years.' He stroked her hair with one big hand while he gripped his pipe with the other. 'I know you're Danish, but there'll be plenty who'll remember you had German friends when it's all over.' He felt her stiffen and almost regretted saying it.
A few more days and he'd be off again. Probably for good, if the mad bastards at headquarters had anything to do with it. What sort of a war was it becoming? He was not even allowed to see his new charts. He felt angry just thinking about it so that when he spoke again his voice was unexpectedly hard.
You must get out, girl. You've relatives in Sweden, go there if you can.'
She clung to his arm. 'Surely it won't come to that, Jo?'
He grinned, the rumble running through his massive frame. 'I expect our high command have it all worked out, some sort of treaty, a compromise. We've only wiped out half the bloody world, so who cares?'
She stood and looked up at him, her eyes misty. '1 never thought -'
He smiled at her gently. Too many German friends. No, they'd not forget. He had seen it in Spain after the Civil War. All the heroes who show 7 ed up after the fighting was finished. Brave lads who proved it by shearing the hair and raping girls who had backed the wrong side. It would be a damned sight worse here.
He held her against him and ran his big hands across her buttocks. Neither noticed that his fingers had left charcoal marks on her bare skin.
Their eyes met. He said, 'Bed.'
She picked up a bottle of schnapps which he had brought and two glasses. Gudegast stood back and watched her march into the other room with a kind of defiance. She would not leave. Perhaps she would find a nice officer to look after her when the Tommies marched in. He felt sweat on his back. God, you could get shot for even thinking such things.
He pushed through the door and stared at her, the abandoned way her legs were thrown on the crumpled sheets, unmade from that morning, and probably from all the rest.
He would do another sketch tomorrow. If he got time he might try and paint her in oils when he was at sea again. He shivered and then stepped out of his trousers.
She put out her arms and then knelt over him as he flopped down on the bed. He was huge, and when he lay on top of her it was like being crushed.
He watched her and said, 'I wish we'd wed, Gerda.'
She laughed but there was only sadness there. She took him in her hand and lowered herself on to him, gasping aloud as he entered her.
It was as if she knew they would never see each other again.
The cinema screen flickered and with a blare of trumpets yet another interminable newsreel began.
Hans Stoecker tried to concentrate but it was difficult to see anything clearly. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. The cinema had been commandeered from the town, and he guessed it had once been a church hall or something of the kind. Between him and the screen were rows and rows of square sailors' collars, broken only ocasionally by the field-grey of the army.
The newsreel was concerned mainly with the Eastern Front and showed thousands of prisoners being marched to the rear of the lines by waving, grinning soldiers. The commentator touched only lightly on France, but there were several good aerial shots of I ighter bombers strafing a convoy of lorries, and some of burning American tanks.
The major part of the reel was taken up with the Bombardment of London. The usual barracking and whistles from the audience faded as the camera panned across the great rocket, the V-2, as it spewed fire and dense smoke before rising from its launching gantry and streaking straight up into the sky.
The commentator said excitedly, 'All day, every day, our secret weapon is falling upon London. Nothing can withstand it,
I here is no defence. Already casualties and damage are mounting. No people can be expected to suffer and not break.'
There were more fanfares, and etched against a towering pall of flame and smoke the German eagle and swastika brought the news
A few more days and he'd be off again. Probably for good, if the mad bastards at headquarters had anything to do with it. What sort of a war was it becoming? He was not even allowed to see his new charts. He felt angry just thinking about it so that when he spoke again his voice was unexpectedly hard.
You must get out, girl. You've relatives in Sweden, go there if you can.'
She clung to his arm. 'Surely it won't come to that, Jo?'
He grinned, the rumble running through his massive frame. 'I expect our high command have it all worked out, some sort of treaty, a compromise. We've only wiped out half the bloody world, so who cares?'
She stood and looked up at him, her eyes misty. '1 never thought -'
He smiled at her gently. Too many German friends. No, they'd not forget. He had seen it in Spain after the Civil War. All the heroes who show 7 ed up after the fighting was finished. Brave lads who proved it by shearing the hair and raping girls who had backed the wrong side. It would be a damned sight worse here.
He held her against him and ran his big hands across her buttocks. Neither noticed that his fingers had left charcoal marks on her bare skin.
Their eyes met. He said, 'Bed.'
She picked up a bottle of schnapps which he had brought and two glasses. Gudegast stood back and watched her march into the other room with a kind of defiance. She would not leave. Perhaps she would find a nice officer to look after her when the Tommies marched in. He felt sweat on his back. God, you could get shot for even thinking such things.
He pushed through the door and stared at her, the abandoned way her legs were thrown on the crumpled sheets, unmade from that morning, and probably from all the rest.
He would do another sketch tomorrow. If he got time he might try and paint her in oils when he was at sea again. He shivered and then stepped out of his trousers.
She put out her arms and then knelt over him as he flopped down on the bed. He was huge, and when he lay on top of her it was like being crushed.
He watched her and said, 'I wish we'd wed, Gerda.'
She laughed but there was only sadness there. She took him in her hand and lowered herself on to him, gasping aloud as he entered her.
It was as if she knew they would never see each other again.
The cinema screen flickered and with a blare of trumpets yet another interminable newsreel began.
Hans Stoecker tried to concentrate but it was difficult to see anything clearly. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. The cinema had been commandeered from the town, and he guessed it had once been a church hall or something of the kind. Between him and the screen were rows and rows of square sailors' collars, broken only ocasionally by the field-grey of the army.
The newsreel was concerned mainly with the Eastern Front and showed thousands of prisoners being marched to the rear of the lines by waving, grinning soldiers. The commentator touched only lightly on France, but there were several good aerial shots of I ighter bombers strafing a convoy of lorries, and some of burning American tanks.
The major part of the reel was taken up with the Bombardment of London. The usual barracking and whistles from the audience faded as the camera panned across the great rocket, the V-2, as it spewed fire and dense smoke before rising from its launching gantry and streaking straight up into the sky.
The commentator said excitedly, 'All day, every day, our secret weapon is falling upon London. Nothing can withstand it,
I here is no defence. Already casualties and damage are mounting. No people can be expected to suffer and not break.'
There were more fanfares, and etched against a towering pall of flame and smoke the German eagle and swastika brought the news
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