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February 1915-Breque cross-roads, Belgium

They had shaken their heads in perplexity when Marguerite had come into town that morning, for Marguerite rarely came into town, subsisting almost entirely off that small farm of hers.

"Mijn neef komt langs vandaag van Brussel." She had announced it loudly as she had eaten lunch at the small inn. My nephew is coming from Brussels.

"Wablieft, Marguerite?" A curious neighbour had stared. What's that Marguerite?

"Mijn neef van Brussel komt af om me te helpen op de boerderij." My nephew from Brussels is coming to help me run the farm.

"Maar gij hebt helemaal geen neef!" But you don't have a nephew.

"Hij is de zoon van mijn zus. Hij heet Jules Broecker en is er eindelijk in geslaagd de nodige papieren te verzamelen. Mijn arme zus is vorige zomer gestorven en mijn schoonbroer is naar Polen gestuurd." Marguerite had dabbed briefly at her eyes with her handkerchief. He is the son of my sister Marie. He is Jules Broecker and finally he has acquired the necessary passes. My poor sister died last summer and my brother-in-law has been sent to Poland.

"Maar dan zou uw neef toch ook in Polen moeten zijn?" The curious neighbour probed further into this matter, for it had now been thirty years since Marie had left Breque to marry Jan Broecker, a businessman in Brussels. But surely your nephew should also be in Poland. Marguerite tapped her head significantly, but said no more, the movement explained itself, and after all what else could one expect of the son of Jan Broecker, the man must have been soft in the head to choose business in Brussels over farming in Breque.

Thomlin was scowling at the far wall of his barracks, the weather was bad enough that he couldn't risk flying in a test aeroplane, when there was the screech of tires on gravel and a minute later two figures entered the barrack, one was familiar, the other was not.

"I bid you welcome Parker, what's up?"

"A bit of fun for you, that's all."

"I dislike your tone, the last time I was given a bit of fun I was all but shot to bits and had to swim the last mile."

"It'll probably happen again. Meet Christopher Angel, then drop him off in field two tonight."

"Mr. Angel." Thomlin eyed the man who stood by the door, the man was looking gravely around the room with the bored detachment who had been in a similar situation before. If he had not met the kind before, Thomlin would have been ready to swear that the man was merely from another flying school and waiting for some minor matter to be fixed up.

"Colonel Thomlin. Call me Chris." The bored eyes focussed on him for a second, then continued to drift around the room.

"Then I'll leave you to it. Safe journey Thomlin." Parker nodded briefly, then left again, leaving Thomlin to continue watching his visitor inspect the room.

"Do you need food?"

"No, sir." Back came the bored eyes for a second, to say the least this man almost gave Thomlin the jitters, an emotion rarely experienced by one who test piloted aeroplanes.

"Then we'll leave immediately, find a kit that fits you behind the door. Good thing you're not hungry because you have a horrible trip ahead of you." Thomlin hooked his boots, coat, helmet and goggles from the foot of his bed and proceeded to don them, though at the same time he kept a careful eye on his visitor. Dusk was fast approaching as they crossed the French coast and Thomlin tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the edge of the cockpit as he scanned the countryside below for an aerodrome, they were starting to get low on gas.

The trip across the channel had been as he had expected, totally hellish, and Thomlin would be quite glad for the few minutes on solid land while the 'plane was refueled. Ten minutes he found what he was looking for and brought the 'plane down for a neat landing. Next to the hangers there was a 'plane that was currently undergoing repairs, and a few flyers and mechanics were gathered around it. Thomlin signed his passenger to remain put and swung down from his cockpit, as he ducked under the wing, he found that some of the group was approaching.

"You have a problem?" It was a mechanic who spoke.

"I'm nearly out of gas and I think I might be in the wrong place."

"Squadron 83, Major Gareshot if that helps any."

"Yes thank you it does. It appears my observer is to be relied on. Where's the C.O., I have need to speak with him."

"Second door leads into the recording office, his office is attached to the recording office."

"Thank you." Thomlin moved off, leaving the ack-emma to refuel the aeroplane and Chris to peer thoughtfully at the men who crowded around the aeroplane.

"What can I do for you?" Gareshot looked up with a frown from his paperwork at this unexpected intruder.

"I have come to ascertain that Lieutenant McKenna flew this afternoon."

"I'm afraid I am not permitted to say." Gareshot looked distrustfully at the man, who was dressed in mufti under his flying kit. He didn't actually know why McKenna had been requested to fly but he wasn't about to tell anyone that McKenna had been flying.

"I'm afraid that if you don't say I'll get you up for insubordination."

"As you have yet to identify yourself, I can plead ignorance with a clean conscience."

"Where can I find Lieutenant McKenna?"

"I'm afraid he is currently out on reconnaissance."

"Then remember that I never came here. I am Colonel Thomlin and if McKenna did not fly my current flight is not worth my trouble." Thomlin flicked his I.D. disk onto the desk.

"Sir." Gareshot came out of his chair in a flash and saluted stiffly, while Thomlin retrieved his I.D. disk.

"Forget it, for now I am a delivery pilot, don't forget we are going to 119 Squadron. Did McKenna fly?"

"Yes, sir." Gareshot still had not returned to his seat.

"Good, I will bid you farewell." Thomlin nodded curtly then left the office, leaving Gareshot to stare after him in bewilderment. So this was Colonel James Thomlin, famed alike for his flying ability and his insistence on military perfection. The images did not line up for Gareshot, least of all since this visitor had stood upon absolutely no ceremony and had been in civilian dress. Gareshot gave his head a shake and returned his attention to his paperwork, he had been ordered to forget that Thomlin had ever been here and he couldn't forget if he was considering the matter.

"Ready Chris?" Thomlin checked the petrol tanks himself before swinging up into the cockpit.

"Yes."

"Then let's get out of here, 119 Squadron will kick up a fuss if we're any later." The engine, still warm from its flight, kicked in without the slightest hesitation in response to a swing from one of the ack emma's and without any hesitation the 'plane was turned and was soon hurtling down the tarmac and taking off.

Darkness fell soon after they crossed the lines, and with the fall of darkness Thomlin changed direction, his course now taking him towards Brussels at maximum revolutions of the engine. It was after an hour or so of interminable boredom that Thomlin finally cut his engine and started to glide quietly down.

"Anything I can do?" Chris called softly from the back.

"Hold your tongue and keep your eyes open for the ground. That," Thomlin pointed to a large cluster of lights about ten kilometres off, "should be Brussels."

"I see. I also see the ground and a large hedge."

"The hedge we will go over, now pray that there is ground not water on the other side, this plane is not," Thomlin hopped the plane awkwardly over the hedge, "supplied with floats." But Thomlin's fears of a canal or some other waterway were unjustified and it was a quiet landing that they made on the other side of the hedge.

The 'plane stopped at the edge of the field and after a moment of hurried consultation the 'plane was swiftly turned around and Thomlin took off running with a long even stride towards the far end of the field, leaving Chris to change his clothes quickly.

"We're in the wrong field."

"How do you know?" Chris had nearly jumped when Thomlin spoke from just behind him.

"It's about thirty yards to short, but I'm pretty sure that that is Brussels anyway."

"It'll make little difference, other than making some things take a bit longer than expected. Good luck on your return flight."

"I would wish you the same, except that I am of the opinion that luck has little to do with your survival. Keep your eyes and ears open, and keep a cool head."

"Thank you, I hope we meet again sometime." Chris briefly shook the hand that was offered, then turned and plunged through the hedge. From a couple of fields away he listened to the bellow of the engines and realised why they had landed so far from the city.

The bellow quickly faded and satisfied that his deliverer had safely departed Chris turned his attention to making the quickest tracks from this place and getting to work. He had a fortnight before he was expected to arrive, and he couldn't afford to waste a minute of the available time. Or at least that was how things were meant to happen if that fool pilot at 83 Squadron had flown his loops and circles over the correct section of Belgium, he would indeed have a pretty pickle on his hands if Marguerite hadn't prepared the place for his arrival. Chris gave himself a side note to drink some beer at the Inn before retiring to Marguerite's farm, not only would it refresh him, but it would also tell him whether his arrival was expected.

Jules entered the village of Breque on the twenty-third day of February, he entered quietly and after first stopping for a beer, he went immediately to the Commandant's Office. His hair grew in a thin covering with a very recessive hairline and his face had a vacant quality to it, so unique of the 'simple' people of this world.

Having been released from the Commandant's Office Jules shouldered his pack and walked through the town, out the other side and up the small hill to Marguerite's farm, he was not seen again until after the milking that evening. After the milking that evening Jules was observed to descend into Breque again, he went directly to the inn and ordered a beer from the tapster, he then sat down by the tap and observed the occupants of the room with a slow, vacant, unblinking stare.

