The Silver Hand

by Terry Deary

  His comrades were baying like hounds after a fox. She didn’t understand all of the German words though she’d learned a little in her time with Marius. But she knew what they meant. ‘Get her.’

  The soldier reached the head of the valley and now he just had to climb up to meet the path that Aimee was running along. He’d cut off her escape. His worn boots began to slip and he had to avoid shell-holes full of muddy slime. He was panting hard now as the poor German army food had left him exhausted.

  Still he was there. He was two steep steps from the top of the path. He flung himself across the path. Sprinting, Aimee saw him reach out a bony hand to grab her ankle as she sped past. Aimee jinked to one side then jumped over his legs like a hurdler. The soldier snatched and missed. He fell face down on to the spot where her feet had been an instant before. The force knocked the breath out of him. He struggled to his feet and took a while to pick up speed again.

  The soldier paused. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. Aimee was gone. Ahead of him was a broken clump of trees. She could be anywhere – hiding or running through. She would hide, he decided.

  He waited in his sweat-stained grey shirt for the troop of Germans to catch him.

  Before the war Aimee’s father had hunted deer and rabbits in the woods on winter weekends. ‘It’s poaching,’ he said. ‘And if I get caught I go to prison.’

  And when the gamekeepers arrived to trap him he said, ‘If you are surrounded on all sides in a patch of land there is only one chance of escape. You mustn’t run for it. Stay in the one place, let your enemies search it and not find you.’

  That worked for him, but how was she to escape notice in that postage stamp of a place? She burrowed beneath the trunk of a fallen tree where angry beetles scurried out of her way, and pulled ferns across to cover her.

  In the quiet of the damp and damaged wood she heard the murmur of men speaking. Then one voice rose above the rest. It was the voice of the man with the silver hand. ‘Search every inch of this wood, under every branch, every twig, every leaf.’ Again she didn’t understand all the German words but she knew what he was saying.

  A man in a black cloak, carrying a cane, and with his face shadowed by a hood walked towards the searching men.

  ‘Good day, Sergeant,’ he said in English.

  ‘Good day,’ Grimm snapped.

  ‘May I help you?’ the traveller asked politely.

  ‘Not unless you’ve seen a young girl with a pigtail on your travels.’

  ‘Ah,’ the hooded man cried. ‘She passed me ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the road to Cléry. I was climbing the road to this wood and I saw her run in then run out the other side. She looked afraid and very tired. I watched her run all the way down the hill. She seemed to be looking for somewhere to hide in the hedgerows. Is that the girl you want?’

  ‘It is,’ Silver Hand said. ‘She’s a runaway. We’re finding her so she can get safely home to her mother.’

  ‘Ah,’ the hooded traveller said. ‘Then I am so happy to have been of some help.’

  Aimee heard Sergeant Grimm give new orders and the German prisoners moved off and onwards to Cléry. By the time she slipped out of the woods, and headed east again to find Marius, the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

  She didn’t know who he was. She did know his lies had saved her life.

  31 August 1918: Peronne

  Aimee opened her pack and took out the letter from General Bruce. She showed it to the Australian soldier who was in charge of loading the boats across the Somme to Peronne on the east bank. ‘See? We can go anywhere and you have to help us.’

  The soldier pushed his helmet back a little and rubbed his head. ‘But the battle isn’t over.’

  ‘The Germans are running away,’ Aimee argued. ‘We saw it from the top of the ridge.’

  ‘I know. But they have snipers... sharp-shooters with rifles. They hide behind any tree or building or shell-hole and shoot our men when they try to follow.’

  ‘They won’t shoot us. We’re not in your army. We look like refugees.’

  ‘But you’re not?’ the soldier asked.

  Aimee had found Marius waiting for her by the landing stage. They smiled at one another when she arrived safely. But they both knew they had to cross the river before Silver Hand discovered his mistake and came after them again.

  ‘We are in the White Lady group.’

  ‘You look a bit young to be spies.’

