Account compiled from letters/contemporary documents provided by the Viljoen family of Ieper, Belgium.

Vincent Platteuw wiped his hands on his apron and picked up the huge cauldron of freshly cut chips.

"Amanda," he called. "These are ready for frying girl! You can dream about your Tommy sweetheart in your own time. Hurry now, the English will soon be after their ‘eggs an’ chips twice’."

Vincent’s was a typical estaminet in the salient.

On a typical night it would be packed with soldiers who were simply glad to spend an evening in the warm, smoke filled room.

The wine was rough but cheap and a simple menu satisfied the culinary tastes of most of the rankers who frequented the premises.

When the Tommies were ‘full’ there would be ribald songs and jokes. Sometimes men would play melodians or mouth organs in accompaniment. By the end of the evening, there would be slurred demands for ‘one of them sad songs chum’.

And then they’d drift back to their billets, tired and, more often than not, melancholy.

Amanda Viljoen had been working for Vincent for almost a year by May 1917. Her formal job as a seamstress had long since disappeared so she’d been happy to take on the work.

The money Vincent paid was never going to make her rich but the Tommies would sometimes tip her a few coins and the extra food from the busy kitchen meant her mother and little sister never went hungry.

Her skills with a needle also earned her a little money on the side. In fact, tonight she had some repairs to complete on a youing officer’s tunic when she finished her work in the estaminet.

Some of these Tommies thought she was one of ‘those girls’ who went with them for money. She did not judge the women who sold themselves but such employment held no attractions for her.

But sometimes there were misunderstandings. She had learned a fair sprinkling of English during her spell in the estaminet and was able to joke and jest with the lonely soldiers.

Some of them had thought her manner promised more than a peck on the cheek and a light hearted dance.

She smiled as she remembered how ‘Erbert had knocked out one Tommy who had tried to push things too far. Now ‘Erbert was now her Tommy Darling and she prayed that he would be coming down from the lines safely that evening.

"It would seem Amanda’s reputation as a prostitute is not deserved," I remarked to Aurel.

I’d spent all afternoon combing through the earnest expressions of love which she and Bertie McCallion had exchanged in the short period in which they had shared some happiness.

"I agree my friend. It seems to me that she has been, as you would say, given a ‘bum deal’?" he responded.

Aurel spoke in the local dialect to Bert Viljoen. From the intonation, I gathered that Mr. Viljoen was keenly defending the honour of his ancestor.

"You ever in the army Mister?" enquired Viljoen. "If you had been a soldier you would know how things go. Some people, they just think soldiers are scum. They come, they go, sometimes they cause trouble? No?

"I been in towns like that. The local guys .. they don’t like you because sometimes their girls go out with you. Maybe the police don’t like you too much either?"

Viljoen’s anger subsided: "I know what the story goes like about Amanda. I tell you what my grandmothere told us. Amanda was in love with this guy McCallion. She was no whore. Now, Sherlock, you got another job to do, this time for me.

"The cops back then, they got no time for **** with all that war stuff happening. I guess they just assumed Amanda was turning tricks … maybe you’ll get lucky with those letters Sherlock? Then you clear her name, man. OK?"

Aurel patted Viljoen’s forearm where the muscles had clearly tightened in anger.

"Take it easy," he said. "He’s going to try."