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April 20th 1917-Eastern Mediterranean, Turkey

Fordingham frowned doubtfully at the four figures which stood dripping dirty, bloody water onto the deck of his new ship. Had anyone asked Fordingham at that moment in time who the most exhausted people on the planet were, he would have pointed without hesitation to the four figures which stood in front of him. They stood in a watchful arc which meant that very little of the bridge was not within immediate sight. Their faces were white and taut above the field grey of their German Uniforms, except for one who was wearing the most tattered rags Fordingham had ever seen on a human being.

"German Uniforms?" Fordingham glanced curiously back and forth between the four of them.

"English Revolvers." It was indeed a revolver which was drawn with the response, and it was most certainly an English one, and Fordingham was even more conscious of the fact that it was only a few feet away and pointing directly at his midriff.

"And what is that meant to prove?" Fordingham instinctively stepped out of the line of the revolver.

"Well which would you believe?" The revolver waved in an aimless manner.

"I don't think I wish to believe either." Fordingham took another look at the four figures, though he kept half an eye on the revolver.

"No I don't think I would either, but unfortunately that is all we have to prove our identities." It was the ragman spoke. "Put that damn thing away Chris or they'll assume your assaulting the Captain and all hell will break loose."

"Will it?" Chris looked speculatively at the tattered rag-man as he asked the question.

"I should expect so...I certainly know that hell would break loose if you made such an action in the army."

"But why on earth would I fire it? There are only four of us to a couple hundred of them."

"But we could make a real mess of the Bridge before the majority of the others woke up to the fact that things weren't as they should be up here."

"Could we now?" Chris looked speculatively at Fordingham, and then he gave a sigh and the revolver vanished back into his uniform.

"OH MY GOD!" It was a stunned and horrified exclamation and it caused everyone to turn and look at the pale and sick looking Wireless Officer.

"Something the matter?" Fordingham frowned at the man.

"N-no sir." The man stuttered uncertainly. "But sir I really think the ragbag should see a doctor and fast."

"Why?" Fordingham frowned, his attention switching from his sickly looking wireless officer to the tattered rag-man who had abruptly backed up to the back of the bridge.

"I wouldn't trouble yourself Captain." Chris spoke quietly. "Our friend does not require to see a Doctor, in fact I suspect he will object in a strong and unfriendly manner if you try to make him see one. Your wireless Officer has a good reason for thinking it looks bad, but in truth it is only scar tissue.....and a minor infection which is being treated."

"That was NOT a minor infection." The wireless officer was struggling valiantly and so far had succeeded in not being sick, but Chris was of the opinion that it wouldn't be long before he was.

"Ashie?" It was the fourth member of the party who spoke, he hadn't spoken before and with the remark Fordingham realised the he was actually a she.

"It's nothing." It was an unfriendly growl. "The second one opened as we came aboard that's all."

"Captain, may we trouble you for a change of clothes for all of us and the private use of this ship's medical facilities?"

"Ma'am, we don't carry clothes for a lady."

"Captain, until I am safely back in England I am not a lady, I am not even a woman, I am a doctor. Now please, clothes and your medical facilities."

"All I can say is that this is a gross over reaction." It was an unfriendly grumble.

"Ashie, shut up!" Chris spoke curtly, it had not been until just that morning that they had finally found out how Ashie had got burnt...he had not just crashed while landing. The Count had found the wreck and there was no doubt, the pup had exploded when it slammed into the cliff face. The fact that Ashie was even alive said that Ashie had either just jumped, or been on the verge of jumping when the impact occurred.

"I'll see what I can arrange for you." Fordingham sighed and quickly left the bridge, for all damnable days for Dakota to decide he was unwell it would have to be this one. Fordingham returned to the bridge some fifteen minutes later with an assortment of uniforms, and he returned to an abnormally silent bridge. Fordingham looked thoughtfully around the room, the Wireless Officer had departed at some stage while he was gone. The Petty Officer was standing uncomfortably next to the communicator. Chris was leaning against one wall totally without expression. Ashie had not left his post against the wall and was glaring at all and sundry. The Second man, whom Fordingham had no recollection of ever having seen in his life was gazing in a nearly lifeless manner out the forward window, and the lady of the party was swinging her feet under the chair she had taken command of and was smiling in quiet mischief.

"I observe some clothing has arrived." The Second man pushed up stiffly from where he had been leaning and came across to take the clothes. As Fordingham watched his approach he had a sudden burst of memory.

"C.E. to London wasn't it, sir?"

"I commend your memory." The man's face didn't flicker a trace. "I am the Count, just in case you have forgotten that...may I have the clothes?"

"Oh, sorry sir." Fordingham abruptly handed them over, he couldn't say why but this was a man you instinctively sirred, whether you wanted to or not.

"Thank you." The Count flipped through the pile and threw a uniform to each person as he reached one he thought would fit.

"There's a small room behind the bridge where you can change if you like....there are also some beds you can use there." Fordingham felt slightly self-conscious as he gave them the information.

"Thank you....Captain, are you at all squeamish?" Anne rose as she spoke.

"I don't believe I am." Fordingham responded diffidently, he was actually feeling a prickle of irritation, people did not come onto his ship from no where and just take command of it....it was his ship.

"Good, for Chris and the Count are too tired and I need someone who is not the doctor to help me deal with Ashie."

"Are you sure the doctor wouldn't be better?"

"Positive, I am a qualified surgeon and there is little more irritating than having to hand a case over to someone else." Anne did not feel inclined to add that the doctor onboard ship would probably have a coronary over Ashie's back.

"Do I know you?" Fordingham's frown abruptly darkened considerably and unseen to him Chris abruptly tensed and glanced across at the Count, who was straightening his cuff. Chris' jaw dropped when he saw the Count fiddling with his cuff and he glanced rapidly around the bridge before commending his soul to Heaven, the Count kept a small knife up his right sleeve and all it took was that knowledge for Chris to know that bloody and murderous work would be done if Anne were officially recognised. Recognition was one thing that Anne could not afford, it would jeopardize her life from the moment she returned to England, for the Count and Chris would not leave her until then.

"I think not." Anne gave faint smile.

"I beg your pardon then..." Fordingham paused. "But your face seemed familiar."

"Sir." Dakota came somewhat unstably onto the bridge, only to have his jaw drop, but just before he spoke Dakota saw Chris' revolver and he abruptly snapped his mouth shut. "Sir, Harris reports some problem with steerage."

"What the..." Fordingham was distracted immediately and promptly departed the bridge, leaving Dakota to sink into the Captain's seat.

"You are one very wise and fast thinking Lieutenant." Chris returned his revolver to its usual hideout.

"I am not so sure." Dakota spoke very briefly. "Perhaps if you will go into the room behind the bridge I will see to escorting the rest of your party to the medical rooms, where I will replace the Captain in aiding you."

"That seems the best option." Anne gave a nod before she took command of her replacement uniform and Ashie's before she followed Dakota and Ashie off the bridge. Chris watched the trio go and turned to the Count and raised a curious eyebrow.

"Nic nie mozemy zrobic. Anne zna ryzyko tak samo jak my." There is nothing we can do. Anne knows as well as we do the risks she runs.

"Poltora dowodu uznanie. Nie wrozy to najlepiej." One and a half recognitions already, this does not bode well.

"Mielismy maly wybor z Kapitanem w naszych rekach. Wzielismy pierwszy przeplywajacy statek." The Count responded gravely. We had little choice with that Captain on our hands, we had to take the first boat which passed.

"Dostales te U-Booty?" Did you get the U-Boats?

"Nie, ale nie rusza sie przez jakis czas." The Count's countenance twitched ever so faintly. No, but they will not move anytime soon. "Przy wejsciu nastapil obsow skalny. Uprzatniecie tegozajmie troche czasu." There was an unfortunate fall of rock at the entrance and it will take nearly a week to clear.

"Ofiary?" Any casualties?

"Nie bedzie zadnych na szczescie." There will be none, unfortunately.

"Wiec uwiezione sa tylko U-Booty." Chris gave a nod and looked thoughtfully out the front window. So it's just the U-boats which are trapped.

"Mysle, ze powinnismy sie zamienic. To powinno ulatwic przejazd i ruchy." I suggest we get changed, it will make our ride and any movements much easier.

"Prawda." Chris promptly picked up his uniform and stepped back into the small dark room behind the bridge. True. The Count remained outside while Chris flickered his torch around the walls and under the small quantity of the furniture which occupied the room. "Wyglada na to, ze jest w porzadku." Chris stepped back out and let the Count step in. Seems all right. A few minutes later a Royal Navy Seaman emerged from the dim little room and Chris quickly slid into the room and effected a change himself, a change which required the use of a small container of medicinal port to wash off the dye which had made him several shades darker in colouring, and the use of a comb which made short work of brushing the dye out of his hair as well.

