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quickly as his burden and the terrain would permit, not a thought in his head – it was like a white light had flooded his mind; a searing white of emptiness with only the burn from his body begging to unload the cargo, and a distant voice that only he could hear now bleeding into that space with urgings to look at his boots. Concentrate on each footfall and the potential traps beneath. Time, space, his whole life distilled to where he would place his next stride – left, right, straight ahead? Watch that crevice, look out for that bush, don’t get too close to the edge, stay close to the edge, follow the main ravine down to Anzac Cove. He couldn’t see the beach from here, especially from his crouched stance, but he knew it was there, knew how to reach it.
You’ve done this descent enough times!
Suddenly his inner voice sounded like his father.
You fetch water every other day from the beaches. It’s no different. Zigzag, Jamie!
His father yelled as a sniper found his range and a rifle cracked on the heights and its bullet whizzed at him, ripping through his uniform, and he felt the sting of it against his calf. He’d been grazed. Lucky.
Control is everything
, his father used to say when teaching him to ride, even though Jamie had been eager to gallop.
Take her one step at a time
.
    He wouldn’t fall, he wouldn’t trip, he wouldn’t give up . . . he wouldn’t let his mate down. He thought of Pippy and how tirelessly she worked because he asked her to. It didn’t matter how hot the sun blazed, or how many hours they were in the field, Pippy wouldn’t stop because Jamie needed her. And Jamie wouldn’t stop now because Spud needed him and no Johnny Turk was going to have the chance to shoot him in the back. He thought of the music he played most nights with his enemy and wondered if that soldier was shooting at him right now.
    His thoughts were roaming.
Stay focused.
‘Spud?’
    Nothing.
    â€˜Spud!’
    â€˜It’s your shout,’ Spud mumbled and Jamie helplessly began to leak tears around his grim smile.
    â€˜Hang in there, Harry,’ he whispered, more for himself as he encountered a familiar nullah he had negotiated so many times previously. ‘We’re halfway, mate.’

3
    The noise of shelling and rapid gunfire this close was disorienting as well as terrifying. Claire was momentarily paralysed the moment she set foot on the beach, as though her feet had taken root. The smell of tar and wet timbers of the hastily erected jetties broke through the familiar aroma of smoke that permeated the hospital ship. The soft late spring breeze brought the earthy whiff of animal dung and, curiously, soap. She blinked at the men who were laughing and bathing in the water, some drying themselves with their shirts and others racing each other down to the water as though they were at the seaside.
    The scene around her was surreal. Groans from the wounded and dying mingled with the braying of mules and voices of joshing soldiers, while a dislocated man’s voice on a megaphone barked orders that she presumed someone was following. In the distance and over the last few minutes the shelling had suddenly gone quiet and all she could now hear was the soft, infrequent crack of gunfire. She could swear a bird was singing somewhere too. It was like hell’s version of a holiday resort. And cheese . . . why could she smell cheese?
    A Turkish shell obligingly landed thirty yards from where she stood, exploding in the water to snap her from her stupor. The shock of watching explosive, unexpected death arrive so callously made Claire gasp with horror.
    Her guide, Gupta, who was clearly used to these scenes, pleaded with a frantic gaze at her. ‘Please, madam,’ he urged, his head shaking in that Indian way. ‘Please,’ he repeated, herding her off the makeshift jetty towards the cliff face and its relative protection to the