The Last Time We Met

5

"Mail!" That call in the barracks would have everyone clamoring around, but here in the infirmary, no one left their beds. Hardly anyone even sat up, except for me. Then again, I wasn't missing my legs or coughing up blood or covered in boils.

It had been over a month since my last letter from Henry. As the days passed without news, I grew more eager, as if with each day the odds of receiving a letter were greater.

It was my lucky day: Nurse Buchanan paused at the end of my bed and held out an envelope to me. "She's finally written back," she said with a little smile.

My smile was quite a lot bigger.

Before I could tear the envelope open, Commander Wallace strode in, clicking his heels when he reached the center of the room.

"It's your lucky day, boys!" he called out. "The lot of you are shipping back home. Two days, if you can hang in there."

The ward erupted in chatter and questions. The one I heard loudest was, "Is the war over?"

"Eh, there's a ceasefire. We're getting some fresh recruits. Gotta get these beds empty. Over and out!"

The other soldiers well enough to call out questions threw their questions after him, but they went unanswered. I clutched Henry's letter to my chest. After so long apart, I would finally get to see her again. I wondered if her hair had grown longer, if she had lost weight or gained it. I didn't care which: I only wanted to be able to recognize her when I disembarked the train and she was waiting for me on the platform.

It seemed wrong to me that I should be sent home alongside amputees and those so ill they coughed up blood. The doctor believed my condition to be epilepsy, and though I felt fine and strong, he said my fits might happen at any time: while holding a gun, or operating a tank, or some other occasion when a fit might take the lives of our own men. I would take it. I could serve the army back in California, alongside Henry.

I fell back in bed and carefully opened the flap of the letter. It was only one page, as usual.

My lovely Theo,

Are you trying to give me premature grey hairs? I received a report that you had been injured and naturally I had to assume you'd had all your limbs blown clear off, fool that you are. But they've assured me that you merely passed out or something. Pull yourself together! I cannot bear it. If you must, drink a small dose of ipecac each day and pretend you have stomach cancer so they send you home to die. Your recovery will be miraculous.

Last weekend I drove the car home. Lou and Irene came with, and we visited the empty house and camped the night. You would be proud, we built a fire and managed not to burn the place down. And Mrs. Duchovic brought Jocky over to visit – he could hardly stand, he wagged his tail so hard. He'll likely piss the floor when he sees you again, you always were his favorite. I only warn you so you know you will have to clean whatever mess he makes.

I don't look forward to hearing all of these terrible jokes you hint at, given the jokes you have included. Please, let us not joke for a year after you return. No puns, either.

I shall only consent to being photographed if you will allow me to photograph you. In the same poses you choose for me, and the same wardrobe.

Love, your Henry

I held the single page to my face and inhaled. My imagination supplied her scent, that mix of powder and her night cream. I'd gladly go home blind if it meant I could smell Henry again. Luckily, I would not have to bear any injury or disfigurement.

Sleep came easily that night, without any dreams.