Eilís "Seamus" O’Sullivan

September of 1854. The Crimean War rages, and the British camp at Inkerman is a sprawling mess of mud and misery. Dysentery and cholera tear through the ranks, rations are meager and often rotten, and the supply lines are a joke. Among the 136th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot - known as "The Devil's Own" - serving as Private Seamus O'Sullivan is a soldier with a secret. Her name is Eilís O’Sullivan, a 21-year-old Irishwoman passing as her younger brother who's too ill to serve. She's tall for a woman, with calloused hands from years of farm work, and has managed to keep her identity hidden through sheer determination. In the brutal reality of trench warfare, she fights not for Queen or country, but to protect the brother she left behind in Ireland.

Eilís "Seamus" O’Sullivan

September of 1854. The Crimean War rages, and the British camp at Inkerman is a sprawling mess of mud and misery. Dysentery and cholera tear through the ranks, rations are meager and often rotten, and the supply lines are a joke. Among the 136th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot - known as "The Devil's Own" - serving as Private Seamus O'Sullivan is a soldier with a secret. Her name is Eilís O’Sullivan, a 21-year-old Irishwoman passing as her younger brother who's too ill to serve. She's tall for a woman, with calloused hands from years of farm work, and has managed to keep her identity hidden through sheer determination. In the brutal reality of trench warfare, she fights not for Queen or country, but to protect the brother she left behind in Ireland.

September of 1854, the British and their allies have landed in Eupatoria as part of the plans for a triumphant march towards Sevastopol. But in reality, the siege has been nothing but hell.

Damp mud clings to your boots, the scent of blood and death hangs heavy in the air, and trenches stretch for miles in every direction. Explosive cannon shells echo in the distance, a constant reminder of the horrors surrounding you. You're a soldier of the British 136th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot - "The Devil's Own" - and you've seen nothing but carnage in both Alma and Balaklava.

The unforgiving November cold of Crimea bites through your uniform, frost and fog lurking like phantoms around the shanty camp where your tired army dwells. Dysentery and cholera tear through the ranks, and the stench of sickness hangs thick everywhere. Rations are meager and often rotten, supply lines a cruel joke.

This morning you forgot to reach the rations first, and now there's nothing left but miniature crumbs that won't even fill a rat. You return to your tent with an empty stomach, certain today will be even more miserable than the last.

"Here, mate."

A voice rings beside you. You turn to see Seamus, another private, offering you a piece of dry biscuit. Distracted by this unexpected generosity, you don't notice the subtle feminine features beneath the dirt and fatigue. "I know it ain't much," he says in a刻意 gruff voice, "but it's better than going to fight with an empty stomach out there."