Tom exhaled, feeling emboldened by the release in his lungs.
He took out a fresh piece of paper from the air mail pile and picked up a pen. This one had blue ink, a surprise for a standard-issue army pen. He smiled. Maybe it was symbolic of a new start.
Dearest Margaret,
It was beautiful. Beautiful and liberating. Just to write those two words from his heart and from his hand. As Tom.
This is Tom Powell. William and John’s friend. You know me from the flowers I draw at the end of the letters.
I have to tell you about William…
“Powell! Jump time!” one of the sergeants called out to him.
He folded the page and put it in his pocket, to be finished later.
* * *
The jump was flawless up until the last second when an unexpected gust of air blew him sideways and he twisted his ankle as he landed. Fortunately, the army provided the Airborne with boots reinforced for this very reason. In any other situation, he might have needed help getting off the field, but after detaching himself from his parachute and gathering it into his arms, he was able to limp off.
He walked into the medic’s tent and asked for some ice. He unlaced his boot, long since immune to the smell that permeated the leather. He smiled—he was wearing one of the pairs of socks that Margaret had knit. He’d worn through nearly all of them and had taken to wearing the army-issued wool ones just to make hers last. But his decision today to write the letter in his own name seemed a cause for a rare celebration and he couldn’t think of a better way to mark the occasion than to put on the last pair he had.
If she’d sent any more boxes, he didn’t know, as mail and packages were having a difficult time following the men from front to front.
But these, he had. All red. She’d included a note saying that she’d gotten down to the last yarn from her grandmother’s sweater and had decided to make one pair entirely from that. They had arrived just before they’d left for Normandy, and William had tossed them to Tom.
“Red. Cupid’s color. You should have them.”
He’d brushed it off at the time, thinking it to be one of the ribbing remarks that they all made to each other, but as he thought back to all of William’s nudging, he realized that it was intentional.
William the matchmaker.
If God was just, he would accept the sacrifice of William’s life and grant success to this thing he had wanted for his friends.
“Powell,” Tom heard. He looked up to see Captain Winters closing the flap of the medic tent behind him. Tom swung his legs around off the cot, but Captain Winters waved his hands down, indicating that he should sit.
“At ease. No need to put more strain on your ankle than you already have.”
It’s one of the many things he liked about Winters. He seemed to know everything that was going on with his men, even a minor injury like this.
“It’s nothing, sir. Just a little tape to wrap it and it will be good as new.”
Captain Winters sat across from him and pulled an envelope from the pocket inside his jacket. He handed it to Tom. “This just came through.”
Tom took it and began to open it. “What is it?”
“Read it. You’re getting promoted to corporal. Two stripes for you, Powell.”
Tom pursed his lips to keep from smiling, as it was unseemly to show emotion over such a thing.
Of course, Captain Winters could see right through it. “Unclench your jaw. You’re allowed to have good news.”
“What about specialist?” He was skipping over a rank to get there.
Winters folded his hand in his lap and sighed. “I need good leaders, Tom. We’ve lost a lot of men, and the reinforcements we’re getting will be green. I need someone to show them the ropes, and I know that you’ll do a great job in the role of corporal. The sky’s the limit for men like you. This is just the beginning.”
Tom felt a knot form in his throat. Winters was about his age. But this past year, he’d become like a father to him. A common sentiment when rank mattered more than what year you were born. So the praise—a rare thing from his actual father—meant the world. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you?”
“No need to thank me. You’ve earned it. Something to write your mama about.” Then he winked. “And maybe a girl back home?”
Tom was glad he hadn’t finished his letter to Margaret. This would be wonderful news to share.
“I hope so, Captain. I hope so.”
“I’ll have the patch for you by tonight. You good with a needle and thread?”
“My mother taught me how to hem my own pants. She’d buy them long, hand me a needle and thread, and have me sew them to size, letting them out as I grew.”
Winters smiled. “Mine too. She would have had my head if I’d ever tried to argue that it was woman’s work. Personally, I think you put some mothers in the brass’s place and this war ends soon. And would have been over long ago.”
It was Tom’s turn to grin. “I think I agree with you, Captain.”
Winters stood up and patted Tom on the knee. “Good man, Powell. You’ll get through life well if you value a woman as she should be valued. Congratulations again.” He walked out, leaving Tom wishing he could have stayed.
He’d wanted to ask Winters if he planned to stay in the military. If he thought that life as an officer was compatible with marriage. He’d not given it serious consideration before.
Not before Margaret. She’d upturned his certainty for what his future would look like and made him question it altogether.
A medic came over and wrapped Tom’s ankle in gauze, telling him to ice it and stay off it for the rest of the day, but that he’d be ready for service again tomorrow.
Tom hobbled out, thankful that his barracks were next to the medic’s tent. He sank into his bunk, grateful for a rare day that left him feeling full of warm emotions.
“Corporal Powell,” said a private, surprising Tom that the news had spread quickly. “The helicopter came for the mail and said that it would be at least a week before they are able to come back. I know you’d wanted to get your letter out, so I put it in the envelope and ran it out to them before they took off.”
Tom thanked him, and then put his hand over his mouth once the boy had walked away.
No. This was all wrong. He’d planned to tear the letter up as soon as he was back from the jump.
Because the one that had been sent had been the one he’d signed as William.
Chapter Twenty-Two
November 1944
Margaret lifted her protective eye shield and wiped the sweat from her face. No matter the weather outside, her welding station was always hot. Fire on metal. She was careful to wash her face religiously at night because if she missed the routine, her forehead would break out in a red rash that took weeks to clear up.
The welding room, enormous because of the large pieces being built, was nearly empty. She’d asked for some overtime hours, wanting to buy and fill an even larger Mason jar, and the foreman reluctantly accepted. There were some areas of the Coral Sea to smooth out and Margaret had proven herself adept with detailed work.
She lowered the shield, stretched her arms, then ignited her blowtorch, its burst of flame instantly satisfying. Every single time.