The White Knight
First Act: The Wound The hospital smelled of carbolic acid and regret. Thomas Whitfield lay in Ward Seven, his left arm in a sling, his chest bandaged, and his mind empty in the way that only men who have watched thirty young soldiers die in forty minutes can be empty. Somme, July 1st. He was still writing the date in his head, over and over, as though the numbers could undo what the numbers...
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