When Fordingham returned to his bridge some twenty minutes later he found it occupied by two complete strangers, and he checked, a dark frown forming.

"Ah, m'sieur le Capitaine." Chris abruptly descended from his perch on the Captain's chair. "You must excuse us, we did not feel inclined to remain in that room."

"Where are the rest of your party?"

"Well one is currently under the medical supervision of the other with the assistance of your Lieutenant, and I believe they are where ever your medical facilities are."

"I see." Fordingham shifted uncomfortably.

"And before you ask, no we will not stay discreetly holed up in that dark room, though we will attempt to restrict our movements to the bridge and foredeck only."

"I could have you put off this ship you know."

"And we could also most effectively disable this ship before we go...stalemate." Chris was lounging against the intraship communicator.

"Chris, caly statek Cie slyszy." The Count finally stirred from his seat on the other side of the bridge. Chris, the whole ship can hear you.

"Let them." Chris turned his attention back to the Captain. "Do we still get our passage back to England?"

"You leave me little choice...but I will thank you to remember that this is my ship, and you will have nothing to do with the running of it. If I ask you to retire I expect you to retire and not to argue."

"Should we argue? We are quite used to having our own way with our own affairs as well, we give others the courtesy we expect to receive." Chris gave a shrug. "We're frightful passengers for you to have, but you're going to have to tolerate us."

"So I see." Fordingham crossed to the chart table at the back of the bridge, while Ashie and Anne finally returned to the bridge, with Dakota in tow. Everyone knew the trip back was going to be long, but the fact that Chris and Fordingham seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other meant the return would be even longer. There seemed to be nothing that one wouldn't do to annoy the other and Anne was frequently separating the two men, while Ashie watched with an expression of twitching amusement and the Count calmly ignored everyone and everything while he inventoried the ship with an accuracy which would have utterly horrified Fordingham had he known. If any good might be said of the feud, it was that Fordingham ignored the four when ever he possibly could.

Ashie watched the feud rage with the same twitching amusement for the entire return journey, he found it a source of boundless amusement to watch Chris so utterly and deliberately provoking someone else. For the first hour or so Ashie had pondered the highly out of character move, for Chris had never shown an argumentative streak in all the months he had stayed with the Cads. The answer was presented to Ashie on a plate, literally. Chris had departed the dining table early and as he had risen he had pushed his plate to one side and Ashie had glanced at the completely untouched peas which Chris had been pushing around in a seemingly aimless manner. A more aimless manner would be difficult to see, but a less aimless manner would be hard to find for the reality. Ashie blinked and hardly believed his eyes, then abruptly he lost his balance while trying to stand up and sent the plate and the peas flying.

Anne

It could not possibly have been clearer....except perhaps for the meaning, and as soon as was decently possible Ashie excused himself and headed for the foredeck. Except for the bow watch the foredeck was completely devoid of life but Ashie already knew, much to his embarrassment, that in seconds the foredeck could be crowded with men.

"You never cease to amuse me Chris." Ashie leant over the rail beside the silent shadow. "In fact until I met you I did not believe a more unflappable person could exist beyond your brother." Ashie paused. "Then I met you and I realised my error...care to explain your tasteful display of peas?"

"Ashie, you can be a confounded nuisance." Chris gave a sigh and turned around so his back was to the sea. "Every minute we are on this boat there is risk of Anne being recognised by that damn Captain. Dakota I couldn't really give a damn about, he knows how to hold his tongue and he is not troubled by your excessively British concern about the behaviour of a lady. Let that DAMN! Captain know that she is Miss Anne Marshall and all hell will break loose and within the week, if not less, our entire system is going to be exposed and brought crashing to the ground."

"A fair enough excuse for having become one of the most provoking and infuriating people in the world." Ashie gave a yawn and shifted his shoulders in discomfort. "I will willingly never see the land of Turkey ever again. The place is a bore." Ashie frowned at the horizon, before he shifted his shoulders once more and retreated. "Fair Rasta Envais, how I miss your sneers."

The Count leant silently against the Bridge door as he watched the foredeck, Chris had remained hunched over the railing for the entire night and only the occasional twitch proved he was alive.

"Chris." The Count finally crossed to stand leaning against the railing with him.

"Kim....jest Rasta Envais?" Chris didn't even look up from his study of the foam gathered around the bow as he asked the question. Who....is Rasta Envais?

"Rasta Envais...or Fair Rasta Envais?"

"Nie bylem pewny tego Fair. Kim jest wiec Fair Rasta Envais?" Chris twitched his eyes away for a brief glance at the Count, then returned them to the foam. I wasn't sure about the Fair. Who is Fair Rasta Envais then?

"Fair Rasta Envais? Do 2 lutego 1916 roku byl Wojskowym KomendantemDamaszku." The Count paused for a moment and rubbed his chin. Fair Rasta Envais? He was the Military Commandant of Damascus until February 2nd 1916. "Wyjtkowo urzekajcy osobnik bez wzgledu na standardy.... gdzie o nimslyszales?" A singularly charming individual by any standards....where did you hear of him?

"W nocy Ashie byl w zalobie po swoich szyderstwach." Ashie was mourning the loss of his sneers last night.

"Wyjatkowe." Singular. The Count straightened stiffly. "Fair Rasta spedzil okolo miesiaca, eksperymentujac. Chcial zobaczyc ile mozna wziac, nie umierajac. Podmiot eksperymentu okazal sie nieskory do wspolpracy i z Rasta zaplacil za to cene....his horse bolted into a minefield." Fair Rasta spent a month, more or less, experimenting to see what a person could take without dying. He found his subject unwilling and eventually paid the price for it...

"Why did the horse bolt?" Chris had no idea why the Count had switched back to English, but there was probably a reason.

"It trod on a rock...which was actually riddled with slivers of glass."

"It was such a lovely horse....I defy anyone to find another such Arabian Stallion." Ashie gave a short sigh as he leant against the railing.

"A good horse?" Chris looked curiously at Ashie, it was unusual for Ashie to approach without any apparent noise.

"I'll say, not a penny under 1000 pounds would I take as an acceptable price for it, very likely more. A hunter with a devilish turn of speed and an evil jumper. If there was any fault it was a trifle light in the bone, but Fair Rasta was a scrawny little _______ so it made no difference." Ashie gave a shrug and flicked a small stone into the foam.

"You make some charming friends Ashie." Chris grimaced and pushed back from the railing.

"Don't I just....I suggest you grab one of those beds before I do again." Ashie flicked another rock into the water. "I was too damned tired last night, must watch against it."

April 22nd 1917-Arras, France

Carrigan was quite frankly annoyed and he wasn't in the mood to hide it from anyone, this resulted in his getting strafed by Brigadier Darcy for undermining the morale of the Battalion. So not only was Carrigan annoyed, he was also feeling exceedingly hard done by and having to conceal the whole lot. For crying out loud I'm only the Signals Officer. And it was his current status which was the main reason for Carrigan's annoyance. Carrigan's annoyance was in fact totally reasonable, in one month he had been the substitute Adjutant when Horton had caught Trench Fever. He had been Intelligence Officer for three days, when Benchley had been back getting a shell splinter removed from his calf. He had been Signals Officer on three separate occasions now, for the simple reason that no other Signals Officer seemed able to remain alive and suitably intact. He had also been Billeting Officer, Company Officer, Interpreter (and Darcy had sworn abusively at his efforts and sacked him....proving what was already well known, that Brigadier Darcy had no need of an interpreter), Corps Dropping Officer, and Roadmaker/Trenchdigger. In fact the only thing Carrigan was thankful for was that he had not yet been assigned to grave duties...and in Carrigan's present frame of mind he knew it wouldn't be long in coming.

"Signals!" Darcy's yell had Carrigan bundling back into the Headquarters building.

"Yes sir."

"Check your communications are all clear....it looks like things may very quickly go to hell." Darcy was bent over a large map with another of the Captain's. The upstart Major whom the General had sent to replace Carrigan as Company Officer for C Company was lounging against the wall, but Carrigan had had the satisfaction of hearing Darcy comprehensively strafe the man only the day before when C Company had lagged when coming up.

"Yes sir." Carrigan hastily collared Mitchinson, one of the Signalling Corporals, and headed out to the trenches. The previous night had been somewhat uncomfortable due to extensive German shelling, but there seemed to have only been minimal impact as a results.

