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It was the by far worst thing he had experienced during the war, possibly the worst thing he had experienced in his long life. Henry knew he would never stop smelling the decay and the human ordure. He would never stop seeing the emaciated bodies and never forget what he had learned of the perversion of medical science. Even three months after the bulldozers had shovelled the last of the bodies into the mass graves, and Rabbi Levy had spoken the last prayers over them, the camp still smelt… evil. He had no other word for it.

He felt sick at heart. The only thing that made any sense now was the work. He was one of a group of Allied doctors and nurses redeployed to support the work of the Polish Red Cross. Now he spent twelve to sixteen hours a day organising care and documenting the conditions. He was reading through the records left by the Nazi camp scientists and doctors and sending reports back to London. That was becoming unbearable too: these men were medical men, trained as he was… how could they have been party to this? To such a dreadful perversion of medicine and research, research that, as far as he could tell from the appallingly detailed records, was neither productive nor even scientific. The things done to the Jewish women, particularly, in the name of science were… he had no words.  Disgusting. Depraved. Corrupt. Immoral.  None of these were strong enough. He had to settle on “evil”.

The one bright light in the darkness was the small baby found in the camp. He was less than six months old and both healthy and happy. Henry had grown fond of the little one. Henry couldn’t imagine how the mother had achieved it but the child had evidently been breastfed until very recently. He was developmentally normal and responded to adults without fear, which meant the woman who bore him had not only managed to feed him, but had summoned the mental energy to play with her baby and socialise him. Henry wanted to believe she had survived, but no one recognised or claimed the child. It was most likely she had either starved to death, or had been part of one of the forced marches. Her courage and effort had preserved her child both physically and mentally. She must, he thought, have been a formidable woman.

His first sight of the baby was on one of the worst nights. It was not long after he had arrived and he had been crawling amongst the dead and dying for hours, performing triage. He marked the dead for removal and split the barely living into the potentially saveable to be moved to the hastily established hospital, and the ones who would inevitably die. Those he left, even though he ached to do it. The stench filled his nostrils and he could taste death on his tongue. He focussed solely on the important thing: save as many as possible.

Finally he had to rest. He staggered to his feet, his lower back burning with fatigue, his shoulders tight and his head aching. He felt tainted both physically and mentally. Straightening painfully he saw one of the soldiers offering something to one of the more mobile prisoners.

“No!” he shouted, “Nothing to eat!” The young soldier stared at him in confusion. He shook his head.

“They can’t eat normal food,” he said more quietly. “They’ve starved too long. I know you want to help but you can’t. Proper food may kill them.”

The young man just stared at him and Henry could see his own horror mirrored and multiplied in the wide eyes. “Just… just follow orders,” he said wearily, no energy left for anything else.

He headed back to the HQ tent. He needed to rehydrate, regardless of the guilt he felt in drinking so freely amongst these poor wretches. As he left the camp he pulled off his helmet, dragging a dirty sleeve across a dirty face. It didn’t help much. He was about to go for water when a vision stopped him.

A woman, turning. A beautiful, blonde woman with fair skin and a luminous smile as though she had just discovered something so wonderful she couldn’t believe it.

“Are you a doctor?”

She was almost lost in her greatcoat and the baby cradled in her arms was wrapped in a rough wool blanket. Against the ugliness of the camp and the grey snow falling, she and the baby seemed to glow.

For a moment he could only stare and then, pulling himself together, he approached her and examined the child. In that moment he forgot his thirst and his despair because here, in this chubby infant, was health and life, and in this English nurse he saw kindness and compassion to set against the death and cruelty he was drowning in.

“The PRC have baby milk, I think,” he told her, touching the baby’s hand, finding optimism in the strong fingers that curled round his.

She jogged the child in her arms. Her smile was like sunlight and he knew he was gazing at her, taking strength in this tiny interlude of beauty and hope. Such a little thing to balance against the abomination of this work and yet he knew he would keep this moment carefully preserved in his memory, to be revisited it when things threatened to overwhelm him.

The nurse left to find food and clothing for the infant in her arms. Henry drank water and returned with reluctant steps to his assessment of the dead and dying.

As he approached the huge gates with their slogan in wrought iron he heard a voice cursing in English and saw another RAMC doctor huddled against the gatepost.

“Fuck, shit, bollocks -” The figure was hunched over. The stream of profanity continued in a pronounced Scottish accent.

“Are you alright?” Henry asked as he drew near.

“Oh aye,” the man sneered. “I’m just dandy.” He was trying to light a cigarette but between the wind and his violently shaking hands he was failing.

Henry took the lighter from him and lit the cigarette. The man took a long drag and nodded.

“Thanks.” He offered Henry the pack with hands that still shook. “Never seen anything like it,” he muttered. “Never smelt anything like it.”

“No,” Henry agreed, feeling the nicotine soothing his own nerves.

“What the fuck do they expect us to do?” the man asked, his voice unsteady. “What the fuck can we do?”

Henry thought of the nurse and the baby. “We do what we always do,” he said quietly. “We save as many as we can.”

“And how many will that be?”

“Not enough,” Henry admitted. “But remember what you learned in medical school. You can’t save everyone. However small the number is that we help, that’s more than if we don’t try.”

The man seemed to be calming a little. He took a last drag on his cigarette and ground it out beneath his heel. He held out a filthy hand.

“Russell Collins. I got here this morning.”

Henry shook his hand. “Henry Morgan. Day two.”

“Christ,” said Collins. “Look, I’ve got some booze in my pack. You want a drink when we finally get sent off?”

Henry recognised this for the unspoken thanks it was. “Yes,” he said, realising how much the idea appealed. Anything to blank out the memory of the day.

“Come on,” he said and they went back to work.

Collins had been allocated to the empty cot in the tent Henry shared with two other Allied doctors. They were both assigned to treating the inmates sent to the rapidly improvised hospital and often slept on seats or spare mattresses there.

Henry dropped onto his cot with a groan. He’d been awake for twenty hours and was back on duty in ten. He threw his helmet onto the floor but otherwise stretched out fully dressed. He was filthy and he could smell himself - not just his own sweat but death, waste, decay and disease. He kept telling himself this was not forever, this was just an appalling experience that would one day be over, but part of him refused to be convinced. He lit one of his last cigarettes and sucked the smoke in eagerly even as he felt the tightness in his chest.

“Here,” Collins was rummaging in his pack. He pulled out a bottle of Polish vodka. “Got a mug?”

Henry reached into his pack and excavated his tin mug. Collins slopped the alcohol into both their mugs, not stopping until they were over half full. He raised his mug to Henry.

“Cheers,” he said grimly and took a huge swallow.

Henry followed suit and the spirit burned a line down his oesophagous. After a moment he felt the tension in his shoulders start to release. He decided this was an excellent idea and followed Collins’ lead in finishing that mug rapidly. Collins topped them both up and they ended up sitting on the floor, leaning back against Henry’s cot.

They talked for a long time that night. Collins showed Henry the photograph he carried of his parents, his sister and his ten year old niece.

“Her father bought it in forty-one,” he said. “Battle of Britain. Eleanor was only six.”

Henry pursed his lips in sympathy.

“Yeah,” Collins rubbed his forehead tiredly. “It’s going to be so hard for her and Shona without James. He was a great guy. I really liked him.” He took a breath. “But they’ll have me. I have to get through this so I can be there for them.” He shook his head. “What about you? Where’s your family?”

“I haven’t got one,” said Henry.

“What, no one?” Collins asked. “No uncles, aunts, cousins twice removed?”

He shook his head. “No one.”

“No best girl back home waiting for you?”

“No.”

“God,” said Collins. “I can’t imagine that. My family are all over the place.”

They finished the bottle and retired to bed. Later that night Henry woke to what sounded like muffled sobs from the cot opposite. He said nothing but made sure to stick close to Collins over the next few days. In return Collins drank with him each night - as he said in his usual blunt fashion, if they hadn’t got blind drunk every night, they would have gone stark staring mad.

He next saw the baby from the camp several days later, when his work was finally with those who might still survive. The nurses had set up the boy’s cot where he could be seen and spoken to as they went about their work. He had become something of a mascot for them all. Henry couldn’t resist lifting the sturdy child from his cot.

“Well, hello there,” he murmured. “Look at you; I think you’re the healthiest person here. And I’m including the staff, just so you know.”

There was a stifled giggle from behind him and he turned sheepishly. The blonde nurse from that dreadful night was behind him.

“I think you’re right,” she said gravely. “He’s the best fed, the happiest and certainly the most cuddled.”

She was still beautiful – blonde, clear pale skin, soft curves to her face, but she seemed more human and approachable now. There were dark shadows beneath her slightly bloodshot eyes and she looked weary. Her hair was working free of its victory roll and she smelt faintly of sweat, though he was surprised he could smell her over himself.  They all did their best but, with heavy work, heavy clothes and poor washing facilities, it was rarely good enough.

“I’m surprised anyone ever puts him down,” he said as the child made a grab for his shoulder strap.

“His name is Abraham,” the nurse said. “Doctor…?” She raised her eyes enquiringly.

“Morgan,” he said, distracted by Abraham now grabbing for his face.

“Nurse Rayne,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Henry managed as one of the baby’s fingers went up his nose. Nurse Rayne laughed and took the child from him.