"IK ben Jules Broecker en ik kom uit Brussels." His voice was high pitched and nasal, and having made his announcement he returned his attention to his beer and totally ignored the room. My name is Jules Broecker, and I am from Brussels. Having consumed his first beer, he ordered a second, then a third, after his third he started to talk again. He, Jules, had just come from Brussels, he had come all by himself, not even Madame Marchet had accompanied him. Madame Marchet? Oh Madame Marchet was the housekeeper, a woman of no account. Jules then ordered his fourth beer and moved on to talk about Brussels, his mode of talk was detached and irregular, frequently moving onto his next subject before finishing the first. As Jules finished his fourth beer, the curfew sounded and the patrons were requested to depart the inn. Jules stood up, gravely laying out the money to pay for his beer, he then turned and walked from the building, heading straight back to Marguerite's farm on the hill. This was repeated every night except Sunday night, for an entire month, then as suddenly as he had arrived, Jules vanished.

The first that Breque knew of his departure was when Marguerite came storming down from her farm on the hill, after a brief stop to verify he was not at the inn, Marguerite had stormed across the square and into the Commandant's quarters. The fuss she made there could be heard the whole way across the square. Marguerite wanted a search instigated for the missing man, Marguerite wanted the hide whipped off Jules, Marguerite wanted Jules in irons for the next month of Sundays. When the Commandant refused her requests Marguerite returned to the inn to consume some more food and to announce to the township in general what she would do it that reprobate Jules ever showed his face again. A full week was to pass before Jules returned, his feet sore and blistered, his clothes rent to rags and his whole being smothered under a general layer of grime.

Jules was detained in the Commandants office for five hours of close interrogation, then with a shrug he was released and returned to Madame Marguerite to do with as she pleased. It would have been noted by anyone who might have called that evening, of which none ever did, that for all her threats Marguerite merely bathed the injured feet, popped the blisters, spread some iodine on the various wounds, and packed Jules off to bed for the next day.

Had we followed the hapless Jules on that journey of his, we would have followed him from farm to inn, to station guard, to an elderly woodcutter, to another inn, and so he had progressed for a full week. He spoken to all at great length, and to some he gave cigarettes and from others he collected cigarettes.

The next evening Jules descended as had been his want to the Breque Inn and consumed his customary four beers, he told stories of his travels, never finishing them, and never reaching the reason for the tale. All his descriptions could have been from anywhere in Belgium, they were vague and lacking in detail, and slowly it settled into Breque routine that once every three to four weeks Jules would vanish for a week and Marguerite would descend upon the township threatening all manner of horrible vengeance on the hapless Jules. But when he returned it might be observed by the curious or even partially interested that she never followed her threats through.

Jules would return and depending on who was the current Commandant and the number of troops in the town depended on the length of the interrogation session. Jules started out as the scapegoat for the military inhabitant of Breque, but after four months that particular pastime became boring to the variety of troops and he then became the mascot of the men. Without any encouragement Jules would sing in his cracked, and flat falsetto voice, he told pointless stories all the time and even some that looked like he might successfully reach the point of, he invariably subsided into laughter before he reached the point. The file on Jules in the Commandant's office was ever increasing in size. Commandants came, and commandants left and the file just grew fatter.

If at any point the Commandants might be called lax in their business of investigating Jules, the laxity affected only a single part of Jules' life, and that was Jules' treatment of cigarettes. Jules always had a cigarette behind one ear, sometimes there was one behind both ears, but no matter where he was, there was always at least one cigarette tucked behind his ears. Jules offered cigarettes to everyone who entered the bar, he also kept a packet of Caporals in his pocket, and he accepted cigarettes from anyone who offered, but he was very rarely seen to smoke one of the numerous cigarettes he accepted, and more than once he was seen to accept cigarettes from one bagman, then offer the cigarettes he had been given to the next traveller who entered the room. But the cigarettes that Jules made, traded, and received with such deliberation were made with much thicker paper than the ones he smoked and offered to the regulars at the bar, and had anyone ever unrolled them would have found the underside covered with minuscule writing and fine line little maps. Had someone opened one and been versed in military law he would have been amazed by the wealth of information these harmless looking tubes of paper and leaves carried, troop movements, staff movements and aerodrome counts travelled in this paper. These cigarettes travelled, or had travelled, far and wide over the countryside and nearly every single last one of them made its way back across the English channel and into the hands of a man called Uncle Mac within the space of a few days. A few which came from Jules also contained scrappy scribbles around the border, these scribbles were shunted off into an entirely different department where elderly men poured over them following to the letter the instructions supplied there in and resulted with security passes which were filtered back out of England again. Some of these cigarettes travelled by sea across the channel, others travelled by air, some of them went straight from Jules into the hands of an airman who flew them back, others went from Jules to a barmaid in a small inn north of Breque and from the barmaid to a woodcutter in the hills, and from the woodcutter to a prosperous business man in Brussels, and from the business man to a bargewoman who plied the canals and rivers that spread throughout Belgium, but Jules did not know of the bargewoman, and the bargewoman did not know of Jules.

In august Jules went to Brussels and didn't return for two months, and when he returned he carried with him a Doctor's certificate citing that he's been ill with Typhoid, and Jules' appearance did nothing but back up the certificate, and as everyone knows passports and doctors certificates never lie it was accepted. Had the authorities followed him, they would have spent a month travelling across half of Belgium, then taken a fortnight trip to London, before spending a week in Brussels talking to all manner of strange people who stretched from high officials to street vendors and prostitutes. In all his travels, Jules, who was so mocked in Breque, was treated with instant respect and immediate obedience, silence fell when he spoke and his slightest instruction was immediately carried out without any questions asked. But the work did have its penalties and more than once Jules had to sit back while one of his contacts was dragged off, one of them for no more reason than she had refused to sleep with the local commandant.

Back in Breque had anyone come near Marguerite's Farm when the wind came from the south, the conditions which brought the sound of the big guns on the front, they may have occasionally observed Jules pause in his work, be it scraping out the byres or feeding stock, and stare to the south an expression of loneliness and longing on his face, then with an inane giggle he would apparently shake of the moment of sense and slide back into the blank vacancy of his customary mental state.

February 14th 1915-Cairo, Egypt

Captain Lord James Ashington-Frankston frowned around himself in bewilderment, he had his option of ten roads here and his directions told him to take the left road, but by the left road, did they mean the road directly to the left of the road he had come from or did they mean another road to his left. Ashie was still considering the matter in perplexity when he suddenly found himself nearly a foot off the ground and having some difficulty in obtaining a suitable oxygen supply. Instinctively Ashie swiped out and grabbed the nearest object in an attempt to ease the stress on his windpipe, he was rewarded by a howl but he was not released.

"Put 'im down Griz." Ashie didn't know who spoke, and he couldn't see the speaker either, but he assumed that Griz was the owner of the arm and hand from which he currently hung. "We don't need any directions."

"I can't, sir." At the protest Ashie twisted his head up to look, then regretted the action. His captor, though not as tall as his previous Major, was definitely to be found in the large and solid category.

"Griz, I....." The voice sounded resigned initially, but died away into a choked gurgle and Ashie listened to someone being consumed by merriment.

"Try just lowering down so my feet are on the ground." Ashie decided to give some advice since he doubted that the one laughing would recover soon.

"Yes, sir." Ashie found himself lowered almost immediately, and having brushed off his uniform he turned to look at his captor. The man Griz was, Ashie decided, uncomfortably large and broad though as he had suspected, not as tall as his previous Major, the other man was now recovering from his laughter and seemed all brown, except for his eyes, he was not nearly as large as his companion, though he was still considerably taller then Ashie, and he was proffering profuse appologies. A Lieutenant and a Private, Ashie wondered where they were headed, but chose to ask directions of them anyway.

"Could you possibly tell me where I can find headquarters for the 3rd Light Horse Brigade?" Ashie was astounded by the confusion which his question produced, surely these colonials were not as stupid as his father seemed to believe.

"Ahhh. Yes." Griz coloured as much as his windswept countenance could and glanced anxiously at the Lieutenant, who was studiously inspecting his boots.

"That the new Captain, Swan?" Two more officers arrived from a left-hand side street.

"I think, yes." Swan looked up from his boots to glare at the new arrivals, then turned to Ashie. "Captain Ashington-Frankston?"

"Yes." Ashie glanced backwards and forwards between the two groups of which he was a member of one.

"My appologies for missing the ship, we were delayed by insufficient directions. Permit me to introduce Lieutenant Gerald Reubans of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade, also Lieutenant Peter Smith of the same Brigade. Private Johnathon Behr, called Griz by all, you are acquainted with, he was originally part of the 10th Light Horse Regiment, but they handed him over to us. I am Lieutenant Evan Swan of the 8th Light Horse Regiment. Emma and Pete are also of the 8th, but collectively we are of the 3rd Brigade."

"I...see." Ashie frowned slightly as he tried to understand what was said, at a guess he was willing to say that the 3rd brigade comprised of the 8th and 10th regiments, and that all of these were members of the 8th, though Behr had apparently been a member of the 10th previously.

