#postscriptfic

No, I don’t mind you reading my letters aloud, within reason. After all, me and Steve share little pieces from your letters with each other in order to feel like you’re right here with us and making up the final piece of the Three Stooges, a little band we’re likely to become once you finally get yourself home. I’ll just have to be cautious not to invoke the name of Fr*nk S*natra anymore since he’s a sore point among the men.

I am also every bit as happy to have things that are just between you and me. Here’s something for your eyes only:

The promise you’re asking for is difficult to give, but I’ll give it to you all the same. It’s my sincere hope to not only have the title of your best friend but to be deserving of it, too. So, no, I won’t hide from you, and I certainly don’t want to. However, I will endeavor to make these letters a joy to read as much as they are a joy to write, laced as they are with honesty and hardship. It is, after all, the Thankful time of year, and I intend to live up to the spirit of the holiday. End confidential statement.

Speaking of, I hope you and the boys will enjoy a feast even so far from home. I understand that for many of the boys, this is their first time out of the country, but I assure you it feels strange to us back in the States, too. What do you think about good ol’ Franklin Delano Roosevelt changing Thanksgiving Day to the last Thursday of the month? My mother is calling it Franksgiving only because she goes about all month long getting ready for her grand family dinner, and this year she’s upset at having less time to prepare. I tell her not to worry so much since we should try not to consume as much food this year anyway. This only upsets her more.

Still, she remains a real gem of a patron saint, if I do say so myself. Last week, she was put in charge of desserts for the church’s bond-sale potluck, and created a beautiful sheet cake of red, white, and blue over which she pasted the words “Prayer for Our Boys is Sweet to God.” God may have been the only person that cake was sweet to, I’m afraid. Amidst all the chaos of organizing the thing, she had substituted sugar for salt. My father has told me I am not allowed to joke about it with her until months after Franksgiving is over, and to understand that, even then, the most I may get out of her is a frustrated sigh. It is on you and the boys that I must rely to find the humor in it. Eugene may be right. There might be some benefit to living on a sugar farm.

Yours,

Moe (if you’ll be Larry and Steve will be Curly)

P.S. Hello to the men of Easy Company who I understand will be hearing this letter. You’re all bang-up fellas!

P.P.S. Hello to Babe especially. The tea was better this time.

-... -...

1 December 1943

Heya Moe,

Boy, oh boy. I don’t know WHAT you wrote to Eisenhower, but he must be a sucker for a pretty dame. I didn’t want to write you about this just so as not to get our collective hopes up, but now that it’s finally over and done with I’m happy to share. “Share what?” I’m sure you’re asking at this point. Heck, I’m sure you’re on the edge of your seat. Well, hold your horses and sit down, missy, and I’ll tell you all about it.

At the end of October, the men of Easy finally found their final straw with Captain Sobel when said so-called “captain” issued Lt. Winters a court-martial. Again, that was a court-martial for LT. WINTERS of all people. The reasoning, I learned from Captain Nixon (a close friend of Winters’s), was a failure to follow conflicting latrine inspection orders. Typical Sobel, I learned from the rest. They have a choice name for him having to do with what comes out of the rear-end of a chicken. Apparently, the feud between him and Winters went much deeper than I thought. (My own CO’s, though tough, have been dolls in comparison).

Anyway, so this court-martialing business goes on and on with hearings getting postponed at every turn, but the Easy guys have had enough at this point. Guarnere, according to his own testimony to me, headed the whole thing up. (Doubtful, but I can’t prove it). There was this great, big campaign among them to resign their positions in an act of what can only be described as pure mutiny if Colonel Sink was gonna keep Sobel as the CO. In the end only three NCO’s (non-commissioned officers) from Easy stayed out of it.

Well, Colonel Sink had a fit, according to the guys who were there. One guy got busted down a rank, and the rest were told that they oughtta be shot for insubordination. Surprise, surprise, they all survived. After that, we were all just waiting to hear about Winters’s court-martial outcome, but I guess they dropped it. And that gave us hope.

Well, the news came in just this past week. Presto, Sobel’s OUT. He has been relocated from his command of Easy Company to a nearby flight school where he’ll torment a new group of paratrooping recruits. But the key thing is he is in no position to probably ever lead men into combat. Among those we are thanking are God, Colonel Sink, and your saintly mother.

On the subject of your mother, I hope she wasn’t too disappointed with the outcome of her dinner. It did feel strange for us to celebrate Franksgiving early but not nearly as strange as it felt to celebrate it so far from home. The turkey was alright, if a little sparse and dry. More than a couple of men expressed thanks that Sobel’s ugly mug was no longer around to look at, to which we all said cheers with a couple of cans of army-issued peaches. A couple of folks who shall remain unnamed started a fight with one of the Brits in town who, curious about the holiday, was told that the colonists had just been grateful to get the [REDACTED] heck out of this “miserable, wet, soul-sucking joint” (meaning England). Unrelated, Joe Liebgott and Harry Welsh are working the mess hall this week.

I’ll tell you what, kid. When life gets tough, the tough get tougher. Now that things are looking up, every letter from you could fuel me for a marathon even in the frostbite cold of Aldbourne. News of your saintly mother is also extremely welcome, and always a riot for myself and the boys. There is much hooping and hollering at every mention of her. If only I could share these bursts of energy with you, but the best I can do for you is give you letters of my own. Still, somehow, I can’t help but think we’re gonna pull through. Afterwards, you and I can go on a hunt for all the privacy and alone-ness in the world, never once having to be lonely if we don’t wanna be.

We stay warm these days after our scheduled activities by playing basketball until we’re sore. Our good friend John Hall is a star player of Lt. Winters’s team, and I am the star player overall. Don’t forget it.

Yours,

Bucky “Larry from the Three Stooges” Barnes

P.S. First Malarkey, now Babe. Unbelievable. Can’t a guy get a lady to himself?

-.-- -.

12 December 1943

Dear Bucky,

If you ever do see Sobel again, give him my hearty congratulations on his reassignment. I hope he felt my excitement wrap three times around the whole world to slap him right in the face like a particularly cold wind. You didn’t mention, but I assume that Winters has taken over command of Easy Company? If so, give him my congratulations on his promotion, too. In fact give the whole company my congratulations and many hugs and big, red lipstick kisses. What lovely news during such a lovely time of year. ‘Tis the season, indeed!

Now, this is silly, but my cousin wants to know if John Hall seems happy to hear from her. She’s let me read some of his letters which she thought were the sweetest things in the world, and now he’s all she wants to hear about. For my part, I thought they were alright. Not bad on the comedy level, but no Red or Jack by any stretch. I think you and I do a heck of a lot better on that front. I would call his letters short, but I’m not about to pot his kettle. But if she likes him, I can’t say much of anything except good for both him and her! I love her as dearly as a sister, but I can see John Hall becoming a subject I grow quickly tired of. Don’t read this part to John, he’s a swell guy and he won’t be able to keep from thinking I think otherwise if he hears about it.

