Brothers United: Forging a Shared Future

by Just-A-Beginner-2

AU: Thomas has a half-brother he wants to get hired as the new chauffeur at Downton. Tom and Thomas are half-brothers, an exploration of the relationship of Tom and Thomas if they were half-brothers and how this would affect Downton Abbey.

8. Chapter 8

Brothers United: A Time of War Part Seven

April 1918 Day One

Tom Branson found himself in Northern France, amidst the backdrop of the devastating German Spring Offensive, known as the Kaiserschlacht. Despite the proximity of a brutal and deadly war, the meadow stretched out before him, a tranquil oasis of green lushness and blooming wildflowers, the fresh scent of growing plants juxtaposed with the usual stench of mud and blood in the trenches. Insects buzzed and flitted about in the warm spring air, creating a serene scene that seemed at odds with the horrors of the battlefield just hundreds of yards away. The sound of machine guns and exploding shells had momentarily ceased, allowing Tom to immerse himself in the serene beauty of the meadow.

Within this idyllic landscape, Tom noticed two young British soldiers taking a well-deserved rest, one fair and one dark. He briefly wondered what their lives were like before the war. One of them leaned against a sturdy oak tree, appeared to be deep in thought, while the other used his knapsack as a makeshift pillow, reclining comfortably in the grass, eyes closed seeming to enjoy the spring sun on his face. They seemed to have embraced this moment of respite, cherishing the tranquillity that was so rare amidst the chaos of war. The two soldiers, like countless others, had temporarily left behind the grim reality of battle. Their moments of rest were brief, however, as a sergeant approached them, urgency in every step, rousing them from their temporary reprieve.

This caught Tom's attention as the camp had felt unsettled this morning, with an underlying feeling of anxiousness, different from the general tedium of war. Tom had been reporting on the war since the middle of 1915 and he was familiar with the base camp and its routines. He knew when there wasn't active heavy fighting that the soldiers manning the trenches were swapped out regularly for rest and relaxation and were rarely disturbed until their rest period was over. Besides the sergeant displayed a certain tension, a stiffness in the way he carried himself, that caught Tom's attention.

Tom, a journalist who reported for a Danish newspaper and contributed freelance articles to several British publications, was on a mission to convey the impact of the war on the common people. His perspective was unique as he had even ventured beyond the Danish border into Northern Germany, interviewing local Germans to explore their viewpoint on the conflict. His intention was to demonstrate to the public that the working-class Germans were not significantly different from their British counterparts and shared a similar lack of comprehension about the reasons for the war.

While his articles had been well-received in Denmark and earned him recognition, British newspapers were less receptive, particularly after how long the war had drawn out, leaving the British public weary and in no mood to hear how their enemies suffered, when they had sons, brothers and fathers who would never return from the field of battle. The British papers preferred stories focused on the hardiness of the British public pulling together and the effect of British country life the war was having. They would be much more accepting of reports on the negative impact of war on their mainland allies.

But, before the American's had joined the war, he was even able to sell an English language version of the story to some of the mainstream papers in New York and Washington D.C.. But now they had joined the side of the allies they were not as receptive to articles pointing out the similarities between the people of each country. The political climate had shifted, making it more challenging to publish pieces that emphasised the similarities between the people on opposing sides.

Tom's stance on the war was clear: he abhorred it, not out of sympathy for the Germans but because he despised the senseless loss of young lives on both sides. He was not so entrenched in his views that he did not understand how unhelpful it was to point out to grieving people that the other side where grieving too, and that his articles were not going to somehow stop the war.

He was also acutely aware that his brother held a significant position in the British Army as an Army Captain and respected translator for Army HQ in London. As such, he wrote his stories with a careful neutrality, avoiding any overtly anti-war sentiments that might jeopardize his brother Thomas's career or unsettle his sweetheart's family.

Lady Mary Crawley, his beloved, had come to an understanding with Tom, that they would marry after the war. She recognised his strong aversion to the conflict. In return, Tom understood her deep affection for her family and her ancestral home, Downton Abbey in Yorkshire.

Her family had grown more accepting of their relationship, although he needed to tread carefully, especially with her father, a Colonel in the British Army (though largely ceremonial), and the Lord Lieutenant of Yorkshire. The military held great importance for Lord Grantham, who had himself served in the Boer War over two decades ago. Tom was aware of the close relationship between Mary and her father, and he would do anything to avoid placing her in a situation where she might have to choose between her family and him.

Amidst the rolling meadow in Northern France, Tom Branson was keenly aware that his sweetheart, Lady Mary Crawley, and his brother, Thomas, would not be pleased if they knew just how perilously close, he was to the front lines of the war, only several hundred yards away.

The conflict had stretched on for more than three gruelling years, and the elusive end seemed forever on the horizon. This time, Tom had come to Northern France with a specific objective in mind – to capture the stories of common French civilians who had witnessed the devastation of their lands and property due to the ravages of war. He wanted to tell their tales, to reveal the human side of the conflict.

Tom possessed an advantage that set him apart from many of his fellow reporters. Not only was he a skilled observer and storyteller, but he was also fluent in multiple languages, a gift that allowed him to communicate with a broader range of people. Lately, he had noticed some unusual activity in the war zone, particularly among high-ranking officers who appeared deeply concerned, while their younger counterparts seemed bewildered. This unusual change to the routine of the army camp unsettled Tom, who started to feel his own unease twist in his stomach.

Could this be the beginning of the much-discussed "Big Push," where the Allies would finally break the German lines of defence? He had sat around the fire with the soldiers on rest period and they often spoke about it, but no whisper had reached him yet at the current unusual mood of the high-ranking officers. What struck Tom particularly is that these senior officers hadn't confided in their junior officers, it appeared to be a secret. The only thing Tom could think of was the newest rumour circulating through the camp, was that the Germans had inexplicable withdrawn, but why would that make the senior officers upset?

Hence, when he observed a sergeant summoning the two young corporals he had been watching, identifiable by the single stripe on their uniform tunics, Tom made a decision. He chose to follow them discreetly in the hopes of unravelling the mysteries that surrounded this sudden flurry of activity.

His journey through the makeshift camp, with its chatter and smells, was a testament to the labour and chores undertaken by the soldiers, from washing and crafting wooden crosses to mark the graves of their fallen comrades to the tedious tasks of cleaning weapons and digging latrines. It was a bustling community of soldiers and volunteers, including Red Cross ambulance drivers. Though after three years of war there was definite signs of wear and tear on the army equipment, with patches on the tents particularly noticeable. Tom blended in, content that he had an official press pass at his disposal if anyone questioned his presence, a perk of having a brother at Army HQ in London.

As the two young soldiers vanished into the labyrinthine trenches, which served as both fortifications and protective barriers against the Germans, Tom contemplated whether he should follow them. There was no active fighting at the moment, and the soldiers, manning the trenches appeared to be too exhausted to pay him much mind. Nevertheless, he kept his press pass at the ready, just in case.

Navigating the intricate trench network, he noticed soldiers tending to electric wires and telephone cables, which connected wooden poles and were vital for communication between commanders, a never-ending task from Tom's observation. Sandbags, wooden stakes, and iron mesh reinforced the trench walls, providing stability and protection for the troops. Being in the trenches themselves always made Tom uneasy, realising he was walking in the dank alley ways of mud where men were injured and killed daily. He couldn't help imagining that the mud must have been mixed in with blood, vomit and urine from the soldiers crowded in the narrow spaces. The smell of the place certainly suggested that his imagination wasn't too far from the truth.

Eventually, Tom spotted an entrance to a dugout and, unable to resist his curiosity, he inquired of a nearby soldier, "What's going on there, then?" The soldier, an experienced man from the age of him somewhat gruffly asked who he was. Tom calmly flashed his press pass and explained, "I'm a reporter for the Times." However, the soldier's response was far from accommodating, "I don't care who you are, piss off." instructing Tom to leave in no uncertain terms. Tom, realising that he should tread carefully not to antagonise the man, retraced his steps, and remained out of the soldier's sight, hidden by a bend in the trench.

Around the corner, Tom encountered a much younger soldier, barely more than a boy really. He decided to try once more, inquiring, "Who's in the dugout?" The boy soldier, with a pale and dirt-covered face, and an ill repaired uniform, replied with a sense of weariness, "Just the general and some majors." He added that there were rumours of the Germans retreating. Tom had already heard this gossip, swirling through the camp the previous night, about the Germans pulling back 13 miles to the northeast. He had acquired his own maps of the region, courtesy of a French cartographer he met in Portsmouth, enabling him to make his own estimations about the current German front line, though not as detailed as the trench maps he had seen the officer's use.

As he peered at the dugout, curiosity piqued once more, he witnessed the two corporals hurrying out and turning right. Tom ducked back around the corner and approached the young soldier again, asking, "What's that way?" and gesturing in the direction the corporals had taken. The reply was clear: "That's the way to the front, and after that, it's no man's land." Tom thanked him and lost in thought, turned to retrace his steps.

Determined to discover the truth behind this unusual behaviour and aware that his reporter's instincts were signalling something significant, Tom ventured on, the mystery of the war unfolding before him.

As Tom Branson made his way back to the encampment, the chill of early evening had begun to creep over the landscape, carrying with it a sense of foreboding. Looking up at the sky, large grey clouds were gathering overhead, indicating that it would probably rain during the night.

The war-torn meadow, which had been drenched in sunlight earlier, was now cast in a shadowy gloom. Tom pulled his navy greatcoat tightly around himself, the only barrier between him and the changing weather. He had chosen this coat not only for warmth but also to avoid being mistaken for a soldier, a possibility he had to be wary of in this environment.

Emerging from his field tent, Tom adjusted the coat's belt and listened carefully. In the hushed surroundings, a faint sound reached his ears – sobbing. While it was not entirely unheard of in the camp, it was more commonly associated with the first aid stations or hospitals. Occasionally, the younger soldiers, still boys in many respects, could be heard weeping, the horrors of war taking a heavy toll on their young souls. The sound always affected Tom who was aware that unlike the crying soldier, he could leave the front and return home at any time. Even though Tom morally opposed the war it did generate a feeling of guilt within Tom. He felt for these soldiers who were just doing their duty and had no real choice but to follow the orders they were given.

These young recruits, lured by promises of adventure, had been thrust into a brutal reality where their best mates met grisly ends. The more seasoned soldiers, while just as terrified, had become accustomed to the hardships and brutal truths that came with a working-class life.

Tom's compassionate nature propelled him forward to investigate. His aim was to offer solace, if not a solution, to the anguish that haunted this unknown soldier. He navigated the rows of tents until he found the source of the tears, and he called out, "Hey mate, are you alright in there?"

Tentatively, he pulled back the tent's flap, revealing the young man within, who wore a uniform that Tom did not immediately recognise. The unmistakable scent of cheap rum wafted from the dishevelled figure before him, who had red eyes and flushed cheeks. The soldier, who appeared to be around 21 years old, was caught in the throes of distress.

Tom's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he crouched down in front of the young man and inquired, "What's wrong?" As he reached into his coat pocket, he retrieved a large handkerchief and passed it to the sobbing soldier. The man choked out his response, "I'm gonna be shot."

Upon closer examination, Tom realised that this distraught individual was in a Navy uniform. It was a perplexing sight in the middle of Northern France, far from the sea. "Why?" Tom asked, his curiosity piqued.

The young seaman managed to articulate a disjointed story of how he had served as a steward. He had followed his officer, who has an older brother, to visit his sibling in the Army. The major, the older brother, had seen no real combat, having only served in England and occasionally visited mainland France, far from the front lines, and was ranting that his younger brother had seen action and had served King and Country, while he, the elder brother had been kept away from any action. This was achieved by his powerful father pulling strings due to his well-connected family, Tom was told. However, the major, thirsting for action, had ventured to cross over to France and progressed to the front, determined to engage the enemy. The steward's sensible officer, deeply concerned for his elder brother's safety, had reluctantly followed him to France.

As could be predicted, everything had gone to shit, and the brothers now found themselves lost behind enemy lines. The steward who had been separated from them had reported their disappearance to the nearest officer he found when he managed to return to the Allied forces. Apparently, these brothers were connected to an influential family or possessed critical army intelligence, Tom was unsure from the cryptic rambling of the drunk seaman. Either way, high-ranking officials in the field were in a state of panic, believing that if the Germans captured the major, it might turn the tide of the war against Britain and her allies.

Tom listened, a mix of empathy for the seaman's situation and his own selfish concerns about the war's duration. His mind wandered to his own dear brother's safety and the hope that this conflict would end sooner rather than later.

With a sympathetic gesture, Tom took the rum away from the seaman and went to fetch a mug of strong, sweetened tea, a constant companion in the British army. As he handed it to the weeping sailor, he offered a comforting presence. In this tumultuous environment, he had a decision to make – he could offer his assistance to the army. He possessed the gift of languages, possessed excellent maps of the area, and had handy tools like a compass and watch. More importantly, he could reference's from his brother's general, who could vouch for his capabilities. Tom resolved to find an officer high enough in the chain of command to present his offer of help.

Tom had spent four days in the encampment, familiarising himself with its layout, so he knew the locations of key areas like the officer's mess tent and the wooden huts where the ranking officers managed administrative duties. As he walked, he cast an occasional wary eye on the clouds that loomed overhead, threatening an impending rainstorm later that night.

Approaching Colonel Peter's hut, Tom was relieved to see a shingle affixed to the outer wall with the colonel's name boldly written on it. Just as he reached the hut, Lieutenant Sheen emerged, about to knock on the door. Tom hurried to intercept the officer before he could enter.

"Lieutenant Sheen," Tom called out, vying for the officer's attention. Lieutenant Sheen was a man of around forty, his bearing and demeanour often leading others to assume he held a higher rank. Tom had first met the lieutenant two days ago when the officer had been verifying Tom's credentials. During their conversation, Lieutenant Sheen had explained that he was once a headmaster at a prestigious school in Wales. He had felt a profound sense of guilt seeing many of his former students enlist in the military, prompting him to join the British Army in 1916. His experience as a headmaster had equipped him with strong administrative skills and the ability to discipline younger, less experienced officers who needed a firm hand to keep them in line.

However, at this moment, Lieutenant Sheen appeared preoccupied and frowned at Tom for the interruption. "What can I do for you, Mr. Branson? I'm rather busy," the lieutenant stated briskly.

Tom leaned closer, as if sharing a confidential secret. "I've heard about the major being lost behind enemy lines, and I've come to offer my assistance," he confided. The officer's demeanour changed immediately, his initial annoyance replaced by a startled look. Without wasting time, Lieutenant Sheen grasped Tom's arm firmly and uttered a curt command, "Come with me," leading Tom into Colonel Peter's hut.

Upon entering the wooden room, Lieutenant Sheen promptly snapped to attention and saluted his superior officer, Colonel Peter's. The colonel returned the salute, and Lieutenant Sheen moved to the "at rest" position. The colonel then fixed a stern gaze on Tom, a deep frown etching across his face. He gestured toward Tom with a flick of his fingers and inquired, "What's the meaning of this, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, he says he has heard about the major being lost, sir," Lieutenant Sheen responded. In response, the colonel thundered, "God damn it!" and pounded his fist on the desk, his anger evident. His gaze now turned to Tom, who was taken aback by the unexpected intensity of the colonel's emotional response. Tom had only exchanged brief words with the colonel the previous day and had not found any reason to believe he was particularly temperamental.

If he didn't have enough to deal with, with high command sending him wet behind the ears officers, who didn't know the difference between their arse and their elbow, he now had to clean up the mess left by two imbeciles who thought war was a jolly, who had more breeding than brains. His head was pounding, if he didn't get the two idiots back he was fucked, thought Peter's. Now the cherry on top of cake he had a damn reporter asking about it, lovely just what he needed, it was a wonder he had any teeth left with how much he was grinding them.

The colonel demanded, "How the hell did you find out?" Tom, still surprised by the outburst, replied, "I heard it from a drunken seaman in one of the tents where I'm pitched. He was sobbing heavily and mostly incoherent, but I gathered that a Navy lieutenant and his older brother, a major, were lost somewhere behind enemy lines."

Unbelievable, was no one around here competent? Fumed Peters "Bloody hell, Sheen! Go find that bastard and lock him up. Don't let him blab to anyone else until he sobers up," the colonel ordered. The lieutenant immediately straightened up and replied with a crisp, "Yes, sir," before making a swift exit to carry out his orders. Thank god for Sheen, at least he had once decent man, though he knew he was being unfair and that there were plenty of men under his command who were good soldiers, most of his NCO's for one.

The colonel turned his attention back to Tom, his gaze sharp and probing. "What do you know?" he asked. Tom responded, "Only that the major wanted to see some action, and his brother was trying to stop him. The steward became separated from them somehow." When the colonel pressed for their names, Tom admitted, "No, sir. That part of the story was unclear. I only understood that the two men were related to important people, and the major might possess critical information that could be detrimental if it fell into German hands, sir."

"And their names, do you know their names?" Colonel Peters inquired, seeking additional information.

"No, sir," Tom replied, maintaining politeness while feeling the heat of the scrutiny. "That part of the story was garbled. I just made out that the two men were related to important people and that the major could have critical information that could be detrimental if it fell into the Germans' hands, sir," Tom clarified, offering what he could.

"Good, good," Colonel Peters said, appearing somewhat relieved. He then squinted his eyes as he continued to scrutinise Tom. "Why exactly are you here?" he asked, probing for more details. He recognised the young man, he had turned up a few days ago with an official press pass, he seemed sensible enough.

Tom gulped, feeling increasingly nervous about the situation he had inadvertently stumbled into. "I was coming to volunteer my services. From my references, you know I speak multiple languages, including French and German. I also have all my own gear, including maps, a compass, and a watch," Tom informed the colonel, who regarded him with scepticism.

"Do you have a weapon?" the colonel asked, his suspicions still lingering.

"No, sir," replied Tom.

The colonel remained seated at his desk, stroking his chin as he contemplated Tom, it would be useful having someone who could speak French, and if he accepted the reporters offers it meant he wouldn't need to send one of his precious translators. "How come you're not in uniform?" he asked, still harbouring doubt about any man's character and fortitude who had not signed up.

"My brother and I went to sign up in March 1915. I failed the medical due to a heart murmur. I can't lift or carry heavy loads, sir," Tom explained, laying bare the reasons behind his civilian attire.

Colonel Peters grumbled softly, deep in thought. "Mmm." A heart condition, he looked healthy enough and he wouldn't actually need to do any physical work except keep up with the other soldiers.

"Alright, get out. If we need your assistance, I will send Sheen to get you," the colonel finally decided, shifting his focus back to the reports scattered across his desk. Realising he had been dismissed, Tom quickly left the hut, breathing a sigh of relief once he was back in the fresh air.

As Tom left the wooden room, he couldn't shake the feeling of being caught in the middle of a tense and potentially dangerous situation. The colonel's emotional outburst and intense questioning had left him somewhat shaken. He hadn't expected such a reaction when he'd set out to volunteer his services.

The weight of the situation began to sink in as he considered the missing major, the potential risks, and the importance of any information falling into the wrong hands. Tom couldn't help but worry about the safety of his brother, Thomas, who was somewhere behind enemy lines.

As he stood outside, the sun cast long shadows across the camp, and Tom felt a mix of relief and uncertainty. The colonel had dismissed him, and now he had to wait and hope that his offer of assistance might be needed in the future. His ability to speak multiple languages and his knowledge of the region might be valuable, but the decision was no longer in his hands.

With every passing minute, Tom couldn't help but wonder about the major, his brother, and the precarious situation they were in. The weight of the war and the responsibility of aiding the British forces rested heavily on his shoulders, even though he hadn't been able to serve in the same way his brother had.

Tom knew that his path had taken an unexpected turn, and he would have to navigate it with care and caution. The outcome remained uncertain, and the safety of the missing major and the vital information he carried weighed on his mind as he waited for further instructions.

With his brief encounter with Colonel Peters behind him, Tom knew that he had limited time to prepare for the mission at hand. His priority was to keep his brother informed, so he hastily penned a telegram to Thomas, informing him that he was assisting the army with a mission. Tom had a gut feeling that if the army required his services, they wouldn't grant him the freedom to send further messages. He dispatched the telegram with a sense of urgency, knowing that swift communication was of the essence.

Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Tom carefully checked the contents of his well-worn pack. It was a reliable companion, having served him through many expeditions. His commitment to maintaining proper hygiene and wound care had grown, especially after spending time with Sybil and Mrs. Crawley while assisting Thomas in his recovery from a gunshot wound in 1916. Tom understood the importance of cleanliness in treating wounds, and he had even written an article on the subject. He had packed first aid supplies, which included two bottles of iodine, as he knew the necessity of keeping wounds clean.

Tom also included some essential survival items in his pack: matches wrapped in waxed paper, a tinderbox for starting fires, barley sugar sweets for quick energy, a small pack of tea, dry soup mix, some rice, powdered milk, and oat biscuits, he even had some pliers to handle the barbed wire. He recognised the uncertainty of the mission's duration, so he was prepared for the long haul. To ensure he had access to water, Tom securely attached his full water flask to the outside of his pack. He had rolled up his invaluable maps and placed them in a leather tube for protection, slotting them into his pack.

Before he was done, Tom added his last pair of clean socks, essential for foot comfort during the mission. His waterproof groundsheet, neatly folded, found its place in the pack, too. Tom calculated that the weight was reasonable for the task at hand, especially as he had omitted any spare clothing. His penknife, compass and watch were carefully stored in his sturdy greatcoat, which could double as a makeshift sleeping bag if the need arose. Though he glanced at his blanket, he ultimately decided to leave it behind for the sake of mobility.

