Joe could not be certain that Didier Marmont was pleased to see him. The one short flash of uncertainty was so soon followed by a warm and gracious recognition that he thought he might be wrong. He had clearly not been expecting a reception by two policemen as well as the doctor but took the introductions in his stride.

Approaching Thibaud’s cell he showed signs of nervousness but made a joke and entered following Varimont.

Eyes turned immediately on Thibaud. He was sitting, exactly as before, forlorn, on the edge of his bed, staring into the wall. His hair had been freshly washed and trimmed and he was looking smart, slender and almost waif-like in white pullover and black cord trousers. Joe’s eyes however were fixed on Didier. He wanted to catch his first reaction. What was he hoping for at this late stage? A derisory ‘What’s this? No – that’s never Clovis Houdart!’ Yes, he could not deny that was his hope.

But Didier knew the man at once. His eyes widened, he caught his breath. He strolled over to Thibaud and looked carefully into his face. Putting out a finger, he gently traced the line of Thibaud’s broken jaw and nodded.

He turned to the assembled company. ‘This is Clovis Houdart. Lieutenant Colonel Houdart of the Fifth Army, last encountered serving under General Pétain. Summer of 1917. Soissons-Auberive sector.’

‘You served in the same company?’ Joe asked.

‘I was just a corporal, called up as a reservist. My age, you know. By that stage they were using even old wrecks like me. There were three generations shoulder to shoulder in the trenches.’

‘But it wasn’t the first time you’d soldiered?’

‘No, I fought at Sedan. Experience was a help, in fact. I tried my best to calm the troops. Father-figure, you know. “Think this is bad, lads? You should have seen . . .” You know the sort of thing.’

‘Soissons, you say?’ Joe asked quietly. ‘You were caught up in the Mutiny?’

Bonnefoye and Varimont exchanged looks.

‘I know – I’m not supposed to know anything about that,’ said Joe. ‘But I do. I was in Military Intelligence.’

‘Then you’ll know how low morale had sunk by April of ’17?’ Marmont was pleased not to be called on for an explanation. ‘I was given a squad of boys, fresh meat, straight off the farm. One day in the front line was enough to send them mad. They couldn’t understand why we’d suffered such an assault, accepted such a stalemate for three years. They were fighting from the trenches their dead predecessors had dug and occupied three years before. Not an inch had been gained and the trench walls were revetted with the bones of French and German alike. General Nivelle had built up our hopes. One last push, he’d said. One more concentrated attack and we’ll carry the day. We went into it with spirit but months on we were bogged down, thousands dying every day. Food disgusting when we had any. No leave. Weeks sometimes in the front line with no reprieve. My lads were given suicidal orders to go over the top. Few ever came back.

‘But one lad kept coming back. Grégoire, his name was. Seemed to bear a charmed life. You see that every so often. Must have come in for all the luck allocated to his family – his brothers had all copped it. His parents were dead. No family left. I took him under my wing. Tried to advise him when he went over to the rebels. He lived long enough to get a short leave in Paris. The men were bombarded at the stations by pacifists. Bolsheviks? Patriots? I still don’t know. But Grégoire and others like him returned and spread the word. Rebellion was raging through the troops. Unpopular officers were stoned . . . disappeared quietly in the night . . . Trains were commandeered and driven to Paris . . . Desertions increased . . . Forty thousand men grounded their muskets. The lads said they’d man the trenches, hold the line, but they wouldn’t attempt to go forward another inch until they got what they wanted: peace. Someone was going to have to sign a treaty. I’ll never know why we weren’t instantly overrun by the Germans. But they never seemed to catch on to what was happening in front of their noses.’

Joe’s voice broke into his monologue, an interested fellow soldier going over a battle plan. ‘Might have something to do with the discreet though disastrous attempt by the British top brass to distract them from the French lines. They knew the dangers of the Soissons-Craonne sector. We made a feint – a push to draw the German forces away from the French and on to ourselves. And our effort to help out resulted in the appalling losses of the third battle of Ypres. You may know it as Passchendaele. We were suffering alongside you, Didier.’

Had he heard? The content of Joe’s short speech would normally have been provocative enough to stoke a whole evening’s conversation and argument. But Joe’s tone seemed to calm him. Marmont turned, his attention caught, and spoke directly to him, needing to explain himself, a link established with this friendly stranger who seemed to understand him. An elderly doctor and a young policeman were a less acceptable audience, it seemed, than a man who had survived Ypres. ‘Don’t blame them. They weren’t traitors! Poor buggers just wanted the noise to stop, to be able to go home. They wanted the war over by the fastest means. They had honour. They loved their country. They still had within them an unquenched spark of independence and the spark flared into something uncontrollable up on that ridge near Craonne.

‘And this is where our hero comes into the story.’ He indicated Thibaud who had heard not a word. ‘I expect you wonder why on earth I’m rambling on, wearying you with my memories. Where I’m going with this.’

‘Nowhere good,’ thought Joe, but he assumed an attitude of entranced listener. Not difficult as he was fascinated to hear more of Clovis from someone who had known him on the battlefield. Instinctively, he moved forward a few paces, steady and unthreatening, positioning himself in front of Varimont and Bonnefoye, focusing all Marmont’s attention on himself.

‘Top brass kept the lid on but it couldn’t last. Nivelle was sacked and Pétain was brought in to clear up the mess. Better food, more leave and promises got the men back at it again. But there was a stick as well as a carrot in this equation. We were going to be made to pay . . .’

Joe felt an icy trickle of foreboding along his spine.

‘An example had to be made. Thousands of mutineers were arrested and court-martialled. Over twenty thousand were found guilty. Whole companies, every man jack of ’em. Four hundred were condemned to death. Fifty were actually executed. They say fifty . . . ‘He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And the rest! Nobody ever declared the retributions carried out in fields and ditches. And the red-tabs who organized all this – not worth our spit! Becs de puces! Peaux de fesses!’ The poilu’s crude curses burst from him. ‘They made us kill our own men using firing squads made up of their fellows. “Pour encourager les autres!” they said. “Pour l'exemple!”

‘They drew lots to decide who would be punished! Can you imagine that? Can you? Lining up and shuffling forward to take your life or your death from a tin cup! Funny though – I don’t know if many noticed, but the lads who were picked out for execution had something in common. They didn’t count for much with anybody. Lads with no family to make a fuss about their execution afterwards. Lads like my Grégoire.’

Joe didn’t want to hear any more but they all listened on in awful fascination.

‘I was put in charge of the squad detailed to execute him. He took it bravely . . . wouldn’t have expected anything else. I sat with him all night holding his hand and praying before that dawn. I’d done everything. Pleaded with the commanding officer. Offered a substitute . . . Deaf ears. “Orders . . . orders . . . nothing we can do . . .” You’ve heard it.