In light of this promise we’ve made each other, I do have one hardship to get off my chest. You see, there’s this new Bing Crosby song that’s been playing on the radio every chance it gets, and it goes something like “I’ll be home for Christmas / You can plan on me / Please have snow and mistletoe / and presents on the tree. / Christmas Eve’ll find me / where the love light gleams. / I’ll be home for Christmas / if only in my dreams.” Simple, isn’t it? Even so, I find myself tearing up a little every time I hear it. There are so many empty homes this year, and how many soldiers would like nothing more than to return?

I don’t know what Christmas will be like this year, but the usual holiday feeling has already been thrown a little off-kilter with the absence of so many of our young men. The city certainly feels smaller if that were possible, and yet it does also help all of us to feel closer. I can’t brush shoulders with another lady without knowing she must have a brother or a husband or someone or significance to her overseas. And I know any other lady will know the same of me without ever exchanging words. We are all so anxious to hear from you and know that you will be okay by the end of the year. Then we can mark another one down and pray that there aren’t many to go before the Germans surrender. There. That's my complaint. Hopefully that's pretty mild as far as hardships go.

Please be so kind as to distribute the attached package of little Christmas cards to the men + Vera. I'm so happy to hear that you had a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, but now I feel I should do my part to give you a Merry Christmas. If these little notes are worth anything in energy, maybe it will be enough for you and Easy to storm Hitler's Eagle's Nest all by yourselves and end the war by the time 1944 rolls around.

I am happy to be,

Your Best Friend

P.S. Dedicate your next half-court shot to me and you can get a big, red lipstick kiss of your own.

-... -...

19 December 1943

Heya,

Thank God that I’ve still got one friend inclined to give me the time of day. Dum Dum has taken clean off for the past few weeks. You can catch him in the pubs of Aldbourne paying special attention to a girl with yellow hair, freckles on every inch of her face, and a mean right hook when bothered by overzealous G.I.’s. I told Dum Dum not to steal my methods of finding a girl to write to, but he insists it’s not the same since she hasn’t hit him. Well, I say, YET. As both you and I could tell him, it’s only a matter of time. He’s become as distant and mysterious as Ron Speirs. 

With him gone, I’m stuck talking to Harry Welsh before lights out. Don’t get me wrong, Harry’s a great guy (inclination to fight excepting), but all he talks about is missing his girlfriend Kitty. Kitty this, Kitty that. And as soon as he hears any name at all that’s close enough to Katherine, he gets all distant-eyed and moony. He told me his plan is to save the white silk of his parachute after the jump for her to make her wedding dress out of. Now, I don’t know much about girls and what they like from a wedding dress, but I DO know something about parachutes and the difficulty of hauling them around once they’ve been deployed. Still, Harry’s convinced he’ll be able to do it if it’s for her. I can’t understand being that blinded by love.

Even so, I suppose I can’t blame him for thinking about home all the time. I haven’t heard Bing Crosby’s song, but I have heard of it. From the rumors flying around base, the BBC has it banned for fear of it decreasing morale. Well, consider my morale decreased. I’ll feel better once I get off this island, get my hands on a Luger pistol, and mow down enough Nazis that they decide I’ve done enough and send me home. Sorry, for the morbid talk, I guess. I’ll mellow out once I get over my poor, runny nose and talk to someone who isn’t head over heels for some girl that no one but them has ever met. I don’t know how anyone stands that kind of person.

Ignore me, Moe. I’m just jealous, is all. Up to this point I have been VERY subtle about my tendency for jealousy, but you’ve finally caught me. I do see John Hall around, and he DOES mention your cousin very frequently. He hears my news of you with polite interest for his friend (not the confidential parts, don’t worry), but I can tell that his thoughts must drift to her as mine do to you when the roles are reversed. It’s easier to hear Eugene Roe talk about Vera. At least I know her. (She was thrilled to be included among the recipients of your pretty cards, by the way. I've given her your address, so expect some more English mail.)

By the end of the year, I’ll be A-Okay, no worries on that front. I’m only afraid that we’ll all be horribly stir-crazy. I think the boys and their English girlfriends (excluding Roe and Vera) are due for nasty breakups any day now. Like clockwork.

A Christmas at home sounds like it would be beautiful, but I'm afraid I couldn't secure a pass home. In fact, I don't know anybody who did. Not for lack of trying, either! Winters shared with us about his home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and his own parents and sister that he left there. I've never even been to Pennsylvania, and yet I found myself longing for it. How crazy is that?

Then I started to think, geez… What would it take you to meet me down in Pennsylvania? There's a lot of farmland there, Winters says. Maybe we could just visit Quaker land and see the funny way they live and see if it's more lonely or more alone-like. Heck, what am I saying? We'd freeze to death. It's like I forget that the States can get cold, too. In my defense, Aldbourne is colder, and it's colder when there’s no one warm nearby.

Sorry about the drag of a letter. The holiday spirit is coming to me a little harder this year. It's comforting to know that if anyone understands me, it's you. I remain,

Yours,

Bucky

P.S. I have made no less than five half-court shots since your last letter and dedicated all of them to the angel daughter of a saintly woman. Emphatically.

-... -...

25 December 1943

Heya,

I hope I’m not bothering you by doubling up on my usual letter-writing quota. It’s the very earliest hours of the morning now, and I wanted you to be the first person that I wished a Merry Christmas. Wasn’t lucky enough to secure a pass back home, so this will have to do.

My last letter was so pathetic, I hate to even think about it. Although, it is true that I start to ache when I think about those grand ol’ Christmases in New York and the warmth that somehow gets under your skin even in the coldest days of the year. All the same, I’m glad that today by some miracle I don’t have to say that I can’t feel that warmth from all the way across the Atlantic. I actually can, and it’s a very present feeling. The Brits are kind, the boys are family to me, and I have a stack of letters and some pictures from this wonderful girl back home that’s been kind enough to read and answer my own letters. That’s the best present a soldier could ask for: just knowing that there’s someone thinking of and missing him on the other side. Like my own Christmas angel.

Is it cruel to hope that you do really miss me and that it’s not just something you say because I’m a serviceman and it seems right? I know back home we were never close the way some friends are. I think of me and Steve and you and your cousin, just for two obvious examples. Still, I’d like to think that if this were any other Christmas and I came to your door needing a friend like you, you would make me feel welcome. For just Christmas night, I like to think you would make me a part of your home, and you’d make sure I didn’t feel so alone. In a lot of ways, you already do. 

So, I won’t mourn for a Christmas that I won’t get to spend with Steve and Rebecca. They’ll get their Christmas letters, too. Instead, I’ll sing carols with the men in the afternoon and trade stories with them about what it’s like back home. And I’ll think on this letter and how many times I’ve written back home, back home, back home. And this evening, I’ll know that there is a girl who looks pretty in red who is waking much later than me and who is about to have a very Merry Christmas who wishes me the very same. If you feel that your fire is extra warm today, that’s the feeling of my best wishes for you flying across the ocean just to land in your hearth.

