‘You must have also missed the message which says the Germans have agreed not to shoot anyone who is showing a white flag.’ He picked up a stick and tied a grubby white handkerchief to the end. ‘This will do.’

The general shook his head. ‘Sounds odd to me. But if you have your orders I’ll have a look at them and let you take the risk.’

‘Orders?’ Gaulle said. ‘Do you have the orders, Father?’

Grimm joined in the play-acting. ‘I thought you had them. They’re in my pack, but that’s back at base camp, five miles away.’

‘Oh dear, if the good general here sends us all the way back there’ll be terrible trouble.’

A captain arrived with a thick pile of telegraph messages for the general. ‘Orders for the day, sir.’

The general rubbed his tired eyes. He waved a hand at Grimm and Gaulle. ‘Oh you’d better get away then. But I won’t be to blame if they welcome you with machine guns.’

Sergeant Grimm almost saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. When they see two priests they will not shoot. A sensible decision from you.’

He turned on his heel and marched to the steps that led up from the trench to the muddy patch of ground above.

The German trenches showed a line of sandbags. Sad soldiers looked over the top as Silver Hand and his friend waved their white flag and started to cross the half mile to safety. When they were over halfway across – a hundred yards from safety – Grimm called out in German, ‘Greetings, comrades. Hallo, kameraden.’

The sullen and sulking German soldiers watched in silence.

* * *

A mile behind the German trenches the gunners were in a different mood. A man with a small moustache stood on a gun carriage and shouted, ‘We didn’t lose this war. Traitors back in Germany threw it away. Traitors who starved the German people so they could make money from selling food. First we will destroy the traitors. Then we will build newer and better guns and ships, planes and tanks, make deadlier gases and make sure every German is fitter to fight.’

The gunners cheered. But one man spoke against the man with the moustache. ‘The British will be here in an hour. They’ll take our guns away from us.’

‘We’ll make more,’ someone argued and he was cheered too.

‘They’ll take our shells and turn them against us.’

‘Then let’s get rid of the shells. Let’s fire them all.’

‘If we hit the British trenches they’ll start firing back. We’ll all be killed. How stupid would that be?’

The man with the moustache waved a hand. ‘I didn’t say hit the trenches. Let the shells explode in no man’s land. It will be one last fireworks party. Who agrees?’