The English House, Belgium. Spring 1917 Some days, when the cafe was closed, Alice could relax and not worry about soldiers going off to the Front, perhaps never to return. Other days, she couldn’t stop worrying about them. Occasionally, she worried about the war. It appeared the British Army was drafting in anyone who could point a gun and shoot, no matter how young or old.
Only today, she’d chatted with a soldier who looked about 40 and was a butcher. He’d fought in the last war, against the Boers, never thinking he’d be made to fight in another. Yet there he was, in the cafe, eating a penny bun, drinking a cup of tea, awaiting orders.
If Alice had been pressed, she’d have admitted she didn’t stop worrying about…