"The carriage existed as a wooded gantry, straight out of yesteryear with its stencil timber signage directing visitors like cattle along the boulevard to St Alles. Ahead, he came to a miles' long parade and the imposing towers of The Permoser Sierra dead ahead. Here, shopkeepers remained busily shoveling at the snow as he passed.
He moved briskly, dodging by the melee of horses, when the shrill horn of a Volkswagen startled him away. Hammond darted aside, the open top vehicle missing him by mere inches. He spun, cataloging the swastikas sewed to the sleeves of incumbent passengers. The fish-eyed glare of the SS commander, whose thin hair was combed neatly one side, now glaring down on him as the convoy sped by. Hammond felt his bones chill. Shaken by a sense that the man had somehow smelt his Britishness.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, continuing along the strip. All the while, with the fiery, all-consuming mite of the SS burning his thoughts. That fresh arrogance they held. They were conquerors. Still smarting over their successful crusade South. In the last months, Hitler’s Anschluss had met little protest. Rather, the Germans had been welcomed like the armies of Caesar himself. And like the Roman's, the Nazis had found themselves here. In St Alles - creating their very own Aurelian Walls around the Summit. Which brought a stab of unease as he wondered; Would England do the same?"