‘Should I have you shot this afternoon or would you prefer tomorrow morning?’

Captain Ellis knew it was the general’s idea of a joke. ‘We have a man following him, sir. With or without the pass he’ll lead us to Benedict and then we’ll destroy the whole spy network.’

General Bruce spoke softly. ‘You had better hope so, Captain. Because not only have you helped a spy... you have left Mrs Fletcher’s daughter without any help.’ The general stroked his thick moustache. ‘I am sure Mrs Fletcher would like to be holding a gun in the firing squad when we shoot you, Captain.’

Colette did not join in the joke. ‘Aimee will be fine. I wouldn’t have let her go if I thought she’d be in danger... well, no more danger than living in Bray. She’ll be fine.’

General Bruce answered her but was looking at the unhappy captain. ‘Let’s pray to God she is.’

27 August 1918: The drovers’ road to Cléry

Aimee awoke. It took her a while to remember where she was. Not much light spilled through the gas-curtain over the doorway. ‘Marius?’ she said. The boy groaned. ‘Are you all right?’

Again she just got a groan. Aimee had slept in her clothes. She climbed down from the top bunk and opened the curtain to let in a little light. It had stopped raining and the air was cooler.

In the half-light she found matches and the little stove that the British had left behind. She poured water from her own water bottle into a pan. She would have to fill the bottle again when they reached a fresh stream.

The water boiled and she poured it on some dusty tea leaves from a cupboard. There was a full packet of sugar but no milk. She passed the steaming cup to Marius as he struggled to sit up. ‘The sugar will give you strength,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ he croaked and tried to drink the sticky brew.

‘Can you manage five kilometres today do you think?’ Aimee asked as she dropped a slice of bacon into the pan, held it over the stove and let it fry in its own fat. The smoke drifted out through the door. She tore a piece of bread from the loaf her mother had given her and prepared to make a sandwich.

Marius sat on the edge of his bunk and held his head in his hands.

A shadow dimmed the morning light. Marius looked up and gave a soft cry. Aimee swung round a moment later and looked into the barrel of a rifle. A German soldier was holding it. His uniform was mud-stained and torn. The man’s gaunt face had not been shaved for a week or more and his eyes were sunken pools. He spoke in German and Marius answered quickly. To Aimee he said, ‘He won’t harm us if we give him our food.’