It’s time I was asleep now, if Dum Dum’s snoring is any indication. The last I’ll say is that Bing Crosby really does know his stuff. I sure will be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

Love,

Bucky

I’m glad you’re interested in my crochet, but I’m afraid such projects don’t make interesting stories. No story of mine could be quite so glamorous as rough-housing with enlisted men over a picture of some girl you knew in high school, anyhow. (Thank Dum Dum very much for his vital information from the front. I salute him and wonder about you.) Rather than just tell you about the little baby blankets and wool socks I’ve been busy with, I’ve shipped over some green mittens for you to keep you warm as we approach the winter months. However frosty NYC gets, I know Aldbourne must be suffering worse. My poor little heart aches to think of you shivering in the cold, so do wear them for me as your activities permit?

Has the Sobel situation improved any? Or maybe it would’ve been better to keep him in a warm climate where he can thaw out. Let me know. Miss Helen’s little boy Hank Jones has started his senior year at West Point as of this past August and is going straight to the army once he graduates. He was so much more serious than you’d remember him being; it was hard to get him to laugh when he visited home this weekend. I wondered briefly if he’s become Sobel-esque and if that’s just what studying and practicing at war does to a person. That was, of course, before I did manage a chuckle out of him at last, courtesy of Benny and Skelton, both of whom I was able to see since I last wrote. Hail the conquering hero.

I can’t believe you missed your shot at Churchill. There goes my invitation to Buckingham Palace. I won't be too sad about it, though, since it seems all England is good for is fertile ground for heartbreak. When all the American gentlemen go and marry English girls, the US population will die out and the Brits will get it in their heads that they can reclaim the colonies. Since I cannot forbid you from taking up with a local girl, I only ask that you heed my warning in this regard. If there can be a second World War, a second Revolutionary War is every bit as likely.

To the credit of the Enemy (the English, this time, not the Germans), a sheep farm sounds lovely. Certainly, there must be worse places to be billeted, and your little roommates are sure to agree. With the mittens, I have sent a pack of Wrigley's gum to either use or dispense at your pleasure.

I am, as ever,

Your friend

P.S. Stop flirting with my mother, won’t you? Makes a girl feel left out.

-... -...

29 October 1943

Heya,

Well, now you’ve done it, missy. I hope you enjoy the wagon of tea bags that the guys have sent you because each one of them is so darn smug about it I can hardly stand it. Each one is labeled with the name of the guy that it once belonged to, but I allowed this so you would know which of these poor suckers couldn’t find a girl back home to write to if it meant saving their poor hides. I figure there’s gotta be a reason for that, and I encourage you to figure the same. Consider yourself warned!

In fact, the only single gentleman of Easy Company who wouldn’t give up his tea is their medic, Eugene Roe. I think there’s something wrong with him, too. After all, after seeing your picture and hearing your nice letters from time to time, who wouldn’t want you to have every nice thing in the world? 

Speaking of nice things, these mittens are just swell. Every pair my mother ever made me got scratchy after wearing them for longer than an hour, but these have stayed soft and warm all through the better parts of yesterday and today. Sorry to say there’s little occasion to wear them with all the activities they have for us (we still do arms drills regularly), but you can bet they'll be with me every chance they get. I'll tell you without lying that it's a very timely gift. Aldbourne is chillier than NYC gets by a mile. I think I complained about the cold in August? I was naive back then, and I shudder to think of how it gets in December. Hopefully, we’ll be [REDACTED] by then.

Sobel has not improved in the slightest, and now he’s showing just how much right he has to be as demanding as he is. Read: none at all. He’s about as incompetent as he is anal, and that’s saying something as you well know by my past letters. Heck, just the other day during a drill, half of Easy Company was perfectly positioned for an ambush on my attacking squad, and instead of staying put, Sobel ordered them to charge. Well, not only did my squad nab them in a second, but another squad that kept their ambush position got him, too. (Again, Lt. Winters proves what real competence looks like, partly credited to the strong contrast he’s provided with.)

I can’t imagine Hank Jones going serious on us. Poor kid with his wide eyes and dopey ears stuck in the mud pits of West Point. With Eisenhower and everything, doesn’t he figure we’ve had enough of West Point men? I think more often now of how old I am compared to the boys back home who are wading into war by the minute and second. I guess to a grandfather, I’m not so much older than eighteen, but I still feel the wide stretch of the almost-decade gap every time there’s some rookie mistake like a firearm pointed downrange. How many children do you think it will take before the old men are satisfied? Well, I’m sure you get the casualty reports from Italy and Japan, so I won’t rehash them.

Sorry about Churchill. I thought I’d at least be able to nab Eisenhower for you and get you an invitation to Capitol Hill. No such luck. Don’t worry about Revolutionary War 2, I’ll be in the Brooklyn trenches when the day comes and I’ll fight off every Brit with my bare hands if it comes to it. For now, the English are hospitable, and that’s all we can ask of them. The sheep farm really is lovely, honestly. It may be a funny way of viewing these big stinking creatures, but there is something satisfying about the work and something sweet about how stupid sheep are.

The London kids thank you very much for your gum, but I’m afraid they ran through it faster than they thought. Now, they’re bemoaning another year with no Halloween to speak of (or, at least, not one in the city), but I guess by the time that you get this, Halloween will be over and done with. Let me know how it is for you. This year, I’m going as an army man.

Yours,

Bucky

P.S. I’ll stop flirting with your mother when you stop flirting with Don Malarkey. Truce?

. .-.

29 October 1943

Dear Miss,

Pardon me for writing since we’ve never met, but I want to put to rest any slander that Buck might be spreading about me. You see, tea isn’t a thing that’s given out with the rations over here, but we get it in bucketfuls from the locals. I happen to get all of mine from a young lady by the name of Vera who has been more than kind and generous to me during my stay here. I hope you understand that I am keeping my tea not out of a lack of generosity but rather out of respect and affection for her.

I do enjoy hearing your letters on the rare occasion that Buck reads them to us, and you’re a fine looking lady if you don’t mind my saying so. I also hope you don’t mind me telling you that I am less inclined to flirt with strangers than Malarkey, Luz, Guarnere, and the rest are. Although, in their defense, the girls they get letters from are not half as fun as you seem to be. Cut them some slack for being pigs; they don’t know no better.

Sincerely,

Eugene Roe, Easy Company, 506th Airborne Division

P.S. Be careful with Heffron’s tea. If it tastes dirtier than tea should, SPIT IT OUT.

-.-- -.

4 November 1943

Dear Bucky,

You can imagine my surprise at the “wagon” of tea that arrived on my doorstep this morning. There was such a great variety of flavors and so many names that I could never keep track of them all. Give the boys my love for their generosity. I can only imagine how long I’ll spend drinking all of this. (I have Heffron brewing on my stovetop now with no small amounts of trepidation. Thank Eugene for his warning.)

