Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but . . . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this foolishness?’

‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.

Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.

Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.

Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And – yes – I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.

‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.

The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.

‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon. May I?’

She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’

‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed. And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken, he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that disastrous encounter.’

‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’

‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought – and perhaps died – would have born that insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander . . . I want you to know that I have no motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity again. I can care for him . . . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him. I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’

Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’

She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’

‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified – or not identified at all – and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’

‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.

Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us together.’

A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a Sunday afternoon before the war.

Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human body, would you believe? And a hideously dramatic demonstration of sabre-slashing! But I understand that there are other claimants who can produce equally convincing evidence that the unknown soldier belongs to them – and by ties of blood which is something I could never claim. Though there is one indication which I had been hoping it would not be necessary to reveal . . . I would not wish to demean this poor person unnecessarily in any way. He suffers indignities enough in that dreadful place.’ She raised her head and finished defiantly, ‘But if I must fight for him, then I will use any weapon that comes to hand. I wonder, Commander, if you could ask your niece, Miss Dorcas, to go in search of the tray of refreshments I had ordered? Marie should be stumbling along the corridor as we speak. Perhaps you could go to her assistance, mademoiselle?’

Dorcas took her dismissal without demur though her eyes narrowed and she favoured Mireille with a long and meaningful stare.

Left alone, Mireille faced him, almost laughing. ‘Goodness! She could give lessons in suspicious staring to my cat! I almost expected to feel her claws! She is very protective of you, I think? I’m sorry. I sent her off awkwardly but I am not aware of how much a woman of the world she is, your charming niece, Commander. I would not like to cause embarrassment in one so young by what I have to say, though . . .’ She paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose I was not a great deal older than she is when I made the discovery for myself.’

Chapter Nine

Didier Marmont, mayor of Choisy-sur-Meuse in the Ardennes forest, stood on the steps of the town hall heroically fighting back an urge to run a finger around his starched collar. His nervousness restricted itself to a swift twitch at the tricolore sash fastened around his comfortable stomach. Above or below? The bulge was making the positioning of his symbol of authority increasingly tricky. He glanced with a moment’s envy at the still-lean shape of the uniformed American officer sharing the steps with him. The man hadn’t put on an ounce since he’d stormed through the town as a lieutenant nearly ten years ago.

With the last note of the Marseillaise, following on the American national anthem rousingly played by the town band, their moment had come. Didier, the host, was the first to speak. He swept a commanding gaze over the upturned eager faces crowding the square and, as always, though he never counted on it, confidence began to flow. His voice boomed out, the grandiose phrases everyone waited to hear unfurled and he dashed a manly tear from his eye. Especially warm this year were his compliments to their US Army guests, the faithful band who returned year after year to the town that had welcomed them and billeted them. The last resting place of many of their comrades, the town was remembered with nostalgic affection but also with practical help. The Doughboys had come mainly from the same small place in the States and, on repatriation, had set about collecting funds to send back to their adopted village in France.

The results of eight years’ hard work were all around them as they stood in the hot August sunshine. The mairie itself, the school and the two bridges spanning the winding river Meuse owed their existence in large part to transatlantic generosity. And, in return, the French had built for the American dead the cemetery and monument they were on this day to hear the Colonel dedicate.

To the crowd’s claps and cheers, the Colonel, a career soldier, stepped forward to respond to the mayor’s introduction. Didier’s son-in-law. It hardly seemed possible. Then he looked at his daughter standing in the front row of the audience, proudly holding up her baby son to witness his father and his grandfather sharing a platform. Though how much a six-month-old could make out he wasn’t sure, and Didier rather thought little John ought to be tucked up at home in his cot, not sweating it out with the rest of them in this heat and noise. Didier had been overjoyed to see his first grandson though he had wondered about the wisdom of subjecting a small infant to a transatlantic crossing. America was so impossibly far away. He was always surprised that the people they loved continued to return.

His daughter was not the only local girl to be lured west by these handsome great fellows with their promise of excitement and an expanded life. The girls came back on their arm and you could pick them out in the crowd by their silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and pretty dresses. And, especially in his daughter’s case, Didier acknowledged, by her happy face. He was thankful to see it. Yes, Paulette was happy.

The Colonel spoke briefly in English and then launched into French to a rising cheer from the crowd. He knew the strings to tug at and the emotive words rang out with pride and certainty: l’entente cordiale, l’amitié éternelle, nos amis, nos épouses, nos confrères . . . And he finished with a ringing reminder of the phrase which had been on all their lips ten years ago: Ils ne passeront pas! Ils ne passeront jamais plus!

