‘The pilot could have killed us,’ she argued. ‘Maybe his gun jammed. Maybe he hadn’t the heart.’

Marius nodded. ‘What will the man with the silver hand do now?’

‘He’ll fly back to the airfield and set off after us. He’ll be a day behind. There are woods further along this road. At least we’ll have somewhere to hide. Can you walk a little further?’

‘Of course I can,’ Marius said, rising to his feet and trying to hide his trembling legs. Trembling like a deer that was being hunted.

The figure in the black cloak watched them from his place behind the hedge. He breathed heavily. That plane could easily have killed them and there was nothing the watcher could have done to stop it.

29 August 1918: Cléry

The days passed painfully for Marius Furst. He walked a little then rested. The closer they came to the fighting, the louder the roar of the guns. Shell-holes scarred the trail and they filled with slimy, stinking water.

Each evening they stopped when they came to some woods and made camp among the twisted, broken trees. Each morning they woke and Marius said he felt a little better.

They looked into the skies whenever they heard an aeroplane engine but they were never swooped on again.

‘Where is Silver Hand?’ Aimee said. ‘He must have flown back to the airfield. But we’re moving so slowly he should have caught us by now.’

‘Maybe he’s given up the chase. When I get back to Germany I will be a danger to him no longer.’

Aimee looked at him. ‘When you get back, are you sure they won’t make you fight?’

‘No. As I said to your mother, I will tell them my real age.’

‘And if they don’t believe you?’

‘Then I will tell them I am a farmer’s son... that my father needs me to work on the harvest.’

The girl frowned. ‘They won’t let soldiers go home just to look after their farms.’

Marius shrugged. ‘But they do. The farm workers go home every summer and come back to fight in the autumn. Germany needs food more than they need men with guns.’

‘We still have to get you back to your army. You seem stronger every day.’

Marius smiled. ‘I am.’ He peered at the map Colette had given them and traced their route with a dirty, broken fingernail. ‘Tomorrow we should reach Cléry to find Father Gaulle.’

Aimee reached into her pack and took out the last small pieces of bread and cheese and a withered apple. She shared them. ‘Let’s hope Father Gaulle feeds us,’ she sighed. After their poor meal they lay under their oilskin sheet to sleep a troubled, hungry sleep.

The morning rain woke them. Thunder in the sky echoed the thunder of the pounding guns at Peronne. They set off towards the village.