When they were done, one of the men actually smiled at him. 'Congratulations, Corporal Wooler. Now please go to table number one, on the stage, for final logging.'

He had to climb up on the stage, still stark naked. Here five small tables labelled one to five sat in a row, each manned by two more scientist types. At table number one, Gary again had to identify himself. The scientists gave him another cursory inspection, before nodding, smiling, and filling in a form replete with ticks.

'So,' Gary said, 'you're going to congratulate me again?'

'We should congratulate your parents, or your grandparents,' one of them said, an older man with a strangulated accent. 'Your cephalic index is seventy-seven. We have classified you as a Pure Nordic type, Corporal.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Look in a mirror one day. Your long head, narrow face, flat forehead, narrow lips, tall, slender body. These are the required characteristics. And all this is backed up by your genealogy, of course, which shows a pure ancestry dating back to the time your forefathers emigrated from England. Why, if not for the present unfortunate circumstances, you would be eligible to apply for the Schutzstaffel itself!' It appeared the scientist was making a joke.

Gary glanced along the row at the other tables. On table five, the furthest from this destination of the Pure Nordics, there was an orderly heap of yellow fabric stars.

Gary was dismissed, and, escorted by a guard, allowed to file back down the length of the hall to retrieve his clothes. But there was a commotion. He looked back to his line. Ben Kamen was at the testing desk. The researchers there seemed agitated; they looked up at Ben and flicked through more files. Then one of them cried out, and stabbed his finger at a photograph. He called, 'Standartenfuhrer Trojan! Standartenfuhrer!' Ben shrank back against Willis, but guards rushed forward and grabbed his skinny arms.

'I'll get you out of this, Hans!' Gary yelled. 'I'll get you out!'

But now the guards came to grab him too. The hall erupted into chaos.

IX

23 September

Gary found out that Ben hadn't been returned to his barracks that night of the processing, or the next. And he learned that 'RuSHA' was the Rasse und Siedlungshauptamt der SS, the SS's Race and Settlement Office.

By the Tuesday of that week, after the Sunday night-Monday morning of the SS processing, something was clearly up. The afternoon shift on the monument was cancelled, and the work kommandos brought home. There was a quick appell on the football field, where the stalag commander told them all they must make themselves as 'presentable as possible in the circumstances'. There was even to be hot water all afternoon in the shower block.

Then as the day ended, around six p.m., the prisoners were called out to another appell, lined up behind their senior officers.

Gary tried to avoid Willis Farjeon, but the RAF man worked his way to him as the ranks formed up. 'Evening, Dunkirk Harrier.'

'What's going on, Willis?'

'Not a clue, old chap.'

'And where's Hans Gheldman?'

'Ah. Don't you mean "Ben? Oh, don't look so shocked. He told me his secrets long ago. We have been close, you know. Well, he's clearly been found out. Jewish, isn't he? That cute little circumcised willy is a bit of a giveaway.'

'I don't know why the SS were looking for him particularly.'

'It is a bit rum, isn't it?' Willis sighed. 'Well, I'll miss him.'

'I ought to rip your fucking head off,' Gary hissed.

Willis blinked. 'Well, that would be your privilege. But I didn't harm him, you know. Oh, I pushed him around. That's my way. But he took it, for that's his way. Surely you know him well enough to see that. Submissive type, our Ben! We both got what we wanted, I think. But none of it matters, you know. None of it got in the way of his relationship with you.'

Gary frowned. 'What do you mean?'

Willis eyed him. 'Oh, come, Corporal. It's you he truly loves, poor Ben. Surely you know!'

Gary, shocked, could think of nothing to say.

The senior officers called them to attention. They were swung around and marched out of the camp, maybe two hundred men, most of the stalag's occupants.

They followed the route Gary was driven every day with his kommando to Richborough and the monument site. But tonight they walked the few miles. Trucks topped and tailed the column, armed troopers sitting in the bodies watching the men, and they were escorted by more guards walking alongside them, both Wehrmacht and SS, some with dogs.

The evening was darkling, and the guards had torches. The air felt fresh, the sky cloudy but dry, and Gary thought he could smell the sea.

Joe Stubbs called out, 'How about a song, lads?'

'Pack it in, Stubbsy.'

'"The Huns were hanged, one by one, parley-vous…'

The Germans near Gary looked anxious.

'That's enough, Stubbs,' said the SBO.

'Oh, come on, sir. "The Huns were hanged, one by one, / Every bloody mother's son, inky stinky Hitler too-'

An SS officer came storming down the line. The marching men stopped in confusion; there were shouts. With a gloved hand the SS man grabbed Stubbs by the hair, dragged him out of the line and made him kneel. He pressed the muzzle of his Luger to Stubbs's temple.

Danny Adams was there immediately. He tried to stand between Stubbs and the German. 'Don't shoot! Schiessen Sie nicht!'

The SS man glared at the SBO. Then he raised his Luger and slammed the butt down on the crown of Stubbs's head. There was a crunch, like the shell of a boiled egg cracking. Stubbs crumpled face forward to the ground. Two Wehrmacht guards, regulars from the camp, hurried forward, picked him up and carried him to one of the trucks.

Adams faced the SS man, his face black. 'After the war, Standartenfuhrer Trojan. Nach dem fucking krieg.'

The SS man just grinned. He wiped the butt of the Luger on the grass, and holstered it. 'As may be. Tonight – no more of this.'

The SBO turned to his men. 'Let's just get through this ruddy business without any more dramas. Form up. Attention!…'

The men, shocked, angry, subdued, marched on into the night.

Gary heard the murmur of the crowd even before they got to Richborough itself. The area inside the old Roman defences was a pool of light, illuminated by searchlights; in the shadows generators chugged. Somewhere off in the glare a band played, some sentimental German waltz.

The prisoners with their escort were marched to one corner of the compound. Other groups had already formed up in the space around the monument; Gary saw units of the Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe and SS, including a group with the distinctive armbands of the Legion of St George, the British element of the SS. There were even formations of the Landwacht and the Hitler Jugend, all standing proudly under Nazi banners. The flag of Albion flew, the cross of Saint George with a swastika roundel at the centre.

The centrepiece of it all was the monument. Only a fraction of it had been completed, but tonight immense Nazi flags had been draped from the scaffolding. Powerful searchlights had been set up in a ring around the base of the four legs, so that their beams made an arch of light in the sky, a dream of the finished monument that might one day exist.

Now more spotlights picked out a limousine, a Rolls Royce, gliding into the compound. SS troopers jogged alongside, automatic arms ready. The band hurriedly switched to an SS marching song. A ripple of excitement passed through the massed ranks.

'Who the fuck?' the British murmured.

An SS officer stood before the stalag prisoners, and began calling names. As they were called, men stepped forward. Gary was shocked to hear his own name called.