With his pack assembled and his essentials in place, Tom paused to write heartfelt letters to Lady Mary and Thomas: just in case he didn't return from this mission. He left these letters with his personal belongings, which he would be leaving in his tent. Sitting down on his camp bed, he took a moment to collect his thoughts and prepare for the mission ahead. He closed his eyes, attempting to find some semblance of rest, though his mind was alive with anticipation. Tom knew that he was on the brink of something significant, waiting for the army to call on him to assist in their mission.

"Branson!" Lieutenant Sheen's urgent voice cut through the quiet, rousing Tom from an unintended nap. Blinking rapidly, Tom quickly realised that he had dozed off while waiting. He rubbed his eyes, briefly disoriented as he looked up at the lieutenant. Sheen was holding the tent flap open, clearly impatient.

"Quick man, get your stuff and come with me," Sheen ordered, his tone no-nonsense and hurried.

Tom didn't need further prompting. He swiftly gathered his belongings. First, he pulled on his sturdy boots, which were designed to provide protection that extended past his calves. Lord Grantham had been thoughtful enough to suggest that Tom invest in high-quality spats to cover his trousers and boots for an extra layer of protection.

Next, Tom grabbed his woollen scarf and hat, making sure the latter was pulled low enough to cover his ears. He kept fingerless gloves in his greatcoat pockets, ready for the chilly weather. Finally, he hefted his pack onto his shoulders, adjusting it for comfort.

"I need to use the latrine," Tom informed the lieutenant as soon as they both emerged from the tent.

"Make it quick, and come to the Colonel's hut when you are finished," Sheen instructed before hurrying away.

Tom made his way to the latrine. It wasn't an easy feat, considering the awkwardness of relieving oneself with a pack on your back and multiple layers of clothing, but he managed. Afterward, he gave his hands a quick wash before making his way to Colonel Peters' hut.

Tom briskly knocked on the door and, at the invitation to enter, stepped inside. He immediately noticed several officers he hadn't encountered before: a major, a general, and several more lieutenants, NCOs, and, of course, Colonel Peters.

"Good, Branson, you're here," Peters acknowledged his arrival.

"You said you have maps, a compass, and your own supplies?" Peters inquired, getting straight to the point.

"Yes, Sir," Tom responded confidently.

Colonel Peters moved to a table that had a selection of maps laid out. "This is your mission. Schofield and Blake will guide you through no-man's land," Peters stated, indicating the two soldiers that Tom had observed earlier in the day. Tom's notepad and pencil were at the ready, as he began noting the coordinates of the last known location of the missing brothers.

"Sadly, the priority is the Major. It is absolutely necessary that he be brought back alive," Peters emphasised to the assembled soldiers. He continued, "Schofield, Blake, Captain Thompson, Sergeant McDuff, and Mr. Branson," with a pointed look toward Tom, "will accompany you as a translator. Major General Callwell has personally vouched for Branson." Peters' stern gaze reinforced the gravity of the situation.

The mission was laid out before Tom, and the weight of responsibility hung heavily in the room. The fate of the missing brothers rested on their shoulders, especially the life of the Major, making the mission's success a matter of utmost importance.

After the briefing from the colonel, the five men exited the hut. Schofield and Blake had used the time since Tom had last seen them to scout the front line and determine the best point to go "over the top," as it was commonly referred to. It was slowly dawning on Tom that this mission was far more perilous than he had initially anticipated. But he had volunteered, and there was no turning back now. He fervently hoped that his telegram had reached Thomas.

The two corporals guiding them seemed filled with anxiety, their determination palpable as they forged ahead. Tom could easily discern how much this mission meant to them as they pushed through the throngs of soldiers crowding the trenches. At times, tempers flared, and some of the soldiers would angrily push back against the rescue party. However, they were promptly reprimanded by the sergeant or the captain accompanying them. The captain carried signed orders from the general present at the meeting, although Tom didn't know his name.

Eventually, they reached the best crossing point to reach the German battlements. Here, the two soldiers provided precise instructions on how to navigate no-man's land. They warned the group to be cautious of the craters left by shells, as they could be much deeper than they appeared. The captain instructed Tom, as a civilian, to bring up the rear. Tom swallowed with nerves, while he felt his hands become sweaty. Tom also had no weapon to protect himself in case they encountered enemy soldiers. His only form of identification and protection was his press pass, issued by Britain and Denmark.

When the captain had finished giving his orders, he nodded to the two corporals who would lead the way across no-man's land. Tom took a deep breath and double-checked that his knapsack was securely fastened to his shoulders. Silently, he watched as the two corporals ascended the ladders over the top, followed by the captain and the sergeant. As soon as the soldiers in front of him reached the top, Tom scrambled up the ladder.

The sight that greeted Tom on his first look at no-man's land left him stunned and unprepared for the desolation spread out before him. The expanse was filled with countless lifeless bodies, both human and equine. The smell alone made Tom's eyes water from the stench. Tom couldn't comprehend what horses were doing there, amidst the death and destruction. His reverie was abruptly shattered when the sergeant yelled at him to get a move on. In his haste to follow the soldiers in front, Tom stumbled and slipped in the thick, unforgiving mud, making his passage across the treacherous terrain even more challenging.

After the initial visual shock, and overwhelming odour of rotten flesh assaulted Tom's nose. He had to stifle his gag reflex to prevent himself from vomiting where he stood. "Move it, you bastard!" the sergeant screamed at him, snapping Tom back to the harsh reality of the moment.

Regaining his composure, Tom followed the other men. One of the soldiers, whom Tom thought was called Corporal Schofield, was holding open a gap in the barbed wire so the rest of the party could pass through. As Tom passed, the barbed wire slipped, and he noticed that the soldier's hand was cut. "Are you all right?" Tom asked. "I'm good, just go," the soldier grunted.

Tom struggled to progress through the thick, clinging mud, sinking down to his ankles. He followed the others, a rotting horse carcass to his right as they trudged on. Not long after they began, the sharp crack of a gunshot pierced the air. "Sniper, take cover!" one of the soldiers shouted, prompting Tom to dive behind a rocky outcrop.

His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't help but breathe heavily, his breath forming visible clouds in the cold, damp air.

Huddled behind the makeshift cover, Tom took stock of his surroundings, hunkering down as far as he could. The impact of one of the gunshots shook the mound he was sheltering behind, showering him in dirt and mud. The violent jolt also dislodged a body concealed in the muck, and it oozed forward, revealing the macabre truth. The poor soldier's head was missing its top, and rats darted out into the open, scuttling up the corpse and feasting on the soldier's unblinking eye.

The weight of the moment bore down on Tom, his stomach churning with a nauseating mix of fear and revulsion. The reality of the war, the faces of friends lost in the maelstrom of battle, flashed before his eyes. Despite his Irish roots, Tom couldn't escape the impact of the conflict that had touched the lives of so many.

Unable to contain his roiling emotions, Tom lurched to the side, retching as if trying to expel the horrors he had witnessed. His body trembled, not just from the physical exertion of the journey but from the emotional toll exacted by the war.

In the depths of his memory, Tom conjured images of school and university friends, young men full of life and dreams, who had answered the call to join the British army. The faces of those chums, now forever frozen in the past, haunted him. The camaraderie, the shared laughter, and the dreams of a future together had been swallowed by the unforgiving brutality of war.

A wave of profound sadness washed over Tom as he grappled with the harsh truth — the clean, comforting deaths conjured by those safe at home were a stark contrast to the harrowing reality faced by soldiers on the front lines. The distant ideals of patriotism and duty were replaced by the grim actuality of the battlefield, a place where the fragility of life became painfully apparent.

"Move forward, keep low," the sergeant's voice called out, and the soldiers started advancing, guns at the ready. But no more shots came. Tom followed behind, carefully choosing his path to avoid treading on the many lifeless bodies strewn about. Each step was a gruesome reminder of the brutality of war.

They maintained a gruelling pace, Tom hunched down in an awkward position as he followed behind the other men, slipping and sliding along the treacherous ground. He made a conscious effort to avoid the barbed wire and shrapnel embedded in the muck. Tom was grateful for the sturdy boots, spats, and work pants that provided some level of protection against the harsh conditions.

It took their party about an hour and a half to traverse the three miles of desolate, debris-laden no-man's land. At last, they reached the German fortifications. Corporals Blake and Schofield briefly popped up on top of the battlement, firing blindly into the trench below before sliding back down. A few minutes later, they called out, signalling the all-clear. Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

The sergeant gestured for Tom to proceed down the rickety ladder into the German trench. As Tom looked around, he could see that it was completely abandoned. Some homesick German soldier had nailed up a signpost indicating his hometown, "Honbach 670km," approximately 420 miles away, Tom calculated, using his knowledge of the maps of the region, which included both mile and kilometre scales.

Tom's heartbeat began to slow as it appeared that they weren't in immediate danger. The men spread out and started searching for any indications of an exit. The signs they came across seemed to be of the humorous variety—jokes that soldiers all over, used to relieve boredom and evoke memories of home.

As Tom caught up with Corporal Scofield, his concern for the young soldier's wounded hand was evident. He insisted on addressing the injury promptly, recognising the looming threat of infection in the harsh conditions of the battlefield. With a sense of urgency, Tom utilised some of his precious water supply to cleanse the wound thoroughly.

Working swiftly and with a practiced hand, Tom applied iodine to disinfect the injured area, ensuring that the risk of infection was minimized. His experienced touch conveyed a sense of competence, a skill honed by the time he spent caring for his brother under the watchful eye of Mrs Crawley and Sybil. The bandage he expertly fashioned not only provided protection for the wounded hand but also allowed Corporal Scofield to maintain functionality, especially the ability to wield his weapon.

The corporal, touched by Tom's compassionate and skilled intervention, expressed his gratitude in a quiet acknowledgment. Amid the chaos and brutality of war, this brief encounter served as a poignant reminder that goodness and caring could still thrive, even in the bleakest of circumstances. Tom's actions went beyond duty; they reflected a genuine concern for the well-being of a fellow human being, a sentiment that resonated deeply with the young soldier on the receiving end of his kindness.

Corporal Blake shouted for their attention, having discovered an entrance to a dugout that the retreating soldiers hadn't destroyed. Tom looked around at the Germans left in their wake and it struck Tom as strange that they hadn't obliterated this one as well.

Tom observed as the soldiers entered the dugout, their mission to explore potential escape routes from the trenches via hidden passages. However, something else caught his eye. A piece of paper was protruding from between the floorboards. His curiosity piqued, he knelt down and retrieved the pair of pliers from his coat pocket, carefully using them to separate the wooden slats without damaging the letter.

Amid the faint sounds of soldiers conversing and shuffling below, Tom gingerly pulled out the letter. It was crucial not to tear it, as it might contain valuable information. With the paper now in his hand, he stepped out of the dugout, seizing the last rays of sunlight to read its contents.

Mein Lieber Sohn,

Ich hoffe, dieser Brief erreicht dich in guter Verfassung und bester Gesundheit. Es ist schon eine Weile her, seitdem wir voneinander gehört haben, und ich mache mir Sorgen um dich. Ich hoffe, dass dieser Brief dir ein kleines Stückchen Heimat und Trost bringt.

All is well in Völklingen, and your sister and I are keeping our spirits high. We have worked in the garden and managed to grow some fruits and vegetables. Your sister has made your favourite plum jam, and I hope you can share this jar with the friends you've told me about.

Unfortunately, I have some sad news. Our neighbour, Herr Weber, was killed in a terrible accident in ….. There was an underground explosion …, and her husband had gone back to work, even though he was 61, to support Germany in the war.

Fritz Becker, who is a firefighter, told me that the fire … is still burning. He mentioned that at least 50 men had been killed, ….. … … will be closed for possibly a month or more.

Wishing you a safe return to your loving mother. Take care Hans.

With love and concern,

Your Mother and sister Helga

Tom examined the envelope, flipping it to see the postmark. He strained his eyes to decipher the faint markings. It appeared to read "Saarbrücken," a location in the Saar Basin, one of Germany's largest coal-producing regions. This could be valuable intelligence for the army, even with the censoring they must be talking about mining.

However, just as he was processing the significance of this discovery, cries of alarm echoed from the soldiers in the dugout below. Two muffled shots were followed by a resounding boom that shook the surrounding trenches, causing loose mud to cascade down their sides. An explosive gust of air and debris shot out from the dugout's entrance. Tom instinctively crouched down, covering his head, as the chaos and rumbling unfolded.

After what felt like an eternity, the turmoil subsided, returning the eerie silence of the trenches. Tom, his legs trembling, gradually rose to his feet. With disbelief in his eyes, he approached the collapsed tunnel that led down into the dugout. The soldiers were now trapped on the other side of the rubble, and Tom found himself alone in the aftermath of the sudden disaster.

Tom called out but he could no hear any response from the soldiers.

Amidst the eerie silence of the German trench, nightfall rapidly approaching, and Tom finding himself alone, the weight of the situation bore down on him. He muttered, "Shit, shit, shit," under his breath as he tried to make sense of what he should do next.

Crouching down and pressing his back against the cold, wooden trench wall, he buried his head in his hands. The gravity of his predicament was undeniable. He was a civilian with a press pass, a non-combatant amongst the brutal and unforgiving frontlines of World War I.

Returning to the safety of the British trenches across no-man's land was out of the question; he would be mistaken for a German soldier and face the return fire of the British soldiers in their trenches. Instead, he recalled the coordinates that Colonel Peters had shared with him, the possible destination of the major and sub-lieutenant if they survived. That seemed to be his best course of action.

The waning sunlight cast elongated shadows along the trench walls. Tom knew that he needed to find some form of shelter for the impending night, especially since the sky had been overcast, threatening rain for the past couple of hours. With determination, he proceeded along the trench, his eyes scanning for any sign of refuge.

Eventually, he stumbled upon a shallow dugout, its entrance concealed by a tarp. Though far from comfortable, it was better than being exposed to the elements. He opted to use his pack as a makeshift pillow, trying to make the best of his circumstances.

Inside the shelter, he discovered a weathered German bedroll that had been left behind. Given the dire situation, he couldn't afford to be too choosy. He took the waterproof ground sheet, wrapping himself up in it to provide some protection from the dampness. His boots, now removed, were placed beneath the ground sheet with him, as he vaguely remembered his foster father's advice against sleeping in boots. He replaced them with a spare pair of socks, providing a modicum of comfort and warmth.

Tom loosened the button at his waist and let the belt of his coat slacken. He pulled his hat down low over his ears and wrapped the scarf around himself, leaving only his nose and eyes exposed. With makeshift bedding and shelter, he laid down on his back, trying to get some rest. This unplanned night in the trench was an opportunity for him to gain a deeper understanding of the soldiers' lives he was writing about.

Amid this strange and unsettling environment, exhaustion finally overcame him. Tom drifted into a restless sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of the war and the perilous journey that lay ahead.

Day Two

Tom's night in the trench was far from restful. While his greatcoat and ground sheet provided enough warmth, the strangeness of his surroundings and the constant scurrying of rats made it difficult for him to find deep sleep. Although his improvised shelter did manage to keep him dry, there was a pervasive smell of mould and it offered little comfort amid the eerie backdrop of a World War I trench.

The night had seen relentless rain, descending in sheets for hours on end. Now, as early morning arrived, the only sound was the occasional drip of water. Tom groaned as he pushed back the tarp to examine the trench. What had been a reasonably solid surface the previous night was now transformed into a quagmire of mud and standing water.

Resigned to the reality of his situation, he pulled the tarp closed once more. Tom began the process of getting ready for the day, knowing that he couldn't linger in this muddy hideaway. His greatcoat offered protection against the damp, but his chilled fingers fumbled as he made sure his boots were securely laced and covered with spats.

With no opportunity to start a fire, he settled for chewing on one of the oat biscuits he had brought with him, a meagre breakfast for the challenging day ahead. He took a swig of water to relieve the dryness of his mouth left by the biscuit. He pinned back the tarp to allow more light into his makeshift shelter, with map and compass in hand, he peered at it and referenced the coordinates provided by Colonel Peters.

Using the coordinates, he had been given, he calculated his position. He was approximately 13 miles southwest of the last known location of the missing brothers. Now, the primary task was to find his way out of the trench and navigate through this hostile environment.

Checking his watch, he saw it was getting late at 8 am. Reluctantly, he left the dugout, immediately sinking into the stinking muck as he moved. The better light now revealed more details in the trench. He noticed a scratched map etched on one of the wooden walls, presumably created by one of the soldiers. He couldn't help but wonder what happened to the soldier. Tom quickly sketched the map, using it to formulate a plan.

The map suggested that heading to the right would eventually lead him to a trench that could connect him to the second and third defensive lines. With a rough idea of his path, he squelched through the mud, keeping a watchful eye for anything that might prove useful.

The utter stillness of the trench and just his quiet breaths brought home how alone he truly was. Tom couldn't remember if he had experienced such isolation before. He almost wished his older brother pragmatic brother was with him.

He eventually came across a mound of dirt and debris. Given the explosion in the tunnel the day before, it was possible that the Germans had intentionally destroyed their own trench. Every 100 yards in the trenches, there was a ladder allowing soldiers to climb over the top and advance. Tom retraced his steps to the nearest ladder and checked it for stability; it seemed sturdy enough. Now, all he needed to do was remove it.

With his trusty pliers, he skilfully extracted the nails that held the ladder in place. Once freed, he carried the ladder to the mound of debris. Setting it up against the blockage as securely as possible, he ensured that his backpack was firmly strapped on. Then, he cautiously began to ascend the ladder, slowly making his way over the mound and deeper into the labyrinth of the trench, fearful that he could be shot at any time.

Tom's slide down the other side of the embankment was a mix of sliding and tumbling, with the mud and rain-slicked surface making it a challenging descent. His goal was to reach the other side of the German trench. The makeshift map he had found indicated that there would be a cross connection roughly a hundred yards ahead. His tumble was somewhat controlled, avoiding the large pool of water at the bottom of the slope by clutching at anything he could find for purchase.

Unfortunately for Tom, his grip had latched onto a gruesome discovery: a dead soldier. In his struggle, the rain-saturated earth combined with Tom's weight fully dislodged the lifeless body from the mound. Startled, Tom let out a cry of alarm and quickly turned away, breathing heavily, his heart pounding. What he had disturbed was more than just a dead soldier; it was a grotesque sight. The body was headless, leaving behind a bloody stump where the head should have been. His experience in the trench was bring home the true horror of war.

Tom bent over, resting his hands on his knees, struggling to regain control of his racing emotions. He found his hands trembling. He had witnessed death before, but always in the controlled environment of funeral homes where bodies were neatly prepared for public viewing. In Ireland, public viewings were a common practice, and the Count and his wife, along with Tom and Thomas, would often attend to pay their respects to local families. Never had he encountered a body mired in mud, devoid of the dignity of a proper burial, regardless of the deceased's identity. He didn't think he would ever forget the putrid smell of mud mixed in with decaying flesh.

Slowly, Tom forced himself to stand upright, his gaze returning to the headless soldier. Though he wasn't well-versed in German ranks, he recognised the uniform and knew this man was an officer. The question of whether to search the body for anything useful weighed on his mind. The soldier's leather satchel had become tangled with his limbs, making it an accessible target for Tom.

'Should I take the satchel,' Tom asked himself, would he be desecrating the dead if he did?

He considered the satchel's possible contents. Tom reasoned that he was stranded behind enemy lines with only his knapsack. He had brought the essentials, assuming he would be in the company of other soldiers, but the situation had changed. Warily with shaking hand, he reached over the body and grasped the cold and slimy strap of the satchel. Carefully he untangled the satchel from the body. Though it was a bit damp and muddy, Tom was relieved that it had somehow avoided being drenched in the officer's blood. Once the satchel was free, Tom stepped back, determined not to search the soldier's pockets.

Turning away from the grim sight, Tom continued down the trench toward the second line. It was a chilly overcast morning, seeming to mirror Tom's mood of isolation. He could help but notice the numerous dead soldiers on his lonely walk. With the dead men covered in mud Tom was struck with the idea that you couldn't tell what uniforms the soldiers had been wearing. They could be anyone, German, French or British.

While walking, Tom decided to try and think more positively. He decided to inspect the satchel's contents. The initial findings were promising: an empty notebook that could be useful for starting a fire, a packet of cigarettes, and a lighter tucked into the cigarette packet. Then, a leather-bound book caught his attention. Upon examining its contents, Tom's heart skipped a beat. The book was filled with letters, numbers, and symbols – a cipher. He didn't know how to use it for decoding messages but assumed his brother, Thomas, would understand its purpose. He was cheered thinking of his brother being proud of Tom's find.

Within the book, he found a neatly folded piece of paper with typed symbols, letters, and numbers, forming an indecipherable code. He slid it back between the pages of the book. Finally, Tom discovered a set of orders that appeared to be the last commands the officer had received. His quick reading revealed the instructions to retreat to a stronghold in the Northeast – a direction opposite to the one he was currently traveling. This find brought some relief to Tom's mind. After some further rummaging through the satchel, he uncovered what appeared to be a bar of chocolate, its wrapper seemingly intact. Unsure whether to trust it, he decided to slide it back into the bag in case his hunger became unbearable.

With a mixture of newfound possessions and a sense of determination, Tom continued his journey through the German trenches, the landscape a stark reminder of the horrors of war.

Tom continued his journey through the labyrinthine German trenches, an eerie maze of destruction. It appeared that the Germans had gone to great lengths to dismantle anything that could be of use. Amidst the wreckage, Tom managed to make a few discoveries. He found a flat-head screwdriver, a tin of peas, and his most valuable find—a pair of field binoculars. Though one side had been crushed, he could still use one lens, which was almost like a telescope. He carefully stored his newfound treasures in his knapsack.

Emerging from the trenches, Tom was greeted by a desolate scene of devastation, with weapons escarpments pulled down and anything they couldn't take with them burnt to the ground. The German forces had indeed wreaked havoc upon everything in their path.

