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“Stop! We have to do something for them! Can’t we take them up?” Emmie pulled on Kate’s sleeve. The sun was rising, burning off the mist, revealing all the horrors that had been softened by the dawn.

“We’ll have to drop our things and come back.” Kate didn’t want to tell Emmie that she didn’t like the noises the jitney had been making. “But we can give them something to eat at least.”

They paused by the side of the road, handing out milk and bread and eggs to hungry children and soldiers, promising again and again that they would be back to take people up.

Behind them, Florence honked. “We’re blocking the road!” she shouted. “We need to get moving.”

“She’s right,” Kate said as Emmie twisted to stare back at the new waves of villagers, more and more, trailing out of the war zone. “We can set up in Roye at the Red Cross hospital and ferry people back. We can do more that way.”

It felt good to have a plan. They weren’t running away, Kate decided; they were doing their job, and would go on doing it. It made her feel less like a refugee herself.

But when they got to Roye, a little after six in the morning, Dr. Baldwin was packing up the hospital. “We’re evacuating,” he said, in between giving orders to harried orderlies. “We’ve been told to go on to Montdidier. It’s not safe here anymore.”

“But—surely—they can’t just be retreating,” said Alice. “They must mean to take a stand somewhere?”

Dr. Baldwin paused, turning to face them. “The best I’ve heard is that the English have been forced out of their last trench. It’s hand-to-hand combat now, in the open. The Germans are mowing down everything in their path.”

“Everything?” said Emmie, her face chalk white. “But surely some of the men in the front lines—not everyone can have been—”

“If they do take a stand,” said the doctor, misunderstanding her concerns, “it will be at the line of the old Battle of the Somme—which means we’re on the wrong side of it. Let’s hope there are enough left to hold the Germans there. In the meantime, we need to move our sick. We’ve mainly children here.”

Kate turned to the rest of the Unit. “We have two choices. We can take our things and move on. Or we can stay and help.”

Emmie was still pale, but resolute. “There’s no question. We stay.”

“I always wanted a good story to tell my children,” said Nell bravely.

Alice looked like she strongly wanted to disagree, but controlled herself.

“Is it unanimous, then?” asked Kate. Even Alice nodded. “All right. We have three trucks and seven of us. If we empty the trucks and leave all our bags here, we can use one truck to take the children from the hospital to Montdidier, and the other two to go back and pick up as many people as we can.”

“I’ll take the children,” volunteered Alice quickly, taking the job that involved driving away from the active fighting.

“If they’re evacuating Roye, we won’t be able to use this as a base. We’ll need some sort of refugee center in Montdidier.” Kate was struck by sudden inspiration. “Emmie, could you go with Alice and take charge of setting up a refugee center?”

“Y-yes. Of course.” Emmie lifted her head, some color returning to her face. “If we can find a hotel to take us, we could use Nell’s blankets for pallets and Anne’s stove to heat milk for babies.”

“Brilliant. If you can organize that, Florence and I can take the other two trucks and ferry people from the villages between here and Ercheu. Nell can come with me and Anne with Florence.”

Alice was twisting her lace-edged handkerchief back and forth between her fingers, fear warring with conscience. Conscience won out. “It’s a long way from Ercheu to Montdidier. If you bring people here, I can run back and forth between Montdidier and Roye.”

“That will double the number of people we’re able to move,” said Kate gratefully. “Shall we?”

The Unit dispersed to their tasks, dumping their belongings in the courtyard of the hospital, distributing their remaining foodstuffs between the three trucks to share out among the refugees. Florence looked mournfully at her chickens but agreed there was no way to take them; they would have to be donated.

“Trust me, I mind as much as you,” said Kate. “After the trouble we had getting those horrible hens from Paris! I thought I was going to be pecked to death!”

“They can tell you don’t like them,” said Florence seriously.

“I like them in soup,” said Kate.

But that was the last moment of levity they had for a long time. The day stretched on, endless, getting brighter and hotter. It felt like July on the road, and the dust rose in a choking cloud, coating their clothes and hair, sticking in the backs of their throats, mixing with sweat to make tracks of mud down their faces.

Kate had never imagined anything like what they saw on the road that day, as they stopped and stopped and stopped again, loading as many people as they could into the truck, giving milk until the milk ran out, distributing every last scrap of bread they could find in their haversacks. There was an old man wheeling his paralyzed wife in a wheelbarrow. They made a pallet for her out of someone’s mattress and got her into the truck, her husband next to her. Dispatch riders on motorbikes zoomed past them in both directions, raising more dust. Army camions lumbered past, and above it all, the guns thundered on, closer and closer.

A colonel they knew honked from his truck, going the other way. “Don’t stay too long!” he shouted. “We’re going to blow the bridges up!”

“How long?” Nell shouted back, clinging to the side of the truck, but they couldn’t hear the answer.