Daughters of War by Hilary Green Page A

you.’
    ‘I didn’t do anything special,’ Leo mumbled.
    ‘Yes, you did. You were so calm, so . . . so stalwart. I’ve always thought of myself as brave, but not today.’
    ‘I wasn’t feeling very brave, either,’ Leo confessed.
    ‘That doesn’t matter. You just got on with the job.’
    ‘So did you.’
    ‘Yes, because I didn’t want to let you down.’
    Leo put her arm round her. ‘Well, as long as we both try not to let each other down, we’ll be all right, won’t we.’
    Victoria looked into her eyes. ‘I dragged you into this. I’m responsible. Are you furious with me?’
    ‘Of course not!’ Leo exclaimed. ‘However bad it gets, I’d still rather be here than sitting at home.’ She yawned suddenly. ‘I don’t know about you, but I feel as though I could sleep for a week.’
    ‘Me, too. Let’s take the opportunity while it’s offered. At least we can have an hour or two.’
    An extra bed had been set up during their absence and they lay down, fully clothed, and both fell almost immediately into the first proper sleep they had had for forty-eight hours. They were woken by the steward calling to them from outside the tent. Leo sat up and realized that two things had changed. Darkness had fallen, and the guns had stopped firing. She called out to the steward to come in and he entered carrying a bucket of steaming water.
    ‘The general asks if you will do him the honour of joining him for dinner.’
    Leo suppressed a laugh. The formality of the invitation was in such stark contrast to their circumstances that it seemed almost ludicrous. ‘Please thank the general and tell him we shall be delighted,’ she said.
    They spruced themselves up as far as possible and the steward conducted them to a large tent which obviously served as an officers’ mess. As they entered Leo suppressed a gasp and looked at Victoria, whose eyes expressed the same mixture of surprise and amusement. The long table was covered with spotless linen, on which highly polished cutlery gleamed in the light of candles in silver candlesticks. Orderlies stood along both sides with white napkins over their arms. Leo was reminded of the officers’ mess at the Guards’ Chelsea barracks, where she had been Ralph’s guest more than once. The only item that might have looked out of place there was the huge samovar which stood, glistening, in one corner. She quickly realized that the formality of the invitation had not been out of place. Although the officers present were swathed in muddy greatcoats against the cold they behaved as if they were entertaining ladies in their mess at headquarters. Indeed, they were treated with a gallant courtesy which surpassed anything Leo had experienced anywhere in England.
    They were served potato soup with soured cream, and then a goulash spiced with paprika and enriched with more cream and finally pancakes with a chocolate sauce.
    Victoria pushed the last of hers to the side of her plate and muttered in English, ‘If I eat any more I shall burst.’
    ‘I know what you mean,’ Leo replied. ‘I wonder what those poor boys in the hospital tent are getting.’
    ‘Not this, I’m willing to bet,’ her friend grunted.
    When the meal was over they all adjourned outside, where they sat round a huge campfire while a soldier sang to the accompaniment of the gusla , a kind of single-stringed banjo, which produced a curious, monotonous buzzing sound. The song, too, had a limited musical range, repeating the same pattern over and over again. When it had gone on for some time Leo leaned over to Major Dragitch and whispered, ‘What is the song about, major?’
    ‘It is an old legend,’ he whispered back. ‘Every family in Serbia tells such stories, of how their ancestors fought the Turks back in the fourteenth century, or other historic battles.’
    ‘It sounds a very sad song,’ Leo murmured.
    ‘We Serbs have a sad history,’ he replied.
    Eventually the song came to an end and then, to Leo’s