She had a lovely laugh. It went with the rest of her.

He went back to his work, cheered by the pair of them.

As time went by the work became less acutely horrific but remained hard, heart breaking and never ending. The days fell into a routine grind of sixteen hour shifts and too many deaths: thousands of the camp inmates died despite their best efforts. Henry spent long hours trying to create a solution with a decent caloric load that could be tolerated by people whose digestion did not function.

Everyone coped with the conditions in their own way. In Henry’s tent, Bailey, a bearded black American with small round spectacles, had set up an illicit still and spent much of his off duty time tending it and trading the product. The rest of the time he spent with a pretty English nurse called Jenny who had made no secret of her fascination with his pronounced southern accent. Taylor, a muscular dark haired Irishman who looked more like a navvy than a doctor, spent his time scribbling in a notebook in tiny handwriting. Henry didn’t know if it was fiction or a journal and hadn’t asked as Taylor was almost as private as himself. The man did love sport though and spent the time he wasn’t writing trying to organise various team events. Quite where he found the energy was a mystery to all of them.

Collins was a ladies’ man. Henry had already lost count of the times the man would stagger into their tent smelling of perfume with an air of post coital languor about him.

“You want to get out,” Collins told him one night as he threw himself down on his cot and lit a Woodbine. He stretched luxuriously. “And by get out, I mean get – “

“Thank you,” Henry interrupted from his recumbent position. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Well then. I could set you up. The nurses like you. It’s that quiet, gentlemanly, mysterious thing you have going on. Gets them all going.” He flicked ash vaguely in the direction of a tin mug. “What about that Ruby?”

“Hmmm?” Henry asked discouragingly from behind the journal he was trying to read. They’d had this conversation several times over.

“You know. Ruby. Dark hair, American, the one with the…” Collins made curving motions over his chest.

Henry thought. “Nurse Kuyper? The one who can pass a nasogastric tube on absolutely anyone?”

Collins took another drag. “Really? That’s how you remember her?”

“Actually, yes. I told you, Russ, I’m not interested.” Henry had noticed the way Nurse Kuyper filled out a uniform but noticing was one thing, doing anything was entirely another.

“You’re male. You’re healthy. Of course you’re interested.”

Henry heaved a deep sigh and dropped the journal he was reading on the floor. “Could we just pretend I’m not healthy and leave it at that?”

“What,” Collins squinted at him. “What do you mean, not healthy? What, are you telling me you’re a nancy boy like Taylor, or something?”

“Oh for god’s sake!” Henry snapped. “No! And if Taylor hears you call him that he’ll chuck you in the river.”

Collins ignored this. “Well, what about little Abigail then?”

“Abigail?”

“The posh blonde bit. The one who makes sure she has her break at the same time as you. Ruby’s friend.”

“Oh, her,” Henry tried to sound dismissive. “The nurse who found the baby.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Collins stubbed his cigarette out. “I’ve seen you look at her. I’ve seen you smile at her. And I’ve seen her smile at you. I tell you, she’d be up for it. With you anyway,” he added grudgingly.

Henry failed to suppress a smile. “You mean she turned you down? I thought the famous Collins charm never failed.”

“Almost never. I think she’s too interested in someone else.”

Henry decided to ignore Collins and go back to European advances in the manufacture of Penicillin. While he was far too tired to consider getting up, the journal was just about in reach if he stretched.  He flicked it open and hid his face behind the pages.

He had noticed how often Nurse Rayne appeared for breaks at the same time as him. And lunch. He spent more time talking to her than anyone else except Collins and their other two tent mates. She was intelligent, funny and perceptive and he did like her very much. But that was all, he reminded himself sternly, he couldn’t offer a woman anything without revealing his secret. While he certainly didn’t think less of Collins or his women for snatching a little pleasure in the middle of all this - god knew he was no stranger to a purely sexual encounter - but right here, right now, he didn’t have the energy or the will to deal with the rituals leading up to an rendezvous and having to deal with seeing that person every day afterwards.

A professional friendship with Nurse Rayne was appropriate and perfectly satisfying.

And if he found himself thinking about her in his cot, during snatched moments of privacy, well, he was healthy and it was harmless. It meant nothing.

He was collating the trial results of another nutrient solution when Collins came crashing through the door, white coat tails flapping.

“Have you seen?” he demanded.

“What?” asked Henry warily, filling in the last column of his chart.

This solution had promise. The key seemed to be in the balance of protein and fats. Too much fat content and patients experienced rapid intestinal transit which meant little absorption and exhausting diarrhoea with concomitant dehydration. Too much protein content and the patients could develop encephalitis.

“USO dance. Two weeks’ time.”

“Oh.” Henry said, still calculating ratios in his head.

Collins groaned in theatrical frustration. “Oh? Is that it? Oh?”

Henry closed his lab book. “Yes. Oh. What did you expect me to say?”

“Well, I expected a bit more enthusiasm,” his friend said as he perched one hip on the desk. “Come on! Music, dancing, booze.  All those lonely nurses looking for a cuddle.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best to satisfy them.”

“I always do,” Collins smirked. “That’s why I’m so popular.”

Henry leaned back in his chair and gave him a sceptical look. “And I thought they gave in just to shut you up.”

Collins clutched at his chest. “Morgan, you wound me! I always show my ladies a good time.”

His only response was an indulgent nod.

“I do!” He grinned. “I’ll give you some tips if you like?”

“No!” Henry said rapidly. “No, thank you, Russ. I’m fairly sure I can muddle through on my own should the occasion… ah… arise,” he added drily.

Collins laughed. “But you’re going, right?”

Henry filed the ledger and pulled his white coat from the back of door. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” Henry went back to the improvised wards.

The next time he ran into Collins was in the communal showers at the end of the shift. Collins launched into the offensive as though there had been no gap in the conversation.

“Why not?” he demanded, soaping his arms.

“What?” Henry wet his hair.

“Why aren’t you going to the dance?”

His groan was probably muffled by the water. “Not interested, Russ.”

“I don’t understand you!” Collins rinsed off and wrapped a threadbare towel round his waist. He parked himself at the end of Henry’s stall. “You’re popular with the girls, you’re,” he peered over the divider, “fairly good-looking - ”

“Oh, thank you,” Henry said caustically, rinsing soap out of his eyes. “I’m so glad I have the Russell Collins seal of approval.” He turned round, hands spread wide. “Have you seen enough?”

Collins grinned, utterly unconcerned. “Come on, it’s purely academic. I’m just pointing out you’re depriving some poor woman of a perfectly acceptable male body. It’s not charitable, Henry.”

Henry shut off the water and started towelling himself. “Look, dancing, girls… for me it doesn’t work here, alright? All this,” he waved his hand vaguely at the walls of the shower tent. “It’s not exactly a conducive ambience.”

“Ambience? Henry, we’re talking sex. Mutual comfort and pleasure, not the romance of the century.”

Collins turned away and busied himself with his clothes.

“Look Henry,” he said, at last. “I’m serious now. You work extra hours, you read medical journals in the evening. You don’t get drunk any more. We all need something to keep us going in this hell hole. What do you have? Nothing, that’s what.”

“I’m fine,” Henry said quickly, before the feeling of emptiness evoked by Collins words threatened to overwhelm him. He ruthlessly pushed the feeling away. Feeling was a mistake here. The emotional numbness that had begun to develop was a welcome relief from the pain of the early days.

Collins made a sceptical noise. “You don’t sleep well, you don’t eat enough, you don’t do anything fun. You ignore all of the very lovely ladies who would like to be friends. You won’t even come to listen to some music.”

“I will enjoy the peace and quiet of an empty tent.” Henry slung a towel around his neck. “If it will make you happy, I promise to use the time to masturbate. Slowly and luxuriously, while I have privacy. Do we have a deal?”

“Well, I suppose it’s a step in the right direction,” Collins grunted.

If Henry thought that was to be the end of the matter he had underestimated both Collins and the nurses. He lost track of the number of women who casually asked him if he was planning to attend and if he was meeting anyone there. He deflected the enquiries vaguely, neither promising he would attend nor assuring them he wouldn’t. He began to take note of the nurses who hinted that they might want a dance. He was surprised and a little flattered when he worked out that almost every nurse had approached him. He knew the nurses liked him but he had put it down to the fact he wasn’t chasing after them all the time. He wondered if Collins might actually have a point about his popularity.

One notable exception was Nurse Rayne. Well, a woman as beautiful and personable as she was probably had men queueing up to squire her. Young men.  Men her own age. Men who could give her all of themselves.  And that was good, he told himself, she deserved that. He was an old man and would sit in the tent quietly with a book and enjoy the peace. And maybe keep his deal with Collins. Everything was as it should be.

As he entered the makeshift ward he shoved the door so hard he nearly knocked Nurse Kuyper off her feet and spent the next few minutes apologising profusely.

He had just sat down with a coffee when Collins flopped down next to him. The man dropped his forehead onto the table with a groan.

“Tired?” Henry asked innocently. Collins had rolled in at about 4am for a 6am start.

“Ha ha. Yes, and it was worth it.”

“Who was the lucky lady this time?”

“Franny. Works over in Taylor’s and Bailey’s section.”

Henry thought. “Dark hair? Sits talking to some of the elderly patients in her own time?”

“Does she?”

