6th June 2004

Gunther Steiner picked his way carefully along the path, pausing every now and then to manoeuvre cautiously around and through the rough thicket that bordered the narrow track. The foliage had grown thick and wild since his day, and it was very apparent that no one else had used the path in years. So much the better; Gunther didn't particularly want company that day. He was just there to remember - to reflect. As millions of other people were doing that day, June 6th. There was a lot for them to reflect on.

Gunther, more than most.

Just as he was beginning to think that the thicket was becoming too impenetrable for him to pass through and he'd never make it to his destination, he heard an all-too familiar sound close by; the sound of the sea, and waves breaking on a beach. Gunther thrust both hands up and managed to drag open a large enough hole for him to stick his head through, and there, sure enough, was the ocean, stretching out far and blue before him. He glanced down and noticed with a faint thrill that the edge of the cliff was mere feet away. He was certain it was never as close as this before - erosion, possibly? - and he felt another surge of emotion. What if the bunker wasn't there? What if the elements had claimed it too? Or supposing the French government had had it torn down, demolished? To have come all this way for nothing...

But he needn't have worried. Even before he was able to completely tear himself through the thicket, he could just make out the moss-mottled grey shape that ended at the foot of the path.

The bunker.

Memories flooded back as he plodded the last few feet down the track, and the giddy fear of the proximity of the drop into the sea below slowly dissipated. Step by step he gradually ceased to be Gunther Steiner, 83, retired greengrocer and great-grandfather, tired and stooped by age and memory, and instead he become Lieutenant Gunther Steiner, 23, Wermacht officer and doting son, straight-backed and vigorous with youth and patriotic fervour. The shabby brown overcoat and battered brogues of a weary old man became the crisp grey overcoat and shined black boots of a proud young officer.

Then he shook his head and the illusion faded.

"Proud?" Gunther whispered. "No... not so proud then. Not so proud after Russia... not so proud after that."

Spring, 1942 was when Gunther first arrived in Russia, joining in on the last push towards taking Kharkov. They had high hopes then. The Russians were in full retreat. Moscow was within sight. The world was at their feet...

... But what a world it was they had taken. Gunther had heard rumours of the excesses committed on the Russian front, but he barely took notice. Until he got there, and saw for himself.

His patriotic zeal faded as quickly as the German offensive force. The things he'd seen... the things he'd seen committed. By German people. His people.

Gunther closed his eyes and shuddered violently. "Proud of that? Proud of this?"

And he stopped and gestured towards the bunker. It squatted there on the cliff top in the sunshine like a massive grey boil. Time and mother nature had weathered it but not wholly removed it. It was built too well for that. A testament to the engineering skill of the Third Reich. Gunther rasped a dry laugh of contempt, and would have spat had his mouth contained the moisture. He made do with the laugh.

The great iron door that shielded the entrance was missing, probably long gone, exposing a dense black arch. Gunther shuffled towards the opening cautiously, shoes crunching and rustling on a carpet of dead leaves, twigs and blown sand. The place was deathly still and quiet; even the roar of the Channel was muted behind the bulk of the building. There was no birdsong, not even the cry of a passing gull. It was bleak, lonely. Gunther shivered, even though it was a warm summer's day.

He hesitated about going right up to the doorway and looking in, but he knew he'd be cross with himself afterwards if he'd made himself come all this way and not do so. So he shuffled up to the threshold and poked his head inside. He could see nothing, though he thought he detected a faint hint of luminescence from where the gun slit would have been - sealed up now, he imagined. It was dark, dank, and smelled strongly of salt and decay, though if he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, really deeply, he could still smell cheap tobacco and ersatz coffee, cordite and packing grease, sweat, urine, vomit... blood...

Gunther coughed, choking almost, and wheeled away, almost stumbling and falling. But he managed to cling to the side of the bunker for support and kept his balance.

"Blood, yes," he gasped. "But not mine... not ours. I could... smell it... taste it... on the wind, blowing in from the... the beaches. Blood... lots of blood... terrible, terrible..."

Muttering this over and over like a mantra, Gunther staggered back along the path and away from the entrance... and his memories.

***

He found a familiar spot not far from the bunker overlooking the sea and sat down to have a smoke and compose himself. He knew he was under strict orders from his doctor and his daughter that he should no longer smoke but this was one of those occasions when he really needed one.

"Just like all those other occasions back then when I needed one... like when those damn Ivans nearly over-ran our position in Kursk... or that time those Partisans surprised us near Kiev... damn," he chuckled, "I must have really needed one a hell of a lot back then!"

Still chuckling, Gunther leaned slowly back until he was lying down upon the grass, and he stared up at the sky, trying to lose his thoughts among that blue expanse. Lazily he ran a hand around the ground by his side. He frowned when his fingers connected with something. "What the...?"

