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blotted a signature that was less elegant than usual. He repeated the process twice more and then passed it across to the German.
    ‘Well, I hope you are satisfied now,’ said Pitt, his voice shaking with suppressed anger.
    ‘Oh, I am,’ Von Bork replied, allowing a small smile to illuminate his puffy aristocratic face as he wrote his name with a flourish. ‘I am most satisfied.’

SIX
    Thursdays were designated as Prisoner Walk days at Krefeld, so after breakfast Watson presented Hanson at the camp entrance and requested permission to leave the compound with
his patient. Watson was handed the oath card by the camp’s duty gate officer, a
Leutnant
with a blast-mangled face who, despite his injury, bore the British and French little obvious
hostility. He even shared a joke with the captives sometimes, although today he didn’t seem to be in the mood for levity.
    ‘Can you read it out please, Major,’ he said through his twisted lips.
    ‘Of course,’ agreed Watson. ‘It says: “I herewith give my word of honour that I shall not, in case of my taking part in a walk, make an attempt to escape during such
walk, i.e. from the time of leaving camp until, having returned to it at the agreed time, strictly obeying any orders given to me by any accompanying officer, and not to commit any acts that are
directed towards the safety of the German Empire.” There.’ Watson made to hand the card back.
    ‘Other side, please.’
    Watson turned it over and read the unfamiliar passage more slowly. ‘“I know that any prisoner of war who escapes, despite having given his word of honour, is liable to the severest
possible punishment.” This is new, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the
Leutnant
with a shrug. ‘It means we can shoot you if you try to escape.’ The poor man’s misshapen smile looked like a terrible leer.
‘And you, Captain Hanson, please. If you will read.’
    Hanson was dressed in his standard-issue British Warm greatcoat, a large red cravat tucked in at the neck to hide the self-inflicted wound. He had said nothing since the suicide attempt. His
sullenness seemed to chide all and sundry for saving him.
    ‘Captain Hanson doesn’t speak,’ said Watson, pulling down the material at the throat to show the still-livid scar.
    The
Leutnant
flinched, even though his own injuries made the mark look like a razor nick. ‘He must speak the words and sign the card.’
    ‘I’ll sign for him.’
    The German shook his head. ‘Major Watson—’
    ‘Look at him, man. He’s not worth a candle. And look at me. We’re hardly the most dangerous men in Germany right now. Let me sign for both. I’ll “p.p.” for
him.’
    ‘Pee-pee?’
    ‘
Per procurationem
,’ said Watson. ‘It means on behalf of.’ It didn’t quite, but he didn’t feel up to arguing the subtleties of Latin phrasings with a
German soldier. It was almost eight o’clock, lunch was in three and a half hours, with the second of the day’s
Appells
at one p.m. They’d have to be back for that at the
very least.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ the
Leutnant
said.
    Watson reached into his overcoat pocket and took out a single Huntley & Palmer, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. He held out the biscuit to the German. ‘This will be crumbs by
the time we get back. Can you look after it for us—’
    It was gone in an instant. Two cards were presented on the counter top, Watson signed both, ‘p.p.-ing’ for Hanson, and the signal was given to open both sets of steel gates. It was
always a heady moment, and Watson hoped Hanson appreciated it, to take that first step beyond the fences, barbed wire and look-out posts, the searchlamps and the dogs, and breathe free –
albeit German – air.
    ‘Halt!’ one of the guards shouted.
    Hanson, who either didn’t register or ignored the command, continued on. Watson heard the familiar sound of a Mauser bolt action, took a series of rapid steps and placed a hand on the
captain’s shoulder. The man