The Last Bugle
The Last Bugle The sandstorm came at three in the morning, swallowing Tunisia whole. Henry Ashcroft woke to the sound of metal on metal and the sharp tang of cordite in the air. He rolled onto his back, counted to ten, then opened his eyes to a sky that did not belong to this century. It was grey, but not the grey of a North African dawn. It was the grey of London, of a December morning in...
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