With some trepidation, I removed the key chain from around my neck and held the small safe key in my hand. I was a little surprised to find that it fitted the lock tightly and precisely and turned with relative ease - so well engineered was the lock, that I heard only a faint clicking sound as the mechanism released the bolts around the door. Gripping the small recessed handle above the keyhole, I lifted the door open very slowly until it would open no more and rested in its upright position. At first, I could see nothing inside, but as my eyes raced eagerly around the inside of the safe I saw a small, velvet-covered case, about five inches wide, tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner. I removed the case with both hands, gently rubbing its red velvet covering with my thumbs and realising as I turned it around that it was exquisitely made. The hinges and clasp of the case were made of gold and the expensive velvet on the lid was embossed with the initials ‘F G D’. Jean Descartes had clearly planned your father’s inheritance with every last detail in mind.

I confess that I could not resist the temptation to open the clasp of the case to see what lay inside. But I was not prepared for the remarkable sight that greeted me. The case contained dozens of diamond stones, of various sizes, shining and glistening like stars in the night sky. I lifted the case closer to get a better look at the gems and marvelled at the way the light on the cut stones created a rainbow of colours against the deep, blood-red silk lining of the case . I had never seen anything so mesmerising or so precious and understood in that moment how passionate and dedicated Jean Descartes must have been in his work.

Having finally found the diamonds, I realised that my adventures were far from over and now had the difficult task of thinking about how I might escape from France and get back to England. I even wondered if it was such a good idea to return to my homeland, given that I was now a deserter and faced the very real risk of being shot by my own side. I did not know what to do for the best and decided that I would try to find a safe haven until I could make firmer plans. But fate was to intervene once more.

For the first few days after leaving Albert, I began again to travel at night, sleeping where I could during the day and surviving on whatever food and water I could lay my hands on. I decided to head away from any land held by the Germans, but progress was slow and my initial caution meant that I could only travel a few miles each night. Despite my best efforts to avoid detection I was eventually caught one evening as I stumbled across a camp set up by a detachment of four British soldiers close to the village of Martinpuich. The man that discovered me hiding in a ditch was Private David Harker, a young soldier from Essex who was to save my life and provide me with a way of escaping France .

It happened like this. Harker continued to point his rifle and shouted at me to climb out of the ditch. He was nervous and I could see the rifle shaking. His three colleagues immediately joined him. They pulled me bodily from the trench, kicking and punching me until I passed out. When I came around I could see that the four had searched my rucksack - the contents were scattered in the mud and they were passing round the opened bottle of red wine. As I had passed out face down, lying on my chest, they had not searched me in person and I could still feel the case of diamonds pressing into my ribs, hidden within an inside pocket of my thick smock.

I felt drowsy and weak. My chest ached and I could taste blood in my mouth . One eye was swollen and I had some trouble focusing on the four as I came around. In view of the beating I had just received, I decided to come clean and admit that I was British and a deserter, thinking (accurately as it turned out) that this might at least prevent them from searching me. They were surprisingly sympathetic to the news, at one point passing me the wine and offering me a cigarette. The oldest of the four, a sergeant referred to only as ‘Simmo’, explained that they would have to turn me in. “Orders is orders,” he said, “...can’t have you running around the countryside scaring the Germans now, can we?”

Harker explained that they were the only survivors from their original Essex company. As a result of their earlier service, they had been moved into logistics, driving a couple of two-ton Guy trucks, supplying troops at the front with much needed ammunition and supplies. Their only concern now was to sit out the war, avoid being killed and to return home to their loved ones. Simmo said that they were heading for the town of Arras the next morning, and would hand me in to a senior officer at that point. I had no choice but to go along with their plans .

That evening, Simmo built a small fire and over some food and hot tea we chatted about our various experiences of the war. I told them my background, but was careful to avoid telling them much about my movements in France and was more content to listen to their stories. Feltham and Price were single men and gardeners by trade; both had worked on a large private estate on the coast near Harwich. Simmo was also from Harwich, but married with four children. He seemed to have done a variety of jobs in a colourful and highly amusing career. Harker was the closest to me in age and had grown up in Maldon, cut off from most of the world and devastated by the exodus of working men to the battle trenches of western France. His parents had both died when he was in his teens and his only close relative was a distant great-uncle, who was serving in the Royal Navy.

The next morning, the soldiers roused me at dawn with a cup of black tea. Thirty minutes later, we climbed into the trucks heading for Arras . I rode in the second of the vehicles, between Simmo and Harker. For the most part, the journey was uneventful and we made reasonable progress in spite of the poor state of the village roads we encountered. By this stage I had grown to like both men and the three of us laughed together as Simmo told us stories about his days back home, working as a baker.

I cannot readily recollect where we were when the first explosion turned the truck ahead of us onto its side. Simmo hit the brakes hard and Harker and I shot forward. I was dazed, cracking my head on something inside the cab. I remember Simmo shouting loudly at both of us to get out of the truck and the sound of rapid machine gun fire outside. Harker jumped down from the vehicle, and then reached back in, grabbing me by my left arm and pulling me down, roughly, from the cab. I fell headlong and heavily onto the ground below at the same time as a second explosion lifted our truck off the ground and deposited it away from us to the right. I looked up briefly, to see Harker drop to his knees and then fall to one side holding his stomach. At that moment I passed out.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I came round to find myself in strange circumstances. The air was choked with thick black smoke from our burning truck, but I could hear no sounds other than the crackles from the fire near to me. Little remained of the first truck, which was, by this time, a burnt-out blackened shell. Beside me lay the body of Harker. His face was turned towards me and his eyes were staring, blankly, without emotion. I rolled him onto his back, realising that he was dead, shot through the chest by the machine gun fire. About fifteen feet in front of me, I could see the body of what looked like Price, similarly twisted and motionless.

I was fearful that our attackers were still close by and did my best to crawl, firstly behind the burning truck, and then into a thicket of bushes on the edge of some woods. I waited there, cold and weak, hiding for about an hour, until I was certain that no one else was around. I was not sure why the Germans had left without checking that we were all dead. Perhaps they had and wrongly assumed that I had also passed away.