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officer and a gentleman, that the rumours we heard of an SS massacre of British POWs as the Pas-de-Calais front collapsed, is categorically not true, Sir!”
    “It is categorically not true, Sergeant Hitchman,” Major Wolf instantly replied, unwavering and firm.
    James noticed shrewdly that the younger officer who had read roll call had looked down at his feet, as though embarrassed. The major added, “Waffen SS participation on the battlefield initially caused elements in the Wehrmacht command to register their resentment, to effectively have the panzer formations folded into the army and the divisions absorbed. False complaints of SS military capabilities and conduct were a natural by-product, but ultimately fruitless as the Führer was most delighted with the performance of the Waffen SS, the military bearers of his political will , if you like, and as such, the regular army dissidents in question have been brought to heel.”
    This was met by silence.
    “Are there any other questions?” The major asked, affecting an air of innocence. At least, that’s how it looked to Tommy, who piped up.
    “When are you krauts going to let us go home?”
    Again, with uncanny sensory awareness and speed, Major Wolf’s icy blue eyes found Tommy, fixing on the young man with unwaveringly intensity. “I’m sorry, Private?” he asked softly. Shouting was unnecessary; the only sound heard was faint birdsong from the thin, sickly trees around the camp, their gnarled branches twisting grotesquely in living death.
    Tommy was unrepentant, to say nothing of unfazed. Being under fire in the terrible German onslaught had changed the men; all were hardened, calloused by combat. Stung by defeat, but unbroken. The German sized him up impassively, calmly holding the cockney’s stare with an unwavering cool. Tommy did not drop his gaze. Major Wolf approached him, unhurriedly, the dull thud of the jackboots echoing slightly in the total silence.
    Before the major physically reached Tommy, the British soldier preempted the threats he suspected would surely follow. In for a penny, in for a pound , he thought darkly.
    “I said when are we going to be let home. The war is over, unfortunately .”
    The clip-clop of jackboots continued at the same maddening pace, until Major Wolf reached Private Tommy Watson of the BEF. Despite himself, at close proximity, Tommy began to feel uncomfortable. Wolf was roughly the same height – six feet – but with the jackboots, cap and the impeccably sleek uniform, medals on his chest visible through the open black trench coat, Major Wolf was an undeniably commanding figure. The icy blue eyes weighed him up and down, neutrally. Calmly . That terrible calm .
    “Is it not customary in the British military to address a superior officer by his rank title?” he asked.
    Tommy suspected that punishment would follow. In for a penny …
    “As long as he’s in the military too,” he blurted.
    At that, Wolf smiled; a small, toothy gesture. Perfectly neat, white teeth in a straight row. There was not an element of his personage that wasn’t kept immaculate.
    In the shocked silence, he stepped forwards until he was unnervingly close. When he spoke, it was with the same awful calm.
    “I hold the rank of Sturmbannführer , or ‘Major’, young Private . It applies throughout the SS. I served on active duty in the Waffen-SS; Czecho-Slovakia, and then Poland, where I commanded a panzer battalion, and then once again when we conquered Holland, Luxembourg, Belgium, France and Great Britain in the space of twelve weeks. Now, I have a new role. You will address me as Major, Private, and I will not ask again.”
    Tommy willed himself to hold the major’s gaze, but wilted under their resolute will of steely blue.
    “Private?” Wolf asked.
    “When do we go home, Major Wolf,” Tommy mumbled, looking at the floor.
    “As soon as the Führer deems it appropriate,” the SS officer said with a pleasant smile that did not quite