He looked. There was a rock jutting just above the surface, a smooth roundish rock. Another memory sparked. Gunther reached round and dug his fingers into the ground around the rock to free it and lift it out. He held it up, brushing at the dirt that remained clinging to it. There was something beneath the grime... writing?

The memory sparked and flared more brightly. "Of course... of course!"

On the underside of the rock were written three names in black ink. The lettering was faded and slightly indistinct with age, but still just about legible:

GUNTHER STEINER
KLAUS BAUMANN
WOLFGANG SCHENKE

6/6/44

"I put that there that morning, didn't I? Yes... yes!" Gunther clenched the rock tightly, ignoring the dirt that dribbled down onto his chest. "I remember now! It was when... when I met..." The memory faded, came back, faded again. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. "Yes... when I met him. The stranger..."

***

6th June 1944

Lieutenant Gunther Steiner took a deep drag on his cigarette, leaned back and stared up into the darkness with a sigh. The ground was still wet from the bad weather from the day before (and the day before that... and the day before that), but they'd had no more that night. In the dim pre-dawn light he could make out clouds above, but they didn't look as threatening as the ones before. "Which means that today might be the day... shit."

Invasion. It had been rumoured for months. Years, almost. But whereas before all they simply were were rumours, this time it appeared to be fact. The Allies were coming, and they were coming this summer. Everyone knew it, from the lowliest orderly to the highest Field Marshal. Even the Fuhrer knew it, though of course he was saying that any invasion would be immediately repulsed.

Everyone else knew better, Gunther most of all, as he was part of that spearhead which was supposed to do the repulsing. Him and a couple of green rookies barely a month out of training. Mere boys, no combat experience whatsoever. Gunther was not much older than they were, but at least he'd seen action, in Greece and then in Russia. Too much action, perhaps, he reflected, rubbing at where he'd been wounded in the thigh. That was why he was back here and not freezing his arse off on the Panther line. For which Gunther was very grateful, but yet...

"But getting shot at is getting shot at no matter where you are and no matter who it is doing the shooting."

And Gunther had little desire to be shot again. He'd been lucky; the surgeons had saved his leg. There were thousands who hadn't been so fortunate. All because...

Gunther sat up and shook his head. He wasn't going to think about that. He knew he shouldn't think about that. He was supposed to be a loyal Wehermacht officer after all, loyal to the Fatherland and all it stood for. Such thoughts were heretical.

Such thoughts could get you shot.

"There are enemies everywhere," he murmured thoughtfully.

A faint, far off rumble interrupted his gloomy reverie. At first he thought it was thunder, but then he recognised it for what it really was; bombs, artillery fire, ack-ack. An all-too horribly familiar sound. There had been a lot of aerial activity recently, particularly that night. It was partly that that had kept him awake, and made him take a stroll outside away from the bunker. He'd picked up a taste for solitude after Russia. Back home on recuperation leave he'd spent a lot of time just wandering around the forest near his house, by himself, just thinking. "Perhaps thinking too much..."

Gunther took a last hit off his cigarette and threw the butt towards the sea. He was just on the point of getting up when he remembered something else he was supposed to do while he was out here. He reached down and picked up the large stone he'd found on the beach before he'd come up here, held it up and squinted at what he'd written on it. "In memoriam..."

It was a habit he'd picked up in Greece. He'd taken to writing his name on the underside of a rock - sometimes the names of friends with him - and then burying it. Leaving his mark, so to speak. Or at least, a more subtle mark than this army had. And a less final one than a lot that marked the final resting place of some of his friends; the kind of marks that came in the shape of wooden crosses.

Gunther didn't know why he did it; he'd never really thought of himself as sentimental. But it was no odder than the men who collected other bits and pieces to mark their travels, or those who scrawled graffiti, or even those who took pictures. It just seemed rather apt, somehow.

And as Gunther finished placing it back in the ground, stood and wiped the damp earth from his fingers, he wondered how many more he'd ever get to leave behind. Whether that one would be the last. One would be, one day. Perhaps even today. He turned and looked out over the Channel. It was still quite dark, but you could always see the sea. It was empty now, but soon...

"They are coming," Gunther whispered, hands tightening by his sides. "I can feel it - they are coming!"

"Yes, they are."

Gunther nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the quiet voice that drifted from behind him. Gunther whirled round, instinctively reaching for his pistol before remembering that it was still in the holster hanging from his bunk.

"Who - who's that?"

"Just a passer-by," drawled the quiet voice, and then a figure emerged from the gloom of the thicket behind the position and came towards him. Although Gunther's eyes were quite accustomed to the dark now, he had to blink a few times before he could take in the stranger's appearance. It was a man, quite a small man, wearing a dark duffel coat. He was also wearing a pale hat, and most bizarrely of all, sporting an umbrella with a curious question-mark handle. His voice was light and casual, but his features were brooding and drawn, eyes shadowed.

