It had been, therefore, surprising and not a little alarming to hear his own name barked on a particular afternoon in March, 1940. A company from Frido’s battalion had been detailed to provide security and ceremonial support for a distinguished conference in Western Germany. Generals, their red and gold collar patches as thick as falling rose petals in autumn, were congregated. Frido, duties appropriately performed, as he thought, was hovering diligently in the background. He had already, after a very short military career, learned that some people liked to be always in the way when Generals were around, heels clicking, salutes radiating homage, admiration. Frido’s instincts were the exact reverse. To be inconspicuous was his dearest ambition. He thus responded with sinking heart to the sharp call from his Captain. The great ones seemed to be dispersing in their cars. Guards were drawn up, drivers were standing at the salute by opened car doors. What now? ‘Leutnant von Arzfeld!’ Frido moved rapidly.
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