“I think so.”

Collins pulled himself upright and helped himself to a slurp of coffee. With a sigh, Henry pushed the cup towards him and fetched another. He was rewarded with a grateful punch on the shoulder.

“People have been asking me about you,” Collins said, before burying his face in the coffee again.

“Really? Why?” Henry didn’t like people talking about him or even noticing him. He tried hard not to be noticed. He was beginning to realise that he had been unsuccessful in this, at least as far as the nurses were concerned.

“The ladies are eager to know who you’re meeting at the dance, if anyone.”

“As I’m not planning to attend, the answer would be no one.”

“You’re going to disappoint a lot of very nice women.”

“I’m sure they’ll survive,” Henry said, sipping his drink. “There’s no shortage of available men to comfort them. In fact I’m doing my fellow service men a favour by opting out. Evens up the odds a little.”

“Ah,” said Collins, waving his mug, “but it’s you I keep getting asked about. I told you, it’s that air of mystery you project. Women can’t resist it.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should try it.”

Henry snorted. “Air of mystery? You? You’d never manage it. First pretty face and you’d be spilling everything in an attempt to charm her out of her knickers.”

“So you do do it deliberately, then?”

“Is this seat taken?”

Henry turned to see Nurse Rayne with a coffee. “No, not at all,” he said, standing and pulling the wooden chair out for her. “Please.”

She sat with a ladylike groan. The circles under her eyes were large and she was very pale. She didn’t look much better than Collins. Henry realised he was glad he knew who Collins’s partner of the night before had been or he might have wondered… but, he reminded himself sharply, there were other men in the hospital and if she had a fancy for one of them, or found some relief from the oppressive nature of the work that way, it was none of his business.

He realised they were both looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was woolgathering.”

Collins grinned. “I was just asking Rayne if she thought your air of mystery is deliberately cultivated to tantalise the fair sex.”

He rolled his eyes as Nurse Rayne stifled a laugh behind her hand.

“And I said that anything that well done had to be natural – it would be far too much effort to put on such a flawless act all the time,” she said.

“Oh, I’m not mysterious,” Henry said. “Rather boring, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Nurse Rayne said sincerely. “I find you very interesting, Doctor Morgan.”

He looked at her in surprise. Was she teasing him? Flirting, even? Well, it was the common currency of communication between the men and women here. She gazed steadily back, a slight smile on her face. Every time he looked at her it felt like he experienced her beauty for the first time again. Even in her unflattering khaki battle dress and apron with something unpleasant staining the hem, her hands dry and cracked from the harsh carbolic soap, and her hair pulled back from her face she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met.

He realised he was staring and Collins was making no attempt to hide his laughter.

“Thank you, Nurse Rayne,” he said gravely. “However I think any interest I might appear to have is probably unduly exaggerated by being continually found next to a trained chimp.”

“Hey!” Collins protested.

“I am very aware of Doctor Collins… attributes,” she said, her expression inviting him to join the joke. “Most of the nurses are. I assure you I am quite capable of judging you without resorting to unflattering comparisons.”

Collins cleared his throat. He gave Henry a vengeful look and took Nurse Rayne’s hand. “I must apologise for anything unflattering you’ve heard about me,” he said to her, tone sincere and intimate, as he gazed into her eyes, “I hate the idea that lovely lady such as yourself would think badly of me.”

He ignored Henry’s snort. Nurse Rayne supported her head on her free hand, looking amused.

“Why don’t you let me show you who I am,” Collins continued, now sounding vulnerable though his smile was warm and he ran his thumb over her knuckles. “You could come for a walk with me. The river is beautiful and it’s good to be reminded of something that is.”

Nurse Rayne freed her hand. “And the stars look simply amazing, like someone has thrown milk across dark water?” she said in a sing-song voice.

Collins mouth hung open. “What?”

“Well, isn’t that the next line?” she asked. “I suppose etchings are a bit old fashioned.”

Henry couldn’t suppress his laughter. Nurse Rayne discretely covered her mouth but her eyes were dancing.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “But you know how ladies gossip.”

A look of apprehension crossed Collins’s face. “You… gossip about me?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Well, there aren’t many ways of relieving tension, are there? So we gossip. And, well, you’re kind enough to provide us all with a wealth of material.”

Collins was now looking terrified.

“Several of us were awoken this morning by a rather drunken friend crashing into our cots.” Nurse Rayne continued, “As it was nearly 4 am and we had to get up at 5 we all joined in sobering her up and hearing about her evening.”

“Umm, really?”

“Yes,” she leaned across the table and whispered, “I know where your birthmark is.”

Collins shot a helpless look at Henry and then a hasty glance at his watch. “Good Lord, is that the time? I need to get back.”

Nurse Rayne joined in Henry’s laughter as Collins rapidly left the room.

He held out his hand to shake hers. “That was wonderful,” he told her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that wrong footed.”

“I lost two hours sleep to him and Franny,” she said. “I’m afraid I was feeling a bit like revenge.”

“Good. He fell over my bed.  Don’t worry, he’ll recover. Nothing keeps Collins down for long.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing,” she said. “Being able to bounce back is an enviable capacity here.” She glanced up at him, a little sadly. “How do you deal with all this?”

I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I just put one foot in front of the other. Do the job. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Admirably philosophical,” she said. “What happens when your feet won’t keep going?”

He cleared his throat, not sure what to say. “We got drunk,” he offered. “Every night at first.” He knew she understood what he wasn’t saying, how the sheer unrelenting misery of those early days had taken a deep mental toll on all of them.

Her look was far away for a moment. “That might have helped but they police us more strictly than you. We cried, for hours sometimes. We’d sit together and hug each other but I suppose one gets used to anything after a while; even human laundry and being deloused on a regular basis.”

They were silent for a moment. They’d all experienced decontamination but the “human laundry” – the disinfecting of the camp, the repeated cleaning, shaving and delousing of the prisoners – that awful job had been carried out by the nurses.

“Do they really forbid you alcohol?” he asked, curiously. He had never considered what conditions were like for the nurses and VADs.

“Not exactly,” Nurse Rayne replied. “But being drunk would definitely lead to being disciplined.” She lowered her voice, confidentially. “Of course we get Bailey’s moonshine but we have to be very discreet.”

He glanced at his watch. A few more minutes should be fine.

“So, is that really how you deal with things, now? Gossip about Collins and his ilk?”

Her smile was impish. “Actually Doctor Collins is old, dull news now. We’ve all heard about his methods repeatedly.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “There’s certainly no mystery there, if you know what I mean.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers for several long seconds. He was tongue tied and flustered.

“I, er, I’d better get back,” he mumbled and fled.

Collins was in a peevish mood that evening, pacing round the small space, and Henry was nearly ready to throw something at him.

“Look,” he said, “Did you imagine your… activities… were a secret? In a community this small? If so, you’re a fool.”

Collins sucked hard on his Woodbine. “I didn’t think women talked about,” he waved his hands in the air, “that kind of thing.”

“Well, I think you were wrong,” Henry said torn between irritation and amusement. He tried to take pity on his friend. “What’s the problem? Both you and the nurses seem to be on exactly the same page. That sounds ideal, doesn’t it?”

“Men’re supposed to be the hunters,” Collins said, sulkily. “We have to have the thrill of the chase.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“It’s not natural, women aren’t supposed to pursue men.”

Henry thought back over more than a hundred years of knowing women as an apparently eligible thirty-five year old. He was well aware women did chase men, even hunt them, especially back when the only career for a woman was marriage and care of a family home. He suspected Collins would have been deeply afraid of the 19^th Century young ladies and their ruthless Mamas. Women might be restricted in their pursuit by social conventions but, in his experience, that just made them more imaginative and determined.

“Well,” he said, “the alternative is curtail your nightly, ah, active duty, and learn to love your dominant hand.”

Collins made a strangled noise. “That’s for boys!” he protested. “And you,” he added nastily.

Henry finally gave in to his instincts, reached into his pack and threw a stick of shaving soap hard at his friend. Collins ducked and retrieved the bar from the floor. He shamelessly tucked it inside his own pack.

“Anything else you want to throw me?” he asked hopefully. “Chocolate? Rations? French letters which are completely wasted on you?”

“I’ve eaten the chocolate and the rations and the one French letter I had is over my rifle barrel.” Henry held up empty hands. “Everything else you have already had from me. However,” he leaned down and fished under his bed, “this came for you today.” He pulled the battered cardboard box out and chucked it to Collins.

“Hey,” Collins exclaimed. “Care package from Mum and Dad!” He grinned, his mood shifting in an instant.

He tore into the cardboard pulling out two envelopes and a starting to excavate the contents. “Tea, fruit cake, hey!” he held something knitted up, “new socks, thank god. Aww, Mum’s knitted me a scarf!” He brought out a second, smaller brown package. and examined it then grinned.

“This is for you,” he said, lobbing the box at Henry.

“Me?” Henry asked startled. “What do you mean?”

Collins started ripping his letters open, avoiding looking at Henry. “Well,” he said sounding a bit embarrassed. “I last wrote to them a couple of days after I got here and, you know, I didn’t tell them much. God, I don’t want them to ever know about this! But I mentioned you and said you hadn’t got anyone.” He shrugged.

