Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  She sighed, relaxing.

  “First day on the islands?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, well.” He snickered. “Welcome to Hollandia.”

  Yeah. Some welcome.

  Just then came the boom of an earth-shattering explosion. Instantly, Betty’s body was propelled into the air. Time floated in a separate dimension, stretching like a rubber band, lengthening an eternity. Until it snapped.

  She cracked her lids. She was facedown on the ground. Something heavy covered her—the corporal in a protective huddle. She heard quickened breaths, her own gasping. Pressure behind her eyes bulged in their sockets. Her ears rang and body swelled.

  A faint voice. The ward man’s. She tilted her face up and stared at his moving lips. He was asking if she was all right.

  She tested her hands, her legs. A glance confirmed she was coated in clay but physically intact. She managed a nod.

  He took off running toward a distant pyramidal tent. Its roof boiled with flames. Shards of hot orange reached for the sun, devouring the air. Soldiers and nurses sprinted frantically between structures. Thick smoke hazed the camp, blocked out the sky.

  And there in the center of hell sat Betty, muscles tremoring, arms clenched around herself, rocking, rocking, whispering, “My God …What have I gotten myself into?”

  17

  October 1944

  Belgium

  “Man, I miss that house in the village,” Charlie said through chattering teeth.

  Morgan agreed, but he didn’t reply. He was too consumed with trying to locate the source of the leak in the poncho covering their two-man foxhole, a challenging task in the dark.

  “So how cold you think it is?” Charlie asked.

  “There’s the damn thing.” Morgan adjusted the fabric and secured it to the logs overhead. No more white flashes of explosives or crisscrossing of tracer rounds. In the musty blackness, he held out his palm and waited for a drip to sneak through. Showers were expected to fall until morning, and he preferred to wake up covered in dirt rather than mud.

  “Did Sarge say when we’re moving out?” Charlie asked.

  “Nah.”

  “How long you think the blackout will last?”

  “How should I know?”

  The strict blackout, for fear of night raids, allowed them to build outdoor fires during the day, but not after nightfall when they were needed most.

  Morgan crouched down beside his brother. He fumbled his hand over the damp straw floor until he located the flashlight and switched it on.

  Charlie squinted against the beam.

  “Why you yakkin’ so much tonight, anyway?”

  “No reason.” Charlie answered so fast something was obviously eating at him.

  “You okay?”

  He shrugged with a dim smile. “Just wish we could’ve taken the stove from that house, is all.” He rubbed his palms together to warm his hands.

  Morgan settled in, adjusting his legs. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You grew up in Iowa, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “Yeah, but this is a wet cold.”

  “Here,” Morgan said, flinging his extra blanket at his brother’s chest. “Now stop your whinin'.”

  Charlie unrolled the wool fabric and drew it around his shoulders.

  Morgan propped the flashlight upright against his hip, projecting shadows through the fingers of roots. Eerie faces stretched to the ceiling. From his jacket, he snagged a D-ration chocolate bar, hard from the cold. Out of habit, and with some muscling, he broke it in half for his brother. The kid accepted, but then stored it in a pocket instead of digging in. Another sign something was off.

  Morgan started into his own portion. He only got a couple nibbles off the corner, though, before giving up. It wasn’t worth a chipped tooth.

  “Can I see it again?” Charlie asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Luger.”

  Reluctant, Morgan sighed a billowing cloud. “I suppose.” He pulled the pistol from his cartridge belt and placed it in his brother’s hand. As Charlie examined markings on the firearm, a string of images flickered through Morgan’s mind: the coal-black eyes of the German, the trail of blood on his face, the photo of a now-fatherless family.

  “So what was it like?” Charlie said.

  “What?”

  “Beating down that Kraut.”

  Morgan’s gaze folded. “I dunno.”

  Charlie flipped the pistol over and ran his fingers along the barrel. “At least you got a good souvenir, right?”

  “Yeah, right.” The words lacked the sarcasm they deserved.

  Morgan had planned to toss the Luger into a trench a few days earlier, but at the last minute couldn’t do it. Discarding the weapon was like giving himself permission to forget that night, and while he found the memories as burdensome as his field gear, he wasn’t ready to let them go just yet.

  The real irony was that most guys in their outfit treated the pistol like a badge of honor. They’d slapped him on the back and congratulated him, first for acquiring the coveted weapon, then for delivering the muddied papers from the German’s bag. Lieutenant Drake had even spared a fractional smile when Morgan handed over the map indicating a Panzer division’s movement plans.

  “Ya did okay,” Drake had said, pulling a cigar from his mouth. On a pungent exhale of smoke rode the mention of a merit recommendation. As if smashing a rock into a drunken man’s skull warranted a reward.

  All those war heroes Morgan had studied in school, how different they seemed now. Probably just regular frightened men, like himself, who were lucky enough to survive their ordeals. He wanted to know if they too struggled to sleep at night plagued by the crimes they’d committed, or if the belief that their actions served a worthy cause allowed them to rest peacefully.

  “How many times you slug him, you think?” Charlie persisted with an aggravating eagerness.

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Was it one time? Five times?”

