A/N: Here I am again - with yet another story. I know, I know, I still have two other stories to finish, and I will finish them eventually, but this one just came to me one day and I love exploring different alternative universes with Rick & Michonne. I've been working on this fic for a pretty long time now and adding onto it whenever I had time and felt like it, so most chapters are already finished. There's only about 5 chapters planned, and depending on how many people are interested I'll try my best at updating as quickly as I can.
Now, about this new story - in case it isn't obvious: this is a WWII AU. I decided to tell the story by only providing letters in this first chapter, but that will change in the next ones to come. I've tried to get as many of the details right as I can, but please excuse any mistakes - it is meant to be a story about two people finding themselves in a dangerous time rather than about the war itself. I've also decided to ignore some aspects of the time period for the story's sake, so please read with an open mind.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy & please let me know what you think! x
Chapter 1 - Correspondence
From the office of Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Brigman, S.A.C., U.S.A.A.F.
On behalf of Group Captain J.P. McCarthy, R.A.F.
February 4, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
It is with regret that I inform you of the death of your brother, Captain Anthony Michael Hawthorne, on January 31st, 1942. He died while on a mission in Northern France, and due to the sensitive nature of the assignment, I am unable to provide you with further details at this time. Though his death has been confirmed, the U.S. Army Air Forces do not have access to his remains, as he was in the service of the Royal Air Force at the time of his death. I have attached contact information with this letter for R.A.F. Air Marshal Wicken's office, with whom you may correspond to discuss repatriation.
My condolences to you and your family in this time of great loss.
Deepest sympathies,
Lt.-Colonel A. Brigman
February 10, 1942
Dear Air Marshal Wicken,
My name is Michonne Hawthorne and I am inquiring about the remains of my brother, Captain Anthony Michael Hawthorne of the U.S. Army Air Forces, service number O2 354 688. I have been directed to your office because Anthony was under the command of the R.A.F. during his service overseas, and as such, I was told you are privy to the details of his death. The U.S. Army could give us no information other than a vague location of his body. As you may imagine, my family are anxious to receive Anthony's remains so that we may give him a proper burial in our family plot stateside. Any information you could provide in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Regards,
Michonne E. Hawthorne
February 28, 1942
Office of Air Marshal Wicken
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
Apologies for the delay in replying to your correspondence about your brother, Captain Hawthorne.
Someone from his direct command will be contacting you shortly with details of repatriation.
Our condolences for your loss,
Corporal D. Ingram, R.A.F.
March 18, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
Your inquiry was brought to my attention only this week and I apologise for the tardiness of my response as well as the frustrating lack of information during such an emotional time for you and your family. As Wing Commander, Captain Hawthorne was under my direct command for his missions, but the people who knew him best were the intelligence unit he ran into and out of occupied France for the past year. I reached out to Group Captain McCarthy from our Canadian intelligence training service where Captain Hawthorne was stationed when not on a mission. While he could not reveal the exact details of his final mission, G.C. McCarthy did tell me that Captain Hawthorne died while drawing fire away from an intelligence unit he was scheduled to pick up and return to London. All four members of that unit survived and were safely retrieved a few days later, ensuring that their vital intelligence was received. In short, Anthony died a hero, protecting those he fought beside. I hope that will bring you a modicum of comfort.
I have also learned that Captain Hawthorne's body was recovered and buried by locals. His resting place is marked, and in consecrated ground. Unfortunately, because he was shot down behind enemy lines, we cannot repatriate his body at this time. If and when it becomes safe to do so, we will ensure that his remains are reclaimed and brought home to your family. An officer from Captain Hawthorne's intelligence unit has seen his grave and made sure that it can be easily identified when the time comes.
On a personal note, Miss Hawthorne, your brother was a smart, brave, amiable man with excellent flight instincts and a calmness under fire that was envied by many. I know that he volunteered for service, before America joined the cause, and he struck me as a principled individual of the highest caliber. Even after everything he saw, his intentions never wavered. I wish we had more men like him in this fight. The members of his specific intelligence unit are upset by his loss – they were all quite close. He will be missed.
I understand that this isn't the information you wished to receive, but I hope it will carry you and your loved ones over until we can reach another conclusion.
With deepest regret,
Wing Commander Ian G. Murray, R.A.F.
London
April 21, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
It has taken me far too long to write this letter. The problem has been that I do not know how to find the words to express how I feel in a meaningful way for you – a stranger – to whom this information will be unsettling. However, I have come to the conclusion that there is no easy way to do this, so I will just try my best. Anthony always said that's all anyone had any right to expect from another person anyway.
My name is Rick Grimes and I am a lieutenant in the SIS (which we aren't supposed to tell people but, ironically, I'm not great at keeping secrets). I am the leader of an intelligence unit that Anthony flew in and out of France on a regular basis. He was coming to retrieve us the night he was shot down. He did it on my orders – I was assured that patrols would be elsewhere that evening and that the sky would be clear, albeit dark because of the new moon. We had done this a dozen times before. We were in an open field as your brother descended, and we were set upon by a small but well-armed German patrol unit. Anthony could have pulled up. He could have left us to our fate – it was obvious that someone in the resistance network betrayed us – but he could have lived to fight another day.
He strafed the field, taking out some of them. It gave us some precious moments to find cover. He gained altitude after his run, and I thought he'd turn for home, doing what he could to help us but realizing the only sound plan was to retreat. There was no way to communicate with him – to tell him we'd find a place to hold up and for him to return to HQ. But, I guess, that wasn't Anthony's way. He turned to make another run along the field, but the Krauts were prepared this time, and Anthony was a big target. Even with a blown engine, he might have still been able to put the plane down somewhere safely. I'd seen him do more with much less in the past. But the field was surrounded by a dense forest – there was nowhere to go. When he hit the treeline, I knew he was gone. The explosion was immense – he still had enough fuel for a return run, you see.
What I'm trying to say is he didn't need to die. The strafing run had been enough to save us. And it's my fault he's gone because, as we later discovered, it was my contact who told the Nazis about our rendezvous. An individual I cultivated and trained. Anthony told me that my persistent belief in people would get me killed one day. He was half right.
No words will make any of this right. No apology will be deep enough, no reckoning severe enough to even the scales. Anthony's loss eats away at me – he was my friend. And to know I killed my friend,
He spoke of you so often, Miss Hawthorne, I feel I know you. But, of course, I do not. And there is no way we can ever know one another now he's gone. The only thing I can give you is the truth about how he died. The R.A.F. will never tell you – they can't. Official Secrets Act. I could go to prison for writing this down. If Anthony's stories of you were accurate, I know you'll never be satisfied by a half-truth. So, here it is in all of its ignominy.
Anthony was a good man. Funny, smart, capable, daring, personable.
He was everything I wished I could be. He should still be here, and I wish for that too.
Yours, with respect,
Lt. Rick Grimes
London
May 21, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Lt. Grimes,
I suppose I ought to thank you for your letter, but that's a tall order considering its contents. I'll thank you for your honesty, at least. I was beginning to wonder if anyone involved in this damned war could talk straight anymore. All I wanted was something I could tell our mother about Anthony, and you provided that, so… thank you.
