British artillerymen stationed at the summit of Langdon Stairs near Dover looked out to sea. They saw a snorting little tugnothing unusual. But one keen-eyed soldier pointed to a tiny speck kicking up a faint spray. It must be another one of these channel swimmers.
Thirty soldiers rushed to the ropes, lowered themselves down the steep cliff, waited on the beach. Finally out of the water, a stocky son of Siegfried staggered, shook himself, collapsed. The Britishers worked on him, kneaded his muscles, rubbed his lungs. Consciousness dawned; the German asked:
"Wo bin...
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