It was a silence to drown in.
She untethered her bag and found her flannel blanket, draping it across her knees as the night deepened. Next, she procured her notepad and a pen, and she began to write down highlights of the day while they were still fresh in her mind.
The darkness continued to unspool.
Iris reached for an orange in her bag, setting her notepad aside to eat. She hadn’t glanced up at Roman one time, but she knew he was also writing. She could hear the faint scratch of his pen marking the paper.
She shifted, only to feel something crinkle in her pocket.
Carver’s letter.
In the furor of the day, she had forgotten about it, still half read. But remembering it now as she was sitting in a trench, hungry and cold and anxious … his letter felt like an embrace. Like reaching for a friend in the darkness and finding their hand.
She studied Roman as he wrote, his brow furrowed. A second later, his gaze snapped up to hers, as if he had felt her eyes on him, and she glanced away, preoccupied with her orange.
She would have to wait for him to fall asleep before she retrieved the letter. The last thing in the world she wanted was for Roman Chafing Kitt to know she was magically corresponding with a boy she had never met but felt sparks for.
An hour passed. It felt like three hours, but time followed its own whim in the trenches, whether that be stalling or flowing.
Iris leaned her head back against the woven birch branches, her helmet clinking against the wood. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep. And she waited, staving off her own exhaustion. When she looked at him beneath her lashes ten minutes later, Roman’s face was slack. His eyes were shut, his breaths deep, as his chest rose and fell, his notepad precariously balanced on his knees. He looked younger, she thought. Softer. For some reason, it made her ache, and she had to push those alarming feelings aside.
But she wondered how much the two of them would change in this war. What marks would it leave on them, shining like scars that never faded?
Slowly, Iris retrieved the letter from her pocket.
Of course, it crinkled loudly in the silence of the trench. When Lark glanced at her, she grimaced, wondering if Dacre could hear such an innocent sound over the expanse of dead man’s zone.
She froze, the paper halfway from her pocket. She mouthed an apology to Lark, who realized what she was doing and winked at her. She imagined letters were sacred on the front.
Her eyes then flickered to Roman. He hadn’t budged. The three-hour lorry ride with her sitting on his lap must have truly worn him down.
Iris eased Carver’s letter the rest of the way free, feeling like she could finally take a deep inhale as it unfolded in her grubby hands.
She found the place where she had left off. Something about his nan, and she read:
—my nan is fine, albeit quite put out with me at the moment—I’ll tell you why when I finally see you. She sometimes asks if I’ve written my own novel on the typewriter she gave me years ago—the typewriter that connects me to you—and I always hate to disappoint her. But sometimes I feel as if my words are mundane and dull. There doesn’t seem to be a story hiding in my bones these days, as she believes. And I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m not who she thinks I am.
But tell me more about you. One of your favorite memories, or a place you long to go one day, or a book that changed your life and the way you perceive the world. Do you drink coffee or tea? Do you prefer salt or sugar? Do you revel in sunrises or sunsets? What is your favorite season?
I want to know everything about you, Iris.
I want to know your hopes and your dreams. I want to know
Her reading was interrupted by a crumpled ball of paper, flying across the trench to hit her in the face.
Iris winced, shocked until she looked up to see Roman staring at her. She glared at him until he motioned for her to open the wad he had just thrown at her.
She did, only to read his scrawl of What’s that you’re reading, Winnow?
She picked up her pen and wrote her reply: What does it look like, Kitt? She recrumpled and hurled it at him.
Her attention was divided now, between him and Carver’s letter. She longed for a moment in private, to savor the words she had been reading. Words that were turning her molten. But Roman was not to be trusted. He was smoothing the paper out and writing a reply, and Iris had no desire to be smacked in the face again.
She caught it when he tossed it to her, and read, A love letter, I presume?
Iris rolled her eyes in response, but she could feel the warmth flood her face. She hoped the shadows cast from the lantern were hiding her blush.
It’s none of your business, but if you would be so kind as to allow me to finish reading it in peace … I would be eternally grateful, she wrote, returning the paper to him.
Roman scribbled and sent back, So it is a love letter. From whom, Winnow?
She narrowed her eyes at him. I’m not telling you, Kitt.
Their piece of paper was wrinkled beyond saving at this point. He carefully tore a new page from his notebook and sent You should take advantage of me. I can give you advice.
And why did her gaze hang on that first sentence of his? She shook her head, lamenting the day she had met Roman Kitt, and responded, I don’t need your advice although I thank you for the offer.
She thought surely that would settle it. She began to reread Carver’s letter, her eyes hungry to finish that confession of his …
Another paper wad sailed across the trench, striking her on the collar this time.
She was tempted to ignore it. He might persist and send another, but paper was valuable here, and they were both being foolish to waste it. As if he had read her mind, Roman bumped her boot with his own, and she looked at him. His face was haggard in the lantern light, as if he were half wild.
She swallowed and opened the wad to read:
Let me guess: he’s pouring his heart out onto the page, claiming how inadequate he feels because what he truly craves is affirmation from you. And he probably threw something in there about his family: a mum or his sister or his nan. Because he knows you’ll melt at the thought of the other women in his life, the ones who have shaped him. And if he knows you well enough … then he’ll mention something about books or newspaper articles, because surely by now he knows your writing is exquisite, and above all he knows that he doesn’t deserve you and your words and he never will.
Iris was stunned. She stared at him, uncertain how to respond. When Roman held her gaze, as if challenging her, she dropped her eyes to the letter. She would have to wait to finish it. She carefully folded and slipped it back in her pocket.
But nor would she let her old rival have the last word.
She penned and sent: You’re overthinking it. Go to sleep, Roman Kitt.
He sighed and leaned his head back. She realized his face was flushed. She watched as his eyes grew heavy. Perhaps that was all she needed to do to make him heed her: call him Roman. But she fell asleep before she could think further on it. And she dreamt of a cold city with streets that never ended and a heavy mist and a boy with dark hair who ran ahead of her, just beyond her reach.
{30}
Notes from the Trenches
Rules for a Civilian in the Trenches:
Stay down. Resist the temptation to crawl up one of the ladders to catch a glimpse of the land above, which you previously took for granted before you descended. The ladders are to be used by the lookouts and their periscopes, or for snipers, or when the barrage* （see footnote #1） happens.