“The nazi, if you like.” Sir William spoke softly.

Yes, the nazi, here in all his glory, basking in the warmth of his enforced resurrection. Get me a shovel, Stephenson, I’m going to bury this nazi.” With his aristocratic manner of pronunciation, the word seemingly rolled out of his nose like tar: “Naaahzzzi”.

von Boch rolled his tongue towards Churchill’s outstretched hand. The Prime Minister regarded him as he stretched his other arm back and opened his hand all the while the cigar stood solid in victory between his fingers. Stephenson pressed the shovel into his grip as Churchill stepped back. “Prepare to meet thy maker a final time Herr Boch. And good riddance!”

At that, spittle flew from his mouth. Cigar now firmly bedded between his chops, the Prime Minister swung and we stood mesmerized as the ghouls’ head disappeared before our eyes.

The body jerked and the clang of metal against bone against lamp echoed and was carried away out of the camp and into the silent night forever. We stood silent and regarded the remains. After a moment, the Prime Minister turned and look directly at me.

“And I suppose, this is why you came back?”

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