"Hullo Carrie." It was Major Billie Charles of A Company who greeted Carrigan from a filthy corner in one trench. "Ahhh, the joys of new trenches.....care to join us?"

"No thanks Billie." Carrigan cocked a doubtful eyebrow.

"But of course Carrie, such comfort....we have the utter bliss of no drains, no dugouts, no shelters and so bloody obvious that Old Fritzie must be blind to miss us."

"Not too bad a night?"

"Bloody awful actually...I had to send a private back after he shot himself in the foot....what are these privates coming to Carrie I ask you?" Billie shook his head despondently.

"I really couldn't say." Carrigan gave a dry laugh, then jerked his head down the trench to a slightly barer point. "You any serious problems?" Carrigan made the query as they drew away.

"You can tell The Major, courtesy of me, that I'll bet him my last bloody penny that those sods are ranging us. Unless he can get everything shifted forward we're going to be bloody pounded....and frankly I think it's going to happen anyway unless they give up on this altogether."

"You really think they will Billie?"

"Depends on what it's to. If you're asking whether I really think that they'll pound us, then I tell you I'm damn near positive of it. If I think that the General will give up on his precious offensive, all that will happen is that I'll laugh in your face...Devil take it, I was meant to have home leave yesterday."

"Cancelled?"

"Yar." Billie grunted sourly, and then shrugged. "You'd best get moving Carrie, won't do to have the Major strafing you for delaying the check...Bloody tempted to take home leave the minute we get back, with or without official sanction." The last was a dull mumble, barely audible to Carrigan as he moved off down the trench in search of the other Officers. Carrigan shrugged aside the uncomfortable wrinkle in his mind, but try as he might Carrigan couldn't shift aside the feeling. The last time Billie Charles had shown such an ugly and bad tempered streak had been back at Loos, and that time they had been cut to shreds. Carrigan took a deep breath and focussed on his work at hand, such matters did not bear consideration.

Captain Ellis MacKenna brought his Bristol around in a tightish turn before slipping down for a simply lousy landing. James Hiton, his observer of approximately one week, cast Mac one nervous look before he hastily scrambled down from the much abused Bristol. Long streamers trailed from the wings and tail section, and in sheer exasperation Mac kicked the wheel as he climbed down.

"You have a problem?" It was a hard-faced Major who came walking casually across the Tarmac, it was the first time Mac had landed and no 'planes, or pilots were to be seen on the Cads Tarmac.

"Yes." Mac responded distinctly, he didn't even bother looking at the man as he scanned around the Aerodrome, Hiton had climbed back into the cockpit and was banging a futile fist against the forward gun. Fixed, the gun gained its maneuverability in the horizontal plane by a running track which covered three quarters of the cockpit lip. "In fact I have need of an ack-emma and a telephone."

"You may use the telephone in the Recording Office, but currently our mechanics are occupied." The precision of the man's response startled Mac and finally he turned his head and looked curiously at the man.

"Well if that's the case I'll trouble you to supply my Observer with an adjustable spanner." Mac nodded curtly and walked across to the Office buildings, where he knocked briefly.

"Come in." The welcome was not at all welcoming.

"'Ullo Denny." Mac checked the man behind the desk before he gave the greeting.

"Lo Mac." Denny paused before he looked up.

"Who's the old sourpuss?"

"That is Major Wallingford....and if I were you I'd watch your step."

"Why? What in Hades can he do to me?"

"You'd be surprised." Denny gave a sigh. "Telephone's over there if you want to use it."

"What's happened here?" Mac tapped his finger's restlessly as he waited for the connection to get through, the system had been slow ever since Arras.

"We got our replacement Squadron-Leader at last." Denny picked up a folder again.

"Pyro and Florrie?"

"Transferred." Denny responded curtly. "They cited, quite truthfully, that they could not work properly under the circumstances."

"Katt?"

"Still here, but he comes in spitting regularly." Denny gave another shrug.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm just a Recording Officer, I get off light except for the occasional complaint at the mess my desk is in." Denny kept silently while Mac concisely reported the circumstances he was in to Freddie.

"Well that's that." Mac hung up the receiver with a sigh. "Thomlin?"

"In his office, and he'd probably enjoy seeing you for a minute."

"But he'll be seeing you on the tarmac." Thomlin came out of his office with those words and caught Mac's arm. "Now old friend, you just want me to do a check on your Bristol don't you."

"I'm surprised you need the look." Mac gave a twitching grin as he lead the way to where the Bristol was perched. Hiton was still fiddling around in the cockpit and Mac frowned at the total non-appearance of the necessary spanners. "Sir, my Observer Private James Hiton. I'm afraid we have two decommissioned Lewis Guns, a severed fuel line....though we can fix that ourselves, and a badly mangled starboard aileron which has made life a bit interesting...but nothing short of hard-core repair is going to straighten that out, and as a result we need an adjustable spanner so we can get the guns back on line."

"Wallingford." Thomlin was already inspecting the Bristol as he gave the curt directive.

"But sir!" Wallingford protested.

"Do you have a problem?" Thomlin abruptly straightened and turned slowly towards Wallingford.

"Yes sir, I do. The last time we lent a spanner it was not returned." Wallingford's mouth was compressed.

"Yes, and last time the silly ass who did the lending leant it to a convoy driver who had a flat tire...please remember it was returned two days later with apologies."

"That is irrelevant, the fact was that we were two days without an adjustable spanner."

"'Ullo Mac." Katt's sharp accents interrupted a promising battle.

"'Lo Katt, 'Ow's tricks?"

"Ahh, we's livin'." Katt wrinkled his nose. "This your new bus? Ain't much of a beauty....any improvement?"

"Minimal, they tell us it's structurally weak and we shouldn't throw it around."

"Is it?" Katt studied the Bristol.

"Well it hasn't failed yet and I was fairly throwing it around this morning." Mac tapped the cowling.

"I think it will take considerably more beating than most expect." Thomlin frowned at the Bristol.

"What's brought you here?" Katt finally gave a shrug and turned his attention back to Mac.

"Guns, one blocked, the other has failed for unknown reasons." Mac gave a shrug. "Unfortunately your Squadron-Leader is reluctant to allow Hiton the use of an adjustable spanner and I'm damned if I go anywhere without at least one gun working."

"Hold hard and I'll fetch ya one." Katt ducked back away from the prop and started to walk away.

"Lieutenant." Wallingford's voice stopped everyone and Katt looked back over his shoulder. "You are not in charge of Squadron equipment and yours is not the position to determine whether it may be leant."

"Your permission sir, but such restrictions to not extend to my own private equipment...I will lend that where I choose." Katt's attitude fairly screamed insubordination, and his voice screamed mockery, there was no doubt that Katt had been coached for the previous part of that for the tone and accent were not his own. Katt then turned around and loped to his Barracks, soon to return with an impressive display of spanners.

"Hit, you reckon one of those will do?"

"I'll say." Hiton practically fell out of his cockpit as Katt held the selection up.

"Good." Mac leant back against the Bristol and looked thoughtfully at the ever growing crowd around the Bristol, ninety percent of the faces he had never seen before, and the same number had the curious unlined freshness which marked Green pilots. "Okay, clear out the lot of you." Mac waved his hand.

"Why?"

"Because I said so." Mac's jaw tightened.

"Maybe we don't want to." It was an insolent Lieutenant who responded.

"Maybe I can persuade you to leave." Mac abruptly jerked his service revolver from it's holster and pointed it at the insolent one. The Flying-Lieutenant sneered back...until Mac blew his hat off.

"Y-y-y..." The insolent one stuttered into silence and then hastily backed away, and he was soon followed by most of his companions, those that were reluctant soon retreated when the revolver waved near them.

"That was a trifle unnecessary, Captain." Wallingford's tone belittled the rank.

"You are incorrect sir, it was quite necessary. Surely you are acquainted with Flying Corps ruling which specifies that since I am not at the aerodrome the 'plane is under my direct responsibility, and as such I am to take whatever measures I feel appropriate to preserve its structural anonymity."

"Are you insinuating that this aerodrome is not reliable?"

"Surely you can draw your own conclusions...after all everyone knows the reputation of this aerodrome." Mac finally reholstered his revolver as he swung up into his cockpit. It was a double barbed lash which Wallingford could not protest against unless he admitted that the Squadron did not have problems before he came.

"That is something I'm fixing." Wallingford sniffed.

"You got a gun going yet?" Mac glanced at Hiton.

"Both of them, top gun was jammed as well."

"Good, Katt, we'll have your spanners at the usual place if you want."

"Right." Katt was already winding the prop up. "James will be there."

