"It is not at all as I remember."

"Did you say something, Herr General?" asked the driver, somewhat tentatively.

General Burkhalter did not reply, but the sight of his cold, expressionless eyes, reflected in the rear-view mirror in the morning twilight, would have been sufficient to discourage a hardier soldier than the one so recently assigned to his service. The boy's face went red, and he fixed his attention on the narrow unsealed road which ran along the clifftop.

He looks about twelve, thought Burkhalter. The soldiers were getting younger all the time; or maybe it was Burkhalter who was getting older. When I was his age…

His thoughts drifted into reminiscence; but try as he would, he couldn't find the memories of this place as it had been the last time he was here, a lifetime and two wars ago. All he could see in his mind's eye was what he knew was here now: massive concrete installations, gun emplacements and endless barbed wire.

I will have to find my old sketchbook, when I get home, he thought.

He gazed out of the window towards the sea, which remained shrouded in fog. Somewhere beyond that white, ephemeral wall, the enemy was preparing. Not that Burkhalter expected to see a massive fleet suddenly appear from the mist. The weather was unfavourable, and the conditions in the Channel too violent; and it was the opinion of the chiefs of staff – or at least, of the Führer, which came to the same thing – that the invading forces would strike in the Pas-de-Calais, not here. Under the circumstances, this was fortunate.

It was a point Burkhalter had used to advantage, in his discussions with General Reinhardt the previous day. His eyebrows lowered now, as he considered their meeting. He had gained the upper hand for now, but it had not been easy. Reinhardt, possessed of what he considered a brilliant idea, had clung to it with the stubbornness of desperation.

"It is a question of manpower," he had argued. "We must have the defences completed without further delay, but it cannot be done without a supply of labour. Now, you have under your control a plentiful supply of fit, healthy men who could be made available to fill the shortage."

"Prisoners of war."

"Why not? I fail to see…"

"As usual, my dear Reinhardt, you see only what you wish to see. Your brilliant idea is complete nonsense. Even if we set aside the Geneva Prisoner Of War Convention, using Allied soldiers to build defences against an Allied invasion would be foolish. Why give these men the opportunity to observe and report on the nature of our preparations? Or even to sabotage our efforts? Why give them the chance to escape and join forces with the Resistance? But by all means, Reinhardt, take your idea to the Field Marshall. I will be happy for you to take all of the credit … and the blame."

Just as he'd expected, Reinhardt had folded. Burkhalter had not even been forced to raise the one argument which, in his mind, clinched the matter. If the invasion should prove successful, he had no desire to be held accountable for any ill-treatment of the prisoners under his charge.

He should have been well on his way back to Hammelburg by now. But some odd whim had seized him when he realised how close he was to the beaches and cliffs he had visited and sketched, all those years ago. So here he was, taking a trip along the shores of memory, and he had never in his life been so disappointed.

"Bitte, Herr General," said the driver, "the road is very rough. Should we not go back?"

Burkhalter waved an impatient hand. "We will go a little further."

The way had diverged from the cliffs, and the sea was no longer visible. All he could see was a dull stretch of low-growing heath which extended towards the horizon, and in the distance, the dark, rising silhouette of the point which reared above the beach, surmounted by an indistinct structure which, obscured as it was by the mist, might have been some ancient monument rather than one of the casemates which guarded this section of the coast. Austere, threatening, yet strangely beautiful.

He felt a sudden compelling urge, such as he had not experienced in many years. "Stop the car," he ordered abruptly.

"Here, Herr General?"

"Of course, here, Dummkopf!"

The car skidded to a halt. The driver glanced at Burkhalter in the rear-view mirror, read the message in those heavy-lidded eyes and hastened to leave the car and open the door for the general to dismount.

"I wish to inspect the defences," said Burkhalter. "Wait here."

If the driver thought it was strange that the general would go on foot across the heath, carrying his briefcase, he did not dare say so. He watched as Burkhalter's heavy form faded into the mist, then relaxed, wondering whether he would have time for a cigarette before the lard-arsed old tyrant returned.

Burkhalter made his way between the low-growing gorse and erica until the edge of the cliff came into view, with the white-shrouded sea below. He looked around for some kind of seat, a rock or a fallen tree, but there was nothing of the kind anywhere around. Once upon a time, he would have thought nothing of sitting on the ground, but he was not a boy any more. Still, it seemed there was no choice. Uttering a series of groans and grunts, he manoeuvred his considerable weight to a sitting position; and once he'd recovered from the exertion, he opened his briefcase. Amongst the papers it contained was one document which would suit his purpose; a report from the Kommandant of Stalag 13. The last thing he wanted to do was read it, but each of its many pages had a perfectly blank reverse. He found a pencil, rested the briefcase on his legs as an improvised support, laid down the first sheet of Klink's report, and began sketching.

It was many years since he'd indulged in what he now pretended had been a childhood hobby, and he was delighted to find the lines still flowed easily from his fingers to the pencil, and from there onto the paper. Bold, strong strokes defined the cliff edge, with the scrubby seaside plants quickly indicated with a few rapid marks. He took his time over the outline of the point in the distance, but allowed the details to remain vague and menacing. Only when he was satisfied did he turn his pencil to the soft, undulating texture of the sea below, where the mist was starting to clear. Waves had never been easy; too fluid, too changeable to be convincingly drawn. He frowned unconsciously over his work, his eyes travelling back and forth from the sketch to the reality below.

So deep was his concentration that at first he did not notice the dark shapes which had emerged from the dissipating fog, and which his hand had faithfully reproduced on the paper in front of him. He stared at them in a daze, then looked up.

Donnerwetter!

Even then, he kept drawing. He had to capture this. There would never be another chance. He started on a second page, then a third. Only when the bombardment began, covering the approaching landing craft, did he come to his senses.

Breathless and lightheaded, he shoved his work back into his briefcase and struggled to his feet. For a few seconds he could not remember in which direction he would find his car; but then he heard a shout, and saw his driver approaching at a run.

"Herr General… the invasion…."

"I know," snapped Burkhalter. "We must leave, now."

He almost fell into the back seat of his car. The driver flung himself behind the wheel and the car took off, the wheels sliding on the dirt road.

Burkhalter, panting for breath, clutched his briefcase to his chest. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure the driver could hear it above the noise of the shells falling all around.

They were good, these sketches, roughly done on scrap paper. Possibly the best he'd ever done, and certainly the most important. But if anyone ever found out what he had been doing, when the invasion began…

No, it must not come out. He could not burn them; instinctively he knew he could not. But he must keep them hidden where nobody would ever find them, at least until the war ended, one way or another.

His life depended on it.