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reach his eyes. “In the meantime, any problems you gentlemen have settling in to life at St George no.5, please do not hesitate to bring to my attention any problems that you have, through Obersturmführer, or Lieutenant Hoffman, my immediate subordinate here at St George no.5 and the designated liaison officer between you enlisted men of the British Expeditionary Forces here, and the Schutzstaffel officer class.”
    And as he began to briskly stroll back to the gates, he turned, briefly, to address the ranks of men, saluting as he did so. “Good day, gentlemen.”
    Major Wolf turned back, and marched briskly through the gates leading back to the long brick building, which he entered, disappearing from sight. Lieutenant Hoffman, the officer whom had barked out the roll call, resumed the position left by the camp Commandant.
    “Sergeant Hitchman, this company is yours to organise. Lunch-time in the mess.”
    If Hitchman was taken aback, he recovered quickly.
    “All right men. Dis…MISSED! Fall out!”
    The men filed out in orderly fashion. Stanley surmised they were glad of the continuation of military discipline. In tough times, the military order was a comfort in and of itself. It was their salvation after catastrophe.
    Tommy, Brian and James Wilkinson hung back. James Fletcher winked, muttering “fill me in later. I’m hungry.” They filed in just before Stanley, marching off to lunch like some strange training drill, under the still watchful eyes of the SS, and then they sat straight down at a table with Stanley.
    “That’s not wise, Tommy old boy,” Stanley began. With ‘his boys’, he didn’t bother with military rank; he’d enlisted too, after all, and he enjoyed the affection they bestowed on him as the older man. Their collective bond was strong; had to be strong, after the Meuse, retreat, Dunkirk… capitulation.
    “The last thing we need is to start antagonising Jerry while we’re fenced off here in the damned forest.”
    “I was only saying what everyone was thinking, Sarge,” Tommy scowled.
    James raised an eyebrow. “ Aye … maybe there’s a reason no one else said it though? Oh, and uh… nice touch in disrespecting him.”
    “Well someone had to stick up for us, and I didn’t hear your contribution you gormless nancy.”
    “Ah, interesting choice of insult from a London boy.”
    “What?”
    “You soft southern bastard; London is nothing but plague, perverts and chimney sweeps. I’m not gonna be called a coward by Oliver Twist’s retarded uncle.”
    “Yes you bleeding well are, you sheep-shagging scallywag.”
    “ Original Twist, the sequel.”
    The flat, deadpan Yorkshire attitude and dry northern humour was his primary tool against the more headstrong cockney. Naturally sardonic, the northerner is often more than equipped for the verbal spats with their southern counterparts, whose lazy reliance on ‘caveman’ stereotypes often results in a verbal unravelling. Sarcasm is a weapon, and James was the brand of Yorkshireman that had difficulty answering the first question of the day in a serious manner. Tommy, too, came from a close-knit urban community, and carried its traits of easy argument and masculine chest-beating. Something about the debate just appealed to the tribalist nature of an island people with imperialist goals; in lieu of external enemies, fight and hate each other.
    James and Tommy – neither man harbouring any real ill will – both privately enjoyed their silly squabbles, and with the stress of war, had come to rely on the routine for its assuring familiarity. It gave them a semblance of home life, however slight. Being interned had, thus far, done little to change either man or the dynamics of the wider group.
    “Shut up, you northern ponce,” Tommy snapped back.
    “Shandy.”
    “It’s grim up north…”
    James nodded, supremely pokerfaced. “ Shandy .”
    “Pigeons, whippets and coalmines,” Tommy sneered, before reciting, “Yorkshire born,