Jem and I were each three months into our respective twelfth and ninth grade years of high school when he came home late from football practice one night and offhandedly remarked that he and Dill were going to join up. Aunt Alexandra had (thankfully) gone back to Finch's Landing several weeks back or there might've been fuss enough to fry the tablecloth. As it was, Cal froze mid-step. I watched with interest; Jem had already told me about his plans to join the military. Her lips pressed together, waiting, as a bowl of butterbeans hovered over its customary spot on the table. One of her especially pointed glances thrust through the air at Atticus.
He absorbed it calmly and sat back from the table, taking what seemed unnecessary pains with his napkin. The butterbeans plunked down on the table with an overly cheery firmness. Cal disappeared into the kitchen.
Jem hrm'ed a bit and fidgeted nervously, belying his earlier offhandedness. "It's somethin' I want to do, sir. It's the law—"
"I know, son." Something more than a moment of eye contact passed between the two of them and supper commenced as usual.
Three days later, Atticus and Cal and I waved Jem away by train to a training camp in Texas.
Six weeks later, the U.S. Army lent us our boy for 24 hours before shipping him off to some vague location in France. I'd thought France was a beautiful place—a fairy tail, almost. It seemed funny to fight a war in a place with the Eiffel tower and fine wine and pretty people. But, Jem's first letter to me thoroughly shattered my former suppositions.
Jan. 8, 1942
Scout,
What they tell you about France—all that doozy about the country of love and romance—don't believe it. I's only been here a week and I already know what they don't tell you back home. Scout, we live in holes in the ground. Long, muddy holes in the ground. They call 'em trenches and try to make 'em sound humane, but this whole dad-blasted war ain't human. We sit down here and get overrun by rats and varmints straight from the scum pits of Creation. We gotta keep our heads down because these holes are too shallow. Forgettin' simple things like that means dyin'. I seen so many pointless deaths, Scout. There's all these kids out here, boys just barely 18 who don't know what they're doin', and because they don't know, they die. Just like that. Even on the enemy lines, on the other side. They're just kids like us.
The worst is that I can't do anythin'. You know—I told you—they's made me a medic because of my arm. Said I couldn't handle the government's old fowling pieces or whatnot. But even bein' medic's not enough. I can't do much more than a single, solitary thing to stop these kids from leavin' this world unnecessarily. I seen—what I seen ain't fit to be writ about. I swear, Scout, I seen hell and hell oughtta stay where it's supposed to be. That ain't on earth, far as I ever knowed.
I'm alright, though. If I don't think too hard, and just follow orders like they tell us to, it ain't too bad. 'Specially since my job be to fix em' up an' not killin'. If I had to—well, I better not. See how things is better for not thinkin' here? Thank heaven I only got a year plus half—some boys signed for 2 and 4 year tours o' duty. Guess they didn't know it'd be like this.
Oh, and I sent Atticus and Cal they own letters, so you don't need to share. Thought it'd be best thataways. Somehow, it helps to tell stuff to yawl back home, even if it don't directly effect the fightin' over here.
Write back soon, I guess. Gets awful tense over here between spats.
Your Brother,
Jem Finch
I wrote him back as soon as I'd ripped through the envelope and devoured the letter. I reckoned two weeks was pretty good for government mail, at least according to Atticus it was.
January 19, 1942
Jem,
I guess I knowed it'd be awful. Atticus says war is never pretty, or even helpful, really. Just so's you know, Cal's whole church is prayin' for yawl over there. You 'specially, guess 'cause they know you. Prob'ly don't seem like it do much good over there, but what else can we do? I pray with 'em, and so does Cal. She might not look it, but she was awful cut up about your leavin'. We all was.
Anyhow, I ]got a job at the state munitions plant up north a-piece. It pays 40 cents to the hour, which figures up to 10 dollars weekly. That's if I work the full 25 hours they'll let me. I've sent that, too. Atticus said we didn't need it at home, so I guessed I'd better send it someplace useful. If you didn't get the whole 10, I'll give the mailman a choice word or three for you.
Other than that, I ain't got much to write about. Maycomb voted to change its name to Childersburg. The Judge gave this long-winded sermon—dunno why he didn't just let one a the preachers do it—about "our boys in the line of duty" and how children are "taking on the weight of the world in this new generation." Atticus said he just took the longest way to say that Maycomb should honor all you boys over there by changing its name.
But that's all the interesting stuff we had so far. Anything I missed, Atticus oughtta remember, so between the two of us and Cal you'll get everything. You write soon, too.
Love,
Scout
No more letters came for weeks. Too many weeks, the kind that stretched into months. I knew. So did Atticus and Cal. But we never got that dreaded telegram, so I guess we held onto some kind of old, tired-out hope. It was still a shock when Dill showed up on our doorstep in September, empty right uniform sleeve pinned at his shoulder. His eyes had lost their mischievous glint. "I'm sorry, Jeanie." His voice negated any need for a telegram. "Showin' up like this an' all. Jem…Jem's…" his voice cracked and he handed me Jem's identification tags.
FINCH, JEREMY | MED
TYPE A | C-441455
The world had killed another mockingbird.
A/N: Hiiii everyone, ZukiShi here. Thanks for reading this far - this is my first fan fiction so I'd like to think it's a bit special. ^^ In any case, please review (hopefully you've read the whole thing if you're this far down...*sweatdrop*). Constructive criticism welcome all the time and any time.
Disclaimer: Don't own TKaM or anything like it. Also Childersburg is a real place that kind of makes sense for the location of Maycomb, given the context of the story (and there is a munitions factory north of it. Yay google maps!). Don't own that, either. The government does, or somebody affiliated therewith.