Europe is on the brink of catastrophe. In a small village in rural Lincolnshire, a wife kisses her husband goodbye. Childhood sweethearts, Eliza and Joe have only been married two years. They could not have imagined how soon they would be torn apart by war, nor that the most unexpected of guardians would offer them hope during their darkest hours.

Eliza: August 1914-Nettleby-under-Wold

Joe looked so smart in his uniform. The badge, denoting he was part of the 5th Battalion Lincolnshire Regiment, gleaming on his cap.

He kissed me as though he never wanted it to end but, of course, it had to.

“I love you, Lizzie.”

“I love you too, Joe. Please come back to me.”

“I promise.” Too quickly, his loping stride took him down the path and along the road to the village.

I ran after him a little way. “Joe,” I shouted.

He turned, blew me a kiss, and was gone.

Joe: July 1915-France

The guns fell silent.

Deliberately, I envisaged Eliza. I allowed her image to fill my mind, sent up a heartfelt apology that I was about to break my promise, and surrendered to the inevitable.

“An honour.” I dipped my head and gave the signal.

We ignited and hurled the grenades, each one discharging in a dazzling blast, showering lethal fragments over the enemy. Shimmying up the ladders and, using the explosions as a screen, we propelled ourselves over the top as though the hounds of hell were behind rather than in front of us, screaming like banshees.