Work Text:
August 1, 1943
Location: Northern Italy
Dear Pete,
I don’t think you’d believe how hard it rains here in this town. For a spot usually so warm, when it decides that it wants to rain, there’s no Ifs about it. Everyone here seems thrilled, though; they run around in the soggy weather playing games and singing and whatnot. It’s kind of heart-warming, honestly.
I can’t say much right now because the censors are strict over here and I don’t want to take any chances. But I hope you’re well right now; I hope that you’re keeping the boys back at home in line. I don’t want to come home to everything being in shambles.
Actually, I’d probably be pretty damn happy to come back to that. To come back at all.
I miss America. I miss it all the time.
-Patrick
August 8, 1943
Location: Florence, Italy
Dear Pete,
There’s talk of the Germans being close by, and a lot of the men are getting uneasy. I think it’s gotten into their heads that we might be attacked at any moment, and everyone seems the jumpier for it. Me? I’m just trying to keep things calm, and keep myself at the ready. I’m not saying that we aren’t in danger, because God knows we are. But I also don’t see a need for this mindless panic that I see in their eyes when I get up in the morning; I hate that far too many of their hands shake as they practice loading their guns.
I saw this kid the other day, well, more of an adult than a child, I guess. He was in one of the fields, kicking a soccer ball (or as they call ‘em, ‘footballs’ around here) absently around on the grass. He seemed completely unaffected by the turmoil going on around him, and whether he was choosing to ignore it or really didn’t know, I felt a little jealous. I wish that I could go someplace every day and feel safe there, even for a moment.
Still can’t say much; censors are going strong.
But I do remember, that I always felt safe with America.
And I still miss y-it, every day.
-Patrick
August 20, 1943
Location: Southern Italy
Dear Pete,
The men we sent on that scouting mission two days ago still haven’t come back. I know a couple of the boys were hell-bent on going to look for them, but of course they were stopped as soon as the Lieutenant caught word. I’ve seen some shit, and I won’t lie about it, but I’ve never seen such a mixture of fury and fear in the eyes of those three men, desperate to go find their friends.
Speaking of friends, I talked to that Italian kid I told you about, who was wandering around playing soccer the other day. I didn’t get his name, but he seems like a nice guy. Fluent in English and Italian, and he told me that he’s trying to learn German. Imagine that. Maybe he’s not as naïve as I took him to be. Shows what happens when you look at appearances, I guess.
I hope you all are staying cool. It’s getting hot up here, even though the summers in Italy are said to be fairly mild, but the sun must have had other ideas. Everything is sweaty, and we have tomatoes just about every fucking day because they ripen so fast, and the locals are obsessed with our flags. They keep coming up and touching them; running their hands over the stripes and making delighted noises. I have no idea what they think is so fascinating, but we let ‘em be. No point in taking away a bit of happiness, when it causes no harm to others.
I want to come home. I want to come home and see you all again and I want-
Thinking about America is sometimes the only thing that gets me out of bed in the mornings. Sometimes I imagine that I’ll roll over and y-America will be looking at me on the other side. Smiling that stupid grin.
One day I won’t have to worry about censors, and then I’m going to say to America whatever I want.
-Patrick
August 26, 1943
Location: Still Stationed in Southern Italy
Dear Pete,
You can hear the fighter jets without even straining your ears now. The English sent up a few reinforcements, and I’m hoping it’ll help alleviate the panic.
I just…I just need to get it out, on paper, in the air, I’ll scream it underwater if need be.
But I’m so tired, and I’m so sick of this same cycle over and over and over again. It feels like we’re all puppets and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can do; people are losing sight of what they were fighting for in the first place and they just. Don’t. Care anymore.
That kid from the fields isn’t there anymore. I heard from someone that he had a lover whom he was trying to save from the enemy lines, and he got shot trying to do it. Almost made me laugh; thinking about the things people do for both love and hatred.
If there’s one thing I’m grateful for, it’s at least that you all are safe. You aren’t here to see what’s going on, and I’m so glad for it. It brings me hope every day thinking of you waking up, safe, away from where this is going on.
The food here is getting very old, very fast. I already told you about the tomatoes, but I spared your eyes from reading the novels of complaint about how every single fucking thing somehow has to be incorporated with pasta and they practically drink olive oil and so many of them seem to have no idea what’s going on.
Either they’re not speaking of it, or they don’t want to find out.
I know I sound like a downer almost all the time, but things aren’t quite as bleak as they might seem. There are still people who walk around talking of better times; of better things that are coming, and maybe a better life that they’ll stick around long enough to see. I hope they do; I hope I do. I wish to God that we all could.