The ceremony over, Didier made his excuses and slipped away. He hadn’t the energy to confront his daughter and her forceful husband again just yet. He agreed there were many advantages to joining his only living relations over the Atlantic but he shuddered at the idea of the long sea crossing and he felt faint at the thought of the effort he would have to make to start, in approaching old age, on a life in a new land. He fled to the Promenade down by the river. A walk under the chestnut trees would cool him and help him to consider his future. What remained of it.

As he strolled deep in thought a sound above his head distracted him. He looked up to see an aeroplane looping the loop, stalling and beginning to drop from the sky. A paper aeroplane. To the accompaniment of excited giggles from the branches of the chestnut, he threw off his dignity and dashed about like a music-hall mime artist, chasing and finally catching the plane in his upturned top hat.

‘Pierre! Alphonse!’ He called the boys down. ‘What a useless pair! You’ll never be aero-engineers on this showing. What’s this you’ve designed? A Blériot special?’

‘No, sir!’ His suggestion was dismissed with scorn. ‘We’re designing something that will cross the Atlantic. Papa says there’s a huge prize offered to the first man to cross without stopping. Papa thinks it should go to a Frenchman.’

‘Well, take the word of a trained engineer – this is never going to work. Look, why don’t you put a paperclip on the tail to weigh it down a little? And while you’re at it, think of refolding the fuselage. Like this. May I?’

Honoured to have the full attention of the mayor, the boys closed round, kneeling with him in the middle of the path, all eager interest. Didier began to unfold and smooth out the sheet of newspaper the frail craft had been fashioned from and stopped suddenly. His gaze fixed on the sheet, his voice stilled, his breath began to come in harsh rasps. He groaned and muttered something unintelligible to the boys.

‘Are you all right? Sir? Monsieur Marmont?’ Anxious, they looked at each other, startled by the abrupt change from bonhomie to distress.

‘He’s having one of his turns,’ said Alphonse. ‘Look, his lips are blue and he can’t breathe. Ah, yes, he’s clutching his chest,’ he said knowledgeably. ‘Seen my uncle do that . . . week before he snuffed it. You stay here. I’ll run for my mum. She’ll know what to do.’

The rescue party, which included the local doctor, was soon at the spot. They found the mayor, breathing fitfully and in obvious pain, but still alive and, improbably, clutching the remains of a paper aeroplane to his breast.

‘He’ll be all right,’ pronounced the doctor to the worried crowd beginning to collect. ‘It’s his heart problem, of course. But he’s had this before and bounced back, haven’t you, old chap? And this time – you see – he’s smiling! Yes, he’ll be all right.’

Chapter Ten

‘A wart on the backside, was it, then?’ Dorcas enquired without emphasis. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what makes Dominique so distinctive?’

She’d waited until her lemonade and Joe’s black coffee had been served in the cool interior of the tea shop they’d used the previous day before she referred to their interview. A pair of elegant old ladies nursing matching apricot poodles were taking a very long time choosing the brand of tea they would have served in china cups. They spent even longer deciding which cakes their sculptured pets would prefer but at last, their order given, changed and given again, they settled to look around and smile indulgently at the kind uncle entertaining his niece at the next table. A civilized scene until Dorcas struck up. Joe wondered if they spoke English.

He breathed deeply. Would he ever become accustomed to this wild girl’s free way of speaking, her irreverence bordering on rudeness? He blamed Orlando. His loose life and the dubious characters he chose to associate with had had a devastating and probably irreparable effect on a child who lurked behind sofas, listening, understanding and copying speech and manners that ought never to have been exhibited in her vicinity.

‘No? Well then – a birthmark in an intimate place? A dislocated penis perhaps?’ she said, her voice rising. ‘There’s a boy in our village whose father has trouble with his tyres and his tubes . . .’

He had learned the wisdom of cutting her off the moment she called in evidence ‘a boy from the village’. More of them than he privately thought possible had uncles who’d passed through Port Said and sisters who’d worked in armaments factories. All had returned only too willing to share their worldly knowledge. And, at the end of the chain of information apparently, was Dorcas.

‘One more attention-grabbing word and my lips are sealed for ever in the matter of Dominique’s distinction,’ he growled. He waited for and accepted her silence with a nod, then went on: ‘Let us say . . . front elevation, left of centre, port-wine stain, so slight and so centrally placed as to escape the examination accorded by the medical establishment.’