He glanced at his watch; it was 10:15 am. Consulting his map and compass, he compared the hastily sketched trench map. Despite the progress he had made, it seemed he was only a mile closer to his intended destination.

His stomach rumbled with hunger, but Tom knew he couldn't afford to stop and eat. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a barley sweet, and took a sip of water from his flask. Resuming his journey in the direction of the missing brothers' last known location, he wearily trudged forward.

Nervously venturing out into the open countryside, Tom noticed the stark resemblance between the enemy side and the allied side. However, the unmistakable signs of destruction were everywhere, with a farmhouse emitting smoke on the horizon and even fruit trees cut down. This heightened his anxiety, and he moved cautiously, scanning the horizon for enemy soldiers, imagining them hidden among the bushes.

As he continued to move northwest, where a woodland awaited a mile or so away, Tom's tension eased slightly. Seeing no immediate threats, he hastened his pace toward the sheltering trees.

Finally reaching the cover of the woods, Tom paused, taking a deep breath of relief, followed by a refreshing drink of water. It was noticeable cooler under the cover of trees. But as he drew in deep breaths, he relished the familiar smell of a living forest. He realised he would need to keep an eye out for a water source to resupply his flask. As he ventured through the forest, he scoured the area for any forageable food. While not an expert, he could spot various berries, fennel, and wild garlic.

Tom managed to find some wild garlic, a promising discovery. If he could find a suitable shed or shelter where he could discreetly start a fire, he might be able to prepare a meal with some semblance of flavour. He checked his watch, and it was just past 12:30 pm. He felt disappointed to have covered only five miles. He was moving much slower than he would have back home. Tom took a fifteen-minute rest and enjoyed another oat biscuit, grateful for the foresight to pack them, even if they were not the most tasty of meals. He wondered about the fate of the other soldiers he had initially set out with.

Resuming his march, he moved carefully through the underbrush, taking care to minimize noise, lest there were lurking German soldiers. Tom found himself wishing for a firearm, even though he wasn't certain if he could bring himself to kill another man. The stories Thomas had shared about his encounter with the German assassin had emphasised an overwhelming desire to survive at all costs. Though Tom thought that he could take another person's life if necessary, he hoped he wouldn't have to make that choice.

His primary objective remained finding the missing brothers. They were active servicemen and would presumably have some means of defending themselves, or at least they might possess valuable supplies.

As Tom emerged from the woods, he calculated he was just five miles from his intended destination. Retrieving the broken binoculars, he scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of life. Seeing smoke behind a low hill in the direction he was heading, he surmised that, that might be the town he was heading for.

Tom could see that there were stone walls and hedgerows leading over the ridge. 'They will offer me some shelter,' Tom thought. As there were no indications of enemy soldiers, Tom adjusted his pack and set off with renewed determination to locate the brothers before nightfall.

Tom, by following the hedgerows and stone walls that crisscrossed the fields, gradually made his way to the rendezvous point. Along the way, he came across some radishes in the verge. Tom appreciated their peppery taste and, after brushing off as much dirt as possible, hungry, he ate a few on the spot, stuffing the rest into his coat pocket for later.

The continuous activity of the journey was making Tom's feet hurt and his legs ache. Though Tom went on daily walks for exercise he was finding the long trek challenging. He found himself breathing heavily. It was difficult to gauge his distance from the known coordinates of the brothers, particularly as the land wasn't as flat as it had appeared from a distance, with dips and rises in the landscape. Tom hadn't yet spotted the small town where the brothers were said to be hiding. His anxiety was exacerbated by the smoke billowing up from behind the horizon. The uncertainty of what he would do if he failed to encounter any allied soldiers and how he would return to the Allied forces weighed on his mind.

Deep in his thoughts and engrossed in putting one foot in front of the other, Tom almost failed to notice when he eventually came in sight of the small French town. The sight dismayed him as he observed that the town had been flattened. Smoke engulfed the ruins, and the church spire had been knocked down, with rubble strewn across the streets. Tom hastened his pace toward the town, fervently hoping he might find a clue as to the whereabouts of the soldiers from his party or the missing army major.

As he reached the town's outskirts, he had to slow down to navigate through the fallen debris and rubble that littered the former streets of the market town. The smoke sting his eyes and he wrapped is scarf around his mouth to filter some of the smoke. He tried not to focus too intently on the lifeless bodies strewn about, but he did have to cast a quick glance to see if any of them were dressed in British army or navy uniforms, though such a sight was rare in this landlocked town. Tom felt shaken when he realised some of the figures he saw were once children. Tom turned his face away, blinking his eyes rapidly, when he realised one little girl with blue ribbons in her hair was still clutching her doll.

Tom had long been against the war, but the sights and smell of death was confirming his long-held belief of the futility of war.

Unsure where the brothers might have hidden, especially if they had been present when the Germans attacked and destroyed the town. Tom looked at the smoking homes, windows smashed and the occasionally shattering of glass from the intensity of flames.

Tom considered the church as a potential refuge. Churches traditionally offered shelter during times of distress, and, with no better idea in mind, he headed in that direction, looking for the missing brothers.

He followed the mostly intact stone wall encircling the graveyard until he reached the entry gates, which appeared to have been blown off their hinges, hanging at awkward angles between two stone pillars. With some effort, Tom pushed the gates with his shoulder, creating a gap wide enough for him to squeeze through.

Inside the graveyard, he looked around. His heart suddenly skipped a beat as he spotted two legs protruding from behind a tree, in the Karki green of a British uniform. Tom advanced cautiously, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Reaching the tree, he discovered a body—a soldier covered by an army jacket that concealed his face and torso. Nervously, Tom lifted the jacket away, revealing the man's face. It was Scofield, no, he corrected himself, it was Blake—the young corporal who had acted as a scout for their party. Who only the day before had seen relaxing in a flowered meadow. Wistfully Tom thought of the life the young might have lead if there was no war.

Tom noticed a knife wound in the soldier's stomach. Carefully, he knelt, reaching out to touch the soldier's face, with trembling fingers. It was cold. Tom wasn't sure how to determine the time of death precisely, but the coldness suggested several hours had passed. He glanced nervously around the graveyard and, for the first time, noticed a dead German soldier lying face down in the grass. Tom suspected he had been shot but decided not to investigate further.

Tom sat on the ground, his back against the stone wall, as he considered his options. The discovery of the dead soldiers, both British and German, in this devastated town weighed heavily on him. He pondered what to do next. Did the other soldiers manage to locate the missing major, or were they facing a similar predicament as he was?

Tom was conscious of his roiling stomach an indication of his constant fear. Aware of the visceral danger he was in he realised he would have to rely on himself to get him back to safety of the Allied lines.

Removing his knapsack, Tom took out his map and compass, along with the German orders he had found earlier in the day. He meticulously marked the coordinates of the new German fortification on his map. Tom calculated that if he travelled diagonally in the opposite direction of the German forces, he would eventually reach a road leading back to the Allied front lines. He could see no signs of life in the vicinity, and the eerie quietness of the town, save for the sound of smouldering fires, sent shivers down his spine.

Checking his watch, he realised it was already 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Nightfall was approaching, and he didn't want to remain in this desolate place after dark. Tom decided to navigate the back streets of the town, hoping to evade any lingering Germans.

As he made his way through the town's ruined streets, Tom came across a stroke of luck. A functioning water pump. With determination, he vigorously pumped the handle to get the water flowing. He washed his hands and used a dampened handkerchief to wipe his face and neck, revelling in the refreshing sensation. The water appeared clean and smelled pure, so he cupped his hands, bringing the cool liquid to his lips to quench his thirst. Afterward, he refilled his water flask to the brim.

Turning to resume his march, a sudden noise to his left made Tom freeze. He quickly sought cover behind a destroyed cart, heart pounding in his chest. Peering cautiously around the cart's wheel, he was astonished to spot a young boy of about 7- or 8-years old peeking at him from around the corner of a building.

"Hey, you, boy," Tom called out quietly in French. The boy appeared relieved and cautiously emerged from his hiding spot. "Are you a soldier?" the boy inquired, gazing at Tom with hope in his eyes. Tom responded, "I'm not a soldier. I'm a reporter for a newspaper, and I got lost. I'm trying to get back to the French army. See, I'm heading that way," Tom said, pointing in the general direction of where he believed the Allied forces were located. He then asked gently, "Where's your family?"

Tears welled up in the boy's large blue eyes, adding to the tear tracks already etched on his face. The boy aged seven shared his story. He described how German soldiers had come to the town and informed the townspeople that they were evacuating everyone. Louis's mother had hidden him in a concealed dugout, where her father used to hide contraband that he sold to the town. The boy took several pauses and gulps of air as he recounted that the Germans had shot anyone who resisted. He didn't know what had happened to everyone else, as he had stayed hidden until the town fell silent. When he emerged, everyone had disappeared. Wiping his tears and nose with his sleeve, Louis looked up at Tom with a mixture of fear and hope. Sweaty dark red curls stuck to his forehead.

Tom couldn't leave the boy alone in this desolate place. He decided to bring Louis with him and hand him over to the French authorities once he reached the Allied lines. "I'm Tom. What's your name?" he asked gently, squatting down to Louis height. Louis trembling replied, "Louis."

"Alright, Louis, I think it's best if you come with me. I'll take you to the French authorities," Tom assured the boy, making sure to smile at the young bot. Pointing in the direction he intended to go, he asked, "Is there anywhere in that direction where we can spend the night?"

Louis nodded with relief and said, "Yes, my grandfather's old farm is that way. He was in town when the German soldiers were here."

"Excellent. We'll go in that direction. Maybe your grandfather made it back to his home," Tom replied with a hopeful tone. Tom thought they had little hope of finding the old man alive in such dire circumstances. With his newfound traveling companion, Tom set off in the direction indicated by Louis.

Tom and Louis embarked on their journey towards Louis's grandfather's old farm, hoping to find refuge for the night. The walk was slow and arduous, the landscape still bearing the scars of recent destruction. Tom kept an eye out for any signs of danger and held Louis's hand to keep him close. The young boy, though fearful, clung to Tom for comfort and guidance.

Tom was grateful that there was a gentle evening breeze, which was blowing in their faces, washing away the acrid smell of smoke that clung to them. With just farmers pastures all around them the damage the German army had inflicted on the land was not as noticeable. The further they walked away from the town the more relaxed Louis became. Louis started to point out various spots of interest to a young boy. The places where he and his school mates played. The path, if taken, that lead to a pond for summer swimming and winter skating.

As they continued through the desolate countryside, Tom couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility for this child's safety. The easy trust that this boy put in him touched Tom in a way that a child had never done before. Tom had only recently started to think about children in his own life with the birth of his niece Rosemary. But she was only four months old, a happy, squishy baby, Tom wasn't sure if she recognised him yet. Tom looked at Louis as he almost cuddled into him with how close he walked beside Tom. His wild red hair constantly falling across his eyes as he chatted. He knew that guiding Louis to the French authorities was not only the right thing to do but also a way to keep the boy out of harm's way.

The sun was beginning to dip lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the war-torn landscape. They both could feel the dip in temperature. Tom paused them for a moment as he pulled his thick warm scarf from his knapsack and carefully wrapped it around Louis's neck. Tom realised that they needed to find shelter soon. The farm was still some distance away, and he didn't want to be caught in the open after dark. They had been walking for at least an hour, and Tom's legs were starting to ache after his long day and he could feel a blister on his heel.

Louis, who was also growing tired, tugged at Tom's sleeve and pointed to a small cluster of trees in the distance. "Look, there," he said in French, "maybe we can rest there."

Tom considered the spot and agreed with a nod. They made their way to the cluster of trees and found a relatively sheltered spot where they could sit down and rest for fifteen minutes. Louis sat beside Tom, his wide eyes darting about anxiously looking for danger, but pausing here and there with curiosity. Tom noticed Louis twisting the buttons on his coat, back and forth, back and forth.

The sap from the nearby trees smelt sweet and the moss covered log they sat on offered them some comfort. Tom took out an oat biscuit from his knapsack and broke it in half, offering a piece to Louis. The boy accepted it with a grateful smile and began munching on the dry ration. Tom and Louis chatted about life in Yorkshire. Tom telling him about the similarities and the differences from Louis's home.

Tom ate his own portion and then checked their supplies. They had water, and he had food enough to make a soup if he could find shelter where he would be able to start a fire. Rummaging around in his pack, at the bottom where the barely sugar was packed. He fished out a couple of the sweets and passed one to Louis, who looked at the sweet with excitement, before he popped it in his mouth to savour the sweet flavour. Tom had a swig of the water before sucking on his own sweet. He did a quick check of his pack, making sure that his food and tools where secure, the broken binoculars and screwdriver could turn out to be vital for their survival.

As the sun continued its descent to early evening and eventual nightfall, Tom decided they couldn't stay in the open. It was time to continue their journey to Louis's grandfather's farm, and hopefully, they would find a safe place to spend the night. Tom gently stood up and helped Louis to his feet, offering a reassuring smile.

With renewed determination, they set off once more, navigating the uneven terrain in their quest for shelter and safety.

Tom and Louis finally arrived at Louis's grandfather's farm, their journey filled with both relief and apprehension. As they approached the farm, it was evident that the Germans had been there before them, leaving their mark of destruction. The farmhouse bore the brunt of the damage, with visible scorch marks and partially collapsed walls. Even the farmer's once neat flower garden had been trampled. The sight was disheartening, but Tom held out hope that something valuable might remain inside.

The old farmhouse had a history. During their walk Louis had happily shared some stories of summers spent there with his grandfather. Tom was impressed by the boy's fortitude, considering the ordeal they had been through.

They cautiously entered the damaged farmhouse. Immediately the smell of smoke was almost over whelming. Stepping over the charred remains of broken furniture and making their way through the ruined rooms. It was clear that the Germans had tried to set it ablaze, but perhaps the damp wood and the stone structure had thwarted their efforts as the damage seemed more cosmetic than structural on closer inspection.

Tom led Louis further inside the damaged farmhouse, their eyes scanning the rooms for anything that might be of use. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of smoke, a reminder of the destruction that had befallen this once-charming home. Despite the devastation, there was a glimmer of hope as they uncovered some salvaged items that could aid them in their makeshift camp.

Louis showed Tom a hidey-hole in the living area, where they found a stash of canned goods that, though tarnished by the heat and smoke, remained intact. Tom gathered them up, recognising the value of having preserved food for their journey. Nearby, they found blankets and pillows that, while showing signs of scorching, promised a degree of comfort for the night that lay ahead.

Moving into the kitchen, Tom surveyed the scene of disorder left by the soldiers. The cupboards had been ransacked, but not everything lay in ruin. To their relief, several cups, saucers, bowls, and plates had somehow escaped the chaos unscathed. It was a small victory amid the wreckage, providing them with the means to enjoy a warm meal if Tom managed to start a fire.

Though kitchen utensils like knives, a skillet, a cooking pot, and an iron kettle had been haphazardly thrown to the floor, these hardy tools had endured the assault. Tom made a mental note to return to the kitchen once they set up camp, intending to make use of these items for cooking and preparing the food they had salvaged.

With supplies in hand, Tom and Louis started to put aside the useful items they found. Tom knew the importance of being resourceful in such challenging times, and Louis's excitement fuelled a renewed sense of determination.

Louis eagerly shared the revelation about his grandfather's cold store in the barn, where his aunt stored goods like cheese and butter before taking them to market. The old man's foresight became apparent as Louis, with a glint of excitement in his eyes, revealed yet another secret stash his grandfather had entrusted to him.

Louis's hopeful spirit prevailed as he pointed to the barn outside, suggesting that the soldiers would never have found his grandfather's secret stash. Tom smiled fondly at the young boy, who was showing remarkable resilience, especially being back at the familiar, if damaged home of his grandfather.

The barn held the promise of more than just shelter—it held the potential for sustenance and, perhaps, hidden treasures that could make their challenging journey a bit more bearable. With Louis's infectious enthusiasm, Tom felt a renewed sense of hope as they pushed open the kitchen door, ready to uncover the secrets without.

With Louis by his side, practically vibrating, Tom left the farmhouse and headed toward the barn, grateful for the respite from their challenging journey and for any supplies they might discover in this unexpected refuge.

The barn stood resilient amid the destruction, its sturdy structure offering a hopeful contrast to the damaged farmhouse. Tom approached cautiously, his eyes scanning the undamaged walls and closed but unlocked barn doors. Louis, eager to explore, attempted to rush ahead, but Tom swiftly grabbed his arm and motioned for him to stay behind. Holding a pot before him like a makeshift weapon, Tom called out in French, hoping to alert anyone inside to their presence.

"Hello! Is anyone there? Monsieur Hugo, I have Louis with me," Tom's voice echoed within the barn. He ventured forward, gripping the pot tightly, his senses alert to any sign of movement. A quick survey revealed that any animals that might have been present had fled, likely spared from harm by the retreating Germans.

Just as Tom began to feel a sense of relief, a shuffling sound reached his ears from behind. Swiftly turning, he raised the pot defensively, ready to confront whatever—or whoever—might be approaching. A man emerged from the shadows into view, speaking in strangely accented French "I mean you no harm". Tom, still on edge, instructed him to step forward into the light.

"Erm! Don't shoot, I don't have a gun," the man said, revealing himself to be the young sub-lieutenant Tom had been looking for. Tom, recognising the other man was not a threat, sighed in relief. The lieutenant, uncertain of the unexpected guests, fidgeted nervously. Tom noticing his discomfort quickly introduced himself as a reporter named Tom Branson. He explained that he had become separated from a rescue party on the journey to find the Lieutenant and his brother.

Tom inquired about the Lieutenant's brother, "He's not wearing a soldier's uniform," Louis expressed his scepticism to Tom. Even at seven he was able to note the lieutenant's lack of a soldier's appearance.

"That's because he is a lieutenant in the Navy," Tom clarified, eliciting an astonished reaction from Louis. The lieutenant eyed Tom and Louis warily, still processing the unexpected encounter. He shared that his wounded brother was further inside the barn, in one of the empty stalls, sheltered from view, prompting Tom to follow him.

Upon reaching the wounded soldier, Tom was surprised to see the major with a head wound. Tom examined the makeshift bandage and noted the blood seeping through. The lieutenant explained in a strained voice that his brother had been shot in the head by a sniper, and they had been hiding in the barn since the incident. Tom, assessing the situation, decided they needed to clean the wound.

"Well, I have a first aid kit in my pack. I know some first aid. But we will have to clean the wound first," Tom asserted, hoping the soldier was still alive. Kneeling beside the wounded man, Tom checked for signs of life, the young man was ghostly pale and breathing shallowly. Tom felt a fluttery pulse at his neck. Though unsure of how to accurately interpret a pulse, he took it as a positive sign.

Tom instructed Louis to find firewood for a makeshift fire, and asked the lieutenant to help him, the young boy darted out of the barn, gesturing for the lieutenant to follow. Tom reassured the lieutenant, understanding his reluctance to leave his brother with a stranger. "It's okay. I must find something we can light a fire in. Your brother will be fine for five minutes," Tom reassured him.

While Louis and the lieutenant fetched wood, Tom explored the barn for useful items. The scent of hay and animals lingered in the well-kept space, enough space to keep two horses. Tom noticed signs of cursory damage to tools like shovels and hoes. In the shadows, he discerned the outlines of an old car, a flatbed truck, and a tractor, intriguing prospects for further exploration.

Among the animal stalls, Tom discovered a cast iron food bin that he deemed suitable for starting a fire. Despite its weight, he managed to move it to a strategic spot near a high window, aiming to let smoke escape while shielding the flames from outside view. Gathering dry straw, he twisted it into knots to serve as slow-burning kindling.

Upon the return of Louis and the lieutenant, Tom directed them to stack logs near the fire pit. Remembering the supplies in the farmhouse kitchen, Tom nipped out to fetch the necessary supplies.

With a kettle, kindling, and an enamelled bowl in hand, Tom efficiently started the fire, using a lighter he had found in the German trench. As the flames danced, he asked Louis to grab tongs and a poker from the farmhouse, ensuring they were well-prepared for the tasks ahead. Tom rested the kettle over the fire to boil.

With the kettle bubbling furiously, Tom set up an impromptu medical station. The makeshift table, consisting of a sturdy wooden surface, held the first aid kit, a bottle of precious iodine, gauze, clean bandages, and several safety pins. Memories of Sybil's nursing lessons from 1916 resurfaced in Tom's mind, emphasising the importance of preventing infections to save lives.

As the flames flickered and danced in the improvised hearth, they caused shadows to dance across the walls, the smoke from the fire was able to escape via the window above. Tom turned his attention back to the wounded major. The makeshift bandage needed changing, and Tom carefully unwound it, revealing the extent of the head injury. Blood had congealed in the major's hair, high on his skull. Tom winced at the sight. He poured some hot water into the enamel bowl and began to clean the wound as gently as possible.

"Louis, could you bring me some more water? And maybe find a clean piece of cloth if you can," Tom requested, never taking his eyes off the injured man. Louis hurried to fetch what was needed, eager to assist in any way he could. The major was clearly unconscious, and his brother, the lieutenant managed a weak smile of gratitude toward the young boy. Tom's main aim was to send Louis on tasks so that he did not witness anything too gruesome for a young child.

As Tom continued to tend to the injured man, it was here that Tom discovered that the wound the major had was a penetrating wound from the top of the soldier's head with an exit wound just behind his left ear. Tom was shocked still. "There appears to be an exit wound here," Tom pointed out to the lieutenant. The Lieutenant paled and swallowed, "I was hoping it was a separate injury," he whispered, his hands twisted together. Tom wandered if he should say anything more? It was now obvious to him that the major was gravely injured. He hoped he would survive the journey back to safety.

