Master DuPont gripped the chalk so hard it cracked and the white dust floated through a morning sunbeam. ‘The British soldiers are our friends. They are fighting against the Germans who invaded our land, our own big bad wolves. We must be polite to the British and, when we see them marching through our village, we must speak to them in English.’

Aimee spread her hands. ‘My dad is English... though he’s joined the French army... I can speak it very well already.’

The teacher put the broken chalk down on his desk and rubbed his weary eyes. ‘I am sure you can, Aimee Fletcher. You are the best pupil in Latin and English in the class.’

‘And history,’ Aimee put in.

‘And history.’ The teacher nodded. ‘But you must learn to be on time. You will stay behind after school today and translate some Cicero.’

Aimee shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘But, sir, that’s what I was trying to tell you... there won’t be any more school.’

Some of the children giggled. Aimee was mad. No more school? What next? No more sun in the sky? No more River Somme at the end of the road?

Master DuPont glared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t say. The younger children would panic.’

‘Aimee Fletcher, if you are making up some story to escape punishment then I can tell you...’

‘Intus est hostis,’ she hissed.

The teacher blinked. ‘Cicero?’

Aimee nodded. ‘Yes... so the young ones aren’t scared. Intus est hostis.’

But then the teacher did just what Aimee hoped he wouldn’t do. He said the Latin words in French. ‘The enemy is within the gates? You mean the Germans are coming?’

Aimee groaned. The younger children gasped and whimpered and panicked. A shiver from the trembling pupils seemed to chill the room. Little Marie Picard screamed and pointed at the glass in the classroom door. Everyone’s eyes followed her finger.

A soldier was standing outside.

21 March 1918: Saint Quentin, Northern France

Marius Furst stepped out of the trench and looked to the west. A mild breeze blew in the boy’s face and carried the smell of stale death into his nostrils. But it didn’t disturb the fog of the spring morning or the thunder of the heavy guns in the battles ahead of him. ‘So this is no man’s land?’ he asked.

The soldier with a face of flint gave a laugh as sharp as a dog’s bark. ‘Never seen it before, lad?’

‘I’ve never been near the trenches before. I just left Germany to help us win the war.’

The soldier had a stripe on his arm that showed he was a corporal. ‘You look too young to fight.’

‘Yes. No,’ Marius mumbled. ‘My grandmother taught me about herbs and healing. I thought I could work in the hospitals.’

‘But they let you join the army?’ the corporal asked. ‘They gave you a uniform.’