  Morgan shrugged. “A few.”

  “He see you before you whacked him?”

  A burning sensation crawled up Morgan’s neck, roughened his tone. “I guess.”

  “So how did you—”

  “Look. Just did what I had to do, all right?”

  “Yeah, I know, but—”

  “Goddamn it, Charlie!” Morgan exploded. “I’m just trying to get by like everyone else! Can’t you see that?”

  Stunned at first, Charlie cowered his gaze to the wall of plastered dirt. Shadows pulled at his features, emphasizing the sullenness in his face.

  Immediately Morgan felt like an ass. He wished the kid had yelled back, even taken a swing at him. But Charlie just sat there.

  Morgan tempered his voice. “Listen,” he said, “it’s not something I’m proud of, okay? It was an accident, getting lost, being there.” He tipped his head back on his jacket collar, his eyes on the slight swag in the roof. “Was nothing but a lousy mistake.”

  The pattering rain was the only sound in the foxhole. Same rain as home, different sky.

  “Like Mouse gettin’ it,” Charlie said vacantly, raising Morgan’s head.

  A few mornings ago, the squad had been strolling through a deserted town. No one spotted the Kraut sniper until he opened fire from a church bell tower. Charlie barely missed taking a bullet, but Mouse wasn’t as fortunate; he dropped facedown in the dirt, never knowing what hit him.

  “It shouldn’t have been him,” Charlie murmured.

  What the hell was Morgan supposed to say to that? If he agreed, did it mean his brother should have been killed instead?

  Gauging his reply, he insisted, “It wasn’t your fault.” The phrase, once released, sounded pathetically clichéd, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

  “He was talking about his girlfriend when it happened.” Charlie rambled, as if not hearing. “God, I can’t even remember her name.”

  Constance, Morgan recalled. Her
name was Constance.

  “Mouse was telling me about how they met. And that’s when I reached down. I was just picking up a friggin’ coin. Heads up for luck, right?” He spurted a laugh, dark and humorless—as was everything about war. Then he shook his head and his mouth tensed.“He was lying there, and all I could think about was heading for cover, to save my own ass.”

  Morgan swiped his hand over the back of his head. He tried to imagine what thick-skinned response his father would use. How do you make sense of something that makes no sense at all?

  He turned to Charlie. “Look here,” he told him. “There was nothing you could do. That bullet went straight through his heart. Died right away. You heard Doc. Said he didn’t have a chance.”

  “But I should’ve grabbed him. At least pulled him outta there.”

  “And you’d be dead too.”

  “I’m just sayin’ I should’ve tried.”

  “Charlie, I was there,” he argued. “He was out in the open. You did what you were trained to do. What we were all trained to do.”

  “Oh yeah?” Charlie burst out. “Then why do I feel like such a goddamned coward?”

  Morgan was taken aback by the notion his brother might break into tears. He canvassed his mind for words of comfort. He recalled the old standbys from the nights he used to calm the youngster from bad dreams. But nothing seemed appropriate anymore.

  Charlie looked away, his breaths wavering.

  The minutes froze between them, an ice block of silence, until Charlie spoke. “Just never thought I’d be so damn afraid,” he rasped. “I didn’t think it’d be like …this.”

  “I know,” Morgan said. The flashlight’s beam glimmered on tears striping his brother’s ashen face. “You just keep doing what you’re doin', all right? You stick by me and we’re gonna get through this. Soon enough, we’ll get that ticket home.”

  Charlie angled and searched Morgan’s eyes. “You really think we’ll make it home?”

  “Damn right we will,” he answered without hesitation. “Then you and me are heading back to Iowa. We’ll pool every dime the Army gives us, work ten jobs if we have to. Then we’re gonna buy back Pa’s farm, or one of our own, just like we planned.”

  Charlie nodded slowly.

  “Morgan,” he said after a long beat. “I’m sorry.”

  Morgan blinked. “For what?”

  “For getting you into this. And for …well, for everything.”

  Charlie had never been one for dealing out apologies. At least, not the serious kind. Morgan felt pride stretch inside, realizing the kid might actually be growing up. A smile started on his lips as he threw out, “What makes you think I wouldn’t have enlisted on my own? Only waited ‘cause I wasn’t about to leave you by yourself. You would’ve burned the whole farm down by now.”

  It took a few seconds, but a subtle warmth returned to Charlie’s face. He dashed his tears away with the heel of his hand. “Just the barn maybe,” he said.

  “Too bad battle hasn’t knocked the wise guy outta ya.” Morgan chuckled. “Get some rest, it’ll be morning soon. And give me that Luger before you shoot me in your sleep.”

  Charlie handed over the pistol. He laid his head back in the straw and shut his eyes. Morgan watched as his brother’s breathing turned heavy and deep. It was strange how shadows could add such age to a boy’s face.

  Against their roof, the rain fell harder.

  Morgan pulled Betty’s picture out of his watch pocket. With his thumbnail, he scraped a few specks of dirt off the edges before once again admiring her flawless features. Had he known how much her letters were going to touch him, he would have taken more notice when they danced together.