As for the rest, how dare you? To hint at your guilt and yet never once apologize. To destroy the (admittedly false) story of my brother's heroic death, and replace it with something so… utterly pointless. Did you really believe that would help? Were you honestly attempting to comfort me? Or was it to ease YOUR conscience? You're right: you don't know me. Because if you did, you would have known better than to try this.
I have no idea what sort of a man you are, but given that your poor judgment endangered lives, and that you seem incapable of upholding the fundamental tenets of your job, I do not understand what Anthony saw in you that encouraged friendship. I will not report the fact that you broke your oath to tell me classified information, but I strongly suggest that you request a new assignment. This war is too important to be left to such bumbling, untrustworthy hands. If you are a moral person, don't let other sisters get telegrams about their dead brothers because of your mistakes. Step aside and let better men fight this war.
My little brother is gone. That's a hole that can never be filled again. I will not forgive that.
Michonne E. Hawthorne
June 11, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
You are absolutely right. Your letter is a searing indictment of my failings – I cannot refute any of it. I am a bumbler, and wholly unsuited to the position in which I find myself. And, for what it's worth now, I am deeply, unreservedly sorry for Anthony's death. It is unforgivable that I did not say so in my original letter. I shall not waste your time by attempting to express my shame and remorse once again.
What I will say is that, from your letter, you are every bit your brother's sister. Though it is a miniscule sample size to draw conclusions from, you appear to be everything Anthony ever told us you were. He was proud of his big sister. He wanted to live up to your example of gutsiness, and what he called 'zero bullshit-tolerance' (please excuse my language). The lines you wrote remind me of him. His opinions were strong and unvarnished, but his convictions and camaraderie were just as strong and undisguised. It is a comfort to me that my actions didn't erase all of those 'Hawthorne qualities' from the world.
Thank you for your time and your perspective, Miss Hawthorne. May this war touch you no further.
Regards,
Lt. R. Grimes
July 25, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Lt. Grimes,
I couldn't make up my mind whether I should send this or not. But I've spent a lot of time thinking about Anthony…
I cannot forgive you for what you did. I cannot. Partly because I'm stubborn, and my brother was the only person I felt understood me – and you took that away. But, in large part, I realize that forgiveness in this situation is not mine to give. It's not my mother's either. Only Anthony can do it, or God, if you believe in such things in these times. If you and Anthony were the sort of friends that you claim, he's probably already forgiven you. He wasn't the type to hold a grudge. Not like me. So… there. Don't allow useless guilt to consume you. It won't bring Anthony back.
Additionally, I was… quite rude to you. My mother went to great lengths to raise a better woman than that. Character assassination through the post isn't very ladylike. And I don't know you just as you do not know me. It wasn't terribly fair, and though I was justifiably emotional, that's not a good excuse. I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of asking for your forgiveness whilst simultaneously acknowledging life's sense of irony. I apologize, Lieutenant, and hope that you chose to ignore the words of a forgettable, faceless woman from across the ocean.
This life – in these times – is hard enough.
That is all I had to say.
Good luck & farewell,
Michonne E. Hawthorne
September 3, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
This reply is egregiously late. I was in occupied territory for six weeks (no, I'm not violating anything by telling you that) and only received mail delivery when I returned yesterday. I had to sleep first, find clean clothes, and eat something before I keeled over, but then I sat down to write to you immediately. This is where I find myself now – in noisy officers' barracks, huddled under an army blanket, and fighting off the English chill with a cup of Earl Grey.
Firstly, no apology is necessary as everything you said to me was the truth. An uncomfortable truth to be sure, but not one worthy of regret. Better to speak plainly, don't you think? And you are not forgettable. Though I only know you from your words, your assessment has had consequences on my actions. This role that I find myself in is important, and I must accept the responsibility of that – a responsibility that others thought me capable of, including your brother. It was vital for me to hear that I was failing.
We aren't just fighting for our individual lives, but our way of life as well. The consequences of failing are too daunting to imagine. It must not come to pass. Now, I face every day, each cold morning in a hostile town where everyone could be my enemy, with Anthony as an example in my mind's eye. I told you he was everything I wanted to be. Well, now I'm trying to be that. His example and your words drive me. Because I will not fail. We will win this war. So many turning points come down to the efforts of a single person, or a fortuitous moment in time – I've witnessed it with my own eyes. We must all be at our best. Everything we do matters. I will strive to be a bumbler no longer, and I wanted you to know that.
Secondly, thank you for writing to me again. That you took the time to evaluate your thoughts and feelings over such a terrible event, and then to explain them to me… well, it was considerate and unexpected. I never thought I'd hear from you again. I appreciate that forgiveness is not to be had, but also that you believe Anthony is at peace. I am not a religious man, nor do I believe in a life beyond this one. And yet, this sentiment has given me great comfort. I'm not sure I deserve that, but you are kind to think it, let alone taking the time to write it down and send it to me. I will treasure this consideration always.
I hope this letter will find you well (or as well as can be expected in the middle of a global cataclysm). When I return to France soon, I will go to your brother's grave and let him know how you are. Forgive the sentimentality, but we were both great talkers in life, and I see no reason for that to change now he's suddenly a lot more tight-lipped. Friends can be hard to come by – you make do with what you're given, I guess.
Be well, Miss Hawthorne, and thank you once again.
Kind regards,
Lt. R. Grimes
London
September 19, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Lt. Grimes,
You know where Anthony is buried? Can you tell me where?
I'm not convinced it's wise to allow a dead man and a saucy broad's opinion to occupy your thoughts so much, but I suppose you do what you must in wartime. When you see Anthony, tell him I said he's still a sucker, just like he was the day he ran away to fly planes in a war that wasn't ours yet. And tell him I miss him.
Regards,
Michonne E. Hawthorne
October 1, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
Yes, I know where Anthony is buried, and no, I cannot tell you the exact location. I'm sorry that I've failed you once more in this, but know that I deny you this information with a heavy heart, and because you've motivated me to excel at my work. Oh, life is full of irony, isn't it? I did see him recently, and I make a point of going to his grave whenever my unit is close to where he rests. I've paid a local boy to trim the verge around his headstone and to place flowers when he can. I've also made sure that he will be found when this is all over – either by me or someone in my place – and sent home to you.
Did Anthony really run away to join the army? He told me he volunteered in late ‛40. I suspected he was underage when he entered the service as we seemed to be close in age. I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday when I was recruited.
The next time I see him I'll let him know that you think his choice was a lame duck, but I suspect that he'd respond with something like, "Nuts to that!" before arguing with you until you were blue in the face. You couldn't tell Anthony Hawthorne anything.
I'm sure he misses you too.
