The voice came to him out of the night and he wondered for a moment if it was real or in his dreams. Or was it a symptom of madness — of delirium? It occurred to him vaguely that the voice might be real and even remotely familiar, but as he could not identify it immediately he gave up and surrendered instead to the welcoming abyss of sleep — a drug-like swirl of exhaustion and darkness.
    Then suddenly he was aware of the cold, rocky ground beneath him and his sodden battledress clinging icily to his legs and torso, and this defeated him utterly. He realized that he was not dreaming at all. The night had ended. The voice was real.
    "Sir Major Dafoe, get up!"
    Now he recognized it. Of course. It was Miki, his young guard and interpreter — the disturber of dreams, he added miserably. It was Miki who led him to this secluded spot under a bridge and helped him down from his horse. He had almost collapsed the night before from several days' journey without food or shelter as the column of Partisans wound its way along the rugged mountain trails. There were a few narrow escapes during the march and one harrowing incident when bullets and artillery shells seemed to assault the column from every direction. Then a fine rain had fallen in the night, soaking everyone and further aggravating the condition of the men and women on this disagreeable journey.
    Too weak and dispirited to feel much more than the wet saddle chafing under him and the knotted muscles in his back, he wondered if the march, and its attendant hardships, would ever end.
    He was aware of Miki's ghost-like form hovering over him again and holding the reins of his horse, saddled and ready to go, its breath steaming in the still morning air. If Miki had come for him there must be a good reason. The urgency in his voice had not gone unnoticed. Perhaps it was another false alarm. It had happened before. He shrank deeper into his cold blanket of resistance, and waited.
    "Sir Major Dafoe, get up!"
    "Go away," he mumbled.
    "No, Sir Major, we must go. It is very dangerous."
    "Go away, I said."
    "I will give you some tea, Sir Major," he promised. He watched as the Canadian stirred, his interest evidently aroused.
    "Tea, Miki? Here? Impossible. Don't even say it."
    "I swear to you, Sir Major, it shall be done — with milk, if you like. Just come with us now, please. We have orders."
    He rolled over with a groan and tried to focus his tired eyes. Slowly the numbness in his arms and legs began to diminish.
    "Dieu m'en garde," he muttered grimly.
    He swung a look of resignation towards Miki, who stood over him, waiting anxiously. He seemed oddly misshapen — a young scarecrow of a figure, burdened down with too many weapons — and wore a fearful expression that was somehow rendered comical by his wedge-cap. "Poor Miki," he thought. "Such a loyal fellow. Seen too much of this damn war."
    Finally he lifted himself from the ground and stretched. A slender but muscular man with handsome features, and dressed in the uniform of a British officer, he adjusted his black beret as he surveyed the darkness around him.
    "Eat, drink and be merry lads, for tomorrow we die — right Miki?"
    Miki grinned widely now that he had the Canadian surgeon on his feet and flashed a mischievous look. "Perhaps we will die today, Sir Major."
    He had turned to search for his kit and when he swung around again he glared at his young guard. "Don't even think it, Miki."
    He regarded the young man briefly and then started towards his horse. "Let's get the hell out of here," he said, as he led the tired animal away to rejoin the column already assembling in the dim light of dawn.