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was light and dry and burned his tongue.
    It was warm in the bar and the faint odour of stale food and beer was soon drowned in the pungent smell of German tobacco. Peter, his feet on the rail that enclosed the nearly hot stove, felt warm and almost happy. There was a glass of schnapps in his hand – six of its predecessors were already making the blood course warmly through his veins. He was happier than he had been for a long time.
    The policeman was feeling good, too. It had obviously been a great day for him, a day that he would talk of here in the same bar for years to come. He meant to make it an evening worth remembering.
    As he drank with them Peter wondered why they did not lock him up. Was it because they hadn’t a spare room, or did they think he had shot his bolt? Or were they being courteous? He remembered wryly what the people of his village had threatened to do to any German airman that they found. Pitchforks, carving knives and horsewhips flashed through his memory. Would they really have done it? These people gave him food and cigarettes and schnapps. Did the people at home do the same for a German airman?
    The policeman had opened his wallet and was showing him pictures of his infantry platoon in the 1914 War. He was bigger then, and had a big, serious-looking moustache. All the men were serious-looking, as though war were a serious thing in those days. Then he remembered the ancestral pictures on the wall. No, it was not war that had been serious in those days, but photography. He giggled inwardly at the silly joke.
    The policeman also had an Iron Cross in his wallet; he wore the ribbon on his tunic. He was growing maudlin, and repeated over and over again a long explanation. It had something to do with the war. Peter gathered that he considered that the war had been a mistake.
    One by one the foresters said ‘Heil Hitlerl’ took up their shotguns and departed, until there were only the policeman and two of the foresters left with Peter in the bar. One of the foresters was already drunk. He wore a shapeless hat with a tuft of boar bristles pinned to the side, and the buttons of his short green tunic were carved from horn. The other, not so drunk, smoked a pipe with a carved soft bowl which had been burned down at one side by constant lighting. It was past midnight and they had nearly finished the crock of schnapps.
    Through a haze of fatigue and alcohol Peter saw the face of the policeman pressing close to his. The old man’s tunic was unbuttoned showing a grey collarless flannel shirt and braces underneath. In his hand was the notebook. He pointed to the swastika on his tunic, and grabbed Peter by the arm. ‘Nicht hier,’ he said, pointing to the badge, ‘hier!’ and he tapped a forefinger on his chest beneath the tunic. Obviously he was trying to say that it was not the official who wanted the information, but the man. He had written his own name and address at the top of the page, and indicated that he wanted Peter to sign below.
    Peter took the notebook. All that he was allowed to give were his rank, name and number. He thought of Pop Dawson as he wrote: Flight Lieutenant Peter Howard, 1174667, RAF., Captured by the above, 20.12.42.
    He remembered Pop Dawson and was overcome with shame. Here he was sitting with the enemy, drinking schnapps with them. He wasn’t really captured yet. He might still get away. When the escort arrived he would be taken to Frankfurt – the naval type had told him that, also that they were almost on the Dutch border. He would never be nearer England than he was now. He glanced at the policeman who was putting the Iron Cross back into his wallet, at the foresters engaged in fuddled conversation. If he managed to give these chaps the slip, would there be a guard in the street, outside the door? The lavatory was useless as an avenue of escape. He had been there several times during the evening – the window was barred. There were two other doors to the bar, one leading