Harvest of War

Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Hilary Green

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

DAUGHTERS OF WAR *

PASSIONS OF WAR *

HARVEST OF WAR *

WE'LL MEET AGAIN

NEVER SAY GOODBYE

NOW IS THE HOUR

THEY ALSO SERVE

THEATRE OF WAR

THE FINAL ACT

* available from Severn House

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Hilary Green.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Green, Hilary, 1937-

Harvest of war.

1. Malham Brown, Leonora (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. World War, 1914-1918–Medical care–Fiction. 3. Love stories.

I. Title

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-279-5 (Epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8170-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-430-1 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

These books are not romantic fantasies but are based on solid historical fact. They were inspired by the lives of two remarkable women, Mabel St Clair Stobart and Flora Sands. Stobart, who features as a character in this book, was the founder of the Women's Sick and Wounded Convoy. In 1912, she led a group of nurses to care for Bulgarian soldiers during the First Balkan War and returned to help the Serbs during World War I. She gave an account of her experiences in her books
Miracles and Adventure
s and
The Flaming Sword in Serbia and Elsewhere
.

Flora Sands was the daughter of a clergyman and an early member of the FANY – the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In 1915 she volunteered to go to Serbia with Stobart, was separated from her unit and joined up with a company of Serbian soldiers, with whom she endured the terrible hardships of the retreat through the mountains of Albania. She later returned with them to Salonika and took part in the final advance which ended the war. She was the first woman ever to be accepted as a fighting soldier and ended the war with the rank of sergeant. Though she does not appear as a character in these books, much of the action is derived from her experiences, which are recorded in her own memoir
An English Woman Sergeant in the Serbian Army
and by Alan Burgess in
The Lovely Sergeant.

I am indebted to Lynette Beardwood, archivist for the FANY and fellow of Liverpool John Moores University, for drawing my attention to the stories of Mabel Stobart and Flora Sands and for providing me with invaluable source material about the FANY during World War I.

I should also like to thank my husband for proof reading and my writing group friends Christine and Maureen for their invariably helpful criticisms.

The streets of the Greek city of Salonika were crowded with soldiers in the uniforms of different countries. British Tommies rubbed shoulders with French
poilous
and Serbs in their borrowed French uniforms and English boots.

Leonora Malham Brown threaded her way through the crowds in the narrow streets leading down to the harbour. Men stepped back to let her pass and some saluted, but she knew that their respect was due more to the red crosses on her nurse's uniform than to her personally, though some of the Serbs greeted her by name as
Gospodica Leo
. She had earned their respect, and indeed their love, during the terrible privations of the retreat through the mountains of Albania in the winter of 1915 and its aftermath. The long dress and starched apron restricted her stride and she would have been happier in her FANY uniform of riding breeches under a divided skirt, but she had abandoned it for two reasons. The first was the simple fact that the serviceable tweed was just too heavy for Salonika in summer. The second was more complex. It was important for her to give the impression of respectability, for Sasha's sake. He had seen her in many guises, from a ragged urchin to a lady of fashion, but when they had arrived in Salonika a month ago she had quickly become aware that her irregular position as his companion was a source of scandal among the British and French contingents. That would not have mattered to her. She had always been ready to flout convention, but Colonel Count Aleksander Malkovic was more sensitive to criticism. As a Serbian nobleman honour and reputation were of paramount importance to him – and after all, he was married, although to a woman he hardly knew. He had broken his own code by finally giving way to his love for her but she had no wish to publicly embarrass him. Anxious not to be seen as merely a ‘camp follower', she had hurried to offer her services at the local Red Cross hospital.

Reaching her destination, Leo paused in the doorway of the restaurant and looked around. The crowded tables had spilled out on to the quayside, the lights from the candles on them reflecting in the water. The sound of laughter and conversation almost drowned the music of the small
bouzouki
band sitting on a low platform in front of the building. It struck her that Salonika was a very different place from the one she remembered first visiting with her friend Victoria. It was still full of foreign troops, but it was no longer a city that had just changed hands after bitter fighting, as it had been back in 1912. The shops and restaurants had opened up again and were doing a roaring trade, and the most fashionable of them all was Floca's, where she now stood.

There was, after all, very little for the soldiers to do. For the last six months they had been bottled up in a small salient that extended from the Adriatic in the west to the River Struma in the east by the Bulgarian army, which was intent on claiming the whole of Macedonia. Unable to break through, the allies had settled for building a wire fence along the frontier, which had earned the area the nickname of ‘the birdcage'. Saved from the horrors of the Western Front, the British and French troops had to suffer the indignity of being called ‘the gardeners of Salonika'. It was small wonder that they had made the best of their posting. There were football matches and concerts and plays, and every evening when there was no other entertainment on offer they gathered in the bars and cafés to talk, drink and play cards, as tonight. In contrast, the Serbs, after several months on Corfu, were desperate for action and only prevented from staging a new attack by wrangling between the French and their Greek allies.

Leo's gaze searched the crowd until she found Sasha sitting at the edge of the gathering at a table close by the water's edge. He was with two other officers, one British, one French. He saw her and came over.

‘You look tired. I expected you earlier. Did they make you work overtime at the hospital?'

Leo had been warmly welcomed by the mixed collection of doctors and nurses of varying nationalities who had volunteered to work for the Red Cross. There were few wounded to care for, but as well as the old enemy, typhus, the visiting troops had fallen victim in large numbers to malaria. Medical resources were stretched to the limits.

‘Nobody “made” me,' she said. ‘I volunteered.'

‘You shouldn't let them put extra work on you,' he responded. ‘It isn't fair.'

His tone was slightly petulant and Leo recognized with an inward sigh that now they were lovers he expected her to regard his wishes as paramount. She could not blame him. He had been brought up to believe that women were primarily there to serve their menfolk. Nevertheless, she had no intention of knuckling under completely.

‘The regular nurses work just as hard as I do, if not harder. There are so many patients and not enough people to care for them as they should be cared for. Anyway, I'm here now. Shall we join your friends?'

The two officers rose as she approached and the Frenchman exclaimed, ‘Ah, mademoiselle, you have come at just the right moment! We are in need of your services as interpreter.'

Leo smiled wryly. It was easy to understand why she was required. Sasha knew only a few words of French and virtually no English; the other two almost certainly knew no Serbian. Until her arrival the conversation must have limped along in German, the only common tongue. Fluent already in French and German, a year nursing Serbian soldiers had given Leo a good command of that language, too.

‘I'll do my best,' she said, ‘but let me have a glass of wine first.'

It was the perennial topic of conversation: the political impasse with Greece. It was an animated discussion and Leo had to work hard to translate.

‘If only King Constantine wasn't such a fool!' Sasha said. ‘Does he really imagine that if he stays neutral and the Central Powers win, as he hopes, the Bulgars will meekly take themselves off and leave Macedonia to Greece?'

‘It didn't help that General Serrail forced him to demobilize the Greek army,' the British officer put in. ‘That has caused a great deal of resentment.'

The Frenchman glared at him. ‘Would you rather that they were deployed to assist the Germans? My general was taking a sensible precaution. And that very resentment of which you speak has strengthened the hand of Prime Minister Venizelos.'

‘Oh, Venizelos is on our side, all right. But he's only the prime minister. In the end it's the king who has the final word.'