Kind regards,
Lt. R. Grimes
London
October 22, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Lt. Grimes,
I guess you did know Anthony well after all! He was the most contrary, argumentative s.o.b. I ever had the misfortune to share a childhood bedroom with. Of course, Mom thought the sun rose and set by him… He did run away without telling us, but he was always headed in that direction. It wasn't such a shock. Mom was never going to allow flight lessons, so the army was his only option. I envied that he knew what he wanted from such an early age, and that he went straight for it. I just wish his dream had been less dangerous. Why anyone chooses to leave the ground only to be perilously held at bay from a gruesome death by aluminum and propellers is beyond me. Boys are just sloppy, silly cusses – all of them.
And what about you? How on earth did you get roped into a war before you were eighteen? I thought English parents had more sense than that. If you tell me you volunteered as well, I wash my hands of your entire sex. Who needs your silly heroics? No wonder why we can't solve this war! All of this nationalistic posturing is why I can't get fresh eggs or stockings anymore. And my hands have been ruined by engine grease. Ugh!
It is kind of you, however, to see to Anthony's grave. I shall tell Mom about that and, who knows? She might even crack a smile at it. If she can fit it between her war bond parties and games of bridge.
Nevermind. I don't know why I told you all of this. I guess I needed something to do. Or someone to talk to.
Halloween's coming soon. It used to be my favorite time of year. All the local kids are dressing up like Germans instead of ghouls and ghosts. Will the world ever be normal again? I wonder…
Regards,
Michonne E. Hawthorne
November 1, 1942
Dear Miss Hawthorne,
Your last letter was… I feel awkward asking this but, are you all right? There's not much I can do if you are not, but I guess I'd still like to know the answer.
In response to your question, I did not volunteer, though I was not conscripted either. It's a complicated situation. Also, I am American, not British, even though I am working for the British Army. See? Complicated.
I'm from a meager town in Georgia - most likely, you haven't heard of it - and come from a lower class family. There's not much there to recommend it, and no real reason to go back. The military came knocking back in '38, looking for boys they could start their training on. America wasn't in the war yet, but many knew we eventually would be. I was aggressively convinced that it was my patriotic duty to serve my country. After my training it was decided that my skills would be useful for the british army and I was sent to London.
So, there you have it. I am a twenty-one-year-old American working for the British. The Tommies resent me. The Yanks seem to think that I think I'm better than them. The Frogs despise being used for information while the Allies fail to liberate them, and the Krauts just shoot everyone on sight not wearing a Nazi uniform. The Italians are vicious, the Russians seem exhausted, and everyone else is just trying to find a safe place to hide. And I'm in the middle of it – trying to do something that matters and keeping my team alive in the process.
It's a lot, and my story isn't that unique. We're all too young, all growing up too harshly and too fast. You wonder if the world will ever be right again? I wonder that too. All the time. How could you not? And what no one tells you is, it's all right to be scared about that. That's a perfectly sane reaction to the insanity around you. But you cannot let it paralyze you. Don't focus on the big picture. Just figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. Just fix what's in front of you and move on to the next task. That's what I do, and if I do it often enough, I'll get to the big picture eventually. Don't lose hope, Miss Hawthorne.
And not for nothing, but making the details of my enlistment a litmus test for the entire male sex is a terrible pressure to put on a Joe! I hope I passed muster…
You seem unusually opinionated about this war for a lady (please don't take offense – I admire a woman who knows her mind. I just haven't seen a lot of that). Your comments are not the ordinary propaganda that so many spout back like trained parrots. Are you involved in the war efforts at home? You mentioned engine grease and war bond parties.
Perhaps this will come off as bold, but… if you want someone to talk to, I'm happy to listen (or read in this case). This war is terrifying, but also lonely with large swaths of nothing to occupy the mind. Soldiers only think of what it's like being a soldier, but it occurs to me that this same mix of terror and loneliness probably plagues those at home as well. I cannot promise timely replies, and I often won't be able to talk about what I'm doing, which might make the conversation a bit one-sided. But I'll always respond when I'm able. If you want. Maybe we can help each other.
I've just reread this and realized that I'm asking you to correspond with a man you've never met who is responsible for your brother's death. And you've never made any express wish to hear from me. I just keep writing back. I'm sorry – this whole thing is ridiculous.
I apologize for being forward. I just enjoy getting mail once in a while.
Kind regards,
Lt. R. Grimes
London
November 15, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Lt. Grimes,
Listen, if we're going to do this, I think you'd better start calling me Michonne.
I'm sorry to hear about the way you got recruited. The fact that you had to leave your family behind against your own will...
The ruination of my hands happened because I used to work in the motor pool at the local base. I've been fiddling with engines since my Dad's Packard Twelve proved that money doesn't always buy you competency. Since boys are getting drafted left, right, and center, anyone capable gets slotted wherever they are needed, girdles notwithstanding. Now I work on planes. The mechanics are the same as cars, just a lot bigger.
Regards,
Michonne
December 21, 1942
Dear Michonne,
It's nice to call you by your first name.
Apologies for the delayed reply (I hope you didn't think badly of me after my impulsive offer, and then the near-silence). I've been in France for a month – I just got to Dover an hour ago. My boots are floating with Dunkirk sand and I've caught a vicious cold from some brandy smuggler in Amiens. But, I suppose, things could be worse, couldn't they? Perspective is important. I will be dry soon, and fed, and there is a letter from you.
I didn't know I was corresponding with a real-life Rosie the Riveter! I can't even make a toaster work, and you can build jet engines? What did you do before the war? Were you in college? I know Anthony had a good education. I can only assume you had the same as well. I've seen English women queuing up for work in factories here. I've seen them zipping around the Home Office buildings, all furrowed brows and file folders and serious as stones. It's amazing that, almost overnight, women joined the workforce seamlessly and no one batted an eyelash at it. Why have we, as a society, fought this for so long? I can only hope that it continues after the war – I see no reason why it shouldn't. And even if there is a backlash against it, we cannot unwrite this chapter. Things will change. It might be the only good thing that comes out of the war.
Oh dear. I'm babbling. You should know that I babble. It's a terrible habit, and quite a liability for a covert agent. How did I ever get here?
Anyway, France is cold and miserable. It's like the whole country is a giant bog waiting to suck you down and trap your boots in muck. I think this winter will be bad – a killing one for many. The towns I pass through – so many are malnourished, if not outright starving. Nothing is fresh – people are living off of wine and last year's potatoes. The forests keep getting pushed back further and further as locals chop down whatever they can for fuel and fire. I feel guilty for having rations – I usually give them away within a few days. Who can say no to a starving child? But that means that I'm usually starving myself by the time I get back. In Dunkirk, I saw a group of people dragging a dead cavalry horse through the streets. They were all lit with this… manic joy at the idea of horsemeat for dinner. I had to stop them – it was clear that the horse had been shot because it was rabid. But they were angry and defensive. I guess they thought I wanted the horse for myself. I have no idea if they ended up eating it. This is what really bothers me about the war: it's turning us all feral.
Well, I just brought the whole joint down, didn't I? I'm sorry. I just think these things all the time and never say anything. I'm dizzy with the freedom to tell another person about what I see.