  Aimee sighed. ‘We are messengers. My mother is a member in Bray. This boy speaks perfect German. He can mix with the enemy and report back to us.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s from Austria. His family hates the German people.’

  The Australian soldier watched a wagon bringing wooden beams and metal girders to repair the bridges on the far side. He guided the men as they lifted the materials off the lorry and on to the barge. Other boats of all sizes were landing with prisoners and wounded troops and the odd group of refugees who had lost their homes in the fighting. ‘So can we cross?’ Aimee begged.

  ‘When it’s loaded you can find a corner on this barge,’ the soldier said. ‘You’ll be there in half an hour.’

  Aimee explained what was happening to Marius. They looked back up to the ridge. There were no sign of their hunters. But in half an hour they could still arrive.

  At last the barge was ready to leave. Marius and Aimee perched on an oak beam and felt the boat rock as the sail was raised, and it made the short trip across. At that moment the sun glittered on the hand of a man who stood at the top of the ridge above the river. The man with the silver hand must have seen them for he threw both hands in the air in rage.

  ‘Good luck,’ the Australian soldier called as the barge drifted away from the shore.

  ‘If a man with a silver hand asks to cross then stop him,’ Aimee cried. But most of her words were swept away with the rumble of guns, the hammers, saws and axes of the bridge builders, the shouts of soldiers working or the cries of the wounded being unloaded.

  ‘A brass band?’ the Australian laughed. ‘Crazy kids.’

  And Sergeant Grimm began to limp down the hill to find a boat.

  They hadn’t escaped. They had just slipped through the hunter’s net for a little while.

  As the boy and girl hurried through Peronne they were unsure where to turn or where to hide. Half the houses had burned and were still smoking and the choking air stung their eyes and throats. Most of the others had lost their roofs and none had any windows.

  ‘We could stay in one of the ruined houses,’ Marius said. ‘Maybe he’ll go past and miss us.’

  Aimee shook her head. ‘Not for long. I did that in the wood at the top of the ridge. He won’t fall for it again.’

  They reached a fine house near the centre of the town. Its walls seemed strong but there was no roof. Smoke dust drifted from the windows where there had once been glass. A woman was trying to drag a wooden chest on to a cart that was pulled by a donkey. ‘Can I help?’ Marius asked her with the little French he had learned from Aimee.

  The woman was aged over fifty, with thick face make-up and deep-red lipstick. Her hat and coat looked expensive and she even wore silk stockings. ‘The servants have all left me. We were sheltering in the cellar when the shelling started. As soon as it was over they cleared away the rubble and set us free. I thought they’d help me move my precious things. But what did they do? They loaded some sticks of furniture then ran off to find their families.’

  Aimee tried not to show a sour smile as she said, ‘Poor you.’

  ‘I can’t stay here... and I can’t go without my treasures.’ The woman looked sharply at Marius and Aimee. ‘Not treasures... not gold or jewels. Just things that are precious to me. Things like...’ she began, then stopped.

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Yes, photographs,’ the woman lied.

  ‘Ornaments? Letters and diaries?’ Aimee went on.
<
br />   ‘Exactly. I mean, I am not a rich woman. But if you help me load this trunk on to the cart I’ll reward you.’

  Aimee grabbed one end of the wooden trunk and Marius the other. ‘Put it on the seat so I can sit on it to drive the wagon,’ the woman said.

  They did as she asked. ‘Heavy photographs,’ Aimee muttered as the coins in the chest rattled. Aloud she went on, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have a country home in the woods near Hirson. The Germans are being driven back. I’ll follow our armies till I get to my other home.’

  ‘That’s halfway to Germany,’ Aimee explained to Marius. To the woman she said, ‘Marius here would make a good servant. He can look after the donkey... protect your treasures from bandits on the road...’

  ‘Bandits?’ the woman screeched.

  ‘Yes. German bandits. Enemy soldiers who’ve deserted their army and live by robbing refugees like you.’

  ‘I am not a refugee. I am just going for a summer holiday. I am Madame Clare and no one would dare attack me.’

  Aimee just spread her hands. ‘If you say so, Madame Clare.’

