The Silver Hand

by Terry Deary

  21 April 1918: Bray

  Master DuPont carried a silver-topped walking cane. He didn’t need it. He had been carrying messages and walking ten kilometres a day for over two weeks. He was growing stronger and fitter all the time. The cane made him look like an old man. When a German passed him in the street or out in the countryside he leaned and bent over the cane and hobbled. He appeared harmless.

  Some days there were no messages to deliver so he headed east of Bray into the fields and woods where the Germans had settled. He had a compass set into the top of his walking cane. He measured the distance by counting his steps. When he got home to his little room above the town’s hat shop he made a mark on a map to show exactly where each German gun was placed.

  On 21st April he visited the airfield and watched new planes being delivered. He made a note of them all, then took his note to the White Lady agent in Cerisy.

  Returning home he saw a group of fighters as colourful as parrots flying towards the British in the west. They were led by a red triplane. ‘The Red Baron,’ he sighed. ‘An assassin.’

  By the time he’d reached Bray the fighters were coming back to their airfield. The old teacher watched them. There was no red plane there.

  He walked up to Colette Fletcher’s farm to let her know what he’d done that day. She served him with fresh bread and cheese. ‘The White Lady is lucky to have you.’

  He looked at her for a long moment then said softly, ‘No one else in Bray knows.’

  ‘I will be careful,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘I know. That’s the way it should be. If one of us got caught we’d be tortured and made to tell who else is a spy. If you don’t know you can’t betray the rest of the group.’

  ‘But you told me,’ she said.

  He laughed softly. ‘There isn’t a German torture cruel enough to make you talk, Colette.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I have a weakness. Aimee. If they threatened to hurt her I would betray the whole of Bray.’

  ‘Then my life is in your hands...’

  The door to the farmhouse kitchen crashed open and Aimee almost fell into the room. She was followed closely by the German boy soldier who was as pale as ever.

  ‘Maman, Maman, have you heard the news?’

  ‘Calm down, Aimee. Be careful what you say in front of the enemy.’

  ‘No,’ the girl panted. ‘It was Marius who told me. It’s all around the hospital. The Red Baron is dead.’

  Master DuPont nodded. ‘I saw he didn’t land. I thought maybe he’d crashed and was safe.’

  ‘They say the Baron was chasing after a young British pilot when a Sopwith Camel got on his tail and shot him down.’

  Marius said something in Latin and Aimee went on. ‘But the Baron was flying so low some Australian troops were firing their rifles up at him too. It might have been one of them that shot him. The Baron managed to land on the road from Bray to Corbie on the British side of the lines. When the British got to him he was dead.’

  ‘It will please everyone. We need some good news like that.’

  Marius seemed to understand what she was saying. He muttered in Latin, ‘It is a sign that we are going to lose the war. He was our Goliath and he has been slain. It makes us sick to the hearts. It makes us want to give up.’ Aimee told her mother what he’d said.

  ‘Poor boy,’ she murmured. ‘He has a miserable life.’

  When Aimee returned to the hospital the patients were gloomier than ever. One man began to sing and the ones who were well enough joined in the old song ‘My Good Comrade’ about the death of a friend.

  ‘I once had a comrade, you will find no better.

  The drum called to battle, he walked at my side,

  In the same pace and step. A bullet came a-flying,

  Is my turn or yours? He was swept away,

  He lies at my feet, like it were a part of me.

  He still reaches out his hand to me, while I am about to reload.

  I cannot hold on to your hand, you stay in eternal life,

  My good comrade.’

  As the men sang, Marius whispered to Aimee what the words meant.

  The singing finished.

  Silence fell.

  Aimee wept.

  July 1918: Amiens

  The summer days were long. The British army had to wait until after ten o’clock at night for the darkness that would hide their stealthy movements.

  Their carts edged forwards on roads lit only by the moon. The tunnel of trees that covered the Amiens road kept it gloomy. A man on the back of each cart threw straw on the road. The carts had ropes around the wheels and the axles were greased so they were silent as swans.

