His intent to continue in the military even after the end of the war.
Even as he wrote the words, he felt his stomach knot. He was no longer as certain of that path as he had once been.
The war was almost over and mail planes were arriving with regularity. He made sure every weekly pickup included something for her. And he was delighted that every mail call since his admission had contained a response from her.
There was hope.
He’d also added to her bouquet—freesias, bluebells, and poppies.
My dearest Margaret, began his fourth such letter.
I’m sitting outside a tent on the Rhine River. It is glistening, perhaps because the sun is at its highest point and sends its beams across a wide swath of the water. In the literature courses I took in college, we were expected to detail the symbolism we found in it. All I wanted to do was read the story. But as I look at this vision, I dare to believe that it is a sign of a brighter world about to emerge.
Easy Company just returned from crossing the Bavarian Alps—spectacular, by the way—into the southern part of Germany. We came to a camp called Kaufering outside the town of Hurlach. I’d heard that these kinds of places existed, but I would not have believed that they contained such evil until I saw it with my own eyes. Kaufering had been a sick camp, victims of typhoid fever sent there to await their turn to die. We’d packed loads of medical materials ready to care for the people we found imprisoned there. But when we arrived, we found five hundred bodies instead. Stacked as if they were refuse in a rubbish pile rather than the fathers, brothers, mothers, sisters, wives they had been.
The Germans had killed them even as they knew they were losing the war.
Together with the townspeople, we buried the dead, wrapping bandages around our noses to withstand the stench.
I found the body of a man who reminded me of my father. About the same age. Similar hair and contours of the face. Gaunt, though, from starvation. I cried into my fist.
There was once a time when I would not admit to that. But inhumanity is what bred this horror. I will never again be afraid to show that I feel.
Captain Winters predicted a spectacular battle at the end of this. But it was not the Grand Finale, as he called it. That battle was an interior one—one that will last well beyond the war. In every decision I make from here on in, I am going to ask myself—is this the right thing to do? Because small decisions beget larger ones.
I’ve struggled with knowing what path my life should take, Margaret. But that lesson will serve me well no matter what choice I make.
Love, Tom
* * *
“There she is! The Statue of Liberty! God love it, she’s a sight for sore eyes.”
The troop ship—another Cunard Line beauty that had been requisitioned for war—carried the victors into New York Harbor. After Kaufering, the 101st had been sent to Zell am See and Kaprun in the Austrian Alps, training and awaiting transport to the Pacific theater. It had been disheartening, to say the least, that once one side of the world was saved, they were gearing up to travel to the other.
More time away from home.
But after several months of waiting, Japan, like Germany, had surrendered. The official ceremony had taken place on the deck of the USS Missouri, and Tom felt a tingle of pride on Margaret’s behalf that the battleship she’d worked on had been the site of the end of what was being called World War Two.
They’d written back and forth while he was in Austria, where the 101st had retreated until the fighting was finally over. He’d noticed that each letter grew ever warmer and it was his dearest hope that they’d both put that last chapter fully behind them. On the anniversary of William’s death, Tom sent her a vile of half the dirt he’d collected in Normandy. And she sent him a pair of yellow socks. A very un-soldierly color, she admitted, but one that evoked the sunshine that a new day was bringing.
He wore them proudly. Once upon a time, John and William would have razzed him for it. But now he believed that if they had all survived, his two brothers in arms would have encouraged him to cling to every sappy memento of happiness. For their sakes.
Margaret’s last letter had spoken of the future.
Gladys and Oliver will soon move to England and then to wherever the London Times sends them. They’ve offered Gladys her own column speaking about women’s issues around the globe, and though the pay is a pittance, she is excited for the opportunity. I’m going to take over Gladys’s job as the manager of the women’s office, which means I’ll have to leave my position in the welding department. But I might not have had the job for long anyway. The men will be coming home soon and rejoining the workforce, and there are rumors that almost all of the women will be asked to leave.
Maybe it is just as well. I’ve had time to reflect on what I’ve learned at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Especially about myself. I learned that I want to work with my hands. I’ve learned that coming together for a common purpose is a remarkable thing to behold. I’ve learned that I always want to work near a chocolate factory and smell chocolate-flavored air.
But more than all that. I’ve learned that the most precious parts of life are watching Joanna take her first steps. Observing the love of Dottie and George and Oliver and Gladys and discovering that I want that for myself as well. And I’ve realized how important it is that I take care of my parents.
I don’t know the details of what my future holds. But I know “who” it holds. And that’s all that matters.
She’d signed it just a bit differently:
Until we meet,
Margaret
* * *
Tom had not told Margaret that the Airborne was coming home. He hardly would have had time to do so anyway, as their long-anticipated departure seemingly came overnight. But as he thought about it and imagined what would be both a first meeting and a reunion, he decided that he wanted it to be a surprise.
A flock of Canadian geese soared in a V formation overhead as the ship blew its horn, its tired wail echoing into the city air. Sailboats and fishing boats cut them a broad swath as they slowed into the dock, and throngs of exuberant people waved American flags at their arrival. Margaret might even be in that crowd—cheering on the soldiers coming home but not knowing that Tom was among them.
He gathered his rucksack, thinking that it would never matter to him how much he might possess because he’d had only this bag for the last two years and had gotten by with no more. He slung it over his shoulders and disappeared into the ocean of those gathered, a brass band marking the occasion.
* * *
Tom didn’t need to check the address. He’d written it on so many envelopes in the past few months that he almost knew it better than his own. The black paint on the door was peeling; if he could get ahold of some paint, he’d take care of that for the Becks. He knocked on the door, suddenly feeling every nerve in his body as they rattled his confidence.
The door opened and he thought his stomach might lurch. A beautiful woman answered, one he recognized from the photograph that John had by his bed.
“Dottie?” he asked, surprised to see her.
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to place him, but then they widened.
“Tom! Tom! Oh my goodness, you’re home!”
She pulled him into an embrace that was as tight as anything he would have expected from his mother. Especially considering they had never met. He felt the roundness of her belly against him. Was she pregnant again?