‘Interesting! We shall have to return to the doctor and ask him to look again. I say, Joe, this seems to me like proof positive that he’s who she says he is.’

‘Well, thinking ahead – as I’ve been taught! – I rang the good doctor when I slipped back to the hotel just now. While you were buying postcards.’ To his chagrin, Joe couldn’t hide his pleasure at scoring a point over Dorcas. ‘I asked him to supply further and better particulars regarding Thibaud’s nether regions. We’re in luck. It’s the day for the patient’s weekly bath and delousing and Varimont agreed to bring forward Thibaud’s time and instruct the orderlies who officiate at these ablutions. He’s intending to supervise the operation himself and record anything interesting. I’m to ring him for a report this afternoon.’

‘So, we should know very soon that Thibaud is French and we can carry on with our journey?’

‘I rather think we’re committed to spending a day or so with the Houdart family,’ said Joe. ‘It’s all fixed. I telephoned to say we’d arrive the day after tomorrow for the weekend. And besides – it would be a shame to pass up the chance of wearing your blue dress.’

‘You’ve made your mind up to see each of these claimants, haven’t you? You’re ignoring what the Inspector had to say. And what you said yourself – “I’m only here to establish whether he’s English or not” – that was just so much blather. You can’t resist a puzzle, that’s what. And you can’t bear to leave the solving of it to anyone else.’

‘I honestly don’t believe that there is any way of establishing that he’s English,’ said Joe patiently. ‘But, on the other hand, there may be a way of proving decisively that he is a Frenchman which fills our aims just as neatly. And that’s what I’m going to attempt to do. Yes, I’m going to take a look at the other claimants, hear their stories . . . I thought Thibaud was probably a fine man and I would like to see his problems resolved. And I don’t fall victim to the first romantic tale I’m told. Now, when you’ve finished that . . . I’m off to see the widow Langlois. She claims that Thibaud is really her son, Albert. She lives in a small village a few miles away from here. Martigny. Do you want to come?’

The countryside rolled by, patchwork squares of green and gold seamed with narrow white threads of chalk roads as they drove eastwards. The caterpillar stripes of the vineyards gave way increasingly to fields of ripe corn where the harvest was well under way. Teams of heavy horses pulled fantastical pieces of machinery, toiling alongside workers a good number of whom were women in pinafores, headscarves and clogs. They stopped work at the sound of the engine and shaded their eyes to stare with suspicion at the oncoming motor car before responding to Dorcas’s cheery wave.

‘The natives don’t seem particularly friendly,’ she said.

‘If you’d had your village destroyed and the land laid waste by several warring armies swarming all over it you’d learn to take a long careful look at foreigners motoring through. And here we are. Martigny,’ he said, parking in the market square and looking around. ‘The new Martigny. Bit hit and miss. But it’s an attempt. They’ve got their priorities right, you see – the café, the inn, the boulangerie, the school and the mairie . . . pretty bell tower . . . And the place we’ve come to visit is there on the corner opposite the boulangerie – the grocer’s shop.’

‘Le Familistère,’ Dorcas read out. ‘Succursale no. 732. Guy Langlois, Patron. Were you prepared for a patron? I thought we were coming to see a woman?’

‘We are. Yes. The claim was made by a mother. Well, let’s go and see if she’s at home.’

A bell clanged over the door as they entered and two customers turned from the counter to stare at them. Joe doffed his hat and gave the usual polite French greeting. There wasn’t much to delight the eye in this dim and cluttered space. The staples of existence were on display in packets, tins and jars, their dull ranks enlivened by a smoked ham and a saucisson or two suspended from the ceiling. Joe guessed that the women of the village did their shopping for fresh food in the weekly market, the token line-up of wooden boxes of faded apples, wrinkled oranges and time-expired lettuce offering little temptation. When the ladies had finally snapped their purses shut, picked up their shopping bags and left, the elderly man behind the counter turned his attention to them, an ingratiating smile vying with curiosity to enliven his heavy features.

Joe introduced himself, watching the smile flicker and die as he proceeded. He handed over his letter of introduction and his Metropolitan Police warrant card and waited while both were inspected with the greatest care.

‘So, you’ve come out all the way from Reims to see my wife? Why was this necessary? She gave her statement some weeks ago and she has nothing further to add. We await the Department’s final decision on the affair. And it is a civil, not a police matter anyway.’

