‘What can we do now?’ Paul asked, ignoring his sister and looking up at his dad.

But Mr Clarke was in a daze.

A terrible moan went up as a man hoisted an elderly woman on to his back. Her face and torso had been shredded by flying glass. Another man was calling out for a gun to put the burned horse out of its misery.

‘You’ve got a gun,’ Rosie said, giving her father a nudge.

‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Mr Clarke said irritably. ‘I’m a foreigner walking around with a German pistol. Do you want me to get arrested?’

Rosie backed off and shook her hands furiously. ‘Well don’t just stand there, Dad! What do you want us to do?’

‘OK …’ Mr Clarke mumbled. ‘I’m trying to think … Can you remember the way back to the car?’

‘The alleyway’s blocked off with rubble,’ Paul noted.

But Rosie nodded. ‘I’m sure I can find another way back towards the river.’

‘Good,’ Clarke said, pointing across the square towards a post office. ‘You take Paul back to the car and use my first aid kit to clean up his cuts. I’m going over there to see if I can get a call through to Henderson in Paris and maybe pick up some bread if the queues aren’t too bad.’

Mr Clarke got out his wallet and gave his daughter a ten-franc note. ‘In case you come across a place selling bread, or some other kind of food that you fancy.’

‘What if we end up buying the same thing?’ Rosie asked.

Mr Clarke shrugged. ‘With the Germans smashing up the roads and bridges, supplies are going to get short. I’d rather we end up with too much food than not enough. Now start heading back and I’ll meet you back at the car in twenty minutes or so.’

‘Maybe we should stick together,’ Paul said. ‘My arm doesn’t hurt much.’

As Paul was speaking his sister realised that the aircraft had dropped out of sight, whilst the sound of their engines was getting louder. This could only mean that the pilots were coming in over the rooftops for a machine-gun attack. People in the square started running for cover and a few screams went up as a fighter cleared the flag post on top of a small civic building and let rip.

Travelling at two hundred kilometres an hour, the line of bullets crossed the square in under three seconds. Most pulsed off the cobbles and ricocheted widely, retaining enough force to kill. Direct hits pounded market stalls, tore up cars and occasionally hit human flesh.

Paul’s heart slammed as he dived into a doorway between two shop fronts with his father and Rosie bundled on top of him. He looked up, but his father forced his head down.

‘There’s more coming,’ Clarke explained.