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Clarissa’s hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Clary. What can I do?’
    Clarissa’s eyes were wide, burning with unshed tears. ‘I have to go home.’ She spoke slowly, mechanically.
    â€˜I’ll help you pack and go with you.’
    â€˜You’re on duty.’
    â€˜I’ve organised cover. I don’t have to return to the hospital until midday tomorrow. I came as soon as I heard you’d had a personal telephone call on the ward.’
    Everyone knew the only calls Matron allowed the switchboard to put through to working staff were ones that conveyed news of family bereavement.
    â€˜My father said Stephen was killed in the battle of Ctesiphon on the 22nd November. That’s over two weeks ago. For seventeen days I’ve been complaining Stephen hasn’t written and all that time he was dead and couldn’t … couldn’t …’
    Realising Clarissa was in shock Georgiana took her coat from the back of the door and wrapped it around her.
    â€˜I’ll help you pack. Then we’ll get a cab to the station.’
    â€˜You’ll come with me.’ Clarissa gripped Georgiana’s hand.
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜You have to help me.’
    â€˜Any way I can, Clary.’
    â€˜My father said I have to come home.’
    â€˜That’s understandable. Your parents will want to arrange a memorial service for Stephen.’
    â€˜You don’t understand, Georgie. My father says my mother’s had a nervous collapse and as Penny’s married and Stephen’s gone, I have to be the one to stay at home and look after her. He insists my duty as a daughter takes precedence over my career.ʼ

    Kut al Amara, Friday 10th December 1915
    â€˜Almost done, sir.’ Lieutenant Davies saluted Major Sandes and Crabbe as they approached the river. ‘Men are tightening the lashings on the pontoons now.’
    â€˜Planks look uneven.’ Sandes squinted sideways.
    â€˜Captain Harris’s men are seeing to that, sir.’
    â€˜It’s as fine a pontoon bridge as I’ve ever seen, Major Sandes,’ Crabbe complimented.
    â€˜Breakfast for the workers, gentlemen?’ Captain Peter Smythe strolled down the riverbank with a basket of rolls. Behind him, his bearer carried a tray of tin mugs and two jugs of steaming coffee.
    â€˜You Dorsets know how to live.’ Sandes helped himself to a roll.
    â€˜Where did you get this?’ Crabbe asked.
    â€˜Norfolks’ mess. I told their cook that their officers had been out all night helping Major Sandes.’
    â€˜They haven’t been near here.’
    â€˜I know that and you know that. The Norfolks’ cooks didn’t.’
    â€˜I like your style, Smythe.’ Sandes stared as a wave of Turkish infantry headed by an officer brandishing his sword rushed the far side of his bridge.
    â€˜Bollocks!’ Crabbe yelled to one of the Dorset privates, ‘Evans, get to HQ. Tell them we’re under attack.’
    â€˜Sergeant Lane,’ Peter shouted in the direction of the fort. ‘Troops out of the front trench. Now!’
    â€˜To the fray, gentlemen.’ Sandes unbuckled his pistol.
    â€˜The only way to stop them is to demolish the bridge, sir.’ Lieutenant Matthews picked up a fifty-pound gun cotton charge.
    â€˜Not at this end. It’ll be an invitation to use the remains on the far bank as a bridging point.’
    â€˜Then we’ll have to blow it up on the opposite bank.’ Peter took a second gun cotton charge from a private.
    â€˜It would be suicide to go over there,’ Sandes warned.
    â€˜Want to try your luck?’ Peter grinned at Matthews. The two of them jumped into a boat.
    â€˜Idiots!’ Crabbe shouted after them. He pulled Sandes into a sandbagged dugout.
    Peter and Mathews reached the centre of the river to be met by a barrage of Turkish gunfire.
    Major-General Mellis charged up harrying a contingent of reinforcements.