Gale knows it's wretched to think so, but he wishes it was his leg, not dough boy's that got blown off.
Truthfully, in the end, it doesn't even matter that Mellark gets shipped home before him- he had already won Katniss's heart if her lengthy letters to baker boy and two-liners to him were any indications.
Still, he sulks, lazing in his cot as his battalion waits for the orders that'll ship them from the French countryside and into some action where he'll be able to shoot some fascists again.
"You still dilly-dallying?" Thom, his best mate asks, lifting up the tent flap and coming in. He's holding a stack of envelopes in his hand. Gale had forgotten today was mail day, especially since Katniss had stopped writing. He'll just pick up his mail later.
"Shut up," is all Gale says as he closes his eyes again. He isn't in the mood for Thom's tomfoolery.
"Aww, c'mon Gailey," Thom pesters, using that fucking annoying nickname again. "You don't even wanna read this letter a broad wrote for you?"
Gale's eyes fly open. Katniss had written?!
"Gimme that," Gale growls, reaching over to snatch the letters from Thom.
"Hey!" Thom exclaims. "Some of those are mine, give 'em back!"
After finally getting the letters sorted, Gale flips through his envelopes. One from Ma, as expected. He knew from past letters that his little sister Posy will have included a picture in the letter since she couldn't write yet. He kept all her pictures in his uniform pocket, right above his heart.
Then there was one from Vick and Rory. The punks liked to write by alternating lines, so it was as if he was reading a conversation transcript of the two. He'd never admitted it, but it was damn entertaining and made him miss his fool brothers fiercely.
The third letter, however, was addressed to him from an address all the way out in Philadelphia ?
"Zoooo wee!" Thom whistles, reading over his shoulder. "How come you never told me you got a broad in Philly? Heard the girls up there love sharin' the crop, if you know what I mean."
"One day, you'll mouth off to General Abernathy, and I'll be part of the firing squad when you're court martialed," Gale snaps, shoving Thom away as he tries to lunge for the letter to pry it from Gale.
"Stick in the mud," Thom mutters, going back to his letters. Gale scoffs when Thom immediately brightens as he pulls out a picture his girlfriend Delly had sent him. He isn't sure he's ever met a man more doll dizzy than Thom.
Thoroughly curious, Gale quickly opens the envelope and pulls out pages of a letter, which are littered with censor holes.
Quickly unfolding the shrunk down v-mail, Gale's imagination runs wildly as he wonders who wrote what to him. None of his letters have been censored before.
Dear Mr. Hawthorne,
I hope this letter reaches you in good health and high spirits. My university started an outreach program called the Compassion Project, which matches you to soldiers abroad so that you can send them letters to, hopefully, make fighting a war, if just slightly, more bearable.
If you're still reading, that must mean you aren't totally turned away from the idea of establishing a correspondence with a stranger, so I suppose I'll talk a little about myself.
My name is Margaret Undersee, but everyone calls me Madge. In fact, I'm pretty sure apart from my Daddy, everyone thinks Madge is my name. I was studying Musical Arts at the University of Pennsylvania, but found myself growing more and more dissatisfied with the course my life was going on. Could I truly be at peace with myself, frivolously playing the piano while brave young men laid down their lives elsewhere? So I went and enlisted in the Army Nurse Corps, and will hopefully be sent over soon. Who knows, maybe we could even meet?
What else... I've already told you I play the piano. It's something I hope to continue to do once the War is over. Maybe teach young children how to play. I haven't any siblings, though I wish I did. At the very least, an older brother. Let's see...my Mother died when I was very young, so I haven't much to share about her other than I still miss her very much so. My Daddy owns a factory that now only produces Airplane Propellers, instead of its original Auto Body parts.
Gale has to stop reading for a moment to let the information sink in. Back home, before he had enlisted, he had worked as a mechanic. And now here was, reading a letter written to him by the daughter of a factory owner. He wants to crumple up the paper and be indignant that he's wasted his time reading something by a spoiled rich girl, but her first paragraph has already proven to him she isn't some airheaded priss, not if she actually means to come out here and risk her life to nurse soldiers back to health.
I realize now that it may seem like I'm boasting Daddy's wealth, but I urge you not to think that way. In fact, since the war has begun, I see now that-
The rest of her next paragraph is completely censored by a flurry of angry clippings, silencing her observations. Gale is desperately curious to know what she had written. It obviously had quite some merit to it, for it to be completely censored. Unable to look away, he continues to read.
But in the end, it doesn't matter, does it? You're there now, and the Axis powers must be stopped, regardless of why we joined in the first place. Global fascism, anti-semitism, and imperialism have no place in this world, not anymore.
Oh dear, this was supposed to be a light-hearted letter! Here's something for you to chew on: What's lighter than a feather, but the strongest man in the world cannot hold it for longer than a minute?
