In the small town of Pozières we stopped for lunch at Tommy's Café. This proved to be a seemingly typical small-town French café offering a chance to eat a plain meal and quench one's thirst before travelling on. Andy and Pete had arranged for us to be served a filled baguette (cheese or ham) as a light lunch. However, the food was not (and never could be) the attraction of Tommy's. It had much more of interest to offer the idle traveller. Its owner, Dominique, has turned his estaminet into a veritable museum of the Somme battle. Outside the front door two Australian soldiers stand guard while out back Dominique has dug his own trench system! While chomping on our sandwiches we ambled along the fence between us and the trench, marvelling at the amount and quality of the items with which he has filled it. Pete described him as the "Pozières Magnet" and it was easy to see why. The scene before us was dressed with so many items saved from the trenches or dug up from the surrounding fields that the trench seemed to overflow. An old Vickers .303 machine-gun stood guard on the fire step while several soldiers of both sides occupied the dugouts, through the doors of which we glimpsed jars of rum, piles of hand-grenades, and stands of rifles. Barbed wire crowned the top of the trench while rats (not real, fortunately) inhabited the floor. Tommy's must be the only bar where the children's play area contains four large artillery pieces and several rusting shells.

After our lunch, and only a few yards down the road, we visited the Pozières Memorial and cemetery. This was by far the largest cemetery we had yet visited. Hundreds, if not thousands, of graves lay within an encircling wall. Engraved on three of the four walls were the names of even greater numbers of men for whom there is no known grave. The vast number of soldiers, who simply disappeared, never to be seen again, was to be one of the many disturbing memories that I was to carry back from this trip. Here, and at several other sites we were to visit, we saw evidence of the destructive power of the artillery, although many were swallowed by the mud that eventually covered the battlefield as the year progressed and Autumn followed on from Summer. The ground, already pounded to dust by the unending barrages, became a deep, glutinous quagmire as soon as the rains started and wounded soldiers easily fell prey to it as they struggled with their unwieldy packs.

Several Marple men are remembered on the walls of this cemetery. They are Alan Norbury, Ernest Bradbury and Charles Ingham. Another, Leonard Robinson, is buried there.

Although none of them died during the battle of the Somme, their deaths in later years (1917 and 1918) go to show the continuing sacrifices our small town made throughout the war. Our party included a number of Charles Ingham's family. The three generations of the Inghams spent some moments before the plaque bearing Charles's name and left a small cross to mark their visit.

Also becoming very noticeable to me, after having by now visited several cemeteries was that, while I had seen headstones bearing the badges of almost every regiment in the Empire, I had not seen one for a single cavalry regiment. General Haig had planned the Somme as a classic field battle; following a massive artillery barrage the infantry would advance, take the enemy on the point of their bayonets and create a gap through which the cavalry (still horsed at this time) would charge to exploit the advantage and harry the retreating foe. The poor infantry, in most cases never even got close enough to the Germans to fire their rifles, let alone use the bayonet, and therefore only in a very few places was any form of breach in the German trenches made. So the cavalry remained in reserve, almost all the reserves that Haig had, awaiting a breakthrough that never came. Hence the lack of cavalry graves, at least on this part of the battlefront.

Moving on we came to the South African memorial at Delville Wood. Now a peaceful park containing a wood and a beautiful monument and museum, this area was, in 1916, the scene of great sacrifice.

Following the disaster of 1st July the High Command slowly began to realise that new tactics would have to be developed to overcome the German trench defences. General Rawlinson came up with a plan to attack and break through on a four-mile front. He came up with the novel and potentially dangerous ploy of advancing the troops over the exposed areas between the front lines under the cover of darkness, followed by a dawn attack preceded by a massive barrage of only short duration. On 13th July markers went out some hours after darkness to mark the line of attack with white tapes. Soon after midnight the assaulting battalions were in position and at 03.20 the promised barrage opened up on the German trenches. Five minutes later the attack went in and met with initial success and in short order the Allies had overrun the German second line. With the troops pressing on, even greater advances were made but eventually the Germans regrouped and set up defensive positions that brought the advance to a halt. Fighting became fierce as the two armies faced each other almost face-to-face. In Delville Wood the South African troops fought almost to the last man and the struggle soaked up reinforcements from other regiments and nations before the fighting settled down as both sides dug in. A plaque at the entrance to the memorial reads:

Delville Wood is hallowed as the resting place of those South Africans who made the supreme sacrifice to preserve freedom. The Wood is also the grave of thousands of British and German soldiers who died bravely.