Once the wound was cleaned, Tom went to his first aid kit, he sanitised both wounds with iodine. He carefully applied gauze and a fresh bandage, doing his best to secure it without causing further discomfort to the major even if he was insensible to his surroundings. With the cloth Louis brought him, Tom proceeded to clean the officers face and neck of the remaining blood. He couldn't do anything about his blood-stained uniform.

With the immediate medical attention taken care of, Tom turned his thoughts to their next priorities. "We need to make sure he stays warm. Louis, do you think you could find some more blankets or maybe some clothes from the farmhouse upstairs?" Tom suggested, keeping Louis occupied and away from the immediate vicinity of the wounded man.

He noticed the lieutenant's gaze wandering to a corner of the barn. Following his line of sight, Tom saw an old, worn-out army cot tucked away. "Come, we can carry that old cot near the fire. Your brother will be more comfortable that way," Tom suggested.

The old camp cot was stretched canvas over an iron frame. He got the lieutenant to lay on the bed to ensure it would hold the major's weight. The frame was rusty, and the canvas stained and dirty. But on the whole it would be suitable for the injured man.

"Do you know if it is better for him to be raised up or lie flat?" Tom asked the Lieutenant. Tom had reached the limit of his first aid knowledge and wasn't sure what was for the best. He was hoping the other man might know. The lieutenant looked uncertain. "When we were small our nurse used to prop us up when we were sick," the lieutenant confided. "Ok," Tom begun to arrange the singed cushions at one end of the bed.

"We need to pick him up," Tom said looking critically at the major, how to do this safely Tom thought. "Erm, maybe if we sat him up, we could make a seat of our arms and then lift him on to the bed?" the lieutenant suggested. With that the two men moved the injured soldier to the bed. His brother made sure he was comfortable propped up on the pillows.

It seemed Louis ever resourceful grandfather had kept some military remnants, perhaps from a time long before the current war. Tom made a mental note to explore that corner later, wondering if there might be something else useful there.

Louis nodded eagerly, glad to have a task to focus on. As he scampered off to search for additional supplies, Tom took a moment to survey the barn. The fire was burning steadily, casting a warm glow over the makeshift medical station. The major, now resting more comfortably on the cot, with closed eyes, showed no signs of waking.

Tom's mind raced, contemplating their next steps. The farmhouse held more potential resources, and exploring the hidden corners of the barn might unveil additional surprises. With the fire crackling and the wounded soldier attended to, a semblance of comfort settled in the makeshift haven, offering a brief respite from the harsh realities of war.

Carefully gripping the kettle handle with an old rag. Capitalising on the boiling water, Tom used an unbroken teapot to brew some tea, recognising the potential need for a calming beverage after tending to the major's wound. With a gentle demeanour, Tom sent Louis on a quest to find sugar, aiming to give the young boy as many jobs as he could think off, to take the young boys mind off his missing mother.

Wetting a clean cloth in the bowl of hot water, Tom washed the blood from his own hands and arms. Refreshing the water again he was the dirt from the previous two days from his face and neck. Tom felt refreshed after his quick and dirty wash. He smiled to himself thinking about how easy it would be to persuade Louis to have a wash himself.

Tom's brief moment of respite was quickly overshadowed by the thought of the brothers. The major's injury was serious. Tom knew he had to prepare the young man for the potential severity of his brother's condition. The prospect of transporting the wounded soldier back to the safety of the Allied lines remained uncertain, and Tom grappled with the challenging circumstances unfolding before him.

As the immediate medical concerns were addressed, Tom sought to foster a sense of camaraderie and normalcy amid this unexpected war-torn setting. Turning to the lieutenant, who had yet to share his name, Tom initiated a conversation. "You never told me your names," he remarked.

The lieutenant, looking momentarily apprehensive, grappled with his response, a stutter marring his attempt to communicate. Recognising the potential effects of the recent ordeal, Tom offered a calming suggestion. "Just take a deep breath, Lieutenant, and concentrate on speaking as you are breathing out."

The young, now visibly taking deep breaths to compose himself, managed to introduce himself and his brother. "I'm Bertie Wales, my friends call me Bertie, and that's my brother David," he shared with a strained smile. Tom reciprocated with a warm smile of his own, fostering a sense of connection amid the challenging circumstances.

As Bertie shared his name, Tom took a moment to observe him more closely. Imagining fair hair beneath the grime, he noted the blue eyes and the shadow of a five o'clock shadow on Bertie's face. Considering the lieutenant's height, Tom mused that Bertie might be slightly taller than himself, though the comparison was relative given Tom's experience of having a taller brother.

"I'm glad to have met you, Bertie," Tom remarked, his smile carrying a genuine warmth. In this makeshift sanctuary within the barn, a semblance of camaraderie began to form, offering a brief respite from the harsh realities of war.

The sudden entrance of Louis, proudly brandishing a small pot, added a touch of unexpected joy to the makeshift refuge in the barn. "Look!" he exclaimed with triumph, holding the pot aloft, "It's my grandfather's sugar pot, it belonged to his own mother."

Tom's warm regard for the young boy was evident as he spoke, "That's great, Louis. I'm glad I met you; you're a great travel companion." As Tom ruffled Louis's hair affectionately, the camaraderie between the three of them became increasingly evident, a small oasis of connection during the war's chaos.

Examining the sugar bowl, Tom discovered actual sugar lumps accompanied by delicate silver sugar tongs—an unexpected treasure in the war-torn surroundings. "This is a treasure indeed. I think it is time we all had a nice cup of tea," Tom suggested, contemplating a momentary escape from the harsh realities.

Louis's eyes widened with excitement at the prospect of tea. "I can have tea? My mother never lets me have tea," he exclaimed, his enthusiasm adding a touch of innocence to the grim circumstances. Sharing a smile with the lieutenant, Tom poured tea for the three of them, using matching blue and white teacups discovered in the kitchen.

Introducing the lieutenant and his brother, Tom made the introductions. "Louis, this is Lieutenant Wales and his brother Major Wales." Displaying politeness beyond his years, Louis greeted the lieutenant and inquired about the major's well-being. Tom observed an interesting dynamic—he noticed that the lieutenant seemed notably more at ease conversing with the child, and his French, usually marred by a stutter, flowed more smoothly.

"Your accent is much stranger than Tom's," Louis commented, directing his curious gaze at the lieutenant. Caught off guard, the lieutenant struggled to respond. "This was how I was taught to speak French by my tutor when I was a child," he told Louis, who then turned his inquisitive gaze to Tom.

"My foster mother was Swiss, so I speak French as a Swiss person would, but I was born and raised in the country Ireland" Tom shared, providing a glimpse into his own background as he continued the tea preparations. Mindful of Louis's possible unfamiliarity with tea, Tom added a sugar lump to his cup, anticipating that the brew might be a bit bitter for the young boy.

The prospect of a warm cup of tea, shared in the company of unexpected friends, momentarily eased the weight of the war that surrounded them.

"This is very hot, Louis, so be careful," Tom cautioned the boy, adding a touch of practicality to the impromptu tea party. As they enjoyed this brief respite, they lamented the desire for milk. Louis eagerly revealed a potential source: "My grandfather kept the milk in the cold store." Tom agreed to look at the cold store after their tea. There was no point in letting it get cold.

When they were finished Tom trailed Louis to the other side of the barn. There was a layer of straw that covered the ground, and an old wooden wheelbarrow lay forgotten. Eagerly, Louis began brushing away the straw, and with Tom's assistance, they cleared the wheelbarrow aside, unveiling a wooden trapdoor in the barn floor. Secured with a bit of rope threaded through holes, the door seemed inconspicuous, concealing a secret beneath. Tom exerted effort, heaving the door open. Though not as heavy as anticipated, it remained beyond Louis's capacity to manage alone.

As the door swung open, a cool breeze wafted from the hidden chamber below. Tom peered into the darkness and reassured by the lack of damage, concluded that the German soldiers had overlooked this concealed sanctuary.

Utilising one of the lamps available in the barn, Tom kindled its flame with an ember from the earlier fire. With light to guide them, he and Louis descended into the subterranean depths. The sight that greeted them was nothing short of a marvel—a cache of provisions lay before them. Cheeses, butter, a half-empty barrel of apples, a bag of onions, a sack of potatoes, and even sausages dangled enticingly from the rafters. The pièce de résistance? Bacon. Louis proudly pointed out the churn of milk, a veritable treasure trove that had escaped the notice of the occupying German forces.

Taking in a deep breath, Tom marvelled at their unexpected fortune. It was a cornucopia that promised a meal far beyond the meagre rations he had grown accustomed to in recent weeks. Drawing upon his experience of living independently since the age of 18, he began mentally planning a feast with the newfound ingredients.

Selecting butter, milk, onions, and potatoes, Tom envisioned a hearty soup crafted from the wild garlic foraged earlier, blended with onions and the tin of peas they had discovered. Baked potatoes, adorned with butter and cheese, danced in his imagination, tantalising his taste buds. Already licking his lips at the prospect of a splendid dinner, Tom arranged the food in a makeshift bundle to make it easier to pass up to Louis.

After Louis safely ascended the ladder, Tom carefully handed the bundle of culinary treasures to the eager child. Once Louis had carried the bounty to the fire, Bertie and his wounded brother, Tom's focus shifted to the crucial task of procuring milk for their next cup of tea. The barn, unexpectedly transformed into a culinary haven, held the promise of a meal that would momentarily transport them from the grim realities of war.

Throughout the evening Tom or Bertie would check on David regularly. The sight of the well-dressed wound brought a palpable sigh of relief from Tom. Checking the major's vital signs, Tom put his ear to the soldier's chest, listening for the reassuring sounds of normal breathing and a steady heartbeat. The signs indicated that, at least for the time being, the major's condition was stable.

As the night settled in, Tom worked to create a makeshift comfortable space in the barn for the injured Major and the exhausted Lieutenant. The air in the barn was filled with the scent of hay, old wood, and a hint of the smouldering fire, drifting over from the damaged farmhouse. Tom had found an undamaged mattress, some blankets, and pillows in the farmhouse, remnants of a life that once existed before the war had disrupted everything. With Bertie's help the two men managed to move the mattress to the barn.

They arranged the mattress on the barn floor, creating a cozy nest suitable for Bertie, Louis, and Tom. The young boy, sandwiched between the two men in front of the flickering fire, seemed to find solace in their presence. To add a touch of normalcy to their dire situation, Tom had even found a worn copy of Jules Verne's '20,000 Leagues Under the Sea'.

The simple meal Tom prepared for the three was a great success. Tom couldn't help but grin at both Bertie's and Louis's astonishment that Tom seemed to know how to cook and cook well at that. "My foster mother thought it was important for boys to know how to fend for themselves. So she taught me how to cook some simple food before I headed off to university," Tom told his companion. Sharing happy memories helped to relieve the stress of the day and provided if not normalcy for Louis, comradery.

Bertie looked wistfully at Tom, he hadn't gone to a traditional university but straight to the Royal Naval College, Osborne. He didn't regret going to the Navy, he gained grate satisfaction serving in the Navy, contributing to society, where some of the men were able to overlook his family connections. But Bertie was always slightly envious of the men who could truly choose their own path. "Did you study journalism?" Bertie asked.

Tom grinned even wider, "I studied French poetry," reported Tom, who couldn't help but burst into laughter at the pinched look of horror on young Louis's face. "You look as horrified as I imagine my brother Thomas looked when he found out my chosen course of study," Tom exclaimed wiping a tear that had escaped from his eye.

Bertie frowned, a brother called 'Thomas?' he thought. "You have a brother called Thomas?" Bertie enquired. Tom sobered. This could be a sticking point for some fellows. Switching back to English, "Yes, ah, my brother and I are illegitimate, we have the same father but different mothers. It was just strange serendipity that they both called us Tom and Thomas," Tom quickly explained to Bertie.

In French, "my mother is from Denmark and Thomas's mother was from Manchester," Tom said for Louis's benefit.

Bertie blushed from the possible faux pas. Bertie was no stranger to the moral proclivities of aristocratic men. Who kept mistresses and sometimes acknowledged these bastards as their own. Bertie knew he himself had such cousins out in the world somewhere. "And your father paid for you to go to university?" Bertie asked. Tom almost regretted starting this conversation. Most people didn't delve too far into Tom's family history due to embarrassment. "Erm, actually my mother's family paid for my care and education," Tom admitted. Bertie's eyebrows rose in surprise, that was unusual indeed.

Bertie examined Tom more carefully, he had round handsome face with green eyes, with the beginnings of a beard. His hair was a mess, but he had been out in the wild for a couple of days now. He was intelligent and resourceful, Bertie could tell. Bertie was trying to workout if he recognised any of Tom's features, which made him frown furiously. Until he realised from Tom's squirming that he was making the man uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Now Bertie blushed violently from embarrassment, "Sorry!" Bertie stuttered. Tom nodded in acknowledgement.

Turning his attention back to Louis, "we should check your feet Louis for any blisters, before you go to bed." Louis made a mou of disappointment. "Come on now," Tom chided. "I know I have a blister or two. You two Bertie, boots and socks off. I saw a big bucket out in the yard, we can wash our feet and socks too," Tom said firmly. Tom had once helped Thomas translate an information pamphlet on foot health in the trenches. Tom felt nauseous just thinking of the disgusting pictures he saw that day.

Tom had carried in the shallow tin tub, not a bucket as he had first thought. Tom guessed the old man must have used it for his washing. Tom took the Epsom salts in the first aid kit and added them to the tub with a bucket of cold water and then a kettle of boiling water. Tom tested the water, mmm warm enough for a nice soak. Tom quickly refilled the kettle and put it over the fire to heat for another pot of tea for Bertie and Tom.

Bertie rolled over some larger cut logs, that hadn't been chopped up for firewood and set them up as seats by the tub. Tom supervised Louis removing his shoes and socks. While Tom removed his boots and painfully peeled off his socks. Tom winced when he saw his feet, both heels had blisters and one on his little toe. Tom smiled to himself when he saw how black Louis's feet were from dust and sweat. Tom bet that the boy had been running around earlier in bare feet.

Come sit by me Louis. Before Louis stuck his feet in the clean water, Tom quickly wetted the washcloth and wiped the worst of the grim from his feet. Tom did the same for his feet. Tom offered the cloth to Bertie.

"Aah!" Tom sighed as he put his aching feet in the soothing water. Louis looking at Tom, timidly followed suit, but he too was soon smiling at the pleasant sensation of his feet being in the warm water. Tom couldn't help but stare at amazement at Bertie's feet, "those are the neatest feet I have seen!" exclaimed Tom. Each toe was well defined and pink, with a carefully manicured nail. Only Mary had prettier toes in Tom's opinion.

Bertie blushed with a shy smile, "we all have good feet in my family," admitted Bertie.

The three companions sat in silence enjoying the warm water. Tom wiggled his toes liking the feeling, while Louis kicked his back and forth making little splashes. Soon it was time to take out their feet and dry them. Tom checked Louis's feet, but they were in good condition. While Tom daubed iodine on his three blisters. He offered the bottle to Bertie, who saw to his own needs.

Bertie set about making tea, having observed how Tom did it earlier in the day. Tom washed their socks. Giving them a quick pass through the mangle. There was iron stand in the barn, Tom had no idea it's purpose, but it would do for drying their socks ready for the morning.

With a cup of milk for Louis, and a cup of tea each for Bertie and Tom. Tom encouraged Louis to go to bed.

With Louis settled under the blanket, Tom began reading the first chapter of the novel. The rhythmic cadence of Tom's voice created a soothing backdrop in the quiet barn. It didn't take long for young Louis to succumb to sleep, his breaths steady and innocent.

Once he was certain that Louis was in a deep slumber, Tom turned his attention to Bertie. The dim light from a lantern illuminated the worry etched on the Lieutenant's face. The weight of their predicament hung heavy in the air.

"I think we should try and prop your brother further up and see if he can swallow water, and then maybe try and get him to drink some of the milk," Tom suggested, kneeling next to the unconscious Major. The warmth emanating from the injured man was palpable, and Tom couldn't shake off the concern that this might be the onset of a fever. Bertie, with a grave expression, nodded in agreement.

The two men managed to carefully prop up the Major, using singed cushions they had found earlier when they first arrived at the farmhouse. Filling a cup with warm water from the kettle, Tom demonstrated to Bertie how to wet a clean handkerchief and place it gently between the Major's lips. Observing closely, Tom noticed the subtle signs of the Major instinctively swallowing, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

Encouraged by this small success, Tom suggested they try administering a teaspoon of water at a time. It was a slow and meticulous task, but the Major, though still unconscious, seemed to handle it without issue.

As they attended to the wounded man, Tom, realising the need to alleviate the tension, gently said, "Why don't you tell me how you ended up here?" The suggestion hung in the air, a subtle invitation for Bertie to share his story amidst the uncertainty of their circumstances.

Bertie hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting between Tom and the still form of his injured brother. The dim light in the barn flickered, casting shadows on the walls as Bertie began recounting his wartime experiences.

"I was serving on HMS Collinworth during the battle of Jutland," Bertie started, his speech initially marked by a stutter that gradually faded as he found his rhythm. "I had been made up to a Sub-Lieutenant the year before. As you can imagine, it was a harrowing experience. I was operating the guns, the smoke, the noise—it was like nothing I had ever experienced before. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once."

"David and I were always close; he is only two years older than me. David had joined the Grenadier Guards just before the war was declared, thinking he would get to see action," Bertie paused, his eyes meeting Tom's as if seeking permission to continue. Tom offered an encouraging smile and nodded, signalling for Bertie to share his story.

Bertie fussed for a minute or two over his brother, his hands busy with an unspoken worry, before resuming his narrative. "You can probably tell we come from a well-connected family. My father used all his connections to make sure that David didn't get sent to the front. He mainly served in England, training, and such. David was absolutely furious with father, more so when he realised that he didn't interfere with my naval assignments."

"My father told David that he was my father's heir and that he had a duty to the family, and my father had every right to interfere. As you can imagine, this chaffed something terrible for David," Bertie said, sighing as he recalled the familial conflict and how his father had unwittingly set the two brothers against each other.

Bertie continued, "Well, there have been more and more rumours that the German army is truly in a bad way. They are getting desperate, pulling men from essential jobs, like mining. There are even whispers that they are recruiting boys as young as sixteen now." Tom looked surprised; he had heard some rumours, but not to the extent that Bertie described. "How did you hear that?" Tom asked.

"At dinner conversations at my father's table. Well, David heard even more reports than I did. He was convinced that the war would be over by the end of the year, and he would never see any action due to father. Subsequently, he heard about an advance that the 5th battalion was going to make to push the German line back. David's idea was that he would follow behind and be able to pick off any stragglers."

"He told me, and I thought it was the stupidest idea he had ever come up with, but no matter what I said, he ignored me. So, I and my steward reluctantly followed him. I had seen action, after all; I knew that men could react in strange ways when confronted with the violence of war. I thought if things got hairy, I would at least be able to get him back to safety."

Bertie's expression shifted through a complex dance of emotions—anger, affection, worry, sadness—all those intricate feelings that siblings uniquely evoke. "As you already know, all hell broke loose. We almost immediately got separated from the Battalion. David insisted on continuing. I told my steward that I would not let David go any further than Châlons-l'Érable. We reached the town, and there were still German snipers there covering the retreat of the German army, picking off any British soldiers going through the town. That's where David was hit," Bertie paused and took a shuddering breath. "I managed to get him into one of the still-standing houses and bandaged his head wound. Somehow, I avoided the Germans and got him to this barn, where you found us," Bertie finished.

Tom could tell the retelling of his story had affected the young man as his hands were trembling. "Thank you for telling me your story. Why don't we try giving your brother some of the milk now?" Tom suggested, providing a gentle transition from the weighty narrative to the pressing concern of caring for the wounded Major.

As they cared for David, the dim light of the barn cast shadows on their faces, creating a sombre ambiance. The flickering lamp provided just enough illumination for Tom and Bertie to work on the wounded major. The air was heavy with a mix of antiseptic iodine, the rustic scent of the barn, and the underlying tension of their circumstances.

Tom began sharing the story of his own brother, Thomas, who, like Bertie's brother, was two years his senior. Their lives mirrored each other in some ways, despite the differences in their upbringing. A commiserating smile passed between the two men as they navigated the complexities of sibling relationships, finding a common thread in the challenges posed by brothers who shared close ages.

Bertie couldn't help but still express confusion over the similarity in names. Tom chuckled and reiterated his story, about Thomas and their mothers. How his mother didn't know of Thomas's existence and a twist of fate that resulted in their surprisingly similar names. The casual exchange of personal stories became a bridge, connecting them beyond the immediate situation. The warmth of the shared stories began to thaw the chill of uncertainty that lingered in the barn.

Tom went on to recount the day both he and Thomas attempted to sign up for service, a poignant moment in their lives. However, fate intervened, and Tom was turned down on medical grounds, altering the course of their wartime experiences. The rhythm of their conversation became a quiet cadence, the pacing of their words echoing in the barn's confined space.

The men found solace in each other's company, recognising the shared burdens and aspirations that came with being brothers in times of conflict. As the stories unfolded, a bond began to form, weaving together the fabric of their shared histories. In the quietude of the barn, amidst the makeshift hospital setup, trust sprouted like a delicate shoot, a necessary foundation for the challenges they were bound to face together in the days to come.

With David situated on the makeshift cot, Louis nestled between Tom and Bertie, and the flickering lamp casting a gentle glow across the barn, the trio settled in for the night. The atmosphere inside the barn was a blend of exhaustion and cautious tranquillity.