Henry allowed the moment to drop and tore into his own parcel. A pack of tea, two pairs of socks and a red knitted scarf.  For a moment he felt his throat constrict and his vision blurred. He swallowed and cleared his throat, keeping his head down.

“That’s,” his voice cracked. “That’s really nice of them. You must give me their address so I can thank them.”

“Be careful,” said Collin absently, deep in his letters. “They’ll be inviting you for Christmas and trying to set you up with Shona.”

After a few minutes he dropped the pages on the floor and lay back. He glanced at Henry twice, quickly looking away each time to stare at the tent roof. There was silence that suggested he was building up to something. Finally he spoke:

“Dance is in five days.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Why don’t you come?”

Henry groaned. “Still not interested, Russ.”

“”Why not?” Collins sounded frustrated. “It’s just a dance, Henry. One evening to forget about all this,” he gestured at the tent flap. “Find a nice girl who likes you and, believe me, you’re spoiled for choice, dance a bit, have a bit of a cuddle, maybe a bit of mutually satisfactory stress relief - where’s the harm?”

“I don’t need a girl.” Henry sighed. “Look, Russ, I appreciate it but it’s too much effort at the moment.”

Collins looked appraisingly at Henry. “I’ve been thinking about that Abigail,” he said.

“Oh, yes?” Henry kept his voice casual.

“Well,” Collins lit a cigarette. “She’s pining over you and you aren’t interested so,” he glanced sideways at Henry. “I thought she might need a bit of cheering up, you know.”

“I really don’t think she’s interested in you,” he said then cursed himself for jumping in too quickly.

The other man smiled slowly, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Maybe she doesn’t think she is but…” he trailed off then added, “but after the excitement of dancing all night, a few glasses of wine, the adoration of an extremely handsome man- ”

“I’m sorry, are we still talking about you?”

“And she may come to be more receptive to my charms.”

“I very much doubt that!” Henry snapped before he could stop himself.

Collins was laughing at him. “See? You like her.”

“She’s a very pleasant, very intelligent young woman. Yes, I like her. And you are about as subtle as a tank.”

“If you don’t come to the dance, I’ll dance with her all night.”

“If she wants to dance with you, I can’t stop her.” He realised he was grinding his teeth and relaxed his jaw.

“Come along and you might get a chance to,” Collins rolled his eyes, “talk to her. And then you can stand there and watch her dance with other men. Doesn’t sound like fun to me but whatever gets you off. I don’t judge.”

“You don’t have much room to!”

His friend grinned. “Henry, Henry, Henry, come to the dance! Have a drink, listen to some music, look at some pretty girls. Moon over Nurse Rayne.”

Henry let his head flop back on his pillow. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone? And shut up about Nurse Rayne.”

“Absolutely.”

He let out a huge sigh. “Oh, very well then. But I warn you, I’m not dancing.”

If Henry had thought the small community couldn’t get more excited over the next five days, he was wrong. The nurses seemed to be constantly clustered in small groups haggling over clothes and small sundry items and the men traded for the dubious product of Bailey’s illicit still, cigarettes and, after two orderlies and a member of the Polish Red Cross drove a jeep to and from Krakow, Brylcreem, aftershave, good soap, razor blades and French letters. Henry traded a pair of socks without holes for two new razor blades and his old woollen scarf for a tin of Brylcreem.

His preparations consisted purely of washing and pressing his least worn uniform, cleaning his shoes and belt to a shine with cooking oil stolen from under the nose of the Nursing Sister in charge of the kitchens and then scrubbing himself well at the end of the work day.

He lay stretched out on his cot, fully dressed, with his hands supporting his neck so that his newly styled and Brylcreemed hair wouldn’t get crushed and disarranged.  He was washed, shaved smooth and had allowed himself a drop of what remained of his bottle of aftershave. Collins was still fussing with his hair, trying to arrange it using the reflective inner of an old biscuit tin lid. Henry had already decided he wasn’t going to reveal he had bartered a spare compact mirror from Nurse Parker.

Finally satisfied, Collins pulled his uniform jacket on over his shirt and braces. “Ready?” he asked Henry.

“For about twenty minutes.”

“Has anyone ever pointed out how smug you are?”

They both pulled their greatcoats on and headed for the mess tent assembly point. One truck full of nurses was just leaving as they pulled themselves up into the rear of the next. It was nearly full and they squashed onto the end of the bench seat, hanging tightly to the hoops as they bounced over the rutted roads.

Bailey passed round a couple of wine bottles of his moonshine. Collins took a long pull and passed the bottle to Henry who, in the spirit of one who might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, took a long drink himself. The liquor was raw and burned his throat but warmed him down to his stomach. Collins threw an arm round his shoulder and started a raucous chorus of The Piccadilly Song. Henry shrugged, laughed and joined in.

I don't want to be a soldier,
I don't want to go to war;
I'd rather hang around
Piccadilly underground,
Living on the earnings of a high born lady;

From the ragged sound of the voices a decent quantity of alcohol had already been consumed. As the bottle passed again Henry took another drink. He inwardly gave thanks for his alcohol tolerance, built up in a time when a gentleman might down two or more bottles of wine with each meal followed by port or spirits in the evening.

Don't want a bullet up my arsehole,
Don't want my bollocks shot away,

Male voices rose into the night, each line now a shouted gesture of defiance.

For I'd rather stay in England,
Merry, merry England,
And roger all my bleedin’ life away,

The bottle, or another very like it continued to circulate and he drank each time, while another bawdy song started.

Eyes right!
Buttons bright!
Bayonets to the rear!
We're the boys who make no noise, 
We're always full of beer;

Henry lifted his voice with the rest, enjoying the camaraderie of obscenity. The other men were laughing and smoking and there was considerable speculation about how the night might end.

We're the heroes of the night
And we'd rather fuck than fight,
We're the heroes of the Foreskin Fusiliers. 

The night was dark with a quarter moon riding low on the horizon. It wasn’t cold, for once. Even in this forsaken place spring was coming and the air was gentler than it had been. Henry breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air and the smell of damp earth. Maybe he’d been a fool to resist so long. Why not have an evening of relief? As Collins had said, he could drink some wine, watch the nurses dancing and talk to the men without dance partners. It was all very harmless, after all. The bottle came round again and he drank, feeling the warmth spreading through his limbs. By the time the song ended he was relaxed enough to lead them into “The Lovely from Gezira”.

They call me Venal Vera,
I'm a lovely from Gezira; 
The Fuhrer pays me well for what I do;

At this point Collins grinned widely and slapped Henry on the back.

“Told you so!” he said.

“Now who’s smug?” Henry asked but couldn’t help smiling back.

Collins stood up, swaying, and began conducting with a three-quarters empty bottle until the truck ran over a particularly deep rut and he fell headlong across Henry and the two men next to him. Henry hooked his fingers in the back of Collins belt and dragged him back into his seat.

“Try and stay on your feet at least until we reach the dance,” he suggested plucking the bottle from his friend’s grip and passing it along.  “Or you’ll be incapable of your favourite activity by the end of the evening.”

“Rubbish,” said Collins, already slurring a little. “I can always stand to attention for active duty!” He appeared to find this hilarious.

“Well, good for you. But throwing up on your lady’s shoes isn’t nice so maybe slow down a bit, eh?”

The order of the battle
I obtained from last night's wrestle
On a golf course with a Brigadier from Q

By the time the last verse faded away they were pulling in next to what looked like some kind of civic hall in Krakow.  The nurse’s truck was amongst several parked already and high pitched voices were calling to each other and shrieking with laughter. Henry and Collins jumped down from the truck onto cobbled stones. As they pushed through the double wooden doors Collins lit a cigarette and offered one to Henry. Smoking companionably they moved up the marble corridor, shrugging off their greatcoats and looking around.

“For god’s sake slow down on the drink,” Henry said. “I’ve no desire to haul your drunken arse home.”

“Yes, Mother,” Collins said dismissively. “I’ve never not been able to get myself home yet.”

“There’s always a first time,” Henry told him.

The corridor had high arched ceilings with carved leaf patterns running along the arches and a marbled floor. As Henry glanced around he found himself looking directly at Nurse Rayne. Her eyes held his for a long moment and he stumbled slightly as she smiled at him. Warmth spread through him that was nothing to do with Bailey’s hooch. After a moment he remembered to smile back.

“You are such an old woman sometimes, Morgan,” Collins complained, and the moment was lost.

He greeted both Nurse Rayne and Nurse Kuyper whom he belatedly realised was standing right next to her before the crowd swept them up the flight of stairs and into the dance hall.

The USO had done them proud, he thought. A mismatched selection of tables and chairs circled the edge of the room; all covered with white cloths that, on closer inspection, turned out to be hospital sheets. Well boiled, he hoped. There was a bar in one corner, superintended by a formidable looking USO coordinator. Collins dragged Henry directly over there and they received a rather meagre measure of wine in a tin mug.

“Any chance of a top up, sweetheart?” Collins asked with his most charming smile.

She stared at him over folded arms and Henry thought it best to tug his friend over to the edge of the dance floor.

“No problem,” Collins said. “Bailey’s got more bottles in the truck.” He pulled a hip flask out of his pocket and topped up his mug surreptitiously whilst keeping Henry as a shield between him and the guardian of the refreshments table. Henry rolled his eyes and refused the flask.

