‘Wait,’ he said. He did not attempt to get out of the car, but lowered his window so that they could make out his uniform. He had his papers ready to show them.

‘Cazalle, Colonel, on a mission from General de Gaulle to the Regional Commissioner of the Republic. My driver, Corporal Dorchin.’

The youngest of the guerrillas took the papers, bending to examine them in the headlamps. While he waited, the colonel studied their insignia. These people were annoying but necessary. For four years their reluctance to join the struggle, their undisciplined enterprises, their divisions and animosities had been the stuff of his days. He could see that the lorry carried the emblem of the United Resistance, the V sign with the cross of Lorraine superimposed, and their armbands were marked FFI, Forces Fran Raises de l’lnterieur. However, they did not look like farm boys, more like artisans from the nearest town, and he guessed that these men belonged to the communist underground.

The young man, still holding the documents, gestured to the colonel to get out of the car. He led the way behind the lorry. The colonel hesitated, reholstered his pistol and opened the door.

‘Keep the engine running,’ he said to the driver, then nodded to the two remaining partisans to precede him. Only a few yards into the wood stood a car, one of the wood-burning vehicles in use everywhere in these days of fuel shortages. Beside it, a fire had been lit and a folding table erected. Seated there was a man in a beret and a loose, belted shirt, reading by the light of a hurricane lamp. For all the world like one of Napoleon’s field marshals on campaign, the colonel thought, or a Russian commissar. The young partisan saluted and presented the documents. His commander read them carefully.

‘You’re well out of your way here, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Have you lost your road?’ Although he acknowledged Cazalle’s rank, the tone was republican, undeferential.

‘No, I’ve already seen the commissioner. I’m on my way to visit my home for one night before returning to Paris. I come from here.’

‘Oh, yes? Where’s that?’

The colonel could read the subtle wish to make him an invader, without rights on the ground. He resorted to formality.

‘You are … ?’ he said.

‘This is Gilles of Group Noix. These are his colleagues, Marius and Cyrano.’ The commissar did not introduce himself.

‘I’m from Bonnemort in the commune of Lepech Perdrissou.’

‘Ah.’ Recognition of a kind, not necessarily approving. ‘And you’re on your way to Bonnemort now?’

‘I am. A detour of a hundred kilometres was worth it. It’s been four years.’

He should have read the warning then, in Gilles’ smile, the glance between Marius and Cyrano.

‘There’s a lot been going on at Lepech in recent days,’ the commissar remarked.

‘Oh, yes?’ The colonel was anxious to end the civilities and get on with his journey.

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘How could I? I’ve come from Paris. There isn’t even a phone line.’ Then he asked, because it seemed expected, ‘What sort of things?’