Tell me what home is like (your home). I haven't been stateside in over two years. I'm not sure I'd recognize it (and I'd probably kill for a cup of coffee). Tell me what's changed, and what's the same. Tell me how you spend your days.
I'm returning to France around the 28th, and I don't know how long I'll be gone for this time. You'll probably receive this letter as I land. I will write down things as I go and see if I can get them out from France. It's not very reliable, but sometimes I can manage it – other intelligence teams heading back to England, resistance smugglers, the odd Allied patrol unit… it's like a daisy chain of communication. Anyway, if it can't be done, I will write you as soon as I get back, just like now. Either way, it's pleasant to have something to look forward to.
Oh, and today is the Winter Solstice! The longest night of the year in the northern hemisphere. In pagan times, the evening was marked with a hearty meal and libation to the natural gods who settled into sleep in the coldness of winter. People brought fir and cedar boughs into their homes, close to their hearths, in a display of protection for the flora that slept in hibernation with their gods. It was a time for pulling close, huddling before a fire, and being grateful for those you loved in the quiet stillness. I've always cherished that idea – there's magic in it. If only the world were still now. Happy Solstice, Michonne, and Happy Christmas after that. May the gods sleep well and wake us from our winter sooner rather than later.
Warmest regards,
Rick
Dover
December 26, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
The postal service must be bucking for a promotion – your letter arrived today. I thought I'd send something quickly back, in case Lady Luck and the U.S.P.S. look upon me favorably.
Merry Christmas and good luck in France. Don't worry about writing to me. I know you'll do it when you can.
I have enclosed a clipping from the cedar hedge in our garden to comfort your sleepy, pagan gods.
Stay warm,
Michonne
December 29, 1942
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
You'll be in France now, I suppose. Well, this letter will be waiting for you when you return.
Your last letter was quite the read! I assume you've been holding back in all of your previous correspondence. It's fine if you babble. At least you babble about interesting topics, unlike the drips over here, all bemoaning the state of ration cards and their lamentable 4F statuses. I can't tell you the last interesting conversation I've had, truly.
I'm going to take a moment to point out that I think you might be oversimplifying the battle to get women into the workforce. Yes, I agree that it has happened quickly and well due to the war, but I do not agree that things will remain this way when the war ends. We are welcomed because there is no other choice at the moment. When there is a choice, we will not be chosen, and we will be criticized for our 'unfeminine' ambition when we complain. I think you have to be a woman to appreciate how men see us as aliens. Sure, we're occasionally sexy aliens, or good mother aliens, and in rare instances, trusted friend aliens – but we will always be seen as others, not male, not equal because we are not the same. While I think equality is the only way forward, I do not have the same optimism that you do about it happening soon. We will have to change how we think – all of us – and that does not happen overnight (or, when it does, it turns into fascism). What I will say is that it's refreshing to hear such a progressive attitude coming from a man. I appreciate it, even if I think it a tad naïve.
I guess it's obvious that I went to college. That's the privilege of money, I suppose. Anthony never made it to college, so Mom did the next best thing and sent her other child instead. I spent two years at Vassar before the war shut it down. Educating women wasn't viewed as a priority in the national interests with Krauts and Japs threatening from all sides. I'm twenty-six now, and with no end to the war in sight, who knows if I'll ever have a chance to finish my degree. Though, if I end up a spinster, teaching might be the only thing I'm good for. Or I'll become an auto mechanic. Damn them all, and my mother too! I'll withstand the lesbian jokes and open a small garage, making sure to be so constantly covered in grease and brake fluid that no man will dare challenge me – haha! Oh well, a dame can dream…
Life at home is… a lot of waiting, and passing the time while doing that waiting. We're all waiting for different things, of course. Mom was waiting for Anthony to come home so she could chew him out for disappointing her. I was waiting for him too, and now I'm waiting to feel better about that never happening. I'm also waiting to discover what's next for me, because until Anthony died, I sorta seemed comfortable tying my fate to his. I thought, whatever we did after the war, we'd do it together. He was my best and only true friend, and I'm uncertain how to move forward without him beside me – like he was my counterweight and I'm hopelessly lopsided now.
Still others are waiting for their sons to come home, or their fellas – a lot of girls working at the base are doing it so they don't go scooters at home secretly fearing the arrival of a telegram from the Army. Others are waiting for the news the war is over – one way or another – and dreading the thought of figuring out what's next. Because that's daunting too, isn't it? There's a lot of passive dread at home, even though there are no bombs, no starving children, no bloody corpses in the streets. It's as if everyone here is walking around with their own sword of Damocles hanging over them – one false step and we might all end up headless.
Oh, and automatons are everywhere and everything has wheels now. Even shoes – they call them 'roller hoofers' and you can move faster than buses in them if you work them right.
I'm kidding. Things are mostly the same here as when you left, I'm sure. Less vegetables and gas, but more hooch and movies to make up for it. I go to the movies a lot. You can go alone and no one thinks it's strange. You don't need friends to sit in the dark. I like gangster flicks and the animated things Walt Disney makes. I think I went to see Fantasia a dozen times when it came out. Movies make the world seem more beautiful than it really is.
Other than that, there's just work at the base, music clubs when there's a band worth seeing, and local dances sponsored by homefront groups to boost conscript morale. I don't care for those so much, though I dearly love to dance, but the girls from the base usually drag me to a few or my mother guilts me into it as my 'patriotic duty'. As if my only wartime value is as a vessel to be manhandled by tipsy grunts while being stood upon.
If I had my way, my 'patriotic duty' would be finding my way to Europe and making a difference there somehow. After all, I have a certain set of skills and no one save Mother who would miss me if I left. I like the work I do, but it doesn't seem like much in light of what soldiers or men like you are doing in this war. I'm scared, of course, but not scared enough to hide away – I guess I'm like Anthony that way. But, unlike him, my sex prevents me from doing anything useful. The motor pool girls tell me to find a nice Joe and give him something to live for by marrying him. To pop out a kid or two and contribute that way. But it's so demeaning to be reduced to childbearing alone. I can't stand it! I want adventure and meaningful pursuits and to be more than just a support system for another person. That's not a popular attitude around here, so sometimes I give in and stop fighting against everyone's expectations, and that's how I end up at boring dances with GI boot marks all over my peep-toes.
You apologized for bringing the joint down before – I guess we both do that, huh? You probably wanted a sunnier tale of home. I'm sorry. But if it makes you feel any better, I won't mind if your anecdotes turn dark. I'd rather know what's really going on than live off the newsreel pablum we get here. I'll make you a deal: if you don't pull any punches, neither will I. That's how Anthony and I always operated, and I've never regretted that principle. I know you can't tell me what you are doing over there, but tell me about France. I always wanted to go and who knows if I'll ever get a chance to now. Lend me your senses and tell me what it's like.
I'll put this in the post and write again when I have something new to add (though the days are mostly work and trips to the library – rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat…). Clearly, I need a project. Hmmm, must put my mind to that…
I hope that someone fed you for Christmas. Surely not everyone has turned into an animal over there.