If riddles bore you, feel free to ignore what I just wrote.
We were instructed to write about day-to-day drama and politics to help you feel more connected to home, but I wasn't told where you're from, so I'm not sure how much the street shenanigans of Philadelphia will entertain you. In regards to politics, things are...in a flurry. We've always been a city renowned for its industries, but the war has expanded our industries tenfold, which has gratefully brought back many jobs to the previously greatly suffering working class. As I watch the city hustle in great fervor to meet quotas and makes sure our men out fighting are properly supplied, it fills me with relief to see the number of street urchins and despondent elderly have greatly reduced. As the popular saying goes, even if you're not abroad, there's still a war to be fought.
Suffering working class. He had been a part of that, hadn't he? Maybe he was still a part of it. He pushes down his anger at her pity, it's not like she knows he's dirt poor. Yet.
Well, this went on much longer than I thought it would. I do hope you write back, Mr. Hawthorne, though I'll understand if you choose not to. I wish you all the best, and hope you return to your loved ones with a healthy body and content spirit.
Cordially,
Madge Undersee
P.S
Scalp some Nazis!
Gale laughs out loud as he reads the last line of her letter, he can't help it. He's already formed the image of a docile, dressed up girl with soft hands that play piano in his mind, and the mental image of her urging him to scalp Nazis is beyond hilarious.
"Who's it frooom," Thom whines from his cot, kicking his legs up in the air like a toddler.
"It's some compassion project," Gale tells him. "I was matched with a stranger to be pen pals or something."
"Wow," Thom remarks. "To think, everyone knows how big of a loser you are, they had to set you up with some rando so you could feel like you have friends."
"Keep it up and I won't need a court martial order to shoot you," Gale says, as he gets off his desk to the small desk in the corner, pulling out some loose leaf and a pen that's running low on ink. He considers what he knows: she's a university going student that's young enough to still enlist as a nurse. She didn't mention a husband or kids, but there might be a sweetheart. Actually, of course there has to be a sweetheart, every rich young dame has one. Still, he writes Miss confidently.
Miss. Undersee,
Thanks for writing. I have friends and family that write, but it's always interesting to hear about things from other people
This is a lie. He really only has two friends, and one of them is behind him, looking at a dirty magazine, and the other is probably getting married to a baker, and has completely forgotten about him. But she doesn't need to know that.
So you want to be a nurse? The nurses here are ok, but are really stingy. You seemed nice enough from your letter- try to keep up that attitude when you're tending to wounded soldiers, it really does help.
Is your sweetheart here in Europe? I imagine he'd be very happy to see you again. Or not. I wouldn't want my girl out here where you can die at any moment. It's awfully brave of you to throw away your easy life to go halfway across the globe to an inescapable warzone. Maybe we will meet, though I hope we don't, since I want to go home ASAP.
He tries to imagine a spoiled little girl in the trenches beside him. It's so laughable, he can't.
I'm from a town in West Virginia so small it doesn't even show up on the map, but it's interesting to hear about Philly's politics. Every since my Pa died down in the mines, I've wanted nothing more to get out of that Godforsaken place. My dream is to go home to my Ma and three younger siblings and whisk them off to somewhere like Philly with the money I've made from the army.
Would you recommend Philly as a good place to raise a family? I want my sibling's plenty of space to run and grow, but I'm not sure if a city is the best place for that.
I have to say, Miss. Undersee, I haven't scalped any Nazis. Yet. I've shot plenty, though, if that's any consolation. But the satisfaction of killing those bastards wanes after a while, war just has that effect on a man. There's only so much death and gore you can see before it's too much. And I've seen plenty.
He has to close his eyes for a moment to fight off the onslaught of loud memories of his fellow soldiers dying violently beside him. He shakes his head. This is a war. This is a war.
I have to say, an entire paragraph of your letter was blotted out. I won't say which, but I'm sure you know which one I'm referring to. For your own safety, you should consider your words more carefully, even though I'm awfully curious to know what you were talking about.
Gale re-reads what he's written, and hopes she gets his message: continue writing what she wrote, but be more covert about it.
If your Daddy decides to let you write back to a lowly mechanic, I'd be mighty interested in more of the politics of what's going on back home. Ma doesn't pay any attention to all that, and the kids are too young.
The line is bitter, but he can't help it. He can't just push aside the fact that he's out here fighting for his life so he can go back and give his family a better chance at life, while she was born with a golden spoon in her mouth.
-Gale Hawthorne
P.S
Is it a breath?
He puts his letter aside to open his Ma's. He'll mail it out, but he's almost certain he won't hear a response from Miss. Madge Undersee.
A/N:
Being brought over from the archive since I finally retrieved my login. Bi-weekly update until everything is brought over, since this story is done.