She waited, tiptoeing along the chilly corridor and creeping quietly into the darkened ward, listening intently as the matron’s footsteps faded to a distant whisper on the worn flagged staircase. Except for the occasional muffled groan, the long row of narrow metal beds was quiet, their chipped white paint glittering harshly in the filtered moonlight.

Taking advantage of the matron’s absence, Flora Finlay sat down gingerly in the single uncomfortable wooden chair the ward offered, careful not to crush her starched uniform. After casting a covert glance at the door, she finally opened the letter that had been burning her inner pocket since early that morning. As Angus’s neat, precise letters swam before her, she chided herself for the twinge of disappointment, aware she should be thankful for any news at all. Unfolding the single sheet of flimsy paper, she held it close to the dim aureole of light escaping from under the battered shade of the solitary lamp and smiled. Angus’s writing reminded her of Miss Linton, their old governess, who on more than one occasion had made pointed comparisons between Gavin and Flora’s sloppy calligraphy and Angus’s perfectly formed loops.

Skimming the text rapidly, she jumped hopefully to the end, knowing it was silly but unable to help herself. Why couldn’t Gavin write something, however short, in his own hand, instead of sending vague messages through his twin? But that was Gavin, she realized with a sigh. Seeing him in her mind’s eye, bright-eyed and impulsive, she wondered why she expected him to be any different, when this was the way she loved him.

The letter was dated three weeks earlier and was postmarked from Arras, where the fighting on the western front was at its worst. Terrifying images of the twins, lying buried in the bloodied gut of a shell-torn trench, their features unrecognizable amidst the mass of mangled bodies, flashed through Flora’s mind in eerie succession. But she ousted them and instead concentrated her attention on the letter, knowing the matron could return at any minute.

Today it pours and we’re up to our calves in mud. The only trees that have survived the shelling are two stringy poplars to our right, but the landscape bears all the scars of war. After the last onslaught things have been fairly stalemate, but it is my feeling there is more to come. How they expect us to fight in this pockmarked, muddied mess beats me. There simply isn’t any suitable terrain for the kind of breakthrough we hope for.

But I’m rambling on about the war, when what you really want is news of your beloved Gavin.

We are in a front-line trench now. I know that sounds worse, but you mustn’t worry. Actually, it’s preferable. Gerry’s shells fly over us rather than straight at us—for now, at any rate.

Oh God, Flo! It all seems so bloody futile. We hammer them, they hammer us, and for what? I’m sure the German chaps, huddled in their muddy, lice-infested dugouts across no-man’s-land are asking themselves the same damn questions we are. Wishing they could get on with their lives, instead of being burrowed here like moles, for God knows how much longer, waiting to be wounded or die.

But once again I’ve deviated and I know you must be thoroughly impatient. Gavin is up to his old tricks, hobnobbing with the French, as I told you in my last letter. Now that they know we both speak the language fluently, they’ve selected us for all the liaison missions! Need I tell you whose idea that was? I hate every minute of it, but Gavin loves it. He is utterly fearless, and I have come to the conclusion that he thrives on danger. The other day he went on a reconnaissance mission where he all but got himself killed. I begged him not to go but he listens to no one, and is as determined and headstrong as ever. Unlike me, he is a true officer and leader of men. Even the seasoned soldiers listen to him, which is quite something. You can imagine how ridiculous it makes one feel, giving orders to a man old enough to be our grandfather, who knows much more than we ever will. There’s one old fellow in the unit who fought in South Africa and is probably the best man we have. Doesn’t it make you question a system that appoints young men like Gavin and me as officers, merely because we are gentlemen?

I have asked Gavin to write but he continues to claim he is a poor correspondent. He sends his love, as always, and says how much he misses you. I miss you too, Flora dearest, but I know that won’t make up for his not writing…

He had sent his love. She read quickly through to the end, then let the letter droop. Swallowing her disappointment, Flora reminded herself that to be ungrateful was to tempt fate. Then, folding the page carefully, she prayed that the two men she loved most were still alive. Too often she had witnessed the arrival of these precious letters from the front, seen the relief and joy they raised, only to be dashed hours later when it was learned they were to be the last.

She turned her thoughts to the ward, the smell of antiseptic and the stifled sighs coming from the iron beds, and rose, slipping the letter into her apron pocket. She winced as pain shot relentlessly from her ankles up her slim, shapely legs, stiff and swollen after forty-eight hours on duty. Not that Matron cared, she reflected bitterly. To her, the Voluntary Aid Detachments were nothing more than glorified slave labor. Never mind that many of them, by this stage of the war, were more knowledgeable than most of the young nurses brought in fresh from training.

Resolutely, Flora switched on her flashlight and straightened the intricate uniform that enveloped her diminutive figure like a suit of starched armor. She glanced sleepily at her watch before making her way past the row of narrow beds, her rubber soles squeaking eerily on the linoleum.

She lingered, staring sadly through the shadows at the bandaged remains of a generation. Months before, boys her own age had left for the front as brave young warriors, ready to conquer the world, only to return wounded forever in heart, body and soul. Each time her eye fell on a flat sheet where a limb should have been, her throat clenched, for try as she might she was unable to shut out the smothered moans and the heartrending aura of resignation. Six months of quivering stumps, the familiar hum of agony, and dressing wounds, some so horrific death would have been preferable, should have made her immune to these sights and sounds. But they hadn’t, and probably never would. The outer control she displayed was a necessary survival tool, one that she upheld bravely, aware that a calm front helped the suffering patients. But her soul wept, unable

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Part One 1917–1918

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Part One

1917–1918