Tom, despite the weariness that clung to his bones, kept a vigilant ear for any sounds that might indicate danger. The war had honed his instincts, and even in moments of rest, a part of him remained alert. He adjusted the blankets over Louis, making sure the young boy was comfortable and secure.

Bertie, positioned near his brother, maintained a watchful eye on David's resting form. The major's breathing, though laboured, retained a rhythm that brought a measure of reassurance. The bandages, freshly changed, hinted at a fragile stability in the face of the head wound.

The barn, now a makeshift haven, offered a respite from the unpredictable elements outside. The scent of hay, lingering in the air, mingled with the faint aroma of the fire they had managed to kindle earlier. The weathered wood of the barn creaked occasionally, bearing witness to its age and the trials it had endured.

As the men settled into their improvised sleeping arrangements, the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside created a soothing lullaby. The distant echoes of artillery and sporadic gunfire served as a haunting backdrop to their night, a stark reminder of the turbulent world beyond the sheltering walls of the barn.

Tom, sitting against the scavenged mattress, contemplated the events that had brought them together. The bond forming between the three of them seemed to grow stronger with each shared experience. The exhaustion that had weighed on their shoulders began to take its toll, and gradually, the cadence of their breathing synchronised with the quiet symphony of the night.

In the dim light, shadows danced across the rough-hewn beams of the barn, casting a semblance of peace upon the scene. The barn, witness to the scars of war, became a sanctuary for these three disparate souls seeking solace amid the chaos. As the night wore on, enveloped in the stillness of the countryside, the hope for a peaceful dawn lingered in the hearts of Tom, Bertie, and Louis. In the embrace of makeshift warmth, they surrendered to the call of sleep, if only to steal a few moments of respite before the challenges of the next day would beckon them once again.

Day Three

As the morning light began to filter through the gaps in the barn's wooden walls, Tom, Bertie, and Louis stirred from their night's rest. Tom, surprisingly refreshed after their makeshift slumber, found himself waking before the others. The rhythmic sounds of Louis' peaceful sleep and Bertie's quiet wakefulness provided a soft backdrop to the beginning of their day.

"Are you awake?" Tom inquired in a hushed tone, not wanting to disturb the stillness of the morning. Bertie confirmed his wakefulness, and together, they shared a moment of quiet acknowledgment in the semi-darkness of the barn.

Tom reached under his pillow, retrieving his watch with a practiced motion. The timepiece, a small but cherished possession, ticked with reassuring regularity. As he wound it, the mechanism emitted a faint, comforting click. The hands settled at 7:30 am, prompting a gentle smile from Tom.

"Right, I'll get up and start the fire and heat some water for washing and tea. I think it's best we let Louis sleep for as long as possible; no telling what today will bring," Tom suggested, initiating the movement that signalled the beginning of their day. With a quiet roll, he disengaged himself from the makeshift bed, his boots finding their place as the first tangible connection with the morning.

Approaching the dormant fire, Tom nudged it back to life, adding dry straw twists and a log to rekindle the flames. "Add another log, will you, when that one catches?" he directed Bertie, who was now also rising from the makeshift bed.

Grabbing the kettle, Tom headed towards the barn's entrance. His plan was to fetch water from the pump for their morning necessities. A swift visit to the outside toilet followed, during which Tom prioritized cleanliness using a bit of carbolic soap from the house.

Returning to the barn, Tom focused on the practicalities of the morning routine. He set the kettle to boil, and with Bertie attending to his brother David, Tom contemplated their next steps. "How does he look?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the injured major. Bertie's response carried a tone of concern, mentioning the noticeable rise in David's temperature.

"I have some aspirin in the first aid kit. We can crush that and add it to some water and feed it to him like we did yesterday with the milk," Tom suggested, offering a potential remedy for the fever.

Leaving Bertie to his brother's care, Tom turned his attention to breakfast. He ventured to the cold room, where he retrieved cheese and sausages hanging from the rafters. The culinary supplies in hand, he returned to their hearth, setting up the frying pan for a simple yet satisfying morning meal.

The aroma of cooking sausages had a magical effect, rousing Louis from his slumber. Blinking sleepily, the young boy greeted Tom, who smiled warmly in response. Bertie, now closer to the fire, engaged Tom in a quiet conversation about their plans for the day.

"I think I will look at that truck, see if I can get it going again. I have a map, and I know roughly where the English line is. I just don't know how to get across it without being shot," Tom offered. He glanced over to the truck parked at the back of the barn, contemplating the challenges ahead.

"After breakfast, how about you see about the best route to take while I work on the truck? I just don't know if it will be safer to travel at night or day. At night, we have the cover of darkness, but the sound of the motor can travel. But in the daylight, we can see where we are going, but we will be easier to spot," Tom suggested, revealing the underlying tension that accompanied their precarious situation. The urgency of their escape loomed, and with every passing moment, the spectre of discovery edged closer. Tom felt the weight of responsibility for the two brothers' safety pressing upon him, and he knew that their journey ahead would demand careful planning and resilience.

The dilapidated motor, though seemingly abandoned and overlooked by the Germans, became Tom's focus as he endeavoured to breathe life back into the truck. As he supposed the soldiers had overlooked the motor not realising the treasure trove it contained. The flatbed truck, a potential means of escape, had suffered damage, with various hose cut. But the old motor held promise for spares that could bring the vehicle back to working condition.

Louis, eager to assist and perhaps find a distraction from the haunting uncertainty of his missing family, dutifully handed Tom the tools he required. Tom observed the child's proximity, noting the occasional touches—a silent reassurance seeking confirmation that Tom was still present, a tangible anchor in the uncertainty of his current predicament. Tom had suggested to the young boy that he call him Uncle Tom, this cheered up the child and he smiled brightly at Tom. Tom had an ulterior motive, in that he thought if the boy called him uncle it would add legitimacy to any tale he might have to concoct for any German soldier.

Despite the challenges, Tom's efforts proved successful, and he managed to repair the truck. Fuel, however, emerged as a critical concern. Utilising a makeshift dipstick, Tom estimated that the truck held no more than a quarter tank of fuel. While it offered a limited range, it represented a chance at progress. The uncertain prospect of obtaining additional fuel along the way lingered in the back of Tom's mind, a gamble they had no choice but to take.

Turning to Louis for assistance once again, Tom enlisted the young boy in a thorough search for potential fuel reserves. Every nook and cranny that might serve as a storage space was explored, but their efforts proved fruitless. The absence of fuel reserves cast a shadow over their otherwise successful repairs, emphasising the precariousness of their situation. Tom knew that their journey would be fraught with challenges, but the repaired truck stood as a symbol of hope, a vehicle that, with luck and resourcefulness, could carry them away from the dangers that lurked in the war-torn landscape.

Bertie meticulously worked out what he deemed the best route for their journey towards the Allied front line—a complex web of country roads spanning approximately 46 miles. Despite the challenges posed by the distance, Tom recognised that the road ahead held both promise and uncertainty. His experience on the western front had provided him with a basic understanding of the trench lines, but the rapidly changing dynamics of the war meant that their route was fraught with potential dangers.

Aware that their fuel reserves were limited, Tom confided in Bertie about the likelihood of abandoning the truck before reaching their intended destination of Béthune. The frustration of being so close to safety yet hindered by logistical constraints weighed heavily on Tom's mind. He knew that, in normal circumstances, the relatively short distance to Béthune would be easily covered in a matter of hours.

Together, Tom and Bertie scrutinised the map, seeking potential points where they could procure additional fuel. The decision to travel at night was reached, capitalising on the cover of darkness for their journey. Tom anticipated the challenges of nighttime travel—limited visibility and the need for caution to avoid jostling the injured major. They also deliberated on potential hiding spots along the route where they could wait out the daylight hours undetected. The road they would take, passed through a section of wooded land. It was several hundred acres in area and the most likely spot that would provide the travellers shelter.

In a hopeful but long-shot inquiry, Tom turned to Louis, asking if he knew anyone near Béthune. The young boy's response was regretfully negative, underscoring the isolation and uncertainty of their situation. Despite the challenges, a sense of determination and resilience marked their preparations—a resolve to navigate the perilous journey ahead and, against the odds, find their way to safety.

The decision was made to prepare a meal that could be easily consumed without the need for cooking on the journey ahead. Tom opted to cook bacon, sausages, and potatoes, transforming them into a travel-friendly fare. However, this choice stirred emotions in Louis, who was distressed at the thought of using his grandfather's precious food. Sensing the need for a delicate approach, Tom and the Lieutenant discussed a solution. They decided to leave money, 30 francs, for Louis's family, showing him the funds and asking for a suitable hiding spot. Louis suggested wrapping the money in greaseproof paper and tucking it between two large wheels of cheese. Content with this arrangement, Louis felt assured that his family could access the funds.

With the food carefully stored in canvas bags and loaded into the truck's cab, the mattress was relocated to the truck bed. It was decided that Bertie would accompany his brother in the back, while Tom and Louis would share the cab. To minimize the risk of encountering German patrols, Tom planned for a midnight departure, aiming to cover 20 miles by reaching a forest that could offer cover during daylight hours.

The day pressed on, with Bertie and Tom taking turns to check on Major David Wales. Despite their efforts to ease his discomfort with aspirin, water, and liquid food, David's flushed appearance persisted. The regular administration of aspirin every four hours became a sombre routine, a desperate attempt to alleviate his suffering. Unfortunately, this care had an unintended consequence—David soiled himself, a stark and distressing sign of his deteriorating condition. Tom didn't know what to say to Bertie, he figured he must know how the serious his brother's condition was.

Bertie, grappling with the harsh reality that this could be an indication of his brother's irreversible decline, was visibly distressed. The tangible evidence of David's helplessness weighed heavily on him. Sensing Bertie's anguish, Tom offered a comforting presence and practical assistance. With empathy and understanding, Tom helped clean and tend to David, ensuring his dignity in the face of vulnerability.

To address the soiled clothes, Tom improvised a cleaning process. He rinsed them as thoroughly as possible, and then, in the absence of modern conveniences, utilised an old mangle in the farmer's shed. Tom carefully twisted and squeezed the fabric, extracting as much moisture as possible, and left them to dry by the warmth of the fire.

In an attempt to lift Bertie's spirits, Tom shared a personal story from 1916 when his own brother had been wounded and hospitalised. Tom had volunteered to provide bed-baths for his brother, sparing him the potential embarrassment of being attended to by a young nurse or a friend's mother who worked as a nurse. This anecdote, which illustrated the lengths one would go for family, managed to bring a small smile to Bertie's face, offering a momentary respite from the weight of their predicament. Louis, too young to fully grasp the nuances, was simply horrified at the thought of any of his friends' mothers giving him a bath, injecting a touch of innocence into the heavy atmosphere of the barn.

Under the dim glow of the flickering flames, the barn became a haven of warmth and companionship. Tom, resourceful even in challenging circumstances, decided to turn the necessity of consuming perishable items into a small celebration. Using the last of the milk and a bar of chocolate salvaged from the German trench, he crafted a special treat—Swiss hot chocolate, sweetened with sugar.

Louis, accustomed to the simplicity of cocoa powder-based concoctions, watched with wide-eyed amazement as Tom expertly prepared the decadent drink. The rich aroma of melting chocolate mingled with the rustic scent of the barn, creating an unexpected oasis of comfort during wartime hardships.

With steaming mugs of Swiss hot chocolate in hand, they gathered around a makeshift table adorned with chunks of cheese, apple and radishes harvested from the nearby hedgerows. The contrast of flavours and textures transformed the modest barn into a haven where, for a fleeting moment, the hardships of war seemed distant.

As the clock approached 7 pm, the decision was made to seek a few hours of respite before the impending journey. Leaving Major David in the care of the army cot, Bertie, Louis, and Tom nestled into the makeshift bed in the flatbed of the truck. The worn mattress, surrounded by the familiar scents of barn and earth, offered a humble sanctuary for their weary bodies.

The atmosphere in the barn shifted from the lively sharing of stories and the enjoyment of a makeshift feast to a quieter, more introspective mood. The trio, bound by shared trials and an uncertain future, closed their eyes in pursuit of a few hours of restless sleep. The anticipation of the approaching midnight departure to make a break for the Allied lines lingered in the air, overshadowed by the fleeting tranquillity of this temporary respite. In the shelter of the barn, dreams intertwined with the harsh realities of war, creating a delicate balance between the hope for a safer tomorrow and the challenges that lay ahead.

Day Four

The night enveloped the barn in an inky darkness, broken only by the dim glow of distant stars and the soft radiance of the full of moon hanging in the sky. In the distant hooting of an owl could be heard. Midnight had arrived, and with it, a palpable tension filled the air. Bertie and Tom, silent figures in the shadows, carefully lifted Major David onto the flatbed of the truck. Louis, a bundle of nerves, shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, eyes darting between the adults as if seeking reassurance in the shadows.

Tom, the pragmatic strategist, organised the flatbed meticulously. He strategically placed his knapsack near David's head, adorned with the singed cushions salvaged from the farmhouse. David was then covered with warm blankets. Firewood, a sack of onions, some apples and potatoes were secured at the bottom, adding an extra layer of concealment. Tom also stuffed some of the broken tools amongst the fire wood.

"Louis, come here for a moment," Tom called Louis to him. Turning him towards the truck, "Look carefully Louis. Does it look like how your grandfather would load the truck?" Tom asked. Tom may have worked two years as a chauffeur, but that was a skilled job on the estate. Tom had never had to load a truck before. He knew that it was the smallest thing that could tip off a keen observer. Bertie was a Gentleman through and through and probably had even less experience than Tom.

Louis looked at the truck thoughtfully, biting his lip. Louis walked to the back of the truck. "Look, grandfather would tie the load down using rope and these two holes," Louis said, sticking his little fingers through two holes at the side of the truck. Looking Tom realised that the holes were repeated on the other side. "The rope would sort of cross over," Louis said holding up his crossed arms demonstrating for Tom. "There's a ring here," Louis then pointed out a metal ring laying flat against the bed, partially covered by the wood Tom had stacked in the truck. Tom pushed the wood back and using the screwdriver prised the ring free.

Bertie had drifted over while Tom and Louis were talking. "Can I help?" he stuttered. Bertie was eager now to get away from this place. Since they made their plan Bertie could feel a creeping dread creeping up his spine. This made him feel jittery.

"Yes, grab this end of the rope we need to tie down the load," Tom explained. The two men worked quickly with Louis guiding them of how the rope should be tied. "Is this right Louis?" Tom asked. Louis smiled and nodded.

Concerned for the potential hazards of the journey, Tom tied bundles of wood together, creating makeshift barriers along the sides of the flatbed—improvised protection in case their escape met hostile resistance. This also had the added benefit that if they found somewhere safe to light a fire, they would have ready fuel. Tom cleaned out the churn that once held milk. He then filled it with clean water. Tom estimated that no matter what happened, their journey would be over in two days.

Realising the conspicuousness of his own attire, Tom deemed his greatcoat too distinctive for a simple farmer. Folding it with care, he repurposed it to provide additional cover for the unconscious Major David. In Louis's grandfather's wardrobe, he discovered a weathered, hardy blue coat, its elbows patched, and cuffs frayed. A blue cloth hat with a slight tilt over his face completed his disguise. A few days in the wilderness had gifted Tom with a scruffy growth of fair hair on his face, further masking his identity.

With a nod of satisfaction, Tom deemed their preparations complete. He added a spare blanket in the cab for Louis, providing the young boy with a cocoon of warmth. For the two brothers lying in the flatbed, Tom arranged the waterproof groundsheet with meticulous care, throwing on some empty burlap sacks for an added layer of concealment. A heavy-duty tarp, normally used to cover the flatbed, was secured with sturdy ropes, ensuring their cargo remained hidden from prying eyes.

Bertie and Tom, their disguises carefully crafted, discussed contingency plans in hushed tones. If confronted by German soldiers, Tom, with his fluent French and a touch of a Swiss accent, would explain their journey as a visit to his sister-in-law, offering Louis to her care. A quick inspection, some improvised explanations, perhaps a bribe of firewood or food if necessary—these were their calculated strategies to navigate potential encounters.

Satisfied that all was in readiness, Tom ignited the engine, the soft hum breaking the stillness of the night. With a glance to ensure Bertie's composure in his concealed space, Tom guided the truck into the darkness, embarking on the first leg of their perilous journey. The night held its secrets, and as the wheels of the truck churned the path ahead, the trio ventured into the unknown, a fragile hope guiding them through the shadows of uncertainty.

The aged truck rumbled along the uneven country roads, its worn tires absorbing the jolts and bumps of the journey. Tom navigated the vehicle with a cautious touch, each dip and rise in the road requiring a calculated response. The absence of headlights was deliberate; the darkness cloaked them in a veil of secrecy, shielding them from the watchful eyes of any potential German patrols that might roam the night.

A cloudless sky stretched overhead, revealing a full moon that cast a silvery glow upon the landscape. While the moonlight offered a degree of visibility, it also betrayed the group to the biting chill of the spring night. The cold air nipped at exposed skin, and Tom could feel the frigid breeze seeping through the gaps in his makeshift disguise. Tom wished he thought to wear his scarf that was in his knapsack. Despite the discomfort, his focus remained steadfast on the road ahead.

In the seat beside Tom, Louis lay bundled in his blanket, asleep and blissfully unaware of the challenges that surrounded them. Tom had carefully propped the boy against the truck's door. Tom stole glances in the rearview mirror, his concern extending to the brothers in the flatbed. He hoped the singed cushions and layered protection were enough to shield them from the biting cold.

The large steering wheel gripped in Tom's hands bore witness to the tension that coursed through him. His knuckles, white against the worn leather, revealed the depth of his nervousness and fear, emotions concealed from any external observer in the solitude of the night. Thoughts of his brother Thomas lingered in his mind, wondering if the urgent message had reached him and if fate would reunite them.

Dear Mary, his thoughts whispered, a sweet anticipation hanging in the air. They had shared a connection, a promise unspoken but understood. The idea of leaving her waiting, perhaps never to see her again, weighed heavily on Tom's heart. He acknowledged the irony of the situation, considering the numerous times he had tested Thomas's patience, each escapade paling in comparison to the perilous journey he now undertook.

As the truck neared the looming darkness of the approaching forest, Tom grappled with a difficult decision. The moonlight, their faithful companion until now, would be swallowed by the thick canopy of branches and leaves. Reluctantly, he decided to risk exposure by turning on the headlights. The sudden illumination cut through the obscurity, revealing the skeletal arms of the trees that reached hungrily towards the night sky.

The journey through the nocturnal landscape took an eerie turn. Shadows danced and flickered in the moonlight, creating an unsettling play of forms. The wind whispered through the trees, adding an ethereal soundtrack to their clandestine passage. Tom's breath, visible in the cold air, briefly lingered as a white cloud before dispersing into the night. The scent of living things permeated the air.

The forest, once an intimidating silhouette, now enveloped them in an intimate darkness. Tom's senses heightened, attuned to the rustling leaves, the distant calls of nocturnal creatures, and the subtle creaks of the aging truck. The night held secrets, and as they ventured deeper into the enigmatic realm of shadows, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that their destiny lay shrouded in uncertainty.

The truck came to a halt just before entering the dense forest. Tom, mindful of their precarious situation, opened the door with a stealthy grace and moved to the back. He leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper, "Bertie, we've reached the forest. I'm going to turn on the lights now and find shelter for the day. Are you okay in there?" A muffled yes emanated from beneath the covers, and Tom responded with two quick taps on the side of the truck, a silent acknowledgment of understanding.

Returning to the driver's seat, Tom ignited the lights and navigated the vehicle into the dark, foreboding woods. The path was narrow, and he drove cautiously, scouting for any hidden tracks that could lead them deeper into the cover of the forest. After a while, his keen eyes spotted a forgotten entrance—an old gate flanked by two stone pillars. The wrought iron gates, hanging off their hinges, hinted at a long-abandoned estate entrance. A remnant of an old drive, partially obscured by a dilapidated stone wall, curved away from the main road, offering a secluded sanctuary.

Guiding the truck between the stone pillars and beneath the rusted iron gates, Tom manoeuvred it behind the concealment of the crumbling wall. With the hand brake engaged, he disembarked and unveiled the two brothers hidden beneath the tarp. Bertie, taking deep breaths of the damp forest air, appeared relieved. David, still unconscious, showed no signs of awakening.

"How was it?" Tom inquired. Bertie's expression soured, and Tom extended a hand for Bertie to grasp, assisting him down from the truck. "How's David?" Bertie's response was tinged with sadness, "He didn't make a sound the whole journey." Tom offered a sympathetic glance, understanding the weight of their situation.

"I need your help to make sure the truck is concealed from the road. I'll go to the road, and if you can walk up and down by the truck, I'll see if I can spot you. We'll also try talking at conversation level," Tom proposed, outlining their plan for added security. The forest, a silent witness to their clandestine movements, embraced them with an air of secrecy and protection.

As the night still held the world in its dark embrace, Tom navigated cautiously back to the road, his senses heightened by the absence of daylight. The forest floor, devoid of any illumination, demanded careful steps to avoid unseen obstacles. Glancing back at the concealed truck, he could discern nothing in the enveloping blackness. He made a mental note to reevaluate their concealment once the sun unveiled the world.

Returning to the truck, Tom rummaged through the bed for his coat and extracted his pocket watch, utilising his lighter to discern the time. It was 5:55 am, a couple of hours before the break of dawn. Tom, feeling the need to relieve himself, stepped aside to a convenient tree before rejoining the truck.

Bertie approached, questioning, "Are we good?" Tom nodded. "Yeah, I couldn't hear or see you. I'll check again when the sun is up. I think we're good for a while here," he reassured Bertie. When asked about their next move, Tom suggested, "I think you and I should try and get some sleep first. I don't know how much sleep we'll get now that we're on the move."

