Extract from first chapter of Another Kind of Loving
There were about 50 small children. They had been collected into one large dormitory to make the most of whatever warmth and light were available. Most were in bed ... (but there was) a girl standing in the middle of the room. Her head was down, her face hidden by a dark lank curtain of hair.

Mike asked "And what is her story?"

"Her father was killed by a sniper; Branka, her mother is now very sick. She is an old friend, from long ago and asked if Jasminka should come here. To be safer. To help me..." She paused. "..... He had gone to fetch her. She was holding his hand when he was shot." She shrugged. "I forget to make allowances. But when tragedy is the norm ....."

But tragedy wasn’t the norm in Mike’s life, and he ached with compassion for the girl with the unkempt hair. As he followed Jovanka out of the room, he looked back and saw the child was still glaring after him.

"I’ll get those candles," he said again later as he took his leave of Jovanka. The shelling had started again and, across the valley, fresh puffs of smoke and dust rose where missiles struck with distant, gentle, harmless-sounding thuds. "And some things for the children. I’ll come back in a few days."

He did return, but he never intended to get so involved with the girl with the uncombed hair.

Extract from first chapter of Beyond the Broken Gate
After weeks of marching, first east, then west, then east again they resumed a westerly course. The whole world seemed to be on the move: retreating German soldiers, entire communities emptying in panic ahead of the advancing Russians, and the occupants of scores of prisoner-of-war camps herded this way and that for no clear purpose...…

Pete still fretted he would never see his Annie again.

"Don’t be bloody stupid," Jake said, "We’ll be home in a few days."

That seemed to satisfy Pete. He looked up at the sky, buzzing with even more activity than usual. Ahead the track followed the edge of a wood, but here it cut across open fields.

"Hey, look at ours!" Pete exclaimed. Circling above them several planes became recognisably Typhoons, the red, white and blue circles clearly visible. God, it must be great to be flying up there, free. Jake watched as they began to peel away, bank, turn, lose height, one behind the other.

Pete stood up, legs akimbo, arms raised in greeting, head back, cheering. Jake heard him shout "We’re going h-o-o-o-o-me." In disbelief he saw the puffs of smoke from under the wings. "Get down Pete, for God’s sake," he yelled, but Pete was still standing, cheering when he was hit in the stomach, spun round and fell, his head in Jake’s lap. Death must have been instantaneous.

"Bastards," Jake screamed. "Bastards, bastards, bastards."

He cradled Pete’s head, shifting his weight to ease the pain in his bad foot. And saw his tears of fury and grief fall on to his friend’s fair head.