‘My mother was an Englishwoman. As a child, I spent almost every summer in Kent with my grandparents. A most appealing part of the country – rather underrated. And before the war I worked in London. Forgive me. I am Colonel Horst von Appold.’ He crossed the room and offered Robert his hand.
‘Captain Robert Lovett. But then you already know that.’ The ‘von’ in front of the colonel’s name marked him out as an aristocrat. ‘I’ve heard your name before,’ Robert said. ‘Aren’t the von Appolds somehow linked with the Kendall family? J.W. Kendall, the publisher?’
‘Yes, Josiah Kendall was my great-grandfather.’ The waiter reappeared with champagne. ‘Please.’ Von Appold gestured to the glasses and Robert obliged. ‘Your good health,’ said the colonel, raising his glass.
The champagne was very good. But if they imagined they could get him drunk and loose-tongued, they were mistaken. Robert could hold his drink.
‘You’ve quite a pedigree, Colonel,’ Robert said. ‘I’m flattered that I, a mere captain, should be deemed worthy of all this effort.’
His eye was caught by a large, stunningly beautiful painting hanging high on the wall of a family in typical seventeenth-century style. The depiction of light was ravishing, the execution of the faces skilled beyond almost anything he’d seen.
‘It’s a Le Brun,’ said von Appold.
‘Ah, then that explains it. It’s magnificent.’
‘You have a good eye. But then of course you are yourself a very talented artist.’
Robert couldn’t stop his drink from slopping in its glass.
‘Yes, your reputation precedes you, Captain. In London I oversaw J.W. Kendall’s art imprint. It was my job to keep abreast of emerging artists. You have great things ahead of you. We must do all we can to ensure you stay alive and realise your potential.’
‘We might share a love of art, Colonel,’ said Robert, angry with himself for his momentary lapse of composure, ‘but I’m a soldier first and foremost. If you think you’re going to extract any intelligence from me by plying me with fine wines and fine paintings, you’re very much mistaken. Besides which, I don’t actually know anything. I’m a captain on the Western Front – just about the last person to know anything. You almost certainly know more about British strategy than I do.’
He went to have a closer look at the painting, which also enabled him to get a better view of what was outside. The lights from within threw long shadows out over the terrace. He saw there were two guards there. Off to the right he could see an area of woodland.
Von Appold laughed. ‘You enjoy irony, Captain, like so many of your people. I own that is one aspect of the British character that I miss. Please, can’t two civilised men converse about art and culture, and one offer the other hospitality?’
The waiter came back bearing two plates smelling of chicken liver. Robert felt almost faint with hunger and longing.
The colonel gestured to the table, where the waiter now stood, a napkin folded over his arm, ready to open a bottle of Riesling.
To hell with it, thought Robert. He would eat the food and drink the wine – and plan his escape while he did so.
‘Now, you must tell me what’s playing in the West End.’ The colonel smiled. ‘Is Miss Elsom still in After the Girl at the Gaiety?’
A soup course arrived, followed by blanquette de veau, and they talked stiltedly about art and publishing. Then came a cheese course, in the French fashion, but Robert indicated that he was full, and the colonel waved it away. In the distance, Robert could hear aeroplane engines and bombs dropping. The Royal Flying Corps was clearly out on a sortie.
‘Bringen Sie den Kaffee,’ the colonel instructed the waiter. ‘So,’ he said to Robert, pushing back his chair and refilling their glasses with claret. ‘You have been privy to our new engineering project. Quite impressive, don’t you think?’
Ah, here it comes, Robert thought. ‘Your new line is solidly built,’ he said, ‘but wars aren’t won by crouching in tunnels.’
‘Perhaps not. But neither are they won by offensives, as you British have discovered for yourselves. The rules of combat have changed. None of us recognises this new kind of war. At least not old soldiers like me. It’s a war of machines and chemists – somehow not quite honourable. What are we to do, Captain? How is it all to end?’
‘Well, sir, that’s not my concern now.’
The colonel rubbed at the tablecloth. ‘But end it must,’ he said, ‘for all our sakes. British morale is low.’
‘On the contrary.’
‘Really?’ Von Appold leaned forward. ‘After what your Fourth Army suffered at the Somme on the first day alone? Whole battalions wiped out, eighty thousand British casualties?’
Robert laughed.
‘Our estimates are wrong? Then, Captain, why not take the opportunity to set the record straight?’
Robert shrugged. ‘Why don’t you tell me how many men you lost? If I’m to sit out the rest of the war, it won’t matter what you tell me. If it makes you happier, I’ll promise on my honour not to reveal it to a soul.’
Von Appold’s face remained impassive. ‘Your own regiment, the South Middlesex, has suffered particularly badly. The British are down to volunteers and conscripts now, aren’t they?’
‘The regulars in my regiment would be very offended by your writing them off, Colonel. They’re looking forward to the next show.’
‘Then there is to be a new offensive?’
‘Naturally. Why would you have built your new line if you didn’t expect one? There will be offensive after offensive until you are driven back to within your own legal borders.’
The colonel shook his head. ‘I fail to be convinced.’
‘Of what, sir? Our determination?’
‘No. I don’t believe that you British have anything resembling a professional army any longer.’
‘Believe what you like. It’s all the same to me.’
‘Your dominions have suffered incalculable losses. They will expect their sacrifice to be recognised – and your empire will decline. The decline has already set in.’
Robert said nothing, and the colonel tried a different tack:
‘What of your parents, Captain?’
‘What of them?’
‘They must be worried. They will hear that you are missing, and eventually that you are a prisoner of war. They must be finding life hard. Our U-Boot campaign is causing great losses for British shipping – shortages; there is now bread rationing in Britain. The population is tired and demoralised, and the government near-overwhelmed. The British are beginning to lose faith in the war.’