by John Harris
Neville tried to smile in return, and, to his surprise, found it worked. Then, as he stopped, staring at the damage and appalled by what he’d done with his plan, Reinach, bundled out of the farmyard by Ernestine, came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Cheer up, Officer Neville,’ he said. ‘It can all be put together again. And history does work. Without any doubt. It was the finest plan I ever heard of.’ He slapped Neville’s shoulder and gestured at the Germans sullenly filing away and the Free French tank by the war memorial, the snout of its gun pointing towards them. ‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘You’ve only to look.’
Neville nodded and the smile came again, more easily this time and a little stronger as the sense of defeat slipped away from him. Suddenly he felt better and knew he’d manage to survive. As Reinach shoved an arm through his in a curiously French manner, they walked together down the drive.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘You’ve only to look.’
Then, as life flowed back into him and the chill round his heart began to disperse, he suddenly realized that, having survived, having endured it all, he would not have had things other than as they had been. For the first time he knew that in the years to come, when the shock and the hatred had died away, he would think the better of himself for what he’d done. His senses would reject all the destruction about him and, above all, he’d be glad he’d achieved more than he thought he could when the challenge came. They would all of them - every one of them - look back on what they’d done with satisfaction and pride. Despite everything, when they were old, they’d remember this day of glory as the finest of their lives.
