War a Love Story

"Looking at the moon?"

Tom Soames did his best to ignore Michel, his pick-up for that night, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The small room was stuffy after their earlier heated encounter, and he stayed in the chair near his workbench, fiddling with electrical components and contentedly gazing out of the window.

"No, the moon isn't up yet, its still daylight outside." he replied, "I'm just thinking. I have things to do. Plans to make."

"Are you thinking of that girl you had here the other night?"

Tom felt a flash of anger but didn't show it. "Don't be childish. There are other things in life apart from sex."

Michel was wearing just a plain maroon-coloured bath robe. Perching on the edge of the bed he drew his slender legs under him and the sash of the robe loosened to reveal the bare flesh of his thigh. "I was walking a dog. I saw you and I know who it was. It was that girl from the big house. The foreigner. Weak and puny." He spoke in a hushed child-like voice, but he was not a child. He was anything but innocent.

Exasperated, Tom's eyes went to the ceiling. "For goodness sake, can't you think about anything else but buggery?"

Michel pulled the flannel robe more tightly around his thin body, his green eyes sleepy and reticent as he took in his date. He himself was twenty-two and attractive in an off-beat sort of way. His features weren't perfect because his nose was strong and, according to his own warped belief, too big. His teeth weren't perfect either, but right at that moment nothing could convince him that he didn't have a beautiful smile that was disturbingly alluring even when it didn't try to be. "Are we finished for tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think we are." Tom was doing his best not to look at him, keeping his eyes on the landscape outside his window where, when darkness descended, parallel strings of white light would denote the military camp in Foxley Wood. In the dusk of evening they would seem to give off illumination not unlike that of a fairground.

Michel uncurled and bent forward to pick at an unpainted toenail, his eyes fixed on what he's doing while his nakedness beneath the robe remained blatantly on offer. Tom could be frustrating, he remembered, able to deflect unwanted attention with a very real excuse of an urgent assignment. But he shouldn't be in any kind of rush that night. Not after all the trouble he'd gone to chat him up and bring him to the cottage. The atmosphere in that small room had been electric a short while previously, but now there was only one kind of electricity in the air. Tom's fascination with wireless was almost annoying.

"Amateur radio is forbidden." he said in a warning voice, "The police would go loopy if they saw all the stuff you have here."

Tom conjured up a glib smile. "I'm not an amateur, radio is my job. The police may not like it, but I'll have a good excuse ready for them if they get nosy."

"Great." Michel said. When Tom glanced over his shoulder he caught his eyes, held them for just a little too long and then executed a languorous stretch, extending his legs and flexing his feet. He arched his back, displaying parts of his naked body, opening it towards him. He looked back at him from under thick, dark lashes...a killer look, his eyes full of allure and invitation. He shifted position, a series of fluid adjustments that made it impossible not to think of other adjustments his body might make. Without the clothes.

Tom caught the deliberate flash of youthful flesh, the pale recesses of high inner thighs, but he was so preoccupied he did not react as most men would.

Michel was a foxy youth who had avoided conscription by contriving to have no fixed abode, but who had lately been a fixture behind the bar at the Fenman's Rest. It was unnatural to be in the same room and keep his distance. Earlier he had been near enough for him to breathe in the fragrance of his youthfulness, near enough for him to feel the warmth of his naked body crushing against his own, and close enough to know the fierce heat of intimate flesh clutching his rampant manhood as it pierced the depths of him. He made a sound in the back of his throat, and it took all his willpower not to launch himself at the bed again. One final flying dive to placate a belated rise of unrequited lust.

Feeling peeved Michel nodded, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. All closed off now.

After a moment he climbed from the bed and sauntered across to a small dresser. An atmosphere that was intentionally erotic embraced him as he moved. It was pervasive, purposely intended to seduce a man's senses. He unscrewed the top of a green gin bottle and poured out two drinks. "One for the road." he said.

When Tom didn't respond Michel stared at him like a cobra and his voice slowed and became theatrically sleazy. "That girl, the one you had here the other night. She looked like she'd got a nice set. Bet you couldn't wait to get into that one. What was she like? Show you a good time did her? As good as me? Go like a bunny, did she?"

The truth was that evening Tom had given no thought at all to Willy Froehlich; he had been constantly aware and moodily obsessed with the manner of Michel's proximity to adolescence. The tart may have been twenty-two, but he acted like a sixth-former. At times he enjoyed that and it encouraged him to give a lad the results of a painful tumescence, but he'd finished with this one now, he'd got something else on his mind. "Would that be a problem? You know the score. You weren't born yesterday."

"Not hardly," Michel said, "If it makes you feel any better, I've done a lot." He raised his glass in a salute. "God save the King," he proposed.

"Absolutely," Tom agreed without moving in his seat. "And death to all his enemies."

"You'd better get going." he added a moment later. "I'll see you in The Fenman's Rest on Saturday, and maybe afterwards we'll have an all-nighter."

Michel set his empty glass on the cluttered bench and looped his arms around Tom's neck, moulding himself as close as possible to his body. "You've got your motorbike outside. Fancy giving me a lift to the bus-stop?"

Startled, Tom stiffened for a moment, then he observed him with a blank expression, noting Michel's habit of pursing his lips into a girlish pout whenever he wanted to be particularly persuasive.

"Ummm," he said, shrugging him off. "It's only a mile and it's not dark yet. You can walk."

"You're thoughtless and selfish. You're cruel to me."

The faggot was right, thought Tom. He was probably the most selfish and insensitive person one could ever meet, and the idea pleased him. Being insensitive always had the magic to make people worry more about him than themselves.

He raised a telling eyebrow. "Man is made to be a warrior, sweetheart, just as women...and those men not truly manlike are made to please the warrior." He smiled, finding it amusing to twist a quote of Nietzsche so cleverly.

Nevertheless, being clever didn't make him invulnerable. His nostrils quivered as they detected a scent, the faintest hint of a perfume that Michel favoured that was both passionate and feminine. It made him respond in another way, he couldn't deny that, and in a split second he experienced a physical affliction that demanded satisfaction. The front of his slacks began to swell wantonly and he had the familiar desire to grind his hips against the shrewd, lewd bitch near him who had flaunted himself so shamelessly all evening.

Engrossed in his own longings, Michel heard him say almost harshly, "You win, my horny lover, on this occasion at least. Get back on the bed. If you make it good for me a second time I'll give you a ride home."

On his return to Lilac Cottage Tom threw out the gin bottle and put on the kettle to make cocoa. Outside the countryside was silent but for the occasional shriek of a night bird.

When he was not employed in radio monitoring on the coast he spent a lot of time in his little cottage, tinkering with wireless apparatus and making plans. At heart he was still a student, and like all young students he brimmed with impatient ideology and had endlessly discussed with a few trusted people about the need for change in order to make the world a better place. Adolph Hitler's brand of fascism had attracted him. The uneducated masses, he realised, would have to be guided into believing new ideas, which to him meant there may be a need to be made to obey.

He had returned to England just prior to the war intending to join Mosley's British Union of Fascists, but the war had prevented that. Oswald Mosley had been imprisoned and the British fascists had been suppressed. But there was more than one way to strike a blow for the side he favoured. He knew that in Foxley Wood just a couple of miles from his home an entire armoured brigade was assembling prior to being moved abroad.

In his role of an RAF officer he had manufactured a pretext to visit the place once, and had calculated that under the trees there were up to a hundred Cruiser and Infantry tanks with their crews billeted in huts nearby. Everything was in such close proximity that a single heavy bombing strike by the Luftwaffe would cause utter devastation. If they could find it they could blow it off the map.

Tom groaned inwardly. Getting to his feet, he opened the window and took a deep breath.

There was a problem of course. Wasn't there bound to be? Goering, now Deputy Fuhrer as well as overlord of the German airforce, considered his aircraft too vulnerable to risk in daylight attacks and he would only allow them to make their bombing sorties at night when British interceptors found it hard to find them. And the problem was that all targets were completely blacked out during a night raid.

He stared over at the lights now shining in Foxley Wood. Visibility was always a problem for flyers and British air defence was so sharp these days that a raid in daylight was out of the question. But he knew by way of some of his service colleagues that some Germans squadrons were benefiting from a system called Y-Geraet which could guide aircraft onto a target despite darkness or dense cloud.

When he had been in Heidelberg studying radio technology he had heard of the German `Knickebein' programme which used Lorenz radio beams to do that kind of thing. The system was an application of technology that placed a desired target at the apex of two radio cross-beams generated from the continent and guided aircraft onto it. Known as X-Geraet it had worked in raids on Coventry city centre and the Rolls Royce aero-engine factory in Derby, and although Foxley Wood was a much smaller target than a city the newer Y-Geraet would work there too if the precise coordinates were provided.

And Tom Soames had done a lot of work riding around on his motorcycle and he had already calculated those coordinates.

He slapped his hands together graphically. With his help the Luftwaffe could plaster Foxley Wood right on the button.

It was foolhardy to make radio transmissions to the continent, but he only needed to relay a couple of messages with the authority of the recognised codename of Harmony, and he was willing to take that chance. In other respects he was scrupulously careful. He never marked his Ordnance Survey Map, not even with a pin prick. If by some mischance the authorities became suspicious of him and searched his property he didn't wish to have evidence around, and wily intelligence officers always held maps to the light in a search for pin holes.

He pulled a chair in front of the radio set on the table and sat down, switched the apparatus on and waited for it to warm up. He was going to have to use a plus one code, which was schoolboy stuff really: A=B, B=C, etc, but he had no access to anything better, and it would do the job, while the codename, Harmony, would make people sit up and take notice. He put on a pair of ear-phones and his eyes went to the tuning dials as he switched to transmit. Then he began tapping characters on the Morse-key

Willy had no idea just what the young man who lived in the cottage on the other side of the hill was planning, nor could he have prevented him doing as he wished even if he'd wanted to. A dark, frightening anger filled his expression when he thought of Tom Soames these days, banishing the intimacy they had so often shared in the past. There had been no element of love or caring in what had happened between them in Tom's abysmal cottage and self-disgust had left a sour taste in his mouth.

Bitterly he contemplated what he had done and what he should have done. He should have controlled himself. He should have refused him. How could he have allowed the man to use him and make him feel so cheap? `I only want you for your codename.' he had said, as if he wasn't worth knowing, as if he were no more important than a rug on the floor. As if he was contemptible. His estimation of Tom Soames had become deflated to zero and all he hoped was that he would never bother him again.

That evening he was sitting on the bed in Deborah's room while his American friend packed a suitcase. Deborah was off on a journey in the morning and she was gearing up to meet her friends in Liverpool.

"How long will you be away?"

"One, maybe two nights, depends if the boat comes in on time."

"It will be lonely here without you. Mortimer is very sweet but he leaves early each morning and sometimes doesn't return until well into the evening."

"Jimmy and Toby will probably come down at the weekend, they usually do. And Jeremy will pop in too. I'm sure he will. He promised to give Mortimer a private briefing on Foreign Office stuff."

"Pooh," said Willy forcibly. He felt less than impressed. Toby was sweet, but Jimmy had the potential to be a misery. And Jeremy de Vere had barely looked at him since their walk on the hill the previous week, while his manner on occasions was like that of a family doctor; affable, impersonal and just a little out of reach.

Deborah checked her lipstick in the glass of a small silver compact that Mortimer had given her for her birthday and when finally content her expression relaxed. Suddenly she pushed towards Willy a basket full of half-used cosmetics.

"I'm sorting out things to make room for some new stuff coming over from America, and you get to keep all the best items in my old arsenal."

Willy raised his eyebrows at the array of items presented to him. There were things there he had never had the wherewithal to own in the past. "You are giving away such a lot. Are you sure you wish to give it all to me? The lipsticks alone will cost a lot of money."

The American clucked humorously. "Grab it while you can little sister. Some of the girls in town have to make do with beetroot juice glossed over with Vaseline."

She breathed with a sigh. "It ain't like I don't like being in this country, but the war puts a strain on things. One can get used to two ounces of cheese and a weekly egg, but everything else is in short supply too. There's nothing in the shops. No lace, no ribbons, no coffee or sugar, no clothes, no hats... especially no hats. Everything is rationed, rationed, rationed. Gee! When I remember what I left behind in the States I go green."