  They were followed by trailers pulling the tanks they called Whippets. These rolled over the straw so they made no noise. When they reached their positions they were covered in nets and scattered with leaves to hide them. A German spotter plane would not see them.

  Not that there were a lot of German spotter planes that summer. Now the Red Baron was gone the British pilots ruled the skies. Any enemy planes that were sent to snoop were soon driven off.

  When the tanks were being tested the air force sent up planes to drown out the sound of their engines. The British secrets were safe... except from a spy. But at least they knew who the spy in the camp was. Captain Ellis made sure he had all the secrets the enemy wanted... they were simply the wrong secrets.

  The soldiers were trained for the attack. Wherever they went they saw posters saying:

  ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

  Another told them:

  ‘If you hear anyone else talking about our plans, stop him at once. The success of this attack – and the lives of your comrades – depend on your SILENCE.’

  General Bruce walked into the large dining room in the mansion in Amiens. Fifty men sat there. A cooling breeze drifted through the open windows. Guards stood outside the windows and doors to the room so no spy could hear the plan until General Bruce was ready to leave his false trail.

  ‘As you now know the main attack will take place on 8th August. It will be led by our Canadian friends.’

  A large man with a neat moustache looked around the room and nodded. ‘Proud to be of service,’ he said.

  General Bruce went on. ‘We expect to take the Germans by surprise. We are sending some tanks and men way up north. The enemy balloon and aircraft spotters will see them plain as day. We’ll also let the German spies know that’s where we plan to attack... and we’ll be telling them the attack will come in September.’

  The large Canadian colonel stood up. ‘Sorry, General Bruce, are you saying you have spies in the camp and you know who they are? Why don’t you just shoot them?’

  General Bruce let a rare smile crack his walnut-hard face. ‘They are much more useful alive, and telling the enemy our lies. This attack will come as a surprise – so long as you make sure your men keep their mouths shut. Then the Germans won’t be waiting to machine-gun our soldiers, shell our tanks or blast our supply roads. Our men will be as safe as we can make them.’

  The officers at the table looked serious as they left the room. Captain Ellis gave a silent nod to General Bruce. ‘You are an idiot, Captain Ellis. What are you?’

  ‘An idiot, sir.’

  ‘Are you going to keep your mouth shut?’

  ‘No, sir. I am going to sing like a nightingale.’ He picked up a green cardboard folder with maps and sheets of typed papers inside. ‘I am going to hand this to Sergeant Grimm and tell him to look after it, to keep it safe.’

  ‘What will he do with it?’ the general asked quietly.

  ‘He’ll pass it on to his friend Benedict, who will pass it on to the Germans.’

  ‘He will. So giving it to Grimm will be a stupid thing to do, won’t it, Captain Ellis.’

  ‘It will, sir. But I’m an idiot, sir.’

  ‘Then go and do something idiotic, Captain Ellis,’ the general said and his eyes were filled with fire.

&nb
sp; ‘Yes, sir.’ The young officer saluted and marched out of the room. In the office Sergeant Grimm was polishing his silver hand and shifting from one foot to the other. His narrow eyes flicked around, nervously. ‘Ah, there you are, Captain Ellis. They wouldn’t let me into the meeting to take notes for you.’

  ‘No, it was a secret meeting just for the colonels.’

  ‘But I could have made notes and kept a record for you,’ Silver Hand said with a small whine in his voice. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘No need, Grimm. The notes were all made by the Australians. They’re going to lead the attack on 9th September.’

  ‘Are they?’ Grimm breathed.

  ‘Ah... sorry... I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut,’ the captain said with a silly grin. ‘You’ll keep your mouth shut though, Grimm, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ That mouth was tight as a rat trap. The small eyes were fixed on the green folder under Captain Ellis’s arm. ‘Can I put that away for you, sir?’

  ‘Ah, this copy has to be kept safe. Locked away where no one can see it. I need to find a secure place.’

  ‘I can do that for you, sir,’ the sergeant said and his hand snaked towards the file.

