Work Text:
October 20, 1944
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan Buckley,
I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me, but something about our conversation in the hangar last week stuck with me. It’s not every day a tired old pilot meets someone who can match his wit while dodging falling crates. You did, and you made me laugh - a rare thing these days.
As silly as it might sound, I’m writing because you feel like a lifeline. It reminds me that there’s something out there beyond our missions. Working with the same crew all the time, it’s easy to forget. Maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you’ll write back. Tell me more about your route, your people, what makes you get up every morning.
Me? I fly. I keep the skies as clear as I can and hope I make it back to base in one piece. Some days are better than others, as would be the truth even if we weren’t on a battlefield, but I suppose there’s nowhere I’d rather be(!)
If you find time between delivering messages to the world, write me one too.
Regards,
Tommy Kinard
October 26, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy Kinard,
Your letter found me in the middle of a downpour. We’d just finished unloading supplies when it came, a bit crumpled but intact. It’s a little strange, getting letters when I’m usually the one delivering them. I can’t explain it, but seeing your name on the envelope felt like a small rebellion against everything this war has taken from us. I think somewhere along the way I’d convinced myself I wasn’t allowed to feel joy again… and then I found myself grinning, despite being covered in mud and drenched in water. Yes. Of course I’ll write back, and I hope you continue to as well.
You asked about my route - I wish I could make it sound more interesting than it is. It’s nothing like flying, I imagine. It’s picking your way across muddy roads and crumbling towns, sometimes with a ten percent chance that the enemy is behind the next door, or well hidden in a treeline just beyond view. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and the nature of it makes you never want to step foot outside your own tent. But… the ninety percent chance that I’m delivering vital supplies, or a message that might save someone’s life is more than enough to help me ignore the other ten.
Your letter brightened the gloom. Keep flying safe, Tommy. The skies are better with you in them.
From,
Buck
October 31, 1944
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
A ten percent chance of the enemy lurking behind the next door? I’d call that pretty good odds. Your optimism - it’s reckless and endearing. I’m glad you’re out there… it sounds like you’re carrying more than just supplies. You’re delivering hope. The men on the ground here talk about their jobs with resignation. The way they frame their heroics is nothing more than the propaganda that recruited them spewed right back up. You sound like you actually mean what you say.
As for me, I’ll admit that flying is less interesting than you might think it is. Not that I’d trade places - my apologies - but there’s no mystery to my missions. It’s all charts, altitude, and praying the anti-aircraft guns are pointed at someone else.
I’ve been keeping a journal since we started writing. I jot down things I see - small victories, fleeting moments of beauty. They’re for you, one day. For now, I’ll tell you this: there’s a field outside the base that blooms in almost every season. The wildflowers don’t care about the war. They just exist, vibrant and defiant. Like you.
Stay safe, and write again soon.
Regards,
Tommy
November 8, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
You know, I was starting to think I’d dreamed you up. That perhaps your first letter was a hallucination I was carrying around. It’s good to hear from you.
The wildflowers sound beautiful. I wish I could come back to the hanger to see them - and you - one day. It’s strange how something so simple can mean so much. I’ll admit, I haven’t seen much beauty out here lately, but maybe I haven’t been looking hard enough.
From,
Buck
November 13, 1944
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
You know, for someone who delivers words for a living, yours carry more weight than I think you realise. When you said you hadn’t seen much beauty lately, it hit me harder than I expected. There’s a heaviness in your words that I didn’t notice before. I’m not saying it’s wrong to feel that way. Hell, we’re all dealing with something out here, even if we don’t say it out loud.
I get it, Evan. Some days, it feels like we’re all walking through a fog, not sure if we’ll ever see the other side. But I need you to know this: your letters - your stories - they cut through the haze. Maybe the beauty isn’t always in what you see but in what you create. And trust me, you’re creating more than you realise.
You’d like my wildflowers, I think. Howard calls me sentimental for going back to the field all the time, even though the flowers have started to wilt and reseed, but I can’t help it. They help, when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
I hope you have something like that, Evan. Something that makes you feel steady when the ground beneath you shakes. And if you don’t, I hope my letters help, at least a little.