"But you do not suffer. You have everything that would make a real woman envy you."

Debbie gave her usual devil-may-care laugh. "Self preservation, that's what it is. I've always chosen my men well. Before I hooked up with Mortimer I was the toast of the coast and I did plenty of travelling too. Did New York and `Frisco. Did Rio and the Caribbean. Did Italy..."

"Italy, oh how lovely. There are so many famous works of art in Italy. It is the home of Michelangelo and Botticelli and so many other classical masters."

Deborah eyed his dreamy expression. "Yeah, plenty of statues and stacks of painted ceilings, but personally I prefer dove-white when it comes to interior decoration."

She lay back on the bed, put her hands under her auburn locks and became a little dreamy herself. "Italy was okay despite all those Blackshirts and that Mussolini guy, but the South of France is more my style. The Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo. The casino, the Ville de Cannes, the boats, the yachts. Let me tell you, champagne is overrated, honey. Dom Perignon is rich man's soda pop. Not that I don't drink it when I'm offered, but if I have a choice I'll take a shot of Jack Daniels any day."

The following morning Jeremy de Vere was there to drive everyone in the big black touring car to the railway station in Nuttsford. Mortimer was due to catch his usual train to London, while Debbie would take the first stage on her overland journey to Liverpool.

When she boarded her train Deborah looked radiant. She was wearing a Watteau-style suit in blue velvet with a long, waist-cinched jacket and a flurry of lace at the cuffs and neck. On her head was a matching blue velvet hat, very fetching, pulled slightly over one eye. She said it was pre-war but she'd never had an occasion to wear it because Mortimer had never taken her to Buckingham Palace.

Willy went along essentially to see Debbie off, and on the way back he and Jeremy passed a party of soldiers laden with steel helmets and rifles, moving along the edge of the road engaged in some form of military exercise. Everywhere people went there seemed to be reminders of the hazardous times they lived in.

"I do hope Deborah's friends reach Liverpool safely." murmured Willy, "And I have been thinking maybe Sir Mortimer will take me to London with him one day. There are many good art galleries there and I would like to look around."

Jeremy nodded. "Yes, there are plenty of galleries. It would injure public morale if the government closed them down. But I think you'll find all the best items will have been crated up and taken away to safe hidey-holes."

"Hidey-holes?"

"It's a precaution against them being lost to the bombing. And of course it's a precaution against the Germans. Hitler's henchmen have a habit of carrying off all the best stuff everywhere they go and no one can guarantee they won't come here one day."

"Jimmy Hyde believes this island to too strong for Hitler now."

Jeremy pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "Jimmy as his own opinions and he can say what he likes. No one can say what may happen in the future. Hitler's Directive No. 16... the order for the invasion of the British Isles, was never rescinded, it was only postponed. If he gets everything he desires in Russia before the winter sets in, he may well consolidate his gains and come back to finish us off next year."

"Is there any chance of peace? Hitler is so fully occupied now, he doesn't need the trouble he as with England."

Jeremy grimaced slightly. "That man is aglow with success right now and won't be in a mood to be nice. HM Government certainly take him seriously and precautions were taken some time ago. The nation's treasure... the family jewels as it were, was stowed away in Canada last year. Six hundred and twenty-seven million pounds' worth of gold and 1,250 million pounds' worth of negotiable securities were sent to Montréal and Ottawa, and a warship offloaded 9,000 gold ingots in Nova Scotia."

Tall poplars and horse-chestnut trees towered over them as they motored along, deciduous and evergreen, full of cursives and flourishes, their autumn smell mingling with the petrol fumes. There were no main routes around Brascombe, only minor roads and lanes that snaked between fields and broken woodland, and having gone beyond the soldiers the roads remained completely empty until they met with rural routine.

Suddenly there was a cow herder in the road ahead, motioning them to stop and give way for a milking herd on their way to the byre. As the first of a stately procession of fawn-coloured jerseys nosed their way out of a gate on the herdsman's left, Jeremy swung into the side of the road and stopped.

"It's glorious day for this time of year, mild and sunny. It's much too nice to go straight back. Sir Mortimer's favourite piece of primeval jungle is just across this field. Do you fancy a stroll?"

Willy glanced up at the sky. "It's not sunny at all. It's very cloudy and it may rain."

"You'll look very pretty in the rain." Jeremy said taking him by the arm and helping him from the car.

Willy remained dubious, but once they had climbed over a boundary fence by way of a wooden style he was surprised to find he was enjoying Jeremy's company; it was obvious he told himself, that he was rather an arrogant man, very sure of himself, probably selfish to, even though he had to admit he had charm. All the same he was proving himself a delightful companion now, talking about everything under the sun and doing so in a friendly manner which held no arrogance at all.

They trekked up along the edge of a field that displayed the metal skeletons of agricultural equipment standing idle in fields of stubble corn. The sky was overcast but the day was not windy and Willy could feel warmth on his face. Nothing disturbed the day except the noisy rattle from a murder of crows.

On reaching the woodland on the top of the hill they found a break in some sycamores still dressed with the yellow foliage of autumn. There the sunshine flickered off and on through a thinning canopy of leaves and Jeremy led the way into a tiny open space that seemed like a fairy dell, hidden from the road but open to the sky. "It is a very eerie here." remarked Willy.

"Yes, it is eerie," the man agreed. "One can understand Sir Mortimer's fascination with it. Prehistoric people living simple lives would have found the stillness here awesome. They would have had animal cults and totems in those days. They would have imagined imps and demons living here, and would have terrified their children with stories of such things to prevent them wandering into the vast maze of the forest and becoming lost." he smiled down at Willy. "Does it frighten you?"

Willy gave a little smile back. "It would frighten me if I were alone and in the dark. But it's not dark, and you are with me."

Jeremy studied him with narrow eyes while his hands carefully sculpted Willy's hips. The little Dutch girl wore a dark blue serge dress with a piped pique collar and cuffs and her blond hair was tied back with a blue ribbon. It was a combination he considered gave her an odd sense of allure. Most women he admired looked better out of clothes than in them, but here was an individual who he was sure could play the part either way.

Willy jolted as a hand closed over his wrist. "I'm sorry. Did I startle you?" asked Jeremy.

"Yes, you did a little." Willy replied, looking up in surprise. He felt slightly intimidated by the height and breadth of the man, and he refused to reflect on the fact that he looked even more attractive and compelling than he had the previously. In the countryside he looked all shoulders and muscle and endless legs in his slacks and a sweater.

He tensed, nerves suddenly coming alive as Jeremy pressed against his back and slipped his arms around him. The sudden stirring in his body startled him and cut through the previous promise he had made to himself ruthlessly. It had been a long time since he had felt such a strong sexual attraction to anyone, and he had thought he was long past the stage of being tempted by blind desire. But Jeremy was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder and holding him, and Willy could feel his heart thudding and the smell and bigness of his muscled body capturing all his senses.

Jeremy had strong shoulders and muscular arms and he liked to feel the touch his arms. He felt solid and reliable, and he was sure his physique matched his character. He could depend on him, always. Suddenly Willy felt small and helpless being submerged in his embrace; it made his legs feel weak. What a sexy game they were playing, he thought. It was lovely!

Jeremy caught hold of his hand. "You showed a flair for dancing the night we dined at Brascombe. Would milady care to dance with me now?"

Willy's eyes rolled in mock horror and he laughed. "That's stupid. We are in the countryside, and anyway there is no music."

With a grin Jeremy took hold of both his hands, "You and I can make our own music." he said, whirling him round and taking just enough of Willy's weight with his left arm to make him feel that his feet merely skimming the ground as he followed the steps. His left arm was crooked so that they could dance cheek to cheek, and now and then his lips brushed his face, while his legs and hips moved as if he were making love.

A gallery of curious squirrels in the trees watched them as they skipped and swirled. Jeremy rose on his toes, and then sweeping Willy into the compass of a two-step he first began to hum and then quietly mouth the lyrics to the tune they had danced to when they had first met:

"That certain night... the night we met... it was such a romantic affair. There were angels dining at the Ritz... and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."

Jeremy's voice was all silk and Willy felt as if he were melting. He felt as if he were about to collapse. Jeremy was looking at his mouth and he thought he was certain to kiss him eventually, and he wanted him to. He drew a deep breath, his pulse speeding up just thinking about it.

Yes, he had seen the look on his face, and although his heart begged him to stay just where he was, he tore himself away and took a prudent step backwards.

Jeremy merely smiled. "Don't move. It won't be of the least use, you know. I shall only come after you. If I offered you my heart would you reel back from that too?"

"No." Willy's voice was a whisper. There was no mistaking the look upon his face now. He took another step back and felt a piece of fallen timber against his heels.

Jeremy de Vere was as entranced as Willy. She, this Dutch girl, was irresistible, he thought. He felt his gaze sliding slowly from her eyes to her mouth, to absorb in greedy silence its shape and its beauty. He couldn't stop himself anymore than he could stop breathing. He stepped closer, and a smell of jasmine registered as he inhaled. Then he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hard.

Dimly above his roaring pulse he heard the girl groan as her fingers clenched in his hair. She moaned, moving her hips against him while her arms tightened around his neck.

While kissing him in return Willy became aware of the strength of the man's arms and his lean body, and of the strange weakness brought on by the pressure of his hips against his own. He was no callous youth attempting seduction by force; he was a lusty mature man making known his needs.

"I couldn't resist that." Jeremy said, finally drawing away.

Willy stared back, wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted, while his arms tightened around his neck "I didn't tell you to stop." he answered in a sultry voice. He understood sensuality and its lure. He had long ago become used to the way men admired him, but although some had used his body, very few had captured his heart. Jeremy had succeeded in doing that in amazing short order.

Jeremy's mouth already knew the texture, Willy's texture, but the memory of it wasn't enough. He wanted to know it again. To trace its tender outline, to stroke its soft warmth, to probe the sweet resistance it offered and capture its innermost sweetness. They kissed again, and this time Jeremy plunged swiftly into undefended territory with his tongue. His thighs were hard against his as Willy clung to him, his body welcoming as he stroked his breasts over the soft fabric of his dress, teasing his nipples into hard peaks with the pads of his thumbs. It went on and on, until the dream was gradually replaced by a very real passion.

Suddenly Willy didn't want a fantasy; he wanted a real man, flesh and blood, driven by pure lust and desire. Hard muscle and smooth skin, warm breath and firm touch. He wanted Jeremy.

With his mouth still melded to his own, he fumbled with the man's coat and scarf, until he agreed to remove them. At once he yanked Willy against his body, taking his breath away as he eliminated all space between them. His eyes were dusky with desire and he smiled crookedly when he reached out to caress his cheek with his fingertips.

A sudden aching need twisted inside Willy and he caught himself stopping the words he longed to say. He wanted to tell him how much he wanted him, but he didn't wish him to lie in reply.

Jeremy was kissing his throat and biting his neck while his hands fathomed the contours of his girlish bosom. With his forehead against his muscled chest, Willy inhaled the clean scent of his skin radiating through the crisp, starched fabric of his shirt. When he had been told of Eduard's death he had never believed he could find another man worthy of replacing him in his heart. But perhaps he was wrong. Here was a man who could be worthy. If only he could accept what Willy Froehlich really was, life would be worth living again.

With a flick of his fingers and a wicked smile; he unhooked the man's trousers and unzipped them with tantalising leisure, casually brushing against the hard length hidden behind the fine fabric. But then he felt his hand clamp around his wrist and pull him away.

Jeremy had made a plan of his own and he made a harsh sound in his throat as he searched to unfasten the dress at the nape of the girl's neck.

"It hasn't got buttons or a zip." Willy's voice was breathless. "It goes over my head."

"Never mind about the dress. I want you." Jeremy murmured against his swollen lips. "I want you like men have always wanted a woman. Here, now, at once."

Willy's eyes came to rest on the man's arousal protruding out from his trousers, smooth and hard, a shaft of silky steel, and he knew the sensation of his own body beginning to strain against the constriction of his clothes.