Not everyone’s going to come out of this alive, Pete, and that scares me. It scares me to fucking death.
-Patrick
September 2, 1943
Location: The Italian Border
Dear Pete,
I’m sorry for what I said in my last letter. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t have the right to complain like that. Things aren’t so hopeless yet that I’m worried about dying every second of the day. Better me than some other bastard who has a life and a family to go back to.
You probably would have punched me if you’d been here. Glad you weren’t. Mostly. These letters might take weeks to reach you; by then any number of things could have happened.
I want to come home. I want to come home and eat burgers with you and the rest on the porch and visit my Ma and talk to every grumpy neighbour I was too scared to hold a conversation with before. I feel like I’m going insane.
I hope that we’ll be able to take leave soon; maybe even get a short break. Maybe even get to come home for a month or two. Who knows. Just the thought of it excites me beyond anything else.
I miss America.
And by America, I mean you. I mean you, I mean you, I’ve meant you every time. I can’t believe you’re so fucking far away from me when it feels like just yesterday we were talking about the future.
I could almost say screw it; I don’t care about tomorrow; I’d trade all of them for even one yesterday with you.
Jesus Christ I miss you so much.
I’m going to come home. There is no power on earth that’s going to stop me coming home to you; no power that could even try.
I’ll make it back, one way or another.
I love you.
Yours,
-Patrick
October 18, 1943
Location: Wilmette, Illinois
The mail arrives a little past Three in the afternoon. The day is slow; sleepy. The people are equally slow. A haze seems to have collected across the area as life goes on, the only disruption to the day the mandatory drop-off for mail.
One particular mailbox sits apart from the rest, close to the corner of the street. It’s painted a nondescript shade of grey, gloss catching the afternoon sunlight. The metal is warm to the touch, or at least it will be, when someone must do so to open it.
Inside is the usual assortment of letters, newspaper scraps; even a magazine pushed into the back. The pages are glossy with fresh, crisp ink on white paper. On top, however, lies an equally nondescript package, marked with military postage, addressed to the owner of the mailbox in firm, clean script.
Light shatters the calm darkness of the small chamber as it is opened, a tanned hand reaching in to pull out the contents. Eyes flick carelessly over the letters and magazine, until they light on the package. All other correspondence falls to the ground as it’s ripped open; hastily, reverently. Fingers hold the paper like a lifeline as the top page is read.
September 9, 1943
Dear Mr. Wentz,
It is with real sorrow that I write to you with bad news, especially that it pertains to your comrade- officer Patrick Stump.
He played a very gallant part in the attack which was made six days ago, when the Germans invaded the kingdom of Italy. He assisted his commander multiple times in the order and care of his fellow soldiers, even making sure that many of them reached safety as they moved to higher ground. It was during this time that he was hit with a piece of shell, and subsequently died. There were none who did not mourn his death, and none more than myself.
As these letters were found in his tent addressed to yourself, it seemed only fitting that they should, at the very least, be sent with all speediness. His mother has been informed of this event in a separate letter, so that you are both now aware.
I only wish that I had the words to soften your grief. I find myself, however, unable to say anything other than he fought for a sacred cause, fighting for freedom and justice.
All those who have fallen in the field of honour in this world war, though perhaps they remain unaware of it, are following in the steps of so many before them, striving to achieve the same goal. Such is the price of the world’s salvation.
I wish you both peace and rest at this time, and pray that you will find these few epistles comforting in your hour of need.
Sincerely,
Corporal James Williamson
His hands are shaking now, gripping the letters even more tightly than before. Knees give out as he slides down to lean against the wooden post, gaze vacant. Brown eyes stray to the letters in his hand, unread, uncared for. He does not know if he will ever be able to summon the courage to read them, but in another way, he knows that he will.
At the corner of the last page, towards the bottom in familiar script, lie a few solitary sentences.
I’ll make it back, one way or another.
I love you.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. No sound is forced; he isn’t even fully sure if he’s breathing or not. His eyes remain fixed on those hopeful words, written in circumstances that he as of yet, doesn’t know.
Eventually, he stands. Shock is only a friend for so long; eventually the body gives way to acceptance. He stumbles towards the porch, towards the doorway, pulling himself inside before collapsing onto the couch. It is there, half curled up, half painfully reclining, that he unfolds the crumpled letters in his hand, and spreads them out.
One after the other.
So many hopeful words.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
The world is so very silent.