Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  Frank afforded the small filthy window above him a two-second glance, then back to his letter writing. Geronimo simply flipped another page in his story. Neither showed concern, but Morgan still found his body rising to investigate. Better safe than sorry.

  Cocooned in his blankets, Luger at his side, he used his sleeve to wipe a circle clean on the glass pane. Flawless white snow covered nearly every inch of the country road outside.

  Then came another crack.

  This time he saw the source: a pine tree bough collapsing under the weight of that pretty, harmless-looking snow. In nature, he’d learned, everything had a breaking point. And beauty could be deceiving.

  “A little jumpy today?” Frank asked him.

  “Gee, I wonder why.”

  Frank grinned as if reliving Jack’s stunt in his mind. “Looks like you had a nice nap, at least.”

  “Yeah,” Morgan said, still amazed at the fact. “Actually slept like I was back home.”

  “You farm boys always sleep in barns?”

  “Only on special occasions.” The answer conjured a flashback from Morgan’s early teens, he and Charlie passed out in the hayloft. They’d spent half the night flexing their rebellious muscles with a fifth of cheap whiskey and a hand-rolled cigarette. A long day of fieldwork with brutal hangovers had served as their father’s most effective punishment.

  Morgan grabbed a seat on a bale, set his pistol aside. Until he could quell his jitters, sleep would be a lost cause. “So where’s Boomer?” he asked.

  “Pneumonia.” Frank’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Sarge came to get him while you were sleepin'. Sent him to a rear field hospital.”

  The Florida-native firefighter never stood a chance against the weather. “Poor guy.”

  “Yeah, but at least his hackin’ won’t keep us up anymore. I could use the rest.”

  Not long ago, Morgan’s first inclination would have been to protest the coldhearted comment. Instead, he found himself nodding in agreement. “Wish I’d jotted down some of the guy’s punch lines.”

  “He had some whoppers, I’ll give him that.”

  “Five bucks says he’s showing off his ‘girlfriend’ as we speak.”

  “Ten bucks says the docs will find her more amusin’ than the nurses.”

  Morgan smiled, imagining their reactions to the pinup model tattooed on Boomer’s forearm jiggling and dancing as he wiggled his knuckles.

  It was always rougher losing the funny ones.

  “Writing June?” Morgan motioned toward the scrawled paper on Frank’s lap.

  With a shrug, Frank replied, “God knows when mail’s coming around, but might as well keep scribblin'.” His hands, swollen from cuts, evidenced a recent night of preparing barbed-wire apron entanglements minus the hindrance of gloves. The skin was chapped and cracked, painful for sure, but the guy was never one to complain.

  “Now, Rev, you need any poems for June, you be sure and tell me.”

  Frank grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with my standards.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “So long as you don’t forget to rave about all your high-class buddies here.”

  “Always do. Right after I give her the dope about our gourmet food and fancy hotels.”

  Despite the lighthearted delivery, Morgan knew there was truth in his friend’s clowning; no doubt the majority of soldiers packed their letters with similar falsehoods. All well meant, but Morgan had yet to find comfort in the fibbing-out-of-love principle. Even with his father, it had taken years for Morgan’s resentment to dissipate over the lie that stole the meaningful good-byes he and Charlie had deserved with their mother. A moment they could never get back.

  Morgan flinched at a thud on the barn roof, then a sliding sound. Another branch. He huffed solid breaths into his cold, cupped hands. “So,” he said, “you marrying this girl, or what?”

  “Better believe it, Mac.” Frank pulled a small photo out of his pocket, rubbed the edge with his thumb. “We get home, first thing I’m gonna do is get down on one knee and pop the question.”

  Morgan glanced at the snapshot, already familiar with her sweet doe eyes and long black hair. The photo had accumulated no fewer wrinkles than Betty’s from periodic peeks.

  “And what about your gal?” Frank asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the blonde who sends those letters you can’t put down?”

  Morgan felt his ears redden, yet his nerves calming at the thought of her. “Not sure, just have to see. It’s not like you and June,” he said. “I really hardly know her.”