Collins shrugged, “Your loss, more for me.”

They were joined by Taylor and Bailey whose uniform coat hung oddly; the result, Henry was sure, of several flasks and bottles of liquor secreted in the pockets and possibly the lining.

“Has Collins puked yet?” asked Bailey, looking over his spectacles at him.

“Not yet,” Henry replied. “But I think it’s only a matter of time. Perhaps one of us had better be prepared to haul him out of here before he disgraces us.”

“Not me,” said Bailey promptly. “I’ve promised to dance with Jenny and walk her back to her tent, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

“You go for it,” said Collins making a rude gesture with his hand. Bailey, looking past him, kicked him on the shin.

“Look out,” he said. “Incoming. Nurse Rayne. Think she’s got her eye on one of us.”

“Morgan,” said Collins loudly. “She’s chasing Morgan. Forward little tart, isn’t she?”

“Say that again and it won’t be the booze that knocks you out,” Henry said sharply.

Collins made a drunken sound of sarcasm and challenge. “You and whose army?” he jeered.

Taylor placed a large arm round his shoulder and pulled him away.

“Maybe you want to rethink that,” he said to him. Collins glanced up at him, took a deep breath and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, slightly shame faced. “Sorry Henry. But you are so in, there! Yours for the taking. She’s panting for it!”

“If you don’t stop talking,” said Henry, “so help me, I’ll drag you out of here anyway. She’ll hear you!” He moved away from Collins to face the dancers. He could just make out Nurse Rayne from the corner of his eye and turned to greet her as though he had only just spotted her.

“I was hoping you’d come,” she said with that utterly enchanting small smile she had.

He cleared his throat. “Well, Collins convinced me,” he said truthfully, then babbled something about penicillin cribbed from the last journal he’d read, hoping that Bailey and Taylor were going to stop Collins doing anything to utterly embarrass him.

She seemed interested and he hadn’t realised he’d started lecturing until Collins’ elbow nearly knocked his wine out of his hand.

“Get her a drink, you twit!”

Oh, there was a turn around. Collins reminding him of his manners. He really needed to get a grip on himself, something he was conspicuously lacking just then. He blushed and apologised and offered her a drink. Completely thrown off his stride he hurried back to the drinks table before recalling that in these days he should have escorted her rather than fetching the drink himself. It was so long since he’d done this that it was difficult to remember the current social codes.

He took a few seconds to calm himself. He finally had to admit Nurse Rayne was a problem. It wasn’t that she was evidently making a play for him: given what a truly lovely and likeable young woman she was, he could only be complimented by her interest. No, the real problem, he admitted, was what Collins had seen days before: he liked her. She stirred something in him that he had thought long dead. Something, he realised, that he was afraid of.

As he carried her tin mug of wine back to her he took a couple of deep breaths. He knew how this ended so it was best not to start it. He could be polite but project an air of disinterest. He was an old man; he had no business being more than friends with this girl. Friends was good. He should encourage her to dance with men her own age. He could watch from the side-lines and be happy as she enjoyed herself.

He passed the drink to her and she smiled her thanks. Her smile was, as always, dazzling. He firmly turned his attention to the band. There was a trumpet, a cornet, a piano, a double bass, a percussionist and a singer. The current track was a jazz number he didn’t recognise – he had never enjoyed the anarchic stylings of jazz – but the trumpet player had a precision in his playing that didn’t quite fit the more casual musical style.

He remembered the dances of his youth: the women in long flowing gowns in the regency style, hair swept up to reveal graceful necks, the patterns formed by the dancers if you viewed them from above, the men in cutaway coats or red military jackets. He remembered the introduction of the waltz, danced as a performance piece by the most fashionable couples – and seen as faintly scandalous by some of the chaperones. He had learned the steps when the waltz was still considered to be dangerously sensual, rather than now when it was respectable and a little old fashioned.

“They’re good, aren’t they?”

He almost jumped, brought back to the present with a shock. He couldn’t remember what he said. Something about the trumpet player, he thought.  She was looking directly at him dropping a heavy hint about how danceable the music was.

He suddenly wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms – and off her feet – and move with her. Dancing, he realised, would be a major mistake. No physical contact, he told himself sternly. He would keep to his earlier decision and encourage her to dance with others

“Many others find it so too,” he said gesturing at the dance floor.

A momentary frustration crossed her face.

“And you?” she asked and he was starting to feel very uncomfortable. He did not like being rude to her and this was very rude; but he shook his head, looking down.

“Oh, I haven’t danced in a long time.” Surely that would be enough?

“Perhaps you haven’t found the right partner?”

He glanced at her then stiffened his spine both metaphorically and physically.

“Mmm,” he said discouragingly and returned to watching the band and the dancers.

He saw Bailey teaching Jenny how to jive. Taylor was slouched with a mug in his hand listening to the band. Collins was lost somewhere in the crowd, thank god.  

He realised she was standing level with him, her hands behind her back as she rocked a little on her toes. She obviously wanted to dance so why didn’t she find someone? She was undeniably beautiful and - his eyes swept down her body - released from her concealing khakis, she was shapely enough to tempt any man.

For the rest of that number he remained very aware of her presence next to him. It was uncomfortable, having her that close. He hoped someone would ask her to dance soon so he wouldn’t feel so unbearably ill mannered. As the song ended she clapped her hands and bounced a little, her smile wide. He loved the delight in her eyes and the enthusiasm with which she embraced life. He also liked her dress very much. It clung to her figure and swirled out around her hips, falling to just below her knees. The back dipped almost to her waist and he could see the smooth skin and the indentation of her spine. The blue made her fair skin seem luminous. He was trying to think of her as a child but the dress made it very clear she was no such thing. She was, quite simply, stunning.

He traced his eyes slowly up the curves of her body. The slender ankles encased in sheer stockings, the swell of her calves above - muscular and well shaped - the gentle curve of her thighs where her thin dress draped against her and the outlined print of a suspender belt button that gave him a pleasant sense of warmth.  Her hips flared out and balanced the roundness of her buttocks which curved into the hollow of her back and a slim waist, then out again where her full breasts gave a tantalising shape to the high necked dress. His eyes travelled up her long, pale neck, lingered on her red lips and finally her lovely eyes.

She was staring straight at him looking amused. She winked cheekily at him. He winced and, brazening it out, raised his cup to her.

“You look lovely this evening, Nurse.” She smiled widely, which made his statement all the more true.

Surely someone would ask her to dance, soon? He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out against both himself and her.

He saw a young squaddie approach her and clear his throat. He couldn’t hear the boy – his mumble was too quiet – but surely Abigail wouldn’t be interested in a lad so young he probably wasn’t shaving yet? His hair was unkempt and he slouched. He wanted her to dance, but with someone worthy of her.

He realised he’d edged closer when he heard her say, “Thank you, I’m afraid my dance card is full.”

He almost laughed. He remembered that excuse from when women really had carried dance cards. Well, she had some common sense. She was far too good for a wet behind the ears squaddie like that.

She had settled herself again with a proud lifted chin. He could tell she was deliberately not looking at him. There was a faint but determined smile on her face. Amazingly, she didn’t look offended, more as though she was… challenging him. She couldn’t possibly plan to stand there all night if he didn’t ask her?

He sidled closer.

“If you don’t mind me saying,” he murmured, “your dance card doesn’t seem very full.”

She jumped but didn’t look at him. “It will be,” she said, smiling.

He wasn’t sure how to respond. Did she really mean she wouldn’t dance with anyone if he didn’t ask her? He watched the dancers some more.

Would it matter, really? One dance?  Would that be so dangerous?

As he watched he saw Ruby Kuyper dance past. He saw her mouth something at Abigail but couldn’t make it out. Her response was to straighten her shoulders and, to use a military metaphor, dig in for the long haul.  He chuckled inwardly. Nurse Rayne was certainly determined, he had to give her that. Suddenly it began to feel like a game and he pictured the pair of them standing side by side for the entire evening, neither willing to concede.

Except… except would he really be able to stand there the whole night, feeling like an ill-mannered boor? If she really did plan to stand there all night, he would have to dance with her eventually so maybe he should get it out of the way. Give her this one dance and then she could move on to another man. And dancing with her would certainly be a pleasant diversion.

When the ensemble swung into a slower, more formal number he decided it was fate. One dance, like an old uncle with a favourite niece. He could do that. He drained his mug and put it down before turning with what he hoped was an avuncular smile and holding out his hand.

“Very well. May I have this dance?”

Her victorious smile was the most breathtaking yet and she didn’t seem disturbed by his lack of enthusiasm.

The dance step was an old one that Henry had learned several years before. It was far too easy to relax into the steps and the feel of a beautiful woman in his arms. He was finally unable to suppress his smile when he looked at her; a smile she returned in full force.  As he steered her around the floor he felt her relax under his hands and a look of surprised pleasure crossed her face. He was puzzled for a moment then he understood.

“You didn’t think I could dance, did you?” he asked in amusement.

She tilted her head back to look into his face. “It crossed my mind,” she admitted.

