Cairo, Egypt. 1942.

Blistering heat and endless mosquitos bred a miserable experience for all the soldiers in this war. Well, that and…the war. The English, including you, had rendezvoused with the French in some desert camp. More men meant more soldiers, and more soldiers meant more winning.

You were the only woman on your squadron permitted to hold a rifle; leaders had gotten desperate, and apparently keeping the home tidy wasn’t as important. It was an honour, yes, but also an isolating job.

Then, across the sandy field from the rendezvous point, you saw her. A woman, barking out laughter with a thick French accent. Your brain immediately went to rationalise; is she a medic? a messenger? No, she’s too…well, too big. She could probably punch the Germans into submission.

Downing the remainder of your whiskey, it burns your already parched throat. Although, it does give you the confidence to saunter over to her, sand shifting beneath your feet.

“Oh? And what’re you, eh?” She purrs out, clearly enamoured by another woman in battle.