"Right." Mac gave a nod as he sank back onto his seat. Katt gave the prop a well practiced swing at Mac's second nod and then ducked back as Mac went surging forward and into a tight turn.

"Greetings Carrie." Darcy straightened up and rubbed his face as he gave the greeting. "Miles is back at the Farm and he'd probably like to see you when you've finished the communication lines."

"Let him know I'll be down after dinner this evening."

"Right." Darcy scribbled another mark on the map.

"Billie Charles wants to know if there's any way to advance the assault."

"No possibility...why does he ask."

"He says the Germans are ranging on the trenchline."

"Report says that the entire line had a rough time." Darcy tapped a map and sighed. "I've got no say in this Carrie, but let Billie know his comments have gone through."

"Good...Mac wanted to know if you'd heard of Ashie."

"Heard what?" Darcy jabbed at the map with a very blunt pencil.

"He went west on the 10th." Carrie saw the abrupt stiffening.

"Confirmed?"

"Suspected, he's listed as Missing-in-Action assumed dead. He was last seen headed for Germany with Fokkers on his tail and then the snow closed in. Not been a whisper of him since."

"Charming. Mac give any reports on the other Cads?"

"Seems they got a stinker for a new Squadron-Leader, wouldn't even lend Mac a spanner on the Tarmac to fix jammed guns...Mac was of the opinion that Thomlin and the Squadron-Leader were at Loggerheads over nearly everything."

"Anything on Pyro, Florrie and Katt?"

"First two have transferred citing inability to work efficiently under the circumstances. Katt's there, but Mac doesn't think he'll be there long." Carrie gave a shrug.

"Well that's all to hell in a handcart....Devil take it now I'll have to face that devilishly dull brother of his."

"Ashie had a dull brother?"

"Trust me on that, Ashie's brother was a regular stick-in-the-mud." Darcy finally pitched the useless stub aside and fished another inch or so of pencil out of his breast pocket.

"You going to do anything?" Carrigan looked curiously at Darcy.

"What in hell can I do, he's gone west, the Cads are scattering, that's all there is to it." Darcy gave a shrug and scowled at the map again.

"But sir..."

"Carrie, get your arse out of here before I kick it out. Suffice, you have told me that an acquaintance is deceased, what more can I do than nod in acknowledgment? Tomorrow we are going over the top again, you've as good as guaranteed that we're going to be pulverised....Now damn well leave me to try and save as many hides as possible."

"Your pardon sir." Carrigan nodded curtly and retreated.

"What's up?" Horton, the Adjutant Carrigan had stood in for a couple of times, stopped Carrigan just outside the door.

"Major's in a foul mood."

"Glory be." Horton gave a yawn. "Where are you off to?"

"Well I wasn't headed anywhere in particular, but now you ask I'll let you know that I'm headed back to the Farm."

"Well give Miles my love." Horton gave a wave as he headed off, and with a wry smile Carrigan headed for the nearest Dressingpost, where Major Miles Holloway reclined in regal splendour in a large, badly sprung bed with seven others.

Posted on Tuesday, 5 December 2000

April 23rd 1917-Arras, France

Carrigan was shifting uneasily from foot to foot, the heavy artillery were going hard and the air seemed to fairly reverberate with the crash and echo of them.

"What's up Carrie?" Darcy came up with a few mugs full of steaming dishwater, or at least that was what it looked like, it was actually coffee.

"It doesn't sound good sir." Carrigan could think of no other wording.

"Hmm." Darcy gave a grunt and returned to the Battalion Headquarters. Carrigan watched Darcy's departure in silence and then returned his attention to listening. There was absolutely no doubt about it, the German's were retaliating with their own artillery and a depressing amount of noise seemed to be coming from the line. In fact all too few of the German shells seemed to be straying around and peppering the surrounding countryside.

"Hi." It was a strained call, and it took Carrigan a moment to locate the small and bedraggled group which was slowly coming up.

"Hold hard." Carrigan grabbed a nearby arm or two and headed across. "Dave!" Carrigan dropped the arm he held as he recognised the bloodstained officer the small group were supporting. "What happened?" Carrigan hastily set about relieving the stretcher-bearers.

"Nothing to worry about." Captain David Moore struggled futilely in an effort to prop himself up on the stretcher. "I just stopped some shell..." It died away to a thin whisper, but after a pause he continued. "Got to get me to the Major...awful important."

"What's going on out there?" Carrigan was administering some rough and ready bandaging as he asked the question, a Signalling Corporal had gone to fetch Darcy.

"'S'Hell." Moore gave a moan as Carrigan tightened the bandage. "They're killing us Carrie."

"What's up?" Darcy came pushing through the ever-increasing crowd, news from the Line was always of interest.

"Manners got up...'bout 500 yards I think...but not sure...rest of us have just been nailed to the trenches. Can't get nowhere sir, they're just mowing us back like flies." Moore faded away once more to a whisper.

"Get him back to the Farm." Darcy straightened up and rubbed his chin. "Pat, get moving, I want a full report on what the hell is happening."

"Sir, can't I go?" Carrigan hastily pushed through the crowd, Corporal Patrick Hawley paused.

"Why?" Darcy turned sharply.

"I was only up there this morning sir, I know where everything is."

"No Carrie. Get moving Pat." Darcy turned and headed back for the Headquarters.

"But sir..." Carrigan shot after him like a scalded cat.

"Carrie...NO!" Darcy didn't even hesitate in his stride as he snapped at Carrigan, and then he abruptly dropped his voice. "It's all too damn likely that I'll need your services and familiarity with the terrain later, I am not risking to waste you on a relatively simple task which one of your flaming Corporals can do."

"Sorry sir." Carrigan dropped back immediately and with a grimace he returned to his perch on an empty barrel outside the Battalion Headquarters, the barrage of heavy artillery had now died away to an unhappy grumble and two hours later Corporal Patrick Hawley came stumbling back with a group of the injured, his job had not been easy. But the next assault had already been ordered up and begun and by the sounds Carrigan was willing to bet that it was going no better, and probably a lot worse than the original one had.

"What the devil are you doing?" The startled exclamation brought Mac's attention away from his mostly dismantled engine.

"Hmm." Mac blinked and struggled to focus into the sun. "Oh, greetings to you too Florrie."

"Well what are you doing?"

"Cleaning my engine." Mac stepped away from it. "Who was the lamebrain who taught you to approach in the sun?"

"Ashie." The response was curt.

"You here for a reason?" Mac slid the spanner into his pocket and straightened stiffly.

"Yes." Florrie paused and shifted his feet. "You're to keep Katt's spanners." It was delivered in a very flat tone.

"You're joking." It had taken a moment for Florrie's unspoken meaning to sink in. "When the hell did this happen?"

"Dawn flight this morning...we weren't quite quick enough."

"Sit and get speaking." Mac jerked his thumb at a nearby chock before grabbing a rag to clean his hands on.

"I assume you're acquainted with Major Wallingford?"

"I met him yesterday." Mac responded briefly.

"Well you're probably also aware that the Richtoffen Jagstaffel has recently returned to this sector?"

"I was aware of this." Mac felt sick anger welling up in his gut, Michell had gone west only the day before to that same group.

"Wallingford decided this morning that 284 lacked prestige as a Squadron, so he sent B-Flight out to fight the Red Baron."

"That..." Mac bit back hastily. "Thomlin let this through?"

"No, Thomlin was not even consulted in the matter until after the flight had left, and then Denny got onto the line to us." Florrie gave a bitter laugh. "We got there to see the fight and the outcome."

"What's up here?" Freddie had just wandered around the end of the Hanger.

"Katt's gone west." Mac spoke quietly.

"You mean that damn Cockney Bowler who cost me a tooth?" Freddie looked inquisitive.

"That's him."

"That's bloody bad luck." Freddie gave a soft whistle. "Well I'll be seeing you later."

"How'd he go?"

"Flamer." Florrie paled as he responded and started retching violently. "God Mac, he was still alive, I could see him trying to get out." Florrie spat violently and shivered.

"You haven't seen a flamer before have you?" Mac looked sharply at Florrie.

"No...a few smokers, but they were always Huns."

"You've been fortunate in your flights....why did Katt hang around at all?"

"Wallingford very politely said he would have the lot of them transferred back to H.E. if they came back without the Baron's scalp. Pyro said it was somewhat poetic, Katt was getting very sour about it all for his transfer application had been turned back twice...and now he's had a permanent transfer." Florrie's shoulder's shook for a moment. "Oh God, why did Ashie have to go west, this would never have happened if he were still here...Ashie might have thoughts of glory, but he damn well didn't make others do the work." Florrie spat again and went digging unsteadily after his cigarettes, a few ragged drags and Florrie straightened up. "Sorry Mac, no fair on you, it just made me feel sick to watch...you feel so utterly useless and bloody helpless."