Henry was actually quite proud of his ability to dance so in revenge he spun her energetically then dipped her low to the floor. She squeaked and laughed breathlessly as she clung to his shoulders. The dip required him to hold her closer and tighter and he became suddenly very aware of the softness of her body and the bare smooth skin his hand was touching. When he righted them she was close enough to brush against him. She looked happy, he was glad to see. Her face seemed lit up with that glow that he so often seemed to see round her. He found he couldn’t stop gazing at her, something about her was… rejuvenating. She made him feel young and foolish again. She was physically beautiful, certainly, but there was more to it than that. She seemed to have a fire of hope and optimism burning within her that he had lost years ago and it made him want to huddle near her and warm himself at her flame.

She was laughing out loud as he whirled her round, then she looked up and caught his eye. He must have looked too serious because she stopped laughing and cocked her head at him.

“Your laughter,” he said. “It’s enchanting. I’ve always thought so.”

She blushed a becoming pink and ducked her head. It was the first time he’d seen her off balance and he felt a certain pride at being the one to make her lose her composure. She recovered quickly and met his eyes with what was almost a shy smile. He felt like he was falling into her eyes until he accidentally danced them into another couple which caused apologies all round. By the time he had guided them into a less crowded area of the dance floor Abigail was held firmly against him and he was enjoying the feel of her so close. Dancing was innocent enough, after all. They could enjoy this and it didn’t have to mean anything or go anywhere. This was fine. They were friends and friends could dance together, laugh together, enjoy each other’s company without needing anything else. It was fine… And Collins was right, standing all night watching other people dance was foolish. He was here, he may as well dance.

And she was a wonderful dancer. He wondered how well she knew some of the more formal dances? He could tell from her accent she was upper class so she would probably have been drilled all of the common dances - but being drilled didn’t make a dancer. You had to feel the music and understand instinctively how to move with a partner. He had missed dancing more than he had realised. In his youth it had been the centre of every major social event and he had been good at it. What was the harm if they danced some more?

The song ended all too quickly and Henry already knew he would ask for another dance. The evident interest and speculation on the behalf of the unattached nurses provided a perfect excuse. Except it wasn’t really an excuse. He wanted to dance with Abigail, no one else. He knew he should be uneasy about that desire, should start to back off from her rebuild the breach in his walls but he lacked the will and the energy. He was… actually enjoying himself, for the first time in longer than he could remember.

She kept him waiting a few seconds for an answer. Well, he could hardly complain about that.

“If you insist,” she said airily as the band struck up something in a 3:4 waltz time signature. “Anything to save another girl from that uphill battle. I nearly gave up.”

As he lifted her hand he stroked the back with his thumb. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said and his voice sounded so hoarse he had to clear his throat.

He whirled her into the waltz, determined to impress her with his hundred years of practice. She moved perfectly with him, so very light on her feet. Her skirt flared around his legs and he held her close. This was… wonderful. She seemed to be able to read his mind, or at least his feet. To start with he kept the steps simple then, as the dance floor cleared of all but the best dancers, he began to move more energetically. Abigail laughed delightedly as her feet left the floor. He added in some part turns, a few flourishes and the odd spin. She followed every move he made, flushed with exertion, her shoulders leaning against his arms, her legs interlaced with his and their lower bodies tight together. They, along with the four or five other couples left on the dancefloor, received a round of applause as the band segued into a more modern dance.

“That was marvellous!” Abigail gasped. Henry slowed his pace a little to allow her to catch her breath. To be honest he was a little winded himself. “You’re a wonderful dancer,” she added.

He smiled broadly. “I was going to say the same to you. I’m better at the old dances though.” He made a face. “Don’t ask me to Lindy Hop or anything.”

She burst out laughing. “I expect you’d be amazing!”

Henry felt if his mouth got any wider his face would crack. “No, really. Not my kind of music.” He gestured to the dance floor. “I can foxtrot and do a sedate swing but my forte is really your grandmother’s dances.”

By mutual consent they left the dance floor for drinks and to catch their breath. Abigail was so easy to talk to: he found himself opening up about things he hadn’t thought of for years.  As she shared her own stories, he felt himself brimming with admiration for a young society girl who had insisted on adopting a career, and not just any career but nursing. Despite Florence Nightingale’s efforts a century ago it was still not considered a suitable occupation for a lady. Abigail, however, seemed sincerely passionate about it. There it was again, that enthusiasm for life and all its experiences he had seen in her before. She obviously had her share of bad experiences – after all, even if she had a life of all sunshine and roses before, she had worked at Auschwitz for three months. That was enough to make anyone jaded and world weary but Abigail picked herself up and went looking for the good in everything.

When the band started up a slower swing beat they went back to the dance floor. Henry managed a passable dance, spinning and dipping Abigail until she beat at his shoulder, giggling too much to speak and clearly dizzy. He had to admit swing dancing was fun even if it lacked the elegance and skill of the more traditional routines. Part of his mind caught the passing thought and asked him when he had last truly had fun. He stifled the small voice and tried to concentrate on the here and now.

One night. He could have this for one night. He would not think about tomorrow.

He spun Abigail again so that her skirt flew out showing her legs and a tantalising glimpse of stocking tops, and lost himself in her laughter, her happy face, and her sensual movements. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

The next dance was a quieter number. Without hesitating he pulled Abigail to him, holding her firmly against his chest. She laid her cheek on his shoulder and he was brave enough to bury his nose in her hair. Swaying, he guided them gently round the floor as the singer launched into a very competent version of the old Cab Calloway song, I’ve Got You Under My Skin. He hummed into Abigail’s hair as she snuggled in closer to him. He tightened his arms. She was utterly lovely. Holding her like this made him feel so good and she clearly wanted him to hold her. And like the song said, why should he try to resist?

He resolutely refused to think about the rest of the lyrics.

There were several slower dances as the evening drew to a close. Henry held Abigail closer and tighter for each one. She pressed herself against him, occasionally glancing up quietly to hold his gaze. In between he pressed his cheek to the top of her head or nuzzled his nose and mouth into her hair. If he dropped the odd silent kiss there, he thought it was undetectable, just an indulgence on his part. He didn’t want this interlude of pleasure and happiness to end. He didn’t want to go back to emaciated bodies and the smell of death. He crushed her against him causing her to gasp but she raised her head with wide eyes and parted lips. He stared at her lips wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the feel and taste of her.

He shook himself mentally and dropped his eyes. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t have that. It wasn’t fair on her. He loosened his grip and she looked at him quizzically, her breath a little short. He shook his head and concentrated on dancing. This time he kept his head up and tried to hold her less firmly. Abigail, it seemed, had other ideas. She pressed herself just as closely, the hand on his shoulder holding him tight. After a token resistance he surrendered to the inevitable and pulled her against him.

Just tonight. They could have tonight.

When the last dance ended, Abigail was nestled into his shoulder, her eyes drooping. Her weight on him was getting heavier and he wondered if she might actually fall asleep on him. It was a pleasant thought, that she felt that comfortable with him.

He nudged her gently. “We’d better get our coats,” he said, allowing his feeling of regret to flow over his face. She mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

She laughed and blinked. “I wouldn’t miss a moment of this for something as dull as sleep.”

“It has been a wonderful dance.” He didn’t want to let go of her.

Her answer both terrified and thrilled him. “I meant you, Henry,” she said, lifting her face and gazing directly at him. “I don’t want to miss a moment with you.”

He was caught again by an urge to kiss those lips, to please her and show her what she meant to him. It was close but he managed to tamp the desire down. The night had been something he hadn’t expected. He had a bright memory to keep him company down the long years. He wouldn’t complicate things by asking for more. Instead, he hugged her close feeling her cheek against his jaw as he waited for his breathing to calm again.

They held hands as they collected their coats from chair backs and made their way down the stairs. They emerged into the chill of the open air and joined the crowd jostling for a space in one of the trucks. As they stood waiting, Nurse Kuyper appeared with a young man in a USAAF uniform who looked like he might well throw up on her shoes at any point. Kuyper propped the airman up against the wall, grabbed Abigail’s arm and, with a little finger wave at Henry, pulled her several feet away. He watched as their heads came together in unmistakably feminine conspiracy. At one point they both glanced back at him and he wanted to smile at the constancy of human behaviour. He’d seen that look directed at him from behind fans, amused eyes sharing confidences.

“You are so done for,” said a voice behind him.

“Are you still upright?” asked Henry in surprise as he turned to see Collins at his side.

Collins shrugged. “Taylor took me out and walked me around a bit. Pushed some water into me.”

“I hope you thanked him.”

“Well, it let me drink more, so yes.” Collins waved his hip flask and took a pull. He offered it to Henry who swallowed a couple of mouthfuls.

“No lady tonight?”

“Of course.” He gestured back to the building. “She’s just using the facilities. You’ve been holding out on us, Henry.”

“How so?”

“You and the lovely Rayne, cuddling on the dance floor like that. We didn’t know you had it in you.” He grinned and elbowed Henry in the ribs. “But you could have it in her by the end of the night!”

“Collins, I’m warning you!” Henry glanced over but Abigail was still talking surreptitiously with Nurse Kuyper.

Collins was, he realised, still very drunk and given the way he was hitting his flask, would be considerably more so by the time the night was over. Collins slung an arm around Henry’s shoulder, leaning heavily and spinning him to the side.

“Hush, hush,” he said in a reasonable tone. “I’m not criticising. But she is so all over you – you must be able to see it! She. Wants. You,” he enunciated clearly. “Do yourself a favour and don’t be selfish! Here.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a small, square paper wrapper. “Don’t say I never help you out.”