  Captain Ellis clutched it to the brass buttons on his jacket. ‘Spies, Grimm.’

  ‘Spies, sir?’

  ‘If a spy got his hands on this the whole plan would be ruined. The Germans would know the Australians will lead the attack eighty miles to the north of here on 9th September. We can’t have that.’

  ‘No, sir. So I will put it somewhere safe.’

  ‘The Germans would pay a fortune to get their hands on this.’

  ‘A fortune?’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds – maybe even fifty.’

  Silver Hand’s voice was a croak. His mouth seemed dust dry. His hand reached forward and touched the file. Slowly, slowly Captain Ellis released it. ‘Don’t read it, Grimm.’

  ‘I wouldn’t read it if you paid me ten thousand pounds,’ he said with a creaking laugh. ‘Or fifty thousand.’

  The young officer slapped the sergeant on the arm. ‘Good man. I can trust you to do the right thing with this.’

  ‘You can, sir, oh you can.’

  And Captain Ellis marched down the corridor to the general’s office. Silver Hand muttered, ‘Idiot.’

  Captain Ellis smiled at the general. ‘Idiot.’

  22 August 1918: Bray

  ‘My friends,’ the mayor said to the people of Bray, who had gathered around the Town Hall steps. ‘As you know, the British are on their way back.’

  A small, toothless old woman gave a cheer and clapped her twisted hands.

  ‘Shush, Eleanor,’ the flour-handed baker beside her hissed. ‘The Germans will shoot you.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ she muttered.

  ‘What will you do when they come for you? Bite them?’

  Old Eleanor showed her gums to the baker. ‘They’re on the run. Huns on the run,’ she sneered.

  The mayor raised his voice. ‘The great fightback started two weeks ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Eleanor nodded. ‘We’ve heard the guns. We’ve seen the sky lit up with flashes bright enough to read a book.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could read, Eleanor,’ the baker said.

  ‘I can’t. But if I could I would have been able to. That’s what I’m saying.’

  The mayor went on. ‘The German colonel came to me this morning and said the British will probably be here tomorrow. His men will fight for Bray. That means the British will be dropping shells and bombs on our town to get the enemy out.’

  ‘The German soldiers were in my shop two weeks ago,’ the baker sniffed. ‘They said the British would attack in the north in September. Our friends can’t be here already.’

  Colette Fletcher smiled and whispered to Master DuPont, ‘I heard that story too. The British have been very clever.’

  ‘It will rain iron. We’ll all be killed,’ the fat baker groaned.

  ‘That’s why we’ve been warned,’ said the mayor. ‘We have time to get out. The British will cease fire tomorrow long enough to let you go west to Amiens. Pack what you can and be ready to leave in the morning. We’ll take all the carts and horses in the town.’

  ‘And leave nothing behind,’ old Eleanor cried, ‘or the Germans will steal it.’

  The trembling people hurried away to empty their houses.

  Colette Fletcher turned to Master DuPont and said, ‘What will you do, Rémi?’

  ‘I have to stay. The British need our reports now more than ever.’

  ‘Your rooms could be hit by British bombs like Saint Nicolas’s church was four years ago. It may be better if you came to our farm. The Germans have painted a large red cross on the roof of the barn to show it’s a hospital so the British won’t attack it.’

  ‘Thank you, Colette. Let’s hope my stay is short. It feels like the war is ending.’

  They turned and walked back towards the farm. ‘Aimee can hardly remember a time when there was no war,’ Colette said. ‘Will it really end?’

  The old teacher smiled. ‘I remember an English saying:

  No one lives forever,

  Dead men rise up never,

  And even the longest river,

  Winds somewhere safe to the sea.’

  ‘And you think the sea is in sight?’

  ‘We’re on the shore, my dear. On the shore.’

  Aimee ran down the path to meet them, her pigtail held in a faded and frayed ribbon. ‘The Germans are going,’ she cried. ‘They’re packing up and leaving.’

