Everyone Brave is Forgiven

by Chris Cleave

“No, I’m afraid you will have to run it past me again,” said Alistair, nudging the tiller with his toe. “There’s a man called . . . ?” “Something Hitler,” said Simonson. “Axel? Albrecht? German chap.” “And he wants . . . ?” “To take over the running of the world.” “What, all of it?” “So it is rumored.” Alistair frowned. “With all its tedious responsibilities along with the evident perks?” “One imagines the fellow has weighed it up and decided to press on regardless.” “Has he considered how vexatious it would be to find oneself in charge of us? Or how independent-minded the Americans are? I should think it would be frowned upon to turn up in Manhattan and start directing the traffic. As a European, I mean.” “My dear boy, these are questions we Brits have thrashed out over centuries. One cannot expect a Hun to have quite the same level of insight.” Alistair got his pipe alight while steering with one foot, trimming the jib with the hand he held the match in. He puffed white smoke that the wind scooped away prettily over the russet cloth of the mainsail. He said, “This German fellow sounds like a card.”