‘Damned inconvenient, obviously. I’m rather more used to being helped to do my job than hindered – that’s the privilege of the press – but I’ve no intention of giving up now at the very outset of what will no doubt be the greatest journalistic adventure of my life.’ He sniffed the air. He seemed not to notice the tang of the sea, or even the odour of the manure left by the horse-drawn carts frantically moving soldiers, civilians and weaponry; it was the story he could smell. Determined to evade what he saw as the unyielding obstinacy of officialdom, he adjusted his bowler hat, straightened his shoulders and declared, ‘Let’s go to the station.’

‘It’s guarded by soldiers with bayonets. I’ve already checked.’

‘Then we’ll walk.’

‘Where to?’

‘To Dunkirk. That will make a decent base. Very close to the action and easy enough to get copy back to England from there, I should imagine.’

‘Dunkirk is almost thirty miles away.’

‘I thought you liked a walk.’ Howard had mentioned as much, the night before in the club. He laughed, unable to be anything other than impressed by Clarke’s tenacity. Once again they picked up their small, hastily packed suitcases and set off.

After a mile or so, Howard’s shoes began to rub painfully but he didn’t mention it, and nor did Clarke say whether he felt the pace Howard set was too demanding. Both men maintained a breezy manner. Clarke talked more; he had recently returned from extensive travels in Canada and had endless entertaining tales to share, but ever the journalist, he took the opportunity to quiz Howard about his life.

At times they were quiet, just one foot in front of the other. Plodding on.

Luckily, just three miles into their journey they were able to cadge a lift for fourteen miles, then they walked another seven. Still some miles before they reached Dunkirk they came to a checkpoint. The soldier refused to let them pass. For the first time Howard saw dejection and exhaustion creep into Clarke’s face. He dug out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

Howard realised it was his turn to offer fire and motivation. ‘I saw a roadside café not more than a few hundred yards back. Let’s go and get a cuppa.’

In the hot and heaving café, Howard queued for refreshments whilst Clarke searched for a seat. The place was throbbing with soldiers, some British, some French, all young. By the time Howard was served with two cups of strong black coffee (there was no tea), Clarke seemed somewhat recovered. He had found a seat and struck up a conversation with a French soldier who, before war had been declared, had worked as a printer on a French newspaper. The soldier evidently remembered reading Clarke’s work and treated him as though he were a celebrity. Clarke wasted no time in explaining what he was hoping to achieve. ‘We have to get to Dunkirk. Can you help?’

The soldier looked excited at the opportunity, challenged rather than daunted. ‘I am shortly leaving on a train that will stop at Dunkirk. I can help you get on that train.’ Howard was impressed by his English and his willingness to defy the rules. He was cocky and credible all at once. Howard hoped he would survive the war. ‘Go to the station,’ the soldier instructed.