‘Oh I wish I was back in my bakery,’ a large man with a dust-covered face moaned. ‘My bread is the best in Uttfeld.’

A skinny man beside him sneered. ‘That was in the days before the war. When we had real flour... not this acorn powder.’ He dipped the black crust in the soup and sucked on it.

The fat baker poked the skinny man in the chest. ‘I could still get real flour... if I paid enough.’

‘Yes and then charged us poor folk enough.’

‘The baker’s hand grabbed the little man’s tunic and shook him. ‘It’s the farmers who grow the corn that make the money. Not me. It’s the millers who grind it in their mills that are getting rich. Not us poor bakers.’

‘I only said...’

‘Well don’t say anything, you worm.’

A sergeant stepped forward and slapped the baker’s hand away from the little soldier. ‘Save your fighting talk for the British or I’ll have you charged. You’ll be peeling potatoes for a week.’

Someone in the queue sniggered. ‘What’s a potato? I haven’t seen one of them in years.’

The weary men laughed. ‘Don’t let Franz near any potatoes – he’d eat the lot, skins and all.’

Marius watched in wonder. He never dreamed the soldiers could squabble like foxes fighting over a chicken bone.

‘If you’ve all finished your delicious soup, get back in the wagon,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ll be in Peronne tomorrow if you fight your way there. The Brits are running so fast they’re leaving their supplies behind. By Saturday night you’ll be feasting like King Wilhelm.’

The men gave a cheer and began to climb on the truck. ‘Feasting like the king... if we’re not shot first,’ the skinny soldier grouched. The cheering died in the throats of the men.

‘Or if the flu doesn’t kill us,’ a pale man in a worn and faded uniform wailed. His eyes were rimmed with red and his skin was shiny as wax. He gave a ratcheting cough and the men on the seats shuffled away from him. They were all aboard, the driver turned a starting handle and the engine gave an answering cough.

The sergeant looked back at Marius standing by the canteen. ‘Come on, lad. Get aboard.’

‘He’s not one of ours, Sergeant,’ someone said.

‘Where are you headed?’ the sergeant asked.

Marius glanced at the map he’d torn from a school atlas. ‘A hospital... near Peronne.’

‘Jump up, then.’

Marius was pulled up on to the crowded lorry as it popped and wheezed, rolled and groaned along the rutted road. The soldier in the faded uniform wheezed like the lorry. ‘Hospital worker, eh? Can you cure the flu?’

Marius frowned. He knew his grandmother had a potion for fevers. ‘I have a cure. Yes,’ he said.