The cottage hospital at East Grinstead was small and well organised. Private Edward Jones sat up for the first time unaided, wincing as his body felt like glass paper. Realising that every broken man in the tiny ward had lost friends and relatives, he muttered a quiet prayer to himself. No one spoke, the silence was calming. One nurse had dropped a tray on the floor and the noise was almost ear shattering. Several of the men lapsed into their nightmare state cowering under the sheets and wetting the bed. Matron telling them off like little children, although with a deep compassion and an aching heart. After four weeks the pain and soreness of the burns had eased, the nightmares that made sleep impossible were fading. The same images all the men had, of their friends, twisted and blackened, arms outstretched as if seeking guidance from God. He was alive and home. After two months the physical wounds had nearly healed and he had made some new and good friends, their grief bonding them as a shared nightmare. And one nurse, with her long flowing auburn hair neatly pinned under her hat, always smiled at him, making the boredom bearable. Her pretty eyes made his insides flutter. next »