‘Als die Romer frech geworden, Zogen sie nach Deutschlands Norden, Vorne beim Trompetenschwall Ritt der Generalfeldmarschall, Herr Quinctilius Varus—’ For a moment the very sweetness of the sound, rendered crystal-clear in the morning air by some acoustic accident even within his bedroom, deceived him. Then the meaning of the words registered. ‘Doch in Teutoburger Walde Hu, wie pfiff der Wind so kalte; Raben flogen durch die Luft, Und es war ein Morderuft Wie von Blut und Leichen!’ That was quite enough, thought Fred vengefully, throwing back the sheet and starting towards the window across the bare boards. ‘Plotzlich aus des Waldes Duster Brachen krampfhaft die Cherusker Mit Gott fur Furst und Vaterland—’ Far below him, foreshortened by the angle of sight, there was a German soldier—or, anyway, a man in field-grey overalls and German steel helmet—washing the Brigadier’s Humber Snipe as he sang. But as Fred opened his own mouth there was a sharp knock on the door behind him.
