A boat-load of soldiers tipped over, leaving the men splashing in the surf, laughing like children.

Claudine laughed too. 'I'll tell you something. You Germans are hopeless on the ocean! All summer I've seen you flounder around like this. Your commanders even seem to be baffled by the tides!'

He shrugged. 'We're not a nation of sea dogs, not like the British. But we have mounted one successful seaborne invasion before, when we took Norway. Why can't we do it again?' He gestured at the Channel. 'It will be an unlucky man who loses his life to that miserable ditch.'

She pulled a face, and he saw age lines around her eyes and mouth, caught by the sun. At twenty-eight, she was five years older than him. 'But that "miserable ditch held back Napoleon. Well, good luck. And if you Germans know so little of the sea, what on earth will you make of England when you get there?'

He snorted. 'We know all we need to know of England. It is a land of plutocrats in fine houses, who leave the defence of the nation to the shambolic old men of the Home Guard, while the working people cower in fear of our parachutists.' He rummaged in his jacket and produced a picture book. 'This bildheft has been given to every man.'

She flicked through the book. It showed pretty little harbours, country houses, romantic ruins. 'How attractive,' she said drily. 'Does England have no factories, then? No major roadways, no big cities? Well, I suppose you're going to find out.' She looked at him. 'But why do you do this, Ernst? Not Germany – you. You are a clever man, I know that much.'

He shrugged. 'I hoped to be a teacher, like you, or a scholar. I studied mathematics, though when I was drafted I was not advanced enough for my skills to be useful to the war effort.'

'But why do you fight?'

'For my father,' Ernst said simply. 'My brother might tell you differently, but he joined the SS. My father fought in the first war. He saw the ruin of the country after the unjust Versailles settlement. And he nursed an old wound that made it impossible for him to work. We were impoverished. He was a proud man, my father. He died bitter. I was pleased when the war came. I fight for my country, for my father.'

'But the soldiers in England have fathers too.' Claudine found one image in the book, of a place called Hastings. It was evidently taken from a postcard; it showed a shingle beach crowded with families. 'I wonder if children will ever play on these beaches again.'

'There is no reason why not,' Ernst said primly. 'Provided that such play does not conflict with the goals of the occupation.'

She laughed again. 'Ah, Ernst. Perhaps it will be mockery that defeats you Germans in the end, not guns.'

They were distracted by a new noise from the sea, a throaty roar. A different sort of boat ripped across the water, running parallel to the shore; jet black and sleek, it created a wake that sent lesser craft bobbing. The men on the beaches whooped and applauded.

Claudine swore softly. 'And what is that?'

Ernst's heart sank. 'It is a schnelleboote. Powered by an aircraft engine. Designed to roar across the Channel and dance up the beaches of England. More noise than performance…'

'It's stopping,' Claudine said. 'Look. Somebody's waving at us!' She waved back.

'And that,' said Ernst, his gloom deepening, 'is my older brother. Who can't leave me alone for one day.'

'Oh, don't be so grumpy. How exciting, a brother in the SS!'

The schnelleboote turned and made for the shore.

And a flight of planes, the bombers and fighters of the Luftwaffe, poured suddenly over their heads, making them duck. It had been going on since the beginning of the month, assaults on English ports and railways and aerodromes and factories, all part of the great softening-up. The planes roared on, wave after wave, a three-dimensional armada that towered thrillingly into the sky.

V

Josef, in the crisp black uniform of the Waffen SS, was nothing but good manners. 'Mademoiselle,' he said correctly, in German. 'How you must illuminate the shadowy life of my stunted brother!' He bowed and kissed Claudine's hand, holding it just a little too long, Ernst thought.

Claudine laughed in her pretty way, laughed with Josef. Of course Ernst knew they were laughing at him. His brother was ten years older than Ernst, that bit taller, that bit better looking; he and Claudine, side by side, looked as if they belonged together much more than Ernst and Claudine ever did.

It made it worse that Josef had turned up with a girl still more stunning than Claudine. Tall, blonde, she too was in uniform, that of an SS-unterscharfuhrer; she carried a small canvas bag. Her name was Julia Fiveash, and she was, surprisingly, English. She was in an SS unit called the Legion of St George, made up of British subjects. She barely seemed to notice Claudine, and she looked at Ernst haughtily. But she made the black SS uniform she wore almost unbearably glamorous.

Josef brought them to a bar near the harbour. They sat in the open air, at a polished table with a pretty lace covering, and Josef ordered coffee and cognac for them all. The servile barkeeper insisted he would take no payment from an officer of the SS; Josef, just as politely, insisted that he would, and handed over crisp mark notes.

When Julia spoke to Ernst her German was crisp and precise, with barely a trace of an English accent. 'Josef is an SS-standartenfuhrer, which I believe corresponds roughly to colonel in the English army,' she said. 'Whereas you, Ernst?'

'I am a gefreiter,' he said uncomfortably. 'A Wehrmacht rank-'

'Different from the SS. Lower than a corporal? But then you are so much younger than Josef, aren't you? One must make allowances, I suppose.'

Josef laughed. 'Even Julia outranks you. She has already risen to unterscharfuhrer.'

Julia said, 'Or as we would say, sergeant. In fact we generally speak English in the Legion…'

The barkeeper brought their drinks; he laid them out as quickly as he could and scuttled away, head averted.

'Of course,' Josef said to Claudine silkily, 'you don't have ranks in your profession, as such, do you?'

That confused Ernst. 'She is a teacher.'

'Ah, but I meant your new profession, my dear.' He reached down and casually lifted up Claudine's skirt.

Claudine did not flinch, or show any fear.

Ernst slapped his brother's hand away. 'Leave her alone. It's not like that.'

'Oh, come, Ernst, don't be naive. All collaborators are whores; it's just a question of the price. I mean, do you really imagine a girl like this would be seen with a man like you if not for the war?' He winked. 'It's not as if you need to spend your money, you know. The SS will soon have their brothels set up. I could get you a pass. Come to that, as we are of good Aryan stock, it would be doing your country a service to spend your seed between the thighs of some busty blonde maiden.'

Julia laughed, blowing out smoke. 'It will be an Aryan paradise when the SS gets things sorted out, will it, Josef?'

'For us it will be, yes, my dear.' He peered at Claudine's complexion disapprovingly, and plucked at a lock of her hair. 'I suppose this one will do for now. I doubt if she will meet the racial criteria. Pity. I wouldn't mind riding her myself.' Ernst grew angry, but before he could speak Josef sipped his coffee, then spat it out on the ground. 'Ach, what is this muck? Made from acorns, is it?' He called more loudly, 'Are you trying to poison us, barkeeper?'

The barkeeper hurried to pour out replacements.

Julia poked Josef's elbow. 'Don't be so cruel to the poor old man.'

'Well, he deserves it. I mean, look around you. I could have been posted to Paris. Boulogne! This must be the arsehole of all France.'

Claudine said evenly, 'And you are the turd that is passing through it, I suppose?'