“For god’s sake!” Henry groaned, snatching the French letter from where Collins was waving it in front of him. “We’re in public! Try to behave.” He shoved the small packet in his jacket pocket as the fastest way to hide it. Even so, he was sure a few nearby nurses were giggling at them.

Abigail returned to his side at that point, waving to Kuyper who was guiding her airman down the street.

“Just saying goodbye,” said Abigail so innocently he was fairly sure there had been more to the conversation than that and that it had intimately concerned him. “She’s on leave for two days.”

“I see,” he said blandly.

She was shivering so he pulled her close again. Her coat was thinner than his and the night was much colder than earlier. She snuggled into him. Fortunately Collins’ partner arrived at that point and he was too distracted to torment Henry.

The truck they boarded became very packed, forcing Abigail to squash closer and closer to him. Feeling bold, Henry followed the lead of some of the other men and pulled her onto his lap. She willingly curled up against him, tucking her legs back beneath his, leaning into his chest and burrowing her face into his neck. He tightened his arms around her, holding her securely on his thighs. She was warm and pliant against him and despite the side of the truck digging hard into his back he was quite sure he didn’t want to be in any other position.

She dozed against him and he fell into a reverie filled with her soft lips, the curve of her shoulders and breasts, the flare of her hips and the glimpses of stocking tops, and even once, pale thighs, as she danced.

Someone nudged him and he came to with a jolt.  Another bottle was under his nose. He took a long drink and passed it along. The alcohol was starting to leave a pleasantly warm, unfocused feeling in its wake. He glanced around the truck. Several couples were kissing quietly and Collins and his partner were both hidden beneath his greatcoat. Some kind of wrestling match appeared to be taking place underneath.

He leaned back again, content to sit there cradling Abigail on his lap. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her. Were her lips as soft and moist as they looked? He knew the skin of her back and arms was very smooth so presumably the rest of it was. He caught sight of one couple sharing a quiet, almost chaste kiss then drawing back to smile at each other and he felt a pang of loneliness so strong he wanted to weep.

He pulled himself together. It was the alcohol, that was all. It had been a night to remember but it was nearly over. He had to put these feelings back in their box and carry on as before.

Abigail chose that moment to stir. He hugged her and to his shock felt her lips against his neck in an unmistakable kiss. A thrill shot through him and… no. He knew better.

“Abigail,” he said in a warning tone.

“Sorry,” she breathed against his neck and he shuddered. She didn’t sound remotely sorry and he couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. She quickly dozed off again leaving him to hold her all the way back to the camp, constantly aware of one point on his neck that felt far too sensitive.

The journey back was far too fast. It seemed he had held Abigail on his lap for barely five minutes when the trucks pulled in by the mess tent and the whole weight of the situation started to press down on him. He nudged her awake and lifted her down from the truck. She leaned against him and yawned.

“May I walk you back to your barracks?” he asked as she took his hand.

“That would be nice.” She shook her head and started to look a little more awake in the cooler air. The wind was from the fields and the river so the smell of the camp was just a background tang on the air.

The women’s tents were laid out in a long double row at the end of a block of buildings which housed the officers. Henry strolled as slowly as possible down the centre as Abigail leaned against his side. All too soon they reached the last pair of tents.

“This must be yours,” he said trying not to sound unhappy.

Her smile was impish. “Oh no, it’s back there,” she waved back over her shoulder. Her voice wavered a little. “We passed it ages ago.”

He hesitated. He’d promised himself the evening would end here but… it was just one night, after all. Why not let it last just a little longer? He looked down at their joined hands, feeling the warmth. He really didn’t want to let go.

“Well, perhaps we can walk for a bit more. The river is beautiful; it’s just a stretch onward.  Close enough they won’t send the MPs after us for going AWOL.”

She laughed and they carried on towards the strip of trees that lined the river, quietly talking. There was a place where the river curved, leaving a small strip of shingle and water smoothed rocks. He remembered the one time he had crawled out of the water here after he caught a stray bullet during the march.  He hung his head as she leaned against him. It was a salutary reminder of why this had to be just one night in his endless parade of years. She was a wonderful woman and being with her just for this one evening made him remember things about himself he had buried deeply under the weight of years; things he had frozen to allow him to continue putting one foot in front of another. She was so young, time hadn’t had the opportunity to dim the flame within her.

Twenty five,” he said, trying to mask the despair in his voice. “You’re twenty five years old. And I am so bloody old.” Nearly six times her age, he reminded himself bitterly. He had no business being here with her.

She looked up at him teasingly. “What is this, fear of middle age creeping up on you, Henry?”

He barked a laugh. “Middle aged? At this point I’d take it.” Oh yes, promise him that this would end in less than two hundred years and he’d leap at it. Just the idea there could genuinely be an end to the grey procession of days would be a joy to him.

He was drawn out of his funk by Abigail coming to stand in front of him and running her fingers through his hair. “Afraid of balding and grey hairs, is that it, Dr. Morgan?”

That felt far too good but there was a slight edge to her voice and he realised he was on the verge of ruining their evening. He pulled her hand down, kissing it gently, as he apologised and tried to explain what he could. The pointlessness of the war, the stupidity of much of it, how tired it left him.

Her expression softened and she reached up to hold his face gently. He froze at the contact, closing his eyes.

“Life is kinder than you imagine it to be,” she said. “I know the world can be cruel, and arbitrary, and unfair—I know it as well as you, no matter how many years stand between us.  But I’ve seen mercy, and caring, and people fighting to save those who deserve to be saved.  There’s death here, but there’s hope, too.  Have faith, Henry.  We won’t be at war forever.”

The soft words made his eyes burn and he swallowed hard. How did someone so young get to be so wise? And so unscathed by the things she had seen and done? Her hands were soft on his jaw and he took them, catching them to his chest, holding them tightly. He felt that upwelling of happiness from deep inside him that was so very much in response to her presence.  He smiled softly down at her and, oh god, she was lovely! His eyes fastened on her lips and the need to kiss her was almost overwhelming. Her lips parted and her breath caught. He held himself back ruthlessly. This was his last fortification and it must hold. Her breath was shallow and quick and she licked her lips unconsciously. He was immobile, perfectly caught between desire and self-control.

She knew something was holding him back. “Are you married, Henry?”

“No. Not married.” He felt her relax and cursed himself. It would have been the perfect excuse – except that the idea of lying to her was repugnant.

She seemed to pull herself up then suddenly she guided their hands apart and stepped forward so she was pressed against him. He gasped at the contact, no more than they had enjoyed while dancing, but somehow so much more intimate alone in the dark.

“In case it wasn’t perfectly obvious already, you can kiss me,” she said tremulously, and a sudden bolt of arousal hit him. He couldn’t move, fighting to keep his last thread of control and distance.

She looked down and bit her lip. After a moment a look of humiliation crossed her face and she started to pull away. The idea that he could cause her to feel that way was utterly unbearable. He wanted to kiss her so badly, and it would embarrass and shame her if he didn’t, and she had been so brave revealing her feelings that…

He darted forward and caught her lips in a deep kiss and god, that was good. He dropped her hands, winding his arms about her waist and shoulders, one hand gripping the back of her head. Her body curved into his and she let out a stifled moan that made goose bumps prickle his skin. Her lips were soft, her mouth moist and he was lost in the taste and smell of her, in the press of her body against his, the old sensation of arousal pooling heavy in his groin and making his head spin.

He retained enough awareness to cant his hips politely away from her as he ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back, stopping firmly at her waist, no matter how much he wanted to continue. She tangled her hands into his hair running her fingers through it and how could something so simple feel so good? How could it make him gasp against her and breathe heavily?

Eventually he summoned up a last wisp of common sense. He freed himself gently and, with what felt like the greatest effort he had ever made in his long life, he murmured against her mouth, “Abigail. This isn’t—we shouldn’t—”

“Kiss me again,” she demanded, and he was lost. With a shake of his head he set his lips against hers and eagerly surrendered himself to her will, feeling no regrets for the promises lying in ashes about him. He relaxed and crushed her tightly to him, bending her back a little with his enthusiasm. He left her mouth and dropped small controlled kisses over her face and eyes making her gasp and press herself into him. At that moment he knew Collins was right. If he wanted to he could have her, here and now, on her back cushioned against the shingle by their coats, or caught upright against a tree with her legs round his waist… the images dizzied him, made him throb, his body pushing for him to make them a reality.

He forced himself to slow down. No, not here, not like this. Kisses would be enough. Whatever tomorrow brought he would treasure this memory of her, and them, together in the darkness.

When the temptation to turn this embrace into something more urgent threatened to overwhelm him he broke the kiss, holding her gently, his cheek against hers. He was flooded with feelings of tenderness, protectiveness, admiration, awe, desire… a storm of emotions he couldn’t translate. He didn’t know why she liked him and wanted him so much but he was putty in her hands. She had laid siege and all his walls had fallen before her like cardboard.

He had never met anyone like her before and he told her so.

“You’re one of a kind yourself,” she replied with an amused smile. His laughter at the irony must have confused her but he felt so light he didn’t care.

“Maybe so,” he agreed. “You make me foolish.”

He meant more, but didn’t know how to express himself to her. It was true, the weight of his years seemed to have been lifted and that was a gift she had given him – one she could never understand his gratitude for.

