Page 47 of The Unknown Birds

“Maybe we should strap them to toffee apples—send them over to the other side,” Ash suggested, trying to make Rook join their laughter.

“That would be a sight,” he said, stroking his afternoon stubble as he considered it.

“Rattie von Ratter, Flying Ace of Ratzeburg.”

A smile tugged at his lips, though he still didn’t break.

Ash couldn’t help noticing the rain had soaked through his uniform. She felt a touch guilty for appreciating how the damp trousers clung to his shapely bum and thighs as he stretched towards the parapet, and she had to force herself to look away.

When his watch ended, Rook joined them, tucking himself alongside the sandbags that lined their hole, though he was still out in the rain.

“Shift over,” she told Tom. There was hardly room in the cubby for two, let alone three men, but they did their best to make space.

“I’ll get you wet,” Rook protested.

“We’re already wet,” Ash assured him, and so he squeezed in next to her, his proximity making it suddenly rather difficult to breathe.

He offered them each a cigarette, which they both declined, though Ash liked to watch his lips pucker when he smoked. Reaching inside his coat once more, he took out a roll of English toffees which he offered her instead. They’d been more or less protected from the weather. “Happy birthday,” he said.

“What day is it?” she asked.

“Easter, isn’t it?” Tom answered.

“Happy Easter then.”

“Few weeks’ time, it’ll be a year since we all joined Surrey.”

The weight of TomTom’s words felt heavier than the toffee in Ashley’s hand. England seemed a lifetime ago, but one year was almost no time at all. How could both things be true?

“You reckon this is all there is?” Tom asked, leaning back and staring bleakly out at the rain.

“How d’you mean?” Rook said.

“Just… This is our life now. Whether we grow old or die, we’ll do it here. In trenches. Our only job is soldier, no matter what we’d hoped or planned. Our whole identity is just what’s written on these discs. I don’t know how I’d go back home, even if it all ended tomorrow.”

Rook shook his head. “One whiff of your ma’s cooking, this’ll be nothing but a long, bad dream.”

And because he said it, Ash believed it to be true.

“I suppose,” Tom agreed halfheartedly. “Thing is… I was meant to be a gamekeeper. Take over for my dad up at the big house,” he went on, breaking one of the unspoken rules. Though they often mentioned home in the abstract, they never really talked in detail about the other lives they might be leading back in England. “Turns out, I think I rather hate guns. No offense,” he added, glancing over at Rook, who guffawed.

“I may have joined the London Rifles, but I didn’t choose to be a sniper.”

“Didn’t you?” Ashley asked.

“It’s like Napier always says, who among us has a choice? I was just damn good at it, more’s the pity.” He stared grimly at his cigarette and then stubbed it out. “What would you do instead?”

Tom shook his head. “Gardner maybe? Learn to grow food and flowers. I’m already used to the rain and mud.”

“Then you’d never be hungry,” Ash teased.

“What about you, Ash? What job would you be going back to if they up and sent us home?” Rook asked, nudging her shoulder in a way she quite enjoyed.

But the very notion of parting from her friends made her feel quite queasy. “Dunno,” she admitted. “Maybe I might like to cook or bake.”

Tom jabbed her sharply with his elbow.

“What?” she protested. “Men can cook.”