakfast together, glasses of milk, slices of bread with a pale scrape of margarine and elderly cheese.

She said, 'The Germans, I suppose.'

'Well, they've landed at Pevensey and near Bexhill, and to the east between Hastings and Rye. Actually they're all along the south coast. Today they'll be trying to get more troops across, I should think, and supplies, although the bulk of the second echelon will come over tonight. And those already landed will be consolidating.'

'And coming here.'

'That's the best guess. We're supposed to evacuate what's left of the civilian population. Let's see if we can get a bit of news.'

He went off to the parlour, and came back with his home-made wireless in its shoe box. He set it on the table, held up an earpiece scavenged from an old telephone, and began to fiddle with the settings. This home-made crystal set, by some process which non-scientific Mary regarded as a miracle, didn't need any power.