Someone laughed and shouted, ‘Not with these wounds, my friend. The war’s over for me.’

‘Where will I be on Tuesday?’ the sour-faced doctor asked. ‘It’s my birthday. Will I get to spend it in Paris with the best French wines?’

The limping soldier seemed to take the question seriously. ‘Paris in June, I’d say. But next Tuesday? Ah, next Tuesday I’d guess we’ll be nice and comfy a dozen kilometres down the Somme... probably that nice little village by the river. We took it four years ago.’

‘What’s it called?’ Marius asked, looking at the tattered map he pulled from his pocket.

‘Bray, I think it’s called,’ the soldier told him. ‘Bray-on-Somme.’

22 March 1918: Bray

As Aimee and her mother walked down to the school they struggled to get through the traffic. The sleepy village of Bray had become a whirlpool of war.

Motor-lorries and horse wagons of weapons were heading east to supply the men fighting the enemy who were driving forward. The precious heavy guns and tanks were being sent west to Amiens to save them from being captured. As before, when the two convoys met in Bray, they became tangled in the tiny, twisting lanes.

Angry drivers swore and struggled with sweating horses. Weary wounded men stumbled along at the edge of the ditches. Some had their eyes bandaged and rested a hand on the shoulder of the man in front.

‘They’ve been blinded by German gas attacks,’ Colette Fletcher explained. Aimee gave a small gasp and her mother said quickly, ‘Most of them will see again, once the wet bandages are taken off.’

As they reached the corner of their lane a sergeant stood and sent the wounded up to their farm. The day before Captain Ellis had said, ‘We need to use your barn as a hospital.’

Colette Fletcher had agreed at once. ‘We won’t be needing it for hay for a couple of months.’

The walking wounded were followed by ambulances carrying the men too sick to march. The crunching of the wheels on the rutted lane was echoed by the moans of the men inside the red-crossed wagons.

When they reached the school the cat had gone. There was as much turmoil in the old building as in the rest of the village. School desks were out in the schoolyard and heavy cabinets and office desks were being moved in. ‘Waste of time,’ a tired soldier grumbled. ‘The enemy will be here in a couple of days and we’ll have to move out again.’

‘We’ve been sent to help with the cleaning,’ Colette Fletcher said. That was the story they’d agreed with Captain Ellis.

‘Report to Silver Hand,’ the soldier told them.

‘Who?’

‘Sergeant Grimm. He has a metal hand. He’s in charge of General Bruce’s office.’