  ‘So are the people of Bray,’ her teacher said.

  ‘Would you like to go to Amiens? To be safe? I have a cousin there you could stay with.’

  Aimee looked at him as if he were mad. ‘I have the sick and wounded to look after in the barn,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a couple of days before they go. Marius says they’re opening a hospital in Peronne to take them.’

  ‘The British will be here soon,’ her mother said. ‘Then there’ll be no soldiers for you to nurse.’

  Aimee frowned. ‘Yes there will. The British soldiers will need my help. Let me stay, Maman.’

  Colette shrugged. ‘Very well. Your current patients may be the enemy but they are still just people who need our help.’

  ‘That’s what I think too. And I can’t let Marius down,’ Aimee said and ran back to the barn.

  The teacher looked at Colette. ‘I thought she hated the boy?’

  ‘That was months ago. Things change. In fact I think she’ll be a little heartbroken when the lad goes back to Germany.’

  But Marius was going nowhere very soon.

  24 August 1918: Bray

  Bray was burning. From the farm on the hill Colette Fletcher looked down as the old buildings crumbled and tumbled and golden-black flames leaped up to the copper smoke. The shells had stopped now. In the dawn light, shadows of men moved forward over the fields.

  The German machine-gunners had gathered in the railway yard to hold back the ribbon of riflemen heading their way. But every time a machine gun fired, the British spotted it and had shells dropped on the deadly gun nest.

  Soon the last of the German troops were giving up the fight. They limped through the shattered streets of Bray and headed east and back on the road to Peronne. Others threw down their weapons, shouted ‘Kamerad’ at the Canadian troops and gave themselves up.

  The last of the German trucks stood outside the barn while sick men were helped on to the crowded seats. Doctor Weger polished his glasses and his face was grey with three days of unshaven beard. ‘Aimee, you have been so good to us. Many men are alive because of you.’

  ‘And Marius with his medicine,’ she said quietly.

  ‘We will leave just one patient in your care. Marius. So unfair that he should catch influenza now. His temperature is 103. If we try to move him it would kill him.’

  ‘And if you leave him behind he’ll be a prisoner. He doesn’t deserve that,
’ Aimee said and sniffed down a traitor tear. ‘You go now, Doctor. I’ll take care of poor Marius.’

  The doctor wrapped his arms round Aimee and the girl pushed him away after a few seconds. ‘I am your enemy. We should be trying to kill one another.’

  The doctor laughed for the first time in weeks. ‘What would be the point? I could shoot you, but you’ve been so kind I couldn’t bring myself to eat you. And I need food more than anything.’

  ‘What are those German words on your belt buckles?’

  ‘Gott mit uns,’ the thin man replied. ‘It means God is with us.’

  ‘Then I hope he’ll look after the good men like you,’ Aimee said. She turned and ran into the barn so she wouldn’t have to watch him go.

  Marius had been taken upstairs to the hayloft where he would be well hidden if the British should arrive. Master DuPont had changed him into an old suit of work clothes that belonged to Aimee’s father. ‘Tell the British he is one of your farm hands... and that if they go near him they will catch flu. That should make sure he is safe till he’s better.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then he can follow his friends back to Germany,’ the teacher said.

  Now the boy lay on the straw, living in some fever-nightmare world of his own. Aimee remembered how it felt. ‘My whole body was weak,’ she’d told Marius, ‘and I’d a headache like drumbeats inside my skull. I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand without falling on my face.’

  The Germans seemed to have had it worse than Aimee. She had seen so many sick soldiers and heard for herself the hacking cough and seen the trickles of blood dribbling from the mouth. The worst sign was when the face turned blue. She knew that meant death was just hours away.

  Marius’s face was pale and covered in a sweat but the only colour was the burning red spot on each cheek. No blue.

  ‘Don’t die,’ Aimee said in Latin.

  The boy was mumbling in German. She understood some words now. ‘Mutter. Ich möchte meine mutter.’

  ‘You want your mother, I know. But you’ll have to make do with me.’