Stay safe, Evan.
Regards,
Tommy
November 22, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
I used to think it was the exciting act of getting a letter that kept me on edge whenever the mail came in. But I’ve realized it’s not just the letter itself - it’s what’s inside, your words, that I’m really waiting for. I sometimes receive something from my sister, and it never gives me the same feeling.
Today has been harder than others. We’ve just finished a long haul, the kind where the mud clings to your boots so thickly that it feels like you’re a couple of inches taller after it dries. But then, the taller you are, the closer you are to the sky, the more it feels like it’s pressing down on you and might never let up. Does it ever feel like that, when you’re flying? Eddie - he’s one of the guys I work with - keeps me going on jobs like that. He’s a good guy; I think you’d get along well with him.
You asked if I have something that keeps me grounded. I didn’t, until recently. There’s this old tree near one of our rest stops. It’s twisted and gnarled, probably older than anyone I’ve ever known. I’ve started sitting under it whenever we pass through to write my letters. I’m sitting under it now, writing this. It’s not much, but it feels like a few breaths of peace. Like I’m closer to you or something. I don’t know.
From,
Buck
November 28, 1944
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
Your letter came late today. I suppose I should’ve waited for daylight, but I couldn’t help myself, so now I’m sitting in the mess hall alone, with only the faint glow of a lantern for company. For a moment, it felt like you were sitting beside me, talking about that old tree of yours. I can almost picture it, weathering the storms the way we all try to.
You mentioned feeling closer to me when you sit there, and I can’t tell you how much that means. I never thought words scratched out on paper could feel like a connection, but you’ve proven me wrong.
Howard would tease me if he knew I was writing this, saying I’ve gone soft. Maybe he’s right. I don’t care. He doesn’t know what it’s like to… well. To have someone like you in my life.
Flyboys like me aren’t supposed to think too far ahead, but I catch myself imagining things sometimes. Quiet moments, peaceful ones. Maybe a day where you’re not delivering messages and I’m not charting courses. Maybe a day where we get to meet again under your tree or in my field of wildflowers.
Until then, keep sitting under that tree, Buck. Keep writing. And for God’s sake, stay safe.
P.S: No, the sky has never felt oppressive in the way you described. When you’re up so high your blades cut through the clouds and all you see is blue? There’s nothing keeping you down, and no ceiling to hit your head on. It’s magic. I hope you get to experience it one day.
Yours,
Tommy
December 3, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
Your words knocked the wind out of me, in the best way. I keep reading and re-reading and it’s like they’ve burrowed under my skin. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone think of me like that before, Tommy. You’ve changed how I see this war. Maybe how I see myself.
On the ground here, things are tense. There’s talk that we’re making progress, but it doesn’t feel like it yet. Every inch forward costs us more than it should. Eddie and I delivered supplies to a field hospital yesterday, and the sight of it still clings to me. Rows of beds, the smell of antiseptic. Bloodied sheets, barely concealing what was underneath.
But there was hope too. A doctor - Wilson, I think her name was - made us laugh with some wild story about sneaking extra rations for her patients. It reminded me that even here, even now, people are fighting for each other, not just the war. It reminded me of you, and of what I’m fighting for.
I’d love to fly with you.
Yours,
Buck
December 12, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
It’s been a little while since your last letter, and I know I shouldn’t worry - it’s a war, after all. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.
I keep telling myself you’re just busy, caught up in missions or drowning in paperwork, but that doesn’t stop me from looking for your name every time the mail comes in. It’s funny how quickly I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of your letters, how they’ve become part of my routine.
Eddie says I should relax, that no news is good news. It’s easy for him to say when he receives letters from his wife and child almost weekly. I can hear your voice in my head, telling me not to let my imagination run wild. I’m trying, Tommy.
If you get this, just send a word, even if it’s just to tell me I’m being ridiculous.
Yours,
Evan
December 20, 1944
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Tommy,
Where are you?
