Crimea: November 1854
Lieutenant Colonel Pendleton drew on his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring. Coughing softly, he hugged the greatcoat closer around his shoulders as protection against the biting wind that sliced from the Russian steppes.
"Good evening, sir," Captain Dowling huddled into his comforter and stamped his feet.
"Evening Dowling." Pendleton spoke through a haze of smoke and the condensation from his breath.
"It"s a cold one," Dowling said.
"It"s healthy," Pendleton replied. "Why man, when I was in India we sweltered by day and night. We would have given good money for a brisk morning such as this!"
"Brisk is an understatement, sir," Dowling said. He glanced forward, where the white tents of the British camp stood in regular rows upon the uplands. A scant mile away, t
