"He's gone for it," Kleber said pushing forward on his controls and sending the Storch into a shallow dive, "I just hope he doesn't radio the others."

Bill smith gave the other pilot the thumbs up. He understood clearly the hand signals.

*Using too much fuel. Will level out at a thousand.'

Bill watched the small aeroplane with its German markings go into a shallow dive. He waited until the small plane was just a dot below and behind him before making his report.

Squadron leader Snowy Roberts listened to his right wing's report and asked for it to be repeated.

"What small aeroplane? German markings! What the devil are you talking about man?"

Bill repeated his report feeling anxiety now. It had definitely been a German aeroplane. One he'd never seen before. One he was sure he would recognise again. Roberts knew nothing of a German marked plane. He hadn't seen it. Smith and the pilot John Wilkins had returned from a scouting mission to rejoin the squadron. Both men were now claiming the little German aeroplane had been there. Roberts had no doubt about that.

*But what was it doing there?'

"Do you want us to go after it sir?" Bill felt the adrenalin flowing, desperately wanting the kill.

"Negative. It could be anywhere by now," Roberts unclipped his mask so it hung down one side of his face.

'I don't know what he was doing up here with us,' he said to himself looking down at the mountains below 'But the cheeky bastard got away with it.'

Captain Schwann blew his whistle for a break in the football match. The Germans, fit, strong members of the mighty German Afrika korps were losing 3-1 to a group of injured, recovering British soldiers and one Indian. A sizeable crowd had gathered to watch and the spectators were seated around the crudely marked out pitch.

Alf strode up to Schwann.

"Is that the end of the game? Have we won?"

"I think not Sergeant. We cannot finish with Germany losing to England. No this is merely a break in play for both sides to drink some water. We will resume play in ten minutes time."

Alf looked at his men, they were all tired. Grimes was limping badly now.

"Sir may I ask that we finish now and perhaps have a rematch another day. My men area."

"Certainly not," Schwann said sitting on a wooden chair and swigging from a water bottle.

"Captain my team are not fit. They have all come from the infirmary. Perhaps if you asked your team members they wouldn't object to playing again, on, say Saturday."

Schwann took another swig from the water then screwed the little aluminium cap back on.

"Impossible," he spoke with arrogance "Why don't you substitute your players for fresh ones."

"The players you've been up against are the fittest we have. Any other team would not be good enougha."

Schwann held up his hand and cut Alf off mid sentence.

"I am not interested in the individual problems of your players. You will have a team ready to play the guards in five minutes or you forfeit the game. Now it's up to you but personally I would like to beat you fair and square," Schwann got up and began stretching. Alf watched him for a minute until he finished stretching his right calf muscle and switched to his left. He held out a hand to Alf, gesturing towards the British.

"Sergeant your team please."

Alf rejoined his men.

"Arrogant sod wants to play again."

"Alf mate I don't think we can. We're all shattered," Burroughs said.

"Or we forfeit the game. That's what he said."

The English players protested.

"Alf we've given it all we've got."

"I don't expect any of you to carry on playing. I must admit that my shoulder and arm are aching like hell. I don't particularly want to carry on. I leave it up to you."

Johnny Larder was livid.

"Cheating bastards," he said "We've given it our best and we've beat them fair and square."

"They know we are unfit," Burroughs put in.

Alf looked at them. His team mates, his comrades, his friends. Wilf Burroughs, half an ear missing. Johnny Larder scarred neck and cheek, deaf now in one ear. Others hurt. Some lucky to be alive. They looked a sorry state.

"I'll tell him we concede," Alf turned and started to walk towards Schwann and his guards who were lined up watching the British.

"Alf," Burroughs called fairly quietly though everyone heard it. Schwann and his men were confidently chuckling. Alf turned to face his men. Slowly Burroughs smiled at him. Alf nodded at them and grinned.

"Captain Schwann your turn to kick off!" he shouted over his shoulder. The English cheered as their players moved onto the pitch. One or two hobbled. All were sore. Not just their injuries hurting now but muscles. All of them had not eaten well in months. The Germans gave them the best they could but it was never the fresh meat that they so desperately needed. Some of them were painfully thin. Bones showing through skin in extreme cases. But there was one thing they all had in plenty.

Spirit!

The will to fight!

Schwann's smile vanished. In its place his mouth became a thin line of determination. He nodded his head. Now the Germans knew the measure of their opponents. Schwann blew his whistle and let it drop as before to his chest. He kicked the ball sideways to Kahler who rushed down the pitch with it. The English players keeping their distance afraid of Kahler's methods. Johnny Larder suddenly rushed forward and although Kahler didn't exactly see him through keeping his eye on the ball he was aware of the young Englishman coming at him. Kahler roared to try to scare him off but Larder was focused on the ball. The big German tried to side step him but Johnny stuck his foot out and with a smack he stopped Kahler's advance. Kahler stumbled on with his own momentum. Johnny quickly recovered and dribbled the ball towards goal. Kahler whirled around and ran back. He out-sprinted Larder and was able to turn to defend. It was a brilliant piece of football.

"Good! Good!" Schwann was encouraging.