“Good,” she murmured, her voice happy.

He was content now just to hold her, something so precious in a way he didn’t understand. His heart was full as he sank into the awareness of every point they touched. He was so happy he couldn’t stop grinning. He could stand here forever and do nothing more than enjoy the feel of her hair against his mouth and the solid warmth of her in his arms.

She yawned against his chest. Her voice was sleepy as she asked, “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love in one night?”

A sudden momentary panic shook him. Was that this feeling, this terrifying, impossible happiness? What did this mean for him? He knew he should push her away, let things go back to the way they had been. Yet in that moment he couldn’t even open his arms and step away. The idea of fighting his way back to emotional numbness wearied him beyond endurance. And how would he even start boxing up a feeling this intense, that made him feel stronger and even young again?

She felt him still and her voice was reassuring. “Don’t be frightened, Henry.  Love isn’t so terrible.”

Her courage humbled him. He didn’t know what he should do, only what he could not. And he could not harden himself to never see her or enjoy her company again. He had to focus on the moment. The future was unpredictable. Either of them could be posted elsewhere. She could tire of him in a few weeks. The war was ending, they would both go their separate ways. Wartime dalliances rarely lasted. He would think about tomorrow when it happened.

They sat by the river and he found himself telling her about his life in New York as she drowsed against him. He found he wasn’t tired, he just wanted to sit here, watching the sky lighten, experiencing every moment of the happiness he had been given. He had never been a religious man but this moment made him understand where the notion of a deity came from. He felt like he had been granted a gift.

The pale sun rose over the fields. Pockets of mist started to shine and he blinked in the light. It was time to go back. Abigail yawned and turned her face to his for another kiss. He kept this one brief and gentle, and then tugged her to her feet.

“When are you back on duty?” he asked as they turned towards the camp.

“Not until tonight. I have the day to sleep,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “You?”

“Midday. I should get a few hours in.”

He has a sensation of reality crowding him and of burdens being laid back on his shoulders but somehow it all seemed a little easier to bear now. As they approached the line of tents he stopped and turned her towards him.

“Thank you, Abigail,” he said soberly. “This was a wonderful evening.  You are wonderful.”

She blushed and looked down. “I’ve had a lovely time,” she said wistfully. “I wish it wasn’t over.”

He smiled. “Me too,” he said pulling her close and kissing her tenderly. “but we’d better get some sleep.”

She stifled a yawn. “Yes,” she said, “Or I’ll be getting mixed up between grains, half grains and quarter grains of morphia and it’s hard enough with some of your colleagues’ handwriting anyway.”

He laughed and they walked on until she stopped outside one of the tents. “This is me,” she said. “Henry…” she stopped uncertainly.

“What?” he asked. Surely she knew she could ask him anything.

She hesitated. “Was this just tonight? I mean, if it is I’ll be very disappointed but I’d rather know now. I don’t want you trying to avoid me for the next few weeks. I’d miss our conversations.”

He could agree. He could say it had been the alcohol and the night talking. He could back off.

The thought hurt too much to be borne.

He should set boundaries, say that he wasn’t serious about anything. He should start to back off except… except he would see her daily and be reminded daily of the feel of her lips and her body pressed against his. For whatever reason she wanted to be with him and maybe he could fight himself but he couldn’t fight her, still less both together. She burned like a flame in his mind, she warmed and comforted him and, god, he wanted more of that. She made him want to feel again whatever the consequences would be. That reckoning was in the future.

He wanted to explain, wanted to tell her what she meant to him but he couldn’t find the words.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he said, taking her hands. “Whatever you want. I would hate to lose our friendship and I don’t know what, if anything, a dull fellow like me can offer a woman as bright and beautiful and as… truly lovely as you, but if I have anything you want it’s yours.”

Her eyes were a little glassy but she nodded decisively. “Then don’t try and run away Doctor Henry Morgan. I have plans for you.”

“I don’t think I could now,” he said honestly.

She raised herself on tiptoe and placed a sweet kiss at the corner of his mouth before she backed away, holding his hand until they were at arm’s reach. Finally her fingers slid from his and she ducked inside the tent flap.

He stood for a moment, slightly stunned by the events of the night before he started a jaunty walk back to the men’s tents on the other side of the camp.

He was still light as air and whistling I’ve Got You Under My Skin when he reached the tent he shared with Collins, Taylor and Bailey. It was fully light now and the camp was starting to stir with activity. He stretched and bent his head as he entered the warm fug of men’s sweat, cigarette smoke, alcohol and aftershave.

Taylor was upright and dressed, looking very fresh. Bailey was just undressing and Collins was stretched out on his cot with the inevitable Woodbine. They all stared at him as he dropped the tent flap behind and burst into applause.

“What?” asked Henry, almost knocked off his feet as Collins leapt up and pounded him hard on the back.

“You sly dog,” he said grinning broadly.

Taylor lit up. “I’m disappointed,” he drawled. “I was almost beginning to think I had a chance with you.”

“Seriously, Henry,” said Bailey. “You’re a dark horse. Out all night with the lovely Rayne who, I should point out, has been impervious to all previous attempts.”

Henry felt himself go red. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he warned.

“Well tell us then,” Collins told him, slinging an arm round Henry’s shoulders and dragging him to sit on the nearest cot. “Come on, tell your Uncle Russell all the details.”

“I’m not telling anyone anything,” Henry said flatly. He shook off Collin’s arm and began to unbutton his jacket and belt. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell,” he added severely. He stripped off the jacket and flipped his braces off his shoulders.

“Ah, so there was kissing at least,” Bailey observed.

“I’m afraid that won’t do,” Collins said. “There is lucre riding on this.”

“Where did you get lucre from?” Henry scoffed. “You’re permanently broke.”

“Not money,” Bailey explained. “Cigarettes. So it’s vitally important we know how successful your night was.”

“Split the stake between you,” Henry said, pulling his shoes off. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“There you go,” said Collins. “He didn’t get all the way. He’d have said otherwise.” He held out a hand to Bailey and ducked as Henry threw a shoe at him.

“Not necessarily,” said Bailey. “Henry’s a quiet, gentlemanly sort. He wouldn’t want us rude peasants gossiping about his lady.” Henry’s other shoe missed him by a scant inch.

“I’m off to do some actual work,” Taylor said. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” He paused on his way out. “By the way, Henry, that was really some dancing you did back there. I hope you and Rayne had a good time – whatever happened.”

Henry was surprised and touched. Taylor usually avoided the inevitable discussions of women and sex. He wasn’t sure but he thought Taylor might have had some bad experiences in the army in the past. The boys’ club environment could be difficult for a man with his tastes. It had taken months for him to open up to the four of them and he’d had only trusted them enough to start joking about it recently.

“Thanks,” he said. “I had a wonderful evening. I’m reasonably sure she did too.”

“That’s good,” Taylor said. “You do realise you have this dopey smile on your face?”

“Quite possibly,” Henry agreed.

“Well, congratulations. Don’t let these two drive you mad.” Taylor disappeared out of the tent.

Henry stripped off his trousers and pulled his pyjamas on over his underwear.

“Oh. Come on,” wheedled Collins. “Just a yes or no! We have two packs of ciggies riding on it.”

His uniform folded tidily, Henry climbed beneath his blankets. “Do be quiet,” he said. “I’ve time for about three hours sleep and a shower before I’m on duty if you two shut up now.” He pulled the sheets and blankets over his head, unsurprised when both of his shoes thudded into him.

He heard Bailey say, “So, do we cancel the bet?”

“Under no circumstances,” Collins exclaimed. “Hey, I know!”

There was a sudden rustling next to his bed. Henry freed one eye to see Collins rummaging in his jacket pocket. “Collins,” he groaned. “What are you doing with my uniform?”

“Never mind,” said Collins. “Go to sleep.” Which was suspicious enough to have Henry poke his head back out of the blankets.”

“Got it!” Collins said triumphantly, waving the French letter at Bailey. “He didn’t use it. Pay up, my man!”

Henry considered protesting but decided sleep was more important. “Please fold my jacket when you’ve finished,” he said and pulled the covers back up, trying to tune out the sound of the other two squabbling.

“I’m not paying up!” Bailey protested. “That’s not proof of anything. He could have had another one.”

“He didn’t,” Collins said smugly. “I gave him that one.”

“He could have got one from someone else,” Bailey pointed out. “Or he might not have used one.”

“Morgan?” he heard Collins ask disbelievingly. “Mr Wash Behind Your Ears? The tent matron?”

“Heat of the moment,” Bailey said. “Always tempting.”

Collins acknowledged the truth of this with a grunt.

A thought crossed Henry’s mind. He pulled the blankets back down for a moment.

“Collins!”

“What?”

“If you embarrass Abigail, or me,” Henry considered, “Or me in front of Abigail,” he added, “please know I will put bromide in your coffee for at least six months.”

Collins looked nervous. “Would I do that to you?” he protested.

“Yes.”

Henry stretched and let his mind drift back to the river bank. The same warmth filled him at the memory and he felt a smile spread across his face even as he lay there. His breathing slowed and the last thing he heard was Bailey suggesting they hold the bet in abeyance pending further information. He drifted into sleep and into a dream of sunlight on Abigail’s hair somewhere far from here.