Some men are very kind, and some men are not. It makes no difference whose uniform they wear. There was no mistaking what word was shouted—it was precise and well-aimed, and it was repeated over and over, even after it had hit its mark.

“BOMB. BOMB. BOMB. BOMB. BOMB.”

Bertie flattened himself against his mattress then scrambled from the bed, knocking me flat. His screaming bounced off the walls so I heard it from all directions.

I got to my hands and knees and looked along the ward. For a disorientating moment, I thought it might have been a Zeppelin attack instead of simple malice.

The ward was almost as it had been when I came in, but everyone was turned our way. My chair was toppled, and Bertie’s bed was askew. He was cowering beneath it, knees up to his chest and hands over his ears. He shivered as if he was naked in a snowdrift. He’d wet himself.

Angus dropped down to the floor behind him, and I thought he’d been tipped out of bed. There were bandages where his feet should have been. Trench foot, he’d said. He dragged himself alongside Bertie.

“Amico,” he said in a sing-song way, like a child playing hide-and-seek. “Amico, amico.”

The screaming turned to a terrible groaning, and Bertie began to rock back and forth. I crawled towards them and kneeled beside Bertie, wrapping his rocking body in my arms. He was small and frail—barely grown. “Sekura,” I said in his ear.

I thought of all the times Lizzie had sat me in her lap and rocked my worries away, her voice a metronome of calm. “Sekura,” I said, rocking with Bertie. “Sekura.”

Then Angus had his arms around both of us, and I felt him slow us down. Bertie’s groaning became a hum, and I whispered my chant. The rocking stopped altogether, and Bertie collapsed onto my breast and wept.

Sister Morley sat me down at the nurses’ desk and brought me a cup of tea. “There are a lot of boys like Bertie,” she said. “Not his particular war neurosis—I think that’s unique—but a lot that don’t speak when the doctors say they are perfectly able.”

“What happens to them?” I asked.

“A lot end up at the Netley Hospital in Southampton,” she said. “They’re open to trying all sorts of treatments. Doctor Ostler thinks there might be some merit to your Esperanto therapy and he’s written about it to a colleague there. He’s aware of your work with the Dictionary and thinks your particular expertise might contribute to their linguistic therapy programme. He’s hoping you might make a visit and talk to the staff about what you’ve been doing with Bertie.”

“But Bertie hasn’t said a word,” I said. “And there’s no indication that anything I’ve done has got through.”