Agreeing, Bertie disappeared into the trees for a brief respite before returning to the truck. Tom began rearranging the blocks of wood in the truck bed, creating more space on the mattress for three men and Louis. Lifting the sleeping child from the cab, he gently laid him on the mattress. Bertie, moving swiftly, took his place next to his brother. Bertie then embraced Louis, pulling him close, leaving room for Tom to join them.

Tom, shedding his coat and boots but retaining his hat, nestled into the makeshift bed. Bertie pulled the tarp over them, leaving a section folded back for fresh air. Beneath layers of blankets and makeshift coverings, the warmth embraced them, and the trio succumbed to the realm of dreams, the truck bed becoming a haven of slumber in the midst of their unpredictable journey.

With Louis shaking him awake, Tom's eyes slowly adjusted to the weak sunlight filtering through the forest canopy. The worried face of his young boy greeted him as Louis urgently announced his need to use the toilet. Realising the time was 8:25 am, Tom sat up and pulled on his boots before climbing out of the truck. Gently lifting Louis to the ground, he guided the boy to a nearby tree for a moment of privacy.

Relieving themselves in the tranquil solitude of the forest, Tom wished he had something to clean his hands with, but the remote location offered no such conveniences. Returning to the truck, Tom asked Louis to sit in the cab, providing him with the book "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" to browse through the pictures. With Louis occupied, Tom decided to explore the surroundings.

A quick check revealed the Lieutenant still in peaceful slumber, and David showed no signs of improvement. Tom ventured back to the road, erasing the tire tracks in the mud with a large stick and scattering leaves and twigs to conceal any traces of their presence. Jogging up the road, he ensured that the truck was well-hidden from this angle and then repeated the process in the opposite direction.

Satisfied that they were unlikely to be discovered as long as they kept noise to a minimum, Tom acknowledged the potential challenge with a young child in tow. The forest, though concealing, demanded their vigilance to maintain their inconspicuous existence.

Deciding to explore the old driveway, Tom brought Louis along, understanding the need for the boy to expend some energy. Tom emphasised the importance of staying quiet, and Louis, seemingly content, explored the track while conversing quietly with 'Uncle Tom'. During their walk, Tom took the opportunity to go over the cover story with Louis, explaining that they were heading to stay with his aunt Eva in Maraisville due to the disappearance of Louis's mother and grandfather. Louis seemed to comprehend, pledging not to talk to German soldiers and promising to keep the details straight.

Returning to the truck, Tom remained vigilant, conscious of the potential danger of encountering German soldiers. The tension lingered, and Tom tried to divert his thoughts from their precarious situation. Upon reaching the truck, Bertie was awake, tending to his brother by administering aspirin and water. David's flushed face hinted at a developing fever. Tom suggested cleaning the wound and applying more iodine, a proposal to which Bertie agreed.

With a sense of duty, Tom changed the dressing, soaked the wound in iodine, and pondered the gravity of David's condition. Shot in the head, Tom questioned the possibility of recovery and whether the man would ever be the same again. Doubts loomed, but Tom recognised his duty to get both brothers safely across the line. At least, within their own army, there would be doctors to tend to the injured major.

Observing Bertie caring for his brother, Tom sensed the weight of responsibility on the young man's shoulders. If David were incapacitated or worse, Bertie would inherit the role of his father's heir, bringing with it a heavy burden of responsibility. Tom empathised with the complex emotions Bertie must be experiencing, uncertain if the Lieutenant had even reached the age of 21.

Deciding to check the truck's fuel, Tom confirmed his expectations—barely enough to cover another 10 miles toward their destination. The challenges they faced seemed insurmountable, but Tom pressed on, driven by a sense of duty and determination to reach safety.

Their most pressing concern, as Tom saw it, was the scarcity of fuel. Over a breakfast consisting of cold water and sausages, Tom and Bertie deliberated on the best course of action. They faced another 26 miles before reaching the relative safety of Béthune.

"I don't think it's a good idea to try and get David to the allies on foot. We will have to go by the truck unless we meet a farmer with a donkey and cart that we could exchange the truck for," Tom suggested, considering the deteriorating condition of Bertie's brother. Bertie, visibly strained from his brother's worsening state, received a brief squeeze of support from Tom, who held onto the belief that they had only one viable option.

"I know, my brother's condition is getting worse, the fever is not abating," Bertie stammered in response. Tom could see the toll it was taking on Bertie, the circles under his eyes darkening.

Realising the urgency of their situation, Tom proposed, "I will have to go in search of fuel," casting a concerned glance at Louis, who was cuddled against him. The two men consulted the map, estimating their location to be approximately 5 miles from Lens, a coal mining town fraught with risk due to the likely presence of German forces.

Tom had stumbled upon an old travel pass belonging to Louis's grandfather, providing permission to travel to market. He planned to walk towards Lens, hoping to find someone sympathetic to sell him fuel or, even better, an abandoned vehicle from which he could siphon fuel. Armed with an old tin can capable of holding about two gallons of fuel and a bit of rubber hosing, Tom geared up for the perilous mission.

Louis, however, burst into tears upon realising that Tom was leaving, creating quite a commotion. Tom, drying the child's tears, tried to comfort him. Bertie, considering the situation, suggested, "Maybe it would be better if he went with you. It would give you better cover." Louis pleaded with Tom to be allowed to accompany him, even after being reminded of the potential danger of encountering German soldiers. While frightened, the determined child insisted on going with Tom. Bertie's suggestion had its merits; Tom would attract less suspicion with a child in tow.

Accepting Louis's insistence to accompany him, Tom nodded reluctantly in agreement with Bertie's suggestion. Having a child with him might indeed afford them some semblance of cover. Despite the risks, Tom felt it was a practical decision, and he reasoned that Louis would be safer under his watchful eye than left alone in the forest.

"Alright, Louis, you can come with me," Tom said, ruffling the boy's hair gently. Louis, his tear-streaked face brightening, managed a weak smile. Bertie, too, seemed to find some solace in the decision.

Tom handed Bertie the map. "You stay here with your brother, Bertie. I'll try to be as quick as I can. We'll need to conserve the little fuel we have left."

Bertie nodded, understanding the gravity of their situation. "Just be careful, both of you," he urged, his concern evident.

With that, Tom and Louis set out on foot towards Lens, leaving the makeshift camp behind. The forest swallowed them in its shadows as they ventured toward the unknown challenges that awaited them in the coal mining town. Tom gripped the tin can and rubber hose, his senses alert to every sound in the forest. Louis, holding Tom's hand, tried to match his determined stride, the trust in his eyes reflecting the newfound bond between them.

The journey to Lens held uncertainties, but with the resilience of a makeshift family, they pressed on into the unknown.

The air hung heavy with tension as Tom and Louis ventured towards Lens, the weight of the situation pressing on them like a leaden sky. The clock ticked away, each step echoing the urgency of their mission. Before their departure that morning at 9:30, Tom and Bertie engaged in a heated argument, the echoes of their conflicting viewpoints lingering in the air like a storm about to break.

Amidst the argument, Bertie's insistence on not leaving without Tom revealed a vulnerability - a lack of knowledge in driving. This realisation added another layer of pressure on Tom's shoulders, knowing that the responsibility of getting the brothers home rested squarely on his own shoulders.

As Tom and Louis walked, each step felt like a precarious move on a tightrope. Louis clutched Tom's hand, his fear palpable in the tense grip. Tom, in a gentle yet firm tone, reminded the young boy of the potential encounter with German soldiers, urging him not to cry and to stay close. The weight of the water flask in Louis' hands served as a tangible reminder, grounding the boy in the moment.

An hour passed in uneasy silence broken only by the rhythm of their footsteps. As they turned a bend in the road, the ominous sight of a German checkpoint loomed ahead, a couple of hundred yards distant. The road was obstructed by a German truck, and soldiers lounged casually, their weapons a stark contrast to their relaxed demeanour.

Dread gripped Tom's heart. The moment he had feared was upon them. With a silent prayer, he hoped that at least one of the German soldiers understood French. The air crackled with uncertainty as they approached the checkpoint, each step echoing the mounting tension that surrounded them like an invisible shroud. Sunlight danced merrily between the swaying branches, an incongruous image juxtaposed with the dread Tom felt.

The tension in the air thickened as Tom and Louis approached the German checkpoint, a formidable obstacle standing between them and the precious fuel they desperately needed. Tom felt every step weigh heavily on him, the gravity of the situation sinking in. He held Louis's hand, a reassuring presence amidst the uncertainty that lay ahead, even so he felt the child's breaths quicken. Reminding Tom of his own rapid breathing. He had to consciously bring his breaths back to a more normal rate.

Tom, in a gentle tone, reminded Louis that he was with him, and that Tom would protect the young boy. Tom only hoped this situation wouldn't make a liar of him. "Stay calm," Tom whispered to the boy. Louis, his face pale, nodded in understanding—a child burdened with the weight of witnessing the upheaval in his town and the disappearance of familiar faces. As they walked towards the checkpoint, Tom was conscious of the crunch of his boots on the road, the noise they were making seemed to ring in his ears.

Earlier Tom had handed Louis the water flask to carry, grateful now that it wasn't an army-issue container that might arouse suspicion. Meanwhile, Tom himself carried the tin can, a vessel for the potential salvation of their journey. This hand ached from gripping the handle so tightly, he forced his hand to relax, finger by finger.

He was fluent in German due to his upbringing, Tom knew he spoke the language like a native. The challenge lay in maintaining the facade. If he spoke German, the soldiers would instantly sense something amiss. In case he needed to switch, Tom had concocted a story, one that stuck close to the truth—an amalgamation of a German father, a Swiss mother, and residence in Switzerland, not Ireland.

Louis, sensing the danger, whimpered and clung to Tom's hand even tighter. Tom slowed their pace, contemplating whether to stop, make a noise, or simply continue forward. The weight of the moment pressed on him as they approached the checkpoint.

At last, the soldiers spotted Tom and Louis and cried out, "Halt!" Tom immediately stopped, holding the empty can in front of him, with Louis gripping his other hand tightly. The tension in the air was palpable as the soldiers motioned for them to approach. Heart pounding, Tom walked toward the checkpoint, Louis at his side, both trying to appear nonchalant.

A quick exchange of glances and a reassuring smile passed between Tom and Louis, who clung to Tom's hand with both of his. As they moved closer, Tom took in more details of the scene. A sleek Mercedes-Benz, an extravagant sight amidst military surroundings, drew his attention. Mud coated the motor's tyres and dust layered the lower portion of the vehicle. Tom, feigning disinterest, observed the soldiers, noting the mix of youth and weariness among them. Each one bore the unmistakable look of hunger. There jaws shadowed from beard growth, some sporting unkept moustaches.

One figure stood out—a colonel in a crisply tailored uniform, blonde hair neatly combed, and a clean-shaven face. The contrast was stark between the officer and his men. Engaged in conversation with a junior officer, the colonel spared only a fleeting glance at Tom and Louis. Tom paused on his figure momentarily, there was something about his stance, the tilt of his head. It triggered a sense of DeJa'Vu, like Tom had seen the man before, but he couldn't remember when.

"You, quick!" demanded a soldier, impatience evident in his tone. Tom hastened his steps, eager to avoid provoking any aggression. "Papers," the soldier demanded, extending his hand expectantly. Fumbling in his pocket, Tom withdrew the papers he had found back at the farmhouse. He hoped that they were sufficient. An anxious beads of sweat trickled down his back as the soldier scrutinised the documents.

"Where are you going?" the soldier asked in heavily accented French. "We are going to Haisnes and then to Maraisville. I am taking my nephew to stay with his aunt," Tom replied, doing his best to maintain confidence while conversing with German soldiers. The soldier shifted his focus to Louis. "Why are you going to Haisnes?" he gruffly inquired. Overwhelmed, Louis began to cry, explaining, "I don't know where my mummy is. I am going with Uncle Tom to Haisnes." Tears streamed down his face, and he sniffled.

The soldier, seemingly uncomfortable with the child's distress, turned back to Tom. "Where did you come from? There's nothing back there for miles," he observed, suspicion in his gaze. Pointing in the direction they had come from, Tom replied, "My farm is ten miles that way. My farm truck ran out of fuel, and I hoped to find some on the way to Lens."

Sceptical, the soldier questioned further, "And you walked the whole way?" Tom stammered, "My farm truck ran out of fuel, and I thought I would have enough to get there." To emphasise his point, he shook the empty can and placed it on the ground. "I was hoping to get fuel somewhere on the way to Lens. It was closer than walking home," Tom explained. The soldier, still suspicious, pressed on, "Where is the truck?" Tom, thinking quick answered, "About three miles back." As Tom said this, he held up his hand showing three fingers. Ever since Tom was a child he counted starting with his small finger working up to the thumb, this was how his foster father taught him to count.

Unbeknownst to Tom, the German officer had keenly observed the interaction. Suddenly, the officer barked a command, summoning a soldier named Schmidt over to him. They had a quick hushed conversation that ended with the officer waving the soldier away. Tom's stomach twisted into knots as he saw the soldier approaching. To divert attention and offer some solace to Louis, Tom crouched down, drying the young boy's tears with a handkerchief, urging him to blow his nose. A gentle stroke of Tom's thumb on Louis' cheek sought to provide comfort amid the escalating tension.

Tom rose swiftly when he noticed the officer striding towards him, his hand raised in a universal stop sign. But instead of stopping, the officer continued forward, connecting his hand with Tom's shoulder. Tom stumbled backward, managing to regain his balance just in time. The sudden movement frightened Louis, who clung tightly to Tom, the renewed tears streaming down his face.

The officer spoke in German, with confidence as if he knew Tom would understand him. Tom felt the muscles in his back tense, he found it difficult to swallow. Danger seemed to charge the atmosphere. "I will tell you a story," the officer began, his tone measured. "One hundred years ago, when my grandfather was born, he sustained a birth injury damaging his thumb." As he spoke, the officer demonstrated, holding his hand close to his body so that the other soldiers could not witness his actions. "he always counted this way," he counted in the same way as Tom, from the small finger to the thumb.

"My grandfather counted this way all his life," the officer continued, emphasising his words by counting on his fingers again. The air crackled with an unspoken connection, and Tom couldn't shake the suspicion that he knew this German officer, a revelation he hadn't expected to unfold in such a perilous moment. The weight of the shared history between their families lingered, casting a shadow over the uncertain present.

"So, from the look of you, you must be Tom Branson, the intrepid reporter for 'Politiken'?" Tom's heart was in his throat, and he swallowed nervously at the German officer's declaration. Examining the fair-haired man in front of him, he noted the familiar slant of the eye and the dimple in the chin. The man looked about 47 years old, and Tom guessed that this would be his foster father's youngest son, Wilhelm Gunther. Speaking German for the first time, Tom said, "Wilhelm Gunther, I presume?" Louis darted a startled look at Tom, suddenly hearing him speak German. Tom ran a soothing hand over the boy's shoulders. Gunther just raised an eyebrow. "And my father, is he still living?" Gunther asked coolly. "Yes," Tom said simply.

Darting his eyes around the checkpoint, Tom realised that Gunther had marched them back out of earshot of the other soldiers. "Why are you in France?" Gunther demanded. Tom answered truthfully that he was there to do a story on the local French people and how the war was affecting them. He mentioned investigating a destroyed village where he found Louis, as his mother had hidden him before being evacuated by the German soldiers. Tom noticed Gunther grimacing in distaste. Tom was pleased that his brother felt shame at how the civilians were being treated during the war.

Tom continued to explain rapidly that he was attempting to get Louis to some sort of French authorities. "And do you really have some sort of vehicle?" Gunther asked, with desperate urgency in his voice. Tom wondered what this questioning was really aimed at. "Yes, it was Louis's family vehicle," Tom said, eyes darting to the nearby soldiers. "It's a broken-down old thing that I managed to repair," Gunther's eyes sparked in interest at this information. "But it only had a bit of fuel left in the tank," Tom told him, Gunther deflated slightly at this news. Tom knew he was taking a huge risk being even this truthful with his foster brother. He loved and respected his German father, 'surely' Tom thought, 'any man raised by Otto Gunther must be trustworthy'.

"I take it you are really heading to Béthune?" Gunther asked. Tom said nothing, and Gunther just stared at him. Gunther looked down and to the side, taking a deep breath as if making an important decision. "Do you love my father?" he asked with the most intense look Tom had ever seen. His light blue eyes burning into Tom's, "Yes," answered Tom quietly, returning Gunther's gaze steadily.

Turning his face away to get a quick look at the soldiers behind him, ensuring they were not in earshot, he turned back to look at Tom. Now his face showed blatant despair. "At the start of this war, I had two brothers and four sons. Now I only have one son left," Gunther barely spoke above a whisper. Tom had to lean in to hear him speak. "Karl, who is just 15. Don't look, but Karl is in my car right now. I want you to take Karl to his grandfather in Ireland." Tom was stunned at this revelation. He didn't know what to think, though he felt deep sympathy for Gunther and his losses.

Tom couldn't help but think of his foster father, who would never get to see two of his sons again or his grandchildren. 'How would he tell him this news?' Tom thought. He would have to take the risk and visit him and his foster mother. He was sure that Thomas would agree with Tom that this was the only decent thing to do. A sudden chill breeze blew down the road, stirring up leaves and dust. It seemed to be a sign of the terrible duty Tom would have to undertake. Tom's heart felt heavy at the thought.

"But why? How?" Tom asked, seeking more clarity on Wilhelm Gunther's desperate plea. Tom's tender heart went out to his young nephew, a child who had lost so many of his family members.

"My wife is distraught over the loss of our three sons. I took Karl with me, hoping he would see the horrors of the war and wouldn't do anything stupid, like trying to join up without my permission. Thank God he has a respectable fear of war now. But if he is called up," Gunther paused taking a steadying breath, his eyes shadowed with grief. "He might not have any choice," Gunther's voice caught in his throat, he swallowed convulsively and licked his dry lips. "He hasn't even finished school, so it's not like I can get him into officer training, which might keep him off the front lines," Gunther explained, his words pouring out with an unexpected outburst of emotion. Tom was shocked at the depth of his foster brother's feelings.

Tom started to lift his hand to offer his long-lost brother some physical comfort. But the sudden widening of Gunther's eyes stilled Tom's hand. He realised that was foolish, if any of the other soldiers saw it, could be dangerous for them. Gunther was taking a huge risk, trusting a near stranger. If they were discovered, they could all be shot. Even the children. Tom shuddered at the thought. He felt ashamed of his almost mistake. Looking over Gunther's shoulder he could see the soldiers milling about. The spring sunshine glinted off the weapons in their hands. They obviously didn't think that Tom was a risk, as they were only giving Tom and their colonel cursory glances.

Young Louis looked up at the two men, his blue eyes wide and wondering. He didn't understand the words being spoken but he could sense the emotion behind the words. Louis unconsciously shuffled closer to Tom, the adult that represented safety to the young boy. Tom slipped his arm around the skinny shoulders of the young boy, holding him closer to his body for comfort.

"This war won't go on forever," Gunther shook his head resignedly. "High Command won't admit it, but we are losing." Gunther said bitterly. "Our people are starving, and we are running out of men and resources," he said. "The army has started taking boys as young as 16 years now. Karl will be 16 next month," Gunther said quietly, fear and desperation evident in his voice, his body tense. Suddenly, Tom understood the profound reasons behind Gunther's risky suggestion.

"Okay, let's just say I take Karl. We still need to make it back to the Allies in Bethune; that's about 26 miles away," Tom outlined. "I don't have enough fuel, and it's too far for a young child to travel quickly," Tom said, occasionally glancing at the other soldiers, making sure they didn't look suspiciously at the two of them. "I can give Karl fuel and papers for you," Gunther promised quickly. Tom eyed his brother's motor, he obviously had access to fuel, Tom thought.

"I'll send you away," Gunther started to gesture emphatically. This was purely for the benefit of any watching soldier. "If you come back here in an hour, Karl will be here with fuel and travel papers," Gunther whispered. Suddenly Gunther started to roughly pat Tom down. Startled Louis cried out in alarm. While Gunther was pretending to search Tom, he continued to talk in a hushed voice. "I have a rough idea where the patrols are going to be over the next 48 hours. Do you have a map?" Tom gave a slight nod of the head. "I will give you, their coordinates," he promised. "About 13 miles from here, if you take the second left on this road, you will find an abandoned mill. You will be able to shelter there during the day. You will be about 3 miles from Bethune." Gunther instructed. "f you do a bit of reconnaissance, you should be able to reach the allies by dawn the following day," Gunther rapidly explained, knowing he didn't have much time, before even his weary men started to get suspicious.

"I don't recommend you leave your hideout until 2 am; I won't be able to guarantee that this road will be free of patrols and checkpoints before that time," Gunther explained, laying out the risky plan, careful that his men couldn't see any gestures he was making. Tom knew this was a huge risk, especially with the two British soldiers back at their makeshift camp. 'What if young Karl was freaked out by their presence?' Tom thought. But looking at Wilhelm Gunther, his foster brother, he could see how much this war had taken from him.

Tom had always abhorred the war for the senseless loss of life, whether British or German. If Tom could save one young boy from having his life ruined by war and violence, then he would do it.

"Okay, I'll do it," Tom said decisively. "We'll go back the way we came and come back in an hour to get Karl. Does Karl know your plan?" Tom asked, "it won't work if he isn't fully on board and could get us all killed."

"Don't worry; I will make him understand," Gunther assured Tom.