Johnny feinted left, pretended to strike and as Kahler lunged to defend Johnny passed to Alf. Alf took his shot. The ball rose as it crossed the goal heading for the top left corner. Somehow Kahler got his head to some of the ball and it deflected straight at the goalkeeper. All he could do was kick it as hard as he could to clear it. The men on the pitch watched it as it cleared the perimeter fence and bounced a few times before coming to rest in the desert. Schwann looked around at the guards who were not playing.

"Does anyone have a key for the gate?"

No one came forward.

"One of you must have one."

There were embarrassed shuffles of feet. Schwann looked up into the sentry tower. Three times the height of a man. The sentry leaning to one side of his protective sandbags. The muzzle of his MG42 clearly visible.

"What about you?"

"Yes Herr Captain."

"Well come down here and open the gate."

"Yawohl Herr Captain."

He descended the ladder leaving his tower unattended.

Alf felt a surge of excitement. This was the tower with the blind spot. He suddenly had visions of walking out of the gate a free man. If only it could be that easy. The guard fumbled with the lock and swung the gate open just as the small aeroplane flew overhead. It was flying so low it got everyone's attention. It had at first flown over the hospital with its main tent white with German markings and a huge red cross sown onto the canvas. There were other smaller white tents that Von Brockhorst could see and then various other desert camouflaged tents for supplies and quarters for the doctors and personnel. Then they had flown over barracks tents. Then lastly they had now just flown over the tents containing the P.O.W.s surrounded by barbed wire.

As Von Brockhorst looked down he could see that there had been a football match in progress. He could see that the gate was being opened in anticipation of his arrival.

'That's efficiency,' he said to himself 'But how did they know I was coming?'

Von Brockhorst was not making a scheduled stop.

From his side Kleber could see that the football had been kicked out of bounds which was probably why the gate was being opened. He banked the aeroplane, did a one eighty, and descended touching down gently on the desert floor. He brought the plane to a halt and shut the engine off. Captain Schwann blew his whistle and waved his arms to signify that the match was over. The English players cheered and some of the Germans made obscene gestures.

"This isn't over," Schwann said to Alf, pointing a finger in his face.

"As you wish sir."

Schwann about turned and quickly strode over to the chair where his shirt and jacket were hanging. He had no idea who was in the Storch.

'But this had better be bloody good.'

He quickly buttoned up his shirt but left his jacket undone. He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down and walked out of the open gate. The Fiesler Storch was a couple of hundred metres away. Schwann could see two pairs of legs, their top halves hidden by the plane.

"Have the plane ready to leave as soon as I return."

Kleber clicked his heels together and saluted.

"Yes Herr General."

Von Brockhorst placed his leather hat onto his head and pulled it down to his favoured position. He reached into the plane and took his briefcase, placing it under one arm as he slipped on his elegant leather officers gloves. It wasn't that his hands were cold. Von Brockhorst just enjoyed the finer things in life. Schwann stepped around the front of the plane and saw Kleber first.

"What is the purpose of this?" he stopped as Von Brockhorst turned to face him. "Your pardon Herr General."

Von Brockhorst looked at him. The jacket undone, no cap, dusty trousers and boots. Not exactly the model officer. Then he reminded himself of how hard these men's lives were. The conditions, the lack of facilities. Death never far away. Schwann began to apologise for the way he was dressed.

"I apologise General. We were not expecting you. I wasa. That is we were playing football sir. It's a good way for my men to get much needed exercise and it lifts the morale of the prisoners."

"No apology is necessary Captain. On the contrary I think it's a grand idea. Tell me who won?"

"The thing is sir we were doing really well and wea."

"The British won didn't they."

Schwann nodded.

"Yes sir."

"Well they are to be congratulated. And for you Captain."

"Sir?"

"Sometimes it is good for a man to lose. It makes winning next time more enjoyable. Men learn from mistakes."

"Yes sir."

"When you play them again your desire to win and that of your team will be greater."

"Yes Herr General."

Von Brockhorst was pleased with this and he let it show in his face.

"Now Captain I'll inspect your facilities if you please."

"Of course sir I'd be delighted to show you," Schwann replied buttoning up his jacket.

The General led the way with the Captain barely able to keep up at first.

"Who is it Alf?" Burroughs asked.

"One of their Generals I think."

"It's not Rommel is it."

"No not Rommel. I know him. I wonder if this is the new General, what was his name, Von Becker or something."

"Von Brockhorst," Johnny said.

"Von Brockhorst," Alf repeated "Von Arnim's second in command."

"Christ," Johnny Larder said "What the hell does he want here with us?"

"Don't know," Alf replied "But I think we're about to find out. Look lively he's coming this way. Attention!"

The British P.O.W.*s lined up as best they could for the visiting General. For some of them it was the first General they had ever seen. It didn't matter that it was a German one. On this day they stood tall and proud. As one they saluted Von Brockhorst. Alf stood with his chest out, his arms pressed neatly by his sides. His shoulder was agony and masking the pain he gritted his teeth and with tight lips he brought his left hand up and saluted smartly. Von Brockhorst was very impressed by this Englishman of low rank and he returned the salute and held it for a few moments thus honouring the young P.O.W.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Von Brockhorst said finally after lowering his hand."

"Yes sir."

"At ease."

The British relaxed their pose.

"I understand that your team beat the German team in a game of football. Well done to you all."

A cheer went up from the assembled.