‘Your son’s identity, sir -’ Joe began and recoiled before the interruption.

‘Not my son, if you don’t mind! My wife Henriette’s son – and the man in question is most likely not even that,’ he said darkly. ‘It’s nothing but a mare’s nest. A waste of everyone’s time. The lad’s dead and gone . . . years ago . . . and I for one do not want the whole sorry business raked up again.’

Joe let the man’s explosion of bad humour roll away before replying mildly. He decided to borrow the ingratiating smile as window-dressing for his explanation: an international angle to the case had developed and, in confidential tones, he spoke of the involvement of the recently formed international police force with its headquarters in Lyon. Monsieur Langlois must be aware of Interpol? Even if he wasn’t, Monsieur Langlois could not help but be impressed by the respect in Joe’s voice as he mentioned it. And Scotland Yard’s assistance had been sought by this august body in an attempt to resolve the question of the unknown soldier’s possibly English nationality. This appeared to be not an unwelcome proposition to Langlois and he was just sufficiently impressed to fling up the hinged section of the counter which allowed access to the rear of the shop.

‘Oh? Well, in that case, you’d better come through then.’

He pulled back a curtain yelling, ‘Julie! Come and mind the shop!’ and a young girl slipped by them to take up her place by the till.

They followed their guide through into a storage area full of tins, boxes and flour-sacks and at the far end of this a woman in a high-necked blouse and copious cambric pinafore was sitting at a table weighing out kilos of sugar. She turned to look at them, incurious and unsmiling.

Joe thought that the woman he now greeted as Madame Langlois was all that was conjured up by the word ‘drab’. Her clothing was outdated and faded, her face was square, coarse and expressionless. Her dark hair, beginning to streak with grey, was divided precisely down the centre of her head by a parting through which the scalp gleamed like candle-wax.

‘A policeman to see you, Henriette,’ her husband announced and then, smirking: ‘It seems this loony of yours is actually an Englishman who took the wrong turning in the war. What a fuss about nothing! Well . . . things to do . . . busy man . . . I’ve wasted time enough on this silly business . . . I’m off to do my deliveries. I’ll leave you, Commander, to spell it out to her. My advice: be firm and speak slowly. Be prepared to repeat everything. Don’t fall for her nonsense.’

He bustled off leaving them facing a woman no longer expressionless. The stony features, released from their rigidity by his departure, registered a hatred of such a startling intensity that Joe rocked back on his heels. She collected herself and, slowly assimilating the news so callously delivered, shook her head from side to side like a puzzled ox.

‘Is this true, sir, what he says?’

Her bosom began to heave, she sniffled and rubbed a hand over her dusty face.

Alarmed by this show of emotion, Joe thrust his handkerchief at her and hurried to contradict the information fired at her by Langlois.

‘So the truth of it is that nothing is yet decided? And you have seen my son? Yesterday? Tell me how he was. Are they treating him well? I should like to visit him but Guy will not spare me.’ She brightened and began to take off her pinafore and smooth her hair. ‘I should like to hear what you made of him. Albert. He’s called Albert. Will you come through to the parlour and I’ll ask my daughter to prepare us some coffee. Does the young lady drink coffee? Or would you prefer a glass of milk, mademoiselle, and some bread and chocolate?’

He had never had a more receptive audience, Joe thought as he sipped his coffee and accounted for his presence in her pin-neat parlour. He launched into a cheerful account of his meeting with the patient and told the story of Dorcas and the pink biscuit.

Once again the tears threatened to flow.

‘Albert loved those biscuits!’ she said. ‘He wasn’t allowed to have them from the shop, of course, but I used sometimes when he was little to sneak a broken one for him when Guy was looking the other way.’

‘Madame,’ said Joe tentatively, ‘I can’t help noticing that the patient whom you declare to be your son does not resemble you or your husband.’

‘He is not Guy’s son,’ she said. ‘It’s no secret. Albert is illegitimate.’

She cast a wary glance at Dorcas and Joe reassured her: ‘My niece is au fait with the details of the case and is older than she looks. Quite the woman of the world, in fact.’

She nodded and stumbled on. ‘You will have passed on the road in the neighbouring village an inn. The Croix d’Argent. A staging post between Reims and Paris. I was an orphan of the village and sent to work there on my fifteenth birthday. In 1889.’ She paused, choosing her words. ‘I knew nothing of the world . . .’

Joe sighed. He could guess the whole sorry tale.

