The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (you can read anyone txt) 📕

‘There really isn’t time to find a suitable candidate, who could survive such challenging conditions. Crying shame. It would really have helped give credibility to our correspondence, but the plans for the naval assault are well underway. If this is going to have any hope of working, we need people in place before it starts,’ Hall said.

‘Well, I can’t help you there, Hall, but I might be able to help you poach Fitzmaurice from the Foreign Office.’

Hall blinked rapidly. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘Oh, just a little political sleight of hand.’ Sir George picked up the bottle of gin and noticed that it was empty. He rang for another.

He returned to his office a little unsteady on his feet and found a letter from his wife, waiting for him on his desk. The violet ink and elegant hand were unmistakable. ‘Now what do you want, Madame la Guillotine?’ Sir George wondered before putting his head down on his desk and passing out.

Chapter 4

Johnny felt neat efficient movements wrapping him in a blanket. Memories of the French matron at school began to drift into his delirium. She’d helped him with his French vocabulary when he was confined to the poorly room with glandular fever. Dizzy with nausea and his head resting on her ample bosom, the matron had taught him enough French to come top of his year.

The warmth of the memory evaporated as the window next to him was thrown open and he was deluged with fresh air, and the screaming of men. Every muscle and sinew of his body began to violently shudder, until the window was slammed shut.

The peaty smell of stale whisky finally woke Johnny up. His head was throbbing and some clot had started shining a bright light into his eyes. Johnny tried to wave it away.

‘That’s enough of that, Lieutenant,’ a stern Scottish voice ordered. The light was snapped off and Johnny saw that an elderly army doctor was sitting on the side of his bed. ‘Yes, the fever’s broken, just a wee concussion, no serious damage. Should be rid of him soon enough.’

The comment was addressed to a nurse staring at Johnny, like a buyer inspecting a horse on market day.

‘The gash on his head is healing nicely. It will scar slightly, but I shouldn’t think that will make much difference where he’s going,’ the doctor added wearily.

‘No, indeed I’m quite anxious to get back to my men,’ Johnny said.

‘Your men? You won’t be seeing them again, laddie. Not unless they make up your firing squad,’ the doctor said and laughed at his witticism.

Johnny looked around trying to work out what was going on. He was in a small stone room, with a barred window. ‘What is this place?’

‘We’ve set up an isolation ward for you.’ The doctor was becoming impatient.

‘Am I sick? I thought you said it was a concussion.’

‘Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re not sick, well, only in the head. You’ve been isolated because we can’t have a treacherous type like you spreading their filth to the men,’ the doctor said indignantly.

‘How long have I been here?’

The doctor glanced up at the nurse, Johnny saw the broken veins of his face and the profile of a large bulbous nose. ‘The knock on his head might have been more serious than we first suspected, he's obviously disorientated.’

He turned back to Johnny. ‘You’ve been here a week, taking up space, but the jumped-up wee man who left you insisted that you be made fit to stand court-martial.' The doctor frowned, ‘Really quite ridiculous, but he was probably correct. What say you, Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins?’

‘I agree, Doctor Glencoe, there is little point in making him face a firing squad if he’s too senseless to appreciate what’s happening.’ The nurse had a broad wholesome accent, rich with the sweet taste of maple syrup, completely at odds with the clinical precision of her words. The whole thing sent a shiver down Johnny’s spine.

The doctor beamed. ‘Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins is a Canadian, of French extraction I believe, which tempers her quaint colonial charm with a typical Gallic lack of tact. Nonetheless she’s succinctly summed up the problem.’

‘I think we should hang onto him for two more days, Doctor,’ the Staff Nurse said smoothly.

‘Do you now?’ The doctor turned back to Johnny. ‘The Staff Nurse here was a Territorial in Canada and thinks she knows better than the rest of us.’

Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins adopted a placid, professional expression. ‘Forgive me, Doctor Glencoe, I did not mean to suggest a course of treatment.’

‘Now there’s no need to adopt that tone, dear girl, I was only teasing.’ The doctor winked at Johnny. ‘See how she hides her sensitive, romantic soul, Lieutenant? Would you believe that as soon as war was declared, she followed her beau to good old Blighty and joined up?’

Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins managed a smile at the joke. Glencoe nodded satisfied that everything was as it should be, again. ‘So, you think two more days, do you, Staff Nurse?’

Johnny had sensed how much she longed for a release from her world of death and screaming damaged men, with la petite mort. A release which Johnny was more than happy to provide. Although the little death had been at a premium. After a bit of coaxing, she’d told him exactly how to fool the old drunk and was even playing along.

‘That’s of course not for me to say, Doctor.’ The Staff Nurse’s eyes glistened in awe as she looked at him.

The doctor’s pale face brightened, charmed by the admiration of a pretty young woman. ‘Yes, quite so. He’s still presenting with a general malaise, whether that is a symptom or just his personality is impossible to determine. We’ll give him two more days then