Warm regards,
Michonne
January 1, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
I hope you can read this. It's dark and I've had a bit of champagne.
IT'S A NEW YEAR! Maybe this is the one that will change everything.
By the way, I found a project. A fella just back from overseas was selling his BSA M20 (his wife didn't approve), and now it's mine. It's beat to hell and needs a lot of work but it's nothing I can't handle. Once I shine her up like a new penny I can go where I like – even up to New York to see Count Basie if I want!
Mother is apoplectic. I'm so happy.
Happy New Year & stay safe,
Michonne
January 31, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
Anthony has been gone for one year today. I know you haven't forgotten.
I find myself in a strange place. I miss him terribly, like a chunk of me has been ripped away and the wind keeps blowing through the void making the edges sting when I move. And I still hate you a little for being the agent of his absence, even though I'm separated enough from the grief now to understand that feeling isn't wholly true or fair. But I'm also oddly glad of you. Writing these letters is cathartic in its own way. Perhaps you don't feel the same – perhaps I shall never hear from you again. The feeling remains, regardless of whether anyone reads these missives or not, I suppose. You mentioned it was nice to have something to look forward to, and I find that I agree about that. I haven't been looking forward to much in a long time. Even if I've made you out to be someone else in my mind, even if something happened to you and you're gone now, this has been quite an experience.
All in all, a very confusing day here.
May the sun be shining on you wherever you are,
Michonne
[collected letters in a single envelope]
December 25, 1942
Dear Michonne,
Merry Christmas! Somehow the cook managed to find a goose. My team has greasy fingers and full bellies, which is more than we had last Christmas. We also have a new commanding officer. He's American – which adds to the overall confusion – but it also makes me less anomalous. His name is Lt.-Colonel Hershel Greene and he was a lawyer before he joined up. A very serious, sullen fellow. Even so, he came by the base in Dover to meet us personally. He brought us gifts as well. He gave me a pocket knife – very practical and appreciated.
I hope your Christmas was surprising as well. Did you get snow? It's cold here and there will certainly be snow in France when we get there. I've spent a small fortune on wool socks packing them into every spare inch I can find in my bags. A gaggle of local children came by caroling last night in spite of the blackout ban. They sang in the dark and it was ethereal – like the stars were singing to us. I saw a couple of fellas get glassy-eyed afterwards, thinking of home no doubt. I don't have any family left, so I just found it beautiful for its own sake. Perhaps that was my Christmas gift as well.
I'm not much for Christian rituals, but the pagan underpinnings fascinate me. I told you about the Winter Solstice, but I also love the dichotomy of Saint Nicholas and Krampus from the Bavarian traditions. Saint Nicholas has been rolled into the Father Christmas/Santa Claus folklore, but Krampus is his opposite and quite forgotten. He punishes naughty children and frightens them into good behavior. He is demonic in appearance with a goat's hind quarters and head, and he beats offending children with a switch of birch branches on the same night that Saint Nicholas delivers his bounty. It is said that he can only be appeased with an offering of schnapps and wild dancing, both of which sounds favorable on a cold winter's night. Krampusnacht is when he roams freely, and that is usually at the beginning of December, but many European towns celebrate him from the advent of December right through the New Year, just to be safe. So, fortified brandy and dancing for all, then, huh? Sometimes the old ways just seem better, don't they? Lift a glass to dear, misunderstood Krampus, or face the wrath of a birch switch. I've sketched him in the margin for your further enlightenment, as I am very fond of him.
Have a wonderful Christmas, Michonne.
Warmest regards,
Rick
Dover
January 1, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Just a quick note today to wish you a Happy New Year. Northern France is in a terrible state. My team spent four nights sleeping rough after we landed just to avoid the German patrols. Maybe they've stepped them up just to keep warm but, regardless, it makes moving around more trying. Tonight we've finally found a friendly sanctuary, and, blissfully, a fire. I can almost feel my fingers once more. Tomorrow we shall push on, using the darkness of the new moon as cover. This is not how I imagined wars were fought – I certainly didn't get that impression from the history books I scoured as a child. It's a hell of a lot of walking and boredom scattered with brilliant moments of extreme terror. Luckily, I seem to excel under extreme terror.
But enough about that…
I must sleep. I hope your New Year's celebrations were more festive,
Rick
N. France
January 18, 1943
Dear Michonne,
A few words now, and only in pencil. It's too cold for the ink to run.
Sometimes I forget where I am. Like this morning. It snowed in the night and when the sun rose, the whole world was bright and crystalline-perfect. Nothing but deer prints in the snow, and field mice. It's so quiet I imagine I can hear the trees whispering plans to each other in the distance. I grew up in the desert – this is like another world to me. It's so beautiful, Michonne.
The war is so far away in this moment. It makes me want to run into that forest and never come back. Just live in the deep hush of trees with the rabbits and the wolves…
The world is perfect without us.
Rick
February 1, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Will you forgive me a terrible story? I feel like I should shield you from things like this but… I have to tell someone or I think I'll go mad.
There is this girl. Her name is Judith and she is eleven years old. She is the daughter of a farmer who gives my team shelter in his barn from time to time. She is pretty with apple-bright cheeks and a quick grin – the pride of her father's regard, to be sure. I'm so tall that she constantly asks to ride on my shoulders – she says she can touch the clouds when I carry her – and I'm charmed enough by her spirit to oblige her frequently. I bring her chocolate when I can, and she giggles and says, "Merci". Such a happy, bright little soul.
Her father's farm has been mostly untouched by the war, which is why we've passed through it as often as we have. Perhaps our complacency was a mistake.
Two nights ago, we woke in the barn to gunfire. My team was up and away in under thirty seconds, and that was fortunate. The barn was aflame in no time – we watched it burn while hiding under long winter grasses at the edge of the property. An SS unit was there – not a regular German patrol. Someone must have noticed us coming and going, or they suspected Judith's father was part of the resistance. He wasn't – just a man trying to survive and do the right thing simultaneously. The gunfire was an SS officer shooting the farm dogs, then the horses, and finally their dairy cow. Then they dragged Judith and her father out into the snow and set fire to their house, making them watch. The flames lit their faces clear as day, and I'll never forget the expression on his face – it was confusion. He expected to die and didn't know why they hadn't shot him right away. Judith just cried while an SS soldier told her to shut up in German.
There was no point to any of it. The SS didn't even ask the farmer anything. They just forced him to watch everything he owned burn, and when that was done they shot him in the back of the head. I didn't realize I was running until I heard the bullets zipping past me – both Nazis shooting at me and my team trying to cover my boneheaded move. I pulled my Browning and shot the two soldiers closest to them as I ran – I am amazed the shots found their targets. I didn't have eyes for anyone but the girl, and it is doubtless that I am alive to write this today because of the superior marksmanship of my team. I collected her up and ran for the forest again, taking a round in the shoulder that would've ended her if I hadn't been in the way. My team followed close behind, leaving more dead SS soldiers than live ones. The surprise attack and the cover of night concealed our identities, but it was a near thing. The shock on the Germans' faces convinces me that they weren't searching for us, making the whole scene even more meaningless.
