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here to be settled. He was staring with increasing suspicion at the Italian, and so he did not see the broad thick door of the mess-hall as it opened. But he saw the Italian’s eyes dilate. He heard the beginning of a shout, and turned, and fell. The Yorkshire sergeant-major had aimed well.
    The Commandant stared at the German captain’s body, lying so still and now forever humbled. The two soldiers who had followed the captain had crumpled on to the paved floor. Blood trickled slowly. The Commandant stared incredulously. Other shots crashed through the hall, deafening, terrifying. He was scarcely aware that the staircase was a seething mass of officers, that the hall was filled with sweating, cursing, ragged men. He stared at two bodies falling from above, as if two sacks of flour had been thrown over the balustrade, and then remembered the two Germans who had guarded the head of the staircase. Hecould not hear the hard thud of their bodies on the stone floor so near his feet: the volume of noise in the hall was smashing into his ears, puckering his face with fear and pain. These yelling savages swarming towards him...these answering yells from upstairs, telling that the last Germans had been dealt with...
    Then, suddenly, put of the mass of noise and movement, he saw one of his prisoners run towards him. He felt naked in his helplessness, alone with savages. Savages. His muscles obeyed him at last. He ran from the prisoner, from the swinging piece of chain. He ran towards the entrance. Out there in the courtyard the Germans would help him. They’d machine-gun these savages. They would cut them down like ripe hay.
    The door opened as he reached it, and he saw men advancing towards him out of the courtyard. The light from the hall gleamed on a machine gun. A sob of relief rose from his tight throat. And then he recognised them... They were Inglesi.
    Another figure came running out of the darkness.
    “ Schichtl! ” the Commandant shouted. But as he saw the boy’s face his sudden hope died.
    Johann raised his arm and fired his gun. The Commandant’s face was blotted out. He hadn’t even had time to wonder why such injustice should be happening to him.
    Johann stepped over the Commandant’s body. “Come on,” he said to the three Britishers. “Come on.” His tone was even and urgent.
    One of the men gave a low whistle of admiration. “Make up your mind quick, don’t you?”
    “Come on.”
    But inside the hall there was no need to set up the machine gun. All resistance had ceased. The irrepressible man gaveanother whistle. “Like Christmas night in the workhouse,” he said cheerily.
    No one spoke. Some men were picking themselves up from the floor. Five—including the sergeant-major—were wounded badly. Two were as motionless as the Germans. The rest just stood and stared. After the uproar of the last two minutes the silence was like death itself. Then someone raised a cheer. It was a thin, pathetic effort. But the others joined in, and the cheer swelled almost to a shout. Then everyone was as suddenly silent again, looking sheepishly at one another, beginning to move round the hall. One of the American Air Force officers said, “We’re a funny-looking bunch all right,” and a laugh began. Men laughed for no reason at all.
    But the American had spoken the truth. They were a strange collection. They had been civilians in countries as far distant from each other as they were from Italy. They had become soldiers. Craftsmen, workmen, business-men, professional men, had learned how to march and shoot and drive a tank, how to handle artillery or a parachute or an aeroplane. They wore the faded, stained uniforms of the veteran. Their bodies were thin, their faces were gaunt. But the look of the prisoner—the desperate, self-tortured look of the forgotten man—had vanished. They were laughing for no reason at all, but they laughed like free men.
    * * *
    Peter Lennox didn’t laugh. He was kneeling beside Miller