"Good, now we better get back to camp, and I suggest you put your hat on, sir." Swan indicated the broad-brimmed hat which Ashie had been carrying, and with slight surprise Ashie realised that all the others were wearing this particularly variety of wide-brimmed hat.

"Most wouldn't be able to tell 'im for what 'e was if it weren't for that pommy accent."

"Probably won't be able to tell anyway, Captain Pine also has what you call a pommy accent along with all of the higher-ups."

"But Pine and the others turn those on and off, that pom spoke pommy while I was hanging him by his collar."

"You hung 'im by his collar?"

"Well so few answer unless they are given no other option."

"Well that's your fault. But still Privates can't hang up their Captains, you've got to treat them with respect."

"Well how was I to know he was a Captain, 'e's got that ruddy big coat on."

"Well Emma and I knew he was a Captain. Look, you don't get a mug like that if your not a Captain, Griz. Don't you agree, Swan?"

"I don't think his mug has anything to do with it."

"Well the general has a much nicer mug then you do."

"Never disagreed, but the General's from Melbourne, like Emma here, had no chance to mess up 'is mug. Rather like this Captain 'ere, 'e's 'ad no chance to mess up 'is mug either. How long 'til evening parade?"

"'Bout two hours, we better get moving if this lair's to see the General before parade."

"'E ain't a lair."

"'E sure looks it."

"Get real Emma, lair's don't look like that. Yer just prejudiced 'cause 'e ain't yer captain." Lieutenant Swan bashed Ashie's hat a bit lower on his forehead and turned the group back towards the camp, but making no effort to stop the discussion.

Ashie found it a novel experience to have himself discussed at great length, and not always in a complimentary light, when he was standing there and listening. Ashie also had to admit that what was being said made little sense thanks to the accents and slang, but it was quite interesting, Lieutenants Reubans and Smith both spoke very fast out of partially closed mouths, the result being that most of their words were slurred into an almost unintelligible mass, while Private Behr was at the other extreme, his talk being slow and precisely pronounced for all its missing aitches. Lieutenant Swan came somewhere inbetween, skipping back and forth between the two varieties on occasion, but mostly speaking at a pace midway between the others and only slurring partially.

"Take a seat, to hot to stand here." Lieutenant-Colonel White, Commanding Officer of the 8th Light Horse Regiment, didn't even rise to acknowledge Ashie's salute and just waved him to a nearby seat. "Swan will get the Company together for you, so sit easy for now. Life's still pretty boring here, we carry water, we dig roads and build and destroy innumerable bridges, your biggest task will be to keep sunstroke cases to a level low enough to satisfy the General."

"Very good,sir." Ashie stood up as the Colonel came to his feet, then followed him out of the building to where Swan and a few other Lieutenants were getting the company into formation with some fluent cursing and swearing.

"I'll now leave you to it." White gave the company a wave then vanished back into his room, leaving Ashie to stare back at a sea of eyes. What on earth had possessed his father to insist that he, Ashie, come here as a Captain?

"O-O-Orl-l-lright. Comp'ny salute!" The yell came from somewhere deep inside the ranks, and Ashie returned the salute briefly, but still knew for certain that they were all laughing at him. How on earth was he, Ashie, height 5'6" meant to get the respect of these colonial toughs? He couldn't pull social position on them because he was more then certain that they would disregard the matter entirely. Which left only one option, he had to impress them with sheer hard work and just prove that he should be their Captain, not a Lieutenant, N.C.O. or Private.

For starters Ashie was going to dismiss them as he knew from experience that no Private enjoyed being out on parade and he had no reason for keeping them as this was the end of the day, evening parade was yet to be called and all he was doing was wasting time, exacerbating tempers, and making a fool of himself by standing here and keeping them.

"Company dismissed." Ashie watched them depart in silence and realised that he was probably in for a very lonely time ahead, but he wasn't an Ashington-Frankston for nothing and if the Major could tackle an entire company cold footed, then he Ashie could tackle a company after four months experience, even if he was not 6'6" and in possesion of a most intimidating stare. Ashie then turned and meandered thoughtfully for a minute, he was now in a mess because he had not the slightest idea where he was meant to go and he was all too familiar with the number of jokes that Privates and N.C.O.s liked to play on strange officers.

"Sir." It was Private Behr who suddenly interrupted his private considerations.

"Private Behr." It was no particular feat to remember this decidedly large Private, and Ashie hoped he wasn't being jumped on this early in proceedings.

"Call me Griz sir, everyone else does."

"Alright Griz."

"The Lieutenant sent me to show you your tent, sir."

"Lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant Swan, sir. White set us to make sure you didn't get lost."

"Thankyou." It was with a wry mental grin that Ashie realised that the instructions would not protect him from anything other than walking off and getting lost in the desert. Ashie spent the next week or so with either Swan, Behr or both haunting his footsteps as he set to work acquainting himself with the camp and the people in his company.

As he had expected practical jokes were frequent and they varied from the commonplace to the truly original. Ashie took the jokes as they came and gave them all a response of bored disinterest, but at the same time he kept his eyes open in hopes of locating the perpetrators, Ashie had no intention of letting this get to far before warning the company that he gave as good as he got. Ashie had not been famed for his jokes at Eton for no reason and he certainly wasn't one to let an opportunity past. He repaid them in the order they came in, and much in the way they came, and in less then three weeks his company were reduced to order. Put sand in the Captain's sleeping bag and he'd respond by putting water or wet sand in yours, put some of the local insect community into his kit, and you'd probably find something larger in yours as a response, though some jokes were repaid others were not, some jokes got the company called out onto parade until someone admitted guilt. Ashie had learnt his lessons from the Major and he knew exactly where to draw the line, some jokes you respond to in kind, but other jokes need to be publicly disapproved of, before letting the rest of the company deal with the culprit. Ashie had also learnt that no one administered a better punishment than the Privates who had been kept waiting out in the hot sun thanks to the foolery of another.

Within three weeks Ashie had returned to the status he was used to, or as close as he could get to that position with the changes which had occured in him and in his situation, one doesn't spend a fortnight as a Captain and a lone cat without changing somewhat in behaviour.

8th March 1915-Narrow Creek, Canada

Elliot let himself quietly in through the front door, a move instigated by the sight of Mrs Becky through the kitchen windows. When Mrs Becky called at the 'Little House' Elliot found for the most part that it was very much in his favour that he kept a low profile until she departed. Having hung his coat on the hat stand and left his boots by the door, Elliot dumped his books quietly onto the small hall table and quietly approached the kitchen door.

"Old Mrs Bruce Wallis cross-mountain died last week. I find it most peculiar, for Mrs Owen Wallis didn't even go into mourning for her son when he was killed out at Valcartier, but she was dripping crape and never stopped crying at old Mrs Bruce's funeral. Terrible shallow I call it, and terrible hypocritical for she always doted on Young Jim, and she and old Mrs Bruce fought like cats all the time."

"Not half so hypocritical as some." Elliot couldn't help but grin at Emilie's remark, which was clearly audible since her chair was seated between the door and the stove.

"I'm getting real disappointed in Vicky." Mrs Becky's next remark wiped every vestige of amusement off Elliot's face. "She was so promising as a child, and so pretty too, now all she seems to care about is what lies between to leather bound covers. That much book learning can't be good for a girl, especially when she seems to deem it necessary that she spend a fortune and go to some foreign place to get it. She probably won't even come to the funeral." This brought a perplexed frown between Elliot's brows. What funeral?

"What's this I hear about the Young James Elliotts trying to by the store?" Elliot easily recognised his mother's attempt to change the subject.

"Total rubbish, the Young James' haven't the financial standing to take it, besides which the Robert Elliotts wouldn't dream of selling it."

"And if they did, you'd ensure that they didn't." Emilie's voice came out again, and Elliot gave a faint smile at the predictable result to this interruption.

"Emilie you are becoming senile in your old age. But Vicky still disappoints me, she's become awful cold-blooded and uninterested in things that are so important in this world."

"You're wrong there Becky." Mrs March spoke quietly.

"I'm not wrong. One might at least have expected her to come home over her christmas break since the doctor has been saying he had not long to live. But then Old James is merely her father, she couldn't be expected to come and visit him."

"But she did come home for the christmas break." Mrs March spoke softly as always, the result being that Mrs Becky didn't hear her.

"You should speak up Meg, it makes my headache to try and hear your soft whipers."

"Sorry for being late mother, I left some papers at school and had to go back for them." Elliot finally pushed into the kitchen, his glib lie drawing a chuckle from Emilie. "Good evening Mrs Becky." Elliot headed for the biscuit tin as he waved a hand at a slightly outraged looking Mrs Becky.

"What are you laughing at Emilie?"