We trekked through the forest for a day until we found a village with a doctor. I carried Judith the whole time, in spite of my shoulder. She cried quietly until she passed out, then she cried again when I tried to hand her over to a local woman who agreed to take her in. She had no one left, you see. She wouldn't let me go, clinging to my muddy trousers and sobbing. Oh, Michonne – she broke my heart, and I broke hers when I pulled her hands from me and walked away. This happy, bright soul, happy and bright no more. Because of me. It is Anthony all over again, but so much worse. Anthony made a choice to risk; this girl didn't.
I've always hoped that someday I'd be a father, but I'm not sure I deserve that now. I've ruined a child's life – taken everything from her and left her alone. She'll always remember the stranger who gave her chocolate, who also watched her father be murdered and did nothing about it. Why didn't I act quicker? Why didn't I bring her to London, to relative safety? It's all I can think about over and over and over. Regrets everywhere, all around me.
I can't sleep. My shoulder burns. You will hate this letter when you receive it, but I'll send it anyway.
Rick
February 20, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
I am writing this quickly and then racing to post it in the afternoon mail. When you receive it, write to me immediately.
I got your letter package. I read it all. You are not to blame for what happened to Judith. You gave her a chance to LIVE.
In time, that is what she'll remember. How could that not be a worthy act?
I do not hate you. I am mesmerized by the horror you are facing, amazed by your self-reflection and capability in its path. And you are only twenty-one. You are not the man I thought you were when you first wrote to me – I couldn't picture that man running into gunfire to save a child. I better understand why you and Anthony became friends.
Please write me back. I am worried.
Urgently,
Michonne
March 8, 1943
Dear Michonne,
I'm actually twenty-two, but only because today is my birthday.
Please do not be worried. I did not mean for that to happen. I shouldn't have written to you in such a state. The things I see during missions can be so extreme, so traumatic, that I hardly know how I'll go on. Then, I return to England and the memories fall into context, or maybe I do. Some cannot handle what they see. "Shellshock" doesn't seem like an appropriate term for it, but it's what the medics call it. I keep expecting it to happen to me – I've led a sheltered life, after all – but I've found ways to annex the experiences, to put them into boxes in my mind, if you will, so that I can look at them again when I'm calmer. I will forget nothing but I can strive to put things into perspective. Mom warned me that I had a soft heart, and to protect it fiercely. Thank goodness she's no longer alive to worry about me in the work that I do.
But also, thank you for your worry. I was strangely touched by the "Urgently" in your letter.
I have received all of your letters as well (such a wonderful thing to return to – that, and a warm bath), and I have so much to say.
But I feel I should not make you wait for a response longer than necessary, so I'll shorten things to the highlights.
1. You may have a point about my naiveté, but why CAN'T you run your own garage when the war is over?
2. I'm not good with people, so it's no secret why I don't have many friends. If your friends only encourage you to do things that don't suit you, are they really your friends to begin with? If you don't want the life that's expected of you, it seems logical to forego peer association that pushes you in a direction opposite to your desires. Watching movies alone or studying at the library seems… sensible to me, until more appropriate friends appear in your life. I have no doubt that they will. Also, I wouldn't allow strange, drunk men to maul you publicly simply because it's the current cultural norm. I've been to some of those dances (though I can't dance – I usually stand in the corner until someone offers some beer or tobacco) and don't think they do much morale boosting other than for lothario types who don't need the help in the first place.
3. I agree to your deal: truth for truth. Thank you – that makes me feel better. Also, I find your insights into the world at home as mesmerizing as you claim mine are. Please continue being candid.
4. You own a motorcycle! You are becoming the brassiest dame I've ever heard about. I'm so impressed. Your poor mother…
Okay, off into the mail this goes. Write again soon!
Appreciatively,
Rick
London
March 28, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
I have enclosed a belated birthday gift for you: six Hershey bars. Now, you should feel honored since I have a sweet tooth and don't usually share. I had to hoard some ration cards, and then find a guy who could get his hands on the good stuff (not that New Haven has much of a black market, but if slightly-suspect transactions down by a pier make the treat sweeter to you, so be it. Whatever gets your motor running.). So, Happy Twenty-two, Lieutenant! Some illicit chocolate for you!
I must admit that the tone of your last letter came as a relief to me. Having said that, I hope you'll continue to write whatever strikes you in the moment. Now that I understand your process a little, I, too, can also put your stories into perspective. I suppose I'm morbidly curious about these experiences I'll never have. And if telling me about them can ease you of their burden, well, that sounds like we both get something out of it. I found your observations to be haunting, beautiful – even the terrible story about Judith. You have a talent for seeing things, I think, and perhaps seeing beneath them, if that makes any sense. Maybe it's the soft heart your mother worried over, or maybe it's just the way you are. Either way, don't apologize for it, and don't hide it away.
May I ask what happened to your family? It makes me sad to think you're alone in the world at twenty-two. That's far too young. What about a special girl somewhere? I've seen how wartime makes relationships more urgent, and though some say it's an improper modern attitude, I think it's unnecessarily cruel to deny young people this happiness when any day could be their last one. So many conventions don't make much sense now.
Speaking of silly conventions, thank you for your encouragement of my 'unfeminine' ideas. I talk all big and fearless, but in reality, I'm afraid of what people will say if I do exactly what I want. Mother already wanders around in a fog of constant disappointment about me, but that's not the worst of it. Ladies in town shun the motor pool girls for their work and mannish clothes. They whisper that we're taking away work from the men here at home, or that we're getting big heads and troubling ideas that are 'unamerican'. Some Joes think we're all right, but many think we're uppity or some vanguard of a lesbian army in their midst. It's so screwy. And some men think our willingness to work means that we're willing in every way, if you catch my drift. Last month, my gal pal, Maggie went to a dance on the base and two airmen thought a couple of dances meant she was theirs for the evening. She screamed and got away, but she won't go anywhere now without a bunch of us girls alongside her. One of the girls commented that men are afraid women will take what's theirs, but women are afraid that men will kill them. It's so unfair – we just want to help and do what we're good at. Nothing more. Sometimes I feel as though everyone looks at me as if I wore a swastika on my arm too.
But, in happier news: I finished the bike! She goes like stink now, and smooth as silk. The freedom is wondrous. Some nights I take her out when I can't sleep and speed her down unlit roads just to feel the wind in my hair. It's not sensible, I know, but, jeez, it feels amazing, Rick. If I could feel that good, for a few minutes every day, I'd be a contented dame my whole life long. It's like… I understand what I'm for when I'm riding like that. Alone, by my own power, because of the skill of my hands and mind… I dunno. In those moments I'm never scared, never unsure.
Maybe I just sound crazy.
Anyway, enough of this. I'll put this in the post now. Are you off to France again soon? Do you know how long you'll be gone for this time?
