France was a land of contrasts and mystery. Nothing had a clear outline. It was like a painting by Monet, all delicate snatches of light and colour. Alex thought about writing to Dorothea about Monet. God knew there was nothing else he could say to her.
The train shook the troops forward and a convoy of trucks bashed the cobbled road alongside. A scattering of lights indicated homes. Men were clumsy dark shapes going about unknown tasks. Teams of horses, heads down, waited by leaning buildings. Red Cross transports chugged back against the flow. Alex had witnessed that journey’s end at Charing Cross where nurses unloaded hundreds of wounded every hour.
He knew now that nothing could have prepared him, or the men. Training had no relationship to war. Digging model trenches on Salisbury Pl