"I'm laughing at the uncommon ways of this world Mrs Becky. Leave a senile old woman to enjoy her laughs in peace." The look Emilie cast at Elliot as she spoke tried him high to not break out laughing. Mrs Becky cast a suspicious look at Emilie, then returned to her local gossip.

"Such a pity Vicky won't be coming home."

"Why should she? it's the middle of the term and the trip takes a good two days to get here and back."

"One would assume she could make the trip for a funeral." Mrs Becky's tone was repressive and disapproving.

"Whose funeral?"

"Old James Elliott died last night." Mrs March spoke up quietly.

"Well I hope he suffered none." Elliot rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a minute, then took another biscuit and headed for the door. "I have papers to mark, I'll leave you to your talk." Elliot had been working for some twenty minutes before his mother came into his room.

"Mrs Becky has departed, apparently much shocked by your lack of feeling."

"There was no lack of feeling." Elliot pushed his papers aside and looked up at his mother. "I just can't stand mrs Becky's self-righteous behaviour in certain weathers and today just had that weather."

"What are you going to do Elliot?" Mrs March sat down as she inspected her son's face.

"What I'm going to do is call an end to school for this week, to further appreciate the gap Old James' departure has made in our community. And having satisfied Mrs Becky I have the proper feelings I'm going to offend her even further by missing the funeral, if I leave in the next hour I can still catch the evening mail train, which will get me to Kingsport by midnight. Mrs Sharly will give me a broom cupboard to sleep in for the night and I'll be back by five the day after tomorrow if I come by the milk train."

"School's already been cancelled, Old James was on the board if you don't remember and one must honour the departure of a trustee."

"Poor little mother, you'll only have Mrs Becky for gossip now."

"You BOY! get moving before the train goes without you. Give Vicky my love." Mrs March watched Elliot in silence for a moment, then turned and descended to the kitchen again. Old James had been more than just a source of news to the 'Little House', he had been a friend and an invaluable service, two people were certainly going to miss him a lot.

Elliot caught his train, and eight o'clock the next morning saw him strolling thoughtfully down a street lined with grim grey housefronts to a prim little door. A knock and a brief request had him admitted into an equally prim parlour where he was met by a rosy and slightly rotund girl who eyed him gravely.

"You wish to see Victoria Elliott?"

"Correct, I do."

"I don't think she'll see you, perhaps if you come back some other day."

"My train leaves at eight, please tell Victoria that she has a visitor."

"Could you gi..."

"No, I can't give a name. Just tell her she has a most rude and impatient visitor." Elliot bit down on a grin as the girl glared at him, but never the less she turned and left the room. Elliot glanced briefly round the room, then opted to remain standing as none of the chairs looked particularly robust.

"She won't see you, she is preparing for a class." The girl returned to the parlour and looked relatively pleased with herself.

Elliot let his grin out and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, digging around in his memory for some information that Victoria had dropped in a letter two years ago, then turned and left the room and climbed the stairs, a most indignant girl followed him protesting all the way. Elliot stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced out the hall window, and nodded his satisfaction before thoughtfully walking down the passage, his brow was creased as he inspected each door that he came to for he was looking for a particular door hanging. Elliot let out a soft sigh of relief when he found what he was looking for and accordingly hammered on the door.

"Rosie I said no, so tell him I meant no." Victoria's response was slightly muffled but it daunted Elliot not in the slightest, he opened the door and stuck his head into the room.

"Well if that's how you're going to res...." Elliot got no further.

"Ellie! You horrible boy, why didn't you say it was you?" Victoria dragged him into the room, then thumped him.

"Why should I? Your landlady was listening at the door and she reports to Mrs Becky."

"Does she?" Victoria blinked. "Well I guess it makes sense, the whole world appears to have reported to Mrs Becky at some stage or other."

"How long to your first class?" Elliot gave her a quick hug.

"About an hour."

"Good, grab your books, I'm taking you out for breakfast and any other meal you have free before eight this evening." He saw her look of protest. "Punishment for having initially refused me entrance. Now I'd better appologise to friend Rosie, who is most rosy indeed, for I was indeed very rude to her. So pack, I expect you downstairs within five minutes." Elliot gave her another hug then left the room, only to grin at Rosie who was frowning disapprovingly at him.

"Who are you?"

"George Washington, so hurry along to protest to your landlady while I give Victoria there a history lesson."

"History lesson is it?" Rosie's frown deepened, then lightened as Victoria came out of her room. "Vicky, who is this man?"

"Who'd he say he was?" Victoria had cast a brief glance at Elliot as she came out of her room, and had been somewhat wary about the expression he wore.

"He calls himself George Washington."

"Then Washington he will be. George, I want my breakfast." Victoria followed him quickly down the narrow stairs and out onto the street.

"Quite a watchdog you have in Rosie." They were at the end of the street before Elliot spoke again.

"Sometimes to much of a watchdog. She thinks I should be married."

"Seems to be a common notion among your acquaintances, Vicky." Elliot glanced down at her briefly.

"I don't need reminding." Victoria pulled a face. "When and how did you get here?"

"Mail train last night. Mrs Sharly, my old landlady, put me up for the night. I catch the milk train out this evening."

"In otherwords a 'real flying visit'?"

"If I stay any longer mrs Becky will get suspicious."

"How was he?" Victoria's voice trembled as she asked the question.

"He seemed as content as always when I last saw him, and he was smiling when he died." Elliot took her arm and lead her into a nearby park. "Softly Vicky." Elliot kept an eye open for people who might interrupt and another eye on his watch while Victoria cried.

"I'm sorry." There was still half an hour before her first class when Victoria gave a sniff and stopped crying.

"As ever, I didn't come here for you to show a stiff upper lip to. Now tidy up and let's get some breakfast. Gratin' Bairn."

"Not any longer. You take that back George Washington, no one calls Victoria Elliott a gratin' bairn. Least of all you. Now here's your handkerchief and where's my breakfast?"

"Not in this park." Elliot swiftly lead the way to a small coffee shop, where for a surprisingly low price you got a surprisingly good meal, especially when you were with Elliot March who knew the proprietor. Twenty minutes later and they left the shop to head at a very smart pace towards Redmond. "What class is it now?"

"Greek History." Victoria pulled a wry face as they passed through the network of criss-crossing hallways and corridors.

"Enjoy it, the greeks were a blood-thirsty mob. Unless you're already sick of the sight of me I'll see you at lunch."

"You here for any other reason then to order me around?"

"Guilty, I acknowledge. The Red Cross also require another ninety miles of linen and about as much Khaki yarn, Emilie will knit the place into roaring trade at this rate." Elliot gave a wave and headed back off down the corridors, there was also a professor of Mathematics whom Elliot wished to see before he departed that evening.

"Elliot?" Mrs March's soft call caused Elliot to jump as he quietly entered by the kitchen door.

"Why are you still up?" Elliot frowned as he saw she was still fully dressed.

"I just wanted to ask about Vicky."

"Coping well and very decided in the fact that no Elliot March is going to be able to gloat because she didn't carry off honours in at least one area."

"I'm glad to hear it....I think. What was it like going back there?"

"I met a cheerfully resigned professor of Mathematics who has two sons on the front, and as a result doesn't know what to think of me. I met an old Landlady who still firmly believes that I have a pet tapeworm. I ordered the linen and wool for the Red Cross and Emilie respectively. I dragged Vicky to my little shop for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, thus making the proprietor even more in love with me than ever....thankgoodness he's a little old man of sixty-five. Other than that I met a war mad town which assumed that I had come to get my enlistment papers and as a result was ignored entirely."

"Must have been nice. Still only a friend?"

"Still only a friend, and I'll probably never be anything else." Elliot had no problem deciding what his mother was referring to. "What's more I'm not even going to try to become something 'else', Vicky's having a rough enough time as it is. Night mother." Elliot gave mrs March a quick hug before escorting her back to her room and climbing the garret stairs to his own room.

3rd April 1915-Longbourn, England

Elizabeth rifled through her mail again, Aunt Gardiner, Sister Ownes, Cousin Flora, and James Ellsworth.....Elizabeth frowned at the last envelope. Who was James Ellsworth and why was the letter addressed to her? Elizabeth sorted through her mail again, then gave a soft chuckle and ripped open the letter from James Ellsworth.

Dear Beth,
Well I will guarantee that mama will be pestering you in the next hour or so as to the identity of James Ellsworth and as a result I appologise, but I have really no other option.

Bennie is of course telling a vile lie here but I promised to write everything, so write everything I will.

Elizabeth frowned at the strange line, Ben might have written the first couple of lines, but this line was written by the owner of the hand, or so Elizabeth assumed.

I am currently bedrid Beth and if the dear old doctor, who is a stuffy old turkey, carries out his threat I'm supposedly going to be bedrid for the rest of the week, but I have my doubts.

So do I, but Bennie is right about the doctor being a stuffed turkey, the old blighter's practically blind and never happier then when he is carving up a lump of humanity.

