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It’s four days after Schofield meets Blake’s brother that he gets even the slightest bit of time to write the letter he promised. He finds whatever paper he can collect, a decent sized stack, some of it already with tears and stains from wear and shelf life. He could never break that promise he made to him on that fateful day. When he felt Blake’s life slip through his fingers, when he held his hand tight, when he had to leave him there, he knew this would be the least that he could do for him.
He hopes he does the right thing.
He’s sitting in a cafe, on his one off day, and the pen in his hand shakes, thoughts trying to come to him, but he can’t properly form them. God, he can’t even bring himself to scrawl his mother’s title on the paper. He hopes he does not do a disservice to Blake by writing this. He hopes he can say what he wants to say, what he needs to say, and what she needs to hear.
This could break her. It’s her youngest son, barely a man, shipped off to war and only to come back in a box. He should be helping her with the orchard. He should be helping her around the house. He should not have been here. He should not have been taught how to hold a gun. This was never a place for men like Tom Blake. Kindhearted, gentle men who smiled and said “thank you” almost too quietly had no place on the battlefield.
Tom Blake was a good person, a great person, even, and he did not deserve what he got. He did not deserve for his kindness to be his downfall.
It takes him ten minutes before he even has the strength to write on the paper.
Dear Ms. Blake,
He stops there, and he tries to think, but his head moves at a mile a minute. He feels like his head is covered in a fog, and he doesn’t know what to say. He knows that nothing he says will ever take away the pain that she feels, and will likely feel for the rest of her life. He knows he can never bring back her son, but if he can at least, at the very least, bring her a bit of reassurance, he wants to do that for her.
He doesn’t know how to start. He tries.
I’m sure you will get the notice from higher ups far before you get this, but I hope that I find you in good time.
But he hates it, pushes the first piece of paper underneath the rest of the blank ones, and starts again.
Dear Ms. Blake,
Your son, in his final moments, asked me to write to you. I hope I am doing him justice.
But, somehow he hates that more. He thinks it makes him sound snobby, almost like it’s about himself. And it’s not about him, it never could be, it’s about the loss of a son, a brother, a friend or maybe something more. He starts again.
Dear Ms. Blake,
There is no way I could ever take away or heal the pain that this loss has caused you, and I am deeply sorry for that. There is no other way I could start this letter than with my condolences. I hope I am finding you in a time of healing.
He decides that one is good, that it is an extension of a hand in a time of sorrow, a shoulder to lean on if she needs it. He wants to be there for her as much as he can even in his absence. He makes note in his mind to recopy Blake’s mother's mailing address, and keep it in his tin, a reminder to visit her if he makes it home.
Your son was, and continues to be, one of the most incredible men I have ever come to know. He was always considerate, always kind. With the way he acted, the way he spoke, and the way he treated others, I am certain in the confidence I feel in calling you a great mother. I had the pleasure, though under the worst of circumstances, of meeting your oldest, Joseph. He is a kind man, I know of it. You are a wonderful woman, and I thank you, personally, for raising two great men.
He means every word of it. He knows she likely raised Tom, mostly, on her own. He never got a chance to ask why Mr. Blake was never in the photograph, he never will now, but he thinks it’s a safe assumption that he’s passed on. There’s a great man in Tom, and if she raised him almost entirely on her own, like he assumes, she did a wonderful job.
He saved my life the day he lost his.
He stares at that line, and he sighs. He wishes he was wrong about that. He wishes, somewhere deep inside him, that he could trade his own life for Blake’s. Blake had so much life inside of him, so much love to give. He hadn’t been destroyed by the war or by life’s many obstacles. He just wanted to love and give love.
I doubt that the higher ups would have told you what had happened. I will spare you the details, but Tom pulled me out of a collapsed German trench. I would have easily been killed that afternoon if your son’s quick thinking and true kindness didn’t pull me back to my feet and out of the trench.
He wishes he told Tom how much that meant to him. He prays that Tom knew how much he loved him.
He doesn’t know how graphic he should get with the actual death of her son. He doesn’t know if she even knows how he died. They likely did not tell her, left her in the dark for most of it, despite him being her youngest son. He doesn’t want to upset her, it’s the very last thing he wants to do, but he knows that she deserves to know.
His kindness was what got him killed that day, as unfortunate and as tragic as it is to say. Tom’s helpful nature and his tendency to put others before himself got him in that situation. I wish there was more I could have done. In your son’s final moments, he asked me to write to you for him. With everything that he had done for me, provided me companionship and compassion, I had to do it. I am sorry if receiving this upsets you, but I had to do it.
He told me to tell you he wasn’t scared. Tom was one of the bravest men I have ever known. He jumped headfirst into situations that could kill him, just for his fellow men. He told me to tell you he loved you. And I know that he did, he loved you so much, Ms. Blake. I hope you know how much he cherished you, not only as a mother, but as so much more.
He doesn’t know how, or if, he should disclose how close he was with her son.
Tom and I were very close, and had been for a very long time.
He thinks he should just stop there. If Tom never got the chance to say it, he doesn’t know if he should overstep a possible line. He knows how close Tom was with his mother, and he’s almost certain that he had to have mentioned them in a letter home. Christ, Tom told his mother everything, and she told him everything. He sits back in his seat a little and shuts his eyes, trying to wrack through the fog in his mind of a memory of maybe, just maybe, Tom mentioning to his mother what they had between them.
He remembers it, a little. He has a vague memory of Tom asking Will if it was already that he mentioned him in a letter home, telling her “about them.” He doesn’t know if that’s what Tom meant by that, but he remembers the way Tom’s hand felt on his when he asked. He felt like he was trembling, scared to ask almost.
He thinks that speaks for itself.
I’m blessed to have been able to have him by my side for as long as I could. He always made each day, no matter how hard, brighter, more beautiful. I’m blessed to have been able to call him a friend, more than a friend, even. A little less than a wife, if I am being completely honest.
He knows it’s risky, but he knows Tom’s mother is loving. If she’s half as kind as Tom, she’d be the kindest woman alive.
I loved love Tom, truly, I love him. I wish I told him that more.
He crosses out “loved” and replaces it with “love.” He still loves Tom, and there will be a part of him that will love Tom until the end of his days.
I hope that what I have said to you will help you in your healing. I know I cannot completely, fully heal you and your family for what you have lost, for what a wonderful man you have lost, but if I can be there for you in any way, I would like to do that. I would like to be there for you like your son was for me.
Will doesn’t realize he’s started crying until a tear drips off of the tip of his nose and onto the paper, smudges the writing around one of the times he’s written “lost.” He wipes his face with his palm, fast as to not ruin the letter even more, to not show weakness in a time where he tries to be strong for her, for Tom.
God, he feels like he should say so much more. There’s so much to say about Tom, about how much of a wonderful man he is, but he feels like he’d just be repeating things that she already knows to her. He doesn’t want to rub salt in the wound that she has lost such an amazing man, such a loving person. He doesn’t want to remind her of what once was, or what could have been.
I am here for you, always, and I hope we can meet in due time, when everything here is better, if it would not cause you excess pain.
What else is there to say? He wants to say that he loves her. He knows that’s strong, but just from stories and just from Tom’s way of describing her and how big her heart is and how great of a mother she was, he thinks he does see her, in a way, as a motherly figure.
He can’t.
With love,
William Schofield