Love and War

Chapter 2

(2 years later)

The first letter to reach the Fraser residence was from Peter. Mary's father wasn't the type to send letters, a strong man, who believed that by staying separated from his children emotionally, he'd be respected like a leader. His own way of reassuring them of his current state would be the radio silence. To Mary and Aindreas, it was a comforting silence. 

Much like their father, Peter also stayed radio silent. Her eldest brother had spent 2 years in the British Army without sending a letter, so when she saw the British military stamp on the envelope, her heart nearly stopped. Fearing the worst had happened to Peter, she stuffed the letter into a kitchen drawer and waited until her youngest brother was out. Or at least that was what she told herself.

In truth Mary was scared--if she never read the letter, she could pretend that nothing was wrong. She could imagine Peter and her father fighting side-by-side against the Germans. In her mind they would be frozen in time. She'd always be here at home, in their safe place, waiting for those happy brave men of hers. 

But that was a luxury Mary couldn't afford. If Peter had news of her father, or news of his own welfare, then she had to know. She was in charge of her family now, and she couldn't leave this for Aindreas to bear. So she opened the drawer as soon as the door shut behind her departing brother. She ripped open the letter, heart in her throat. 

Mary, 

Christ, it's bad here. We spend our days fighting and killing. If we win, we slump down where we stand and try not to think about whatever we just did--bodies underfoot. 

Mary had to stop, hands shaking too badly to read more than a few lines. She grabbed a glass and poured herself a shot of whiskey. The drink burned as it went down, but it gave her more courage. She picked the note back up and began to read again. 

If we loose, we run as far as we can--the men who canna do so are killed, or taken prisoner (which isn any better). If we survive the fight, we are still exposed to the mercy of our Savior. And the nurses-god. There ain't enough of them. I'm writing this letter while waiting for stitches, like I have been for the last few hours. 

I miss you, Mary. The way you always cared for us. Treated us something special, you did. I wish I could say I was coming back home to you and da. But it seems I'm to fight until this war is done. How's Aindreas? Is he being a brat? Don't be afraid to bend him o'r the fence. You'd be doing him some good. I haven't heard from da yet. But I've met some men from France. They say it was even worse than here. I hope he's still kickin'. 

I'm short on time, but take care Mary. I'll be coming home alive, don't you worry bout that. Who else would listen to you whine about how hard it is to cook for three strapping men?

With Care, 

Peter

Mary felt a rush of relief flood through her bones. Peter was alive and well--considering the circumstances. It was like her heart was being lifted to the skies, she wanted nothing more than to dance around in celebration. She set the letter on the counter for Aindreas to read when he returned, hoping that new of their brother might bring some relief to his worry incited rebellious phase. 

She began to shift through the rest of the mail. Ads, newspaper clippings, army propaganda. More of the same things she'd get any other day. She was about to set the stack down, when another letter clattered to the floor. She turned into a statue, not because of the duplicate army stamp in the envelope as her brothers letter, but because of the clink of metal from the enclosed items. Her throat tightened, but Mary hardly registered it, her breathe stolen from her moments before. 

Tags. She didn't have to open the package to know whose. Her father was the only one who was left in the war. If there were two letters it was because he was no longer able to keep his steady silence. It was scary how calm she could be in the face of his death. Mary thought perhaps it had to do with how distant the man always was. But she knew that it was most likely that she was so in shock, she had yet to process the lost piece of her haven. Shrouded in a cold calmness, Mary grabbed the tags from the envelope and set them around the portrait of their parents wedding. 

She had set herself to work on dinner, but found her gaze drifting back to Peter's words. And while she knew it was reckless, she grabbed the war ad from the top of the trash pile and walked out of the house. She wasn't a patient woman; Mary wouldn't wait for her brother to come home or for another letter to arrive, she'd pave her own path. There was no father to stop her now. 

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The letter had came before James had even arrived back from the theater. He had went to see a film with another girl from town, then he took her for fries. When he had finished his charm routine, he walked her home and gave her the kiss he knew she was waiting for. James hadn't been awfully excited by the girl, but he wasn't going to be anything but a gentleman. His reputation as the best dat in the city had to be maintained even if his heart wasn't in it. His sisters had set this date for him and against his better judgment he had agreed to it. Anything to help them make more friends, though he'd rather they'd use prettier gals next time. 

When he had gotten back home, he was met with quiet solemn faces. No one said anything, they simply handed him his supper and pointed him to the table. There it sat, waiting. It was a daunting task opening the letter and reading it while his sisters watched. He reread the same line at least three times before he realized it. He tried to remain strong, didn't cry at his name and the word Private together--didn't flinch when he read the place he'd train at. But his sister embraced him regardless. It was like they could senes the hidden emotions in him. The night was especially dark, filled with the uncertainty of war. 

When morning came, he packed his luggage case and headed to the door. Steve stood in front of him crestfallen. James didn't say anything; He clapped his friend on the back and walked past him. He knew he shouldn't have gone with Steve to the recruitment center. Perhaps then he'd have more time to spend with his family. He had hoped that he'd get failed, or that he'd be sent to reserves. He didn't expect deployment. 

Once he was out of view of his sisters and Steve, he cried. He didn't want to go to war. He wanted to watch his sisters grow up. He didn't want to miss their first dates; he wanted to be there when they had their hearts broken, wanted to be in Brooklyn to beat the men who did it. He wanted to see his mother turn 45. He wanted to stay with Steve, running into alleys to save the punk. 

The tears continued down the rocky slopes of his face, only stopping when James arrived at the sign in area. He followed the sea of other men, checking in and finding a seat in the train headed for the base. It was then that James felt the fear first creep in; a deep instinct telling him that he'd not see home for a long time, a very long time.