Halloween was more or less uneventful for us here, too. With all the sugar rationing, I don’t think people like to go around passing out candy. All the same, I did dress up as Little Red Riding Hood and had a couple of close friends and my cousin over for a cake and some card games. Steve was there dressed as the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz which I got a good kick out of. My cousin asks you to say hello to John Hall for her, though I think they’ll start writing each other soon enough—there may not be any need! I’d ask you to say hello to Don Malarkey in particular for me, but… Well, truce, I guess.

Do you read all of my letters to the boys? Not that I’m upset if you do, but I can’t imagine that there’s anything in them worth hearing when most of them must have girls and/or families of their own to hear from. I don't take your concerns about these young men lightly. Goodness knows, I do see it every day in headlines, casualty lists, and the heavy hearts of the families dear to me. As an older brother to them, you should encourage them to write home whenever they can, especially in active combat zones. I know one too many mothers that would sell everything they have for just one letter from their baby sons who have been gone for far too long. In the same vein, I know one too many mothers who will never hear from those sons again.

What a happy letter, huh? I’m sorry that it hasn’t been the typical escape from the harsh realities of life as we know it that I try for. Oh, Heffron’s tea is bad, by the way. Very, very bad. What the heck did he do to it? I’ll take a clean replacement at his earliest convenience.

Sobel, as you wrote to ME once, is on my last nerve. I’ll write to Eisenhower this very week to have Lt. Winters installed as his replacement. Although, since I was not secured that invitation to DC, I wouldn’t hold out hopes that Ike pays it much mind. Maybe I could get Frank Sinatra to put in a word. Do you know, I’ve been listening to his program more frequently these past couple of weeks? His voice is nearly perfect. A girl could swoon if a girl was so inclined.

This letter might have to be shorter than I would like. I do have so much more to say, but I’m going to watch my boss’s new little girl Marjorie June this weekend, and I need to leave within the hour. I can’t believe that sweet baby is already a month old and growing like a weed. It makes me think of how old I am, too, and how life just keeps going and going. I pray for this baby that she will never remember what it was like to grow up during a war just the same as I pray for my best friend that he will come home safely and leave the worst of it behind.

Always and ever,

Your friend.

P.S. I heard after the war, the country’s going to need farmers by the hundreds. Something to think about?

-... -...

15 November 1943

Heya,

I guess it’s probably too much to ask if I was to request some pictures of Steve as the scarecrow? The thought makes me laugh, and I don’t have to ask Steve to know he would flatly refuse even if I begged. More pictures of your lovely self wouldn’t go amiss either. Bet you made the prettiest Red Riding Hood ever seen on the East Coast. Heck, I bet there wasn’t a prettier one in the whole country.

Forget about me. What do YOU think of farming? I’m sold on it, myself, but I’ll never admit to it if you say you’re not in favor. Why? Well, mind your own business, that’s why. I WILL say, if you grew your own sugarcane, you wouldn’t have to worry about rationing for your cakes and candies. Roe tells me that there’s plenty of sugar growing where he’s from in Louisiana.

Yes, I’ll have to admit that I have read your letters to the fellas on occasion. Cross my heart, it’s not all of them and never the whole thing. Call me sensitive, but I like to have some things that are just between you and me. You have to understand that it’s a tradition on mail drops to read out the most interesting parts of the news from back home. Heck, I probably know more about Guarnere’s brother Harry and his service over in Italy than I do about my own sister who I write to almost as frequently as I do you.

I guess I have Roe to thank for letting the cat out of the bag. For once, he’s done a miracle and been a worse tattletale than Webster and Dum Dum combined. Serves me right, I guess. Do you mind all that much? I hadn’t thought about it before you said so, but they do feel like little brothers to me and Dum Dum in a way. Sharing any and all news at home with them makes the winter feel less cold, and Sobel less overbearing. On that note, “Heffron” has asked you to call him “BABE.” This is not him being a flirt. We just all call him Babe, Roe excepting.

Going back to things that are just between you and me, would you make me a promise? A real one, and not some joke about who you can and can’t write to. Don’t try to cover up what it is that you really think and feel. I won’t lie and tell you that it’s easy over here, so there’s no need to do the same. I was never long in a version of NYC that was ravaged by war and rumors of war. That said, I can’t possibly know what you’re going through unless you tell me straight up, the same as you can’t know about me.

The whole thing gets exhausting and more than just physically. Here we are, holding our breaths, never knowing when the big jump is going to be and going crazy with the thought that it could be tomorrow or the day after. In that way, you and I are the same, except you have to sit and wait for news of it which would almost be worse. So, no, I don’t need a fairyland version of New York from you, it’s alright. You just go ahead and be as honest with me as you feel, and I’ll do the same. We’re countrymen and neighbors and friends besides. If we can’t shoulder these things together, then who can we turn to? You remain the first person I want to tell about these things, and I remain

Yours,

Bucky

P.S. Babe shipped you another bag of tea, but me and Roe don’t trust it any more than we did the first one. Just so you’re aware.

When the day comes for you to get your grade back, you can sort of see the red marker bleeding through the back of the page, and your stomach drops. Your frustration must be evident when you meet up with your group because James snatches your rubric out of your hand and reads it aloud to the whole class. “It’s a B plus,” he says. “It’s a good grade. Heck, I know it kicks my grade up, anyway. You ought to just calm down about it, sweetheart.”

You've never socked anyone across the jaw before, so there's no way you could've known how much it would ache in the bones of your hand. Oh, but it does ache when you do it, quick as a whip. Even you didn’t really see it coming. 

James sputters as he holds his jaw and looks down at you in shock. “Hey, what—?” he starts.

And as much as your hand hurts, you’re already raring to go for another one because he darn well deserves it. After the next one, he sees you gearing up for a third and dodges so violently that he falls over, and in a second you’re railing on him seeing only red.

The next thing you know, you’re seated in the principal’s office next to James Barnes, cradling your sore hand and wondering what your parents are gonna say.

James clears his throat and starts to speak because, apparently, you can’t catch a break. “Now that I’ve had time to think,” he says, “I’ve decided to admit that I’m wrong and you’re right. I’m sorry, and let’s be friends, okay?”

He extends his hand for you to shake, and you only stare at it. “You’re just saying that because I handed your rear end to you.”

“Only half right,” he corrects you. “I’m also thinking that if we can get together and let the bigwigs know that we’ve gotten over our grievances on our own, they’ll let us off with a light sentence.”

“Oh, so you don’t actually think you ought to be sorry at all,” you decide, turning away from him again.

“Well, I’m not gonna go around throwing punches about it,” James grumbles.

The door to the principal’s office slams shut and you hear him talking to the secretary, sending a spike of panic right through your middle. “Fine,” you sigh, having run out of options. “Let’s be friends, James.”

“Fantastic,” he says with a grin. “But you oughtta know that all my real friends call me Bucky, and we’re gonna be best friends.”