Jim has just let me view what has been written and I hasten to assure you that I am not here for any other reason than that I needed thirteen stitches on my right arm and they stretch between wrist and elbow. So the doctor has no reason to carve me up.

We have yet to actually decide how he got hit since we were filling in a shell hole when he got hit....he still has the bullet as a souvenir.

Rest assured Beth I am in good condition and will probably depart from this place tomorrow morning.

If he doesn't depart tomorrow morning the Major will probably come and retrieve him.

Okay Jim, cut out those comments. Damn it you fool, you haven't really written that? Oh hell! Ummm, sorry Beth, ignore that...Jim is being a nuisance. But while he is being a nuisance I had better introduce him. Permit me to introduce Private James 'Jim' Ellsworth to your attention, he was one of the privates in my platoon and he's about to be shunted back to England with a broken foot, but before he goes he's going to write this for me since the old Turkey of a doctor thinks I should not write.

France is interesting, and I beg forgiveness for having so thoroughly neglected writing to you for so long.

We all know for a fact that he writes at least twice a week and only about two lines. But everything he does is in that manner....how can you stand him for a brother ma'am? he is quite insane, though not as bad as Ashie and a lot better then our Major.

Okay, stop adding Jim. IDJIT!!!!!!

We are currently lodged somewhere in France, my French geography is even worse than my English geography, so once again ask father and he will probably tell you where I am. What I can tell you though is that we are currently being used as a Navvy Squad, we fill in old and new shell holes in the road, we repair bridges that have been destroyed, we repair general road damage, we dig innumerable trenches though they are mostly just communicating trenches. And on special occasions we get shoved onto a quiet bit of the front so the 'real' military can have extended leave. Curiously enough though I am not at all bored, it is rather interesting I find. I was bored at school, invariably bored, and yet here I am digging away with a shovel and ordering others to dig as well, and I'm not bored.

Had a bit of fun last week and a lot of work as a result. What happened was that we were moved into our new quarters, an old farm of which the house had been bombed out but the rest was still standing. This was fine with us as we had been bivouaced in a rather muddy valley up until then and the thought of getting under solid roofs was quite nice. How innocent we were, we spent the next day shoveling cowpats out of the main courtyard so we could get to the barn and stables. This meant that come six o'clock we finally penetrated the barn......and found the place swamped knee deep in stagnant water and chook manure, there were also a few of the critters perched on the rafters looking very bedraggled. It took us 'til midnight to get the ruptured drain pipe mended and the water drained out of the barn and the three outhouses. It took two more days to get the place dried out enough to inhabit, then we were marched off to another muddy bivouac while a Blackwatch company took over our recently cleaned up barracks.

Ashie left us back in february and we got Lieutenant Harold Makins to replace him, not nearly so exhilarating a companion as Ashie, but I will admit that things are much more stable and predictable now. One only needs to worry about ones own privates playing practical jokes, instead of worrying who in the entire company it was who put the frog in your bed.

One did not play practical jokes on Lieutenant Ashington-Frankston, he invariably responded with a joke which made you REALLY regret having ever selected him for a target.

Stuff the doctor, stuff his instructions and stuff the fact I'm bandaged between wrist and elbow, give me that paper.

Elizabeth noted with a grin that the writing now changed to Ben's familiar scrawl, though it wavered occasionally.

This is really ridiculous, I absolutely HATE attempting to dictate a letter, particularly when I am well aware that the writer is adding to the letter at regular intervals.

Okay, our company now is made up of the Major, Lieutenant Bingley (Bing), Lieutenant Makins (Makins), Lieutenant Bennet (Bennie), and Lieutenant Carrigan (Carrie). Our Major continues to be a bit of a mystery, he also continues to be a story free zone. Jim mutters at this point that the Major is a story free zone for the simple reason that the Major is such a damn cold-blooded and rigid figure that he's more likely to flog you then laugh at the story, no story you can tell about him, absolutely swamped in mystery but certainly not a figure to lend him to stories.

To explain that remark of Jim's I think I had best explain a bit further about our Major. We now assume him to be around the region of 6'6" (I warned you he was a mountain) and he possesses some most uncomfortable habits, I will swear that no one can beat his stare. He gives you an order which for some reason or other you fail to carry it out, and he'll just stare at you, a stare that is so thoroughly stunned by the fact that you haven't followed the orders that you immediately feel horribly guilty. The funny thing is that I am sure the Major doesn't know he has such a surprised stare, he just stares down at you in blank bewilderment, then quietly walks away leaving you to feel like a complete cad. Either that or he completely shreds you, decidedly he is an aweful person, not someone to treat without careful consideration of what the repercussions might be.

Your old brother got taken flying yesterday, and I will promptly admit that I was vilely sick, I was never meant to fly or sail and because I cannot do it I find myself unable to understand why others can enjoy it. Unfortunately I know that they enjoy it because they do not get sick like I did, so depressing to have ones internals working against one.

I will be the possessor of 'one magnificent scar' I quote my Major letter for letter on that matter. It stretches from my right wrist on the inside and twists around my arm before ending on the soft part of the outside of my elbow. A few stitches has satisfied it but unless something happens soon I doubt my little finger will be properly back in action any time soon, however that needn't concern me and all it has really done is blemished the beauty of my arm. Say, you can impress Meryton, your dear brother was wounded in action.

We have finally got out of Bingley the fact that our Major has a sister about ten years younger then himself, and we also know that the subject is mighty sore for the major since a private who quizzed him on the subject ended up in hospital with a broken jaw. The rest of us have decided that discretion is the better part of valour and as we all like our jaws to remain intact and attached to our faces the subject is listed as a no go area. May it also be noted that the private was not making polite remarks and no one blames the Major for having taken the man out, though perhaps it needn't have been in such a spectacular manner.

Carrie continues to become less stuffy, very much a descent conscious person Carrie is. The Major gets his respect because the Major comes from very good stock. Miles doesn't get his respect because Miles is of an Irish English mix and it shows in his face and Carrie is almost as prejudiced against the Irish as he is against the Prussians and it has caused more than a small amount of trouble. Though it is fairly clear now that Carrie's father, or some equally close relative, went west in some recent Irish riots and if that is the case you can hardly blame him for having a rather intense dislike of them. It's actually funny to watch him and Miles when they are near each other. Miles just gravely sits there and listens as Carrie abuses him roundly, then nods and walks away, unless Carrie is brought to task for abusing a superior officer by another superior officer, in which case Miles comes to Carrie's defence and explains it all away. Miles enlisted under sufferance, Carrie enlisted for the glory of the position, I enlisted because I felt it my duty and because I didn't really have anything better to do, besides which I have an intense dislike of the thought of invading civilised countries. Bing is here because he was told to go and he seems to do everything he is told to do, quite a peaceable chap actually, but get him riled and he's nearly as useful in a scrap as the Major is. Makins is here because he didn't like the idea of being a private and because he felt that war would be an exciting adventure. Ashie enlisted because he was bored silly and it was about the only thing he could do without needing his father's permission, but since he became a Captain before they shunted him off to Africa I would say that his father is indeed keeping an eye on his career in the army. Queer chap Ashie, our Major claims he'll either grind down into a disgruntled old man with a sour temper, or he'll make some absolutely brilliant discovery and spend the rest of his life on the run to escape from the fame that results, or he'll die doing something of explosive daring which will probably be totally ignored by the bigwigs in the military. The Major has a fascinating story about some man who single handedly saved the indian frontier a bunch of years ago.

It had to do with unknown territory and the Russians and a bunch of the local tribes, anyway this man sort of heard of this attack and found out how it was intended to work. Apparently our frontier guards had become lax from general inactivity and over confidence and the Russians were intending to mount an attack through a very mountainous region which had remained unexplored and was considered impassible except by experienced mountaineers and rock climbers. Anyway this chap heard of this attack and with some friend of his he set about stirring up the frontier, unfortunately they weren't going to be in time because one of the tribes had caught this chap for a while then released him. So while his friend went to get the alert off by telegraph (the friend was told to use any measures he liked just to get the telelgraph through to the man in charge of the local garrison, even if he had to slit the telegrapher's throat to get it through) this chap vanished completely off the face of the earth.

To this day no one knows what happened to the man, his friend got back with some support in hopes of delaying the attackers long enough for the Frontier to awaken and prepare, but the man was not to be found anywhere. The friend discovered that three rifles and the express were missing when he packed up the camp he had made, if the Major is to be believed the man who went missing died in a small pass which was two metres wide and eight metres deep and cut straight through a supposedly impassible mountain. If that is true the man died saving the British Empire in India, he died without out telling anyone where he was going, and he left without telling anyone where he intended to go, infact he even lied to his friend so as to be left alone. For there is no doubt that the attack was coming and there is no doubt that the attack was delayed by nearly an hour, and there is no doubt that the army retreated at dawn the next day. The attack relied entirely on surprise and the capture of the railway, instead all that happened was that there were three months of rioting by the native sections throughout the northern part of the indian part of the Empire.

