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“I shall make enquiries with the hospital, but I suspect that there will be little we can do,” said Richter from the other side of the desk in his office. He gave a small, sympathetic quirk of his mouth. “In the circumstances.”

Dr Martel merely nodded. He’d expected a polite but curt dismissal, so while it wasn’t enough – it would never be enough – it was all he could ask for today.

Richter raised an eyebrow minutely, sitting up in his chair, almost amused. “No outraged protests this time, doctor?”

“You’ve said you’ll ask, and that’s what I was after,” said Martel, meeting the unspoken enquiry by leaning forward with a slight smile. “In the circumstances.”

Richter glanced down at the papers on his desk, and nodded himself. “Yes. If we have the medical supplies – which, most likely, we do not – we will need them for our own use.”

“And enemy civilians be damned,” said Martel. He had finished with the Colonel for that morning, but he hesitated to leave. It was a funny thing, but despite all the things that couldn’t and wouldn’t ever be said between them, sometimes he felt as if Richter was the only one on the island he could have a proper conversation with. Even if he was the enemy. Right now, left isolated and still under German occupation despite being positioned between two Allied nations, sometimes it felt as if it was his side that was out to get them. Or, no, his side that had forgotten they existed.

Richter adjusted the documents and folders on his desk, aligning the pile, before standing and crossing to look out the window. “There are worse fates than being passed by, Dr Martel.”

“I’m beginning to think there aren’t many,” said Martel. “Don’t you lot listen to the news, or only your own propaganda? If you did, I’d have thought you’d have had the sense to surrender by now. That’d solve all our problems.” It was an unfair thrust, he knew, at least when directed at Richter, whom he suspected would have only been too glad to surrender the Island in its current state if it had been in his power.

Richter remained looking out the window. “We do not build such a fortress as these islands have become not to defend it – and perhaps you should follow the news more carefully, Dr Martel. The Allies have been suffering several reverses of late. Perhaps next time the British call here they might be considerate enough to leave supplies rather than pamphlets in a misguided attempt to destroy morale.”

“What morale?” said Martel; an insult that Richter chose to ignore. “Any news about supplies?” he added. “Rations, medical supplies, fuel?”

Richter headed back to the desk. “You may be assured, Dr Martel, that if I have such good news to impart, I will tell the Controlling Committee immediately.”

“I thought not,” said Martel. “So, are we just to starve to death while your lot and ours carry out this tug of war over who’s responsible for feeding us?”

Richter sat down again. “We hope that the Allies will see reason.”

“So what’s worse, then?” said Martel. “Worse than us all starving and freezing to death this winter?” What was worse than being abandoned by your own government? Plenty of things, he told himself in answer to his own question: worse to be in the Cherche Midi; worse to be elsewhere in Occupied Europe; worse to be deported to Germany; worst of all to be non-Aryan in those places. But, God, starving to death out here with liberty so tantalisingly in sight and out of reach over in France, that was a torment of its own. And to be a doctor in such a winter with no food, no pills, nothing with which to combat the diseases that would come, that hit hard again. He might as well be practising in mediaeval times: he could give a placebo, if there was even that much available, but mostly only redundant advice – and hope and a prayer.

Richter shrugged. “As I said, my superiors have no intention of surrendering – and the Islands are well-fortified. Had you thought how it might be if the Allies did come?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” said Martel. “It’s all we ever think about these days. You’re not usually cruel, Colonel.”

“The casualties…” said Richter. “It would be an act of folly that would come at great cost – to all of us.”

Martel thought about it. He’d assumed that if the Allies did come, the Germans would have to see sense and surrender, but presumably Richter knew which way the wind was blowing with High Command and the Commander-in-Chief here in the Islands better than a local GP did. That was, he had to admit, a frightening thought, but he couldn’t imagine it would be quite as terrible as this waiting, not when that came with an ever rising death count, too. “Worth it,” he said. “Well, we’d think so.”

“If you won,” said Richter. He looked weary, Martel thought, but one couldn’t really offer the German Kommandant sympathy. Richter was responsible for the armed forces on Guernsey and to a certain extent the civilian population. If matters didn’t improve, or the Allies finally attacked rather than trying to parley, he could lose a lot of the people he was responsible for – not unlike Martel with his patients he could no longer help. A doctor wasn’t a miracle worker, of course. There had always been people he couldn’t help – and he had always raged over it, usually at poor old Olive – but this had long since progressed beyond a joke. He wondered who exactly Richter found to rage at, if he did. Did Freidel get an earful when Martel wasn’t around, or some other random subordinate? Or perhaps the ever-impeccable Colonel never lost his temper over trivialities, unlike the lesser mortals around him.

Martel got out of his chair, aware that he was now wasting his time and the Kommandant’s for no good purpose, but Richter gave a sudden smile, and pulled out a flask.

“One thing I do have as yet, if not for long,” he said. “I think I might offer you a drink, yes? In the circumstances.”

Martel grinned. He wasn’t going to refuse on principle, although, he thought, given the ration shortages and his limited diet lately, he probably ought to on grounds that he didn’t want to risk doing his afternoon surgery under the influence. In this war, you didn’t look a gift horse in the face, and especially not this ever-worsening autumn. “In the circumstances, Colonel,” he said, biting down on a smile. “I think I can accept.”

Given his drink – short measures, but he wasn’t complaining – Martel raised the tea cup and said, “To liberation, Colonel!”

“To victory,” said Richter in return, being deliberately obtuse, Martel suspected.

“And all the food we can eat,” Martel added. After all, the gods might be listening and it was best not to waste an opportunity. He’d clutch at any straws going these days.

Richter smiled. “I believe we can both drink to that. Or to put it another way – to survival.”

“Oh, I’m after more than that,” Martel said.

Richter’s smile grew. “Yes, I have noticed, Dr Martel.”