Gunther gestured for Tom to go back the way they came. Tom made a show of being reluctant. When suddenly Gunther grabbed the collar of his jacket and struck Tom about the ear. It looked worse than it was. Tom staggered from the surprise rather than the force of the blow. He quickly realised that this would be more believable to the watching soldiers. Louis started to cry again at the sudden violence. Gunther looked momentarily guilty for frighting the young child. Tom and Louis walked dejectedly back the way they came. Tom and Louis quickened their pace. Making it obvious to the watching soldiers they were desperate to be away. Soon, they were back around the bend in the road and could not be seen by the German soldiers at the checkpoint. Tom breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who was that man, Uncle Tom? Why were you speaking German?" Louis tremulously asked, his eyelashes still wet from his earlier tears. "You know how I said my mother was from Switzerland?" Louis nodded, he remembered. "Well, my father was from Germany, and before he met my mother, he had a son with a German lady, and that was their son," Tom explained to Louis. Louis frowned at this explanation, trying to understand the relationships involved.

Tom and Louis spent an hour exploring the woods, their steps quiet on the soft, leaf-covered ground. Tom wondered if they would find anything interesting or perhaps some food he could forage. He spotted some wild garlic but dismissed the idea of picking it since they couldn't cook it. Meanwhile, Louis was quiet for the most part, lost in his own thoughts. He dug in holes with a stick he had picked up, peered at various insects they uncovered on their exploration, and flicked stones with his makeshift tool.

As they meandered through the woods, the peaty smell of mulch under foot surrounded by the rustle of leaves and the occasional bird song, Louis broke the silence. "Uncle Tom," he said, pausing in his stone-flicking activities, giving Tom sideways look. "If your mama was Swiss and she married a German man, was that German your papa?" Louis inquired, his young mind processing the information Tom had shared earlier in the day.

"Yes, Louis, that man was my papa," Tom solemnly replied. Louis made a little humming sound, and they continued their walk, in contemplative silence. The boy held Tom's hand, occasionally glancing around at the trees and underbrush, as if absorbing the secrets of the forest. Giving Tom quick furtive looks, before his eyes darted away. Louis gnawed at his bottom lip and bounced his stick on the ground repetitively.

"Uncle Tom, are you a German?" Louis asked earnestly, still grappling with the complexities of familial ties. "No, Louis, I am from a country called Ireland. It's long, long away across the sea," Tom explained in a hushed tone. Louis took in this new piece of information, letting it circulate in his little brain.

"But your papa is also the German soldier's papa," Louis continued, trying to make sense of the familial connections. "Yes, that's right, Louis," Tom affirmed. Louis scrunched up his little face in concentration. "But if he is your papa and the soldier's papa, that means you are brothers," Louis concluded cautiously, his innocent logic attempting to unravel Tom's convoluted family dynamics.

Tom couldn't help but smile at Louis's attempt to understand. "Yes, in a way, we are like brothers," Tom explained, appreciating the simplicity of a child's perspective. Louis nodded thoughtfully. "What did he want?" Louis asked, curiosity shining in his eyes.

"He asked me to take his son, my nephew, to his grandfather," Tom replied simply. Louis responded with a quiet "Oh," absorbing this new piece of information as they continued their stroll through the woods, the dappled sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above. Stray beams of light filtered through the leaves. Motes danced in the light. Tom could almost believe that there wasn't a war going on. Except every now and then they could hear an exceptionally loud shell exploding. The boom echoed across the countryside, as if to say that there was no escape from the war for anyone. Louis was so inured from the sound, that he only occasionally flinched from the sound. This realisation made Tom feel sad for Louis. 'Did he even remember a time before war?' Tom wondered to himself. Tom looked at the thin boy, with his tousled red hair, he was so trusting. The thought squeezed Tom's heart, with a feeling, a thought that Tom could not yet explain. Tom squeezed the child's hand in companionship and smiled warmly at Louis. Louis smiled back.

Tom left Louis to wait behind the bend in the road, hidden in some bushes. Tom instructing him to run back to Bertie if he hears gunshots. The little boy, with a pale face, nodded in understanding. With a last glance at Louis, Tom proceeded cautiously to the rendezvous point with his nephew. He breathed a sigh of relief as he finally got a clear look down the road and saw that the German checkpoint was gone. Still, he continued with care, looking out for a possible ambush or the appearance of his nephew.

When he reached the point where he was to meet Gunther, Tom stopped and scanned the area for any signs of Karl. "Karl," Tom called out in a soft tone, careful not to carry his voice too far. "Karl, it's me, your Uncle Tom," he tried again, and this time, he heard a rustling of undergrowth. Turning, Tom saw a young boy emerge from the woods.

Karl was fair, like his father, with a foxy face and big grey eyes. He even had his father's dimple. Tom tried smiling to reassure the bot. He must be frightened Tom thought. Tom couldn't believe that the boy was almost 16; he looked about 14 to Tom, but he wasn't exactly familiar with boys of that age. Tom considered it might not be a lack of food; the aristocracy was generally insulated from food shortages, and the boy probably just hadn't hit his final growth spurt before adulthood.

Smiling warmly at the boy, Tom saw that Karl looked scared and nervous as he approached. His eyes rapidly flicking to Tom and then around the clearing. He was probably just as frightened for an ambush as Tom was. "Your father explained that he wanted me to take you to your grandfather in Ireland?" Tom asked. To which Karl nodded jerkily. "Did he give you the papers and other notes for me?" Tom prompted. Karl pulled out a bag, the kind a boy might use for school, and hesitantly handed Tom the various papers.

After reviewing the papers, Tom realised they would still have to remain hidden. It was best for all of them to avoid German soldiers if possible. But it gave him permission to travel with his nephews to Maraisville, a town southeast of Bethune, where they were truly heading. It wouldn't protect them if they raised suspicions at a checkpoint. But they had been lucky so far. Tom fervently hoped their luck would hold out.

"Are you really my uncle?" Karl asked quietly. Tom looked up at the boy, his face was pale and eyes dark. They might even be red from crying. "Yes, your grandfather is my foster father; he raised me since I was a baby," Tom told his nephew. He tried to be as gentle and non-threatening as possible, so as not to overwhelm the poor boy.

Tom clarified the dangerous situation they were in and asked Karl if he understood the precarious position, they were all in. "Do you have the fuel?" Karl nodded, pointing to a bush at the side of the road where two two-gallon containers of fuel were hidden.

Testing the weight of the fuel containers, Tom found them manageable. "Come on then," he said to Karl, gesturing in the direction they were meant to go. Tom started to walk back down the road where he had hidden Louis, and after a brief pause, Karl followed.

"It'll be all right; I will get you to your grandfather," Tom reassured Karl. "He's a very kind man. He and his wife will look after you until you can go home," Tom comforted his nephew. After a few minutes, Tom halted his walk. "Louis, you can come out now," he called softly. Karl looked panicked and froze where he stood. With some rustling, Louis squirmed out from under the hedgerow. At the sight of the younger boy Karl let out a long sigh of relief, his body noticeably relaxing in the presence of the younger boy.

Smiling, Tom put the fuel cans down and started to brush off the leaves that had attached to Louis's clothes. Once the worst of it was brushed off, Tom introduced the two boys. "Louis, this is my nephew Karl," Tom said to Louis in French, switching to German, "Karl, this is my honorary nephew, Louis. His family is missing, so I am looking after him," Tom explained quickly to the older boy.

The two boys eyed each other cautiously, like two stray cats meeting for the first time. Tom thought it would help that Karl wasn't a large teenager who could intimidate Louis. "Do you speak any French, Karl?" Tom asked gently. "I'm learning it at school," was Karl's tentative response in French. Tom gave Karl an encouraging smile. "Now, Louis, Karl only speaks a little French, so you will have to help him, and don't speak too fast, okay!" Tom instructed the wide-eyed Louis, who just nodded.

Picking up the cans of fuel, "Come on, you two; we will walk for a bit, and then we can have something for lunch," Tom said. At the word "lunch," which Karl understood, he cheered up. From the look of the hungry soldiers earlier, food was obviously being rigorously rationed on the German side.

They were 30 minutes into the walk back to their temporary camp when Tom, decided it was time for some lunch. The midday sun filtered through the dense April foliage, casting dappled shadows on the road as they walked. Yet it did little to warm the afternoon air. The forest around them hummed with the sounds of rustling leaves, the occasional bird song, and the hushed conversation between the three travellers.

Tom, clad in a worn but serviceable jacket, gently placed the cans on the ground, signalling to the boys that it was time for a brief respite. Karl, with much fairer hair than Tom and striking grey eyes, watched with amazement as Tom handed him some of the sausage, his own share. Karl's features, framed by his tousled hair, lit up with gratitude, suggesting it had been a while since he had enjoyed such a treat. Louis, a freckled and curly-haired boy, beamed with pride as he shared with Karl that his grandfather had personally made the sausage. In his stilted French, Karl managed to express that it was indeed good.

Tom surreptitiously watched both boys through the fall of his own fair hair. Pleased to see that the boys were starting to share shy little smiles. Though Tom had only known Louis for a short few days, he felt that the boy was naturally gregarious. It was too soon to know if Karl was naturally reserved. Or if it was the extreme circumstances, he found himself that made him so. It was only natural if he was thought Tom.

Next, Tom retrieved two oat biscuits from his pocket. The boys, their hunger apparent, gathered around as Tom, with a thoughtful expression, halved one of the biscuits. Louis and Karl, their eyes bright with anticipation, shared the meagre but welcomed repast, while Tom consumed the other biscuit. The forest air, tinged with the earthy scent of soil and the subtle perfume of blooming spring flowers, surrounded them as they enjoyed this simple meal. They all took turns drinking from the flask of water, refreshing themselves for the remainder of the journey back to camp.

Bolstered by the food, Karl, now more at ease, became chattier during the second half of their walk. He started asking questions about Tom and his home in Bray, Ireland. Tom, the seasoned journalist born in Bray, with a fair complexion and more than a hint of stubble on his face, spoke fluently in German and French, effortlessly switching between the two languages. In both languages, he shared captivating stories about his childhood in Bray with his older brother, the sea, and his foster parents.

As they continued walking on the road through the dense forest, the boys listened intently to Tom's tales. The sunlight filtered through the fresh green leaves, casting a warm glow on their surroundings. Despite the seriousness of their mission to reach safety in Bethune and the Allied forces, the camaraderie and shared stories offered moments of respite from the harsh realities of war. The cool breeze, carrying the promise of spring, whispered through the trees, accompanying them on this journey of survival and hope.

Bertie, his anxiety a palpable undercurrent, sat amidst the makeshift camp, the forest echoing with the subtle rustle of leaves. Regret weighed heavily on his thoughts, a burden carried from the decisions that had brought them to this vulnerable point. The natural sounds of the forest seemed to mirror the restlessness within him as he anxiously awaited Tom's return.

The early afternoon sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy of trees, painted uneven patterns on the ground around Bertie. The air held a subtle tension, mirroring the internal struggle within him. His regret lingered, compounded by the knowledge that he had failed to disclose his brother's perilous plans when he first became aware of David's reckless scheme.

Bertie's reflections cast a stark contrast to the practical and capable nature of Tom, their unexpected rescuer. Tom, not a soldier by trade, demonstrated a remarkable competence that surpassed both brothers. He not only devised the plan for their escape but also provided practical solutions and took charge of their makeshift camp. Even in caring for little Louis, Tom's character shone through. Bertie, a quieter personality compared to his outgoing brother, found solace in Tom's warmth and calm demeanour, especially in the face of adversity.

Throughout his life, Bertie's existence had been cast in the shadows of his charismatic and impulsive older brother, David. The family dynamics only shifted in Bertie's favour during his late teens when his father, recognising David's shortcomings, redirected his attention toward the more level-headed and responsible Bertie. The sudden favouritism, however, did little to alleviate the burdens that Bertie had long shouldered in compensating for David's recklessness.

David, with his selfish tendencies and a blatant disregard for consequences, had left a trail of irresponsibility in his wake. It fell upon Bertie to pick up the pieces, a role he accepted with a stoic resignation. The weight of his brother's vices became an unspoken responsibility that Bertie bore, showcasing a strength of character that went unnoticed amid the flamboyance of David's exploits.

In the quiet recesses of his thoughts, Bertie harboured a secret conviction that his parents were culpable for David's wayward path. The children, including Bertie and David, were largely raised by nannies, governesses, and tutors. The rare moments of parental presence were brief, demanding the children's silence and a presentable appearance. Bertie pondered whether this lack of guidance and familial example contributed to David's rebellion. Observing how his parents reacted negatively to David's behaviour, Bertie resolved to chart a different course.

While David's path veered into tumultuous rebellion, Bertie consciously embraced a quieter, more principled life. His desire for simplicity, a loving wife, and a family of his own reflected his pursuit of a stable and content existence. Unlike his brother, Bertie sought solace in the ordinary, aspiring to create a haven of love and tranquillity within the boundaries of a calm family life.

As Bertie anxiously awaited Tom's return. The camp's simplicity and reliance on the truck for shelter underscored the urgency of their situation. He couldn't help but fear the impending consequences for David. His father's reaction to David's severe injury weighed on his mind. Bertie, not devoid of insight, realised that his brother had not regained consciousness since being shot, raising the grim possibility of permanent damage. Fear gripped him, not only for his father's potential anger but also for the unwelcome relief his father might feel at the prospect of David's demise. Bertie apprehensively hoped for their safe return, yearning for the quiet life of country pursuits that he had long dreamed of.

The forest, alive with the soft hum of nature, seemed to offer both solace and peril. Bertie's gaze occasionally flicked towards the road, his anxious anticipation growing with each passing moment, yearning for Tom's return and the hope of a safe journey ahead.

Tom led Louis and Karl into their makeshift camp, the air thick with tension as the echoes of the forest surrounded them. The truck, battered but resilient, stood as a silent sentinel against the backdrop of towering trees. The dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting irregular patterns on the ground, creating a play of light and shadow.

Karl's eyes darted toward the unfamiliar truck, to their unsophisticated camp. Relief flickered in his gaze, confirming that his Uncle Tom's words held truth about having the means to get out of German occupied territory. Yet, beneath the relief, nerves gripped Karl. His father had vouched for Tom, speaking of his trustworthiness and his role as a reporter for Politiken, a Danish newspaper. Yet his uncle was a stranger to him and what of his grandfather? Karl thought. His family never really spoke of his Grandfather, just the occasional whispered conversation that ceased when adults realised that Karl was in earshot.

However, the unexpected appearance of another man, emerging from the depths of the trees, sent a shiver down Karl's spine. He froze in place. His eyes wide as he took in the uniform. An enemy soldier. Panick and fear ceased Karl, he could hardly breath. His gaze sought reassurance from his uncle as the forest seemed to hold its breath. His uncle just smiled, with a hand motion, the universal sign for calm down.

"Ah, Bertie," Tom greeted in English, attempting to conceal the nerves that danced beneath the surface. Bertie's frown deepened, directed not at Tom but at Karl, an unfamiliar face in their already peculiar company. Questions lingered unspoken in Bertie's gaze, a silent demand for clarification, as he turned to look at Tom.

"Tom. Who is our guest?" Bertie's inquiry cut through the forest's stillness, and Tom, with a slight shift of his feet, hinted at the unease beneath his calm exterior. Tom's attempt at reassurance and a reassuring smile did little to dissipate the frown etched on Bertie's face.

"This is my nephew Karl," Tom simply stated. Tom then filled in Bertie of their encounter at the German checkpoint, coupled with the presence of a German child, heightened the tension. Karl and Louis, caught in the crossfire of a conversation in a language foreign to them, exchanged anxious glances. The forest, a silent observer, seemed to hold its breath as emotions flared.

"You brought a German to our camp," Bertie stuttered, his face oscillating between pallor and a rising flush of anger. The accusation hung heavy in the air, and Bertie's voice reached an almost shouting pitch. The boys, Karl and Louis, instinctively edged closer to Tom, seeking refuge from the evident anger radiating from Bertie.

The verbal clash between Tom and Bertie echoed through the forest, the tension palpable with each word exchanged.

"I didn't bring a German soldier to our camp, but a frightened child who has no part in the war!" Tom's words cut through the air, a sharp retort to Bertie's accusations.

Bertie, his face contorted with a mix of anger and disbelief, shot back, "How am I meant to trust you now? You apparently have a German brother in the German Army, and what, you just bumped into him? Am I supposed to believe you're not some sort of spy?"

Tom's eyes flashed with frustration. "I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you and your idiotic family, committing us all to this pointless war!" His voice carried the weight of quiet white-hot anger, the tension etched on his face.

Bertie, momentarily taken aback, retorted, "What do you mean by that?"

"You and I both know it was your bloody family that got us all in this mess, with imperial posturing. It's your family with all the German ties!" Tom's response held a cutting edge, laying bare the resentment that simmered beneath the surface.

Bertie appeared shaken by Tom's words, eyes wide and perspiration beading his brow. "You know, you know who we are?" Bertie whispered in shock.

"Of course, I bloody well know who you are! Do you think I lived under a rock?" Tom's frustration spilled over, eyes flashing with emotion. "But, but you didn't say anything," Bertie stammered.

"Deniability," Tom said succinctly. "If it was never said or admitted out loud, it would make it easier to deny if I were ever captured by the Germans." Tom's voice, though more composed now, held the weight of years of navigating a complex web of loyalties and identities.

Taking a deep breath, Tom continued, "I have never met any of my foster brothers. My foster father, Otto Gunther, is a Bavarian Count who left Germany thirty years ago and moved to Ireland. I had seen some photographs of Otto's children and knew their names. It was a coincidence that I met Wilhelm today. As my father's son, he asked me to do him the favour of taking his young child to Otto for his own safety. In return, Wilhelm gave me fuel for the truck, some travel papers, and what intelligence he had of German patrols in the area."

Bertie, now more composed, carefully considered Tom's explanation. He took a closer look at Karl, the frightened young teenager standing beside Tom, who looked small for his age. His face as pale as ghost. The anger had subsided, replaced by a more cautious understanding.

"So, can you trust your brother?" Bertie asked, seeking assurance.

"Karl is his last surviving child. I think a father would do anything to protect his child, including trusting his Irish brother," Tom said with a gravity that carried the weight of familial bonds and shared burdens.

Bertie nodded, a silent acknowledgment that, in the face of the complex realities of war, trust was a fragile but necessary commodity. The forest, once witness to discord, now stood in quiet contemplation as the two men reached a tentative understanding.

Changing to German, Tom explained the situation to Karl. "Dies ist Bertie, a British officer I found with his wounded brother. I'm helping them get back to the allied lines too." Tom gestured toward the truck bed. Karl, standing on his tiptoes, could just see an unconscious man lying in an improvised bed. The man's face bore the weariness and wounds of war, a silent testament to the hardships endured. His head wrapped in bandages.

"I've explained that you're my nephew. He was temporarily concerned for his brother's safety and was angry. But he's calm now," Tom offered a comforting smile to Karl. The dappled sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting fleeting patterns on the makeshift camp, where the truck and its occupants were surrounded by a quiet symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls. The smells of the forest permeated the air with renewed life of spring.

Switching to French, Tom turned to Louis, "Louis, why don't you show Karl our little camp?" Louis, looking uncertainly at everyone, slowly nodded in agreement. The forest, with its towering trees and thick underbrush, provided a natural backdrop to this unexpected encounter. The air was filled with the earthy scent of pine and the soft murmur of a nearby stream.

"Come, Karl, I will show you my book," Louis offered to Karl. As they walked away, the forest embraced them, its silence broken only by the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. The verdant surroundings stood in stark contrast to the turmoil of the war raging beyond the tree line.

Bertie and Tom just looked at each other, a silent exchange of understanding and acceptance unfolding between them. The makeshift camp, nestled within the embrace of nature, seemed like a fragile sanctuary amid chaos. "Are we good?" Tom asked. "Yes," replied Bertie, the tension dissipating like the early morning mist in the forest, leaving behind an uneasy calm.

Bertie led Tom to the fireplace he had devised, nestled under the expansive canopy of a particularly large tree, its branches adorned with budding leaves. The forest around them seemed to embrace the clandestine refuge, shielding them from the prying eyes of the war that raged beyond the trees. Bertie explained his plan for a discreet fire, emphasising that the tree would help disperse the smoke, and their location away from the road, coupled with the strategic placement of the truck, should keep the flames hidden.

They stood in a quiet enclave, a sanctuary of budding life amidst the chaos of war. Bertie, despite never having lit a fire himself, displayed a practical understanding gleaned from years of observing servants perform the task. He had arranged a circle of flat stones, creating both a firebreak and a spot to rest the kettle. Dry twigs, gathered in anticipation, awaited their moment of combustion.

Taking charge, Tom instructed Bertie to fetch logs and kindling from the truck. As Bertie complied, Tom ignited the twigs, coaxing flames to life in the carefully arranged pit. The fire crackled, casting a warm glow that danced with the shifting shadows beneath the tree.

Addressing the boys in French, Tom explained that he would prepare soup for their dinner. Regret lingered for a moment as he wished he had gathered the wild garlic he spotted earliler, but he made do with the dry soup mix he had brought. Adding the remaining cooked potatoes from the previous night's meal and placing four fresh potatoes to roast by the fire, Tom began crafting a simple yet hearty meal. Bacon and cheese accompanied their humble feast, with the prospect of cold sausage awaiting them the next day.

Water was becoming a concern, and Tom hoped the abandoned mill they aimed for would have a working pump. Realistically, they had only tomorrow to wait for a potential water source. The boys, captivated by the camp cooking, watched with wide-eyed fascination. Meanwhile, Bertie attended to his wounded brother, drawing from the observations of Tom's meticulous wound care. The makeshift camp, surrounded by nature's embrace, became a temporary haven, offering a fragile respite from the harsh realities of war.

Bertie and Tom sat huddled by the crackling fire, its warmth and flickering light offering a welcome respite in the early spring evening. Though cognisant of the risk posed by the visible flames, the comfort they provided outweighed the dangers. Tom had demonstrated to Bertie how to wrap hot stones to warm his brother's bed, a small but crucial measure against the persistent chill of the season.