"Jeremy, you mustn't say that. There are things that you don't know about me." He was relieved to hear no tremor in his voice, even though his heart boomed hard enough to rattle his bones.

The man smiled softly as he reached out to cup his breasts and savour the malleability of them beneath the dress. He didn't fumble. His hands were steady. Willy imagined they always were. "Credit me with some intelligence, Willy. I know that you're in the same mould as Deborah Findlay and the fact that you're something similar doesn't disturb me one little bit."

Astounded, Willy gasped. "Am I so obvious?"

"I've known what you are right from the start, but poaching is an ungentlemanly business and I had to be sure Sir Mortimer wasn't popping you. Fortunately he's so infatuated with Deborah I don't think he has an inkling about the kind of person you are, even though he's been around men in frocks for years."

"You know about Sir Mortimer and Deborah?"

"Of course. Everyone knows of Sir Mortimer's curious little habit of choice. Thankfully no one knows about mine yet."

Willy's gaze embraced his erection with a molten look of longing and hunger. He reached out and touched him, hot flesh beneath his fingertips, the foreskin pushed back to expose the rounded tip, dark and rosy. He rimmed a fingertip around it and felt his whole body jerk.

There was no restriction now, no impediment to the result they both yearned for. Reaching under his skirt Willy skimmed off his underwear and thrust himself down over the broad trunk of a fallen tree, skirt up and bottom in the air, lewdly presenting himself like a cat ready to be taken by its tom.

He feels Jeremy's fingers between his shoulder blades, the hands caressing and pushing him farther forward. Jeremy was excited. For him there was something special about viewing a beautiful young man in seamed stockings and suspenders bending over like that. It proved extremely erotic for him. It was wonderful to see a delicate young bottom with such well formed testicles hanging under it, and even if Sir Mortimer had chosen to neglect such a thing, he himself couldn't possibly pass it by. The tension in his groin demanded something else.

His movements were unhurried. He wrapped his fingers around his impatient erection and guided it to Willy's ready entrance, and Willy winced as the essence of desire spiked him deep, impaling him on a lance of fevered longing as it possessed him fully.

He moaned softly...a woman's moan, a supplicating moan. In an action that was irritating carnal torture, Jeremy had slipped into him, expelling a tightly held sigh as he began to move. With his hands gripping his hips Jeremy held him still, controlling his ability to move. There was nothing he could do but submit.

Willy arching against him and writhed as he felt his grip on reality loosen. He moved with him, absorbing every thrust, feeling his world spiral upwards and outwards until his body tensed.

"Oh!" Willy gasped at the girth, winced at the depth it penetrated when it got going, and had to grit his teeth to prevent himself crying out for him to stop tormenting him as he moved against him. His body seemed to have no means of moving itself, it had become completely obedient to his touch, whilst deep inside him the tension continued to grow so that he felt as though at any second it would spill from him and flood out.

Jeremy was working so hard his face had turned a shade of an overripe plum, but suddenly he froze, body taut, his eyes squeezed tightly shut with a soft plea of need. Willy urged him on, carrying him higher until his control shattered and they both found release in a rare and precious moment of exquisite splendour. He felt a fierce clench of muscle inside and a mighty lurch as the liquid of love spilled forth.

"Oh, that's good!" Jeremy grunted. "That's so good!"

Alfred Naujocks went to his Berlin office as he normally did on any day. He had hardly given a thought to Willy Froehlich since the time he had extracted him from the clutches of the Gestapo, because as far as he knew the sweet-arsed little queen was such a soft-hearted, soft-headed pacifist he could be left alone to do what he could amid the jungle of English politics. He certainly didn't worry about extracting him from England if he failed or happened to get into difficulties. The tart was there to do or die.

There was a brief, typed note on his desk when he arrived in his office. It said: `Report to the Admiral immediately.'

He had been told that Admiral Canaris, Director of the Abwehr, the German Intelligence Service, was in Spain offering General Franco Gibraltar in return for some token support of the Axis, but he had obviously been misinformed.

He walked down the corridor to the Admiral's secretariat, straightening his tunic as he went. He sensed an odd look in the secretary's eyes as he announced him on the intercom. The secretary hung up. "Go right in, Herr Oberst."

Naujocks strode through into the big office suit, pulled up in the centre of the floor, clicked his heels and saluted. Like many German men subjected to strict discipline since childhood, he had acquired the habit of bolstering his ego with outward arrogance and stiffness. He believed that any man worthy of the name should be made of steel, and he had behaved accordingly during the war in Poland and France. He had once been a disciple of Colonel-General von Seeckt, who in the days of the Weimar Republic had masterfully orchestrated the rearmament of the German Army in spite of the restrictions imposed on it by the Great Powers. He was dedicated to his country and the Fuehrer and placed obedience to duty above politics.

The Admiral was gazing out of the windows and he didn't turn when Naujocks entered. "You placed an agent in England without my authorisation, colonel."

Naujocks pursed his mouth. As an officer of the SS he resented the possibility of being reprimanded by someone in the Kriegsmarine, no matter how senior he was. "With respect, Admiral, it was simply easier for me to arrange matters through the office of my own chief, Reichsfuhrer Himmler."

When the old man did turn, he sat down at the other side of an antique desk and left his visitor standing. "You damned SS think you're a law unto yourselves, taking short cuts and ignoring procedure. It is the Abwehr, the department you chose to ignore that as received a communication from your agent, Harmony."

Naujocks stiffened, but he refused to be intimidated and even smiled slightly. "Harmony! Oh yes. I put Harmony into England as a disruptive mole to stir up trouble in British politics. I don't know why you are being bothered with him."

"I'm being bothered because your agent as contacted us with coordinates for an important airstrike. What's it all about? If it involves the Luftwaffe I need to be sure of what I'm doing. Is Harmony a trustworthy operative?"

And now Naujocks began to feel slightly discomforted. Even if Canaris was just an old sailor he was an important man and not beyond making trouble for him.

"His brief did not include any form of espionage, but if he came upon something vital he would certainly act on it. He is completely trustworthy."

The right side of the Admiral's face twitched slightly and a shadow passed through his eyes, a shadow and a glimmer, like the rutilant scales of something just below the surface in murky water. "Harmony was given no wireless transmitter. Explain to me his mission and why you didn't give him one."

Naujocks cocked his head on one side as a dog would have done. "Using a radio would make him vulnerable to British DF operators. He would need to move around if he used a transmitter, and the work I gave him required him to remain in one place. It is Germany's misfortune when making war to have to contend with enemies on two fronts, both east and west. In Harmony I saw a possibility of corrupting some politicians and subduing the west with minimal effort. For that he needed to secure himself in one location. But that's not to say he wouldn't gain access to a transmitter if he believed it important enough. He's very resourceful."

For a long moment the Admiral considered what he'd heard. Then one corner of his mouth lifted up. "It's a ridiculous idea. Hitler needs no cockeyed assistance from anyone to achieve his aims. When Russia finally capitulates the British will stand alone once more, and they will either make peace or suffer invasion. They can never raise an army big enough to defeat us in a land war, and if they compel us to occupy their country it will go bad for them."

He shook his head with a touch of sadness. "The Fuehrer calculated they would cave in after the fall of France. He never really wished to make war with them, he thinks of them as Aryan. Most of them anyway. But he's become impatient with their obstinacy and has decided that if Britain is to be occupied Reinhard Heydrich will be installed as the first Reichprotecktor there. And as you know he is a man with no scruples and no sense of humanity."

He gave Naujocks a hard stare. "A directive has already been signed, and if circumstances warrant it he will have the authority to deport the entire male population between the ages of 17 and 45 to the continent as forced labour."

"We could have made better use of your agent in the Abwehr. All our resources are being used elsewhere and we have no active agents in England at the moment other than him. Our intelligence there is months out of date and is getting stale, so we have to take Harmony seriously."

He closed his eyes and said nothing more for a moment, then he lifted his telephone. "Get me Reichsmarschall Goering. He's in Hamburg today."

He sat with the phone to his ear, and it was two or three minutes before he spoke again. Eventually there was a click and a gruff response, and choosing his words carefully the Admiral told Goering of the information he had received... of a large British tank formation mustering near the coast of Essex. He had been given the coordinates for a night bombing run that had every chance of success if the Lorenz directional radio device could be used.

When he had finished he waited, and even from where he stood Naujocks could hear the Reichsmarschall's roar. It was a roar of delight, and as his voice boomed on, Canaris visibly relaxed.

Finally the Admiral put the phone down, slowly and carefully to give himself time to sort out his words. When he looked at Naujocks he smiled thinly and said, "God must be on your side today. Goering is delighted at the prospect of destroying a large concentration of British armour. Glory for his beloved Luftwaffe, you see. Said it would be small beer compared with what's happening in Russia, but he looked forward to giving the British a good slap and wished we had more agents like Harmony.

"He's going to inform the Fuehrer immediately, and he as given permission for a Messerschmitt Bf-110 from Erprobungsgruppe 210 to go over from Calais-Marck and try for some photographs of the place. If they prove satisfactory it will be bombed into oblivion."

The Director of the German Abwehr was no fool, and his eyes indicated that. The natural selection of Nazi political warfare, which forced even intelligent men to watch their backs as well as their fronts, was evident.

He shook his head slowly. "All the same you were a fool to become involved with placing agents, Naujocks. You were irresponsible, and personally I want to have as little to do with this business as possible. If things work out you'll get an Oak Leaf to put on your Knights Cross, but if it turns out to be any kind of fool's errand Goering will be embarrassed, and you will get your knuckles rapped from on high."

"Are you a good Nazi, Naujocks?" he asked, his face pale and lacking in expression. Only his eyes were alive and the energy in them was unsettling.

Naujocks shifted uneasily. "I do my duty, Admiral."

"I hope so." Canaris said. "I hope you do."

The old man was only a tepid National Socialist and for him Nazism was only acceptable as Germany's best defence against the communists. But his personal style and honour as a gentleman rebelled against the brutal gangster-like methods the Nazis employed, and eventually he wasn't always to be so careful for himself has he was that day. Sickened by constant SS and Gestapo excesses and convinced that the Reich Government were all criminals he would plot against Hitler and be found out. His last days would be spent in Flossenburg concentration camp where his execution by slow strangulation would be filmed for the Fuehrer's private gloating.

Everything was back to normal in the morning; Willy went down to breakfast to find Mortimer and Jeremy hidden behind their newspapers, and although he wished them good morning, their detached manner gave him the impression that for them at least life was real, life was in earnest.

All the following day Willy existed in a Wonderland and even with Mortimer around he couldn't stop his gaze from drifting onto Jeremy. No one since Eduard Dietz had given him such affection and such joy. Sometimes he couldn't resist looking over at him and smiling a crooked, impish smile when he remembered their love-making in the wood. Jeremy was a wonderful lover, powerful, strong and dynamic. Sometimes when reaching for things his beautiful, long-fingered hand would brush the gentle upward swell of Willy's bosom, causing a bone-melting rush of sensation. He made Willy Froehlich feel more beautiful than he'd felt for ages.

Following lunch Jeremy revealed that he needed to make some phone calls to his Department at the Foreign Office in London, and Mortimer generously invited him to make free use of his study while he remained with Willy in the drawing room. Willy felt buoyant after the glorious events of the morning, and felt confident enough to tackle Sir Mortimer about the progress he was making with the peace movement. With that he was treading emotional water. Everything was going well, but he was dizzy with dread at knowing how much there was still to accomplish.

The elderly man's response was unfortunately less than good.

"I've been thinking over what you said, Willy." he murmured, while standing at the window and gazing out, "You know, what you said about pursuing a peace arrangement with Hitler. To tell you the truth I'm not at all comfortable with the idea."

For moment Willy was stumped by such an abrupt change of mind, but he thought it best not to stampede the man into an angry explanation. "Why is that?" he asked softly.

Mortimer fidgeted for a moment. "Being with the Foreign Office, Jeremy gets to know a great many useful things. He tells me there are stories coming out from the Russian Embassy and several other places; disturbing reports about the Nazi treatment of people in the areas they've overrun in Eastern Europe."