"Bloody is exactly the right word...Thomlin must be spitting nails." Mac silently went digging after his own cigarettes.

"Dunno, Pyro's gone to see him...dumped me here, he should be back in a..." Florrie abruptly died away as a pup came skimming over low and then landed right at the far end of the tarmac before turning awkwardly, and coming back to stand by the hangers. There was a moment before the pilot pulled his helmet of and came scrambling down, the removal of the helmet revealed Pyro's familiar flame-coloured mop.

"Greetings Pyro." Mac nodded briefly as Pyro came limping up.

"'Ullo Mac, take it Florrie's told ya?"

"He did about Katt anyway and that blasted Squadron-Leader."

"The boy is plain suicidal, he was abusing Katt to the moon and back when I arrived because he was late returning from the flight."

"Oh." Mac shot a curious glance up at Pyro.

"Quite, I'm currently on a warning notice from the C.O. of 284 Squadron."

"What ya do?" Florrie looked up quickly.

"Blacked his eyes, blooded his nose and tried to push his head through the mess door, there's a noticeable dent in both."

"I hope you enjoyed it." Mac stubbed out his cigarette and subconsciously returned it to his pocket.

"I have to admit, it was decidedly pleasant." Pyro gave a wry grin. "He nearly went berserk when I said that the entire Flight had been shot down."

"What's with Thomlin?"

"On the point of submitting his resignation from His Majesty's Armed Forces."

"Look can you persuade him to hold in there for a bit?"

"Why?" Pyro looked sharply at Mac.

"How does one say it?" Mac asked the question of his boot, and then thoughtfully dug a scrap of paper from his pocket and twisted it between his fingers. "Ashie's alive."

"What?" Disbelief was written large across Pyro's face.

"Ashie's alive...he's somewhere in Southern Italy...he won't be back for at least a month, if he can return to active service at all. But he's alive."

"How in hell do you know?"

"An acquaintance let me know."

"Who? And how do they know Ashie?"

"If you were better acquainted with the acquaintance you would not ask such a stupid question. No one knows how the he knows anything, but he knows practically everything if he seems so inclined to take interested in the matter."

"How the devil did he even know Ashie was missing."

"I have not the faintest idea, he did not tell me how he knew, just that Ashie was alive and irritable."

"Acceptable." Pyro nodded briefly. "But how does he know Ashie's in Southern Italy?"

"Look if I knew that I would not be sitting here listening to you. For some people there are always ways to communicate, no matter where they are."

"Well I'll relieve you of my presence immediately, come Florrie, we've got to stop Old Icey from resigning, I'll be damned if Ashie comes back and we don't have a half decent C.O." Pyro was already dragging his Pup around so it could take off and as Florrie scrambled up onto the back Mac wound up the prop, before spinning it with practised ease. The engine, still warm caught immediately and Pyro promptly headed out and took off, leaving Mac to smile in semi-bitterness as he returned to his engine.

"Carrie." Night was just starting to fall when Darcy abruptly charged into the small ditch where Carrigan was struggling with a recalcitrant field telephone.

"Yes sir." Carrigan dropped the telephone and scrambled to his feet.

"Get moving, I want the battalion back immediately...or as many of them as you can find." Darcy stepped back so Carrigan could get out of the niche. "HI! Don't forget your gasmask, they've been gassing away for most of the afternoon, the place reeks from their damn sulfur nitrates."

"Thanks." Carrigan dove back into gash and hurriedly grabbed the tin box which held his gas mask before he headed for the lines again. The Major's information let Carrigan know that Darcy himself had already tried to bring the battalion back, but unfamiliarity with the exact location of the companies had made it impossible. Ten minutes later Carrigan was exceedingly glad the Major had reminded him to take his gasmask, the battlefield was enveloped in a poisonous fog of chemicals. The fog swirled in a sickening manner as Carrigan plunged into the main trench line, he stumbled over many corpses and quite a few mostly comatose men who all had to be dragged back out of the trenches and away from the fog. A few men were still active, and soon Carrigan had them dragging less fortunate compatriots away as he plunged further into the treacherous mire of fog and mud. Four hours later Carrigan came reeling and retching from the mist one last time, he was satisfied that there were no more he could find alive until things cleared up. All in all it was a miserable sight, the men huddled together in miserable little clusters, except for a few men who were still comatose or paralysed by the gas, and numbered possibly one hundred and fifty. Working fast Carrigan struggled to get the men into some sort of order so they could either march or be carried back to Headquarters, but soon he found that order would be impossible. There was no way he was going to be able to take any account of the men here and now, of the twenty officers who were meant to be in command of the three hundred men Carrigan had not been able to find a single one alive.

"What...I see." Darcy's mouth tightened for a moment as he viewed the tattered remains of his battalion. "Okay boys, get camping...Carrigan, I want you out at first light with your signallers, I want those trenches scoured for anyone who might still be there."

"Yes sir." Carrigan was occupied with fitting the remaining men into a variety of holes and crannies so they were out of the weather, for not a single pack had survived the retreat. The fact they had made it safely back at all had nearly astonished Carrigan, they'd had to use the signalling lamp, and even with contact to the signalling trench they had still managed to fall into more than one trench and lose their way completely, twice.

The next morning found Carrigan roaming around the sulphurous battlefield which still had a few blazing fires with the rest of his signallers. It took Carrigan three hours to round up two Officers and perhaps twenty privates and N.C.O.s, and then he stumbled, literally, across Captain Mannering, Corporal Smith, and Major Charles who were holed up in an advanced German Gun pit. Billie Charles had a huge wedge of metal projecting from one shoulder and he screamed whenever someone touched him. All in all it had been a disastrous offensive, eight officers dead, twelve wounded and over half of the battalion were dead...likewise the relief was still not even moving up and the men were nearly dead to the world. Billie Charles would get his leave after all.

April 29th 1917-Longbourn, England

Miss Katherine Charmaine Bennet was seated on the wide windowsill of Elizabeth's bedroom window. There was no doubt in Kitty's mind that that particular windowsill was the best in the house, it was several inches wider and did not boast of any fancy border. As a result you did not slide back off when you sat on it, and no nasty bits of wood or metal from the border dug into you either. But for all Kitty's comfort, she was not happy.

Jane had married nearly a year previously and, by some means unknown to Kitty, they managed to keep Mrs. Bennet from interfering with their lives.

Mary had married as well, to Professor Larchberry of...of some university in Northern England, Kitty never could remember where, and he was by far the most tedious man she had ever met for he only ever talked of St Augustine...or at least she thought that was the name.

Lydia was now only to be remembered by a small gold plate screwed to the writing desk, and a small marble headstone in the Meryton Graveyard. Kitty never could remember that Lydia wasn't on the point of slamming into the house to come running up the stairs screaming for Kitty to 'Come see the most gorgeous dress ever made!', it seemed so impossible that all that was left of her were those two reminders, it didn't seem fair to Kitty.

Elizabeth. Kitty's thoughts ground to a standstill as she looked around her elder sister's bedroom. The room was so unmistakably Elizabeth. Kitty frowned at the thought, such a thought made no sense. It should be so like Elizabeth, or so in character with Elizabeth, but neither fitted, the room was unmistakably Elizabeth, just as her thoughts were unmistakably stupid.

Kitty shook her head, their bedrooms were intriguing. Jane's never had anything out of place, everything was neatly hung or folded, the brushes and combs all had their own positions, it was almost as if the room were for display only...almost. Lydia's room on the other hand had always been a mess, dresses and other bits of attire had been perpetually strewn everywhere, it did not matter how Lydia attempted to clean, the mess seemed to remain unchanged. Kitty had watched as Lydia threw out bagfuls of garbage, and yet the room had never become noticeably tidier. Kitty had to admit that her own bedroom was little better than Lydia's ever was, but that was mostly because Lydia had treated it as her room as well.

Elizabeth. Once again Kitty's thoughts stalled as she glanced around her sister's room. It was odd, for Elizabeth's room had rarely been tidy either, clothes had been mixed up with papers and odd bits and pieces from various bicycles and other machines. Kitty could well remember the silent screaming fits Mrs. Hill would throw over Elizabeth's handkerchiefs, how Lizzie got oil and grease on her handkerchiefs Kitty could not say, but it was always there and Mrs. Hill would spend hours scrubbing them clean. Today Elizabeth's room would have appeared neat and tidy, for nothing lay out of place, there was not a wrinkle on the bedspread and the rug was not crumpled. Yet at the same time Kitty knew that it was not tidy, the room still had the air of having been lived in, it was as if at any moment the door would fly open and Lizzie and Folin would come tumbling into the room, fighting over some minor detail. Folin who was now only a small gold plate on the writing desk and some dirt in France.