Odd looking or not, he certainly shouldn't be creeping around like that. Gunther shook himself and made an effort to assert himself. "What - what are you doing here? This is military property - out of bounds to civilians."

"Very properly so, I'm sure." The man flashed a toothy smile. "But I'm not merely a civilian, I'm afraid."

"Then who-"

The man swung his umbrella up and pointed it off towards the sea. "Do you know what's out there, lieutenant? At this very moment?"

Gunther stared at the man, then looked out to sea, and then back at the man. "What?"

"Over 1200 warships. Over 4000 landing craft. Nearly 160,000 men. A very large proportion of the Western Allied army, in fact, all ready to roll up to this very shore, in a matter of..." and he reached beneath his coat to produce a pocket watch and examine it. "Hours. Almost less." He looked up and smiled again - a rather cold smile. "Yes, they are coming. Most definitely."

Gunther swallowed. It all sounded as crazy as the man looked, yet there was something about the way he said it - something that was somehow completely convincing "How do you know this?"

"Trust me - I know." He cocked his head on one side. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"What am I-" Gunther's mouth closed with a snap when he fully took in the meaning of the question. What was he going to do about it?

The man prompted him. "Connect to your headquarters? Ask for support?"

Gunther bobbed his head. "Yes - yes!"

"That's all very proper too, but what are you going to do until they actually arrive? Assuming they even do, which really isn't very likely."

Gunther's mind whirled. He licked his lips. "Ah - I will - we will-"

"Fight? You've a good position here, that's for sure. No doubt why it was established here. Good view of the beach, solid defensible position... yes, you could tie the landing up for, oooh, minutes."

"Minutes," repeated Gunther dully. He shook himself again. "But - but we have weapons! Heavy machine guns-"

"Yes, yes, you'll kill and maim dozens, but you won't stop them." The man grasped Gunther's arm and squeezed it. "You can't stop them. And do you know what will happen then?"

Gunther stared at the man. "What?" he gasped.

The man dipped his face close, voice dropping to a bloodless whisper. "You'll die, lieutenant. You and your men. Do you want that to happen? Do you want to die today, lieutenant?"

Gunther shook his head, almost mute with terror. "No... no, I don't want to die!"

The man leaned back again and let go of Gunther's arm. "Then don't."

"But-"

The man held up a finger. "Think about it. Just - think about it. Think about what you've already seen. What you've already experienced. You were on the Eastern front, correct?"

"Yes," Gunther whispered.

"Then you saw what happened. And you saw what they-" and he pointed out to sea again - "are coming to end." He leaned forward again. "Wouldn't you like it to end, lieutenant?"

Gunther's lips trembled. His mind, his emotions, churned. Military training and political indoctrination of the vilest kind clashed with conscience, remorse - shame. Shame of what he'd seen. Shame of what his people had done.

Shame at not having done anything about stopping it.

The stranger stared at him a moment longer, then turned and started back towards the gloom of the thicket. Gunther could only stare after him, motionless. Before he disappeared, the man paused and looked back at Gunther, raised his hat in salute.

"Auf weidersehn."

And then he was gone, vanished into the darkness as quickly and quietly as he came.

***

Gunther wasn't sure how long he remained just standing there before he turned and marched, on unsteady legs, back to the bunker. Once inside, he poured himself a hefty tot from his Schnapps ration, lit up a cigarette with a very shaky hand, and collapsed on his bunk. He must have made some noise doing this as young Baumann in the bunk opposite woke up.

"What's up?" he asked sleepily.

Gunther took a long pull at his drink before answering. "I don't know," he finally replied, grimacing as the fiery liquid took effect. "I just don't know."

"Bad dream?" Baumann yawned. "I get them sometimes."

"Maybe." Gunther stared down at his boots, noticed how damp and muddy they were. Was that it? Was it just that he'd fallen asleep out there? "Maybe not."

"Hmmm. What time is it?"

"Nearly dawn." Gunther downed the last of his drink and struggled back to his feet, going over to the gun position. He peered out through the slit at the sea beyond. It was still empty. Nothing to be seen at all.

"Oh. It's not me on breakfast this morning, is it?"

Gunther picked up a pair of binoculars, sighted them and gazed out upon the Channel again. "No idea."

"I think it's Wolf... but he's such a damn rotten cook."

Through the binoculars, a shape was emerging in the gloom beyond... Or was it shapes? Gunther fiddled with the sights to get a better look.

"Do you think he's a rotten cook, lieutenant? Lieutenant?"

