General Bruce read it quietly. ‘Today the enemy began his terrific attacks against us. Many amongst us are now tired. To those I would say that Victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. The French army is moving quickly and in great numbers to help us. We have no choice, we must fight it out. Every yard must be held to the last man: there must be no retreat. With our backs to the wall we must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the Freedom of mankind are in our hands right now.’

Colonel Wright nodded. ‘With our backs to the wall.’

One of the officers asked, ‘Where is our wall? Where do we stop them?’

The general pointed to the map. ‘Here,’ he said and drew a line on the map. It passed through the village of Bray. ‘Sergeant Grimm will take the orders to our troops,’ he said, nodding towards the man with the silver hand.

‘Can we stop them?’ a young captain asked.

‘We can stop them. Then we will drive them all the way back to Germany,’ the general said with a sly smile. ‘You see, we have a new weapon that will win the war. It is so secret hardly anyone outside this room knows about it.’

A shiver of excitement ran through the officers. ‘Are you going to tell us about this new weapon?’ the captain asked. ‘Is it a new tank? A new plane?’

General Bruce gave a wide smile under his moustache. ‘A new sort of gas. DM gas. When it is fired at the enemy it will turn them into statues. I have the formula here,’ he said and waved a brown envelope at the men in the room. He turned and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Grimm?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Take this and lock it in my safe, then take a car to Bray. See that it’s ready for us to set up a new base. Captain Ellis is already there and I’ll be along tomorrow when I’m finished here. Help Captain Ellis till then.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Grimm said and his good right hand trembled a little as he took the envelope of secrets.

21 March 1918: Bray

The young children of Bray school hurried past the watch-cat at the door. Its tail swished, annoyed at the bustle and banging of those pupils fleeing school so early in the day. Aimee followed more slowly, then began to run down the street, the nails in her boots chiming on the cobbles. Everyone in the village looked as grey-faced as the morning mist. Grey with fear. Even the red-faced butcher, Mr Albert, had faded to pink.

Aimee turned into the dusty lane that led to her farm and the cows seemed restless as ripples on the River Somme. The rumble of the guns should have been muffled by the foggy air but it was louder, closer, more menacing now.