"Kitty!" Mrs. Bennet's querulous voice came from the doorway and Kitty hastily smothered her alarmed shriek.

"Yes mama?" Kitty hastily descended from the windowsill and crossed to stand beside her mother.

"Why do you sit in here child, it can't be good for you." Mrs. Bennet was fussing around and Kitty didn't trouble answering for she knew the answer would be disregarded. "But that isn't why I came in search of you...though I still hold you'll be much more comfortable if you read and sew in the parlour, I wonder that you do not."

"You wished to speak to me about something?"

"No Kitty, but you have mail, and Mrs. Hill's back is misbehaving again and she claims she cannot climb the stairs."

"Oh dear, perhaps I had best send her to rest, it cannot be good for her to be cooking." Kitty headed worriedly for the door, she was well acquainted with Mrs. Hill's back and it was certainly no imagined pain.

"Kitty, will you have some compassion on my nerves, I refuse to see any of my daughters slaving over a hot stove."

"Sorry mama....you said I had mail?"

"Yes child...but I seem to have misplaced it." Mrs. Bennet resumed fumbling but soon managed to produce a battered and somewhat dirty envelope. "I don't like it Kitty, maybe I should give it to your father...such a dirty envelope, who could you be communicating with who would send you such an envelope?...no, I think I will give it to your father to check...after all it might be dangerous." Mrs. Bennet started to tuck the letter away, a worried frown creasing her forehead.

"Mama." Kitty caught the envelope from her mother just before it was pocketed and turned it over to look for the sender. "Mama, it is from Lizzie, I can assure you she will say nothing which might sully my ears." Kitty hastily pocketed the envelope.

"Well in that case you may keep it. Send my love to Lizzie when you write back, and ask if she has found herself a husband yet."

"I doubt it mama, most of the men Lizzie sees seem to be in a condition which does not lead to matrimony." Kitty fought against a bubble of laughter.

"Oh well, in that case, just send my love to her...I'm sure I don't know why she doesn't write to me." Mrs. Bennet returned to the stairs and descended, leaving Kitty to return to her perch to read a letter.

My dearest Kitty,
This writing to you may seem odd, and I must confess it feels odd, but I must write to someone and Jane is not an appropriate person to write to on this occasion....Kitty, I'm coming home.

The letter then made a largish jump, as if there had been one or more interruptions and the hand which took up was considerably more hurried then before.

I return, I know not how much later, and I only have a short space in which to finish this so you must forgive the speed at which I am writing for it lends my hand a distinct lack of elegance (what little elegance it ever had has long since departed and I know for sure that mama would deplore the casualness of this). Life has been somewhat busy of late, Arras is finally over and the patients are starting to be moved away to Paris and back to England, finally we have less then five men to a bed, which makes treatment of the remainder considerably more easy, no longer do limbs need to be sorted out and attached to an owner before treatment is given, and no longer do we run for extended shifts because out emergency wards are full and overflowing.

I said it before and I'll say it again, for I scarce believe it myself, I am coming home Kitty. No this is not on leave, and nor is it in disgrace (thank goodness!), though admittedly I am only coming as close to home as London, but with luck I may manage to get a day or so off to come home over. I'm coming home because for some reason unknown to me they have decided that I am to sit my nursing exams. I'm to become a fully qualified Nurse Kitty, and I think I am scared out of my wits by the prospect. Matron says it is nothing to worry about, for I have been doing Nurse work for several years now. But oh Kitty, I may become a Matron myself now and the thought of possibly being in charge of a hospital scares me half silly. And yet at the same time I'm thrilled and proud, that I have been so singled out from our hospital for such an honour...I should arrive sometime during June.

I fear I am going crazy-mad sometimes Kitty, everything is a wild whirl, endless rows of agonised faces. Kitty the men here are incredible, what they will not do to ease another of their number. Given the option between one of their number dying or spending fifteen minutes in agony, trust me Kitty, they take the fifteen minutes of agony and not a squeak do you hear from them in the process. I've watched troops coming back from the front this past week, pale faced wrecks of humanity who are so exhausted that only the commands of the Officers keep them walking (and for at least the most part the officers are in just as bad condition if not worse than the men are in). We set up a soup room the other day, and any man who passes is entitled to one bowl of soup. The way they fell on the soup Kitty is amazing, it was as if we were serving out steamed chocolate pudding with mountains of cream, and yet it was little more than hot water with a few vegetables floating around in it. Sister Baker calculated that we were on average feeding fifty men per chicken in the soup. I wish we could have given them real soup Kitty, what I wouldn't give to be ladling out Mrs. Hill's chicken soup to them instead of this watery slosh.

The coffee here is exceedingly reminiscent of dishwater, and the tea is only slightly better. we do not drink it for society or anything, we drink tea and coffee out here to keep warm. A bitter black brew, I now have no memories of what tea tastes like with milk and sugar, I know I used to have it that way, but I cannot remember the taste, now all there are black and bitter brews which are just faintly tinged boiling water.

I was talking to a Major just the other day, poor boy can't be a day above twenty-five and we've had to amputate his right leg, and he was bewailing the loss of his mother's Irish stew. If I understood him correctly he had never liked the stew and frequently refused to eat it, and now he is swearing that there would be no more welcome sight to see. The Lieutenant who lay beside him (Malaria) was calling for roast turkey and apple pie. It is almost funny when the wards get talking about food, for it is nearly as good as actually eating it, we had a fight the other day (verbal only) about whose mother made the best pie. Unfortunately we had no entries to judge so we could only listen to the very biased opinion holders on the matter.

You may or may not remember Colonel Darcy from October of last year, but just incase you do he sends his greetings to you and hopes you are well. Colonel Darcy is now a Brigadier and he stopped over at the hospital to let me know that yet another of the old company has gone west. Did you realise Kitty, that of the Officers Folin knew in his Battalion before, and while, he was in France only three are still alive and on active duty? All the rest are either dead or disabled now. Of twenty-one Officers (actually twenty-four since Ashie and Makins held the same position and Miles ousted a Captain) only three remain here in France and on active duty. It scares me Kitty, that there can be this sort of fatality rate in one Battalion. The rate will probably not vary overly much between the Battalions out here, and there are literally thousands out here.

I find myself wondering about England, it is getting close to a year now since I was in England (my French is now getting tolerable and I no longer get blank and uncomprehending stares when I ask a question). I wonder how things have changed? Will you come see me in London Kitty? For I am of the moment persuaded that I will not be given a day off so I may see my family, and I do wish to see at least you Kitty before I return to France again.

Who is Mary's husband? Jane writes nothing but good of him...but then she doesn't write anything but good of anybody. Is he a sensible man Kitty? Papa will not answer my letters. What is he like? Is he what we always expected Mary to marry, or is he completely out of the norm and a dashing officer?

I seem to have suddenly written an awful lot and now I am late, so without any further ado I bid you farewell.
My love to you and the family Kitty,
Lizzie

Kitty twisted the letter between her fingers as she looked out the window, without even considering the matter, Kitty knew she would get to London to see Lizzie. To not go was not even to be considered.

Posted on Thursday, 7 December 2000

May 1st 1917-Berneville, S.E.Arras, France

Brigadier Darcy tapped the stub of his pencil against the map...once...twice...and then abruptly hurled it at the far wall, a small scrap of paper lay on the map next to where he had been tapping the pencil. The scrap was the remains of a telegram, the rest of which had been carefully shredded up and scattered to the four winds of the decidedly drafty Battalion Headquarters. Darcy abruptly stood up and stalked to the door, where he collided with Carrigan.

"Sorry sir." Carrigan recoiled and saluted hurriedly.

"I take it the 8th Middlesex have settled?" Darcy responded with a very brief salute.

"Yes." A dark frown suddenly settled on Carrigan's face. "Their guides are pathetic...and you should have seen the looks they gave me!"

"Carrie." Darcy abruptly gave a short laugh. "To think I would one day hear you offended because someone dared look down their nose at your attire. Heavens man you are looking a right tramp...of course they looked, we've got 150 waterproof sheets between 110 men and other than our uniforms that's all we have. Now buck up, wash your face and get moving, we're going to pay a visit to the remaining chaps at the lines and then we're going to charge of to the hospitals and find out where the others are and how they're faring."

"What's with General Mannering?" Carrigan paused at the door and looked back, having just remembered the disappearance two days earlier of the Brigade Commanding Officer.