  Frank slanted a smile. “You sure trade a lot of mail with a dame you hardly know.”

  Morgan’s gaze dropped to the floor. Was he completely off his nut to fall for a girl he’d exchanged all of a dozen words with in person? The question had been passing through his mind more and more frequently, always disappearing before logic could respond.

  Ah, what the hell. If anyone would give him a straight answer, it was Frank.

  “Thing is,” Morgan admitted, “I barely spoke to her when we met. But now, I just…I think she might be the gal for me.” He scuffed his boot in the dirt. “Sounds pretty stupid, huh?”

  “Nah, not a bit. The second I first saw June walk into that diner, I knew right then.” Frank hesitated and his eyes darkened. “You wanna hear stupid, it’s me being stubborn. Telling her she has to move to Chicago to be with me, rather than stay in New York where her family lives.” He pointed his pen at Morgan. “I tell you this much. When we’re back stateside, I don’t care if it’s New York or Mars, wherever she is, that’s where I’m gonna be.”

  The door squeaked open, severing the discussion, one Morgan suspected would never continue.

  Charlie stomped into the barn and shook off his snow-covered overshoes. The other GIs trailed directly behind. The chicken made a sad attempt to flap out of their way.

  “Breakfast is served, ladies.” Charlie handed Morgan the standard special of the week: a canteen of chilled coffee and a mess kit filled with cold oatmeal and flapjacks. Not a brass-worthy spread, but a step up from another can of pork ‘n’ beans. “Gonna have to wolf it down, though. We’re movin’ out.”

  “How soon?” Frank asked.

  “Didn’t say.” Jack passed along Frank’s meal. “But convoys should be rolling in any minute.”

  Frank slid his paper into the coat pocket where he stored letters from June. When he caught Morgan’s eye, they exchanged a swift look of understanding. Neither was about to tear up his most treasured items, regardless of the policy for GIs headed to the front.

  While their buddies gathered up, the two of them joined Geronimo in shoveling down their food. They ate their pancakes as eagerly as if they were hot off the griddle and slathered with maple syrup. Morgan had barely swallowed his first spoonful of the bland, pasty oatmeal when he heard wheels crunching snow outside. An icy siren calling them back to war.

  All seven soldiers, packed and layered in combat gear, raced out to put dibs on a wooden-bench spot in the rear of a cold truck. Much like the Army slop lines, seats were obtained on a first-come-first-served basis, the tailgate favored for its fresher air and convenient escape route. Somehow, it was a seat Charlie always managed to nab.

  The convoy soon set off for an undisclosed destination.

  Over slippery roads, the trucks crept along. They stopped intermittently, waiting for signals to continue, occasionally heaving vehicles mired in the semi-frozen mud. Rounding the sixth hour, Morgan studied the haggard GIs seated across from him—noses as red as their bloodshot eyes, bodies hunched, faces drawn. In eerie silence they swayed, like passengers in a hearse being driven to their own funerals.

  The way Allied troops had been storming across Europe, rumors that the war would be over by Christmas had flurried. Fellas in Morgan’s outfit had gone into great detail describing the turkey dinners they planned to devour with their families and the evenings they’d spend singing along with tunes on a
Victrola. Thus, enthusiasm had plummeted like never before when the news arrived: Kraut paratroopers were dropping throughout Belgium; disguised, English-speaking saboteurs were infiltrating American camps; and Allied infantry were retreating westward in masses.

  If not for telling Betty he’d hold firm to the belief of making it home, surrendering his hope might have been an option.

  After ten long hours, the convoy came to a halt, this time with orders to proceed on foot. In a single column of human dominoes, they marched thirty feet apart as a defense strategy.

  Morgan stared at the muddy trail ahead. Lining the road, GI helmets topped bayoneted rifles planted in the ground; each acted as a “litter” marker for the frozen soldiers lying in the ditches awaiting proper burial. Horse and cow carcasses lay half buried in the snow, adding to the smell of decay and despair. In the opposing direction, a drove of refugees and civilians marched endlessly to nowhere. The feeble travelers, forced to abandon their homes, hauled only their lightest and most valuable belongings.

