‘No,’ the girl panted. ‘It was Marius who told me. It’s all around the hospital. The Red Baron is dead.’

Master DuPont nodded. ‘I saw he didn’t land. I thought maybe he’d crashed and was safe.’

‘They say the Baron was chasing after a young British pilot when a Sopwith Camel got on his tail and shot him down.’

Marius said something in Latin and Aimee went on. ‘But the Baron was flying so low some Australian troops were firing their rifles up at him too. It might have been one of them that shot him. The Baron managed to land on the road from Bray to Corbie on the British side of the lines. When the British got to him he was dead.’

‘It will please everyone. We need some good news like that.’

Marius seemed to understand what she was saying. He muttered in Latin, ‘It is a sign that we are going to lose the war. He was our Goliath and he has been slain. It makes us sick to the hearts. It makes us want to give up.’ Aimee told her mother what he’d said.

‘Poor boy,’ she murmured. ‘He has a miserable life.’

When Aimee returned to the hospital the patients were gloomier than ever. One man began to sing and the ones who were well enough joined in the old song ‘My Good Comrade’ about the death of a friend.

‘I once had a comrade, you will find no better.

The drum called to battle, he walked at my side,

In the same pace and step. A bullet came a-flying,

Is my turn or yours? He was swept away,

He lies at my feet, like it were a part of me.

He still reaches out his hand to me, while I am about to reload.

I cannot hold on to your hand, you stay in eternal life,

My good comrade.’

As the men sang, Marius whispered to Aimee what the words meant.

The singing finished.

Silence fell.

Aimee wept.

July 1918: Amiens

The summer days were long. The British army had to wait until after ten o’clock at night for the darkness that would hide their stealthy movements.

Their carts edged forwards on roads lit only by the moon. The tunnel of trees that covered the Amiens road kept it gloomy. A man on the back of each cart threw straw on the road. The carts had ropes around the wheels and the axles were greased so they were silent as swans.

They were followed by trailers pulling the tanks they called Whippets. These rolled over the straw so they made no noise. When they reached their positions they were covered in nets and scattered with leaves to hide them. A German spotter plane would not see them.