You nod. “Okay,” you say. “Bucky.”

“That’s the ticket,” he says. When he shakes your sore hand and you yelp, he winces and pats it all gentle-like.

In the office, he takes full credit for the incident in the hallway, admitting that he provoked you and emphasizing that you’ve worked out your differences. Something you heartily agree to. In the end, you get out with a weekend of detention each. You shudder to think of the consequences if you and Bucky hadn’t decided on being friends.

It isn’t until the new year begins that you figure out something about Bucky. Virtues of paying more attention now that he’s someone who’s supposed to be your friend. At lunchtime, he doesn’t buy lunch. Most kids don’t, of course. Just a sign of the times, but most kids bring something from home. You count the days he goes without. It’s every single one. He doesn’t eat a darn thing unless Steve Rogers makes him.

On the subject of Steve Rogers, they’re thick as thieves, him and Bucky. Everyone knows they’re friends, but you had no idea how ready and willing Bucky is to go to bat for him. All the fights he gets in make sense, suddenly. He’s in the dead middle of the food chain, punching up when the bigger guy punches further down than he has any right to. According to the grapevine, shortly after your fight with Bucky, he took a real beating for Steve that put him out of commission from his job for two weeks.

You hadn’t known he was working a job, either. The only thing that makes that feeling worse is when you learn that it’s more than one. If that doesn’t make up for a lack of contribution to silly school projects, you don’t know what does. There’s no getting around the guilt of everything you assumed, but you never work up the nerve to apologize to him.

In many ways, you grow up together. Although, it may be more accurate to say that you grow up adjacent to each other. Your friend groups are a perfectly symmetrical Venn diagram, so it makes sense to cross a little bit into each other’s circle.

At school, you overhear him now and then when folks ask him who you are and he responds, “Oh, that’s my best friend,” like it’s his favorite joke. Even Steve seems in on it, shooting him conspiratorial looks when he says so. It doesn’t bother you as much as it might. He’s friendly to you in the hallways and smiles at you across rooms. He’s a sturdy, almost comforting presence all the way up to graduation.

The next few years give you the space you need to calm down about a lot of things. Mostly, it’s just a matter of growing up. The war certainly puts things of actual importance into perspective. Silver stars go up in windows. Half of the stars on your street alone turn gold after a while.

Your work keeps you busy and distracted from thinking about those poor boys that ship out to training camps all over the states and then to England by the hundreds every week. There’s some fulfillment in secretarial work, especially at a rubber manufacturer where good work is a matter of life or death overseas. Even so, it doesn’t keep you distracted from the old busybodies in your neighborhood.

“A nice girl like you ought to be married at your age,” they tell you. “Ain’t there anybody willing to take you?” You don’t tell them that plenty have tried, and you’ve been disinterested in all of them. No, things are much better for you the way that they are for the time being. Besides, there is a war on. There will be better times for that kind of thing later on, when it’s all over. If it will ever be over.

Especially on a day like today, you’re praying for a swift end to the war. Every higher-up at the factory acts like they’re the busiest they’ve ever been and all the minutia is getting passed off to you. The thing about minutia, of course, being that it builds up like nobody’s business. The fact that you’re able to slip away for even a fifteen-minute coffee break is a blessing. Cream and sugar is like manna. You close your eyes on the first sip and don’t open them again until you hear unfamiliar footsteps coming down the hallway.

It’s Bucky—you can see him through the break room windows. He’s dressed up in uniform which should probably surprise you more than it does, but it seems like every boy you ever knew growing up (except good ol’ Steve Rogers) is in the service these days. It’s honestly just his general presence that nearly stuns you silent. What the heck could he be doing here of all places?

When he finally sees you, he grins wide and steps into the room. “Well, well, well,” he says. “If it isn’t my best friend. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Bucky Barnes,” you return. “I guess they’ll let just anybody in here these days.”

He shakes his head. “Not really, but I can be pretty convincing.”

You set your mug down on the table next to you and fold your arms over your chest. “I see Eisenhower got you too.”

“Yeah, well…” he says, looking down at his uniform. “I figured this getup don’t make me look half-bad. What could it really hurt?”

You don’t bring up the gold stars. Better not to sour the mood. “It’s been over a year since I last saw you, hasn’t it?” you ask him. “Not since Steve’s birthday party, right?”

“Must’ve been,” he says. “Something about the fourth of July just breeds enlisted men. I’ve been down at a bootcamp in Georgia. Camp Toccoa, maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Oh, sure,” you say. “So, what brings you in?”

Bucky nearly freezes, it seems like. He glances down at the mug on the table and shifts his weight. “Does the coffee here taste like rubber?” he asks you, keeping his tone light and nonchalant. “If not, I could use a cup if you’re willing to share.” 

You shake your head. “I’ve only got a fifteen-minute break here, and I’m down to five. You gonna answer my question or not?” you ask him, picking up your mug again and smiling into it as you take a sip.

For a long moment, he only considers you, eyes searching. Then he sighs. “Uh, I guess… Look,” he says. “I ship out here in the next couple of weeks, and the thing is I don’t got a girl to write to unless you count my baby sister. Which I don’t.”

“I thought you were going out with a girl,” you remind him, furrowing your brows. “What was her name? Florence? Dolores?” As if you don’t remember exactly who it is.

“Dolores? You mean Dot?” he laughs. “We stopped going steady forever ago. Haven’t seen each other since we were kids.”

“If you’ll remember,” you say, “you and I haven’t really seen each other since we were kids, either.”

He draws his lower lip behind his teeth and nods. “That’s a fair point,” he says.

“Did you run out of girls to ask or something?” you tease, voice flat and brows raised.

“You wound me,” he says, laying his hand over his heart. Then, he leans in conspiratorially. “What’s the big deal? Do you still live with your folks?”

Unbelievable. With a defeated sigh and a half-smile you snatch up the notepad from the table and scribble your apartment’s address. “There. My address,” you tell him, tearing off the sheet of paper. “Don’t overuse it.”

Bucky looks the paper over once before gingerly folding it and putting it in his breast pocket. “Don’t think that’s a promise I can make,” he admits.

After only a couple of minutes and your polite farewells and wishes of good luck, he’s gone, and you’re back to where you started: in a break room with a cup of coffee, dreading the minute you’ve got to get back to work.

The next weeks are the same as ever they are, grating for their sameness. It’s complete drudgery to the point that your mind blanks out, and you almost forget what you agreed to until his first letter comes seemingly out of the blue. It comes to you on a Saturday when you have nothing better to do than sit down on your sofa and listen to the Count Basie Orchestra on the radio while you read all the news from overseas.

He writes: 

21 August 1943

Heya Best Friend,

I’m writing from the training camp in jolly ol’ Aldbourne, England. I would say it’s a welcome change from Toccoa, except it turns out that jolly ol’ England ain’t all the jolly since it must be thirty degrees below freezing at all times. Turns out this is baseline when you get up this far in the Northern Hemisphere, even in the middle of August. Would’ve loved that interesting little tidbit before deploy, but, heck, they probably told me when I wasn’t paying attention.