"He's dead." Darcy had paused only briefly before he responded. "Pneumonia...we'd better make sure we find Manners for he won't be informed yet."

"Ouch." Carrigan winced and then nodded. "Very good sir."

Major Stacey Gordon chewed morosely on a very grubby thumb as he gazed blankly out from his perch just inside the headquarters door. There were times when Gordon wished he had never accepted his commission, there were also times however when he thanked any god dreamed of that he had been commissioned. However today was one of the days when he wished he had not been commissioned. The remains of the battalion had been given leave for the day...leave insofar as they were not required to run pickets and sentry duty. This meant that every last man and jack of them had refrained from emerging from their various billets, be that billet a tent in the field or the mayor's cellar. And as a result he, Gordon, and possibly the signalling Corporal on duty were the only people awake in the entire battalion...that was of course ignoring the Major, who never slept. Carrigan had been active until he had returned from the hospital tour and informed Gordon that the Major had put him in charge, and now even Carrigan was asleep. Gordon could see that worthy's boots from where he sat.

It had been four hours since Carrigan had returned yawning, with the remark that the Major was playing Gallant Cavalier to one of the VAD Sisters who was being sent to Arras. The fact that Darcy might have gone to Arras was accepted by the couple of men who were awake, but the possibility that he was playing Gallant Cavalier was met with a laugh of disbelief.

Gordon blinked sleepily at the sun as it started to lower in the sky, usually this task would have been assigned to Major Miles Holloway, who was the Brigade-Major, but Miles was sick and Gordon had the dubious joy of filling his shoes. It was the jingling of the field telephone which disturbed Gordon from his sleepily morose considerations of the world in general. Gordon frowned and listened to the faint jingle, but he could hear no other noise, the Corporal must have fallen asleep. Gordon stared up at the sun for a moment and then looked thoughtfully at the spread of grass and then gave a sigh and painfully levered himself from his perch and entered the dim building. The cramped signalling room revealed a comprehensively comatose Corporal and it was with a distasteful look that Gordon reached over him and picked up the receiver.

"3rd Midlanders Battalion."

"This is Base Hospital 23...could I speak to Brigadier Darcy, please."

"I'm sorry the Brigadier is currently unavailable."

"Please, this is important it concerns one of your Officers here."

"Look ma'am I told you the Brigadier is currently unavailable, he is not here and he is not in the Lines...in fact there is no way he could answer this telephone...I'll let him know when he returns." Gordon restored the receiver to the hook with perhaps a little more force than was necessary and with a cloudy frown he walked back out into the sunlight again, only to jerk upright twenty minutes later and abruptly kick Carrigan back into the conscious world.

"What the devil do you want sir?" Carrigan sat up groggily, blinking and scowling as he tried to focus his eyes.

"It's important Carrie, what was the Major going to do when you left him?"

"He was escorting the Sister out to Arras since they've been bombing out there and the hospital were too short on hands to let her take a companion with her. He said he'd come back here as soon as he was done."

"Carrigan...the Major hasn't returned yet."

"So what, he's probably been delayed."

"Okay then, what generous allowance would you give him for the pickup and then walking back here?"

"Three hours...four at the outside." Carrigan gave a shrug and rolled over fully intent on going back to sleep.

"Carrie, you have been asleep for four and a half hours. By your outside guess the Major is now half an hour over due."

"What was that?" Carrigan squinted back over his shoulder.

"You have been back for four and a half hours and you know that half an hour was taken by your walking back here...why in hell has the Major taken FIVE HOURS to get to Arras and back...even he's not that crippled, we can walk at a pace a damn sight faster than that."

"That remark would probably offend him." Carrigan stretched and then frowned. "Maybe he decided to delay his return talking to the Sister."

"Carrigan, do you really believe that he would not warn us he wouldn't be back until late...I personally doubt he'd dally at all, we all know those hospitals are painfully stretched. He'd never distract the staff...Besides which 23 was just calling up after him, and they wouldn't call here if he was there."

"Go find out when he left." Carrigan hauled off the stretcher and ignored the quizzing look from Gordon as he frowned out the door.

"So much for superior officers." It took Gordon a couple of minutes to get 23, but after that his expression grimmed considerably and he promptly followed up the telephone call with four others in quick succession. By the time Gordon had finished with the fourth his expression was black and fairly murderous.

"What's up?" Carrigan was watching Gordan warily from the doorway.

"The Major left 23 for here 2 hours ago...that's slow going for the Major. And a quick check shows that he hasn't been out to see Mac, or any of the Cads."

"In other words you think he's fallen?"

"I don't think, I'm bloody nearly certain he's fallen...wake that damn signaller of yours up and make certain he stays awake and attends to the telephone. I'm taking A Company with me...I'm assigning you as proxy in my stead. Now move it, there's only an hour or so of light left."

"Good luck." Carrigan watched as Gordon was quickly swallowed up into the late afternoon light with the small group, A Company were now smaller than their smallest platoon had once been. In fact it numbered twenty men and only one Officer, a sorry replacement for the 130 men and 5 Officers of a week ago.

It was not a particular uncommon sight to see a corpse lying beside the road, but corpses in the middle of a field usually required a closer proximity to the battlefield. Had the farmer happened into his field that day he would probably have been puzzled by the banking of his stream which rapidly spread out and was flooding the lower end of the field. It took a major storm for that stream to break its banks and flood the field, and though the rains had been heavy of late, they had not been that heavy. Had the farmer pondered sufficiently on the subject to walk down to the flooded section he would probably have been both annoyed and concerned as to how the damming of the stream occurred, and how he was now to clear the blockage. However it was a distinct advantage that that day the farmer did not visit the field, did not see the blockage and make an effort to clear it.

In the best of weathers a two-hour sleep in an icy stream is not good for your health, and in late spring it is only slightly less harmful than that particular activity in winter. For Brigadier Darcy it is perhaps fortunate that the farmer did not pass for otherwise it is highly probable that he would have taken that two-hour sleep in the stream. as it was he was merely perched on the log in the middle of the stream, exceedingly wet and thoroughly annoyed with himself when finally Major Gordon and his merry privates penetrated the field in their searches.

"What the devil are you doing, Sir?" Gordon looked enquiringly at his superior Officer.

"Sitting here, Gordon, merely sitting here." Darcy glanced at where Gordon stood on the drier high-ground.

"Well in that case you could have saved us an awful lot of trouble by coming home to sit."

"True...but I did not actually chose to sit here."

"Then why are you still sitting there?"

"Because I'm going to require some help before I safely descend from my perch." Darcy gave a brief yawn.

"Why's that?" Gordon studied the situation, there was no way he could reach Darcy without getting very wet.

"Because my left foot is currently imprisoned under this log and I'll be damned if my right leg is going to be tested taking my weight, and the weight of this confounded log to get my foot free."

"Hmm." Gordon pondered the matter for a minute and then shrugged. "Not much else we can do. Okay boys, let's get the Major free."

The rescue operation was successfully completed and five minutes later 32 totally soaked men settled onto dry land. Darcy eyed the muddy stream with a rueful eye as he watched the swirls in the stream.

"We appear to have made a mess of that stream." Darcy was busy massaging life back into his frozen and dead foot as he made the observation.

"The damn Farmer shouldn't have put a log where tom-fool Brigadiers could get stuck and need rescuing if he didn't want his stream stirred up." Gordon responded feeling as bound up a longish gash down his left arm which had been incurred in the operation.

"I see I improve in your estimation, glad to hear I'm only a tom-fool Brigadier this time."

"That's because we were enlightened of your plight before two in the flaming morning."

"Since we're on the subject, how did you become aware of my plight?"

"23 called up wanting to speak to you. Sort of told us you were meant to be back here. A quick check showed you weren't at any of your usual haunts and a call to 23 revealed that you had left two hours before...even for you that is slow walking sir."

"Polite...who's at camp?"

"Carrigan, that boy should not be a Lieutenant sir."

"Tell me about it, I've been pushing for his promotion since Somme. Why were 23 calling for me?"

"Couldn't say sir." Gordon looked a trifle apologetic. "I was sufficiently annoyed by there assumption that you just didn't wish to come to the telephone that I hung up on them."

"Rash assumption indeed. Well I'll have to call when we get back to camp."

"They said it concerned one of the Officers there."

"Then they're probably calling to say that Manly has finally snuffed it...but I'm damn well changing before I go anywhere."

"Foot recovered sir?"

"I can walk." Darcy proved his point by standing up, he then proceeded to stretch, joints cracked audibly while bones and muscles creaked their protests. "Okay boys, get moving before I have to nail the lot of you for being out after curfew." Darcy's threat was met by a laugh, but none of the privates wasted any time when it came to falling in behind the two officers.