His eyes glared solidly to emphasis his concern. "We're not talking about just slips in the Geneva Code or the Hague Convention here, but planned, systematic barbarism against civilian populations. Apparently there have already been large scale massacres in the region of Minsk, and such things are bound to be happening in other places too. Hitler as told his Generals of SS that his master plan for the East necessitates the elimination of 30 million Slavs."

After a moment his expression softened. "Of course such stories are unsubstantiated at the moment, but if just some of them are true I tend to think we shouldn't treat with anyone responsible for those kind of atrocities."

Willy wasn't comfortable with what had been said but it didn't change his underlying determination. His eyes flared and his mouth became set, like a schoolgirl who had been given low marks for something.

"Such stories may well be true." he replied, "It must sound insane. War is insane, and genocide is insane, but neither are new. Just forty years ago the Turks all but wiped out the Armenian nation inside their borders and nobody cared a pinch; more recently Stalin decimated his homeland of Georgia by starvation, and the old Russians invented the word `pogrom' to describe their periodic slaughtering of Jews. The German's are imaginative and industrious people who are no more wicked than anyone else, but Herr Hitler is a ruthless man who is charismatic enough to lead them into shame. However, if what he is doing is wrong, this country cannot influence anything he does while it is at war with him. There must be peace before he will even listen to another point of view."

He leaned forward earnestly to press what he'd said. "You do see that, don't you? You must understand that what you are doing now is the only sensible thing to do."

Mortimer remained where he was, not moving except for clenching and unclenching his fists. "But...how can anyone possibly make peace as things are? Churchill's War Cabinet has such a firm grip on everything."

Willy rose to his feet and moved across to stand at his side, a better place for pressing his argument. "You must change things. Consult your friends. You must all join together and find the courage to declare your beliefs. If the ordinary people know there is an alternative to what has been dictated to them they will flock to your cause, and together you can depose Churchill. I am aware of how the British play democracy, and with firm support you could force a Vote of Censure on the warmonger and be rid of him. It's that easy."

"Easy?" Mortimer uttered a cynical chuckle. "Willy, you don't know just how difficult such `easy' things can be in politics. Appeasement and peace-at-any-price are hard things to sell these days and I'm not sure of what I could tell my people that may be new. One must offer them some hope and incentive before they will agree to act."

Willy lowered his voice in conspiratorial fashion. "I must take you into my confidence, Sir Mortimer. I was allowed to leave Holland and come to England only if I agreed to give a message to someone like you. You can tell everyone that Hitler has no hatred for the British and will be generous if they agree to a peace conference. I have that from the highest authority. He will only demand the return of the German colonies mandated to Britain in 1919."

He was quite for a moment, and then he continued. "However, Hitler will not negotiate with the present English government. Winston Churchill and his gang of cronies will have to go. This country will need you and your friends when that happens, Sir Mortimer. After so much death it will value those who put compassion before guns."

Mortimer turned away from the window and went and sat down, and for a moment he remained silent with his fingers merely drumming on the armrests of his chair. Then he looked up. "I will go on. I will continue to try for an end to the war." He looked up and smiled. "I do appreciate you being here, Willy. Without your encouragement I'd quickly give it all up as a hopeless waste of time."

Willy stopped talking, believing he had said enough for the time being. He turned and was about to leave when the door opened and Mrs Whippet entered to address Sir Mortimer.

"Sergeant Dobson wishes to have a word with you, sir." said the stern-faced housekeeper. She squinted at Willy for a few moments; suspicion about him had never left her and was always dominant in her narrow eyes.

There was a heavy trudge of boots and a big, bulky policeman, the proud owner of a hefty ginger moustache strode in. He was buttoned up to the chin in navy-blue with his trouser cuffs fastened back with bicycle clips. Oddly his hair was brown on the top of his head, but became reddish at the sides. He had heavy cheeks and jowls, and his eyes were deep set over a broad fat nose. "What is it, Dobson?" Mortimer demanded churlishly.

The policeman wasn't in the least deflected by an attitude of impatience. "Just a quick word, Sir Mortimer, if you please. I was chatting with Mrs Whippet on the back step a moment ago, and she mentioned you'd got a foreign guest staying here." His eyes flicked sideways towards Willy. "Is this the young lady in question?"

"Yes, Willy is a relation to a friend of mine. I can vouch for her." Mortimer responded.

"I don't doubt that sir. But we've been told to make a check on strangers who've recently moved into the area – a directive straight from government - so could I possibly have a look at the young lady's identity papers?"

Willy made light of the request. "Yes, of course you can. They're in my coat in the hall. I'll go and get them."

When he went out into the hall his cheeks were flushed, his eyes staring. He wasn't feeling light and easy at all. He had an irrational feeling that he was going to be arrested. He felt like a fish with the mesh of a net closing about him. Should he run out of the door? Should he try to find a big city and get lost in the crowd? That was silly, he decided. In wartime people would eventually be found wherever they tried to hide.

When he returned to the study the policeman was saying: "...we get this kind of thing all the time. Folk see German spies dangling on parachutes in their dreams these days, and I've even had a Welshman reported to me because he spoke in a different accent to the local one."

Willy gave him the papers he'd requested and he pulled out a notebook and pencil. "Right. Name: Wilhelmina Naarden. Country of Origin: Holland. Place of Birth: Venlo, in the Province of Limburg. Can't say I've heard of Venlo, but I was never much good at geology."

"You mean geography." Willy blurted out.

"What?" The policeman glowered reproachfully at him, and he recoiled, wishing he hadn't said anything.

"What you said about place names. That's geography. Geology is the study of rocks." he murmured timidly.

The eyes studied him a while longer. "Quite so. I stand corrected. You're quite good with words, aren't you?"

Returning to his notebook he wrote down Willy's immigration number and a few other details, but in careful silence now, and then handed the documents back to him.

"I have to pass this information to the Central Register to be crosschecked, but I don't suppose you'll hear anything more about it. "Thank you, Miss Naarden. Good day, Sir Mortimer."

When he had gone Willy trembled openly. "Policeman make me nervous even when I've done nothing wrong. How long will it take to have my identity checked?"

Mortimer smiled. "Goodness, Willy, you're dealing with bureaucracy now. Hundreds of enquiries like that are being made all the time. It can take days, sometimes weeks to get a reply, but as the sergeant said, you'll probably near no more about it."

The incident had put Willy Froehlich into something of a panic, because although he knew his identity documents were good enough to fool casual scrutiny he didn't know how they would stand up to a closer inspection. Maybe they had once belonged to a real person, or maybe they were false. No one had told him. But if they were exposed as bogus the British were certain to view him an enemy plotting against them and he'd be counted as a spy. And spies were hanged.

He didn't wish to go on the run, and he didn't want to leave before he had Sir Mortimer committed to a peace plan, but he needed to think about his own life too, and he had involved himself in a conspiracy from which there seemed no way out.

Then he had a thought. There was a way to avoid a spy's fate on the gallows; there was a way to ensure safety. He could confess everything to Jeremy and ask for his help. Jeremy was both wise and well connected, and he would give guidance with gentle affection, just as he had done in the wildwood.

On his way to return things to his coat in the hall he unexpectedly came upon Jeremy on his way to the front door. He was wearing a gabardine coat, black homburg and gloves, and he was carrying a briefcase.

Willy felt suddenly confused. "You said you were staying for the weekend. Are you leaving now?"

Jeremy offered a guilty smile. "Oh, er, yes I suppose I am."

Willy listened in stunned silence. He felt disorientated, as if the floor he was standing on had suddenly vanished. He looked at the bag in Jeremy's hand and his legs shook as he realised the implication.

"You where going to leave without even telling me."

"I thought it best not to make a fuss. Something's come up in town, and I have to get back tonight."

Willy could not conceal his shock. He felt raw and frantic. Such cold businesslike words from the only man he had met that could compare favourably with Eduard Dietz, and at the very moment when he needed to be cosseted and reassured.

No! He can't be going, he thought. The denial jangled in his head, but it was no use, there was no softening in the man's gaze. His whole body felt as if it was being drenched in hot tar and feathers.

Jeremy went to the door and then turned back. "I've just spoken on the phone with London, you see. I've been offered an appointment on the Foreign Secretary's personal staff."

"Is that a promotion for you?"

"Yes. Quite a big step up too, and I have to take it now or I'll never be given another chance. Sadly it means my time won't be my own as much as it once was, and it's important to get back at once, y'know, to get my hands on the ropes and acquire the feel of things."

"Will you come here again?"

For a fleeting moment, he caught an expression of pain on the man's face, then it disappeared, to be replaced by his usual detached façade. "Oh, I expect so," he said in a subdued voice, "But I can't promise when. Mr Eden travels abroad a good deal, and I'll be expected to go with him. Every upside as a downside too, I'm afraid."

He clearly felt a little uncomfortable under Willy's frozen gaze, but he kissed him on the cheek, then tried to smile and failed. "Look, I'll call you and let you know about us."

"Fine," Willy answered, watching him return to the door. A sickly feeling invaded him as surely as a form of shock, a physical reaction to an emotional trauma. Jeremy didn't turn back this time, he only paused a moment before saying a blunt and businesslike "Goodnight." which almost sounded like "Goodbye". Which Willy couldn't help but think it was.

"Schwein! Falsch mannchen! Kalt-herzig Uberlaufen!" he raged softly.

"Beg your pardon, Miss Naarden! Was you saying something in Dutch?" a voice nearby asked.

He whirled round to see Mrs Whippet standing in a secluded corner. Her expression was not hostile, just neutral. The forceful woman was seemingly composed of wire and bone and had no difficulty indicating her suspicions with the merest ripple of an eyebrow when it suited her.

"Ja... yes, that's right. I'm allowed to talk in that way when I'm speaking to myself." he replied angrily, and stormed off to find solitude.

With Jeremy gone he knew only misery and felt like breaking into pieces. If only he hadn't succumbed so completely to the man. If only he had settled for a simple kiss in the wildwood and not gone the whole way with him maybe things wouldn't have felt so bad. But he had been putty in his hands and the man had known it. Oh yes he had known it alright, and now little Willy Froehlich was just another feather in his diplomat's cap.

He'd made such a mess of everything that he felt like getting drunk. When he was sure Mrs Whippet wasn't following him he went into the dining room and poured himself a large glass of port wine from the decanter that always stood on the sideboard. It was the strongest stuff he'd ever tasted up to that time, and without pausing to savour any of it he poured the entire measure down his throat in a single motion.

He licked his lips. The result of such a large draught produced an instant impulse to giggle girlishly, but five minutes later he felt terribly ill and had to choke it all back out down the toilet bowl.

By morning he was coming to terms with Jeremy's duplicity and feeling incredulous that he had fallen so hard for his charm. He had been so sure of him, but in the end the wretched man had proved himself to be fickle and no different to so many others he had known in the past.

Get a grip', he told himself, as the English sometimes did. The phrase had convulsed him with mirth when he had first heard it, and he only had to say, gruffly, Get a grip, Willy,' into the mirror to make his solemn face relax into a smile. Now it was a reminder for him to say alert, buck up and fit in.

Toast and well brewed Ceylon tea at breakfast did nothing to cheer him. He was suddenly feeling homesick, hankering after German food, roast goose, which he'd not tasted for years, simple meals of smoked meats and pale tea in fragile small cups. A new dawn heralded a new day, but his melancholy was hardly eased by the arrival of Jimmy Hyde, dressed in khaki and wearing one of the swashbuckling black berets that were unique to Tank Men.

"You haven't brought Toby with you today." Willy observed.

"He's been caught for Duty back at Foxley Wood, but he'll be coming down tomorrow. You look pretty washed out and wretched. Is something troubling you?"

Willy gave a little hump of his shoulders. "Oh, This and That." his voice was dispassionate, remote. "Deborah as gone to Liverpool and Jeremy as returned to London."

"I see. So you're at a bit of a loose end. Can't have you moping about you know, what you need is an outing."

The concern in his voice warmed Willy's heart. "An outing?"

"Yes, we'll go out for the day, just you and I. War is not all patriotic duty."

For a moment Willy hesitated. Jimmy Hyde was a moody man subject to morbid predictions of his own death and not the kind of person for a broken heart to cling to. But the house was quiet when he was alone, leaving him as prey to his thoughts, and there was a core of bitterness in his heart in respect of Jeremy and he was loath to probe. A meaningful day out would do a lot to soothe him, and there was Jimmy standing there as smart as paint in his captains' uniform.

