The doctor raised an arm and pointed to the plain below them. ‘That’s Bray, the railhead for the British. If we capture that we can stay a while and set up a proper hospital.’

‘We aren’t going to follow our army to the sea? Watch them drive the British to their ships?’ Marius asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘No. We’ll have to stop soon. We’re like a steam engine and our fires are burning low. Bray will be a good place to rest.’

26 March 1918: Bray

Aimee had spent four days and nights in fear. When Sergeant Grimm the traitor followed her from the classroom into the school hall he laid his cold silver hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t be afraid, little girl. So long as you keep your mouth shut you will come to no harm.’

She stared up into his dark hawk eyes that were as hot as his hand was cold. ‘Of course,’ he went on quietly, ‘if you tell anyone what you just heard then I will know. And children have accidents in days of war. Crushed by a tank. Trampled by a horse. Blown apart by a hand grenade that someone carelessly dropped. We don’t want that happening to you, do we?’

Before Aimee could answer, the door from the corridor opened and Captain Ellis strode in. He spoke in French. ‘Ah, Aimee, your mother’s looking for you. She has a broomstick she wants you to deliver.’

Aimee nodded and fled from under the icy silver hand. She spent three days running to villages nearby, delivering broomsticks and beans for the White Lady. When the Germans arrived then the spies would be ready to start sending messages to their British friends.

British soldiers marched past her, heading west, torn and bandaged from their fighting. Now their songs were gloomier.

‘Take me back to dear old Blighty!

Put me on the train for London town!

Take me over there,

Drop me anywhere,

Birmingham, Leeds or Manchester, well, I don’t care!’

Aimee’s father had told her ‘Blighty’ was the soldiers’ name for Britain. Their singing was sweet but their eyes were dead in their grey faces, their boots dusty, and their feet dragged. They’d had enough of war. They just wanted to go home. To anywhere.

Every time Aimee returned to Bray from the villages the thunder of the guns seemed closer. The streets were more crowded with the fleeing British. Their barn was full of wounded men and the sky was forever clouded with sooty smoke from the trains at the railhead, taking men away and bringing in new bullets and bombs to fight the battle. A battle they knew was lost.