‘The station is guarded,’ Howard pointed out, confused as to what his plan was exactly, although willing enough to go along with it. He knew they were placing themselves in physical danger, but neither of them was overly concerned. The people back in England thought he was a coward because he wouldn’t join up; it wasn’t that at all. He simply didn’t see the point of war, but he did see the point in investigating exactly what was going on out here in France; that goal was worth taking a risk for.

‘Just go there.’

When Clarke and Howard arrived at the station, they found the restaurant door unguarded and were able to walk straight through the restaurant on to the platform, where they found the young soldier waiting for them.

They squeezed on to the train, which was packed with French soldiers, chattering, laughing and quarrelling loudly. The soldiers all smoked, and if they could carve out even a foot of space, they played cards for centimes. No one asked Howard or Clarke for their papers.

The two men stood with their noses pushed against the window and observed as trains crammed with refugees from Belgium sped past them, heading in the opposite direction. Some of the trains were so overcrowded that men lay clinging on the roofs; at one station an unconscious woman was offloaded and left on the platform. Howard caught Clarke’s eye but said nothing.

Clarke nodded understanding. It was, to say the very least, disconcerting. ‘It seems that all of Belgium is pouring into France. I feel like a salmon swimming upstream.’

When the train ground to a halt just outside Dunkirk station, they decided to disembark in the hope of avoiding the guards at the turnstiles. They bid a grateful goodbye to the soldier who had helped them, then, holding their suitcases above their heads, they inched their way through the tight throng to the door. It was dark when they jumped down on to the track. In silence, as there was no need for discussion, they scrambled up the bank. As they rubbed the mud from the knees of their trousers, they noticed that they had been spotted; an armed soldier was watching them, though he did not call out to them. They took their chance and dashed towards the main hall but could not get out of the station; again it was guarded. The two men exchanged a glance that confirmed they each thought arrest or deportation was imminent.

‘There’s a refreshment buffet,’ pointed out Howard.

‘Is food all you ever think about?’ asked Clarke, but not with any sharpness. He too saw the sense in delaying facing the officials, and if they were doomed to spend the night in jail before they were deported, then it made far more sense to do so on a full stomach.

As they tucked in to a passable beef bourguignon, a train full of Belgian refugees arrived. They were made to disembark suddenly, and confusion rained down on the station. Men shouted, babies cried, women scolded their children as exhaustion and fear ate away any residual patience they might once have had. ‘This could be a stroke of luck,’ Clarke commented, a born opportunist. He dabbed his mouth and then threw the napkin on the table, eyes alert for their chance. Howard mopped up the gravy that remained on his plate with the crusty bread roll and pushed the last morsel of food down his throat before he turned to monitor the scene. They stared as hundreds of people, who all seemed desperate to get a train to Calais, filled the platform and then spilt into the station and even the buffet room. Like the refugees they had seen clinging to the train roofs or pouring on to the dock at Folkestone, these people were frantic, wide-eyed with pain and panic. It made them argumentative and selfish. They were distraught, disgusted to hear the station official announce, ‘There are no more trains tonight. Tomorrow perhaps.’