Weaver

XVI

Ben Kamen watched the landings from the look-out post, high on the walls at Pevensey Castle.

From horizon to horizon, as the sun rose, the beach was alight with the spark of firing. Shells came in from the sea too, where the German ships were firing on the coastal defences. There was even fire coming from big guns on the continent, massive rail-mounted Bruno-class, perhaps. And one by one the gun emplacements and Martello towers and anti-tank ditches and pillboxes that had been so hastily manned during the summer were silenced.

Ben glanced around the interior of the fort. He was at the west gate, a relic of the Roman fort. The Roman curtain wall surrounded a cluster of medieval buildings, a lesser fort within the mightier ruin. It was this vast expanse of enclosed space that had inspired William of Normandy to make his landing here, when he had made his own invasion; it had been a defensible place to land his troops that first crucial night nine hundred years back.

Well, the sea had receded since then. And now, after all this time, the fort had been adapted for another invasion, another war. The castle was host to a garrison that included Home Guard like Ben, and British and Canadian regular units. Pillboxes had been built into the ruins of the keep, and the towers of the inner bailey had been fitted out as a garrison. It was very odd for Ben to see the characteristic slit gun port of a modern pillbox cut into what was obviously medieval stonework, itself built of reused Roman masonry.

But it was the same all the way along the English coast. Martello towers had been pressed into service, more than seventy of them, hefty structures thrown up before the time of Napoleon when the British feared invasion by the French. Now, after a hundred and fifty years of patient watchfulness, many were falling silent after only hours of use.

'We're not going to stop this lot today, mate,' said Johnnie Cox. 'Not this way anyhow.' Johnnie was a Canadian.

Ben shrugged. 'Yeah, but that wasn't the point, was it?' He was aware of a faint Canadian inflection in his own voice; he had a habit of taking on the accents of others, in an unconscious strategy to fit in. 'This is the coastal crust; it's just supposed to slow them down. But when the counterattack comes-'

'What counterattack? General Brooke doesn't have the men, I'll tell you that. If the BEF wasn't locked up in jail on the continent-'

Ben shook his head. 'You know, Johnnie, I've got to know a few soldiers in my time in England, and they're all miserable bastards. But you take the biscuit. Don't the Brits have any chance?'

'Well, maybe one. It all depends on how tough they are.'

'Tough? What do you mean?'

'You got your gas-mask with you?'