I’ve been waiting for your letter, but it hasn’t come, and I don’t know what to do.
Please tell me you’re okay. Please tell me you’re out there, still walking through your field or laughing with Howard or flying missions that terrify me to even think about.
I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I’ll keep writing anyway. I’ll keep writing until I hear from you again.
Yours,
Evan
January 6, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Tommy,
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.
I wrote to Howard, hoping for some sign, some word that you were still out there, that this was all some mistake. Maybe I got the address wrong, maybe he’s not part of your squadron. Maybe… maybe he was involved, too. He didn’t write back.
I had to get answers. Pretty sure I almost got myself court martialed for it. But I finally found out about your chopper. That they haven’t found you yet. The others are saying you’re gone.
I’ve been holding on to the idea that you’ll come back. Maybe not in the way I hope, but somehow. You made me feel like this could end - this damn war and everything that’s come with it. But I don’t know if I can hold onto that anymore.
I don’t even know why I’m still writing to you, except that it feels like if I don’t, I’ll lose what little piece of you I’ve kept. I don’t know how to let go of you.
I wish we could’ve met one more time. I wish I could’ve walked beside you just once. I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what comes after.
Maybe someday, someone will find these letters, and they’ll know. They’ll know what you were to me.
Forever yours,
Evan
January 21, 1945
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
I should start by telling you that I’m alive, though I’m sure you realised that when my letter was delivered to you.
I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved to write those words to you, to assure you that I’m okay.
You’re right. My chopper was shot down. I survived. Barely. I remember the crash, the fire, the smoke. But I don't remember much else of that day. I guess that’s a blessing. Howard was with me, which is why he couldn’t write back to you. He made it too, and we were taken to a field hospital for our initial recovery. It might be why nobody knew that we had been found. It’s still too dangerous to move us, so we continue to recover while the higher ups go back and forth on sending us home or not.
The days have been melding together, but we were visited today by our commander, who brought your letters to me. Seeing the stack of them filled me with such conflicting feelings, Evan. It was relief, yes, but also guilt. I can’t help but think about what you’ve been doing - how many more chances you’ve taken, how reckless you might’ve been, thinking I hadn’t made it.
I won’t lie to you… there were times when it was hard to convince myself to keep up the fight. Of how easy it would be, and how many resources I’d save, by giving up.
Selfishly, I’m still here. I’m not gone, not yet. The thought of seeing you again was the lifeline I kept close to my chest. And I’m hoping, hoping more than I probably should, that you’ve been careful. That this letter reaches you before anything happens.
I’m sorry you had to worry. I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark for so long. But I’m writing to you now, and I will again, as long as I can.
For now, that’s all I have to give.
Yours,
Tommy
January 25, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
Only you would apologize for getting hurt.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read your letter. How many times I’ve stared at my name in your shaky handwriting. Reliving how I felt when they told me there was a letter for me, from you.
I keep waiting for the relief to fade. But it hasn’t. Every time I read that you’re okay…
I can’t imagine what it must have been like, what you’ve been through. You say you’re recovering, but what from? How bad are your injuries? I’m just so damn glad you’re here, so damn glad you’re still writing to me. I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear from you, how much I needed to know that you were still out there, still somewhere.
I’ve had days where the thought of losing you… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I just need you to keep writing, Tommy. Please.
Sometimes I forget we’ve only spoken once in person. You wouldn’t know it, from how well you know me. How you somehow already understood what losing you would do to me. About the risks I’d take.
But I won’t be reckless anymore. I promise. For you.
We’ve seen some terrible things in the past few weeks. The war’s been moving fast, and we’re all scrambling to stay ahead of it.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I know this - I’m not letting you go. You’re the one thing I’m sure of.
Yours,
Buck
February 4, 1945
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
It’s strange how time plays tricks on you. In those first few weeks when I was conscious enough to care about the pain, it felt like time had stopped. Life outside the medical tent didn’t exist. I was aware of patients coming and going, but everything felt distant, unreal. Now, time is all I seem to notice - and how painfully slow it moves.