They gave us a grand old welcome when we got here. Guess the idea is that the Americans are here to give the old Fuhrer his due. Not that we’ll be seeing European soil for a while yet. Still, these people have been pretty roughed up by the Krauts even all the way up here. Not Blitz-level, but the effects ripple. I guess they’re just happy to get a little bit of help. I don’t blame them a bit.

I hope we’re worth the effort they seem to think we are. We get up each morning at the crack of dawn to run six miles uphill and then load and unload our weapons about a thousand times (more like twenty, but still). It’s repetitive and monotonous as anything, but some of these guys ain’t half bad. They at least found out the best places to spend our free time—English pubs are every bit as fun as they say they are. With you being a lady and everything, I don’t think I probably ought to tell you everything that goes on.

If there was a more interesting coffee scene, maybe I could tell you about that, instead. Trouble is that Brits don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee, but they tell me that I don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. Even swap, so they say. Although, tea shops don’t have near the same atmosphere. All stuffy with pictures of the king everywhere. Have you ever seen a picture of His Royal Highness? He looks like he’s got a rubber face that melted all around the mouth. I’m telling you this because we’ve been warned against criticizing royalty in front of the locals, and I’ve got to get it off my chest somehow.

Well, I hope you’re doing well back home. Keep me updated on the goings on, and I’ll do the same. This first letter should give you a basic idea of what life is like over here. Apologies about it being so short, but this one is only the first of many. Scout’s honor.

Your friend,

James Bucky Barnes

P.S. If you see Steve around, tell him I said hello from me to you to him.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t find it kinda charming in the way that only Bucky Barnes has always managed to be. Somehow, you can see a little bit of his expressions in what he writes, the way he raises his brows just so when he’s about to laugh or how he leans in like he’s telling a secret. You read it over a couple times just to latch onto the talking points and immediately head to your writing desk to start composing your response.

30 August 1943

Dear Bucky,

Thanks for your note. Glad to hear you made it that far up in the Northern Hemisphere safely. Sorry to hear it’s awfully cold and not all that jolly.

Well, what the heck are you supposed to say after that? It takes you a solid five minutes before you glance at the coffee forming a ring on your desk and smile. That’s the ticket.

I’m having a good, American cup of coffee right now. Just for you. If you can pick up any good tea-making tricks, bring them home for me, will you? I bet I could make as good a tea as any Brit, and I can do it without a rubber face hanging over me. (No disrespect to His Royal Highness.)

I wouldn’t go getting nostalgic for New York any time soon. It’s monotonous, too, don’t forget. Although, I guess it might be a little less strenuous. Six miles uphill? I’ll take my office chair any day, thanks. I even get to listen to Jack Benny replays when the work gets slow. (If it ever gets slow). Just now, I’ve got Count Basie on the radio. Does England have a taste for the finer things of life like comedy shows?

Nevermind about a short letter. I trust you’ll let me know all about the guys you meet and who you like and who gets on your nerves. I expect some truly fantastic characters to come out of your stories. Who knows? Maybe you’ll make friends of Winston Churchill, and then you’ll have to put up with the king’s face in more than just the tea shops. I’ve always wanted to travel to England, and I’m afraid your bleak picture painting hasn’t done anything to deter me. So when you do make friends of dear Winnie, be sure he extends me an invitation.

As for the goings on, there aren’t many (monotonous, tiresome New York for you). My mother and I are busy selling war bonds when we’re not working which is mostly just rallies,  street corners, and church. In fact, our church asked mother to sing a little song to “get morale up.” I don’t think she realized that they were asking for something more along the lines of the Battle Hymn of the Republic rather than the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B which she sang on a Sunday morning with great enthusiasm and to the horror of the deacons. To this day (some weeks later) she is mortified, indignant, and insisting that the music director should’ve been more specific with his request.

We are all hurting for the boys overseas, wishing them each a swift and safe return. I will pray for you every evening until your next letter which I’m anticipating will give me much more information as to what I should pray for specifically. 

You see? I can write short letters, too. Tell me stories and plenty of them! 

Yours truly,

You sign your name with a flourish and read it over once before putting pen back to paper.

P.S. I haven’t seen Steve lately, but I’m sure he says hi right back. We miss you over here.

Your letter finished, you walk it down to the post office, send it off, and mostly forget about it. Yet, in the days following, you get a keener eye for things worth writing down. The humdrum of the rubber office and New York as a whole gets a little sharper in your eyes and in your mind as you consider how you might describe it to someone who won’t be able to see it again for many years yet. Additionally, you keep your ears open for any hint on how to get a hold of Steve Rogers. After all, if an enlisted man gives you a task to do, you’re going to do it, for Pete’s sake.

As of the moment, you haven’t told a soul about your little arrangement with Bucky, the better to shut out those voices that would tell you to get your old maid hooks into him and not let go. (Old maid, you have to laugh. An old maid because you weren’t married the moment you turned twenty. If that’s what they want to think.) Besides, as letters go, they’re a slow-moving thing. You’re well into September by the time you get Bucky’s next, reading:

9 September 1943

Heya,

What’s the big idea, getting me all jealous over a cup of coffee? Why, if you were a fella, I’d tell you right where you can stick that cup of coffee. Oh well. I guess if only one of us can enjoy Yankee pleasures, it might as well be you. It gives me little joy to congratulate you on your little Maxwell House cup, but I do so nonetheless.

The guys here in the 107th are just swell, but I think all of us are feeling the loss of the 506th who are still back in Toccoa training to jump out of planes. What can be done? We’re not paratroopers because we’re not crazy or even half as brave. I’ll tell you sometime about those guys, but now I’ve got to put up with Tim “Dum Dum” Dugan. Dum Dum is my bunkmate and he doesn’t snore so much as whistle in his sleep. I’m writing this now at midnight under the covers with a lamplight because I couldn’t catch a wink under these conditions.

Even so, the station here is a heck of a lot better than what we put up with at Toccoa. (God bless Guarnere and Liebgott who are still stuck back there. Paratroopers. Crazy.) I think back to those days and could almost laugh if Captain Sobel hadn’t been on everyone’s last nerve by the time I got the heck out of there. More than once, he revoked all of his company’s weekend passes because too many of them weren’t up to his exacting standards. Easy Company got fed a big spaghetti dinner before having to run a twelve-mile. Most miserable saps I ever saw in my life. I say if we’re gonna go fight tyrants in Germany, let’s take care of the ones on our side first. If it weren’t for Second Lt. Winters being such a decent guy, I would’ve popped him and taken the court-martialing with a smile. He’s not even my CO!

