That was the outward scene in the prisoners’ cage, and it made no sense at all. A dozen different nationalities. All of them reacting in different ways, pulling in different directions, speaking different languages. And yet an hour or two since they had all been ﬁghting with a suicidal ferocity. Pillboxes were being held long after their eventual destruction was a certainty. The Russians had been ﬁring right up to the last few yards before they threw up their hands.