If you are already away, take care and don't get shot again. It would be upsetting to lose a pen-friend I've spent so much time breaking in to Nazi target practice.
Best wishes,
Michonne
April 7, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Thank you so much for the chocolate! I hope you don't mind, but I shared the bars around: 3 went to my team, 2 were donated to other units shipping off to Europe (chocolate is almost like currency in some places – very handy), and I kept one, decadently, for myself. It was glorious.
I'm in London for now. Something happened after Judith's mission (nothing involving me or my team, just a general shift in the situation abroad which I can't elaborate on), and now we're all pulled back to HQ to re-strategize. Until we get fresh orders, we've been sent off to do other work. I'm currently back to my previous decoding duties, which is both a relief and strangely dull at the same time. It's given my shoulder an opportunity to heal up, and, of course, I get regular access to the mail!
As to your other question about my family, I am an only child and my parents are gone. Father abandoned us when I was young. To be truthful, I do not know if he is alive or dead, but since he was never around, I just assume he's dead. It's easier. Mom died in a house fire during my first year of training. She was mentally unwell her whole life and that often manifested in a sort of negligent forgetfulness. She left the stove on one night and that was it. I try not to think about it – I loved her dearly despite her illness and have always felt guilt that I wasn't there to prevent the tragedy. I wanted her to be safe but let her be on her own while I lived on campus. Asylums are terrible places and she promised me she'd be careful. But I was just a boy back then, even with my special skills, and there was only so much I could do for her. I've been on my own since her death.
And, no, there's no special girl. Never has been, really. I have never really had the option of getting distracted, and I'm not sure my life will ever allow me to. Besides that, even with the help of the uniform, I'm not much to look at – you probably wouldn't notice me if I was standing right in front of you, I'm sure.
Michonne, your description of the attitudes surrounding you upsets me a little. Especially your anecdote about Maggie. Please be careful. That probably sounds condescending and paternal of me, but I'm just concerned for a friend and too hopelessly far away to do anything more than advise caution. It's frustrating. (Also, I hope you don't mind that I consider you a friend). If anything were to happen to you…
The flip side to this worry and caution I feel is pride and excitement in your accomplishments. You'd probably say, "it's just a motorcycle", but it isn't. It's emblematic of a dream you are tentatively reaching for. While I understand your hesitation – I believe your fears are real even if I can never know what it's like to walk in your shoes – surely the joy you feel in those dizzying moments alone is proof that you are heading down the right path. The way you described it, Michonne… I'd be doing you a disservice to dissuade you from it. It sounds like fulfillment to me. We should all be allowed that. I'll write it down now – in ink, so I can't take it back later – you should follow your dream, however hard, wherever it takes you. I believe, of all the women I've met, you have brass enough to succeed. You're smart, gutsy, capable, self-aware, independent… I believe you could do anything you set your mind to. Truly. Don't let fear shackle you. If any one tells you different, well, just steer clear of them, I guess.
Spring is finally here and it appears to have lightened everyone's mood, even if it's raining constantly. I don't know how long I'll be in England – right now, no one can say one way or the other. Some days I feel as close to normal as I've been in over three years, tooling through London on my bicycle, eating regularly, and with an absence of gunfire… even the memory of how much damage was done to this city doesn't dim one's optimism right now. People are out and about, just carrying on. It's inspiring. Maybe this will be the year we end this awful struggle.
Oh, by the way, I found a theatre playing Fantasia here. What a creative amusement! So pretty and colorful, and you can't argue about the music – Bach, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Stravinsky… I think I liked the dancing mushrooms the best – I'll probably never look at fungi in quite the same way again. Which part was your favorite?
Okay, well, off into the post this goes. I'll write again soon, as I now have the luxury of time!
Fondest wishes,
Rick
London
April 14, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
Since you are busy enabling my gender equality fantasies and buttering me up with flattery, I thought I'd send you a photo of me and Big-Mouth Betty as a reward (Big-Mouth Betty is what I've named my bike. Fitting, don't you think?). Maggie wouldn't let me clean up before she snapped the pic, so excuse the grease smudges and my dungarees. And look at what the wind has done to my hair! Oh well… that's me, I guess. But Betty's a beaut, isn't she?
Thank you for your kind encouragement. It means a great deal. And I promise that I'm being careful (or as much as I ever manage, at any rate). I'm already too familiar with heavy-handed men and have no desire to broaden that understanding. As for the catty local skirts, well, I can handle them. I doubt any of them want to see me hurt – scandalizing me should be enough and ensure that any local Joe will be put off me in the process. No great loss.
Oh, Rick, I'm so sorry to hear of your mother! What a story – and to happen to you while you were still so young. You must have been lonely for such a long time. I don't think I would've turned out as stroppy as I am if it hadn't been for Anthony. He was my little rock growing up, even though he was younger than me. But you did everything by yourself. It makes your accomplishments that much more impressive. I'm sorry that I ever thought you were less than you are.
I find you endlessly surprising – I'm sure many others would as well. And looks aren't everything. They certainly help, but a keen personality, a sharp mind goes a lot further than a square jaw. In my opinion, pretty men are often like window curtains: pleasing from afar, but more times than not they're just hiding empty rooms. Who wants an empty room, even if it's strutting around impressively in a uniform? I think you have a lot to offer, and now it's my turn to tell you that I believe in you as well. Think better of yourself, would you?
By the way, I now have this mental image of you, whip-thin, zipping through London on an olive-drab bicycle in uniform, head up, all optimistic about spring and Walt Disney cartoons… it's a riot. Oh, and since you asked, my favorite part of Fantasia was the Night on Bald Mountain creature. I guess I have a fondness for gothic drama, but I thought that demon was just tops! I was sad to see him driven away by the dawn… I swear that I went back just to watch that scene alone. It doesn't surprise me at all that you liked the dancing mushrooms – haha!
Do you think there's a possibility that you might stay in London rather than going back overseas? I know you said you find the decoding work boring, but the intelligence stuff is so dangerous. The privations, the violence, the way you just have to withstand it and keep going… I guess I'd prefer to have you safe. That sounds cowardly, doesn't it? I'm not suggesting that – I think you are the opposite of a coward. Maybe I just feel cowardly in the shadow of what you do. Fixing jet engines back home doesn't rate. If I'm going to risk social censure, it should be for something greater than practice jets for newly-minted flyboys or patching up ancient cargo planes. I should be making the same effort as you – over there – the risk would seem worth it if the results were tangible. After all, don't I have as much to lose as any man if the war goes badly? Anthony died for this, for crying out loud! Ugh, I'm all over the place today – I'm sorry. Some days – more often now – I feel as though I'm itching to get out of my skin. To run away as Anthony did. There's nothing for me here – just failed expectations and gender pigeonholes to trip over. And the world is out there. Violent and unfair and dangerous – yes – but also, waiting. I envy you, Rick. Your view is borderless simply because you are a man. What a thing that must be.
