By the next morning, after Ogden had taken the car to Sainte-Mre on the pretext of visiting the war cemeteries there, the German had visibly improved. Although barely aware of Ogden, he leaned more comfortably against the damp wall. He held the mess tin against his bandaged chest, picking at the remains of the sausage. His face had more colour, and the skin was less tightly stretched against the jaw and cheekbones.
The German was often irritated by Ogden’s fumbling, and there was something strangely vulnerable about his extreme youth. Ogden visited him twice each day, bringing water, food and cigarettes, whatever he could smuggle out of the villa under the suspicious eyes of Mme Saunier. He would have liked to light a fire for the soldier, but the primus stove he had brought with him on this fourth morning would generate a little warmth. However, the German had survived in this cold — the thought of living through all those winters made Ogden shudder — and at least the summer was coming.
When he climbed the stairway to the barbette the German was sitting up, blankets around his shoulders, quietly cleaning the machine-gun. He nodded to Ogden, who sat panting on the cold floor, and continued to strip the breech, apparently uninterested in the primus stove. When Ogden handed over the pull-through the German glanced at him with a flicker of appreciation. He ate only when he had reassembled the weapon.
Ogden watched him approvingly, relieved to see the young soldier’s total dedication to his defence of this lonely strongpoint. It was this kind of courage that Ogden most admired. Earlier he had feared that once the German had recovered his strength he might decide to leave, or fall back to a more defensible position. Clearly he had missed the actual landings on Utah Beach and had no idea that he alone was keeping the war going. Ogden had no intention of telling him the truth, and the German’s resolve never wavered.
Despite his overall improvement, the German’s legs still seemed useless, and he had not moved forward sufficiently to see the boathouse two hundred yards away. Each afternoon Angela and Richard Foster climbed the dunes to this wooden shack on its miniature wheels, and disappeared into it for an hour. At times, as he waited for them to emerge, Ogden was tempted to wrest the machine-gun from the wounded German and empty its ammunition belt through the flaking weatherboard. But the young soldier’s aim was probably sharper and more steady. The flare-pistol lay on the fire-sill, the shell in its barrel. When the German had cleaned it they would be ready.
Two days later, soon after one o’clock in the afternoon, began the last military engagement to take place on Utah Beach.
At eleven o’clock that morning, as Angela sat at the breakfast table reading the local French newspaper, Richard Foster returned from the telephone in the hall.
‘We’ll have to leave this afternoon. The weather’s closing in.’
‘What?’ Ogden left his chess table and joined them in the dining room. He pointed to the brilliant sunlight falling on the wet satin of the beach. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘I’ve just talked to the met. people at Cherbourg Airport. There’s a front coming in from the Scillies. The barometer’s going up like a lift.’
Ogden clasped his hands, trying to control them. ‘Well, let’s put it off for a day. The plane’s fully instrumented.’
‘Not a chance. By this time tomorrow the Channel will be packed with cumulo-nimbus. It’ll be like trying to fly through a maze of active volcanoes.’
‘Dick knows what he’s doing,’ Angela confirmed. ‘I’ll read the inventory with Mme Saunier after lunch. She can take the keys to the agents when we’ve gone.’ To Ogden, who was still staring uncertainly at Richard Foster, she said, ‘A day won’t matter, David. You’ve done nothing all week but play about on the beach by yourself.’
For the next half an hour Ogden tried to find some excuse for them to stay, pacing up and down the sitting room as suitcases were dragged around upstairs. He tried to shut the two women’s voices out of his mind, realizing that his entire scheme was about to fall to pieces. Already he had made his morning visit to the blockhouse, taking coffee, soup and cigarettes. The young German had almost recovered, and had moved the machine-gun closer to the parapet. Now Ogden would have to leave him there. Within days he would realize that the war was over and hand himself in to the French authorities.
Behind him the front door closed. Ogden heard Foster’s voice in the drive, Angela calling to him about something. He watched them from the window, in a flat way admiring their nerve. They were setting off for their last walk together, Foster holding Angela’s elbow in one hand, the shotgun in the other.
