Prologue

"Here they are!" Shouted Edward, "Two hunderd more, the way we all like!" He then proceeded to put down the box of letters.

I limped forward, holding my weight on my cane while I grabbed the first letter. It read Dearest Natasha. They loaded us in the trains last night… 'Natasha?' I thought to myself. "Hey Ed." I called him. "So we're receiving communist love letters now?"

"Yeah, Sarge, get used to it. The Lieutenant sent a bunch of letters from all over the place. You'll find letters from the Polish there if you search enough. We'll have a lot of work this next few days." I hated when Edward called me Sarge. He was one as well.

"War is almost over in the pacific, and the communists won over in Berlin. Why is this letter from two years ago? Natasha will be worried." Said I, with half a smile.

"Well she can kiss my ass. These letters were intercepted by the italians, our Lieutenant got them back yesterday before the fascist burned them." Ed seemed annoyed with the amount of letters.

I limped back to the table and sitted on the chair. The one-eyed Private Jamie helped Ed carry the box to our table, and we started to share the letters. We were all broken men, defeated by the wars we fought. I lost my right leg back in 1918, during a battle in Africa. I was a Corporal back then, and was only 20 years old. 27 years later and I can still feel my ghostly leg itch.

"Hey, Sergeant Turner." Said Cpl. Jamie, interrupting my nostalgic thoughts.

"You call me Robert. Here we don't need ranks." We really didn't. "What is it?"

"I got about 40 letters for each, do you want all from the same people?"

"Yes, thank you." They gave the lamest job for the lamest people.

Jamie lost an eye in the battle of Normandy, and I said he got lucky. He was transferred to our "squadron" of old smelly dudes reading letters. We had to read carefully and check if there wasn't any secret messages or if the letters weren't from the enemies. Pathetic job. Edward was there only because of bad behavior. He punched a commander during a suicidal mission here in Italy. He got diminished to letter-reader. Jamie just joined yesterday, but Ed and I have been working for the past three years on this shit job. And I enjoy it. Numerous times I was asked if I wanted to return to my home in Maine, but I refused. Despite criticizing this job, I actually enjoy a lot reading unknown letters. It makes me feel alive again. And it's better than the 20 years I spent on my home being served by hearthless bitches while my ghost leg itched.

"Good night to you, I'll be in my cabin." Ed said grumpy.

"Good dreams, princess." I told him, and Jamie laughed. Ed just closed the door and probably started his work.

"You got the job right?" I asked Jamie. We explained to him yesterday, he was a smart kid. He could have a regular life if it wasn't for this damned war.

I, then, lit a cigarrete and started with the earliest letter I could find.

An entry on Private Martin's diary.

August 9, 1942.
Camp Toccoa, Georgia.

More long marches tomorrow. Then obstacles with Foley and weapon training with Moody. Everyone is dead tired. Another guy got RTU yesterday. He begged the Sgt. to let him stay.

My unit, the 506th paratrooper regiment is an all volunteer unit, I'm lucky to serve with these guys. There's no one I'd rather have watching my back.

Our officers drill us continuosly. I've trained for months and I haven't even jumped out of an airplane yet. The army has never had an airborned unit before, and that makes the brass nervous, and what makes the brass nervous makes us drill harder. Our obstacle course began with Cpt. Foley…

I stopped. 'This is from 42? I could have sworn I have seen an earlier letter.' I skimmed the rest of the letter to find just a boring training routine, and rearranged the other ones to get the right order. I didn't want to read anything out of order, silly me. The earliest one was from a British guy:

A piece of paper with SergeantJames Doyle's writing.

September 2, 1941

Our target for today is an industrial complex inland from Rotterdam. We're holed up again in this damn yank rattletrap the RAF likes to call Fortress I. Give me the good old Lancaster any day. Although, I must say, these B-17's can take a hell of a beating and are armed with enough .50 caliber machine guns to repel the entire Luftwaffe. I just hope we never have to put that to the test. I still don't see the wisdom in it. Flying so high that we can barely see our targets (much so that we miss half the time) through enemy territory... IN broad daylight! Sheer folly I say. Even the fighters want to escort us much farther than Dover. Jerry always has lots of ME-109s ready to greet us. I am still amazed that after 22 missions, I am still in one piece. A good bit of luck I say, I hope it lasts…

Sgt. Doyle, huh? This seems interesting. He's a bit too British for my taste. The next entry is also from him, and apparently it was from the same day.

September 2, 1941

I think we hit the target. Unfortunately we couldn't hold the plane together long enough to confirm. I wonder if any of the others survived. A bloody waste.
Apparently I am still alive. Luckily this was the one time I decided to wear my parachute. It's dark now and I am not sure where I have landed... somewhere in Holland. I will most likely be captured before morning.

For me, as they say, the war is over...

'Apparently it wasn't.' I said as I grabbed the next letter, realizing it was from the same guy.

September 2, 1941.
Somewhere in Holland.
Around 2200 hours.
Sgt. James Doyle.

I said I was lucky, but now I'm not sure. Maj. Ingram from SAS (Special Air Services) and his squad of the Dutch Resistance found me stuck in a tree. They rescued me and I grabbed the weapons from german soldiers so I could help them. They were on a mission to blow a Train Bridge, and I would do anything to help. Having served for a couple of years before becoming a bomber, I had some experience with ground combat, which helped me a lot. We managed to take control of a farmhouse near the bridge and stealthly get close to it. Unfortunately a soldier I had known only as Van Dyke died, and he was carrying the explosives we would plant in the bridge. Bloody Karma. I had to do that myself, couldn't just neglect an order from the Major. Fortunately everything occurred as planned, and just as the train was passing through, we blew that damned bridge. After some more fighting, we finally got away from the location, and Maj. Ingram liked my skills and asked if I wanted to join SAS later… I can't tell if I'm really lucky or really unlucky.

"Hahaha!" I laughed as I read the last line. "Good work, Sgt. Doyle. You've kept me entertained. Let's see what else we have in here." Said I, putting away my cigarette and grabbing the next letter.