H. Hall, defending the army against those who say that censors are keeping the truth from Australia EARLY HOURS, 2 SEPTEMBER 1915, ON IMBROS, HAMILTON DROWNS Hands are closing around General Ian Hamilton’s throat and pushing him under the waters of the Dardanelles. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t BREATHE, and though he tries to fight … slowly … slowly … slowly the fight begins to go out of him and … and … and … And then he wakes up. It has just been a nightmare. Or has it? Lost in that strange, sleepy netherworld where one is flooded with relief that it has only been a bad dream … but still haunted by the all-too-real emotions that have come with it, Ian Hamilton lies in his bed still shivering with the horror of it. But is he alone? Is there not someone else in his tent too? Barely able to breathe, he looks closely. There! There is someone in his tent. An assassin? A what? Terrified, now wide awake, sort of, he carefully looks at the face of the intruder … only to be frustrated.