When the chopper went down, a piece of shrapnel sliced right through my thigh and into my calf. Even after weeks of lying still, of easing back into movement, and slowly rebuilding my strength, the injury still demands more healing. The doctors tell me I’ll probably always need a cane to walk. But in the grand scheme of things, I got lucky. I can still move. I could’ve easily lost my whole leg. One day, I’ll even fly again.
You’d laugh if you saw me learning to use the cane. I’ve been telling myself it’s not so different from my first days of flying - awkward, unsteady, but getting there, little by little. Physical therapy is a strange kind of battle. Some days, it feels like walking on a cloud, the ground shifting and unsteady. Other days, it’s like my legs have forgotten their purpose altogether. Still, I’ll get there. The leg will be what it will be, but it won’t stop me.
They’ve decided not to send me home, even though I thought they might. Apparently, my expertise is too valuable, and a limp isn’t enough to sideline me completely. I’ll still be flying, still doing my part. It feels strange, though - like I thought surviving this would mean something different.
Some days, I wonder if I am ready to go back. Maybe I’ll never feel ready. But I’ll go. Because I have to. And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.
Yours,
Tommy
February 10, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley
Dear Tommy,
I’ve been thinking about you more than usual this past week. Maybe it’s because something about this season has me feeling… softer than I usually would. It’s the atmosphere of the camp, as well - they’re all getting into the spirit of it. But I won’t go on about that - there’s no need for anyone to get the wrong idea.
It’s strange how something as simple as a wildflower can make me think of someone. But I found one while out on a route this week, peeking out against the side of a hill, bright and stubborn like it had no business surviving where it was. I don’t know why, but it reminded me of you. I’ve sent it along with this letter. It’s small, but I thought maybe you’d understand what it means.
I know I was the one that asked about your recovery, but reading about it made me so upset I wasn’t even sure I was going to respond to it. I can’t imagine how it must be, actually living it. I wish I was there to help you. To stand by your side and let you lean against me while you’re testing your weight, and convincing your leg to be a leg again.
I know it feels like forever, but the worst is over. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come to even be able to walk with a cane.
If you ever get tired, I want you to remember that I’m always thinking of you. There’s no other way to say it. You’re on my mind, whether I’m out delivering messages or catching a brief moment of rest.
Please take care of yourself, Tommy. I’ll be here, like I always am, hoping that we’ll both make it to the end of this thing.
Yours,
Evan
February 20, 1945
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Dear Evan,
Your letter arrived exactly when you intended it. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Timing seems to be one of your talents - delivering messages at just the right moment.
The flower… it’s perfect. It’s pressed now between the pages of my journal, a little piece of you I can carry with me. It says more than words ever could. And for you to think of me when you found it... Well, let’s just say it’s not something I’ll forget anytime soon.
I hope you won’t mind that I’ve sent something in return. Howard thinks I’ve lost my mind, and he warns me to be careful with a look that makes my insides turn to ice. He knows, even though nobody has told him. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s an excellent friend.
The ones I’ve sent you are a different species, I think. I found them on one of my walks to strengthen my leg. Nothing as striking as what you sent, but they’re here all the same, carefully pressed and bundled together. I thought maybe you’d understand their meaning as well.
Yours,
Tommy
March 5, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Tommy,
I’m carrying your bundle with me now, tucked safely away. The blooms may be different, but their meaning isn’t lost on me. Thank you. You’re right - they say more than words ever could.
I appreciate the people you put your faith in, Tommy. Eddie looks at me the same way, when I become too eager to check the mail, or when I laugh too loudly at something you’ve said. He’ll never say a word, but the look is enough. I don’t care though. You’re the only thing that’s gotten me through these god forsaken times. If that’s a problem, then let me be a problem for all the world to see, no matter the consequences.
I don’t have as much time to write anymore. Routes are longer, and everything feels more uncertain out here. It’s harder to find quiet moments, but I wanted you to know I’m still here, still thinking of you.
Yours,
Evan
March 20, 1945
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Evan,
I know what you mean about being unable to find the time to write. Things have been hectic lately, even here.
