Nightingale by Fiona McIntosh

battle-hardened experience of the Balkan Wars had laughed at the ‘boys’ hoping to stand shoulder to shoulder with them. Nevertheless, he’d thrown himself at his training and he wondered what his father might make of him now with his newly acquired ability to march day and night without food, water or rest. Or his capability of breaking down a rifle and reassembling it in under two minutes, or the fact that he no longer felt he had a free-thinking mind – he simply responded to orders. His dead mother would sigh in her grave that he had stopped writing, stopped dreaming, and that he was being forced instead to imagine killing.
    So far Açar had managed to avoid taking anyone’s life; he had not had a clean shot at the enemy but he also fired his rifle deliberately off target. He was careful to join in the backslapping discussions of this shot or that, and disguised his fear with battle cries alongside his fellow Turks, inspired by ancient Ottoman history and a similar determination to defend their lands. He had wounded two men, he was sure, and had prayed both would survive.
    He had begun to imagine a story of two young men, both in their third decade, from different backgrounds, cultures, and at war with each other but not really sure why. Neither wanted to kill. Neither had married yet. And in fact that’s mainly what consumed their thoughts – being with a woman. He might write this story, if he survived the war.
    His neighbour nudged him and Açar fired a shot to pretend he had been concentrating. He watched the bullet bounce uselessly off rock. He didn’t think he’d survive the war and the truth was he’d felt a sense of melancholia creeping up ever since he’d heard the now famous tale that their commander had berated his men who had clapped eyes on the Allied fleet and wanted to flee. Mustafa Kemal had given the unnerved soldiers a stirring speech, the words of which burned in Açar’s mind.
    I don’t order you to fight, I order you to die.
    Açar fully expected to follow that order.
    Kemal’s troops had responded with limitless courage and fought with such determined ferocity that they were convinced the amphibious landings by the British with their Australian and New Zealand counterparts could only be marked down as disastrous. They had witnessed them face the unfamiliar and treacherous terrain, and become scattered, disoriented, and knew they were now crouching in hastily dug trenches or tiny ridges and overhangs, trapped like birds that dare not break cover.
    He’d heard that the Australians had sunk headlong into four feet of water as they tumbled out of their boats because of the heavy kit each carried. Some were hit on the ten-yard rush to the foot of the hills. They soon cast aside all their equipment, and then like mountain goats had to find the agility to climb with only their rifles and fear for company, the soil crumbling beneath them.
    Açar had liked hearing about the singing, though. Once there was no more need for stealth, the Australians had apparently begun to sing.
    â€˜
Australia will be there
,’ one of his companions imitated and those listening laughed.
    â€˜
No! No! No! No! Australia will be there
,’ his friends chorused.
    He dared not admit feeling moved that his enemy sang in the face of death. He and his kind were manacled to the Germans, while the singing Australians were helplessly loyal to their Crown in Britain.
    He felt another nudge from his comrade. Relieving soldiers had arrived. It was their turn now to drop back; he had high hopes that mail may have arrived from the surrounding villages. He slid on his belly into the trench, his back to the setting sun over the waters, and wondered what might distract him tonight from his dark thoughts of impending death.
    In the camp the
saya
had recently arrived with a bundle of letters tied in cheesecloth. Açar heard the men grouped around him murmur a