Jim now tells me that that looks absolutely frightful and appears melodramatic, but at the same time he observes that melodrama is a word that no longer exists in our vocabulary, what used to be classed as melodrama is now an everyday occurance. He also observes that you'd do much better to have the Major tell you the story as he tells it in a way that certainly is not melodramatic. And as my arm is now beginning to ache and the doctor's about to come and dose me up I will terminate this and Jim will hopefully post it when he gets to England.

Cheerio and likewise pip-pip,
Love to you all.
Ben

22nd April 1915-Ypres, France

Nathalie leant up against a wall of the clearing station, enjoying the warm sunlight which was just edging over the horizon. It was an event she rarely missed since it was one of the few moments when she could forget the people in the building she was now propped against. Nathalie passed a weary hand across her brow, for work in the clearing station was not merely strenuous and sickening, it was also very boring, an unrelieved tedium, except when one was not on shift, and then one slept.

It was an endless stream of men, sometimes it was merely a trickle which barely brought in a man a day, and other times it was a seemingly ceaseless flood of injured and maimed humanity. Trench Fever, Dysentry and other infectious diseases gaily associated with shattered limps, the owners of which were pumped full of morphia and left until an ambulance took them to a hospital further behind the line, this was not nursing she was doing, everything she did all but screamed at her professional training, but there was nothing Nathalie could do. It was like pulling a muscle mid performance, you had to go on, you could not stop and wait for the muscle to heal before you continued the ballet, these men, you stopped the blood flowing from them as best as you could, you put basic splints on shattered limbs so they could travel, you stitched the gaping holes and removed what shell could be removed, and those in pain you dosed with morphia so they were no longer in pain, but all you prepared for travel at the earliest possible moment.

The extra loud rumbling of the guns drew Nathalie's attention to the north, somewhere in that achingly bright morning Aristide was huddled with other men in a damp and muddy trench. The sheer clearness of the sky promised that the weather would be beautiful, or it would be if the guns did not fire and men did not moan and mumble in their drugged sleep behind her. The north wind was an abnormality in these parts, and it caused Nathalie to wonder briefly whether bad weather was to follow, but she only wondered briefly because as she gazed northwards a cloud suddenly developed, it hugged the ground gaining in density and size at a quick rate. The cloud rolled over the ground in a heavy, oily sort of style, it was grey-green in colour and it gave Nathalie a very nasty feeling in her gut, for if her memory and sense of direction were as good as she believed them to be, that cloud had developed over the battlefront itself, and as it seemed unlikely that the allied army would be planting its own devices in such a manner that it wiped out their own backlines (and if they did do so Nathalie would be more than happy to die since she would be totally disillusioned about the side she had been fighting for.) then one was forced to assume that the cloud had been produced by the Germans. Nathalie turned and hurridly re-entered the clearing station hurridly scanning through the two wards and first aid rooms in her search for the doctor. With this cloud rolling south at a reasonable speed it was up to the current doctor to decide whether the clearing station was to be evacuated or not.

"I'll bet that dirty Boche is up to something." The opinion was hoarsely voiced by a Canadian private who was in the early stages of pluerisy, and he was heartily backed up by the other occupants of his room. Though Nathalie fully agreed with the man, she merely hurried on to the next room, it was very unlikely that the germans would produce such a vile looking cloud if they were solely concerned with the health of their opponents on this part of the front. Nathalie found the Doctor consulting with the other nurse in the back room where the drug supplies were kept.

"What's up, Nurse?"

"A cloud has very suddenly developed over the battlefront, doctor, I think you'd better come take a look at it."

"I see." The Doctor handed his lists to the nurse and followed Nathalie out to the north side of the station. The cloud had spread futher over the front, blotting out all visibility to the north. They watched in silence as the cloud rolled over the ground in ominous silence, Nathalie was vaguely aware that some of the other nurses and doctors had come out as well, but her attention was focussed on the cloud that was approaching.

"I think it's dissipating." It was the doctor who was currently off-shift who spoke in that tense silence.

"I think I agree. Nathalie, you're remanded from duties to watch that it doesn't come much nearer, everyone else back to your stations, we're going to have a lot of casualties before evening." The doctor turned and moved quickly back into the station, followed closely by the rest of the staff, leaving Nathalie to keep her eye on the cloud.

It was the civilians who came first, the ones who had refused to evacuate when the armies had entered, the ones who had claimed nothing could move them. They came running, stumbling, pale and death faced while talking of evil and witch-craft, but none could give any useful information, it was just an evil cloud which choked and killed. Then came the first of the troops and Nathalie knew they had a serious problem, this clearing station was twenty miles behind the lines troops should not be this far back. As the flow of troops steadily increased Nathalie turned and fled into the hospital, with the army retreating this far the clearing station had to be moved. Either that or it would probably find itself on the german side of the lines.

"It's gas." The Private who came into the hospital was as pale as death and stumbling, obviously almost unconscious.

"Evacuation seems to be the order now." The doctor turned to deal with the evacuation, leaving Nathalie to see what she could do for the Private who had now passed out.

"Where's the doctor in charge here?" It was a french staff officer who came flying into the hospital next.

"He's preparing for an evacuation." Nathalie passed a hand over her face, the private who had told them it was gas had just gone west.

"Good, the Hun is through over a seven mile front, we have the second British Army coming up and your dead in the middle of it all." The Staff Officer turned and vanished out of the hospital and the scrunch of tyres on gravel sounded soon afterwards. The new Clearing Station was in a bombed out church fifteen kilometres to the south and east of the previous position, the attack and the gassing continued for two days during which there was a seemingly never ending flood of the wounded came through the makeshift Clearing Station, shattered limbs shared beds with gas patients, men lay on everything and under everything. The dead were hurriedly sent out for burying, their space filled within seconds of their departure. Over those two days shifts became a meaningless word, you worked 'til you could work no more, then got a cup of coffee and an hour in which to sleep and then were back on duty.

There was no time to think of anything outside of the injured, faces were a blur, every ambulance left the place packed to the inch with injured humanity. The attack ended when the weather deteriorated but the clearing station remained packed for a few days afterwards and then the staff were relieved and sent back to a base hospital, after a two day holiday to recover. The only change on the front had been that the allies had lost the high ground on the Ypres Salient, but what of Aristide? Nathalie didn't let herself even hope that he might have survived, it was so improbable, so impossible to hope, more likely he was one of the blurred faces which had been shovelled through the Clearing Station. The thought haunted Nathalie as she worked, but she could not let personal emotions interfer with her work, she was juggling the lives of others here and carelessness was an unforgiveable sin.

It was a month later when she got news of Aristide, he had survived and was now training up in a new army in south France. Yes he had tried to contact her before, but had been unable. Perhaps he might get some leave soon, the gas was not good for the health.

June 1st 1915-Kingsport, Canada

Rosie went flying up the stairs to Victoria's room, a slight frown creased her brow and she was looking as annoyed as a person with her kind of face could look.

"Vicky?" Rosie poked her head into her friends room to see if she was available.

"What is it Rosie?" Victoria looked up wearily from her bed.

"Telephone for you."

"Who is it?" Victoria rolled her eyes in annoyance, she had been having all to many telephone calls lately.

"HE wouldn't give a name, but he sounded remarkably like George Washington."

"George Washington?" Victoria rolled over in bewilderment and stared at Rosie.

"Back when your father died a stranger visited, he called himself George Washington."

"Go and demand a name, if he doesn't give one say I won't speak to him. Tell me his response."

"Okay." Rosie descended the stairs and carried out her instructions, before returning once more to Victoria's room. "He says very well, if that is how you feel. Prepare your baggage because you are being kidnapped tomorrow."

"Did you hang up on him?"

"No."

"Then go ask him if he's George Washington."

"What on earth are you going on about Vicky?"

"That is my business Rosie." Victoria rolled over again as Rosie left the room.

"He says that George Washington died far to long ago for him to be George Washington, but he'll be Wilson if you like."

"Go tell him I don't like.....on second thoughts I'll come down with you." Vicky rolled off her bed and descended to the phone in the parlour.

"She says she doesn't like." Rosie handed the phone to Victoria immediately she had made the remark and watched in bewilderment the grin that spread over Victoria's face.

"That's not very polite Ellie, how am I meant to tell her that?" Victoria listened with an ever increasing grin until she saw Rosie lift up the second receiver. "Ellie!"

"Sorry. Hello Rosie." Elliot made a guess at what was going on since he knew that Vicky couldn't have been upset by his remarks.

"Who are you?"

"I don't know, Vicky, who am I?"

"Can't you decide that for yourself?"

"No."

"Stay as George then."

"Very well. Madam Rosie, I am George Washington at your service."

"Do you want privacy?"

"Well as I'm on the telephone it is automatically to be assumed that I am totally without privacy, so you may continue listening if you like."