  The woman’s crimson mouth turned down as if she’d supped on vinegar wine. ‘But there would be no harm in the boy coming along. And you could come too... mend my clothes, cook my meals, wash my undergarments.’

  Aimee was about to say, ‘I would rather die,’ when she saw the man with the silver hand at the end of the street strewn with rubble. He was asking a dust-stained policeman some questions. Aimee spoke quickly. ‘Yes we’ll do all of those things, but only if you can get us out of Peronne now. There is a man chasing us because he thinks we stole some secret plans.’

  ‘Stole? You’re thieves?’ the woman hissed.

  ‘No, we are heroes of France. He’s a British traitor. But we need to get away. Let us hide on your cart amongst the furniture. If you get us out of Peronne we’ll see you safely to Hirson.’

  ‘I can’t pay you,’ the woman said quickly.

  ‘We’ll work for free. We’ll be better than slaves. Just get us out of here.’

  ‘Hide in that wardrobe,’ the woman said.

  Marius scrambled on the cart after Aimee, slid under the canvas cover and crouched inside the wardrobe. They closed the door on a darkness that smelled of mothballs.

  September 1918: The road from Peronne

  The wagon creaked and moved. Peronne smouldered like a dying ember while poison gas hung from the trees like tinsel.

  Aimee peered through a crack in the door of the wardrobe. They were in a train of refugees. Some heading east to return to their homes now that the German invaders were leaving. Some following the armies in the hope of making money or finding work. She was sure no one else was heading towards a summer home in the forests of the east, like Madame Clare.

  But there was no sign of the man with the silver hand, trailing behind like a shadow of death.

  For a moment Aimee thought she had a glimpse of the man with the long black cloak and the walking cane. The man who had saved her as she hid in the wood. But she blinked and he had disappeared.

  ‘You should go home now,’ Marius said as he stepped out and joined her.

  ‘It’s as dangerous to go back as it is to go forward. I could walk into the arms of Sergeant Grimm. I’ll stay another day,’ she said.

  That day did not take them far. When the army needed the road the refugees had to pull on to the dusty verge and let the soldiers march past followed by their supply lorries and tanks and guns. Now the Australians were singing happier songs. They knew they were winning and driving forward.

  ‘We soldiers of Australia

  Rejoice in being free,

  And not to fetter others

  Do we go o’er the sea.

  Old England gave us freedom,

  And when she makes a start

  To see that others get it,

  We’re there to take our part.’

  Then there was their song ‘Waltzing Matilda’ with the words changed. Hard men with skins like old leather sang like schoolboys and laughed as they marched and sang about the German king, the Kaiser...

  ‘Fighting the Kaiser, fighting the Kaiser,

  Who’ll come a-fighting the Kaiser with me?

  And we’ll drink all his beer,

  And eat up all his sausages,

  Who’ll come a fighting the Kaiser with me?’

  Aimee was never sure when it would be safe to leave the convoy. So she stayed. ‘I’ll go as far as Hirson and meet up with a White Lady there,’ she told Marius. The days rolled slowly by.

  The donkey cart rocked over the hills that were as fat as sheep, just a few kilometres every day. At night Madame Clare tried to find a tavern to stay in. Aimee and Marius squeezed into the crowded cart and slept under the canvas. On fine evenings they slept under the stars.

  News spread among the travellers about the war. Every day that September it seemed the British and Australians were moving ahead faster and further than the refugees could.

  Each day the guns seemed more distant. The autumn hills less damaged by the battles. The air less scented by the gas. The nights less infested by rats. The villages less crushed by shells.

  Madame Clare said she was poor but she used the chest as a driving seat and sat on it to guide the donkey. No one could look inside. She always seemed to have enough money for the best food when they came to a farm or village. Aimee grew fond of the donkey, Daisy, and made sure she was well fed though Madame Clare grumbled about the cost.

  Marius slowly grew back to full strength and was useful in heaving the cart out of muddy patches when the hard black rains fell on the rutted roads.