"You are not suffering a bad mood today?"

"Not in the least, I feel as sparky as a pup and I'm not going to let the ambition of some rotten Nazi housepainter spoil things for me."

"I can't think why you should want to spend a day out with me."

Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "Coming from any other girl, I wouldn't believe a word of that, but from you..." his voice became friendly and warm. "Look, I haven't had a day out myself for a long time, and I need a break. Wrap your head in a scarf because you're going to feel some wind in your hair."

Willy seized the chance to go with him. As long as he was in good spirits the man was pleasant enough company, and he needed a distraction. Jimmy had a small open-top motor car with only two seats, and not only did it make a noise like an aeroplane but he drove it along the narrow, hedge-lined country lanes of Essex as if he intended to make it take to the air. Having been warned of what was intended Willy wore the minimum of makeup, just a dusting of ivory eyeshadow to highlight his eyes and a little mascara, and he carefully tied his hair back so it would not be raked by the slipstream.

For someone with the shadow of death hanging over him Jimmy Hyde was strangely adept at planning all kinds of treats that day. Suddenly there was fun to be had in viewing the ruins of an ancient abbey and feeding the ducks in a village pond. And merely eating a sandwich in a country pub was a delicious experience.

In the evening he took Willy to see a film at a cinema in Nuttsford. It featured a man with a broad smile and big teeth called George Formby, who played a ukulele, sang jolly songs and made everyone laugh. Willy laughed along with everyone else, even when he didn't quite understand all the jokes.

Jimmy Hyde found the little laughs infectious, whispers of a giggle that bubbled up from inside her and took on a life of their own, and her charm quickly dispelled his customary dourness. The little Dutch girl was so natural and unspoiled by her beauty, he thought. In his experience beautiful women stayed aloof and wore their looks like a badge of rank, expecting compliments like an officer looks for a salute, but there was no such vanity with Willy. He quickly concluded that the girl didn't have a hard edge on her; she was all woman with a vulnerability that reflected in her liquid blue eyes. And those shining eyes! He could have gazed into those eyes forever.

On their return to Brascombe later they were singing on the top of their voices as they drove along at top speed, and when Jimmy drew up at the side of the house he hovered, wishing very much to say something meaningful at the end of their day, but unable to think of what. He wanted to use words that had never been used before, but he knew that they would have to be words not yet invented.

"Jimmy..." Willy had barely whispered his name, but he must have heard because it certainly registered. His body tensed as if there was something in that one little word that needed an anti-tank gun to repel. Anyway, Willy had a soft pink mouth that seemed to invite kisses more than conversation, and so that's what he did. He kissed him.

Previously they had always been stiff with each other, meticulous and careful during any incidental physical contact... but this time Willy sagged against him, his body trembling, and Jimmy kissed him as tenderly as he'd ever kissed anyone. Willy's lips were cool, as moist as the air, and they tasted of peaches. The girl drew back fractionally, made a little sound. "Oh" and what began as a chaste doting-uncle kiss became something else. It became a lengthy and though kiss, but not at all invasive. No tongues, no groping, no fumbling with clothes. To Captain Hyde the young Dutch girl was an innocent fair maiden, and he himself, it seemed, was determined to be the quintessential English gentleman.

It was slightly different for Willy. He was aware of the issue of male pheromones as the man leaned against him. It was frighteningly seductive, and the taut lean body clothed in khaki was even more seductive. When they drew apart he was utterly lost in the smell and the feel of him and the sensations he called forth so powerfully, but against his will he felt an emotional tug on his heartstrings and determined not to give into temptation himself. It occurred to him that unlike Jeremy de Vere, Jimmy had never realised or even suspected that Wilhelmina Naarden wasn't really female, and he didn't wish for any expressions of disgust from him now. He simply wanted to be cherished in the man's memory as a girl he had once known.

Afterwards they ate a late supper with Sir Mortimer, who seemed glad of their company, and when they joined him in the drawing room the elderly Member of Parliament revealed a prized bottle of malt whisky.

"I'm pleased that you two hit it off today," he said. "With Deborah being away I'm all too aware of what it's like to be lonely." His hand gave a sharp twist to the top of the bottle. "Still, the dear old thing will be back tomorrow with all her American friends in tow, and I dare say we'll have a little party to celebrate when they arrive."

His devotion to the tall, brown-haired athletic American was well known by most people, and his addiction to beautiful transvestites had long ago caused him to be discounted from any recommendation for High Office. But there was no point in crying about it, he had decided, and he accepted that kind of thing these days with an air of nonchalance.

Willy declined the whisky, so Mortimer poured out only two measures. "You could do worse than make a thing of it with this fellow, y'know." he said to him, "Jimmy as a sharp mind and he'll go a long way in the army, just like old Sir Neville. I've always been a disappointment to the rest of the family, you see, and everyone relies on Jimmy to make amends for my own wish to remain a civilian."

As he finished speaking he stopped and paused and his eyes lifted to the ceiling. All three looked up as a faint droning hum began to invade their hearing. It came from outside, high in the night sky.

"Jerries!" murmured Mortimer. He went to the window, hauled down a blackout blind and closed the heavy drapes.

Willy wet his lips nervously with the tip of his tongue. "Are they going to bomb us?"

Mortimer gave him a reassuring glance. "Shouldn't think so, they never have in the past. We'll be safe enough as long as the windows are screened. Mrs Whippet will look after the rest of the house."

The droning of heavy-engined aircraft increased until it became a deafening crescendo, then as the aircraft passed overhead it slowly eased and began to fade away.

"We're lucky," remarked Jimmy, "Some poor townie's somewhere are going to get it hard tonight."

"I love the sound of aircraft. Or rather used to." Mortimer said, reaching for his glass and taking a hefty swig. "The war ruins all kinds of simple pleasures."

He and Jimmy soon became engaged in a discussion about America's dissatisfaction with Japanese conduct in China, the embargos and trade sanctions that had been imposed, and how it could all eventually lead to a hostile confrontation between the two nations. Not wishing to learn anything about yet another possible theatre of war, Willy made his excuses and went to bed.

He dozed lightly enough to hear Sir Mortimer go to his room, and later he awoke more sharply when he became aware of a noise outside on the stairs.

It was a noise like a man makes when having a discussion with himself, and when he went outside to look he saw Jimmy halfway up the steps, clinging to the banister rail, reeling and staggering with uncharacteristic clumsiness, legs not moving properly. He was in trousers and shirtsleeves having lost his jacket somewhere, and he was as drunk as a lord and looking very much the worse for wear.

Willy stared at him, his big blue eyes growing bigger. Dragging him up onto the landing he scolded him like a harridan wife. "You shouldn't have stayed up so late drinking on your own. Mortimer went to bed ages ago."

The man reeled back against the wall and groaned, and Willy then became concerned. "Are you feeling ill?"

Leaning against the doorpost Jimmy's posture was lazy but his eyes were tight on Willy's face. "You don't understand, Willy. You just don't get it."

Willy frowned. "Oh, I think I do. You have a `black dog' mood tonight."

A shadow seemed to pass over the man's face and he stared at Willy while he groped at his already dishevelled hair. "My tank brigade is going away soon, and I think this is it, Willy. This time I'm not going to come back. But I'm not afraid and I'm not going to funk out. I'm bound to Mithras, the soldier's god of Duty. You heard what Uncle Mortimer said, everyone expects me to live up to the tradition of Sir Neville."

At last Willy did understand. Jimmy Hyde's brush with death in France had changed him. He sensed that when he said he was not afraid to die he meant it, and that was the problem. Men who lacked fear refused to recognise danger and exposed themselves to death much too readily, which was just as much a sickness as chickenpox or measles.

"It's your life and you must live it for yourself," Willy whispered urgently. "The way you think is wrong. You must get help."

Jimmy's somewhat severe face mellowed at the obvious sincerity and he stroked back a lock of Willy's hair with one finger. "Dear Willy, you still don't understand, do you? I must live up to that tradition of Sir Neville for myself. It's important to me. It's what I want, even if it means I die."

Willy didn't understand and he didn't want to understand such a foolish way of thinking. "Oh no. Oh please, that's crazy. You must see a doctor. Life is sweet, life can be so sweet. You dwell on things too much. Stop thinking so deep. Everything will be fine if you seek help now."

Jimmy smiled, listening to the girl; he wasn't going to argue with her. She was young and beautiful, an innocent houri from an Arabian dream, and still had much to discover and learn. It was always an odd feeling to know more than anyone else when it came to the subject of his own fate.

Willy put an arm around him and gently but firmly he guided him to his room. The ceiling light was off when they arrived, a warm glow from a table lamp in the corner of the room the only illumination.

The man slumped across the bed and rolled sideways. "I'll be all right in a minute. Leave me."

The front of his shirt burst open and moonlight streamed in through the window, leaving a silver trail on his naked flesh. Willy traced it with his finger, frowning as he found the scar of a former wound, and at that moment he knew he couldn't leave him. Overwhelmed by his feelings, he bent his head and placed his lips against the puckered ridge of skin. Moved by a profound sadness to protect and care for him he wrapped his arms around him, pushing the warm comfort of his breasts against his ribs.

Just at that moment the lonesome drone of a single aeroplane made itself known, and Jimmy tensed. "Luftwaffe. They're above us and circling," he said, "They've probably been told there's an armoured brigade laagered nearby and the fool's are trying to spot a sign of it in the dark."

He didn't know his face was revealing his thoughts, but as he turned his gaze back to Willy his eyes had turned as black as ebony. Suddenly their faces were very close and on impulse he said. "I could easily fall in love with you, Willy."

"That's silly." Willy chaffed, "I mean it. You're not thinking properly. You are tired, emotionally and physically. Don't go on punishing yourself tonight. Go to sleep. You can dream of me as long as they are good dreams, okay?"

Jimmy Hyde made no effort to answer; instead he put his arms around Willy and buried his face against his neck. So delicate and so sweet. His embrace became urgent as his hands slid down from Willy's shoulders to his waist, and then lower to begin circling movements at the base of his spine. Willy shivered involuntarily, loving the touch and knowing what it could lead on to.

His hands caressed the girl's throat and slid beneath the robe to cup the softness there. She was gorgeous, as beautiful as anything he'd ever known. Her soft flesh filled his hand as his thumb caressed the taut peaks.

Enflamed with passion Willy felt Jimmy peel back his nightdress to expose the twin pinnacles of his small breasts, and he shuddered with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, hoping he was beautiful to him, good enough for him.

Hauling him down Jimmy took a nipple in his mouth, his tongue stroking. Until that moment he didn't really know just how little he knew about pleasing a woman. He'd always thought of them as a sort of different species, wonderfully satisfying in bed, but totally alien to his mind. His relationship with the opposite sex had never progressed far enough to make such knowledge important.

He couldn't breath, kissing one breast and then the other. Worlds apart in the way they lived, but together that night, each eager, willing and passionate. He relished it all, knowing she was responding wildly to his touch. She was bubbling radiant energy, and he wanted to take that energy and transform it into passion. His tongue played over her mouth while one hand banded her tiny waist.

Willy began to exhale in a rush. He smiled, but his lack of control appalled him. What kind of message was he sending? Jimmy only had to touch him and he melted, but he didn't know the sort of person he was dealing with. He still believed Willy Naarden was just a pretty girl from Holland, and he didn't want an affair that could only end in horrified rejection. That would be worse than Jeremy leaving him.

Outside the night sky gave birth to the thrumming of aircraft. Not just one now, but many. They were gathering in a multitude and streaming in like ravenous vultures over a carcase.

But events outside held no interest for those indoors. The man's mind could only think of the girl. Her full lips were like an invitation, and the next moment his mouth was pressing gently on hers. Her lips were satin-soft and sweetly yielding. She put an arm around his neck, and as their bodies met in an embrace he felt a shudder of passion run through her. When their long kiss ended she gave a little laugh and murmured. "Willy, I want you."

