August 1943, somewhere in South Italy
Dear Lucia,
I hope this letter finds you well. It is only hours since I have left Sicily but I already miss you more than I ever thought possible. These past four weeks have been the most wonderful weeks of my life, despite the war raging on around us. I have never before been to a foreign country, I have never before fallen in love so very much. And I have never before had a good bye as sweet as ours last night.
I do not know how long this war will drag on. All I know is that every day that it is keeping me from you is one day too much. As promised, I will come to fetch you as soon as possible, as soon as this war is over at the latest, and then we are going to spend the rest of our lives together.
I can't write more than those few lines today, duty calls. But be assured that I am thinking of you every second and you will always have a special place in my heart.
Yours
Patrick Turner
November 1945, Liverpool
Dear Lucia,
The war is over. It has devastated Europe, left so many dead and injured and scarred for life. But we made it. We survived, albeit with scars of our own.
I survived the battle of Monte Cassino. I survived because I had you to hope for, to look forward to. I survived because I knew I had to go back and fetch you.
And I have come back for you. Later, much later than I promised, but I was there. Ten days ago, I was in Messina. I walked the way up from the harbour past the church, past the little almond garden towards your house. More than anything I wanted to see you, to show you that I have kept my promise and came back.
I stood under the pine tree opposite the gate when you stepped out your front door, followed by a child, perhaps one year old. You were wearing a ring on your left hand.
Lucia, I understand that you were no longer able to wait for me. You must have thought that I would not keep my promise as so many of my comrades haven't. Or you may have thought I lost my life in Monte Cassino. I did, in a way. I am sorry that at some point I was no longer able to write to you. I lost all words, all feelings I thought I had. And with that, it seems, I lost you.
I promised I would come as soon as the war was over. There was not a day I did not think of you. But I was ill. I spent the final weeks of the war in hospital, unable to feel the joy of being able to return to you.
But now I am healed and as soon as the doctors declared me healthy I bought a boat ticket for Messina. But I arrived too late.
The minute I saw you and your daughter, I turned around and left, I even boarded that same boat I arrived with, for all I wanted was to leave Sicily, and you, and a dream not come true behind.
Once more, I wish to apologize for having broken my promise. I wish you all the best and hope you have found love and peace.
Sincerely,
Patrick Turner