Marius woke from a restless sleep with dreams of finding his wounded father on a battlefield, pouring the potion into his mouth and seeing him rise up as strong as ever. He shook his head. He knew it was just a dream and he remembered a poem from his school days...

‘That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never.’

He remembered where he was and looked up into the face of the fat baker who was grinning down at him. ‘Well done, lad, well done.’

‘Sorry? What?’ he muttered as he rubbed at his tired eyes.

‘Your magic drink. Look what it did for the little shoemaker.’

The skinny man who had seemed so sick the night before was looking as pale and grey as ever, but his eyes were clearer and his breathing was now easy. ‘I thought I was finished,’ he said. ‘I was sure I’d wake up dead.’

The lorry had stopped at a camp of tents in a field that led down to the River Somme. There was bustle and the noise of lorries with groaning springs and coughing engines, the smell of petrol and horse sweat and the toilet trenches.

‘Come on, lad, they need you over there,’ the baker said. Marius clutched his backpack and let the large man lead him over to a long tent bearing a white circle with a red cross inside. The smell of blood hung heavy. ‘Who’s in charge?’ the baker cried. A worried-looking man in a red-stained white coat glanced up from where he was kneeling beside a croaking soldier.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped. He pushed his spectacles back on his nose. His brown hair fell over his face, too long and neglected.

‘This lad wants to join the hospital service, doctor. He has the most marvellous cure for the flu.’

The doctor snorted. ‘We need nurses not miracle-workers. Here, lad, take your pack off, put a white coat on and help me with this new lot of wounded. Mostly shell and shot wounds from the battle for Peronne.’

The baker shrugged and walked back to the lorry waving. ‘Good luck, lad.’

Marius found himself spending the rest of the day cutting off boots and uniforms so the doctors could see the wounds then changing the bandages that had been roughly tied on in battle. He pressed down on spouting wounds while the doctors sewed them shut and he helped when there were shattered arms and legs to be removed. There were lice to be dodged, which was tricky as some men were swarming with them.

And still lorries arrived with new batches of sick and dying. Some of the wounded stayed cheerful. ‘We’ll be in Peronne tomorrow,’ a limping soldier told the tent and there was a weak cheer from those who had the strength left.

‘We’ll be in Amiens a week from now,’ he went on.