As he caressed him Willy pulled his shirt wide open and trailed his fingers over his chest, enjoying the feel of firm manly flesh. he tugged at his belt, struggling to get it unbuckled, but having succeeded just a few strokes with his hand raised a tower of male desire. Everything was tense, and Jimmy's manhood didn't disappoint when it stood stiffly to attention like a well drilled soldier. The man moaned almost imperceptibly as a hand took a grip and slid up and down the engorged shaft.

Willy was very heated himself, and he did want to give the man's tortured soul a few moments of sublime happiness before he went away to fight in his war. In the half-light of the room he believed he could at least do that. Slumping forward he pushed back Jimmy's foreskin with his lips and held the moist round tip in his mouth.

When his body was hard and ready Willy shifted, twisting and hitching his leg so he was astride him, facing him.

Jimmy's pulse roared and he reached up for him, but Willy gently laid him back. "Don't move. Let me do this. I'll do everything." Taking the standing flesh in his hand and guided it onto its place, rotating his bottom, relaxing himself before squeezing down onto its tip.

Somewhere in the near distance a bomb exploded, then another and another. That night it seemed the enemy had chosen to destroy completely the little part of Essex in which they lived and the noise and vicious flashes came at them like a thunderstorm spawned by the devil.

Blind and deaf to everything around him, Jimmy made a soft sound of pleasure in his throat; an aching recognition of what was happening to himself, without knowing what was really happening. The whisky he had consumed combined with his state of mind made confusion complete. His senses told him he was in bed with a beautiful girl who was bestowing on him her most intimate and personal favours, and Willy took care not to disturb that illusion by exposing too much of his body.

Once established he found a rhythm, rising and falling, romping up and down while the man lay on his back, cherishing every movement the girl made, returning the passion, thrusting up hard with his hips in heated sexual collusion.

Suddenly the loud noise of aircraft engines descended on them like a howl from hell and a machine made a low pass over the house. Beyond the bedroom window a flare burst red in the sky, spluttering as it floated towards the earth on its parachute. A second followed, both at a distance but glowing bright. The second flare was almost gone when there was an ear-splitting CRUMP! and an enormous, luminous orange flash. For an instant night became day outside and a split second later the bedroom window rattled violently from the bomb blast.

Jimmy's whole body became as taut as a piano wire, and he cried out as he found the magic of release, while Willy's bottom churned and clenched to extract the last drop of his essence.

At last Jimmy Hyde sank back against the pillows, closed his eyes and pulled Willy's pliant body closer to his, enjoying the petal-soft feel of his bare skin against the length of his body. She was so extraordinarily lithe and full of life. The sparkle she displayed when enjoying herself was an antidote to the dark thoughts that so frequently plagued himself.

Amid the air raid he had lost himself in the warm depths of her body, drinking in its sweetness as would a man dying from thirst. It had never been like that with a woman before, so pure and so intense. Their bodies had come together in one incredible passion after another. Yet it wasn't just his body that felt fully sated. His heart was content along with his soul. For the first time in a very long time he felt truly happy.

When he first heard the aircraft in the night sky above Tom Soames stepped out from the back door of his cottage breathing heavily with excitement. He tried to contain things and breathe slowly, but it was only natural to feel elated. He had put so much effort into this moment.

He had seen the twin-engined Luftwaffe reconnaissance aircraft pass overhead in daylight two days previously, necessary because of course Jerry would want before-and-after photographs to estimate the damage done in a full scale raid. Detected by British radar it had only been minutes before a flight of Spitfires scrambled out from North Weald had arrived to chase it off over the sea, but by then it had done its job.

When that had happened he was assured that the people on the other side of the Channel were taking him seriously. And now he was there in person to witness the execution of the plan he had personally designed; it was his own triumphant creation, the destruction of an entire brigade of tanks, his personal contribution to the Fuehrer's contempt for England. Overhead in the night sky a large formation of Junkers Ju 88s were wheeling and swooping onto the target area that the Lorenz beams of Y-Geraet had led them to.

For safety's sake he should have got out of the area of course, but his calculations were so precise he didn't believe there could be any danger to himself, and with eyes hot and hard with the fury of the hunt he wanted to watch.

Bombs soon began crashing and flashing in a great show, like fireworks on New Years Eve, erupting in orange ferocity and strafing the trees just a mile away with shards of scalding metal. He rung his hands together in jubilation at the power he had released.

The arteries in his temples swelled and throbbed, and his nostrils flared. But then after just a few moments he became increasingly exasperated, meshing his jaws together and scowling furiously. Flames snapped and wood popped while great belches of smoke rose up blacker than the night. But the German bombs were falling in entirely the wrong place. They were dropping into the farmland and uninhabited woodland instead of onto the target area he had so diligently specified.

Something had gone wrong, there was no need to emphasis that. Unknown to Tom Soames British radio jamming research had found a way of injecting false ranging signals into the German guidance system with the result that the pilots conducting the raid that night were receiving all sorts of odd information to offset their true position.

At that moment there was an enormous explosion nearby and a hot blast seared his face with the force of a hurricane. The bombing was getting nearer, moving in his direction. A string of explosions was creeping towards him. The air began to reek of fertiliser and cordite mixed with the sweetness of old hay.

Deafened by the explosions and all but blinded by dust and debris he turned and ran towards the cottage... the motorcycle! He could get away on that. No, there wasn't time to kick-start it. Instead he ran back inside the house and slammed the door, aware that each successive detonation was becoming louder and more threatening. His head rolled to one side and he closed his eyes as he pressed his back against the woodwork. His heart was pounding in his neck as he stood without moving, barely breathing. A vicious hot blast blew in the windows and knocked off half the roof above him. There was no escape. Nowhere else to go...what was he to do?

Those poignant urgent thoughts were Tom Soames last considerations on earth. He felt a momentary absence of atmosphere, a vacuum, the fine hairs on the back of his head lifted away from his skin. Then the air shuddered with light and he was no more.

When early morning light began to filter into the room Willy turned on his side and looked at Jimmy Hyde. He was sound asleep and lying on his stomach, the sheets pushed down to his waist. His face was turned towards him and a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead in a way he would never have tolerated if he were awake, and for a second Willy could see the boy in him.

He departed Jimmy's bed quietly, leaving the man still slumbering. Having completed his ablutions he dressed and went down the stairs to find Captain Troughton standing in the drawing room gazing up at the painting of the old man wearing the tropical topi.

"Toby, how nice to see you again." he greeted.

"Nice to see you too, Willy. You look absolutely the ticket this morning, and a damn sight nicer to look at than all the blasted sergeant-majors I've had to deal with lately."

"Do you like the portrait of Sir Neville?"

Captain Troughton glanced up at it again. "The gentleman is a mite Kiplingesque, isn't he? You know; like a character out of Gunga Din."

"Kipling wrote a lot about soldiers, so he must have loved war."

Toby shrugged lightly. "I don't think he did. He admired the courage and comradeship that war can inspire, but his writings about it were invariably tinged with pathos."

"Even such things as that conspire to make war glamorous and a thing for heroes, while they ignore the plight of weeping women and terrified children. Did the bombing cause any damage to your Camp last night?"

Toby shook his head with an expression of secret delight. "Those blighters couldn't hit a barn door with a brick at five paces, but I'm afraid they've ruined Sir Mortimer's little bit of wildwood. They dropped a land-mine and the trees there have been blown to bits. I expect you heard it."

"Yes, it was very loud and frightening. It made the earth move."

He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "I expect Jimmy as told you we're due to move out shortly, the whole cat'n'caboodle of us from down the road. `Fraid this will be the last visit here we make for some time."

Willy nodded. "He did say. Do you know where you go?"

"We haven't been told, and we wouldn't be allowed to say anyway. But judging by the kind of stuff they're giving us I reckon we're likely to have sand in our shoes before long, and it won't be from the beach at Brighton."

"I'm worried about Jimmy."

"You're not alone there. Most fellows that go to war never imagine going to their own death. They always reckon it will be someone else who will catch the bullet and die, never themselves. Jimmy is different. Since that time in France he sees things the other way round."

"You must help him, Toby. You are near to him in spirit and you must use your influence with him. He is not well in his mind, so you must insist with him that he visits a doctor."

Toby frowned and made a helpless gesture with his hands. "I've already tried that, and he won't have it. Says if I mention it again he'll cut me dead forever." A faint look of despair showed on his face. "He means it, Willy, and I couldn't bear that. He and I have been chums since our schooldays, and I love him."

A second later his moustache twitched with delayed embarrassment. "I say, I didn't intend for the words to come out quite like that. It probably sounds awful, doesn't it? Does saying I love him sound strange? Does it sound... erm... suspicious? What I mean is, does it sound a little bit, y'know...odd?"

Willy grasped his hand and held it for a moment, scrutinising him as if he were a Vermeer. Eventually he gave it a reassuring squeeze, a simple expression of friendship. "In the narrow minds of most men to say you love your friend would be unacceptable. But I believe that to love someone, no matter what kind of love it is, can never be a bad thing."

After a further moment he took hold of his hand and tucked it into his elbow. "Come with me. Mrs Whippet will not have expected you to arrive so early, and we must persuade her to arrange an extra place for breakfast."

Captain Troughton pulled a face. "Goodness! Do we really need to face that frightful old dragon? She'll make an awful fuss about the food ration."

"We shall not let you starve," Willy promised, "If we are allowed an egg this morning, you shall have mine."

Together they exited the drawing room on their quest to confront a common foe, Toby Troughton at Willy's side bravely chanting: We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand, Eight undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band.'

At breakfast Willy was pleased to find Jimmy Hyde in a calm frame of mind, calm enough to quiz his friend about the air raid the previous night. "They were undoubtedly trying to bomb the tank brigade," Toby said, "But they missed their mark. They caused considerable devastation, but only to a tract of countryside. As far as I know there were no casualties."

"Apart from the young RAF gentleman who lives in Lilac Cottage," Mrs Whippet couldn't resist putting in, "That poor man's place received a direct hit, nothing much left of the house, or of him."

Willy stirred his tea absently, even though there was neither milk nor sugar in it. Tom Soames was a clever individual, but clearly there had been a mistake, either in the sending of information or the receipt of it, and the mistake had caused his doom. He felt oddly apathetic to the fate of a man who had proved he had never cared for anything born, or anything made, or anything grown. He was more concerned as to why Sir Mortimer hadn't taken his usual place at the table that morning. He asked Mrs Whippet, and the woman gave a grumpy response. "He knows when he wants to eat. He went straight into the Gun Room when he received the mail this morning, and he hasn't come out yet."

When several more minutes had passed Willy left Jimmy and Toby eating toast and marmalade and went in search of him, and as soon as he had gone Mrs Whippet stepped forward a second time.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she murmured in a quiet deferential voice, "May I say something?"

The two men both looked up. "Well, you've grabbed our attention, Mrs Whippet." said Jimmy Hyde "Is it something important? Is it something Sir Mortimer can't deal with?"

The woman offered a slightly smarmy smile. "It's probably not that important, but I feel I need to speak to someone, sir. It's about the young Dutch lady, you see."

"Go on."

"I was talking to Mrs Groves at the Post Office yesterday, and I happened to mention to her that Miss Naarden came through the Refugee Centre at Ramsgate. Mrs Groves remembered something about the place, and she went through the postal information circulars she gets. And well, apparently the Centre in Ramsgate closed in February. It's been shut down for ages."

The woman took a pace back. "There's probably a perfectly good reason for what Miss Naarden said, I expect she's got confused with place names...her being foreign, as it were. But I thought I should tell someone."

"Thank you, Mrs Whippet. We will look into the matter." Jimmy replied, and he and Toby looked gravely at each other.

Willy's mind was tranquil that morning, but a shock greeted him when he entered the Gun Room. He found Mortimer slumped inert in his chair, head bent and leaning on the back of his right hand, his elbow on the desktop. For all intents he seemed like a graven image.

"Is something wrong?"

The elderly man looked up and slowly ran thick fingers through his thinning hair. "There was a heavy raid on Liverpool two nights ago. The area around the docks was severely damaged and there were a lot of casualties."

Willy caught his breath. "Deborah went to Liverpool to meet her friends off the boat from America."

