BY CHANCE, I CAME TO see some of Lemnos. The beauty of that island brought all of Greece into my heart forever. Neither the magnificent architecture of Syros nor the rural simplicity of Kea, Lemnos was Constable’s English pastures. Rolling hills dotted with sheep, groves of fruit trees, neat rows of beehives. Corn fields, wheat threshing circles and hay stacks. When I turned my back on those rural scenes and faced the coast, there were beaches of white sand and turquoise water like nothing I had seen before. The deep port of Mudros was another story. Frigates lined up, embarking coal and water unloaded by supply ships. A motley array of barges sidled up to the great frigates and destroyers, flogging their wares like gypsies in the market place.

One day, one of our orderlies came off his motorised bicycle and broke his leg outside our tent.

‘Take care of my bike, nurse,’ he muttered between gasps of pain. ‘If you learn to ride it, you’ll get a few tips when you deliver stuff, and you’ll keep my job open for me. Say you’ll do it?’

William carried messages from one end of the camp to the other. After a tentative start, I found the motorised cycle manageable and took the messenger’s place, hurrying through the camp three times a day. I loved that vehicle and fetched supplies from the stores whenever we ran out of something crucial. I wished Sissy could have seen me flying along the duckboards between the marquees.

Matron Merriberry approached Josephine and I as we came off duty one week before Christmas. ‘Nurse Jones,’ she said to Josephine. ‘I want you and Smith to start in theatre, tomorrow morning, seven o’clock, understood?’

I could hardly speak, and only managed to squeak, ‘Yes, Matron.’

‘There’ll be no Christmas celebrations, ladies,’ Matron continued. ‘The usual three-day ceasefire over the holiday has been cancelled this year. The murder will go on.’ She stood taller and shook her shoulders defiantly. ‘However, everyone’s name is entered into a pillow-bag, and every Monday at dinner, I’ll draw six out. Those nurses will be taken for a day out at the beach or the mud-baths with a picnic, weather permitting. Any questions?’

‘Excuse me, Matron. I just want to thank you for putting me in theatre. I won’t let you down, and my father will be very proud.’

She lifted her chins, huffed, and continued on her way, but as she turned, I saw the flicker of a smile, though it probably had nothing to do with me.

*

I managed to write to my parents every Sunday. Once a month I received a small parcel with things I had requested, plus a few treats from Mother; her Dundee or parkin cake, or a bar of prized chocolate. She told me, Father was proud to read I was training as a scrub nurse in the theatre.