It seemed as if the whole troop of gunners agreed. They ran laughing to their cannon and loaded them. When the man with the moustache waved his handkerchief they fired. The shells soared and landed in the muddy earth between the German and the British trenches. The British troops ducked out of sight and wondered at their enemy’s final burst of madness.

Sergeant Grimm and Father Benedict were smiling and waving when the shells began to land. They struggled to go forward and couldn’t go back.

When a shell explodes near a man he is not wounded. He is turned into vapour. He is scattered like a fine mist on a foggy November day.

One moment the men in the trenches were watching two priests struggle through the mud. The next there was nothing left of them.

They were gone, faster than the speed of life.

Nothing left? Almost nothing.

The hot steel of war had claimed its last victims before the silver hand of peace put an end to the cruelty.

Chapter Nine: ‘The name of peace is sweet’

Chapter Nine

‘The name of peace is sweet’

11 November 1923: Hirson

The November day was cold but fine as the soldiers marched through the streets of Hirson. They paused at the stone cross in the market square and stood in silence to remember the friends who had died in the Great War. It was five years since the peace but the memories were still strong and bitter.

After a service of prayers and hymns and a speech from the mayor, the people made their way home with their memories of the dark days.

Some headed for the Blue Boar tavern for lunch. The quiet crowd was disturbed when the door banged open and a farmer stood there, red-faced from the cold and eyes shining with excitement. ‘Landlord,’ he cried. ‘Tell me that story about the man with the silver hand.’

The man behind the bar poured a glass of wine and said, ‘Settle down, Charles.’

The farmer gulped the wine and spoke quickly. ‘Remember the story you told after the war. You said a man came in here – a British soldier with a Catholic priest. The soldier had a silver hand.’

‘I remember,’ the landlord nodded. The people in the bar were all listening now. ‘He showed us his hand. He said he was a hero – he had rescued an officer under heavy machine-gun fire, but lost his hand. The officer was so thankful he paid to have a new hand made. It was made from the officer’s family silver. It was solid metal and worth a fortune.’

‘And what happened to the man with the silver hand?’ Charles went on.

‘He headed east and was never seen again. Maybe he died saving someone else. Maybe he went home safe.’

‘No,’ Charles chuckled. ‘He died in my two-hectare field... the place where the Germans stopped and made peace.’

‘How do you know that?’ someone at the bar asked.