While there is a cemetery here, the whole Park is dedicated as a war grave. So many men disappeared in the maelstrom that they have been left wherever they fell. It is possible to walk through the newly re-grown wood so long as you keep to the paths. Wandering is discouraged, not only because the area is hallowed ground but also because the unexploded munitions left after the battle have never been cleared.

At the edge of the Wood, behind the museum, an old, gnarled tree was beginning to blossom. Anywhere else this might have been considered unremarkable at this time of the year. What made this sight unusual and heartening was the fact that this was the only tree to survive the battle. Marked by a stone it stands as a sign that life can still survive after such a terrible piece of destruction.

At the neighbouring information centre I bought a hand grenade. It is a genuine relic of the Great War that has been salvaged and reconditioned. Fortunately it had been made safe by having the explosives removed but in all other respects it is complete. It now hangs above me among my little collection of militaria. Ray bought a Highland Light Infantry cap badge to complete his collection.

Our final stop of the day was at Sucrerie cemetery. The reason for visiting this site was so that Andy and Pete could tell us the sad story of young Private Crosier of the Ulster Rifles. Private Crosier had enlisted with the regiment despite being only seventeen years old. When his mother tried to prevent this because he was underage she was assured by his commanding officer that he would be well looked after. Strictly speaking Private Crosier should not have been accepted into the ranks and certainly should not have been sent overseas to fight. However, by July 1916 he was at the front and being subject to all the danger and privations that implied. Not surprisingly for a boy of his age, all this proved too much and he deserted from the front line. On being captured far behind the lines he was arrested and condemned by a Court Martial to be shot at dawn. His commanding officer, the one who had assured his poor mother that her son would be cared for, given the opportunity to speak up for his private, instead used the chance to condemn his action. There was no hope for Private Crosier and the sentence of the Court Martial was duly carried out. A number of soldiers in all the armies of the Great War from every nation without exception met similar fates. Because they were unable to face the horrors for which they were totally unprepared, they were shot as cowards. By comparison, many officers who acted in a similar way were invalided home, suffering from what was then called 'shell shock'.

Back at the hotel again, Ray and I tidied up and went out in search of food. We settled on the Café Brasserie Aux As Du Don in the old part of Amiens. This was Ray's first trip abroad and his first proper French meal. He spoke no French so I had to do all the translating of both the menu and the waitress. He settled for a starter of charcuterie followed by chicken in a tarragon sauce. I ordered half a dozen oysters followed by my beloved andouillettes. "Larousse Gastronomique" describes these prosaically as 'a type of sausage made from pork intestines, often with the addition of pork stomach and calf's mesentery, precooked in stock or milk and packed into a skin'. Needless to say, I could not persuade Ray to try any.

When our starters arrived I was amazed to find that the waitress was placing a huge plate of a dozen oysters in front of me. I pointed out that I had ordered only une demi-douzaine and she took them away. A short time later she returned with the same plate saying that she hoped I would accept the extra six oysters as a gift of the management. I expect they realised that it would be difficult to reseal the oysters in their shells but it was a very generous gesture nonetheless. Ray had not experienced oysters before and was interested to know how they taste. I think he wanted me to describe their taste but I insisted that he try one. To his credit he accepted the challenge, even eating a second one. He was so proud of himself that he immediately texted his wife to boast of his exploit. She quickly responded with unbelieving amazement.

The meal progressed pleasantly, accompanied by half a litre of a very good Gammay wine. When the time came for Ray to select his dessert we got into a small pickle. The waitress, who spoke very little English, started to read out from the dessert menu and I translated. It took some time before we realised that she was actually reading it in English. Ray thought that the French for apple tart was apple tart (only with a strong French accent). The three of us found it all very amusing, much to the consternation of the other customers dining there on the terrace. Ray was so taken by our waitress's way of saying 'apple tart' that he kept asking her to repeat it.

As we sat over our coffee Ray decided that he needed to visit the toilet. He asked me where it was likely to be but, naturally, I was not sure. I told him to go inside and ask for it. I gave him the French phrase, 'où est la W.C.' 'W.C.' in French is pronounced 'vay say'. He returned a little later very red in the face and bursting with laughter. He had got a little mixed up and asked 'ou est Versailles' much to the confusion and amusement of our waitress. Before we left I taught him one more French phrase that went down a little better. In fluent French he apologised to the waitress for his poor French and she did the same for her English. This, along with a decent tip, ensured that we left the restaurant on a friendly note.

By the time we got back to the hotel we were both quite tired so after a couple of beers in the bar it was off to bed.