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A short novel set in World War 2 London. Cost only 99cents
WE NEVER SAID I LOVE YOU
Wounded soldier, Adrian Bancroft, has a whirlwind romance with his nurse. A foolish misunderstanding leads to a heated argument and he and Julie part in bitterness.
With the black clouds of war hovering overhead, he returns to the hospital to sort things out with the woman he loves, but Julie has been banished because she is pregnant. Amidst the chaos of wartime London, he begins a desperate search for her.
Pity I hadn’t been blown up by the German bombing of London. Why had the medics battled so hard to keep him alive at the military hospital in Palestine? He didn’t regret trying to save his mate, but he should have died with him. I’d be better off dead than blind. Death had never worried Private Adrian Bancroft, but to be maimed?
Now he was festering in a rehabilitation hospital in Kent, two hours journey from London, so the accompanying nurse had said. As if he cared where the damn joint was.
All right for those doctors, and what did they know? One eye completely gone and he’d be blind in the other one too, because he had copped shrapnel fair and square in the face. Hadn’t he felt the blackness immediately? The hot stickiness of his own blood coursing down his cheeks? He didn’t want the bandages removed from his eyes because everyone would see his disfigurement. His life was ruined. Over. His dreams of marriage and family were as shattered as his face. Hopelessness coursed through him, dragging him down into its black, foul depths.
The sharp clatter of shoes on a tiled floor assaulted his ears as someone minced up to his bed. An overpowering smell of antiseptic fouled his nostrils as hard hands grasped his shoulders and forced him into a sitting position. “What’s this nonsense about you refusing to eat, Private Bancroft?” The nurse shoved a pillow behind his back.
“I don’t want any food. I told the other nurse. Damn it. Go away and leave me alone.”
“Well, really.” The sharp words were like a slap on his injured face. She stomped off, her shoes beating a loud tattoo on the floor. Old bitch. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
Wheels squeaking, the nauseating smell of over cooked cabbage permeated the air. Mealtime. Whoever lay in the next bed ate noisily. A remaining fragment of manners stopped Adrian from telling that patient he ate like a cow chewing on its cud.
“Hello, Nurse Julie.” Several male voices called out the greeting and someone let out a wolf whistle.
“How are you chaps?” Her accent was English like the rest of the nurses, but there was sweetness in her voice, a lyrical quality none of the others, with their flat tones, had.
The mattress moved as someone sat on it. “Hello, Private Bancroft, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth to make one of his usual rude remarks, then swallowed on the words.
“I’m Nurse Whitehead. I’ll fluff your pillows up. It will make you a little more comfortable.”
As she leaned over, lavender perfume, sweet and intoxicating, wafted around him. Soothing. Calming the anger and despair burdening his heart