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a reply.
     
     
    Captain Carterton pushed aside his breakfast of deviled kidneys and snatched the letter from the silver tray with indecent haste. Leaving his unappetizing meal to congeal in its fatty gravy, he slit open the letter with his breakfast knife.
    “Business calls,” he barked at his fellow officers as he left the mess hall and made his way back to his tent to read Beatrice’s words in peace.
    Westminster, London, May 1880
     
    Dear Percy ,
    How wonderful to receive your reply. I was in the middle of my shift when my landlady arrived at the hospital with the welcome news there was a letter from South Africa waiting for me at home. It was torture to have to wait until I had finished my duties, where upon I ran home as quickly as I was able and immediately retired to the privacy of my room to open the envelope and savor the words you had written. I sat on the edge of my bed and carefully unfolded your pages. I can but scarcely imagine the conditions under which you put pen to paper, and yet your penmanship is impeccable!
    I laughed at your description of Teddy and his batting ability, I am sure you are exaggerating his abilities. My memories of us children playing cricket are that he would always be out on the first or second ball and then leave the game in a terrible huff. He found it severely demoralizing to be beaten by his elder sisters, even though we were twice his size.
    I do so hope you are never injured in battle, please do not even think such things. I have seen the beautiful bodies of young men scarred and disfigured by bullet and bayonet, and these are relatively simple wounds suffered during accidents in training exercises. I shudder to think of what happens to an untreated wound without proper care and attention.
    The poor wretches I have helped to heal are laid out under the ether, their naked bodies exposed while the surgeons repair their injuries. I do so hope that I never see your body in this state.
    Please do not think of me as an improper woman, talking of such matters, but I am a nurse, trained to heal. The male body is one of God’s most beautiful creations, and it is so sad to see it broken.
    Thinking of you ,
Beatrice
     
    P.S.—I blush to the very roots of my hair to write this, but I suspect it would be rather nice to see your soldier’s body, as long as it was not on the operating table. B.
     
    The postscript brought a smile to his heart. She was bold, his Beatrice. Bold, and just a little bit saucy. She was no shrinking violet, but a woman with a frank appreciation of the good things in life and the wisdom to let a man know what she wanted. As a nurse she would be used to seeing male bodies, old or sick though her patients might be. There was no false modesty about her, no pretences.
    He liked a woman who enjoyed lovemaking as openly as he did. Beatrice, he could tell by her tone, would be such a woman.
    He lingered over the letter as long as he dared before he strode on to the parade ground, his hair slicked back, his moustaches waxed, his uniform freshly laundered and free of wrinkles, and his boots gleaming with fresh polish. The precious letter was tucked for safekeeping into his jacket pocket.
    His men were sprawled on the scanty grass, their uniforms in the dust. He frowned at their slackness and called an order at them to come to attention, his voice ringing through the veld.
    One by one, they lazily got to their feet and slouched to attention. One of them didn’t even bother to get up from his seat on the ground, but gave a halfhearted attempt at a salute from where he sat.
    Standing back, he surveyed them with a critical eye. Months of boredom and inactivity had softened them and made them unfit for anything.
    Their uniforms were messy, and their boots dull and coated in dust. Even their rifles, on which their life would one day depend, bore the telltale signs of neglect. All in all, they looked like a bunch of draggle-tailed misfits rather than a crack regiment of