‘I was six months pregnant before anyone – before I myself – realized what was happening. They threw me out into the street. I was taken up by Langlois. You will have noticed that he is an ugly man with the manners of a boar. He had had no success in finding a wife. He married me and I have been his slave ever since. He disliked Albert. He wanted sons of his own. Fate decided that I should produce daughter after daughter for him and after each girl his anger would increase. “What kind of a woman are you? You can produce a son for a stranger and only girls for your husband?” He was never kind to Albert. And poor Albert! If only he’d looked like me! But the boy was born the spitting image of his father.’

‘You know his father’s identity?’

‘No. I only know that he was like no man that I had ever seen before. A beautiful man. Tall, fair, blue-eyed like Albert and – a German.’

She grasped Joe’s arm. ‘Sir, I have never disclosed as much to Langlois.’

‘I understand. Be reassured, madame – your information is for my ears alone. It must have taken some courage to defy opposition and start on your identification?’

‘I could not have done it without the support of the schoolmaster,’ she said. ‘It was he who came to us last spring, waving a newspaper. Monsieur Barbier had taught my Albert. He liked him and took a special interest in him because he was a clever boy and he pitied him in his situation with his stepfather. He showed us the photograph and assured us that it was Albert. He never forgets any of his pupils, Commander. And I recognized my son, of course. M. Barbier is not impressed by my husband and, in the way of bullies, Langlois defers to a stronger man. He allowed me, grudgingly, to go to Reims with Barbier to see my son. It was the schoolmaster who wrote out my official claim form for me. He always knows what to say.’

‘Can you tell me what evidence you submitted apart from the visual identification?’

‘Photographs.’

She went to a sewing table and automatically looked about her, although they were unobserved, before taking from the bottom three creased photographs and a bundle of letters.

‘I showed these to the director.’

The first photograph was a formal one taken on the steps of the pre-war school building on a clear, sunny day. The children, in their grey school smocks, were excited and overawed by the camera. M. Barbier stood on the right, the proud shepherd of his flock. The flock was, with little variation, dark-haired and chubby. Albert, on the left, stood out from the crowd with his light build and fair hair. His ethereal features, framed by a neat white collar, tugged at Joe’s heart over the gap of a quarter of a century. He wondered if Dorcas, stickily breathing chocolate fumes over his shoulder, had seen it: the same unfocused expression of dislocation and sadness, of other-worldliness that they had seen in Thibaud’s face.

In the second photograph the Langlois children were lined up in height order in a studio, grinning at the camera over their right shoulders. Four dark girls with square faces and dark eyes. Adrift by a few inches at the back and gazing at the middle distance Albert hovered, an alien presence.

The third was also a posed photograph, taken in Reims. The grown Albert looked straight at the camera this time, alone, defiant, wearing with some dash the tight tunic, red jodhpurs, knee-high boots and saucily tilted casquette of an artilleryman.

‘He loved horses, you see. He was very good with them. M. Barbier managed to steer him into the artillery.’

Joe passed the photographs to Dorcas.

‘What a fine man,’ she said quietly. ‘You must be very proud of him, madame.’

‘Always,’ was the whispered reply. ‘Always.’

‘Can you tell us when you last saw your son?’

‘It was in April 1917. We’d returned after the 1914 invasion thinking it couldn’t happen again. Papa Joffre had sent them all packing, hadn’t he? But we were wrong. They came again and it was worse this time. Hardly a village survived the bombing and the burning. We were caught up in it all. And it was just days before that when Albert turned up suddenly on leave. He’d walked all the way from somewhere up by Laon . . .’ She hesitated, trying to remember.

‘The Chemin des Dames?’ Joe supplied. ‘Was he involved in that battle?’

‘That’s the one. Chemin des Dames. He was in the Fifth Army under General Nivelle. Albert told us he was on leave,’ she added uncertainly. ‘Langlois said it was all a lie. They wouldn’t have given leave to anyone at such a bad moment, he said. Albert must have deserted.

‘Albert was wearing his own civilian clothes, helping us to load our things on to the cart, when someone shouted, “The Uhlans are coming!”’ She shivered with remembered terror at the panic-raising call. ‘And the Boche flooded in. They shot the mayor who’d dared to confront them and rounded up fifty hostages. The usual behaviour. And when they retreated they set the houses on fire, marched the hostages out with them and fired cannon at the village until it was rubble. One of the hostages was my son. I never saw or heard from him again until I went to Reims last spring.’