  Morgan hardly batted an eye at the gruesome scene that would have sickened him before entering the war. Death and devastation had since become the norm. He was, however, surprisingly troubled by another sight: a little girl crying over a doll she had dropped in the dirty slush. Strangers carelessly trampled what must have been her last cherished possession, her pleas ignored like those of countless innocents wracked in the enemy cross fire. He watched the child being tugged away. Her desperate wails compressed his heart.

  He wanted to chase after her and wipe her tears, tell her it would all be over soon. But he couldn’t; word had it Hitler wasn’t about to relinquish his throne. Even now, in a massive counterattack, the Führer’s armies were penetrating thinly defended areas through the Ardennes forest, entrapping GIs and pushing battle lines back toward the English Channel. With Allied troops stretched too far away from supplies, the tide of the war could clearly turn in Germany’s favor.

  Morgan tried not to dwell on that possibility once he’d reached Slevant. But it was easier said than done. In spite of the U.S. Army’s need-to-know restrictions, something told him their impending confrontation would be their most crucial yet. And rumors of a massacre of American POWs in Malmédy only magnified his nerves.

  “Spread out and dig in!” shouted the second lieutenant, fresh from West Point.

  “We expecting backup?” Frank asked.

  “That’s a negative. Orders are to hold the line, whatever it takes. Shoot anything that moves.” With that, the guy jumped into a jeep and careened away—far away, Morgan hoped. In battle, rookie officers often proved the greatest liability.

  As engineers rushed to lay mines, Morgan scouted the darkening town for tactical stationing points. Going with his gut, he led Charlie to the top of a hill overlooking a steep-sided valley and a large portion of the village. The location sandwiched them between two heavily armed teams. To the right, an embankment sported a pair of antitank bazooka GIs separated from their company; to the left, Frank and a band of machine gunners held the roof of a two-story brewery.

  The ground too frozen for them to excavate, Morgan and Charlie forged a foxhole by scooping snow with their helmets. No sooner had they finished packing their mound than a message reached the hill: A Kraut armored column was headed north, directly toward Slevant.

  The countdown had begun.

  22

  December 18, 1944

  Chicago, Illinois

  Liz gripped the creaking ladder as she reached out in a rush, but her reflex had kicked in too late. The glass sphere skimmed her fingertips and shattered at the base of the tree.

  “Oh, murder,” she groaned.

  She ought to quit her job this minute. Surely someone else on the nursing home staff could have handled hanging the ornaments. Not everyone was preparing to head out like Julia. Or baking meat loaf like the chef. Or cataloging medications like her supervisor.

  Besides, Christmas was only a week away; in no time they’d be taking all the garish decor down again. Whatever survived that long, anyhow.

  She descended into the moody shadows created by the fire in the hearth. Kneeling on the cherrywood floor, she gathered the large triangular shards and tried to ignore the pungent smell of tree sap. The noble pine, fully loaded with blinking lights and shimmery garland, showed like a display at Macy’s, only feeding her annoyance. In fact, the whole sitting room could have been a Norman Rockwell sketch. Even snowflakes feathered the corners of the window with their clingling, taunting crystals.

  Liz had aimed, once again, to make it through the Yuletide season without untucking old family memories. Yet what chance did she have when tomorrow marked the official anniversary? The afternoon of their quarrel. The night her mother packed her bags, leaving behind only a single wrapped present beneath the tree. To: Elizabeth, the small gift tag read. Characters from The Nutcracker on red matte paper covered the square box. A thin solitary white ribbon ran through the middle of the Sugar Plum Fairy. For months, Liz had fallen asleep staring at that wrapped gift on her dresser, bartering her hopes like a little girl—as if not opening the box, a demonstration of the restraint that had escaped her, would have brought her mother home.

  To this day, buried in Papa’s basement, the package remained sealed.

  “It’s beautiful.” Julia’s voice pulled her back to the tree-in-progress. The redhead stood between the open pocket doors, dressed in her navy winter coat with a curly lamb collar. Her notoriously heavy suitcase rested at her feet.