"Evening Sir...you look a trifle damp." Carrigan was lounging against the doorframe as Darcy came up. Gordon and A Company had just fallen out and headed for their respective billets.

"Be quiet Carrigan...unless you wish to be on grave duties for the next month of Sundays." Darcy fished a dry uniform out of his pack. Carrigan winced as he saw the uniform and shot a nervous glance at Darcy's impassive face. The uniform had not been cleaned since Arras, it was stiff with mud and blood and was comprehensively unwearable. "It would appear I do not change my uniform after all." Darcy pitched the dry uniform into the corner with a sigh and drop with a squelch into the rickety chair behind the planks which served as a desk.

"Sir, 23 has now made three repeat calls for you in the past half hour."

"It would appear they wish to speak to me." Darcy stood up again then abruptly shrugged before stripping off his coat and shirt and throwing them at Carrigan. "Get those to...damn he went west...Carrie, see that they are dry by tomorrow. I can tolerate wet trousers, but I'll be damned if I'm completely wet." Darcy grabbed the telephone and soon he had 23. "3rd Midlanders Battalion. My Brigade-Major tells me you've been trying to get in contact with me."

"Correct...Just a minute while I get Sister Bennet." There was a clunk and a scuffle of sound and then Darcy heard Elizabeth speaking somewhat breathlessly. "Brigadier Darcy?"

"On the spot...what's up?"

"Sorry to trouble you but Captain McKenna said it was important." Elizabeth paused and drew in a deep breath. "Sorry, we've been moving the wards around."

"What on earth was Mac doing talking to you?"

"Well he actually landed in the yard because he couldn't get through to you and he was of the opinion that I'd see you sooner than he did since I was a static object...I didn't actually agree with him."

"No, I wouldn't normally agree with him, but this time he was accurate." Darcy frowned as he studied the wall. "But why does Mac want to speak to me?"

"It concerned a Captain...Captain Lord James Ashington-Frankston." Elizabeth paused for a moment. "Is that Ashie?"

"Correct, it was Ashie."

"Well he told me to tell you that he had been informed that...'The dust was found in Switzerland and is now safely delivered to South Italy...expect trouble.'"

"Was he now." Darcy paused. "That is indeed pleasant to hear." Darcy paused again. "Very pleasant indeed."

"Are you alright?"

"Alright? Well it depends on what you call alright. The truth of the matter is that I am fine, except for what a good nights sleep and a few war free days can't fix."

"Are you likely to get them?"

"No, in fact it is highly unlikely that I will get them. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll bid you what is hopefully a good night...unless there was something else?"

"No, nothing else."

"Good night then, and may your rest be undisturbed." Darcy hung up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, was it just his imagination or had her voice dropped with that last bit, in fact it was almost as if she was disappointed. Darcy shook his head and then rubbed his chin with a grimace. It was probably just distortion from the wire and right now he needed a shave and at least an hour's sleep. The prospect of taking over the Brigade next week did not thrill him at all, in fact it left him with a sick and bitter taste in his mouth. Darcy felt like he was skipping out on the Battalion; that's right, mangle the thing beyond repair and then leave it for someone else to tidy up. He wouldn't be the one whipping the green recruits into shape, with Miles and Gordon and the rest, it was Mile who would have to see to the training of troops. Darcy finally left the communications room and found Carrigan seated morosely in the corner, shirt and jacket hung in the corner.

"Good news?"

"Very...Ashie's alive." Darcy poked his head out the door, and found the reason for Carrigan's continued presence in the room, it was pelting rain outside.

"You're joking." Carrigan looked at Darcy closely.

"Not at all, it seems he crashed in Switzerland and now is in Southern Italy."

"Why'd he go there?"

"Mac's slightly less then open friends...I suspect he's there because that's the first allied soil they touched. Fortunately it would seem reasonable to suspect that there will be at least a few weeks before he returns to France."

"Have to say it seemed somewhat incredible that Ashie should have gone west...he's as close to indestructible as they come."

"He'd probably like to hear you say that." Darcy gave a short laugh and then pulled up a file and flicked it open.

"Miles was asking for you this morning."

"Was he?" Darcy glanced up from the file.

"He wanted to say something to you."

"Well tell him I'll see him tomorrow afternoon...and add at the same time that if it's anything to do with not wanting the battalion he'd better bite his tongue before I murder him."

"No sir, I think it actually was concerned with Dave."

"Oh in that case just tell him I'll see him tomorrow afternoon." Darcy returned to his files and with a chuckle Carrigan curled up on himself and fell asleep.

May 20th 1917-Berneville, France

Lieutenant-Colonel Miles Holloway, recently promoted and released from hospital, stared out across the fog wreathed fields. A couple of small campfires punctuated the morning mist, and near each one was a cluster of the oddest shapes seen to man. When restricted to waterproof sheets, sticks and stones, artistic architecture was not a strong point for the 3rd Midlanders Battalion. Rough and humpy shaped, each of these makeshift tents held twelve or thirteen men.

Usually the strength of a division was spread over several miles of land, but such had been the toll of the recent battles that the division was being housed within three consecutive fields. Miles turned slowly and looked back over his shoulder, the 2nd Brigade were all housed in the one field, and as a result so too had the Brigade Headquarters been put in that field. Or the headquarters had been in the field until Ashie had had the incredible taste to land his Camel on top of it. Miles' expression twisted slightly at the memory of the scene and he had a feeling that he was not the only one who was thankful that Darcy had not been in the hut at the time.

"Miles." Darcy's voice had Miles turning sharply and automatically lifting a salute.

"Yes sir."

"If you get issued two more Companies the 3rd Battalion is up to strength...correct?"

"Yes, sir...or at least if I weld the others together, there are certainly enough men for the Battalion if I had two replacement companies."

"Good, you're up to strength." Darcy gave a curt nod of satisfaction. "We just had eight companies arrive...believe it or not the High Command had intended to install eight Midland Companies into a Highland Division?"

"Well it would certainly have been something to see." Miles choked softly.

"That's what I thought...likewise you'll be on parade this evening so you better get cracking with the reordering of the Battalion."

"Yes sir." Miles saluted sharply again before following Darcy down to where a crowd of men waited, Darcy lead the way straight to where the Officers stood together in a small cluster.

"Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Holloway. He is your Battalion Officer and it is he who will be seeing to your billeting." Darcy then gave a short nod to all and headed off. Miles scanned the faces of the Officers with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was not a single officer among them who could possibly have been in France before...and this spelt a long and rough road, not the least of which was going to be integrating the old and the new without starting inter-battalion competition and warfare.

"Well Gentlemen, shall we get the men camped down?...I'll then get the other Officers out to meet you...we'll have Parade work from 1000 hours."

"Sounds good to us, Sir." The lean-eyed Major was clearly the spokesperson for the companies.

"Good...I think it would be best if you used the southern end of the field." Miles was walking as he spoke.

"Good heavens, sir. What are those?" The amazement rang true in every word and glancing back Miles saw that both Companies had halted.

"Due to the recent retreat the Battalion lost contact with packs and equipment. Those are the lines...such as can be managed with the available materials."

"Your pardon sir, I had forgotten and it surprised me."

"Allowable Major." Miles gave a nod, then smiled as Carrigan came bundling up the slope. "Hi! Carrie!"

"Yes sir?" Carrigan skidded to a halt and kept his attention focussed on Miles after one startled look at the new arrivals.

"The rest of our Battalion...any problem with their being at the southern end?"

"Uhh, no sir...though they may wish to watch near the fenceline because it gets boggy."

"Right, Major...Major?" Miles looked enquiringly at the man.

"Dalgleish, Major Harold Dalgleish."

"Okay Dog, this is Lieutenant Carrigan, he's the Brigade-Major. If you have any complaints, make them to him and he'll forward them to whoever is most appropriate. You go to Carrie as well if you want information, an explanation, more rations or a dog biscuit. And one word of warning, 'Q' will eat you alive if you don't go to Carrigan before going to him. 'Q' may look like a timid mouse but he most certainly isn't and if you aren't referred to him by the Brigade-Major he won't be at all happy." Miles gave a nod and then moved off to round up Captain Mannering and the few other Officers remaining to the battalion. David Moore had returned three days previously. Billie Charles was now back in England and unlikely to ever leave again, the last Miles had heard was that he was suffering from level 3 shellshock. Lieutenants Hooper and Shottley had been abruptly commissioned only a three-day before to make up the last of the gaps in the Officer ranks for the remaining men.

Continued in Next Section