‘Find a job,’ he said. ‘It won’t be easy, will it? Six years in the bloody army, fighting this sodding war, then we’re supposed to go back to Civvy Street like nothing happened.’ He flicked the cigarette stub over the side of the truck. ‘My own son won’t even know me.’ He looked away, wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

‘What did you do before the war?’

Arthur shrugged, turned back to face John.

‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I left school at fourteen. No training, no trade. Not like you. I got work where I could, when I could.’ He smiled. ‘I always liked learning. Great respect for teachers. I even married one. She teaches little ones.’

The truck stopped with a jolt and the driver stepped down from his cab, walked towards John.

‘What’s up, Corporal?’

‘The bridge is down so we have to detour. There’s a Bailey bridge a bit further along, but we won’t make Kiel before nightfall.’

‘Have you informed HQ?’

He nodded. ‘They suggested we bivouac somewhere. Commandeer a dwelling of some sort.’ He shaded his eyes from the low sun. ‘There’s habitation ahead.’ John nodded, returned to the truck, passed the information on. They’d have to be on their guard, watch out for snipers, a unit or a loner, still loyal to Hitler. The war wasn’t over yet. They were sitting ducks.

‘Roll down the tarpaulin,’ John ordered. It was close to dusk, and with the sides covered the interior was dingy save for the lights from the cigarettes. The truck slowed and stopped.

‘All out.’ The Bailey bridge was ahead and John watched as the driver manoeuvred the vehicle onto the tracks before ordering the men to follow. Ahead of him, silhouetted against the cobalt sky, were the ruins of a village. They piled back into the truck and drove in silence along the road, alert, charged.

They stopped in a small square in the centre of the village. Half had been bombed out, the walls of the buildings little more than rubble, the ruins picked over for anything worth saving. The rest of the buildings looked uninhabited, save for half a dozen white sheets fluttering from the windows. So far, John thought, so reassuring, but he was jittery, could feel anxiety curl and tighten. He watched as Arthur walked towards one of the empty houses on the square. It was his job to requisition accommodation, but it could be a trap. Any of these houses could be an ambush in waiting. After Private Nash, they were doubly cautious. Behind Arthur was his corporal, rifle at the ready.