Well, enough about me. Hope you and yours are well. Thanks for that story about your mother! You got a decent chuckle out of me to the point where Dum Dum caught notice and had me read it to the division. Hope you don’t mind if we make her our patron saint. Somehow, it was like he heard the sweet, sweet song of our American angel all the way overseas. We’ll paint her name on the side of every vessel the army’s got if you’ll let us.

I can’t help it: I’m starving for news about New York. Heck, I’ll take a word about Connecticut or Oklahoma or Nebraska if you’ve got it. Still, I’d like to hear about you most of all. I can picture it better that way, I think. And speaking of pictures, would you mind sending me one of you? Guys here don’t believe you’ve got a girl to write to if you don’t have a picture of her, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to brag on you a bit. Besides, it would be nice to have something easier on the eyes to look at than Dum Dum’s ugly mug.

I’m afraid as far as comedy programs go, we don’t get Jack Benny over here. No ma’am, only Bob Hope is good enough for the AFRS. (That’s Armed Forces Radio Service, in case you didn’t know). I don’t know about England, but I’m a pretty big fan of Jack Benny myself. Don’t forget: Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.

Yours truly,

Bucky Barnes

I don’t think I ever apologized for that, by the way. Now’s as good a time as any since I don’t know when I’ll see you in person next. I wish I’d known how difficult that year was for you. I wish a lot of things had been different, actually. It wasn’t fair to you that you had to work so hard and go without, and meanwhile I was oblivious to all of that and just made things even harder than they had to be. Now, there’s this war on that sort of makes all those wishes for different circumstances seem small and unimportant. I still look at them from time to time though sort of through the looking glass, and I imagine a world where there isn’t a war at all and things have been dandy between us our whole lives. That way I can better enjoy it when you call me your best friend even if it’s only a running gag. 

And, on that note, what’s a picture between friends? I hope the one I’ve enclosed is sufficient for bragging rights. That one was taken by John Hall. Do you remember him? He’s a few years younger than us, and I think he knows Steve better. Anyway, he’s getting ready to ship out with the rest of you… I think he’s trying to become the next Eisenhower. I hope by the time the punk reaches that level of seniority, the war is long over. If you see him sometime, say hi for me. I did manage to get a hold of Steve, and he laughed at you making me “Buck’s messenger girl.” He told me to tell you that he gets your letters and he knows you’re getting his, so stop bothering me. (Don’t quit bothering me, I’ll never forgive you.)

I truly don’t know how my mother would feel about being your division’s patron saint, but it sure gets a laugh out of me. I say go for it, but don’t tell her I said so and don’t let anyone make a pin-up of her. I mean it! I’ll know if you do.

She doesn’t know yet that I’m writing to you. I think, honestly, I just want to see first if we keep it up. I’m sure you’ll get so busy after a while that it will be hard to think of writing letters, and I want you to know that I won’t be angry if they start to peter out. Until then, I’m happy to give you any news of New York that you would like, short of sending you the Times. Just be a dear and let me know what about me you’d most like to hear about.

For the time being, I’ll let you know that the rubber business is booming and keeps a poor old maid secretary like myself from finding a good husband. This breaking headline I’ve heard from the women at church. I credit it more to a love of being mostly ALONE. I’d have to really love somebody to want their presence all the time.

I remain affectionately, 

Your Friend and maybe even your best one.

P.S. Sorry to hear you don’t get Jack Benny! But in that case, I hope you don’t mind if I repurpose some of his gags. I’ll be your one-woman USO show.

-... -...

27 September 1943

Best Friend (the absolute truth, not a gag),

Well, well, well, I was minding my business a couple of mornings ago as I was working the mess (nevermind why), and who should show up for their chow but the entirety of the 506th? Guarnere was the first to pay me the time of day, and I guess it’s because he’s a rough character who really has it out for me. Not that I don’t get it. I might have accidentally remarked to one of the guys that his name sounds awful close to “gonorrhea” and they sort of took that and ran with it. All the same, I was genuinely happy to see him, and he didn’t seem as brash as he usually is. 

Then, knowing he was around, I was able to track down Joe Liebgott, Babe Heffron, and Don Malarkey. So, here they are! Paratroopers by the dozens. With them here, I’m guessing that it will only be [REDACTED] before we ship out to the mainland of Europe, now. [REDACTED]. [REDACTED]. From what I understand at the moment, we’re not headfirst into combat, but it’s not far off. Can’t tell you where we’re going exactly—loose lips sink ships and all. Besides, I hardly know, myself. They don’t tell me much, but needless to say, it’s gonna be a rough one. (Hello to the Second Lieutenant reading this letter to censor all of the information he considers sensitive. Why don’t you just trust that I don’t know anything worth telling and stop being such a creep? Haven’t you got your own girl to write to?)

That in mind, don’t you dare get all sappy on me about what all happened a decade ago. I didn’t want folks to know, so I didn’t tell them. No matter what I was going through, it didn’t give me an excuse to be a jerk. I don’t think I ever apologized to you for that, either. So there. We’re even. Besides, it’s like you said: happy memories in the end. What a swell friend you’ve been to me thus far, and lucky me if we keep it up.

Don’t go writing to John Hall, now, either. I do remember him plenty and I’m sure there were girls aplenty clamoring to write to him. As for me, I’ve only got the one. (Poor me! Take pity, Second Lieutenant.) To discourage you from running off with handsome Mr. Hall, I’ve sent you a picture of myself to remind you how very handsome I also am.

No pin-ups of your saintly mother! Yes, ma’am! I hope she approves of me enough to not be bothered if/when you decide to let her know that we’re writing. I, personally, don’t see myself giving up writing to you, but that promise of no-anger goes in both directions. You girls back home have got to stay busy and keep morale up over there. Though, I can confess to selfishly enjoying my one-woman USO show.

Old maid? You’re how old? Twenty-four/five? I guess that makes me an old confirmed bachelor at twenty-six. I joke, but some of the guys here are so young it darn well feels like it. When we win this thing, it’s gonna be from the efforts of teenagers and twenty-somethings. At this rate, they’re gonna have to start letting eighteen-year-olds vote in elections.

That’s all from me for the time being, though I figure with the 506th in town, things will start to get interesting. Who is Captain Sobel? Well, he’s the guy who just showed up to make my life a living [REDACTED] heck.

Your faithful friend,

Bucky Barnes

P.S. I understand wanting to be alone. If there’s one thing this town is missing, it’s PRIVACY.

-.-- -.

4 October 1943

Dear Bucky,

Thank you for your picture. My mother found a frame for it so I could put it on my desk and try to remember that I am writing to Bucky Barnes and NOT John Hall. It’s so hard to keep track, sometimes. Although I might have to start writing to him if you insist on being so secretive. What do you mean nevermind about you working the mess? Is there something about mess work that I don’t know?

Mother was glad to hear that we’ve been writing and even happier when she saw your picture come through. Not to inflate your ego, but handsome was just one of the words she used to describe you. She couldn’t stop saying how grown-up you look from the last time she saw you. I think the Class A’s help: they do shine you up some, soldier! (You’re in need of some polish, too. Poor Mr. Guarnere.)