But Gunther didn't hear him. Gunther was oblivious to practically everything except what it was he was looking at through his binoculars.

"My god..."

As the dawn rose and the gloom lifted with it, so the horizon cleared. And that horizon was full of ships. Warships - Allied warships.

The stranger had been telling the truth. It had been no dream - bad or otherwise.

"The invasion..."

Baumann was suddenly by his side, gaping at the sight as well. He went very pale. "Oh no."

"Oh yes..." Gunther put the binoculars down carefully. He was amazed by how calm he felt. Baumann grasped his arm.

"What are we going to do, lieutenant? What are we going to do!"

Gunther stared at him. As he did, the words of the stranger came creeping back.

"Do you want to die today, lieutenant? Think about it... think about it... think about it..."

Gunther closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And then...

***

6th June 2004

A shadow fell across his vision. Someone was standing over him.

Gunther awoke with a start and sat up with a small shrill cry of distress, hands held up as if to ward off attack.

"Bad dream?"

It was him. The stranger. Hat, umbrella and all. Except this time he wasn't wearing a duffel coat, just a cream-coloured linen suit with a red tie loosely knotted around his collar. He was smiling, but it was a friendly smile this time; nothing ominous about it at all.

"It - it's you..."

"I'm pleased you remember. Let me help you up."

The stranger helped Gunther get to his feet, and brush himself down.

"How... how is this possible? That was so many years ago..."

"Sixty, to be precise." The man's eyes' twinkled. "And anything is possible."

"But you... you have hardly changed!"

"Oh, we all change, Mr Steiner. Just not always on the outside, that's all." He tapped his chest, and then his temple. "Here, and here, where the most notable changes take place. You ought to know that yourself."

He turned and moved away towards the edge of the cliff. For a horrible instant Gunther thought he was going to keep walking right off it, but he stopped right on the edge, and pointed out across the shore with his umbrella.

"Beautiful sight, isn't it?" he called.

On rather shaky legs, Gunther came cautiously over and joined him. "It is, yes."

"But rather better without warships, hmm?"

"Oh yes!"

The stranger looked at him and smiled. "I imagine you're full of questions."

Gunther had to laugh. "That is something of an understatement!"

The stranger looked back out across the sea again, still smiling. "You have children? Grand-children?"

"Great-grand-children, now."

"Hmmm." He pointed towards something else, down on the beach below. "Look there..."

Gunther squinted. He could make out some figures down near the surf. A sound drifted up from them - laughter. Children's laughter, high and sweet.

"Lots of people here today, to mark the anniversary. From all sides."

"Yes," Gunther nodded. "A sad time."

"A happy one too. See?" He pointed to the people down below again. There was more laughter.

"One of those people down there is one of the men who landed on that beach forty years ago. One of the men who landed on that beach safely, because this stretch of beach didn't come under enemy fire like the others did." He paused a moment, as if to let Gunther digest this. "And you see those other people down there? They're his children. And his grand-children. And his great-grand-children." The stranger pointed down along the side of the cliff. "There's a pathway down the side of the cliff, there. It's quite safe. I'm sure that gentleman down there would be delighted to make your acquaintance."

Gunther started at that. "But I'm... I'm..."

"The enemy?" The stranger chuckled and shook his head. "No, Mr Steiner. Not any more. In fact, you never really were. You were just caught up in something that was very difficult to resist. But you did, eventually - and that's what counts."

Gunther swallowed down a large lump in his throat. "But... but I could have done more... stopped more. The... the things I saw... in Russia... Poland..."

The stranger shook his head again. "No, Mr Steiner. There wasn't much you could have done about that. You wouldn't have made a difference there." He placed a hand on Gunther's shoulder and squeezed gently. "But you did make a difference here. See?"

And he pointed down towards the beach again.

"Some choices are never easy to make, Mr Steiner. Particularly the right ones. It is only after the event that one can truly appreciate them." His face broke into a broad smile. "I hope you will appreciate this one more, now."

Gunther could only nod. He couldn't seem to speak right then.

"The choice, again, is yours, Mr Steiner, but I do hope you will go down there." He reached out and took Gunther's hand and shook it warmly. "I am certainly glad to have made your acquaintance, anyway. Goodbye, Mr Steiner."

And like before, the stranger turned and disappeared back among the thicket as quietly as he'd arrived.

Gunther turned back towards the sea and wiped a hand across his face. More laughter came from below. Gunther closed his eyes, and for a moment that laughter became something else... screaming, gunfire, explosions, sounds of violence, chaos and death...

The sounds faded away. He opened his eyes again. There was only sunshine and laughter, sounds of happiness and life.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes."

Smiling broadly - more broadly than he had done in years - Gunther began to pick his way down the path towards the beach.