Karl, seated nearby, tentatively read from "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea" in a hushed voice. Louis, with a light-hearted laugh, corrected Karl's pronunciation, and the two boys collaborated in deciphering the more intricate words, occasionally seeking assistance from Bertie or Tom.

The two men pored over notes provided by Wilhelm and consulted the map, deliberating on the optimal route for their impending stop at the mill. Agreement settled upon the decision to pause there. Tom, armed with his slightly battered binoculars, harboured hopes that the mill tower would still stand sufficiently intact for him to ascend and survey the surrounding countryside. Their next move towards Bethune would hinge on the intelligence gathered during this reconnaissance.

Turning his attention to Karl, Tom queried the young boy about his father's planned route in the coming days. Karl revealed that his father intended to head east to meet General Schulz on the 20th of April. Tom, elucidating their own plans to make a break for the Allied-held line in the next day or two, carefully inquired about potential recognition risks within the German army.

Karl pondered Tom's questions, recounting encounters with Colonel Schmidt and his aide Johann, emphasising that his interactions were limited to higher-ranking officers. However, a shadow crossed Karl's face as he recounted the fate of two young soldiers, Hans and Fred, who had befriended him. They were killed at the front, a tragedy that prompted his father to restrict Karl's mingling with ordinary soldiers.

Feeling the weight of Karl's sorrow, Tom pulled the boy close, offering comfort, while Louis held Karl's hand. As the evening darkened, Tom suggested that the two boys retire to their makeshift bed with the still-unconscious David. The boys acquiesced, settling into their impromptu sleeping arrangement as the night enveloped the hidden refuge in the heart of the forest.

In the quiet enclave of the makeshift camp, Bertie's hushed voice cut through the dimly lit surroundings, laden with uncertainty. "What do you think, do you believe the information is reliable?" he inquired. Tom responded in kind, maintaining a discreet tone, "I believe it was reliable at the time Wilhelm gave it to me, to the best of his knowledge. I don't think he would risk his son's life."

Considering the potential risks, Tom sought Bertie's insight, especially given Bertie's military experience, even if it was with the navy. "Do you think soldiers from a different unit would recognise Karl if they saw him with me?" Tom pressed. Bertie, drawing on his naval background, offered, "In peacetime, we had a couple of commanders' children on board. I don't think I would recognise them again if I saw them."

Tom, visibly troubled, voiced his concern. "I think we could risk traveling in daylight. Who would be suspicious of a man with two children? The problem arises if they want to speak to Karl," he fretted. Bertie, pragmatic as ever, suggested a cautious approach. "Shall we just wait and see what the morrow brings and make a decision then?" he proposed. Tom, weary from the day's events, simply nodded in agreement.

As Bertie departed to return to the truck bed with the children, Tom began to make preparations for a rest. Extracting his great coat and knapsack, he arranged a makeshift bed on the ground using a ground sheet and a spare blanket. Though a chill lingered in the air, the remnants of the dying fire provided some warmth to the secluded spot. Bertie would sleep in the truck bed with his brother and the children; unfortunately, there wasn't enough room for Tom.

With a sense of both anticipation and trepidation, Tom settled down to rest, attempting to still his nerves before the inevitable challenges of the next day. The forest, cloaked in the quiet of the night, cradled the hidden group as they prepared for the uncertainties that awaited them at dawn.

Day five

The oppressive darkness of the night enveloped Tom as he navigated the potholed road, his truck rumbling along with a persistent hum. Sweat formed beads on his brow, and his hands clutched the steering wheel in a vice grip, the knuckles turning white from the strain. Navigating through the blackened night proved challenging, especially after making a wrong turn, forcing Tom to backtrack and correct his course. In the flatbed of the truck, Bertie and David remained hidden, sheltered from prying eyes.

Within the cab, Karl and Louis clung to the bouncing seats, the potholes jostling them around. Karl, mindful of the younger boy's safety, attempted to shield Louis from the erratic movements. "Sorry, boys," Tom apologized, his voice carrying over the rattling of the truck as they traversed another rut in the road. Tom felt a surge of frustration; this was proving to be a nightmare. Unaware of how Bertie and David were faring in the back, Tom pressed on through the night.

The moon, obscured by a dense blanket of clouds, offered only faint and sporadic glimpses of light, casting an eerie and dim glow upon the landscape. This muted illumination barely penetrated the darkness that enveloped the road, creating an atmosphere of mystery and suspense. Tom's breath materialized in the chilly air, creating a spectral white puff that dissipated into the night.

Inside the truck, the window screen constantly fogged up from the warmth generated by their combined breaths. The rhythmic swishing sound of the wiper blade could be heard as Karl diligently oversaw the task of keeping the screen clear, ensuring Tom's visibility as he navigated the road. The faces of the boys were just faint outlines in the inky blackness, their features barely discernible.

Driving cautiously and without the aid of headlights, Tom's every move was measured and deliberate. The slow pace not only reduced the risk of colliding with unseen obstacles on the road but also served to minimize their chances of detection. Despite being a relatively short 13 miles from their previous camp, the journey felt interminable, each moment laden with tension and uncertainty. Tom, wiping the sweat from his brow, contemplated the dilemma of whether to risk turning on the lights, aware of the potential consequences that hung in the balance.

Finally, a looming shape materialised on the horizon, and Tom's heart swelled with relief. "Thank God," he breathed, easing off the accelerator as he approached the silhouette. It was the mill, a beacon of refuge in the desolate night. The evidence of the German army's destructive path became apparent—the mill's buildings stood as mere remnants, shattered walls bearing witness to the ravages of war.

The truck rumbled to a stop, and Tom turned to the boys in the cab. "You two stay in here and keep warm while Bertie and I look about," he instructed, his voice carrying a tone of reassurance. Stepping out of the cab, Tom stretched and tried to relieve the tension held in his shoulders and neck. Tom circled around to the back, shaking out his hands, calling to Bertie as he undid the ties on the tarp covering the flatbed. Bertie winced as he pulled himself up, and Tom quickly expressed his apology. "Sorry," he said apologetically. "Come on, we need to see if there is a possibility of hiding the truck for the rest of the night." Bertie gingerly climbed over the side of the truck. Bertie had a good stretch when his feet were firmly on the ground. Twisting this way and that, trying to ease the ache in his lower back. Bertie thought the rattling of the truck would shake his teeth free.

As the two men walked behind the main building, the mill revealed the scars of war—a shell hit had left it badly damaged. However, a large outbuilding stood nearby, its roof absent but the four stone walls defiantly standing. A sizable archway beckoned, offering enough space for the truck to fit through.

Debris littered the yard, prompting Tom and Bertie to begin clearing a path. Tom hopped back into the truck, and with Bertie's directions, navigated it into the shelter of the abandoned building. Once the truck was parked, Louis and Karl disembarked to explore the surroundings while Bertie attended to his brother. "He's still got a fever, but I don't think it's gotten worse," Bertie reported nervously. "Why don't you and the boys hop in the back and try to get some sleep? We can't do anything until there is some light anyway," he suggested. "I'll keep watch," Bertie stuttered.

"Okay, boys, into bed," Tom instructed Karl and Louis. Both boys were relieved that they wouldn't be travelling any further that night in the shuddering vehicle. The constant tension and vigilance were exhausting and both boys looked forward to laying on the mattress and snuggling down for some sleep.

Concerned for Bertie, he recommended that he wear his greatcoat to ward off the night's chill. Bertie gratefully accepted Tom's coat. With that Tom was grateful for the respite and climbed into the flatbed, and, together with the boys, they settled in, attempting to find some semblance of rest for the remainder of the uncertain night.

Dawn painted the sky in hues of soft pinks and oranges as Tom awoke to the first light of day. "Everything okay?" he inquired of Bertie, seeking a status report. "I have nothing to report. There's an outside toilet over there, and the water pump still works," Bertie replied.

Tom tended to his personal needs, grateful for the possibility of a quick wash, even if it meant enduring the cold water and harsh soap. The desire for clean clothes lingered in his thoughts. Venturing into the old mill, he found the interior gutted and deemed it unsafe for climbing. Returning to the outbuilding, his eyes fell upon a ladder lying on its side against a wall. Checking its rungs, he deemed it sturdy enough for use. Spotting some intact rafters above, an idea sparked in his mind.

Calling Bertie over, Tom explained his plan to ascend the ladder and gain a vantage point from the rafters. Fetching the binoculars and slinging them over his shoulder, Tom requested Bertie to hold the ladder for him. Bertie stepped in, securing the ladder as Tom gingerly tested its stability. Climbing with caution, Tom reached the top, pulling himself onto the wall. The outbuilding backed directly onto the mill's outer wall, providing a solid foundation for observation.

Taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of the morning light bathing the countryside, Tom swung the binoculars around, scanning the horizon. Using his compass, he determined their destination to the west and adjusted the binoculars for a clearer view. Turning his gaze toward the town, he spotted the collapsed bell tower of a church and the vague outlines of more buildings. Estimating Bethune to be approximately six miles away, the morning haze obscured finer details.

Turning his attention to the road they would traverse, Tom scrutinised the landscape. No visible blockades or checkpoints were apparent, although he couldn't survey the entire stretch of the road. The morning held promise, yet uncertainties lingered on their journey ahead.

Descending the creaking ladder, Tom reported his findings to Bertie in hushed tones, the cold air biting at his cheeks. "The road looks clear, but I only have a limited field of view," he cautioned, glancing over the landscape that lay ahead. The weight of the decision ahead bore down on Tom, the proximity to safety contrasting sharply with the potential risks. The chilly breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and the soft rustling of leaves underscored the tension in the air.

Turning to Bertie, he sought counsel, his breath visible in the cold morning air. "What do you think, Bertie? Should we make a run for it?" The muted light of dawn began to reveal the details of the landscape, casting long shadows across the uneven ground.

Bertie's gaze shifted between the truck and his ailing brother, then settled on Tom. "I don't think David will last much longer. I think we should go," Bertie asserted decisively, his usual stutter barely present. The distant sound of a bird's morning call echoed through the trees, a stark contrast to the weighty decision at hand.

Taking a deep breath, Tom steeled himself for the challenges ahead. Waking Louis and Karl, he gathered them around, the cold metal of the truck sending shivers through their bodies. "We're going to make the last part of our journey today. There's a good chance we will meet German soldiers," he explained, his words dissipating into the cool air. Louis, his breath forming a small cloud in front of him, nodded solemnly, committing to his role.

Tom repeated the instructions to Karl in German, the foreign syllables hanging in the air. Emphasising the importance of silence and the inability to pass as French, Tom observed the anxious expressions on the boys' faces. Tom placed a calming hand on the youth's shoulder. Offering his nephew comfort. "You'll be alright," Louis offered, his small face hopeful. The soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet marked each movement as they prepared for the journey ahead.

Bertie, having checked on his brother, joined the conversation. Tom presented Karl for inspection, the morning light revealing the subtle details that betrayed his foreign origin. The distant sound of running water added a soothing backdrop to the conversation.

"I want you all to look at Karl and tell me, does he look French?" Louis, considering the question seriously, pointed out the nuances that betrayed Karl's foreign origin—neat hair, tailored clothes. Tom, realising the giveaway, exchanged his jacket and had Karl remove his collar, making him appear more like a village boy. The final touch the hat Tom had previously been wearing to hide Karl's neat hair.

Tom already blended in, with his sturdy shirt Tom wore for travelling. Especially as he had no clean clothes, so his clothes had an added layer of sweat and dust, offering verisimilitude. The cold morning air clinging to any exposed skin, caused goosebumps. His work trousers, braces, and mud-coated boots disguised the quality of his attire. Louis, approving of the transformation, declared, "Karl looks normal now." "What about me?" Tom asked Louis. "I think you look normal, Uncle Tom," a small, approving smile on his face.

With a warm smile and a ruffle of Louis's hair, Tom took his scarf for warmth, its fabric rough against his fingers. The group reassembled in the truck for the final leg of their journey, the engine's hesitant rumble breaking the morning silence. Their collective breaths formed clouds in the chilled air as they hoped to navigate the challenges and reach safety.

Approaching the German checkpoint, Tom felt his palms moisten against the steering wheel, an unspoken understanding shared with Louis and Karl. A quick, reassuring smile passed between them, a silent affirmation of the act they were about to perform.

As the checkpoint loomed, Tom could hear the rush of blood in his ears, the tension amplifying each heartbeat. He reasoned that showing a bit of nervousness might align with the expectations of a French citizen encountering German soldiers, so he didn't suppress his unease too much.

"Papers," the soldier demanded, his tone indifferent. Tom retrieved the papers from the dashboard, maintaining a facade of calm. The soldier scanned them with disinterest, posing the inevitable question, "Where are you going?"

"To Haisnes, to visit my sister-in-law," Tom replied, gesturing toward the two boys, his nephews. The nervousness began to climb within him as he awaited the soldier's next inquiry.

Pointing to Louis and Karl, the soldier inquired, "Who are they?" Tom swallowed, feeling the weight of scrutiny. "My nephews Louis and Henri," he replied, the tension manifesting in the tightening of his jaw.

Summoning another soldier, the first soldier conferred with him in a German. Tom paid careful attention to all they said, while pretending to look out the window. The uncertainty hung in the air as the soldier debated whether to let them pass, despite possessing the correct paperwork. The second soldier, more fluent in French, narrowed in, asking, "Where does your sister live in Lens?"

"My sister-in-law lives on Rue du Moulin in Haisnes," Tom clarified, his attempt at composure waning. "Why are you going to visit her?" the soldier probed. "I am taking Louis to stay with her," Tom explained, injecting a note of casualness into his response. The soldier gestured toward Karl, questioning his presence. "Henri will help me on the farm," Tom supplied, threading a delicate line of explanation.

"What's in the truck?" The soldier's inquiry sent Tom's heart into a frantic rhythm. "Mainly firewood, some onions, and potatoes too. I keep my tools in the truck as well," Tom offered, his words measured and steady, despite the pounding in his chest.

"Show me," the soldier commanded, opening the driver's side door. "Wait here," he instructed the boys, who clutched each other's hands tightly, their anxiety palpable.

Tom walked to the back of the truck, undoing the ties on the tarp, and dropped the tailgate to reveal the firewood bundles. Moving to the other side, he commenced the slow task of unravelling the tarp, exposing more of the flatbed's contents. Tom, observing from the corner of his eye, could sense the soldier's impatience growing.

"Stop," the soldier declared, beginning to inspect the truck more closely. Tom stood silently, his eyes averted, trying not to attract additional attention. The soldier, uninvited, began helping himself to some firewood, stuffing pockets with onions and potatoes. One of the soldiers pulled out a rust hoe, but soon lost interest, dropping it to the ground. Another soldier joined in, similarly pilfering Tom's meagre provisions. Tom held his breath, his heart thudded in his chest and his ears rung with the tension. Tom prayed that David would remain as still and quiet has he had for the journey so far.

When the soldiers were satisfied with their loot, the second soldier gave the curt command, "You can go." Tom hastily closed the tailgate, secured the tarp. Tom tried not to let the soldiers see the sudden rush of relief that flooded Tom's body. Tom thought his legs would give out from the fear. Tom hurriedly jumped into the truck and started it up without further prompting. He shared a quick glance of reassurance with the boys. With all the skill Tom possessed he pulled away from the checkpoint. He resisted the urge to floor the accelerator and continued to drive the slow careful pace that had marked their journey so far.

Once out of sight of the German soldiers Karl unexpectedly burst into tears. The sudden release of tension within Karl produced this unexpected result. It was also becoming clear to Karl that he really was leaving his mother and father for the first time and travelling with unknown relatives to an unknown country. Filled with his own country's enemies. The uncertainty was to much for the teenager. Young Louis seemed to read Karl's mind. "It's okay Karl. I miss my mama too," Louis said in a soft voice, hugging Karl awkwardly with one arm.

Tom was able to pull a hanky from his pocket and offered it to his nephew. Karl gratefully accepted it and dried his face. He was beginning to feel embarrassed in his mind, by his childish outburst. "It's ok Karl. It's perfectly natural to feel emotional. You have gone through a lot of changes in the last two days," Tom comforted Karl. "I promise I will protect you and get you to safety to your grandfather. I will take you myself," Tom told Karl. "Your grandfather and wife are truly good people. They took care of me and my brother when our father abandoned us to our fortunes and we were strangers to them," Tom explained softly. This wasn't exactly true, but it would be too complicated to explain his family's relationship to Otto Gunther to Karl.

Unexpectedly Louis started to cry. Tom sighed internally, it certainly was more difficult to look after children then he expected. "What is it louis?" he asked calmly. "What, what will happen to me? Where's my mama?" Louis started to wail. Tom shook his head resignedly. Louis's good humour and optimism was too good to last. "It's ok Louis, I will make sure you are taken care of," Tom promised the young boy. Now Karl was offering comfort to the younger boy. "But my grandpa is missing too!" Louis sobbed. Tom was too far away to offer comfort to the boy. "If I can't find your family I will look after you until we can," Tom promised. He hoped he would be able to keep his promise. He would ask Thomas and Bertie for help if need be. "I can live with you if you can't find mama?" Louis asked, while sniffing back his tears. "Yes, I will look after you," Tom promised again. Louis quietened at this promise and regained his composure. Trusting Tom would keep his word to look after him.

Relief flooded over Tom as the truck finally rolled into Bethune, a town held by the Allies. The weight of the journey, the risks, and the constant tension seemed to lift from his shoulders the closer he got to the centre of town. Bertie, Karl, Louis, and the injured David had made it to safety.

The streets of Bethune, though still bearing the scars of war, felt like sanctuary. The buildings, once battered by conflict, now stood as a testament to resilience. Tom guided the truck through the town, the sense of security growing with each passing street.

Pulling into a quieter area, Tom parked the truck. The engine's rumble quieted, and the atmosphere shifted from one of trepidation to a cautious optimism. Bertie, Karl, and Louis exchanged glances, their expressions reflecting the magnitude of their journey.

The journey had been fraught with challenges, but safety now seemed within reach. Tom, ever the determined leader, steered the truck through the town's streets.

Coming to a stop, Tom noticed a local woman and decided to seek her guidance. Leaning out of the window, he greeted her with a polite nod. "Excuse me, miss. We're looking for the Allied headquarters. Can you point us in the right direction?" he inquired. The woman, sensing the urgency in Tom's voice, graciously gestured down the road, providing clear instructions.

Following the directions, Tom navigated through the town until the sight of the Allied headquarters, guarded by soldiers in Canadian uniforms, came into view. Drawing the truck to a halt, he took a moment to assess the situation. The presence of Canadian soldiers suggested a diverse Allied force.

Approaching the guard post with purpose, Tom held out his British press pass for inspection. "Hi mate, I'm a reporter for the Times," he stated directly, his gaze meeting the guard's. "I have a wounded British major in the back of the truck, in a bad way. Could you tell whoever is in charge that we are here?" Tom's request was straightforward, urgency evident in his voice. Seeking to add weight to his plea, he continued, "Oh, and I have his brother, a sub-lieutenant in the British Navy too."

The soldier, eyebrows furrowed at the unusual request, exchanged a brief glance with a fellow soldier. A hushed conversation followed, with whispers and nods indicating a deliberation on their course of action. The new soldier, now guarding Tom, held his gun in a manner that hinted at caution.

Tom, aware that the revelation of the wounded major's identity could soon reverberate up the command chain, maintained a patient demeanour. The seconds stretched as he waited, knowing that the significance of his passengers would soon be recognised.

It seemed to Tom as the clouds parted and the spring sunbathed the town in golden light that it was an auspicious sign and that the heavens themselves seemed to shine down upon him. Tom felt giddy with relief. Though he realised that there would probably be some consternation when the army brass realised, he had brought a German citizen back with him, even if Karl was still a child. Tom hoped Thomas had received his message and that his connections to Army HQ back in London would help to smooth things over for Karl.

As he waited for some response from the army, he saw Karl and Louis peering out the window. Looking around in interest at this Allied stronghold. He smiled at the two boys. "Don't worry. I am just waiting for someone in charge," Tom reassured the two boys. Walking to the back of the truck he started to undo the tarp that was hiding the two British men within. "We are here Bertie," Tom said as he looked down in to the blinking face of Bertie, squinting in the sudden sunlight. "It's probably best you stay were you are for the moment while they decide who send down to us," Tom informed the young naval officer.

Bertie just looked up at Tom and nodded. Bertie could feel a sinking feel in his stomach. He knew from this moment forward that his life would never be the same gain. Bertie turned to look at the flushed face of David, his wounded brother. David hadn't roused once since being shot four days ago. Bertie didn't think his brother would ever wake again and that the only reason he was still alive was because of Tom. Bertie would be forever grateful to Tom for saving them.

Bertie didn't have many role models he could look up to that were near his own age. With his peculiar upbringing it had left him strangely isolated from his peers. With only a few playmates, which had been strictly curated by his father's staff. He certainly never would have met someone like Tom in normal circumstances.

Bertie suddenly heard a commotion coming from the building and took a deep breath. Here it was, the beginning of his new future. Bertie felt a lump form in his thought thinking of his lost dreams. The quiet life he longed for, a simple life with a wife and family, was gone. Suddenly a red-faced officer peered over the side of the bed. A colonel by his rank bars. His impressive moustache quivered. "Your Majesty!" he exclaimed with a deep look of relief washing over his face.

End

Note: This was a really tough yet satisfying chapter to write. It took a long time as I am at college, full time work so I can only snatch about one hour a day to right for fun. I hope you enjoy it. My statistics stopped working back in September so I can't tell if anyone is reading this story. So I would appreciate if you could drop me a quick note when you have finished this chapter