by Terry Deary
‘And what happened to the man with the silver hand?’ Charles went on.
‘He headed east and was never seen again. Maybe he died saving someone else. Maybe he went home safe.’
‘No,’ Charles chuckled. ‘He died in my two-hectare field... the place where the Germans stopped and made peace.’
‘How do you know that?’ someone at the bar asked.
‘Because I found what was left of him. I was ploughing the land and I turned over this.’ He reached into his pocket. He paused. With all the drama of a stage actor he pulled out a shining silver hand. The crowd in the bar gave a sigh. ‘I reckon it was on my land so it’s mine. All that silver. I’m rich, lads. Rich.’
A shrunken man in a black coat spoke up. ‘Let me have a look at it.’
‘It’s mine,’ Charles said and clutched it to his mud-stained chest.
‘Charles, you are too mean to ever buy jewels for your poor wife,’ the landlord explained. ‘So you won’t know this is Mr Garde... he has been a jeweller for fifty years. He will tell you what it’s worth.’
Charles slowly opened his hand and let the man take the metal hand. The jeweller’s mouth turned down. He weighed it in his hand and took out an eyeglass so he could look closely at the scratches in the metal. ‘My friend,’ he said sadly. ‘I do not need to test this. I can tell you it is not silver.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tin. Cheap tin.’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘Nothing.’
The farmer sat down heavily on a chair. ‘But the soldier’s story...’
‘A lie. The man was a liar. A fraud,’ the jeweller said gently.
‘The silver hand?’ the farmer said.
‘Give it to the town museum. It’s a lie. A lie.’
Chapter Ten
‘Friendship increases happiness, and reduces misery’
11 November 1923: Bray
Aimee Fletcher walked through the streets of Bray. She tried not to slip on the icy cobbles. The town was patched and mended now but the new bricks showed like fresh scars on old wounds. The town was repaired but not healed. There were blood-red poppies standing frosted on the war memorial. 11th November had been the day the town remembered the dead.
The children in the school had been told about the war that day. The youngest ones couldn’t remember it. Even some of the older ones had forgotten what had happened five years before when they were so young.
But Aimee was able to tell them about war balloons, the aeroplanes and the famous Red Baron who had died so close to their town. She told them about the tanks and the gas, the refugees and the rain. The story of the White Lady group she told with pride; the story of the traitors, and Sergeant Grimm, she kept to herself.
The cat that was the colour of rust and ashes followed her up the lane to the farm. It was getting old now. It still sat guard at the school gates during the day but went back to the Fletcher farm with Aimee every night to sleep by the log fire.
Aimee’s plaited hair was longer now and wrapped in a coil around her head. She wasn’t the wild, pigtailed child any longer. Colette Fletcher stood at the door of the farmhouse with a broad smile to welcome her daughter home.
‘What’s wrong, Maman? Is father sick with the gas on his lungs again?’
‘No, Aimee. It’s a surprise. You have a guest.’
The girl entered the warm kitchen and took off her coat. Her guest sat by the fireplace, opposite her father. He had grown so much in the five years since they’d said goodbye, she hardly knew him.
‘Hello, Marius,’ she said.
He rose to his feet and she saw he was taller than her father now. They shook hands, stiff and awkward. ‘You are still at school?’ he asked, speaking good French.
Aimee threw back her head and laughed. ‘Sort of. Master DuPont is getting too old so I help him with the teaching. He lives across the road from the school. He’d love to see you. Let’s go down before it gets dark.’
‘He saved our lives,’ Marius said. ‘A great man.’
As they hurried through the door Colette Fletcher called, ‘Don’t be too late, supper is in an hour. You’re welcome to stay, Marius.’
And they were gone. Master DuPont was frail now and his silver-topped cane was used for walking, not clubbing traitors to the ground. They sat around his fire and lived again those months before the Armistice. ‘And now, Marius?’
‘I am a student. In three years’ time I will be a doctor, I hope.’
Master DuPont and Aimee nodded. It was what they had hoped for too.
‘And you will work in Germany. How are things there?’
Marius’s face darkened in the flickering light of the fire. ‘The war is not over,’ he said quietly. ‘So many men came home and said we weren’t beaten by the enemy, we were beaten by traitors back at home. They say that in the next war we will root out the traitors and be stronger than ever.’
‘The next war?’ Aimee moaned. ‘No, no, no. What about the silver hand of peace we used to talk about?’
‘Not silver,’ Marius said. ‘No better than tin.’
‘We’ll be enemies again?’ the girl sighed.
Marius looked at her and smiled. ‘Enemies, never. When I am a doctor I am going to move to France to work. France needs doctors too.’
‘You’ll go to a great city like Paris or Rheims and make your fortune, I suppose,’ Aimee said.
‘No. I don’t want to work for silver. I want to help the people we hurt in the war. People like your father with his gas-wrecked lungs. I was thinking of setting up a practice in a small town in France.’
‘Which one?’
Mater DuPont said, ‘I think I know the name of the town.’
Marius’s smile became a grin. ‘You are a clever man, Master DuPont. I think you may be right.’
‘Are you going to tell me which town or leave me guessing?’ the girl cried.
Marius and the teacher looked at one another. Then they turned to Aimee and said, together, ‘Bray-on-Somme.’
And the warmth of friendship was warmer than the amber fire.
NOTES
Diphenylamine chlorarsine (DM)
DM gas was invented by an American scientist called Major Robert Adams and was stockpiled by both Britain and the United States at the end of World War I. It would put enemy soldiers out of action without killing them. German gas masks would be useless. The war ended before it was ever used.
Manfred von Richthofen
Manfred von Richthofen (2 May 1892 – 21 April 1918) was known as the Red Baron, and was a German fighter pilot during the First World War. He shot down more enemy aircraft than anyone. He arrived at Bray with seventy victories. He added ten more before he was shot down and killed near Bray. He was almost certainly shot by a soldier on the ground.
Bray-on-Somme
The German army entered Bray in late August 1914 and in the first month the town was not too badly disturbed. The British fought back with heavy bombing, and forced the Germans to leave on 4th October 1914. For the next twenty-eight months Bray was used as an important rest centre for the French army. On 21st March 1918 the Germans launched an attack named Operation Michael, while Bray was held by the British army. On 26th March the desperate British army managed to hold back the enemy with the help of twelve of the first Whippet tanks to be used in action. But in the end Bray was given up without a fight. For the next four months the Germans used Bray as a base. Again French and British forces bombed the town. The German forces were weak from the flu epidemic. On 24th August 1918 a Canadian force drove them out.
For its four years of suffering during the Great War the town of Bray was awarded the Croix de Guerre (Cross of War) by the French in 1920. The town was rebuilt over many years.
Bray was occupied by the Germans from 1940 to 1944 during the Second World War. On 1st September 1944, Bray was set free by the United States army.
Today Bray Museum shows memories of the Great War. Manfred von Richthofen,
the Red Baron, is remembered along with his squadron, the ‘Flying Circus’.
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First published in Great Britain 2018 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © Terry Deary, 2018
This electronic edition published in 2018
Cover illustration copyright © Levante Szabo, 2018
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