The pair walked through Paris’ southern suburbs at a brisk pace. It was tiring in the heat, but Marc didn’t mind because aching legs took his mind off the dull pain in his mouth. Every so often, they were passed by Germans in Kübelwagens or riding horseback, but the shock of the previous day had worn off and Paris was returning to an uneasy normality. It was a Saturday and children chased through the streets or stood in line at the cinema, while their mothers joined grimmer lines and waited for eggs, milk and bread.

It took an hour to reach the city limits, but the main road south towards Tours was blocked by a German checkpoint. A French car had been parked across one lane and its tyres sliced to stop it from being easily moved away. The open lane was guarded by six German troops who waved military traffic through while turning away civilian vehicles or anyone on foot.

‘Don’t stare at the checkpoint,’ Henderson said sharply, as he tugged Marc across the road and towards a small corner café. ‘It looks suspicious.’

Marc glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. ‘We could go cross country,’ he said quietly. ‘It looks pretty rural and surely they can’t guard every single field.’

‘That’s true,’ Henderson agreed. ‘But I want to get to Tours in a day or two at most. If we’re forced to walk it will take a lot longer than that.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We watch and learn,’ Henderson said quietly, as they stepped between the lines of empty tables outside the café.

‘I have no bread,’ the owner said apologetically, the instant they stepped inside. ‘Just coffee and a few scraps I made into soup.’

Henderson was content with black coffee, while Marc asked for the soup and regretted it because it was made mostly with potato and bitter-tasting sausage that left a skin of grease on the surface. They lingered for an hour, saying very little but all the while keeping an eye on the traffic passing through the checkpoint.

The owner kept stepping out, looking forlornly down the street for his delivery of bread. Eventually he made a phone call and Henderson overheard the head baker telling him that the Germans had commandeered the bakery and were sending all bread supplies to their advancing troops.

Minutes later a German from the checkpoint purchased half a dozen coffees and carried them across to his comrades on a tray, returning fifteen minutes later with the empty cups and saucers.

‘How’s it going, Grenadier?’ Henderson asked. ‘That sun’s a killer.’

The soldier – who, like most German infantrymen, seemed barely out of his teens – smiled. ‘You speak good German,’ he said.

‘I’m an Alsatian,’ Henderson lied, by way of explanation. ‘I grew up speaking German, though I moved away from the border many years ago.’

‘Ahh,’ the soldier said uninterestedly.