He couldn’t pretend that he liked what had happened that day. It’s never comfortable for a commander to feel that his men are out of his control, but sometimes it is better to let them have their heads, as if you were allowing it, when in reality you have no power to stop it.

He didn’t approve of random sweeps for criminals. He preferred to make lists of suspects and to send his men for them very early in the morning when they would know where to find them, still in their beds. The wine he could forgive. An army has to live off the land and they had had lean times. Who was he to grudge the men a day of drinking and pleasure to celebrate their liberation of the region? Montfefoul deserved what was coming to it. Its mayor, Chenu, had been an ardent Petainist to the end, who hadn’t even had the sense to resign and let the Resistance get on with the job. He had tried to keep the French Milice in the town even after the Germans withdrew, but they knew what would happen and retreated with their masters.

They began with the mayor. Vernhes had tried to retain some semblance of order; in any case he liked the trial to take as long as possible, that was the pleasure. He called for the indictment, but accusations were shouted from all sides and no examination was possible, as cries for the sentence took over at once: ‘Death. Death. Death.’ The mayor was taken for execution immediately, although it took a number of bullets to kill him. He was followed in quick succession by three more: the grocer, a captured paramilitary from the Milice and a peasant accused of black marketeering who had refused supplies to the Maquis.

They lost interest in the male prisoners after that, since someone pointed out that they needed to keep some of them to dig the graves. Vernhes was glad. He wanted to make a proper court, to conduct it in a proper revolutionary manner, to watch his victims suffer. So they turned their attentions to the women.

Ariane was the first. When he saw her being dragged across the clearing, he felt real shock and regret; he would have liked it done in a different manner, lingeringly, not hastily, thoughtlessly. She was wearing a cotton dress and sandals, her legs bare and her hair hanging down to her shoulders. She looked afraid, as well she might. Whatever they wanted these men were going to get, in the mood they were in. Nothing could stop them, and both he and she knew that a beating, a gang-rape, a noose or all three could be her fate in the next hour.

He had given the lead, to try to protect her, taking a handful of her hair, forcing her to her knees.

‘This is what they do with the women, lads. Anyone with scissors, a knife? They cut their hair off, shear them like the sheep they are.’