Letters from War

By Israel Tucker

The train rattles against the tracks. I don’t know if my hands are shaking from the rattling or nerves or something else entirely. I pick through the box in my lap, full of photos and one smudged letter. They have been to war and war and war, and now finally back to the United States. I could still remember the day I got the first photograph.

___

I didn’t receive a letter for nearly a year into the war. I couldn’t say if her letters were getting lost. Perhaps she didn’t write any at all. Helen was quite angry when I left, after all, signed up for the war on my own accord. Two of her uncles had been killed during the first World War, back when we couldn’t imagine having another. Then, only six months into our marriage, I signed up for the next one.

Maybe she wrote me off as dead, found a new husband, one who wouldn’t betray her like I did.

One cold morning in France, letters were passed out. My hands were pushing my head to my chest, the despair of knowing I would again not be receiving a letter consuming me. Until an envelope was dropped in my lap. I tore it open, ripping the paper inside in two. Judging from the thickness of the paper, it was a photo. I picked up the first half. An infant girl, the picture ripped off at her legs. I grabbed the other piece, sticking them together. At the bottom “Margaret Jean” was scrawled. Jean, my father’s name. There was no letter, just the photo of the daughter I didn’t know I was having.

___

I find the photo in the bottom of the box, since repaired with tape. Another of Margaret stumbling across a floor is stuck to the back. I separate them before looking at others. Margeret feeding herself with a spoon all by herself, swimming at a local pool, riding a bicycle. She’ll turn six shortly after I arrive home, and I don’t plan to miss another moment.

My neck feels suddenly stiff. I rub my hand over it. I hit a particularly sore spot, and my body jerks in response. The box falls to the floor.

I start picking up the fallen papers. The first piece I grab is the only letter in the box, written by my brother, not my wife.  Dated for January of 1944, he sent it just months before I saw him for the first time in five years. I was in Africa at the time after volunteering for a substitute military police position.

Brother, there’s been a draft. If you make it home before I do, take care of Ruth and our children. With Love, Ri-

The rest of his name had been smudged off long ago. I had held the paper so tightly, my thumb over the corner with his name, until it had sweat and bled onto my finger. My thumb still finds purchase in the same spot, right over his name, as I kiss the paper and hold it close.

___

 For the only time during the war, my mind was elsewhere from my wife, if she was moving on without me, and my daughter, if she was managing without her father. I had no way of knowing where my brother was, if he was safe. The letter from my brother was postmarked for January, but I hadn’t received it until March. Confusion with my change of locations, my commanding officer had said, nothing to worry about. But I worried anyway because I had seen men come to war and die far sooner than their two-month mark. Richard could have been dead by the time the letter reached me. The fact haunted me for months.

I was ripped from Africa and rushed to France in June of that year. Thousands of U.S. soldiers were crammed into camps in wait to attack Normandy. None of us knew if we would survive. I yearned to write a letter to Helen, as I always did despite never getting a reply, but everyone was writing letters and we ran out of paper. I couldn’t remember the last letter I sent, the last time I told Helen I loved her and Margaret I couldn’t wait to meet her. I worried my daughter would never know my face.

___

I feel a sharp pang in my heart. It dulls after a moment.

___

June 6th, 1944, we’re loaded into boats to storm Omaha Beach. I knew only one other man in my boat, all the other strangers from other units. I sought his eyes, wanting that reassurance. His eyes were screwed shut and his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles were white. I hoped he was praying hard enough for both of us.

The menacing cliffs surrounding the beach blocked the sun into the morning, only a faint glow lighting the shore. The waters were still dark and ice cold, and every few moments some would splash into our boat. Our feet were soaked before we arrived.

We were outnumbered. Everyone in my boat knew that before we landed. The shouts from men who already touched the beach were deafening and echoed across the water to us. My friend beside me started praying audibly.

I remember little of what happened once we got on the beach, just bits and pieces that stood out. Being shoved off the boat, running through a haze of men, gunshots and bombs and screams. Nothing made sense until a man in front of me was shot and I tripped over him. I picked my head up to see Richard, the brother I had been worrying over for three months. I grabbed him without thought and took him to the boats as fast as I could.

Other men were being loaded onto boats, ones with injuries bad enough they needed treatment but good enough they would survive. Many had already been left for dead. I knew because I had to weave around them to get to the boats.

Richard grabbed my hand. “Margaret is beautiful,” he told me. “She has your spirit.”

“Go tell her I love her,” I said to him. He opened his mouth, probably to refuse, but I spoke first. “They’ll take care of you. You’ll go home and kiss your wife again.”

A medic grabbed his shoulder. He groaned. “As will-”

He was ripped from my arms.

___

He never wrote me a letter after Ohama Beach, but I know he is alive. I had no other choice but to believe that to get through the war, and now I believe it as strong as ever. He will be waiting at the train station with Helen and Margaret, ready to welcome me home. Perhaps his own wife and children will be there, too, ready to meet their uncle.

I feel another pang in my chest. It doesn’t subside, and I start sweating.

The train whistle blows, and everyone around me begins gathering their things. I stand to do the same, but quickly fall back to my seat with a gasp, the box of photographs falling to the floor once again. The tightness in my chest is all consuming.

I look out the window and see a mass of people crowding the platform, all ready to welcome their men home. Nearly everyone on the train is a soldier, returning from war.

The train stops completely, and men start exiting the train. I hear a faint shriek and a young woman runs into a man’s arms. Soon a small roar is making its way to my ears, muffled by the layer of glass between us.

Another ache stabs at my chest, and I let out a gasp. I start frantically searching the thinning crowd, needing to see Helen one last time and Margaret, my beautiful daughter, at least once.

“The train will be leaving the station in three minutes,” the conductor’s voice blares through the train car.

I crawl over my seat, closer to the window, and squint. Only a handful of people are left on the platform. I catch a glimpse of dark hair, but I can’t be certain it’s Helen. I see no sign of Richard’s towering form. I pray his absence is due to a scheduling conflict and not dying before he made it back to his family.

What if no one comes for me? If Richard is dead, if Helen truly has moved on, if Margaret does not know of me…

“One minute until departure!”

My vision begins to blur. I can barely distinguish the faces of the people before me any longer.

“Sir, are you alright?”

I look behind me to a concerned looking woman, leaning over my seat. Her head is swaying back and forth. She puts a steadying hand on my arm, and her head stills.

I look back to the platform and see a young girl running towards my window, pointing and shouting something.

I fall back into the woman holding me, my vision going black.