"Dear Soldier"
Rated: M – for violence, language, mature/adult situations (though the first and last will probably occur first in later chapters)
Summery: When young photographer Judy accepts an job offer as a civilian war photographer with the Signal Corps and is assigned to the same unit her new and mysterious pen pal serves with, she doesn't know that the experience of war won't be the only thing that changes her life forever.
(Also: Any historical mistakes I make, I apologize for. I've done as much research as I could. I'm considering this a kind of historical-fiction so any interruption of factual events should be overlooked. And seeing as this is a Speirs/OC story – Speirs, in THIS world, is a single man.)
Note: I was inspired to this work by the story 'Written In Ink' of Nevermore_red on AO3. To get into the flow of writing I borrowed sentences and passages of her story, sometimes using them word for word and other times changing a few things or adding something to make it fit my plot and where I want my story to go. As my story progresses, starting in the early chapters, I used less and less of Nevermore_red's 'Written In Ink', as you will notice should you check out her amazing story on AO3. However, before publishing my story, I asked Nevermore_red for her permission to use the parts I borrowed from her story and she graciously granted me this permission. At this point I want to thank her profusely for permitting me to publish my story even with the parts I used of her enjoyable piece of work and I also would like to recommend you to check her story out. It is a really enjoyable story and Nevermore_red is a great and skilled writer who managed to capture the emotions of her story perfectly in and painted a beautiful picture of an unlikely pair finding love through letter exchange with words.
You find her story 'Written In Ink' under her name Nevermore_red on AO3 in the fandom of Game of Thrones
DISCLAIMER: I do not own 'Band of Brothers' – mini-series or the book, nor do I mean ANY disrespect to the men of Easy Co. All that is mine are the OCs and a deep, profound respect for the real heroes.
April 4th 1944
Dear Soldier,
It feels a little odd to write someone I don't even know. I don't know your name or circumstances so it's difficult to know what to say.
I guess it would be a good start with explaining how it comes that I write you. My little sister's school has this project going where every student shall write a letter to a soldier as kind of a moral boost from home ... you know, to let you know that we support and appreciate what you are doing to keep us and our country safe and that you and your fellow soldiers are in our thoughts and prayers. Part of that project is that every student has to encourage at least one person outside of the school to also write a letter to a soldier and well ... my little sister persuaded me to take part in the project. Okay, maybe she didn't really need to persuade me that hard, all it took her was simply to ask and give me one look of her adoring poppy-dog eyes. Trust me, if you knew that look, you couldn't deny her anything either. Anyway, the school then gathered all the letters and somehow organized them to be send to a random soldier of our Army.
So, that's the reason why you now hold this letter from a complete stranger in your hands.
Well, I guess this should be the point where I start writing how grateful I am for the sacrifice you bring in being over there and fighting for the defence of our country and how much I appreciate your willingness to put your life on the line for those who have to stay home and can't defend themselves and so on. I can't shake the feeling that this isn't what you, or any other soldier, want to hear though and while it is all true, I would totally understand if by now you have tossed the letter out, which is at any point in time your right. Don't worry, I would totally understand and won't be upset.
If you are still reading then perhaps it helps to know that I do know some of the hardships of war. Not first hand, of course. While I admire what you do, what all soldiers do, I certainly wasn't made for battle. My father is retired Army and I have an older brother and a very dear cousin that are over seas now. My younger brother, he just turned eighteen a few months ago, is away at basic training and will soon join them.
I never was much interested in stories of war, but when almost three years back the news came that we would join the war in Europe and the Pacific, I asked my father what war is like. He never really talked about his experience so I didn't expect him to give me an answer, but he did. He said war is hell and that he only survived his first battle and every one that followed because he took the words his then commanding Officer said to him to heart. Those words were 'Aim with the hand. Shoot with the mind. And kill with a heart like arctic ice.'
I won't pretend to be able to really comprehend those words, probably never will, but I think I understand the gist of it. And maybe, for what is to come, they might be something you can recall into your mind should you ever struggle with what you have to do.
Anyway, his words that war is hell I can somewhat relate to. They are true and not just for the soldier.
But this is all stuff you likely don't want to hear either. So I'll be more upbeat, shall I?
Upbeat. Right. Not knowing anything about you or your sense of humour, I'll just tell you a bit about my day. Boring, right? Well, remember you have still every right to just toss the letter out.
I work freelance as a photographer and am also an artist, or an aspiring artist I suppose. Some of my paintings are being displayed in a gallery. Anyway, I was walking around on opening day and saw a husband and wife talking over one of my paintings and one hanging near it that wasn't mine, trying to decide which one to purchase. I hung back and listened, silently hoping beyond hope that they would pick mine, when the wife nodded her head and pointed at mine, saying 'this one, for sure'. Unable to help myself, I went over and introduced myself as the artist and asked if they were more realistic fans than abstract, as the other painting they were considering was abstract. The husband laughed and said 'No. This one is longer. It'll cover the three holes our five year old put in the wall'.
Uh, ouch! Can you imagine? Well, maybe not, but it was embarrassing. I guess I sold a painting so I can't be too picky.
