“Merry Christmas, Jack,” Elliot said.
“Christmas? So it is.” Although Jack had been aware of the date, the 25th December 1879, the religious significance had eluded him. He thought of Mary and their home in Herefordshire, Christmas decorations and carol services around the abbey in Malvern. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”
Instead of a joyous celebration, fate had trapped him in this alien place of extreme temperatures and hostile people. Instead of his family, he was surrounded by men who would profess undying friendship one day and slide a knife between his ribs the next. Jack stood at the bullet-scarred wall of the cantonment, looking over the surrounding countryside. Afghanistan looked deceptively peaceful under its covering of frozen snow.
“This is a beautiful land,” Elliot said.
“It is
