Between Your Letter and My Reply

Chapter 11

[Translation By Divinity]

[To the ever-kind Second Lieutenant McCord.

This will be my last letter before the new year. In a few days, it will already be January. How are you spending the end of the year?]

How was he spending it? Exchanging greetings with the enemy amidst a shower of bullets and shells.

Damian groaned as he soaked his frostbitten hand in lukewarm water. The pain was more intense than he expected. If it weren’t for the painkillers the medic gave him, he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

With his hand in this state, he couldn’t hold a pen. He needed to send Lintray a New Year’s greeting, but this was a problem.

[How was your year? … Now that I’ve written it, I realize it’s not something to ask someone at war. You’ve worked hard all year. How do you plan to spend the next one? If you’re thinking of staying on the battlefield, I’ll be a little sad.

I heard that Istarica soldiers can be discharged whenever they want after two years of service. Won’t it be two years for you next year, Lieutenant? Then you’ll be able to leave.]

‘Has it already been that long?’ Indeed, next year would mark his third year of service. He had even become a Second Lieutenant in that time… ‘Damian Stern, you’ve come a long way.’

After a while, Damian took his hand out of the water, roughly wiping the dripping water from his fingertips, and tried to move them. It still hurt, and his skin was purple. But it felt a bit softer than before.

The military doctor put a pair of wool mustang gloves on his hand and said firmly,

“Try not to use your hand today.”

“If I had to choose between getting my neck sliced or my fingers cut off, I’d obviously choose the latter.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that… You can use your hand if you want, but I’m not sure if you’ll be able to pull the trigger properly with that much pain.”

“Hmm…”

His mouth tasted bitter.

The second winter in Lebe, much further north than Istarica, seemed colder than the last.

Unlike last year, when supplies were somewhat adequate, the prolonged war had led to shortages in both manpower and resources, making it difficult to take proper care of oneself.

“Will it hurt a lot?”

“You’re still in pain even with the painkillers, aren’t you? Of course, it’ll hurt more when they wear off.”

“I can’t fight properly with this pain. Prescribe me morphine.”

The doctor lightly hit Damian’s head with a chart.

“Every one of you guys only knows morphine! That’s for critically injured patients. You can endure frostbitten fingers with regular painkillers!”

“But I need to pull the trigger.”

Damian pleaded, but the doctor was firm.

“Try pulling it with willpower and guts. Morphine might relieve the pain now, but if you overuse it, you’ll end up with a body that doesn’t even respond to it. Save it as a last resort.”

Damian sighed and left the infirmary, feeling like he was being chased out.

His fingers throbbed, but he had to return to the trenches.

He couldn’t let his guard down just because it was the end of the year. Both the enemy and his side were probably hoping the other would be complacent during the holidays.

The current quiet might just be the calm before the storm.

Snow was falling outside. It settled on his cap, forming a white layer.

His fingers, which had been in a warm place just moments ago, were getting cold again. Damian took out Lintray’s letter with his trembling fingers and continued reading.

[Are you thinking of being discharged?]

Damian’s eyes twitched slightly.

Having learned about war before learning how to live on his own, Damian had no idea what to do if he were discharged.

Even though it had only been almost three years of military life, he knew nothing about any other way of living. In that case, wouldn’t it be better to stay in the military now that he had reached the rank of Second Lieutenant?

Besides, the higher-ups believed the war would be over within a few months, at the earliest. Some even said it would be over within a year at most. The problem was victory or defeat. Both sides were locked in a stalemate, constantly pushing and pulling against each other.

For Damian, who wasn’t from Lebe, even if they lost, he could simply return home, so there wasn’t much to lose. But it was a matter of pride. ‘If you draw your sword, you should at least cut something. Once a fight starts, winning is only natural, isn’t it?’

So he wanted to see this war through to the end. He wanted to see it through to the very end, plant the victory flag, and feel the sensation of having accomplished something for the first time in his life.

To do that, he had to survive first.

But he wasn’t confident. His survival so far was purely due to luck.

In war, luck determined life and death more than individual skill. How could one predict and dodge bullets flying in the midst of chaos? It was truly a matter of luck.

Yet, Damian couldn’t leave the battlefield, as if he was possessed by the specter of war.

[Of course, I’m not saying you should cowardly run away from the war. I just want you to know that I’m constantly worried about your safety.]

Damian’s gaze sank. He knew Lintray was worried about him, always waiting for his replies.

It had been well over five months… no, barely over five months…

She said she wasn’t telling him to run away from the war, but that’s all Damian heard.

He had come this far; he wanted to see it through to the end. He was curious to see what he might witness if he stubbornly clung to life. He couldn’t just throw it all away and quit. He didn’t want to avoid the fight.

Yes, even if it meant dying.

‘Maybe I’m meant to die here,’ he thought, rubbing his hands, which had become cold again despite his efforts to warm them.

[I wish you were in a safe place.]

It wasn’t a long sentence, but Lintray’s concern for him was evident in her neat and round handwriting. As long as Damian was on the battlefield, Lintray would always carry this worry.

But Lintray wouldn’t understand him.

Even though Damian didn’t want to worry her, he had no intention of leaving this war.

Damian, who had no dreams or desires, now had something he wanted. He wanted to see this war through to the end, even in death.

‘I don’t necessarily want to die, but wouldn’t dying here be the most glorious death of my life?’

If that was the final moment for someone who had nothing and desired nothing.

For someone who had no choice but to believe in the righteousness of this fight, this battlefield would be the ultimate stage.

At least he would be remembered as someone who died valiantly for a just cause.

So, Damian had more excuses to stay than reasons to leave. He was simply curious to see what awaited him at the end.

Whether it was his own death or the outcome of the war.

And if he couldn’t find the answer here, he wouldn’t know how to live even if he survived.

‘So, please don’t worry unnecessarily about me…’

Damian rubbed his hand over his left breast pocket, where Lintray’s handkerchief lay.

‘…Don’t worry…’

His fingers throbbed again.

[I haven’t forgotten your promise to come find me.]

The moment he read that, Damian’s blood ran cold. His fingers throbbed as if on fire, and his mind went blank. An indescribable emotion washed over him.

He knew now. He had to end this exchange of letters with Lintray.

He realized it too late.

Even if he didn’t want to die, if he had even the slightest thought of making this battlefield his grave, he shouldn’t have said such things, even as empty words.

‘No, more than that… I shouldn’t have let her think about me at all…’

Damian couldn’t tell if the ache was in his fingers or his chest.

He wished Lintray would forget all about him. The letters they exchanged, the bond they formed, the intimacy, the rapidly growing closeness despite not knowing each other’s faces…

He wished all the time they had spent together would vanish from her memory. So she wouldn’t worry about him anymore.

And so she wouldn’t wait for him any longer.

He wanted her to forget everything, return to being a naive country girl, and only see beautiful things.

He shouldn’t have started this exchange in the first place. He should have ignored her letter, letting her believe he had died before replying.