Oh damn! I'll be late for my shift if I don't wrap this up…
Okay, well, tell me what London's like. What are your favorite places? It's another place I'll probably never see, so…
Enjoy the spring rain,
Michonne
April 22, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Gosh. You're a real stunner. I'm not joking. I sort of created an idea of you in my mind based on your letters and, well… now I'm all flustered because I know what you really look like. My mouth is full of cotton balls and I think I'm probably blushing too – just looking at your picture! Why didn't you tell me you were so pretty?
This is embarrassing but, when I opened your letter Lt-Colonel Greene was in the barracks checking up on his various teams. He saw your photo and said he wasn't aware that there were Rosie the Riveter pin-ups floating around. I managed to choke out that you weren't a pin-up, you were a friend from back home, and then he congratulated me for having such a pretty girl waiting for me. And I couldn't say a thing, I couldn't tell him he was wrong. I just flapped around like a useless fish and now everyone is razzing me about you. You just became real in a way that you weren't before. It's silly, but I'm an ungainly, silly man sometimes. You're probably angry right now that I've reduced you to the way that you look. I'll do better, I promise. I like you far too much to let my stupid head get in the way of things. Just let me say once, for the record, that you are too beautiful, Michonne, to come without a warning first. There – got that out of my system.
I have no idea what else I meant to include in this letter. I've gone completely blank.
Oh dear. Okay, I guess that means I'll put a stamp on this…
Rick
London
April 30, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Rick,
Your last letter was ridiculous from start to finish. Collect your thoughts and try again. Honestly, I'm just a woman!
Perhaps you should send me a photo as well, so we can get this out of the way.
Michonne
May 7, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Once again, I'm sorry about my last letter. I can tell that you're miffed about it.
I will not send a photo. This is partly because of shyness, but mostly because I don't have any. I'd have to pose for one and that just strikes me as more awkward.
Here are the basics: I'm 5'10", 176lbs, with brown hair and three bullet wounds from my time in France. The rest you can imagine for yourself.
Thank you for your condolences about Mom. It was a while ago but I still miss her. She was an opinionated, strong woman out of her time – a little like you. If she hadn't been ill, I think she might have done just about anything. She was a great proponent of books and education, which is why, I suppose, I got so much of both. She would not approve of my activity in this war, however. She said that warfare was an eruption of man's most basic instinct, which never solved anything or ever really ended. She was eerily correct, but I had to go off to war to figure that out.
Because Mom was so right about war, I wish you'd lose your desire to see more of it. I hear your yearning for adventure and newness, but this is not the place for it. The war is terrible, Michonne, and Europe is a mess. I know you mean well, but if I could get away from here, I would. Please don't wish to be here amongst the ruins and death. I know that I've swung wildly between despair and optimism about this war in my letters, but it is a nightmare that I'm fighting, in large part, so that it won't taint any more people than it absolutely has to. I include you in this. Maybe that's presumptive, but… you know what? I don't care. I want you to be safe – that's all there is to it. If you find that unforgivably male and backward, so be it. That's a cross I'm willing to bear.
Please don't mistake this impulse as a denial of your dreams – I still strongly encourage you to follow them, just… not here. Whether you realize it or not, you are making a difference. Maybe it's not showy enough for your tastes, but every flyboy you help gain his wings, every cargo that lands safely where it should, every plane that can muster one last sorte – this all matters as much as me passing notes between forces or trying to decode missives from Berlin. And what's more, you have made a difference for me. Writing to you over the past year has given me grit when I felt exhausted, replenished me when I lost hope. Maybe I wouldn't have made it this far without you – I don't know. What I do know is that I moved forward a year ago for Anthony's sake, but now I do it for you. Don't say that what you're doing isn't enough because it is everything to me.
And for the record, it doesn't seem very forward-thinking to keep putting your intellect down. Who cares if you didn't finish college? You would have if it weren't for the war. And you can fix planes and rebuild motorcycles and argue about equality between men and women and discuss fascism. You're one of the smartest people I've ever spoken with. There's nothing remotely dull about you, and I'd appreciate it if you chose to believe me.
Also, I think Big-Mouth Betty is a grand name for a bike, and that's she's as glorious as her mechanic.
Since I've worked myself into a bit of a lather about this, I'll try and make up for it with a drawing of the demon from Night on Bald Mountain for you. I think I got the details right even though I only saw the film once. I sort of understand why you like him – he's terrifying and that is powerful. Much more so than my beloved Krampus. I guess this is part of why we are friends – the fanciful things in the dark still charm us.
Fondly,
Rick
London
June 5, 1943
Dear Michonne,
Have I offended you? Please tell me I haven't. If my last few letters were off-putting, that was never my intention. I'm an awkward person – I told you that. Please forgive me if I somehow misspoke. I keep waiting for a letter from you and… I don't want to seem like a sap, but I look forward to receiving them. Could you let me know how you are?
Things are fine here – more of the same. I may be sent back to France in August but the date hasn't been set yet. The English summer is warm and I've been taking day trips northward to see more of the countryside. You hit a point where people disappear and all that's left are sheep and cows and hills everywhere. It's a fine way to get lost for a day or two. I try to find a tree and then sit beneath it reading until the sun sets, like some simple character from a pastoral novel. It is idyllic even when it rains.
Please write again soon.
Fondly,
Rick
London
June 30, 1943
New Haven, Connecticut
Dear Rick,
I wasn't upset, just busy, and you may be angry when you find out why (though you unwittingly inspired me to do it).
I joined the WAACs.
When they discovered the work I was doing at the base, they made me a Technical Sergeant straight away and gave me a choice of postings. I requested London. It's as close to the actual fight as I could get. They still won't allow women in active theaters. My captain gave me flack about it (considering I'm new and all), but I got some guys from the base to write letters of recommendation for me and that sealed the deal. After next Monday, I'll be in Virginia for four weeks of training, then off to England with Betty to take up my post. So, I won't need a photo of you after all, since we can meet in person!
Mother had a rage about this, but I'd already signed the papers. She said I'd better come back or she'll never forgive me. I told her that if I never come back, that hardly matters. It sounds cruel, I know, but by doing this I can let go of my resentment of her and her damnable expectations for me. I can be my own woman.
I know you won't approve, Rick. I know you want me to stay safely in America. But if I stay safely here now, I feel that's where I'll remain forever. I have to do this. Not because it's war and I have some heroic deathwish, but because this feels like part of the path I spoke of. The path that you encouraged me to follow. Please say you'll meet me when I arrive in London? I'm brimming with the possibility of it all, and there's no one who will understand it but you. Please, Rick… it would mean so much to me.
I have enclosed my mailing address in Virginia and hope to hear from you soon.
In anticipation,
Michonne
July 9, 1943
Oh, Michonne… no. Why? Do you know what I'd give to be back home right now? You have a choice I was never given, and THIS is what you decide?
Send me your transfer details when you get them. I'll be there, no matter how upset this news has made me. I know better than to try and talk a Hawthorne out of something.
Anxiously,
Rick
London
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