  One day they came across a field filled with rough huts and British officers with bright brass buttons on their tunics and hats. ‘A new command post,’ Marius said.

  Aimee slipped away from the wagon and used General Bruce’s pass to get past the guards at the gate. She asked the way to the command room where phone lines hummed and Morse code keys clattered. She persuaded a signalman to send a message back to Bray to let her mother know she was safe and would be away longer than she planned. And she told her about Father Gaulle’s link with the treacherous Silver Hand.

  When the reply came through an hour later Aimee was back on the road and never saw it. The message said, ‘I know you are well. A friend is sending me reports. We have heard about Father Gaulle and are taking action, but beware the man with the silver hand. He is a still a danger. When you get to Hirson find the local priest. He is a friend of the White Lady. He will help. Love Maman.’

  On 26th September, at Saint Quentin, the enemy stopped, turned and battled back, just as they had at Peronne. Madame Clare’s cart almost caught up with the fighting. They could smell burning wool on the breeze. That was the scent of the mustard gas.

  There was no more sleeping under the stars. The sky over the battlefield, in the evenings before and after dawn, was aflame with exploding shells, star signals and burning fuel dumps, and the villages glowed amber-gold and gave off showers of silver sparks. It was all too beautiful and terrible. They rested in the village of Attilly where Madame Clare found an inn to sleep in.

  That night the heavy rains returned. The canvas over the wagon leaked. Marius and Aimee found a barn to shelter in. There were the usual rats but a family of cats kept them away from the sleepers.

  The barn was like Aimee’s own in Bray and the cats like the one back in the school. For the first time Aimee felt a sick longing to go back home.

  Then, when morning came, Marius found the bombs.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Laws are silent in times of war’

  27 September 1918: Attilly

  In the early morning light of the barn Aimee woke and saw Marius was already exploring the place. He saw her rub her eyes and sit up on the straw that had made her bed. ‘This was an old ammunition dump used by the German army,’ he said.

  ‘The German army?’ Aimee said with a frown. ‘Don’t you mean
your army?’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ Marius said. ‘I don’t know what I am any more.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘A box of grenades... they explode five seconds after you pull the pin out.’

  ‘We’ve shared the barn with a box full of bombs?’ Aimee muttered. ‘Maybe I was wrong when I said I’d be safer travelling with you.’

  Marius shrugged. ‘There’s a blue cross on the box... that means they are a poison gas ... it makes you choke, sneeze and cough if you haven’t a gas mask on.’

  ‘Nice.’ Aimee snorted. ‘So we wouldn’t have been blown apart in our sleep, we’d just have been gassed?’

  ‘They are safe until you pull the pin out,’ the boy said as he took three bombs from the box and stuffed them into his backpack.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Aimee demanded.

  Marius explained. ‘When Sergeant Grimm was chasing us...’

  ‘What do you mean? When? For all we know he could still be chasing us. He could be waiting outside,’ the girl raged.

  Marius smiled quietly. ‘And what will he do?’

  ‘Take his backpack away then shoot us.’

  ‘And how will we defend ourselves?’

  ‘We can’t. We have no weapons and you can’t fire a gun and... Oh, I see,’ Aimee said, her voice falling away as she felt foolish.

  Marius nodded. ‘I tell him the plans are in this pack. I reach in and pull the pin. I hand the bag to him... slowly. Five seconds after the pin comes out the gas bursts from the bag. If I time it right it’ll blow just as he opens the bag. He’ll be blinded and choking for days.’

  ‘And if you time it wrong he shoots us,’ Aimee said bleakly.

  ‘He’s going to shoot us anyway. At least this way we have a chance.’

  Marius fastened the bag and they set off to Madame Clare’s wagon. She was waiting for them and looking as cross as ever. ‘Hitch up Daisy, boy,’ she said to Marius. ‘And you, girl, light the paraffin stove and make me some acorn coffee. It’s awful stuff but better than nothing. I’ve had my breakfast,’ she said. ‘The innkeeper found me some fresh eggs on toasted white bread. It cost me my last penny, of course, but it may get me through till lunchtime.’