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the sun was setting. What time was it? He didn’t know. His watch was broken.
    Alan looked across at the field. Fusiliers were digging as Germans looked on. They were collecting bodies from all over the field and were carrying the corpses to the freshly dug graves. Burying the dead. Alan looked around him, searching for his rifle. He couldn’t find it. Alan looked around the RRiFF position. Plenty of dead Fusiliers, but no dead Germans. The burial party must’ve collected them. No weapons either. They must all have been collected. Alan suddenly remembered his captured Luger pistol, a spoil of war from the successful ambush at Wake. He patted it underneath his jacket to reassure himself.
     
    “No rest!” a German barked. “Work! Schnell!” Sam was exhausted. They had spent the whole day burying the dead from the two battles of Fairfax. They had buried the German dead and now they were burying the civilians. Hundreds of refugees had been killed and wounded in the crossfire. The S.S. had loaded the shell-shocked survivors on to their lorries and had driven them away in the direction of King’s Lynn.
    After they had buried the last civilian the Fusiliers were at last allowed to rest. They collapsed in an exhausted heap on the ground.
    “What now?” Sam asked.
    “Sleep,” Lance-Corporal Vincent answered.
    “Alan could be alive though, couldn’t he, Lance-Corporal?” Sam asked Vincent. “I mean we haven’t found his body, have we?” He carried on. “That means that he could be alive.” Sam looked at Vincent quickly, his eyes darting away. Reassure me. Tell me what I want to hear. Tell me that Alan’s still alive.
    “Sam lad,” Vincent said gently, “we haven’t found him, but that doesn’t mean that he’s alive,” he said, pointing to the other digging Fusiliers. “Don’t get your hopes up, Sam.”
    “But he can’t be dead,” Sam said, “he can’t be…” He sank to his knees and rested his head on the spade handle. Vincent walked up behind him and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Chin up, lad. Here come the Huns. Don’t let them see you cry.” He put a finger under Sam’s chin and tilted it up.
    “Yes, Lance-Corporal,” Sam answered quietly.
    “That’s the spirit, lad,” Vincent smiled. “Stiff upper lip.”
    “I’m bloody knackered,” Sam exclaimed, leaning on his spade. “When are going to get something to eat?” He moaned.
    “I’m bloody starving too, lad,” Vincent said. “I don’t know.”
    They had not eaten since the day before yesterday. The German attack had caught them at dawn before they had had time to eat breakfast and they had not had anything to eat since.
    “We’re dealing with people who use women and children as human shields, Sam,” Vincent observed. “I don’t think that feeding us is a top priority.”
    “I was afraid that you’d say that,” Sam said.
    “Hallo?” Vincent asked.
    “What’s going on?”
    “The S.S. officer in charge is asking a question to a group of prisoners.”
    They saw Captain Mason step forward. The S.S. officer spoke to him. Mason turned around; “Listen in men!” He bellowed. “We are to march back to the field where we will be fed.”
    A spontaneous cheer. Mason smiled at his men. It was refreshing to be the bearer of good news for a change.
    “Well, well, well,” Vincent said with a smile on his face, “life is full of surprises.” He turned towards Sam.
    “About bloody time,” Sam said, his stomach grumbling as if on cue, “I could eat a horse.”
    R.S.M Witherspoon marched the Fusiliers back to the field. “Come on lads, the birds are singing! The sun is shining!” Witherspoon marched beside the men, “stomachs in, chests out! Bags of oomph! Bags of oomph!” The RRiFFs perked up and reacted as one to Witherspoon’s familiar baritone words of encouragement. They were reassuring and comforting. “Show them that you’re Fusiliers!” The men marched off as if they were on the Parade Ground,