Mortimer nodded. Harrowed and stricken he looked Willy full in the face. "They were all caught in the bombing and killed." His face was gaunt. "I received notification in the post this morning." Immediately his gaze changed to a baffled, dismal expression that held as much understanding of the world as an infant. "Deborah is dead, Willy. What am I supposed to do now?"

For a moment he struggled to keep from bursting into tears. He had not realised how emotional he was until Willy had arrived, but now the weight of tragedy seemed too much for him to bear.

Willy's hands flew to his face as he groped for words that would convey a fraction of his feelings. When he spoke all lightness had gone from his tone and the words were mingled with a sudden feeling of sickness in his stomach. "Oh no! Deborah was my friend. She called me her little sister."

Mortimer grimaced. "She was my wife in all ways possible. I know she wasn't entirely faithful, but her indiscretions were infrequent and I know she loved me. I certainly loved her. Everyone thinks I'm just a depraved old coot who enjoys being with men who wear dresses, but Deborah was the best thing that ever happened to me."

He slapped the top of his desk with an open palm hard enough to send papers flying. "I can't do as you wish any longer Willy. I won't do it." he scowled amid a mixture of grief and accumulating fury. "You are naïve. Hitler as no honour or respect for human life."

He clearly wished to be alone to mourn, but rather than demand Willy leave the room he decided to leave himself. As he brushed past, Willy reiterated his sympathy. "I understand your feelings, and I don't expect you to continue with any peace initiative."

"Peace!" Mortimer's face became near manic and his voice had all the power of a shout, "I can't encourage people to seek peace with a madman such as Hitler. He's something more than a ruthless dictator, he's a monster in human form, and he must be stopped." He paused as he passed through the door, tears brimming in his eyes. "I've been a pacifist all my life, but if the only way to stop him is with guns, then so be it."

Left alone in the room Willy's heart seemed to sink. He had failed in his mission. There was no possible chance now that Sir Mortimer would pursue the policy of a peaceful settlement with Germany. It had all been going so smoothly. He had Sir Mortimer convinced and enthusiastic about the merits of an early agreement. But now in one morning all hope of such a thing had withered like grapes on the vine in unseasonable frosty weather.

Two years previously Eduard had been killed, and then Felix Haushofen had been murdered. Now Deborah was dead, Jeremy had gone, and Jimmy Hyde was going. Every person he had ever had feelings for was being taken from him. Even Sir Mortimer had deserted him, and the war was the cause of it all.

He stood in front of the gun cabinet, and could think of no alternative to what he must do next. The adrenaline in his system was working overtime and tears of rage threatened to spill from his eyes, but he controlled the urge to cry with a steely resolve. He had made a decision.

A small key lay in the lock of the gun cabinet, so there was no problem about swinging open the glass that fronted it. His hands shook. On the lowest tier of the display were hooked a number of hand guns and he pulled one out, selecting it because it looked a little bit like the cowboy six-shooters he'd seen in American movies, which gave him a rough idea of how such things worked.

Exasperated and angry at his failure he scrabbled around in the draw beneath the cabinet, emptying out cartridge boxes until he found some bullets that seemed to fit the five chambers in the revolvers cylinder. Five bullets! Only five, but that gave him five chances to kill Winston Churchill!

There was a sudden clatter of footfalls in the hall and a gruff interchange outside the door. Willy dropped into the chair behind the desk and buried the pistol between his knees.

Jimmy and Toby came in, and Jimmy started towards him. "I'm sorry to startle you," he said, "but I have something to put to you that needs an answer. You see, Toby and I have been chatting with Mrs Whippet. She made some enquiries yesterday and discovered that the Refugee Centre in Ramsgate closed down months ago; everyone fleeing from the continent is processed elsewhere now. That means I have to ask you a few questions, Willy."

It didn't require a wise man to explain to Willy that he was about to become ensnared in a trap of misinformation relayed in his own words. Knowing of no way out from it he sprang to his feet and levelled the gun at arms length, pointing it directly at Jimmy Hyde's chest and using both hands to hold it steady. "Mrs Whippet is a very correct lady and very smart."

The soldier looked at the pistol in astonishment. "What on earth are you doing with that?"

"I'm going to shoot Prime Minister Churchill." Willy replied candidly.

Jimmy took a step forward. "But you have always been opposed to violence."

It was Toby who first noticed the manic look in Willy's eyes, and how his voice was not at all steady. "Careful, old chap. The lass looks rather pent-up and emotional."

Jimmy then noted the wildness in his eyes too. "Yes, you are emotional, aren't you Willy? You're an emotional person always wanting to do the best for people, but although I don't know why you came here, I certainly think it's impossible for you to be an assassin. The instinct for murder isn't in you."

"Are you sure about that, Jimmy Hyde?"

"Fairly sure." he said, taking another pace forward.

There was a slow click, the sound of a revolver being cocked, or the safety catch being released. "Keep back or you'll find out how wrong you are. I have to bring the war to an end. I've tried persuasion and it hasn't worked, so I'm left with no choice."

"I see. And do you know where to find Mr Churchill and how to get to him?"

"I have to find out those things and make a plan. I'm not stupid, I can do it."

Ignoring the impracticalities of any scheme Willy may dream up Jimmy tried a different tack. "If you kill him Halifax or Eden, or someone else will take his place. It will change nothing. The struggle against Hitler will continue."

Tears finally began to form in Willy's eyes and the muzzle of the gun started to tremble, but when he spoke his voice was firm and resolute.

"You're wrong. Things will change. No one else inspires people like Churchill. No one else as the same grip on things that he has, and no one else has the same insane determination to keep on punching each time he's knocked over. Lesser but more reasonable men will seek an honourable end to all the butchery."

Slowly Jimmy kept moving forward. "You picked a good pistol. It doesn't need to be cocked for every shot. It as a double-action mechanism and can be fired faster than a Colt."

He took a final step and pressed his chest against the muzzle of the gun, but his hands remained down by his side, making no attempt to snatch at the weapon. "You're going to have to kill me before you can carry out your plan, Willy. I've been walking in the shadow of death ever since Toby saved my life last year, so maybe you are the one to do the deed. It will be a good test. If you can't kill a volunteer like me you won't be able to kill Churchill."

Willy sighed, letting his breath out as his narrow shoulders sagged forward. Tears at last spilled from his eyes. "I don't wish to kill anyone. I just wished for all the slaughter to stop, but everything has gone wrong."

The pistol drooped in his grip and Jimmy gently lifted it out from his hands and held it at arms length until Toby came up to take it from him and make it safe. Then he leaned forward and pulled Willy close, conscious only that Dutch girl was thin and seemed to be all arms and legs at that moment. Her elfin frame, wracked with sobs felt unbelievably delicate in his arms.

"You've got yourself into a mess, Willy."

"Yes."

"People can be vicious in wartime; you could get into nasty trouble for just thinking the way you do. Toby and I can forget about this nonsense business with the gun and you won't be turned in as a spy, but we shall have to declare you to be an unregistered alien. That will mean you may be interned until the end of hostilities. Can you accept that?"

Willy nodded miserably and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "I'll pack some things now. I'm ready to go at once." Drawing back he offered a wan smile at Jimmy's apprehension. "Don't worry about me trying to escape. I have nowhere to run to anymore."

When Willy had gone from the room, Toby expressed a note of relief. "You played things pretty close to the wind there old friend. This Dean and Adams is a dinosaur of a weapon, but it could still have done you harm." He began to unload the gun and for a moment struggled in ejecting the bullets. "Dash it! It's a .44 calibre, and she's forced the wrong ammunition into it."

"You mean it wouldn't have fired if she'd pulled the trigger?"

"Oh, it would probably have done something. It may have blown her hands off or blown your backbone across the room. Hard to say which."

The police enquiry concerning the identity of Wilhelmina Naarden eventually reached an office in the Central Register for Refugees, where it remained among a batch of similar notes for a week before being moved to a desk for crosschecking. It lay on top of a pile for a further day before a harassed, over worked official inadvertently skimmed it onto the floor with the sleeve of his coat. There it stayed to be trampled on by sundry shoes until the following evening when it was scooped up and stuffed into a waste bin. Nothing else was heard of it.

It made little difference to Willy anyway. On presenting himself at the police station in Nuttsford as an unregistered foreign national he was immediately locked up. Two days later he went before a tribunal, and despite testimonials from two serving officers as to his good character he was adjudged a `Category A' alien and interned.

Some time later, despite Sir Mortimer's loss of interest, a Vote of Censure was placed on the Order Paper in the House of Commons by Sir John Wardlaw-Milne, an influential member of the Conservative Party. It stated:

`That this House, while paying tribute to the heroism and endurance of the Armed Forces of the Crown in circumstances of exceptional difficulty, as no confidence in the central direction of the war.'

It was seconded by Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, and supported by, among others, Mr Hore-Belisha, the former Secretary of State for War, and Lord Winterton, the Father of the House.

It was the way things were done. A Vote of Censure required a full debate, and then a vote to reflect the feelings of all the Members present. A majority vote of No Confidence in this instance would oblige Winston Churchill to stand down as Prime Minister.

All the critics had a chance to make their views known, and in the end Churchill gave his response. He was a war-horse that was in no way humbled. During forty years in politics he had been head of each of the Service Ministries, of the Home Office, the Colonial Office and the Board of Trade, and he had once been Chancellor of the Exchequer. Such wide experience enabled him to pour scorn on ill informed presumptions and lack of martial savvy, and he destroyed each point raised against his administration with measured precision. At one point he duly reminded Mr Hore-Belisha... who had heavily criticised the poor performance of British tanks and their inferior armour protection... that it was he himself as the former Secretary of State for War who had approved the design and manufacture of those tanks.

"We have a National Coalition Government," he ended, "which came together to try and pull the nation out of the sombre plight into which inaction by all political parties over a number of years as landed it. Twice in my lifetime the Teutonic race as disturbed the peace of the world, but we do not make war with races as such. We war against Hitlerite tyranny and we seek to preserve ourselves from destruction. Until that is achieved there is no sacrifice that we will not make, and no lengths in violence to which we will not go. Risks must be run and chances taken, and if sometimes the results fall short of our desire we should still not regret having tried them. "My hope is that when called on by victory to help shape a peaceful world, we shall do it stoutly and show the same poise and temper we do now in these times of mortal peril."

When the House divided, the motion of No Confidence in the leadership was defeated by 475 votes to 25.

Adolph Hitler had been a brave man in his youth and displayed bold if warped ambition in maturity, but egotism compounded by years of success wouldn't allow him to leave the war in Russia in the hands of his generals. He refused to consult them seriously and instead surrounded himself with yes-men, eventually nominating himself as Commander-in-Chief despite having little knowledge of foreign countries and having had no General Staff training.

He had planned for the conquest to be completed during the summer and had that happened he may have achieved his aims, but the start-date had been delayed by a need to assist his Italian ally in the invasion of Greece and the Balkans. The timetable never caught up, and no provision had been made to continue the fight into a winter that was fated to be the worse on record for 140 years.

The very scope of the Germans' advance, the depth of their armoured drives, and the manner they forced the pace threw a great strain on both the men and the machines they were using. Armies needed to be maintained and things needed to be replaced, but that was far from easy. The primitive Russian roads became quagmires in wet weather, and their railways ran on a different gauge of track to the rest of Europe.

Hitler and his sycophant planners had failed to appreciate the vastness of the country they were dealing with, and they had also underestimated the Soviet Unions ability to absorb massive casualties and replace them. German armoured units once came within twenty miles of Moscow, but that was as close as they ever got.

After a short spell at a converted former Holiday Camp at Clacton, Willy Froehlich found himself on the Isle of Man, a place in the Irish Sea midway between England and the Irish coast. The Churchill government took no risks when it came to the possibility of having a filth column develop in their midst and several thousand internees lived there, most of them entirely innocent of any pro-German activity but considered suspect because of their inconvenient German or Italian family background.

Like many others he found himself sharing an existing property in Port St Mary on the south side of the island. It was a women's camp. The regulations there were strict and rather cruel; the married women were only allowed to meet their husbands for a few hours each month, and no provision was made for the continuance of sexual relationships. But for Willy it was bearable. He lived quietly as a female but neither sought lovers nor paid attention to anyone's desire to know him intimately. The accommodation was mostly requisitioned boarding houses and hotels and internees were given the same scale of food ration as everyone else in the population. The only real problem was how to fill in great stretches of time.