They finally put me back in the air for the first time, a couple of days ago. My first mission was a short transport flight from point a to point b in a relatively safe zone.
It’s strange - both familiar and foreign. I didn’t think I’d ever see the sky from a cockpit again, but here I am. The cane has to stay with me, in case of unexpected ground ops - not that I’d be very helpful in the event of one - but even just a short time without it, and instead being back in the sky? It makes me as happy as your letters do.
Yours,
Tommy
April 3, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Tommy,
I’m alive. Tired, worn, but alive. I barely have anything to say, even though I could think of a thousand words to fill these letters. There just isn’t time to get them out, but I wanted to make sure you knew I was still here.
Every time I hear blades overhead, I wonder if one of them is you. I wish there was some way of knowing.
Yours,
Evan
April 25, 1945
To: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
From: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
Evan,
When this is over - when the world finally catches its breath - I keep thinking about where I might go. I used to imagine someplace far away, quiet and untouched by all this, but now... now I think it depends on where you are.
There’s a small café in London, near where I trained before heading to the front. It’s tucked away on a narrow street, the kind of place most people overlook. They make terrible tea but incredible scones. I think you’d like it. I think we’d like it.
What do you say? When all of this is just stories we tell, meet me there. I’ll wait as long as it takes.
Yours,
Tommy
May 2, 1945
To: Lt. Tommy Kinard, 217th Air Squadron
From: Pvt. Evan "Buck" Buckley, 118th Courier Division
Dear Tommy,
I’d love to. I’ll be there.
Perhaps after, once we’ve returned to America, we could find someplace even quieter too.
There’s this grove just outside my hometown, a place where the trees are tall enough to blot out everything but the sky. My sister used to take me there when things got rough at home. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s peaceful. You wouldn’t need the cane there. We can plant flowers and sit under trees and forget any of this ever happened.
Yours, Evan
Epilogue
The bells over the café door jingle softly as Buck steps inside, a rush of warm air brushing his face. The scent of fresh bread and coffee curls around him, and the woman behind the front counter smiles warmly at him, before busying herself with cleaning. His heart is pounding. He doesn’t even know if Tommy will be here, but the thought has carried him through every step of the journey to this place.
London feels so alive, humming with the kind of joy and relief only the end of a war can bring. Buck’s celebrated, toasted with strangers, laughed until he cried. But none of it has settled the gnawing ache in his chest - the part of him that has been waiting for this moment for so, so long.
The café is small, dimly lit, and filled with quiet conversations. It takes him a second to spot him, and when he does, his breath catches.
Tommy is sitting in a booth by himself, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him. His cane is propped neatly against the table, and he’s gazing out the window like he’s lost in thought. A worn, raggedy old book sits next to his cup, and Buck wonders if it’s his journal.
For a moment, Buck doesn’t move. He was so worried that over the last few months, his memory of Tommy had become distorted. That the man he’d pictured a thousand times in his letters - in his dreams - had been shaped and reshaped from his fragmented memory so badly that Buck wouldn’t even recognise him.
But no. The man sitting there, right now, right in front of him, is exactly the same.
Tommy’s face is thinner, his hair a little longer, but his eyes... they’re the same, warm and steady. His jawline could still cut through paper, his shoulders broad and thick and strong.
Buck reaches the booth, and Tommy turns, looking up at him. His expression shifts instantly, softening with a smile so familiar it makes Buck’s knees go weak, even if he only ever saw it once.
“Evan,” Tommy says, his voice low but filled with so much emotion that Buck can hardly bear it.
Buck swallows hard, his nerves suddenly catching up with him, “Tommy.”
They stare at each other for a beat, the world narrowing to just the two of them. Buck wants to hug him, to pull him close and feel that Tommy is real, solid, alive. But they can’t. Not here. Not now.
So Buck holds out his hand, and Tommy takes it, their fingers clasping tightly. Neither of them make any move to pull away.
“It’s so good to see you,” Buck says, his voice catching on the last word.
Tommy’s smile widens, his hand tightening around Buck’s. “You have no idea.”