  He set the photo on his knee and retrieved his latest post from Betty. By the glow of the flashlight, he began to read.

  Dear Morgan,

  I was terribly delighted to hear back from you. So much so, I am responding only minutes after first reading your letter. (If I am breaking a rule of proper etiquette, please don’t report me to the authorities. It is, after all, your moving writing that is to blame.)

  As of yet, visiting a zoo is the closest I have ever come to experiencing a farm. The way you described it was magical. Your words painted such a vivid picture of evenings spent amidst the quiet cornfields and blazing sunsets. In fact, the scene reminds me of a Byron poem my father taught me as a young girl:

  The moon is up, and yet it is not night;

  Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the day joins the past eternity.

  I had not thought of those verses in years. It seems a lifetime since I studied literature of the like with my father. Such was a time when I, myself, felt as free as the heavens, when all was simple and the word “impossible” held no meaning.

  Until your letter, I had nearly forgotten about the splendor found in everyday wonders, like a sunset, or “God’s artwork,” as your mother so poignantly referred to it. She sounds like a lovely woman, who, along with your father, must be enormously proud of their sons’ bravery.

  I smile now recalling occasions on which I, too, had made my father proud—the day I received a gaudy blue ribbon for my first short-story contest; and, of course, the evening I debuted in a school play as a singing pine tree. (An off-key one, at that. Though, from his applause, you would have thought I had performed the lead in “Romeo and Juliet.”) They were silly things really, nothing as noteworthy as your current service. Yet I remember his face beaming, his pride speaking at full volume without his saying a word.

  I would be lying if I denied how saddened I am by the distance that has grown between us over the years. Nevertheless, fond memories like these have helped me through many challenging times, times when I have felt far from confident in who I am, or regretful of acts I would change if given the chance.

  I mention all of this in the event that you ever need an added source of strength, as well, particularly during this war. It might be simpleminded of me, but I hope my message will inspire your own recollections for moments when comfort is difficult to come by.

  With both roommates away and my father on extended travel, the house feels terribly empty. I suppose this is another reason for my impulse to write back without delay. Somehow, reading your words and putting my own thoughts to paper has left me feeling less alone. It is as if you were here with me, telling me about the old bridge and your father’s Irish suppers.

  I imagine that you, always being surrounded by fellow soldiers, are likely burdened by the opposite. As I complain of loneliness, the idea of having a quiet evening to yourself must sound so very appealing. If, however, that is not the case, I hope my letter brings you the same sense of warm company with which you have provided me.

  Please take good care, Morgan. I wish you and your brother a continued safe journey. With tender regards, Betty Cordell

  Morgan stared at the pages, warmed by words that evaporated the cold. How was it that a girl he barely knew, one living thousands of miles away, could feel so familiar? As if they’d known each other for years. From her sense of loneliness, to yearning for her parent’s pride, even the strained relationship with her father, he could relate to every emotion in detail. The thought of finding a person who truly understood him sent a heated shiver up his arms.

  But then a drop splashed his hand, bringing him back to the foxhole.

  He stored the folded letter in a dry portion of his jacket. Safe. Protected.

  This time there was no postponing a response. He held up the flashlight over a blank piece of paper. And through the ink in his pen, he offered a confession, which, if not for Betty, he would have taken to the grave.

  18

  November 1944

  Chicago, Illinois

  Liz wrung out the washcloth in such a hurry she entirely missed the porcelain basin on the nightstand. The water splattered of
f the glossy floorboards, dampening the ruffled bed skirt and the legs of Liz’s chair.

  “Lordy, Lordy, would you look at the mess you’re makin'.”

  “Sorry about that, Vy.”

  “Oh, applesauce. I’m just giving you fits.” Viola smiled, adjusting her thick bifocals. Seated against a mountain of pillows in bed, the seventy-four-year-old woman appeared deceptively frail. Her slight frame swam freely in her floral print nightgown.

  Reducing her pace, Liz stood and draped the rag over the edge of the bowl.

  Viola fluffed her short silver hair and said, “So, we’re being sneaky, are we?”

  Liz inhaled as sharply as if she had hiccupped.

  “You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

  “I—don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to slip out early for a little something special.”

  Liz giggled nervously. “Why would you think that?” She slid her hand over her apron pocket, relieved the contents hadn’t fallen out.

  “It would certainly explain why that was the quickest spit bath I’ve had in the six years I’ve been here. A romantic evening planned with your beau?”

  Liz sighed inside. “Nothing like that. Just have some extra chores today.” She promptly crossed the room to avoid Viola’s scrutinizing gray-blue eyes. A former grade school teacher, Viola Knowles often bragged about being a living, breathing lie detector. One with “fading batteries and a bad hip,” she would say, “but still in working order.”

  At the supply table, Liz glanced out the half-open window outlined with plum curtains. An old Model T honked while rumbling away, and in the park across the street, an evening breeze blew a shower of leaves off branches. The room upstairs that used to be Papa’s shared an identical view. Inhaling the same reminiscent smells of Lysol and medications, Liz almost expected to hear his low belly chuckle behind her. But only a moment passed before a whistling gust of wind swept his presence away.