Adams gave him a look. 'Well, it's simple. In the west you've got us, the British Second Army and the Canadian Third, under General Brooke. In the east, the US First and Third under Hodge. We'll skirt the high ground, cutting south of the Weald, and meet up somewhere near Hastings, us coming from the west, the Yanks from the east. A pincer movement, see? With the Nazis cut off from the ports, and the air forces and the Navy already battering them, it will just be a question of mopping up. First one to Hastings gets the beers in.'

'Let's hope it's the Americans then,' Willis said.

'Don't forget to take your malaria pills, Skelland. And don't be late for the briefing.' He ducked out of the tent.

'Yes, Mother,' Dougie said.

'What an exciting time we have ahead of us,' Willis said drily.

'Kursk,' said Dougie Skelland reflectively. 'Now that's the place to be if you want a bit of drama. A million men on each side, a single battlefield bigger than Wales. It's in the east this war will be decided, not in this tin-pot operation.'

Willis said, 'Let's just be glad we can leave that to Uncle Joe, then.' He pulled his boots off with a grunting effort.

4 July

Few of the men in the slit trenches had been able to sleep that night. You could tell from the soft voices in the dark.

As dawn neared, Ernst huddled with Heinz Kieser and Carl Fischer. Heinz smoked obsessively, clutching the cigarettes between the stumps of his ruined fingers, hiding their light with his good hand. They were not far south-east of the First Objective at a place called Shamley Green, on a straight line between Guildford and Horsham. They were in a scrap of forest, and a mild breeze rustled the branches of the trees above them. Everything was dark, with not a scrap of torchlight to give away their positions.

Though it was a summer night, and though they had had the time to line their trenches with bits of wood and corrugated iron, Ernst felt cold, and he was grateful for the warmth of the other men close to him. It had been like this night after night, as they waited for the Allied push.

At about five they were served stew and soup, brought up by runners. The field kitchens were so far behind the lines the stew was always lumpy and cold by the time it got to you. The men ate the stew with their Kommisbrot, hard Army bread, their murmured conversation counterpointed by the clink of tin spoons in bowls.

'Listen to them,' murmured Fischer. 'The men. They fret, you can tell. They know they need to sleep. When the Americans come, who can say when any of us will sleep again?'

'If,' growled Heinz. 'If any of us will sleep again.'

'And they become anxious when sleep does not come. In a way all the inactivity, all the waiting, makes it harder.'

This was Fischer being typically soft about the state of his men's mood. But Ernst knew it was true. There was only so much trench-digging you could do, so many telephone cables you could lay, only so many times you could polish your leather boots and belt.

He looked north-west, to where the Allied armies must be slumbering this night, only a few miles away. The mood could not have been more different from the 1940 invasion, the last time he had been posted to the front line. In the last months, after the Stalingrad disaster and the mounting losses in the east, the Albion garrison had been steadily stripped of men and materiel. Now, who was left to face the Tommies and the Amis? Rear-echelon types like himself, who had spent much of the war on office work in Hastings, second-raters like Fischer, whose softness and sentimentality had blocked any chance of promotion, and eastern-front veterans like Heinz, damaged in body and mind. Them and a few prisoner battalions shipped over from Poland and Czechoslovakia, and whatever conscripts the SS had managed to drum up from the local population – Jugend, most of them, it was said. Second-liners, second-raters, prisoners and kids.

He thought he heard an owl call. He wondered if he might get some sleep tonight.

'Oh,' Fischer said. He was looking up, and orange light bathed his face.

Ernst turned. To the north-west he saw a signal flare, yellow-orange, climb into the sky from beyond the Allied line. The night remained silent. Even the men in the trenches fell quiet, like children watching a firework display.

Ernst asked, 'Another morning concert, do you think?' Just another example of harassing fire, if that was so.

'I don't think so,' Heinz said softly.

Then it started, a noise like thunder that smashed the silence. They all dropped on their bellies. Ernst pressed his face to the dirt and covered his head with his arms.

Birds rose into the sky, great flocks of them, alarmed.

The first shells landed somewhere to Ernst's rear. The ground shook with the impacts, as if huge doors were being slammed. These were high-explosive shells hurled from guns that might be miles away, a bombardment meant to destroy the German defences before a single Allied boot had crossed the First Objective.

It was only seconds since the silence had been broken. The screaming of the wounded began.

In a fragmentary lull, Ernst dared to look up. There was plenty of light now. Through the trees to the north-west the whole sky was in flames, from horizon to horizon. Smoke billowed up, illuminated by the sparking of the great guns themselves, and more signal flares scraped across the sky. It was a sudden dawn, rising hideously on the wrong side of the world.

He twisted. Behind him the neat zigzags and diamonds of the trenches had been broken by fresh pits, neat and round like craters on the moon, and fires were burning. Across this smashed-up landscape he saw engineers trying to reconnect severed wires, and medics struggling to get to the wounded, men buried in the trenches they had dug themselves. And more shells fell, the explosions seeming to burst up out of the ground. Ernst saw men thrown up in the air, men and bits of men, limbs and torsos neatly pulled apart.

A hand grabbed Ernst's shoulder and dragged him back under the cover of the trench's corrugated iron roof – it was Heinz, of course. A shell burst somewhere over Ernst's head, shattering the trees, and wood splinters hammered on the iron. Aiming for the trees was a gunner's tactic; you could kill and maim with shards of wood as well as with hot metal.

'July the fourth,' Heinz yelled through the noise.

'What?'

'July the fourth! Of course the Americans would start their war today. We should have known.'

Another shell screamed close, and they ducked again. And then came a new sound, a whooshing, screaming roar, and machine-gun fire pocked the dirt around the huddling men. It was an aircraft, a ground-attack plane, roaring along the line of the defences. Ernst saw by the light of the fires that the plane had red stars on its wings.

'That's a Shturmovik,' Heinz said. 'By Goebbel's balls, I never thought I'd see one of them again-'

There was a roar of engines, a rusty clatter of tracks.

'They're coming,' Fischer yelled over the din. 'Positions, lads!'

They had trained for this. Ernst grabbed a panzerfaust and rested it against the northern wall of the trench, the weapon raised at his cheek. Heinz was on one side of him, Fischer the other, prepared.

The forest ahead was full of smoke now, a bank of smoke and mist and dirt illuminated by lights. The men in the trenches were already shooting back, with panzerfaust grenades rocketing into the mist and the clatter of small arms fire. Though he could see no vehicles yet, Ernst saw trees felled, just pushed over and crushed under the advance.

Then the first of the tanks burst out of the trees and through the smoke barrier. It was like something mythical, Ernst thought, a monster emerging from the woods, from the cradle of all human fears. He could see something scrawled on its turret, white paint over the camouflage green: REMEMBER PETER'S WELL.