No, this hasn’t been easy for me, although I’ve tried not to let on just how hard it has been. You’re at the front, dealing with the tangled and bloody aftereffects of the war every day. This is my own private war, Davey, and I didn’t think you needed to deal with my tangled and bloody conscience.

When you sent me that letter, the one telling me exactly how you felt, I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for nights grappling with my heart. The feelings I have for you are so sharp and so new. But, although my feelings for Iain have changed, they’re still there. He’s my husband. I can’t so easily dismiss either the way I felt or the vows we had made.

Iain is Finlay’s best mate. As lads, they were never out of each other’s sight. I grew up with Iain always around. When it came time to marry, he seemed the only logical choice. Finlay was over the moon when I said yes to Iain. But things changed. Our paths diverged. My poetry was published and I yearned for the literary lifestyle. I wanted to travel, study, find someone else who’d actually read and understood Lewis Carroll. Iain wanted nothing more than to go about his life the way he had always done. I would go to the beach and look out over the water, wishing I could be anywhere but here. He would go off in his boat with Finlay, knowing that when he returned, I would still be there.

Something wasn’t right, even before I got your first letter, Davey. We were floating apart, buoyed by different ambitions and expectations. In you, I found a like-minded soul. You were listening to what I had to say; Iain didn’t seem to hear. Then the war started and Iain withdrew completely from my life.

Really, Davey, I don’t understand it. He was never so distant when he was here but, now that he’s gone at the front, I rarely hear from him. I know what’s going on from the newspapers, from Finlay, from the other letters our Skye boys send home. I just don’t hear any of this from Iain himself. I don’t know if it’s something I’ve done, but he’s closed himself off from me. This has always been his reaction—he withdraws rather than face whatever is bothering him.

I didn’t plan to fall in love with someone else. I also didn’t plan for my husband to leave me without so much as an explanation. I didn’t plan any of it, but it happened and I can’t say I am unhappy.

I do love you, Davey. And I know this is my decision. Call me an idealist, but I can’t help but think that things happen for a reason. You came into my life at the same time that Iain was walking out. You were there for me right when he was not. That has to count for something.

I tell you, it’s hard being back in my parents’ cottage, back on this tiny island, for all sorts of reasons. I feel so… on display. Màthair knows about you and me, and I’m not sure who else does. So many nights, I want to be alone with my thoughts and memories, to lie down and have those sweating, shuddering dreams of you. Just when I start remembering and my pulse quickens, I’ll hear my da snore or Finlay cry out in his sleep, and the moment is lost. The cottage isn’t big enough for the three of them and for my dreams and me.

E

Place One

February 16, 1916


Sue,

Yep, the censors got to me! They went ahead and sent off the letter anyway (after copious slashing), but I got called to task and reminded of the rules under threat of never being allowed to write to you again. If the letter falls into enemy hands, they don’t want to let out where we are, where we’re going, or when we might possibly be at either place. As if the Boches don’t know exactly where we’re at right now. They’re peering over the sandbags at the French Army as I write this!

I’ve finally settled here at “Place One” (I’ll be a good boy and stay mysteriously vague). We got in a few days after the rest of the section. The three of us pulled in at night, while many of the rest were on duty. Some were at the picket post in a village not more than a kilometer from the trenches, a twenty-four-hour duty. We were shown to a long building, where we scrounged for a spot in the center of the room, then fell onto our sleeping rolls. I was sleeping so soundly I didn’t hear when the first wave of guys trickled in during the night after finishing their runs. Didn’t notice a thing until the next morning, when I was beaned in the head by a ball of socks and woke to find Harry grinning at me from the foot of my bed. He had been away at the picket post all night and had just been relieved, only to come in to the barrack and find me curled up in his spot.

I’ve been assigned an ambulance with a guy they call Riggles, a quiet ex-football player with a perpetual cigarette hanging between his lips. The only time he says a word is when he’s exchanging the extinguished stub for a freshly lit one. Riggles has been here almost since the beginning of the American Field Service, so I suppose I couldn’t have been paired with anyone better to show me the ropes.

They threw me right into work when I arrived. We’ve been running evacuation routes, transporting wounded men (charmingly called blessés) from dressing stations to hospitals farther behind the line. Most of the dressing stations are at least a few kilometers from the line, so we don’t see much aside from the distant smoke of bursting shells.

A few nights ago there was some fierce fighting near here. One of the blessés I had was in rough shape. He had been behind a wall when a shell hit and was nearly crushed by the crumbling masonry. I had to drive pretty carefully until I got to the picket post, but, once I passed that and the roads were comparatively smoother, I drove hell-for-leather back to the hospital. A medic said another five minutes and the patient probably would’ve been lost. It wasn’t much, but it was a quiet affirmation of what I am doing here in France.

Okay, Sue, if you promise to stop worrying about me, I’ll do the same. I understand why you did what you did. Your love is too precious for me to push aside just when you need someone to accept it.

I’ve been waiting for chow to be served, and I can see the men starting to line up, so I’ll have to cut this short. I think I can still get it out today.

As tired as I am, Sue, my dreams are always of you.

Love, Your Davey

Isle of Skye

23 February 1916


My darling boy,

I am sorry for doubting you and the reasons you joined the Field Service. You’re right, Davey, this is something you can do, and you’ve already proven in the fortnight you’ve been there that you can do it well. There is a big difference between rushing out with a bayonet, intent on maiming or killing, and channeling all of that reckless energy into saving lives. I said before that you were still a boy, but I think that in a few short months you’ve proved yourself to be a man among men.

Please keep yourself warm, happy, and, as always, safe.

E

Place One

March 2, 1916


Sue,

I’m on a chow foraging run, which means I get a chance for a bath and a real meal while I’m here in town. I’m lingering probably longer than necessary over my omelet, because it gives me the chance to write to you before I have to get back in my flivver.

Harry and I both managed to be en repos the other day, something that doesn’t often happen, as we end up working most every day, even when we are due a day off. We each brought books and a pitiful little picnic—tins of “meat,” crackers, a tiny raisin cake Minna sent, washed down with a bottle of perfect swill that was quite obviously mislabeled “wine.” I sincerely think that, after washing out his socks, Pliny refilled the bottle with the wash water, as that is precisely what it tasted like. Despite the vile wine and the equally vile canned beef (or was it cat?), it was a pleasant afternoon. I got Tarzan of the Apes nearly finished. I only wish I could’ve devoured my picnic with the same relish!

We actually had quite a feast a few days ago. One of the men received the Croix de Guerre and threw a banquet to mark the occasion. He spared no expense and brought in a Parisian chef. Real food, wine that deserved to be called French wine, and all of it off china and linen. I swear, Sue, I felt too grimy to approach such an elegant spread, but approach I did, and we all tucked in before you could say “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Truly, Sue, it was a spread that would’ve done Ranhofer or Escoffier proud.

My mouth is starting to water again at the memory, so please excuse any drips and smudges of the ink. And to think I just finished eating! Ah… the memory of that meal: That will keep us psychologically fed through many weeks of boiled beef and turnip soup.

Love you, David

Isle of Skye

14 March 1916


Oh, Davey,

I don’t know what to feel anymore.

Iain’s gone missing.

I only just got the letter from the War Office, and I’m not even sure it’s sunk in. I read the words, I cried out once, but since then I haven’t said a thing—as though by ignoring it, I could make it go away. Missing. How could that be?

Finlay’s an absolute wreck. He kept repeating, “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help him,” then walked out of the cottage. He limped back late that night, filthy and missing his cane, and slept for two days straight. It was up to me to tuck him into bed, patch up his torn trousers, find a length of wood for another cane. He’s useless without it.