  “Thanks,” Liz replied. She tried for a smile that fell flat when the velvety voice of Bing Crosby drifted into the room. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The king of all merciless holiday tunes. Lyrics about snow and mistletoe caused her chest to ache, straining to uphold its weakening walls.

  Liz stood and placed the glass fragments onto the claw-footed table. “I just hope they don’t take this one out of my wages,” she said, forcing a joke.

  Julia didn’t smile. She seemed preoccupied, as though engaged in another conversation in her head and deciding which snippet to share aloud. With her reserved demeanor over the past several weeks, she was clearly storing up comments regarding the moral dilemma of Betty’s letters.

  Not that it mattered anymore.

  For several weeks nothing but bills and Christian’s weekly posts had arrived in the mail. The accumulation of gold stars in neighborhood windows continued to compound Liz’s anxiety. If something had happened to Morgan, how would she know? Would her last letter to him be returned, or added to a bin of the forgotten?

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Julia said finally. “About Morgan.”

  Precisely as Liz figured. Only she wasn’t up for this tonight. Even the mention of his name moistened her eyes. “Please,” she interjected. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “No. You don’t,” Julia told her. “I was going to say that—that I…”

  “Yes?” Spit it out already.

  Julia exhaled. “That I’m sorry,” she finished. “I was wrong to have judged you.”

  Liz’s response stalled. She hadn’t seen that coming. Her eyes connected with Julia’s. In them, she found a fresh level of understanding. So much was said in a glance, Liz needed only to respond with a nod.

  Then Bing’s solemn melody wedged between them, breaking the moment.

  “Anyway.” Julia flicked her hand, as if batting away the song. “When did you say your father’s arriving?”

  Another swell topic. Perhaps they could cover flood and famine next.

  “Christmas Eve,” Liz replied lightly. “And leaving right after New Year’s.”

  “Oh, good. Then you can still make it to my parents’ in time, right? For Elsie’s birthday.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m dying to meet the next Shirley Temple.”

  “Well, don’t worry about a gift. My mother’s bought enough for Elsie’s next ten birthdays.” Tugging her white gloves on, Julia glimpsed her watch. “Jeepers, I g
otta get to the station.” She wrapped a cashmere scarf over her tresses and lugged her suitcase toward the front door. “By the way, Viola wanted you to stop by when you get a sec.”

  “Will do. Travel safely,” Liz said, wishing her own trip to Pittsburgh—or to anywhere else in the galaxy—were sooner.

  The fine soprano humming of “Silent Night” flitted through the hall. Following the notes, Liz scraped for a convincing smile. She wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart chat or analysis of her love life. And even if she were, the sweet woman, at no fault of her own, couldn’t possibly relate.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Liz called from the door, “but a resident upstairs is complaining about someone singing off-key.”

  “Is that so?” Viola retorted in bed without looking up from her knitting. “Then the person must be tone deaf.”

  “Obviously,” Liz replied. Now to speed their visit along. “Julia mentioned you needed something?”

  “Do me a favor, sweet pea. Fetch me the ball of pink yarn on the bureau there.”

  And Julia couldn’t have done this? was Liz’s first thought. But that was merely her annoyance talking, sharpened by her reluctance to move into close range of Viola’s all-knowing sensors.

  Liz snatched the yarn, placed it on the mattress, and started away. “Well, if you need anything else …”

  “What, is there a fire you gotta put out? It’s a rest home. Take a rest.” Viola indicated a spot to sit beside her blanketed knees.

  Liz wanted to decline, but any believable excuse eluded her. To prevent suspicion, she perched on the bed as ordered. Viola’s knitting needles continued to dance in their silent rhythm. “So, what’s the latest project?” she asked, deflecting the focus from herself.

  “A little somethin’ for my newest grandchild.”

  “My goodness. How many does that make now?”

  “Fourteen and a half. Danny’s wife is expecting right after the holidays.”

  “Well, that should be fun, seeing the whole family next week.”

  “Fun?” Viola clucked. “I’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”