Become comfortable with a home of open sky and damp dirt walls, but never trust them. The sky is always a threat, and while the earth is your greatest shield when the hounds prowl and the mortar strikes, it can also be dangerous* （see footnote #2）。
Pray against rain. Daily. Or else prepare to live in flooded conditions* （see footnote #3）。
Ignore the rats. Yes, this is extremely difficult when they roam the trench at night and crawl over your legs and chew through your bag. Also, ignore the lice.
Eat and drink just enough to keep yourself fueled and hydrated. You’ll always feel the faint （or intense） gnaw of hunger as you live off of dried meat and tins of beans. But on a very good day, you might get an egg banjo* （see footnote #4）， which tastes utterly divine.
Lanterns are allowed to burn low in the communication trenches, but no fire is permitted at night on the front lines. Not even a spark to light a cigarette* （see footnote #5）。
There is no privacy. Not even when you need the loo.
Footnotes:
A “barrage” can be defined as a “concentrated artillery bombardment over a wide area.” Lieutenant Lark has informed me this tactic is used when one side wants to cross the “dead man’s zone,” which is the plot of ground between the two forces’ trenches. Heavy casualties occur in this zone, which often means a stalemate can occur and nothing might happen for days in the trenches, each side waiting for the other to strike. But a “fire, cover, and move” approach can occur when heavy artillery is fired, which causes smoke to rise and conceal the soldiers who crawl across the zone to take their opponent’s trenches. There’s a soldier in each company who is tasked with measuring which way the wind is blowing for the day. Sometimes that alone is a good indicator as to when it’s best to make a strike, so the smoke blows with you in the direction you plan to attack. Or it could be a sign as to when your enemy plans to strike.
Sergeant Duncan informed me of an instance when soldiers retreated to one of the bunkers for shelter during an artillery bombardment, only for the bomb to hit the ground directly above it. The bunker collapsed and the soldiers were buried alive within it.
Thank whatever gods care about mortal affairs that it hasn’t rained while I’ve been here, but I believe it rained quite a bit when Attie was in the trenches. She might be able to provide an honest opinion on how miserable and morale-breaking it is.
Recipe for an egg banjo, as cooked by one Private Marcy Gould: Fry an egg over the fire in your cast-iron skillet. Make sure the yolk is bright and runny. Take two thick slices of buttered bread and put the egg between them. You’ll undoubtedly be asked by your fellow soldiers if you are going to eat all of it. Don’t worry; you’ll eat every last crumb.
Lieutenant Lark informed me of a private who lit a cigarette while on post on the front lines. Two breaths later, heavy artillery was fired, and half of the private’s platoon was killed.
Three days came and went. It was a strange rhythm to adjust to: nights in the communication trenches and rigid days at the front lines. The Sycamores were rotating with another platoon and would do so for seven days before they returned to base to rest and recover for seven.
And all the while, Iris filled up her notepad.
She never wrote during the day, when she was hunkered down beside Roman at the front, terrified to do something as innocent as scratch her nose. But at night when they were in reserves, the Sycamore Platoon began to warm to her, and she often played cards with them by lantern light, remembering how friendly competition was an effective way to gain access to a deeper, more intimate story.
She asked the privates about their lives back home and the families that loved them. She asked what had made them want to join the war. She asked about past battles—losses and victories—and soaked in the stories of courage and loyalty and pain they shared. The soldiers called one another brother and sister, as if the war had forged bonds that were deeper than blood.
It made her feel incredibly fulfilled one moment and deeply sad the next.
She missed her mother. She missed Forest. She missed Attie and Marisol. She missed writing to Carver.
Sometimes she tried to mentally trace the path that had brought her to this place, but it was too difficult to relive. It stirred up half-buried feelings in her, too dangerous to unearth at the moment.
Even so … the blood was humming in her veins.
On the fourth night, Iris was writing her notes for the day when she was struck by a wave of exhaustion.
She paused, her hand cramping.
Roman sat in his customary place across the trench from her, eating from a tin of beans. His black hair hung tangled in his eyes and his beard was growing, shadowing the lower half of his face. His cheekbones were more pronounced, as if he had lost weight. His knuckles were bright with scabs, his fingernails crowded with dirt, and his jumpsuit had a hole in one knee. He honestly looked nothing like she remembered. When they were working at the Oath Gazette, he was always groomed and richly dressed, walking around with a pompous air.
Why is he here? she wondered for the hundredth time. She had once thought he would be easy to understand, but with each day that passed, she was beginning to realize that Roman Kitt was a mystery. A mystery she was tempted to solve.
Iris didn’t study him for long, for fear of drawing his attention. She glanced back down to her notepad and she suddenly felt empty and tired, as if she had aged years in a night.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.
She surrendered to slumber before she knew it.
* * *
Iris walked the trenches at night.
She was alone with only the moon for company, full and bright above her, swollen with silver light. She paused, listening to the wind that descended. Where was everyone? Where was she supposed to be?
Where was Roman, her pesky shadow?
In the distance, she heard howls. The hounds. Her heart spiked as she rushed to the closest bunker, feeling exposed and frightened.
There was a light burning within the darkness.
The moment Iris stepped into the bunker, drawn to the fire, she realized it was a room. Her old living room in the flat. The place she had shared with her mother and Forest. As her eyes traced over the familiarity—the threadbare rug, the wallpaper that was hanging in strips, the sideboard with Nan’s radio—they caught on one person she never thought she’d see again.
“Little Flower,” her mother said, perched on the sofa. A cigarette was smoking in her fingertips. “Where have you been, sweetheart?”
“Mum?” Iris’s voice felt rusted. “Mum, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here because you’re here, Iris.”
“Where are we?”
“Home for now. Did you think I’d ever leave you?”
Iris’s breath caught. She felt confused, trying to remember something that was slipping from her memory.
“I’m writing again, Mum,” she said, her throat narrow. “On Nan’s typewriter.”
“I know, my love,” Aster said with a smile. The smile that had thrived before the wine and the addiction. The smile that Iris loved most. “You’ll be a famous writer someday. Mark my words. You’ll make me so proud.”
Iris tilted her head. “You’ve said that to me before, haven’t you, Mum? Why can’t I remember?”