He thought of those who hadn’t made it with a deep sorrow that was laced with intense hatred for those who’d pitilessly snuffed out their lives. Freddy had been laid to rest in Argentina; Colonel Fuller had died from gangrene during their last days in the camp and now shared a communal grave in the woods behind it. Allan Forbes was buried somewhere on their route to the other side of Germany, and First Lieutenant Andrew Pearce had survived the ordeal of that murderous march only to die within hours of being liberated by his fellow Americans.

Martin reached for the brandy flask in his pocket and drank deeply. He’d found that alcohol blotted out the memories if he drank enough of it, but it was a short respite, for when it wore off they flooded back with even greater force. He shoved the hip flask back into his coat pocket and gripped the rough wooden rail until his knuckles turned white in his desperation to talk to someone who could understand what he was going through. But there was no one who knew better than Roger, and he was on the other side of the country.

Martin pushed away from the railing and continued his walk. He’d thought of approaching George Mayhew, Anne’s headmaster, who’d been shot down and still bore the life-changing scars of the burns he’d suffered. But he’d shied away from doing so when he realised the man had come to terms with what had happened to him and found love and contentment with his new wife. It would have been unkind to stir up old memories and ruin the man’s peace of mind.

Anne had tried to persuade him to talk to the vicar, but upon meeting him, Martin knew immediately that although he seemed kindly enough, the man had little experience of real-life traumas and was incapable of doing more than dish out platitudes and offers of prayer.

Martin gave a deep sigh. It was at times like this that he wished he could speak to his father, who’d come through the last years of the First World War and might have some understanding of what was troubling him. However, he was estranged from his parents, who hadn’t approved of his marriage to Anne and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in either of them since their wedding – even when his girls had been born.

The bitterness seared through him, making him clumsy so that he almost stumbled as he climbed the stile and had to grab onto one of the posts. His damaged hand sang with pain as he knocked it against the hard wood, but he welcomed it, for it fleetingly overrode his inner torment.