‘Would you rather believe this war’s a freak that stands apart from history?’

‘I think so,’ said Anton. ‘I’d rather believe anything that makes it possible for me to live a life again as something resembling a civilised creature. Or a hopeful one.’

‘All right,’ said Friedrich. ‘I understand. But in that case you’d better not believe that Vermeer’s girl is reading a letter from her lover on the Bohemian front. Now let’s go back to that bar and drink Franconian wine.’

The transport of an entire corps through Germany was achieved without any officers absconding by riverboat; and on arrival, they were instructed to move up through the German reserve lines opposite the French positions at Verdun. Further north, the Allies made a surprise attack at Amiens, advancing seven miles in a single day when their tanks rolled over flat, dry turf. The German generals acknowledged they were beaten at last; in Berlin there was rioting as the public pressed for an armistice. But the politicians in Washington and Paris and London could find no satisfactory way of ending it. The Allied advance out of Amiens stalled; the Germans dug in; and the result was that, while the outcome of the war was no longer in doubt, the killing intensified.

For Anton and Friedrich, the promised fight with the Americans did not materialise. The United States forces had become bogged down in a salient, in conditions unfamiliar to them; and in the second week of August, the enemy they faced was the French. Some were veterans of the mutinies of 1917; many were conscripted young or older men, not the first flower of French manhood, which had died in the ‘meat grinder’ of Verdun. Still, there was experience among their officers, and their gunners had each blade of enemy grass covered by interlocking cones of fire.

‘This should be fun,’ said Friedrich, as he went down into the German dugout they were taking over.

‘I imagine we won’t actually attack,’ said Anton. ‘I mean, we’re just here to occupy the line until Washington and Paris make their minds up.’

Friedrich took a photograph from his tunic pocket and propped it on a shelf. ‘Nice carpentry,’ he said.

‘Who’s that?’ said Anton.

‘My wife.’

‘Your what?’

‘Ilse. You’ve met her. We got married in Vienna before I left.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Anton was appalled.

‘It happened in such a hurry.’

‘You mean she’s pregnant?’

‘We would have married anyway. She’s one of three sisters. They’re all lovely, but she’s the best. She has courage. And humour. You’ll like her very much.’

‘She looks charming.’

Friedrich turned away, as though embarrassed.

Anton smiled at his back. ‘I understand. She’s your Vermeer girl, isn’t she? She’s what you believe in.’

‘Be quiet, Heideck. Give me a cigarette.’

The routine was as they had expected, with early stand-to, weapons inspections and some occasional shelling from the heavy German artillery behind them, with a sporadic French response. No one mentioned going over the top, even on a raid to pull in a French prisoner. They spent a week in the trench before being moved into reserve, making way for another Austrian unit. Billeted above the bakery in a village, they had time to write letters home and visit the church. Anton knelt in a pew near the front and began with an apology for his long neglect and an explanation of why he didn’t really believe. He felt better when he had finished. If the god of his fathers did exist and their paths were to cross in the next few weeks, he would at least be able to look Him in the eye. As he stood up, he was surprised by the concentration he saw on the face of the kneeling Friedrich. He felt a wretched surge of jealousy, but walked as softly as he could to the back of the church to wait for him. He passed the time by reading the inscriptions on the memorial tablets on the wall, hoping that the outline of a face might emerge from the carved lettering.