Arthur kicked the front door and it opened. He slipped into the building, the corporal at his side. John wanted to shut his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the tripwire, the booby trap. Another soldier guarded the entrance as the others looked around, surveying the side streets. Arthur and the corporal were out of sight. And gone. John checked his watch. Was it ten minutes? Too long. A silent ambush. Garrotted. No sound. Waiting.

The corporal appeared, beckoned to the soldier guarding the entrance. John saw him nod, run across the square.

‘Lieutenant,’ he called, ‘come over here.’ He was panting as he drew close. ‘A man’s injured. Bring the kit.’

John reached in for the first-aid bag and ran across the square. Please, not Arthur. He wasn’t sure what he’d do without his sergeant to keep him steady. He jumped the steps to the building, over the threshold.

‘In here, sir,’ the corporal said.

The shutters were half closed. In the gloom John saw a figure lying on a stretcher made from old bedsprings, supported by two chairs. A woman was standing at one end, Arthur at the other. Alive and well. Thank goodness.

‘Mein Herr,’ the woman said as John came in. ‘Bitte, hilfen Sie ihm.’ Her voice was weak, keening.

‘Open the shutters,’ John said. The last of the daylight filtered through. The room was bare, apart from the stretcher and a stove covered in cracked ceramics. John stepped towards the figure. A lad, not much younger than John. He lay trembling, his lips blue from shock and cold. His eyes were open, unblinking. The woman was stroking the boy’s temple. John wasn’t sure if he was conscious.

‘Was ist los?’ John said. What’s the matter?

‘Mein Sohn…’ she said. She began to talk, too fast for John, her dialect unfamiliar, tumbling.

‘Slow, slow,’ John said, raising and lowering his hands, conducting the tempo.

The woman nodded.

‘Mein Sohn.’

She lifted the blanket. One foot hung by its sinews, bones poking through the flesh. The skin was brown, the wound smelly. John clasped his hand to his mouth, afraid he’d retch or worse.

‘Mein Sohn,’ she was saying. ‘Ein Schuss. Sein Fuß.’

‘Gangrene, sir,’ Arthur said, matter-of-fact. ‘Nothing we can do.’

She was holding a handkerchief in one hand, screwing it tight then fingering out an end, twisting it.

‘Gnädige Frau,’ John said, ‘he must see a doctor.’

She walked over and tugged John’s sleeve, crying, out of control. ‘A doctor, please, mein Herr, bitte, bitte.’ She sank to her knees, rummaging in her blouse, pulling out a wad of banknotes. ‘Take it.’

John shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said, in German. Nein. ‘We can’t take him to a doctor. Or a hospital.’ He turned to Arthur.

‘Can we make him more comfortable?’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘We carry morphine, don’t we?’

Arthur stared at John.