Willy ached. He was sad and angry, but that was all kept beneath a convincing show of serenity. He learnt to read the English language to benefit from the books that were passed around, and when needing a rest from that he spent time in long academic discussions with retired professional people or scrounged artist's materials in order to take up creative work.

He had arrived there as an angry and unhappy person, but over the weeks the anger departed and his sadness lifted. The war, its cruelty and inhumanity and its futility, he dismissed from his thoughts, and although there remained a certain mantle of melancholy over him, it became subdued and in time began to let through glimpses of his gentle and sensitive nature. He never lost hope for better times. Hope like his arms and legs, was a structure of his body.

He'd been there some while when he received a brief note from Toby Troughton: `Dear Willy, You were a good friend to Jimmy Hyde when we were in England. He spoke about you a lot and I think he was a little bit in love with you, so I think you should be told that dear old Jimmy is dead. We had a sharp scrap with some Panzers a couple of days ago and his tank was hit. When I had the chance I tried to pull him out from the hatch again like I did that time in France, but he'd copped it outright on this occasion.

We buried everyone together the following morning, all the bits we could find. Jerrie's and Brits all in one hole; no time to do anything else. It was strange the way all the bodies looked much the same. Brothers, but only in death! You and I knew what was going to happen to Jimmy one day; the silly beggar knew it himself but refused to quit. God Bless him. He was my best friend and I'm fairly cut-up about it. Hope you don't mind me sharing my grief with you.'

Willy folded the letter and placed it between the pages of the book he was reading. As a bookmark he knew he would keep it for a long time.

Early in 1942 his Category was reduced to B' when Sir Mortimer Brascombe MP took up his case and offered to stand as a guarantor. A B' category meant he was not libel to internment and was allowed to live once more on the mainland, but he was still subject to restriction. He was not allowed to travel more than five miles from his place of residence and he was forbidden to own a car, a camera or a large scale map.

Willy was met at the railway station in Nuttsford by Sir Mortimer driving the Daimler tourer. There was a brief peck on the cheek for him, and then Mortimer drove home at his best speed, which was slow, and by his own route, which was a very narrow country lane he could easily follow.

"You are looking very well." Willy told him.

"There are three stages in life," the man remarked cynically, "Youth, middle-age and `You're looking very well.'" He gave a brief glance sideways. "Do you know about Jimmy?"

"Yes, Toby wrote to me."

"Bad business! His family are mortified. Jeremy de Vere travels a lot these days and he's rarely in England. He's in Cairo now someone told me, but he doesn't keep in touch."

"No, he's not one to keep in touch."

Mortimer gave him a guilty look. "I'm sorry I've ignored you for so long, Willy. It took me quite some time to accept the lose of Deborah and I've not been good at concentrating on other things. I hope you'll stay with me for a while. The house feels empty these days and I badly need the comfort of a friend."

"When you lose someone you love deeply it comes as a heavy blow." commiserated Willy solemnly, "I've suffered that experience myself, so I know. But the dance of life goes on. Deborah would not wish for you to be sad. She would want you to fall in love again."

"Love is a game for young people," Mortimer said in a tone that was obstinate and final, "From now on I intend to stick with growing cabbages in my spare time."

"Spare time!" murmured Willy glumly, "I've had too much of spare time lately. You have shown great kindness in bringing me back to the mainland but I will not be a millstone round your neck, as the English say. I will make arrangements to move as soon as I am able."

"Willy, I know you to be slight in body, but you're sometimes amazingly strong in your mind, and I know how independent you wish to be. But for once put yourself first. You need a break. You need time to relax and reflect, to pick up the threads of your life and weave them into a new pattern. You need breathing space! I want to give you that space and I shall feel hurt if you refuse."

They ended the journey in silence. A mournful, aging man and a failed spy, shell-shocked by events in their lives, raped by their emotions and stripped of any desire.

They had known one common theme; love, and it was their salvation. For although the human heart is selfish, they had learnt that a person may struggle against selfishness and learn humility; and because of that there was always hope that beauty lost can be recovered, and that which as been reviled can be redeemed. And perhaps because of their enduring appreciation of love they had found their redemption, and also some kind of personal peace.

At a further tribunal later that month Willy was discharged as `Category C', and fully liberated from the obligations of an internee, and at Sir Mortimer's behest the Ministry of Labour sent an official to help decide if he should be allowed a Work Permit.

The housekeeper, Mrs Whippet, regarded him without malice on his return and was in no way triumphant at his recent downfall. Having had her suspicions justified and, in her eyes, seen justice done, she became inoffensive and even helpful on occasions. Following a brief exchange between the two of them, it was she who brought to Sir Mortimer's notice that, while `the girl' had no great objection to being gainfully employed, her most fervent desire was to complete her university degree course. Sir Mortimer at once took on the father-figure role that had once been the province of Felix Haushofer and enquired on Willy's behalf for a place at Morden College in Oxford, a seat of learning that had catered for female students since 1908.

It was while they were awaiting a reply from Oxford that Dame Freda Lemming arrived at Brascombe Manor driving a 1936 baby Austin. She was the leading doyen of the Women's Voluntary Service in the area; a skinny, brisk, officious and rather snooty woman who expected events to revolve around the wave of her finger.

When Mortimer asked her to take tea she sat down rigidly in the uniform of her organisation; a grey-green outfit garnished with a ruby-red jumper and a felt hat. The WVS in Sir Mortimer's constituency had blossomed out of the Women's Institute, and some of the more caustic English referred to it as Widows, Virgins and Spinsters. Dame Freda was a perfect representative. Her white hair was cut into a kind of pageboy, with a fringe of bangs falling into a line so straight Willy thought they must have been trimmed with a ruler. The face under the hair might well have once been pretty, but the features were now lost in a mash of wrinkled skin. Mortimer joked afterwards that meeting her on a dark night would scare most Nazis to death.

"The Ministry of Defence are converting part of the disused army camp in Foxley Wood into a prisoner-of-war enclosure." declared the visitor. "Nothing to worry about we are assured, just a hundred men recovering from severe wounds who are unlikely to leap over the fences to murder us."

She stirred her tea and took a dainty sip, patting her mouth afterwards with a napkin. "They have asked me if I can initiate some recreational facility for them, a reading room perhaps. They are allowed no newspapers or radios, since its government policy not to allow them to know how the war progresses, but they are allowed books and magazines of a censored nature."

The old lady looked pointedly at Willy. She was rich and pampered, but she had given herself to the WVS as a patriotic sacrifice and she perched in her chair so stiff and ramrod straight he suspected that beneath her uniform she was corseted in impenetrable armour-plate from breast to groin.

"My ladies of the WVS are all good souls and have no wish to withhold small comforts even from vile Germans," she pushed her lips together and wrinkled her nose. "But I want to forestall problems that may arise through lack of communication, and I believe Miss Naarden has some understanding of their language."

Her eyes bored into Willy, her fingers now laced in her lap, her long fingernails flawlessly manicured and painted deep red. "How would you feel about dealing with the enemy, Miss Naarden? You don't have any overwhelming prejudice against Germans, do you?"

Willy seesawed his head. He pictured young men with bandaged eyes, and envisioned amputees struggling to get around on crutches. "I have prejudices against no living thing." he said.

And so began his brief attachment to the Women's Voluntary Service.

The POWs in Foxley Wood were housed in wooden buildings and Nissan huts cordoned off with fences of razor-wire, and fate brushed Willy Froehlich through the outer gate with an indefinable hand.

Coming down the steps from one of the huts he caught sight of a figure that seemed familiar, a man with his chin pushed up and who walked with an easy striding gait amid others who had lost arms and legs. Willy recalled that particular posture with startling vividness, it was indelible in his mind. It stood out like a mirage amid the other people around him.

"Eduard!" he breathed softly. The man didn't hear so he shouted aloud, "Eduard, Eduard Dietz."

At this the figure glanced in his direction and smiled a grim smile. And it was Eduard...his Eduard... back from the dead.

"Willy! My God, what are you doing in this place?" he exclaimed in obvious astonishment.

"It's a long story. Your sister told me you had been killed."

"The message sent to Celina would have read, `Missing in Action, BELIEVED killed', which is not quite the same."

Willy was unable to resist checking out the figure of his long lost lover. He had never forgotten him, never completely absented him from his mind, and he was relieved to find he was whole, two arms, two legs and for all intents and purposes normal. But fate wasn't being as kind as it first appeared. When Eduard turned his head he displayed a black patch over his right eye and a searing red rippling scar entirely covered the side of his face. His right ear was totally missing.

Stunned, Willy stepped back. What had happened to the beautiful face of that beautiful young man he had once known?

"I'm not such a good looking catch anymore I fear." Eduard murmured grimly, "The British have some aircraft nearly as good as our own, and one of them put a couple of canon shots into my engine and set it burning. I couldn't bale out quick enough to avoid the flames completely, and I've spent a good deal of time being patched up. The doctors took a lot of trouble with me and did quite a good job I think."

After a moment of surprise and panic Willy decided the disfigurement didn't matter. A person could become used to that kind of thing and love could make a person blind to it. But there had to be love. Could things pick up with Eduard from where they'd left off such a long time ago?

He felt uneasy and unsure of himself. It had been over two years since they had last spoken together. "The English would say that a lot of water as passed under the bridge since we last saw each other." he said in a subdued voice.

The heart of Eduard Dietz beat quick and his feet shuffled awkwardly. He wanted Willy Froehlich again, needed him more than ever, not just physically but mentally and emotionally too. He had never met anyone else who was so artless and so willing to surrender himself to passion, and yet showed such patience and understanding too. But he was a proud man and he was determined that Willy should feel no obligation to him. It was unthinkable that he should insist on a continuance of their previous relationship and encumber the sweet thing with a disfigured version of his former self.

"Yes, A lot as happened," he said blandly, "Nothing stays the same. Things move on. The soldiers who guard us tell how the Japanese are in the war now, and the Americans have come in on the side of the British."

"People call the war of 1914-18 the Great War, but this one is even bigger."

"Yes, it's all on track to be the bloodiest conflict in human history, but it should not concern you or I any longer. I think we are both out of it now."

"You must have suffered a lot of pain. Your wounds, do they trouble you still?"

"They ache a little in bad weather, but I'm told that will rectify in time."

"You seem to think and speak just as you always did. Your ordeal doesn't appear to have affected you on the inside."

"No, no. I'm exactly the same in my head. They would need to put a canon shot in my brain to change me there."

"Where are you going now?"

"I'm on my way to sit in on a lecture about modern art in Hut 9. Dry as dust stuff I expect, but it will help to pass the time. You should come along. You would probably enjoy it."

"I'm on my way there now. I'm giving the lecture you see, so don't be cruel. It won't be as dry as dust stuff. Cubists and surrealists like Dali and Duchamp are fashionable now, and I know something about them."

"You, giving a lecture! But you never finished at university."

"Blame the war for that. There will be no more than a dozen people there to enthral with what I know, and I'm sure I can do it."

Eduard smiled. "Hut 9 will be crammed with art philistines just attending to admire the beautiful lecturer."

Suddenly a tidal wave of emotion rolled over Willy's senses, and he thrust out his hand. "Shall we go together?"

Eduard Dietz grasped the offered hand and gripped it like he was holding on to save his life. "Yes, together would be nice."

A ray of spring sunshine washed over Willy's face as he looked up, and in his eyes shone with all the elements that made him what he was: trustful, strength without arrogance, a desire to give and receive pleasure... and honesty so pure that deception, if ever contemplated, could never succeed.

"If you have time afterwards I can borrow a gramophone and play some music. I'll teach you how to jitterbug." he said.

"Jitter-what?"

"It's a new kind of dance. It's fun. You'll enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will. Whatever you enjoy, I will enjoy too."

Unhurried, taking their time and oblivious to the men who whooped and wolf-whistled around them, the two of them walked hand in hand towards Hut 9.

And in Berkeley Square a nightingale began to sing.