Shaftoe composes his face into the cool, heavy-lidded, dopey expression that he always uses when he’s trying to irritate an officer. As best he can when his legs are bolted down, he rolls over on his side, towards the sound of the voice. He is expecting to see an aquiline SS officer in a black uniform, jackboots, death’s-head insignia, and riding crop, perhaps twiddling a pair of thumbscrews in his black leather gloves.