Well, tell all the boys I say hello. I feel like I know them already. Would you believe I was thrilled to hear that the 506th had made it to you safely? Well, I was. Although, maybe it’s just the patriotism that the war has instilled in me over the past couple of years. Hoo-rah for our boys coming to the rescue of those poor Brits. Even if one of our heroes is really named Malarkey. Is that a fact or a nickname?

Speaking of those poor Brits, I haven’t forgotten about the cup of tea you owe me or my chat with Winston Churchill. Do you think you’ll get a pass to come home for Christmas? I know that’s some time out, but I can’t help but wonder. If it really is nice to be missed, you must be living the nicest of anybody. Me and Steve go to the movies on Saturdays to see the newsreels (haven’t yet caught a glimpse of you) and wonder about what you’re doing at that very instant.

Oh, swell, my mother’s just come for a visit and is asking about you. I’ll have to pick this up later.

Much later! We ended up taking the car to go to a bond rally in Manhattan and take a casserole to a family in her neighborhood who just put up a gold star. I’m starting to hate the look of those things. 

Well, I have no desire to sour the tone. My boss is giving me Friday off this week for no other reason than to be nice. His wife had her baby this weekend, and he was in a happy mood/intends to take a long weekend himself. I think I’ll call up my girlfriends and see if we can’t see the Jack Benny show taped live. If not, then we’ll see that new Red Skelton picture. Geez, I can’t imagine only getting Bob Hope! I hope the English comedians are funny enough to make you snort, at least. 

Sorry for another short letter! Running around like a chicken with my head cut off until Friday. I’ll try for a longer one next time. Maybe when I’ve got a little more time to write, I can bore you to death with my crochet projects. Or maybe I’ll become a WAVE so at least my boring stories will have a little more action. Whatever I do in the next couple of weeks, I will remain,

Your BEST friend.

P.S. My mother wanted me to tell you that you look just like John Wayne. I do not see it.

-... -...

9 October 1943

Heya,

I thought I said don’t worry about my working the mess. Well, I meant it, and you’d better get used to taking me seriously, missy. You are now writing to a gentleman who has crawled his way out of said mess hall, and is well on his way to being promoted to a Lieutenant any day now. How do I know this? Well, easy. I’ve got the blessing of your saintly mother. It’s enough to lift any man’s spirits and make him feel loaded down with good luck charms. (Although, I’ll admit, your pretty picture is still my favorite).

What am I doing on a Saturday? After duties, probably lounging around with whatever guys from the 506th that can get out from under Sobel’s thumb. They’re all swell guys, don’t get me wrong. All the same, the idea of going to the movies with you and Steve makes me homesick in a way I’ve never known. (I just remembered the time difference between you and me. When you go to the movies, I’m probably washing up for bed.)

There now, remember what I said about home morale? You’re doing your part, kid. Just don’t become a WAVE if you can help it. It’s enough to keep selling bonds. Who will crochet for us if not you? Tell me all about your projects, if you like, and I’ll be an avid listener. It’s a better hobby than what the guys get up to which is mostly just getting drunk and smashing up whatever glass they can find. (I once again thank Lt. Winters for staying sober as a judge and keeping some semblance of peace). Who are you that can make even the rough corners of NYC seem like a gentle place to land?

Yes, Don Malarkey’s name is really Malarkey. You’ll love this, too. Winston Churchill did, in fact, come to inspect our troops with Gen. Eisenhower. Malarkey himself had a decently long conversation with the Prime Minister and now won’t shut up about it. He told me to give you this bag of tea (enclosed) since he can’t stand the stuff and he’s reached the height of the English experience anyway.

All of us are getting a little antsy here, I think. Some more than others. There have been plenty of guys who have run around and snatched up all the pretty local girls. Then, when I think all of them must be taken, they all break up with each other and go rounds. Sounds awful tiresome to me. I keep myself busy after duties by writing to you and Rebecca then helping out on the sheep farm I’m billeted at. These folks have a couple of little refugee kids here from London that crack me up the way they stare at me all wide-eyed when I’m in uniform. When I’m out in the roads, though, they’ll chase me on their bikes and ask, “Got any gum, yank?” I like to surprise them with it, if I can.

I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything about Christmas. I did have a home pass last year, so I wouldn’t count on it twice. If it works out, though, your door will be the first I knock on when I go caroling. Give your mother my love and kisses.

Your favorite Englishman,

Bucky “John Wayne” Barnes

P.S. I won’t tell all the boys you said hello. They’re a bunch of opportunistic scumbags, and they don’t deserve it from you. Dum Dum says hello back.

-.. -..

From the esteemed desk of Timothy Dugan

9 October 1943

Dear Madam,

I am writing regarding information that you requested approximately a week ago regarding the work of one Mr. James Buchanan Barnes in the fine Mess Hall of our base here in sunny Aldbourne, England. I regret to inform you, ma’am, that the mess hall is where a soldier of Mr. Barnes’s rank is sent after engaging in what a lady like yourself might call a “rear-end” kicking with his fellow enlisted men. What drove our Mr. Barnes to such drastic and violent action, you may ask? Well, madam, it is a joy to relate it to you!

I remember it well: a simple game of football on a misty day like you must be accustomed to in New York. Mr. Barnes, having been goaded into playing by myself and several compatriots and having also finished a letter to his sister Rebecca, put down his writing equipment and joined us in a riotous good time. When he returned to his property, you can imagine his shock at finding it pinched by a couple of enlisted men who had seen your picture and wanted it for a pin-up. I don’t mean to shock you, madam, but these are the facts of the case.

Dear sweet mother, but I have never seen Bucky Barnes so darn riled up before. Those enlisted men quickly found out how funny their little joke was. He socked both of them across the jaw before either of them knew what was happening. It was a blow that, from what I understand of how you befriended our Mr. Barnes, would’ve made you proud.

Sincerely,

Tim “Dum Dum” Dugan

P.S. I’ve since been privileged enough to see the picture that sent Mr. Barnes to the mess hall. I’d say it’s worth fighting over. You look like—if you’ll excuse me—a real peach. Bucky’s a lucky fella.

.--- ….

9 October 1943

Hello to you from Aldbourne!

I realize it may be strange to hear from me so all of a sudden, but I’ve run into Bucky Barnes and he’s having a real cow over a letter that I guess Dum Dum means to send to you. All the same, they’ve reminded me that I saw the picture that Bucky got pinned for fighting over. That’s the one that I took, isn’t it? Boy, that was a swell day.

Speaking of that day, I think I also gave you some pictures that I took of your cousin who was with us, if you’ll remember. If you gave her those pictures, do you know if she would mind sending me one along with her address? I’d really owe you one if you’d ask for me.

I’ll let Bucky handle all of the riveting descriptions of life in England, but I hope you and yours are getting along. Write to me if you ever get a mind to! You and Steve both.

Your friend in Able Company,

John Hall post