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‘I won’t be joining you,’ said a stunned Pedersen straight away. ‘Sorry, Sneum. We can’t do more than we’ve already done over there.’ He turned to Rabagliati. ‘With your permission, Colonel, I’m going to fly for the RAF, which is why I came here.’

Sneum was disappointed but not angry. He had already put Pedersen in dreadful danger; and he couldn’t inflict more on his reluctant friend. Kjeld had earned the right to fight his war in his own way, and his bravery was beyond question. Besides, the RAF was no easy option. In 1941, mortality rates were still high. He had made his choice and Tommy was bound to respect it.

‘The Germans would be looking for both of us, so maybe it’s better if we split up anyway,’ said Sneum supportively. ‘But if the British want me to do this alone, I’ll go back.’

Although Tommy later recounted this conversation in the full detail shown above, his wartime report on this meeting was rather more protective of Kjeld, whose reluctance to return to Denmark was both sensible and understandable. Sneum wrote:

On Wednesday, 25 June, we were both called in to see Colonel Rabagliati and Major Thornton, who questioned us about conditions in Denmark. We were asked if we would think about going back to Denmark to work for the British there. This would be of great importance to the British, we were told.

I answered that only one of us could do it, because we were probably being hunted as a pair, wanted men together, and that I would like to be the one to go back because I already had so many useful connections for such a job.

The following day Sneum and Pedersen were both signed out of the Royal Patriotic School for ever. At first they were installed together in Room 65 at Keyes House, Dolphin Square, in the London district of Victoria. But it was clear that they would soon be going down two very different wartime paths. And once they set off on their respective journeys, it was by no means certain that they would ever see each other again. Tommy and Kjeld therefore decided to enjoy a farewell evening in London. But they had no money, and there were no offers of financial help from their hosts. Desperate to have some fun, Tommy looked through their humble belongings and his eye landed on the one item that might fund their big night out. A little later, he pawned the Movikon camera for twenty pounds. And he never returned to the shop to reclaim the piece of equipment which had captured so much vital intelligence for the British.

At the start of the evening, Sneum and Pedersen changed into their Danish naval lieutenants’ uniforms. They didn’t know when they would get the chance to wear them again, and they were still proud of their homeland, despite Denmark’s capitulation to the Germans.

‘You know,’ said Kjeld as they began a pub crawl, ‘I would never have got to England without you forcing me to come with you.’

Sneum smiled because it was probably true.

They tumbled into the Suivie Club, one of the English capital’s great night spots, and were shown discreetly to a table in a dimly lit corner. For a while they were happy just to observe the party. It was a good place from which to identify the most beautiful women on the dance floor, and they believed there would be plenty of time to make a move for their favorites later. So they sat contentedly with their beers, although Sneum put ice cubes in his unbearably warm British ale.

Soon they were approached by a British Army captain, who said something that Sneum didn’t quite catch. Obligingly, Tommy leaned across the table so that he could hear above the swinging music.

‘I said, what are you bloody foreigners doing here?’ demanded the captain.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Sneum, politely. ‘Well, I’ll show you.’

It took one punch. Tommy later recalled with a chuckle: ‘My fist had the force of a mule’s kick in those days.’

Within a minute, Sneum had been thrown out of the club, with the captain carried out close behind him. A proud Pedersen slapped his friend on the back to congratulate him on such