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All along the road to Verlaines, they stopped to pick people up—women with toddlers clinging to their hips, an old woman clutching a sack of linens, an elderly man hobbling with a stick who told them he had lost his leg in the last war against the Prussians and he’d be damned if he’d let them take another one—until the springs of the jitney were groaning with the weight and Alice warned Emmie that the old truck couldn’t possibly manage another. They decanted their burden in the town square of Verlaines, urging them to wait, that they would take them on farther when they could.

They’d never seen Verlaines like this before. The square was pulsing with troops and refugees, with frightened people running out of their houses, begging for news. When the jitney pulled in, they were inundated with a rush of children. Emmie hugged and hugged and hugged them, holding as many of them close as she could, telling them not to worry, it would all be all right, they would make it all right, and could they please, please tell their mothers to pack up anything they needed and come to the square?

A horrible booming filled the air, closer than any guns Emmie had ever heard before, followed by a dreadful whistling noise.

“A shell,” whispered Alice, staring at the sky as though she might see it, even though the mist had burned off and the sky was fine and clear and there was nothing at all to be seen. “That has to be a shell.”

They’d never been close enough to hear the actual shells before. Only the thrum of the guns firing them.

Verlaines was only three miles from Ham, and the Boche were nearly at Ham.

Emmie could feel her palms go cold with sweat. A girl started crying, and Emmie cuddled her close, a toddler boy bumping his head against her shin to get her to hold him too. She wasn’t strong enough for this. She wanted to curl up with the children, curl up and shake.

But she couldn’t. They were depending on her, these children. All of them. Emmie forced back her panic. What would Kate do? She had to think like Kate.

“Take them to Ercheu. It’s only . . .” Emmie did the mental math. “It’s eight miles. That should be far enough to be safer but not so far we can’t get there and back. If you ferry the first load, I can pack people up. We’ll be faster that way. All of you,” she said to the children, “go, now, tell your mothers it’s time to go. I have candies in my bag for everyone who does what I say.”

The magic word had its usual effect. Propelled by the power of sweets, the children scattered to their homes, the homes they had worked so hard to rebuild, and that the Germans were threatening, again. They had worked so hard for this, all those long, backbreaking days of hauling furniture and tacking up canvas and tramping through miles of mud and fighting with the trucks when they broke down, and now it was all going to be knocked down again in moments, all their hard, hard work. Anger lent Emmie new energy. If the kaiser thought they’d roll over, he had no idea. They’d get everyone out, everyone, and then come back and build it up again, even better this time, and serve the kaiser right. He had no business being here in the first place.

Buoyed with righteous fury, Emmie stalked to the nearest home, a hut that had once been a tabac, and began the lengthy process of coaxing the inhabitants to pack enough, but only just enough, and no, they couldn’t really take the stove with them, and yes, it was a lovely stove, but it would be here for them—hopefully—when they got back. She helped them pack their clothes and chase their hens; she held babies and soothed anxious children as the shells whistled overhead and the guns got louder and louder and Emmie wondered where on earth Alice was and why it was taking her so long.

Alice came back from her first run with the jitney loaded with bread, milk, and eggs. “For the refugees—we can at least give them a solid meal. I stopped back home,” she added defensively. “That’s where I picked up all this. You were right. They’d been warned. They’re all fine there. Kate says to carry on and Godspeed.”

Emmie was beginning to understand how Kate felt. But we didn’t have time! she wanted to scream, but it was too late for that, the time was spent, and they could use the food. She had only so much chocolate in her bag.

“It was clever of you to think of food,” she said as calmly as she could, and knew she’d done the right thing when she saw Alice’s shoulders relax. “I’ve got the next bunch waiting for you.”

The town was thick with English troops, setting up headquarters in Anne’s beloved social center, pulling down the white-and-yellow curtains of which Anne was so proud, tossing aside her rag rugs.

They were very understanding about Emmie coming in and collecting all the books and medical supplies. “God bless,” they told her. And “good luck.” Many of the men were familiar. These were the men with whom they’d watched the makeshift cinema in Hombleux, officers who had drunk tea in the barrack with them, and Tommies who had helped lay their duckwalk. Soot-stained men now. Scarred, bloody, battle-weary men, getting ready to fight again.

“Do you know if the Durham Light Infantry was in the battle?” Emmie couldn’t help asking as she piled books into her rucksack.

Their captain shook his head. He was friends with Florence, Emmie knew. He’d loaned Florence his mare for riding, since he couldn’t use it at the front. “It was all such confusion. They came on us out of the mist. We never saw them coming.” He looked at Emmie, his face twisted in anguish. “They got our guns.”

“You’ll get them back,” said Emmie, as she might have to one of the children. “If there’s anything we Americans know about old England, it’s that you never let go of what you think is yours.”

The captain mustered a weary grin. “And if there’s anything we know about you Yanks, it’s that you never let well enough alone—and thank goodness for it.” They both snapped upright as a dispatch rider hurried in. “Yes? What news?”

“What is it?” Emmie asked anxiously as the captain scanned the short message, his face going very, very still. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. She mentally began to calculate how many loads they had left. Alice had gone three rounds so far.

“We’re to retreat,” he said, looking around at his weary men. “They’re five miles away—or were, half an hour ago. All right, men. Onward.”

From house to house Emmie went, urging people out, trying to stay calm and reassuring even as the sound of the guns became louder, knowing that every minute brought the Boche closer to Verlaines.

“Would you like a book for the journey?” she asked, knowing that Nell would understand, that she wouldn’t mind her books being given away. It broke Emmie’s heart to see a fourteen-year-old boy hug a battered book of fairy tales close to his chest, holding tight to the book as he was forced to leave his home, again, never knowing if he would ever come back or what there would be to come back to.

Emmie hurried people to the town square, distributing milk and boiled eggs as they waited for Alice to return with the jitney, hunting up one woman’s missing hens and another’s misplaced sack of clothes, trying to guess how many more loads it would take, how many people they could fit on the jitney before the springs gave way. One elderly couple refused to leave. Emmie begged and pleaded but they were obdurate.

“My wife is ill,” said Monsieur Philippot. “She is dying. I cannot move her.”

“I’ll take her on the mattress,” Emmie promised recklessly, hoping they could fit the mattress into the jitney. She’d deal with that when they came to it.

Monsieur Philippot shook his head. He had been a prosperous man before the war and his dignity hung around him like an old suit that was too large for his wasted frame. “This is our marriage bed, the bed in which our children were born. She cannot leave and I will not leave her.”

Emmie left them some milk and bread and begged them to come to the town square if they reconsidered. The jitney was loaded and loaded again, packed as full as the springs would bear, but it wasn’t enough, they couldn’t fit everyone on, especially not when Mme Lebrun refused to be separated from her prize hens. Emmie might have fought with her over it, but there was no point to it; they’d have to do another round anyway.

It was a terrifying feeling watching Alice drive away, trying to be bright and cheerful for the group that remained, who all looked as terrified as Emmie felt.