Anyway, I hope that my funny little tale helped brighten your day, if only for a tiny bit. They say in the news that the invasion is starting soon, though that is what is said for the past few months already, so I suppose I'll let you get back to more important duties.
Stay safe. Stay strong. And thank you for all that you do.
J.H.
PS, this is totally up to you, but if you ever need anyone to talk to, feel free to write me at any time, about anything you'd like. I'm a good listener! I'll attach my PO Box to the end of this letter.
Ron sat at a table outside the barracks of his Company, methodically cleaning his side arm as he listened to the soldiers talking around him. No one spoke directly to him and most never did, unless it was needed. It wasn't that he was an unsocial person, he could be social if he wanted, but mostly with other Officers and even then he tended to be more a listener and only partook actively in a conversation that interested him. As for the Company he was the CO of, he preferred to keep a professional distance between him and the men and they respected that. Ron knew that this partly had to do with the reputation that preceded him, but that was okay with him and thus he didn't put any effort into diffusing them. But he also liked to be near the men, often like now, being amongst them without really being with them. It allowed them to realize that, no matter his reputation, as their leader, he would always be with them and it also gave Ron insight to the type of men he was commanding.
He was just starting to put his weapon back together when a young soldier, Private Vest if he remembered correctly, came around with his arms full of letters. He shuffled through them, calling out names of the soldiers as he handed them their correspondence. Ron ignored him for the most part. There weren't many people who wrote him, only his parents and siblings, and he had just responded last week to a letter from them so he didn't anticipated to already have a reply.
"Lieutenant Speirs.", the boy called his name and Ron glanced up from his reassembly to look at the soldier, who looked like he wanted to run the other way instead of holding out a single envelope towards him.
"A letter for you, sir.", he needlessly pointed out and the table of soldiers drew silent as they waited for his reaction.
For a moment Ron was looking expressionless into the slightly frightened eyes of the young soldier and then he arched an eyebrow and lowered his gaze to the envelope in his hand, noting that it was shaking just a tiny bit.
Slowly reaching for the envelope Ron took it from him and glanced at the front of the envelope, "Thank you, private.", he said and from the corner of his eye he could see the boy quickly turning around and walking away, no doubt glad to be away from him.
Ron wondered from whom the letter was. His name and rank were stamped on it so it wasn't from his family. There also wasn't a return address so that left out it being an official letter as well. Curious, but unwilling to open it at the moment he shoved the letter inside the breast pocket of his ODs and went back to his weapon. The other men, seeing that there wouldn't be anything exciting, went back to their conversations.
He didn't have time the rest of the day to read the letter. Morning PT, an intelligence meeting, weapons training, meals and evening PT took up any time he had. He'd actually forgotten about the letter all together until he got back to the quaint little house of an old British couple he was billeted in to catch a shower and then after maybe go to the pub in town.
It was when he emptied all the pockets of his OD jacket, so he could bring them on his way to the pub to the nice woman in town who offered laundry service for the soldiers stationed here, that the envelope fell to the floor as he pulled his pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket. Bending down Ron retrieved the letter from the floor and sat down on the edge of his bed. He opened the letter and unfolded it. The script was elegant and small, clearly that of a woman. Before he started reading, he glanced at the bottom to see who it was from, but only the initials JH were written. He frowned, wondering what this was about and started reading.
As he read he couldn't agree more with the unknown woman. While a nice thought and gesture, he and probably his fellow soldiers who received a similar letter, do not really want to read this words. Though no doubt genuinely meant, in the end it were just words that meant little to nothing to them and they had more important matters to concentrate on.
He thought about doing what the woman had offered and toss the letter out before he even finished it. He wasn't quite certain what stopped him from just doing it, but he found himself devouring the letter.
Maybe it was because the woman had stated her honest opinion about how he didn't really want to hear those kind of words or the fact that she, despite that, had taken her time to take pen and paper in hand to write a letter. He felt the least he could do was to read the letter to the end and see what she had written.
She seemed to understand the strains of war, and considering it seemed that she came from a family whose male members were all in the service, he believed her and, oddly enough, felt a shimmer of sympathy for a complete stranger. He could imagine how hard it was for her, with her brothers and cousin all about to fight in this war and with her father probably having been often away while still in the Army, just as he knew how hard it was for his parents and siblings to know he was about to go into battle.
He found similarities to his own way of thinking on how to act and behave when going to war as he read the words said to her by her father and felt kind of relieved, maybe, that he wasn't the only one following this kind of mind-set.
He'd even felt a bubble of mirth he hadn't felt since they were shipped to England to prepare for the invasion at her little tale of embarrassment.
Folding the letter back up, he put it back in its envelope, intent on tossing it in the rubbish bin on the way out his door. He paused with it hovering over the bin. It felt wrong, made him feel guilty somehow, to throw it away. This woman, whoever she is, had taken time to write him. He shouldn't just toss it out like garbage.
He moved to the small desk in the corner of his room and opened the metal tin he kept his pens and pencils in and placed the letter inside.
He had no idea at the moment how much this simple letter will come to mean to him over the coming time. Or just how important the unnamed woman would end up being to him.