"Regional line Rosie, everyone in Narrow Creek is listening in on this."

"Oh." Rosie hesitated, then hung up.

"She gone?"

"As a matter of fact she just hung up." Victoria smiled quietly.

"Good. What's this I hear about you boarding at the Joe Elliotts?"

"Ellie, I need to live somewhere." Victoria sat down as she felt this could be a long telephone call.

"Well come here, we don't care." "Here's mother."

"But...." Victoria stopped as she heard a clatter of the receiver changing hands.

"Vicky?"

"Mrs March." Victoria was feeling frightfully embarrassed, and what made it worse was that she was nearly positive that Elliot would know she was embarrassed.

"Horrible boy, stop laughing! Sorry Vicky. Please come and keep us company."

"Mrs March it is only for a week of so while I get a school to work at."

"Well come wait for it with us."

"But....." Vicky stopped as she heard a loud crash and scuffle, then Elliot's voice suddenly came over the line again.

"Come stay Vicky. We don't charge people for living with us, and both Emilie and mother would be glad to have you stay. Yes you gobble and gurgle Joe Elliott, but trust me I'll be damned if I let you charge your own niece board."

"Is Uncle Joe there?"

"Of course he's there, he's had his ear plastered to the receiver ever since I opened up negotiations with Rosie. Oh stop gurgling Joe, you sound like Alec Maitland's dog being sick."

"And what do you know of my dog being sick?"

"Good afternoon Alec. He was sick after he ate the wedding cake at Edith Murdock's wedding."

"Then he had good reason to be sick, Edith Murdock's mother never could cook."

"Are you abusing my second cousin Maitland?"

"Of course I am Joe Elliott Jnr. Who else wouldn't?"

"Umm, I'll take that as an acceptance, Vicky. I'll get you from The Station the day after tomorrow."

"Okay Elliot, my love to your mother and Emilie." Victoria heard the click of the line disconnecting and gently lowered the receiver. Who was she trying to fool considering going back to Narrow Creek. Except for Bellerby Falls there were no jobs in the region and Elliot knew that as well as she did, she didn't even particularly like it at Narrow Creek. So why was she going back, she already had an offer from the counterpart of Coldstone which was an all girl school, as well as an offer from an academy in Quebec. She could with much more ease go and spend the summer with Rosie on the edge of Kingsport, then go to wherever she decided to go of the two offers.

"Vicky, why are you going back to Narrow Creek?" Rosie appeared at the door of the parlour with a curious expression. "From what you've said there's no one there for you."

"Nearly no one." Victoria spoke softly.

"Nearly no one? Vicky, for a B.A. you make remarkably little sense."

"There's a small grey house, the 'Little House' as it is called, it is inhabited by three people. There's Emilie, somewhere older than 90 years but she won't tell and no one else knows. There's Mrs March and she's the mother I never had. I have to go back at least once more Rosie, I owe it to them, they were the family I never had."

"You have goodness knows how many relatives in Narrow Creek and you claim these to be the family you never had?" Rosie paused and frowned. "You never mentioned who the third was." She prodded for a response.

"The third is George Washington."

"Oh." Rosie's voice expressed great disinterest, and confirmed Victoria's feeling that Elliot was not considered as suitable in Rosie's books. A most comforting thing Victoria found the thought.

Hall's Landing Station was as dimly lit as ever and it was almost with regret that Victoria watched the train steam away. It was not that she particularly liked being on trains, infact she had a major dislike for trains, but dark, dim stations were not places she liked standing around in.

"Vicky?" Elliot suddenly came up behind her.

"Ellie!"

"There is a large gathering waiting at Narrow Creek Station most notable is your Uncle Joe and his flash buggy."

"Oh dear, maybe I shouldn't have got off here...."

"Don't even think about it Vicky. Now where's your trunk? The little Mother has cleaned up the second garret for you and Emilie has broken a knitting record I think, but I'm not allowed to tell you any more." Elliot grabbed her trunk and led the way quickly to where the dog cart waited. "How was the end of term?"

"Hectic....But I got the honours in Classics and Mathematics."

"Job offers yet?"

"Lontell College, and the name should be familiar, and some academy in Quebec."

"Lontell College, now that is impressive. Are you offered the English seat?"

"Classics thankyou."

"Quebec place?"

"Mathematics. You really should go back and see the Mathematics Professor he pumped me at regular intervals to find out about you."

"What?" Elliot turned to stare at her. "You better be joking Vicky."

"Not at all. Don't look so surprised Ellie, the Professor may have sons on the front, but that doesn't mean that he dislikes people who chose to do something else. Afterall children still must be taught and he is well aware that you have a mother and great-grandmother to consider."

"Yes." Elliot spoke slowly and fell into distracted silence while Victoria continued to tell the news of Redmond.

"Ellie, are you listening?"

"Sort of Vicky." Elliot fell silent for a moment. "Do you prefer the idea of the specialist teaching, or would you actually prefer teaching at a smaller school?"

"Well..." Vicky frowned thoughtfully. "I will admit that I think I'd prefer to do some general teaching before trying specialist teaching. But the option appears not to be there, I think I'll take the Quebec offer because the Mathematics is a subject I prefer teaching to Classics."

"Rosie was not strong in the Mathematics department."

"Absolutely frightful I really doubt I'd have got the honours if I hadn't spent so much time tutoring her in the subject."

"Did she kick up much of a dust after my call the other day?"

"No, but your stock continues to be very low with her." Victoria glanced across at him laughingly.

"Oh, does anyone ride high on her list?" Elliot lifted a quizzing eyebrow.

"Well she seemed to think Clarke Hazel was a suitable option, but I think that that is because he was about the only one who could follow my 'mathematical gabble' as she called it. Then there was Harold, a blue-nose from New Brunswick, she seems to think I was born to be a society queen. There were a few others as well but they enlisted, nice enough boys but they didn't seem to follow everything. So annoying when you make a joke and the person you're talking to takes it seriously."

"Here we are." Elliot unloaded Victoria and her trunk onto the front porch, before driving around to deal with the dog cart. He returned to find Victoria ensconced on her high stool in the kitchen with a plate of cake in front of her. "Vicky your trunk's in the second garret, now excuse me while I steal one of your pieces of cake." Elliot suited his words with actions then pulled himself up to sit on the end of the kitchen table.

"What happens if I don't excuse you?"

"Then I swallow this slice very quickly, grab a second and depart from the room." Elliot swiped his second piece of cake and slid off the table. "Mother I think I'll be going to Kingsport next week." He left the room as he spoke, and as Victoria was studying her plate of cake she missed the look that passed between the two ladies of the house, it was a look of resigned knowing and acceptance.

Victoria was returning from a ramble in the woods, she had now been back in Narrow Creek for a week, tomorrow she'd have to send in either acceptance or refusal to the two offers she had received, and right now she was wondering how she would be able to leave Narrow Creek on such a permanent basis. Of course the 'Little House' would always be open to her, but to return as a visitor rather then a resident was an idea Victoria didn't really like. With surprise Victoria noted that the sun was starting to sink quite low over the horizon, if she didn't hurry she would be late for supper, and she was hungry enough that the idea of skipping supper did not appeal to her at all.

"Oh there you are Vicky." Mrs March was frowning down at some dish which was bubbling on the stove. "Supper's in the oven, Elliot is leaving in five minutes."

"I thought he was going tomorrow."

"He changed his mind rather suddenly and is catching the evening mail train out."

"That's rather sudden." Victoria blinked and frowned thoughtfully, she herself had only caught the mail train once and it was certainly not a train for comfort.

"Mrs Becky is coming tomorrow morning. That answer the question?"

"Oh." Victoria fell silent and frowned down at her full plate of stew and bread.

"I'm going little mother."

"Good-bye Ellie." Mrs March didn't even turn away from her dish as she replied, Vicky looked up in surprise as Elliot hesitated undecidedly by the door.

"Bye Vicky." He turned and the door banged behind him. Victoria stared after him in bewilderment for a minute, then suddenly slid off her chair and ran out to catch him in the yard.

"Elliot!" He stopped the second she called and reluctantly turned back.

"Yes."

"What's going on?" She approached so she could watch his face.

"I'm going to Kingsport for a few days Vicky, that's all." Elliot glanced away briefly then smiled quietly.

"That's not it Elliot, I know it's not, your mother is behaving as if she's haunted. What is going on? Why are you going to Kingsport?" Victoria could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

"Vicky, please." Elliot did not wish to be questioned, not right now, he just wanted to slide away into the darkness.

"You're shutting me out, Ellie." Victoria felt like crying, and yet she couldn't.

"I'm not Vicky. Honest I'm not, I've told you everything. I'm going Vicky." Elliot was desperate to get away before he broke down.

"Bu...." Vicky stopped dead as realisation flooded her. "Ellie! No, you can't! You can't!"

"I'm sorry Vicky, but I must. I'm sorry." Elliot had been holding her hands but now he suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her gently. "I'm sorry." As suddenly as he had pulled her in Elliot released her, then turned and fled.

