Dear Tully,

Some good news! We finally got a letter from Ben in the mail! I'm sending along his note for you. Hopefully the censors don't treat it too harshly.

But I don't imagine they will. It takes better eyes than the government's got to read Benny's chicken-scratch.

It about drives you crazy. I try writing to him, but I'm not sure what he'll be able to read. I'd bet even he wishes he'd paid more attention when Mammy Chloe tried teaching him his letters. More's the pity.

Big news around the house, Emma-Jean had the baby! Our third, and it's a boy. You should see the women fussing over him. Course, I admit I've been rather eager myself. But, by golly, he's my son. You'd think Mama and Mammy'd never seen a baby before.

You know, little Sebastian is named after Emma-Jean's uncle from The First War. Earned a lot of medals. So, I asked her which names she wanted for our second boy, and her words to me, "I want to name our sons after the heroes in our families. Let's call him Tully Benjamin." And so he is. Tully Benjamin Pettigrew.

We only wish you coulda been there for the christening. Emma didn't want a whole fuss, so we asked Father Jackson to do it all private like. We wanted you to be the Godfather, but Ty stood in as proxy. That is, if you're willing. I would be proud to have you as little Tully's godfather. We thought it was only fitting. Emma would be so happy, not having any brothers herself.

Word in the town has it, Ol' Bobby Divvers is coming home. Last I heard, he was in France with a hunk of shrapnel in his leg. Turns out, the damage is bad enough they're shipping him home. A shiny little medal on his chest, and a ruined leg to keep him company the rest of his born days.

At least he's alive. That's what's important. He'll probably take Mr Divvers' job at the train station. Old man Divvers is getting on in years now. Hardly ever comes by the house to visit with Mammy like he used to.

Bea and Charlie finished moving into their new home last month. Wasn't much to move. Charlie's working on building as much of their furniture as he can. Trying to balance all that woodwork and his new farm is a hassle. I'd help, but if it's smaller than a shed or bigger than a barn, I can't build it.

Pa's foot still doesn't look so good. The Doctor is in a real fix trying to figure out what's wrong. And just why it won't heal. Mammy always has some choice words for after the doctor's left.

Speaking of Mammy Chloe, she got proposed marriage. Do you remember that fine black gentleman from the town over? Jacob Freehand? He proposed to her two Sundays ago.

She's only as old as mama, ya know. She can cook and keep house better than any woman this side of the mountains. Done raised nine children, none of her own. Heck, some ain't even fully raised yet. She reads and spells. Taught us eldest our letters. We're much more blessed than we realize to have Mammy in our house.

But she told him, she'd "think the matter over. Didn't want to go rushin' off into nothin' after all." I think if she says yes, she'll wait till Seamus and Paul and Jude are older. They won't have to worry about having children themselves, they're both on in years.

I know it's a short letter, I wish there was time to say more. But it'll have to do for now. I'm heading into town in a minute and if this letter doesn't make it into the mail, it'll be another week waiting on the news.

I'm thinking about getting a picture taken of little Tully Benjamin just to send one to you and Ben each. I can't for you to meet your new nephew (and Godchild).

Everyone sends their love, Pa sends his blessing, and true to my word, I send Ben's letter to you. Stay safe Tully, that's an order.

Your brother,

Henry Pettigrew

With an eager voracity, Tully drank in the last lines of homely handwriting. For all the flack on his brothers' handwriting, Hank's own writing wasn't much better. Setting it aside, Tully reached back into the thick, beaten envelope.

He pulled out a thinner sheet of paper, smudged with ink and grime. With hands that trembled, he didn't know why, he lifted the fold in the crease of the letter.

He hadn't laid eyes on his kid brother for almost a year and a half. And Ben hadn't been heard from for almost seven months.

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the familiar chicken-scratch scrawled across the page. Taking courage, he began,

Hiya Bandit, how is it at your end of the war?

i already said my sorries to the old clan on the homefront, so here's yours.

i know i been radio-silent for a long while. Too long. Truth is, they keep us busy, out here on these rotten islands.

Huh, some islands. Glorified ant hills. i think i seen rocks in puddles that are better islands.

Don't let those stories about native dancing girls in the grass skirts Mama and Mammy frowned at fool you. Baseless rumors and egregious fibs. If'd'a known it'd be like this, I'da joined the army like you.

i can't say too much, but i think you can guess plenty.

This piece o' bark is running short, and the shells are falling again. What great timing. I'll stuff this note in a bottle and hope some friendly fish will get it to Africa. Or maybe i could send it express by seagull. It's got about as much chance of reaching you as the US Army mail. And it'll prob'ly be faster, too.

Take care o' yourself, Bandit.

Benjamin Pettigrew