"Victoria! Mail!" It was nearly twenty minutes later when the yell from Jarrod Elliott brought her back to her surroundings and made her realise that she was standing totally alone in the middle of a dusty yard. Victoria walked over to get the mail from her third cousin, spent a few seconds being caught up on the family news, then retreated slowly back to the kitchen. She dumped the letters on the table and returned to her now cold dinner, Mrs March had picked up the mail almost immediately and started sorting through the mail.

"Two letters for you Vicky, a letter for Emilie and the Red Cross circular." Mrs March handed the mail to the respective people and watched in silence as Victoria distractedly opened both her letters before reading them.

"Rosie invites me to spend a week with her before entering which ever place I choose to go." Victoria perused the rest of the letter without comment and shoved it under her plate before turning her attention to the next letter. The next letter was a brief type-written affair and held Victoria transfixed for several minutes, then she quietly handed it to Mrs March. Mrs March glanced briefly at the note before handing it to Emilie.

Miss Victoria Elliott
The Little House
Narrow Creek.

Dear miss Elliott,
This is to formally accept your application for the position of schoolmistress at the local school, Narrow Creek. We would like to thank you for your interest in the position and to inform you of the meeting of the trustees which is to be held next week at the Elliott Store, please inform us if you are unable to attend.

sincerely,
Frank Elliott
Chairman of the board of the Narrow Creek School Trustees.

"Hmmm, Frank Elliott's gotten frightfully curt. Elliot got half a page when he had his application accepted." Emilie handed the letter back to Victoria and resumed her knitting.

"Why didn't he say?" Victoria looked back and forth between the two women.

"That's Elliot's way. He has left in a manner which means that few people are even going to know he has left Narrow Creek for several weeks yet. He will return the way he left, as quietly as possible." Emilie spoke calmly, though slightly muffled, from the wool basket by her chair. "In fact we probably won't know he is returning until he walks in the kitchen door, unless Mrs Becky's here, in which case he'll come in the front door." Emilie straightened up, frowned at the skene of khaki wool, then started to knit.

"Are you going to stay Vicky?" Mrs March had turned back to the stove.

"Well I have been accepted by the school. It's more of a case of 'do you mind if I become a fulltime resident'." Victoria pushed her supper aside for the second time and glanced at the two ladies.

"That doesn't even get questioned, Vicky. Elliot's behaved badly enough as it is since he has just foisted the school upon you. All we're asking is whether you'd like to settle down with two boring old ladies like us." Emilie's look she gave over her knitting was teasing.

"Well if you two are boring, then Narrow Creek is intolerable. I'm going upstairs, but call when Emilie wants to go to bed."

"Will do Vicky." Mrs March watched in silence as Victoria left the room, then turned to Emilie. "Something happened out there Emilie March. I don't know what it was, and I'm not even going to ask. But something happened." Mrs March was rewarded with a distracted grunt from Emilie as she turned back to her cooking again.

June 23rd 1915-Banbridge, Ireland

18th Base-Hospital
France.

Dear Grandfather,
At last I am here, and have been here for a three week now.Please forgive me for neglecting to write, but life has been somewhat hectic around here lately and there really has been no time for writing at all.

We are the base hospital attached to number three mobile unit, which is actually a Clearing Station, but something tells me that this all sounds like garbage and I had best take it back to the beginning and explain it all. Wounded soldiers from the Front are all passed through the Clearing Station, or Mobile Unit, there they have initial stitching and shell removing done with basic splinting for broken limbs. The injured are then transported to the base hospital attached to the mobile unit by ambulance, the base hospital can be anywhere from 50 to 100 miles from the clearing station. At the base hospital the injured get x-rayed and sorted into groups of those in need of urgent surgery and those who can survive for a few hours. The injured are then sorted into sub-groups of whether they are in need of amputation or not, then the urgent amputees go into this wing and the urgent non-amputees go into that room, and the non-urgent amputees go over there and the non-urgent non-amputees go elsewhere and they are all suitable de-shelled and stitched up. After this stage of the recovery business the patients are sorted out into their various nationalities, all British patients are then prepared for a return to England unless it would be criminal to send them. We had a case last week where a british soldier was brought in with spinal injuries from being at the receiving end of a lot of shell, that case will remain at this hospital until it is decided whether he will live.....which means he will be here upwards of six months unless he dies, they do not expect him to ever walk again, which is a pity, the man is so courageous. He sits in his cot all day long, chatting inanely to anyone who passes and making up songs. He's rather funny actually, find a tune that he knows, he seems to prefer 'God Save the King' and 'Greensleeves', then give him a topic and he'll make up a song on the subject. He had an absolutely hilarious one yesterday, the man next to him had to have his leg amputated and he is suffering not a little from phantom leg pains, anyway this little man had been listening to this man complaining and fussing for hours when suddenly he laughed and started to sing. He called it the Ode to Phantom Legs and he ended up by sending Kaiser Wilhelm a 'bill for his incoveniences' which the 'naughty man would not pay'. It actually doesn't look so funny on paper, but at the time it was hilarious, just the thought of that little man stumping up to Kaiser Wilhelm and issueing him with a bill for inconveniences. I wish you could have been here, I'm sure you would have laughed yourself nearly sick over the song. The humour of a hospital ward is morbid and irreverent, not that they can be blamed as it is indeed difficult to believe that there is indeed a god in this world we live in and to live at the right hand of death, one has to laugh at it or we would all become afraid.

It is currently ten in the evening and I am writing this in my little room and Kitty is curled up on my knees. I feel I had better introduce Kitty, Kitty is a little orphan kitten who adopted our hospital and me in particular. She runs around the hospital all day and keeps the local dogs in a condition of cowed submission, and that even includes the St. Bernard/Mastiff cross which belongs to the local butcher. For the next two weeks I am on day shift which goes between 5:30am and 9:30pm, the day shift is longer than the night shift because there are more of us then on the night shift, on the night shift there is one of us for two wards. The hours may even up when we get a few more sisters in here.

The local aerodrome had some fun last week when they were adopted by a very large Alsatian dog, the C.O. who spend a bunch of years in North America was swearing it was a wolf and they sent Lieutenant Ellis McKenna to get him off the tarmac. The dog was lying such that the 'planes couldn't take off until the dog moved and this McKenna is held to be able to get anything on four legs to trust him. Anyway the dog hasn't left since and it apparently has vile manners, snaps at everyone excepting McKenna and his Observer, a man called Paige, and is constantly robbing the meat from the kitchens. Short of putting a bullet through the dog, an idea that appeals to no one at the Squadron, there is nothing they can do about him. The dog is charged with all manner of misdemeanours for which McKenna has to pay up and it was finally named last week. Nero if you don't mind, so Squadron 83 is now referred to as 'Squadron 83 and that damn Nero!'

It seems almost unreal to be here, life is clearly divided into sections, there is 'before the war' and 'during the war', and one assumes that there will be a section of 'after the war' but at times it is hard to believe that this will ever end, late at night it feels like our entire life has been spent at war. Peace is a word foreign to our vocabulary, a world of peace is a dream, a bit of wishful thinking. Then I see the men suffering and I realise that I actually have an easy lot to bear.

All letters are strictly censored which leave the hospital and we are forbidden to actually name nearby towns which might give away our location. So all letters need to be sent to Sister Helen O'Niell, 18th Base-Hospital, France. Though why anyone would want to bomb a bunch of buildings full of wounded men totally bewilders me....except when I am feeling cynical, and then I know exactly why they might. I am currently not feeling elderly and cynical, and the real reason makes me feel ill enough that I am totally unable to write it.

A real character was brought in two days ago with a broken leg and some internal injuries, the doctor put him on a diet of milk, but this soldier didn't like the idea so he crutched into our nearby town and bought himself a loaf of bread, half a ham and a cabbage. It was so funny to see him offering the food to his ward mates with the doctor dancing around declaring that he could not do that.

Thankyou for insisting that I complete a nursing course Grandfather, I think this is much more fun then what I have seen of the hospitals in England and Ireland, besides which Ireland is not a place of this war for me. I saw Brian yesterday, his brigade were passing through on the way to the front and Brian came in with some superior officer to get some medical supplies. It seems very strange to see Brian dressed like that, when I see him like that he is DEFINITELY Lieutenant Lord Brian O'Neill. That also seems strange, he remains Lord Brian and just gets rank placed in front of it, while I am just Sister O'Niell of B-ward. He left a letter when he departed and was sorry that he could not stay for longer, but he said I was looking well and to give his love to you and his father. It sounds strange to hear the French-English mix language which is used for general communication, my french tutor would have been horrified by the accents used.

Well this is enough for tonight, I must be up at five tomorrow and it would be most embarrassing to oversleep again, so I will now say good-night and good-bye.

Your loving Granddaughter
Nelli

Continued in Next Section