Juliet's return to good health was very rapid indeed. The days after her fever broke she was sitting up in bed and eating soup brought to her on a tray by Mother. By the end of the week she was well enough to sit downstairs on the front porch, and look up at the blue, blue sky, and write a letter to Allan.

7 May 1944

Dear Allan,

The first thing that I did when I heard you were safe was cry and cry--I cried my eyes out, I was so glad. Thank God--Thank God, thank God! I can't seem to say it enough. The thought of never seeing you again--never talking with you again--filled me with dread. How could I spend the rest of my years on earth without your company, and your friendship--and your love?

Allan, I'm not going to say I love you--you already know I do. But--it's an entirely different love than I expected or once thought. If you asked me again that dear question you asked the night before you left, I think I might give you a very different answer. An answer that you would like far more than the original one I gave you. I've know reason to expect it, I know--I've treated your feelings horribly. But it is my dearest wish that you would ask again.

I suppose I'm very weak still from my illness because my hand is shaking and my head suddenly is swimming around. I'll write a longer letter later, and oh, my dearest friend, you must write soon.

Love, Juliet.

She put down her pen and stared out past the trees for a moment. Then she sealed and addressed the letter, writing Allan's name on it carefully and with flushed cheeks. Sergeant Major Allan Miller, 9th Canadian Infantry Brigade. That sounded so terribly important. Juliet was sure that Allan loved her, but would Sergeant Major Miller feel the same?

"Juliet," Mother called. "The postman's here and he's brought you this." She handed over a fat little letter with an airmail stamp. Juliet recognized the cramped handwriting on the envelope and her heart beat faster with excitement--and something else.

"Thanks!" Juliet said, grabbing for it. "Oh, Mother, will you give him this one I've just written? I want it in the mail as soon as possible."

Mother held out her white hand, but Juliet had trouble handing it over. It was such a sweet little letter that she'd just written. She kissed the back of it and then, eyes shining, finally let it go. Mother looked down at the name and address, and raised one eyebrow.

"I swear, Juliet, your love affairs are getting to be more complicated than mine ever were," she said loftily.

"You! Love affairs?" laughed Juliet. "I don't believe you. Why, it seems that you and Father must have been married since the dawn of time."

"That's a nice way of saying that we're as old as the hills," said Mother. "But you'd be surprised the things that this old girl has done and seen! I'll go post your letter, you cheeky thing."

And then Juliet was free to read her letter. She took her time, looking at everything--the handwriting was cramped and hurried, with an upward slant, as if Allan had written it in a rush. He'd addressed it to Miss Juliet Kent, New Moon. She grinned. Miss! That might seem old-fashioned, but it was a private joke between them--Allan addressed all of his letters that way. When Juliet had been small, one of the great thrills of her life was being called Miss. And Allan knew it! She thought backwards--all the way back, as far as she could remember. There was not a single thing about her that Allan did not know. He was a part of her history.

Juliet opened the envelope as carefully as if she were defusing a bomb, and gently folded all of the creases out, and read:

30 April 1944

Juliet,

I'm glad to hear that you're getting better every day. Scarlet fever! When Mother wrote with the news you had it, the only thing I could remember was Aunt Emily reading Little Women to us, and how that was the same thing that Beth died of. I would have been terribly worried if I'd heard the news while you were sick, but by the time Mother wrote me, you were already well again. And I'm so glad.

I suppose you want to know what happened to me, so I'll tell you, although parts of it are hazy and parts I don't like talking about. But you, you curious thing, won't rest until you have all the details. You may not be a writer, like Auntie Em, but you have an terrible thirst for details that must be quenched. So I'll tell you.

We--the 9th Infantry--were on our way into Anzio. There'd already been fighting there for weeks--almost two weeks, but even still we didn't know what we were walking into. I can't write more than that--the censors will black it out--but I don't remember much anyway, except that it was dark, and a light rain was coming down. And we were passing olive trees--I never really thought that olives grew on trees. More like bushes. I remember thinking that. They were all by the side of the road. Every few moments someone would send a flare up, and they cast the most ghostly shadows in the light.

I remember a shell hit, and thinking, "Damn!" It was close. The next one was on top of us--it hit the tank in front of me. One minute it was there--the next it was in flames. For the rest of my life, I shall never forget seeing those men around, trying to escape the fire. Then the tank exploded. And I suppose I fainted from the shock of it, because when I woke up later, we were in the same place, and only thing that remained of the tank in front of me was a blackened mark in the ground, and bits of rubble where it stood.

Juliet, the man next to me was dead. He was unmistakably dead--but he looked happier than I'd ever seen him since I knew him. I thought of course that I must be dying, too. I could taste blood running down my cheeks and over my lips. I had trouble seeing out of my left eye, and everytime I breathed in there was a pain in my side. I was sure I was dying, and as I looked around at the bodies all over the road I thought, This is what it's like to be a statistic. I had the awful realization that soldiers are nothing but currency in the game of war. Remember how we used to play Monopoly? I--and all of my comrades-- were no more than that colored paper money.

Up ahead my mates were running around. I could hear them calling--the radio was beeping out a signal in code. I called out feebly to my mates, but they seemed not to hear me. They'd moved on up the road, Juliet, and I had a horrible thought--they hadn't seen me, or hadn't noticed I was still alive. I felt very weary, and closed my eyes. And then a finny thing happened: the greatest feeling of peace sweep over me, and I was at peace with everything, even dying, if I had to die. I didn't mind so much. But Juliet--when I opened my eyes--I was at home again, standing in the yard of New Moon, looking up at your window. You called to me: "Allan! Oh, Allan!" and it was so real. I think I was there, for a few minutes.

By that time the other tanks had gone and I was surrounded by dead men. A moment ago I felt as if I would soon be one of them, but now, with the picture of lovely New Moon in my mind, I pulled myself up and started walking. I had no idea of where to go. I walked until I couldn't walk anymore, and collapsed in an orchard of olive trees. My last thought was again how strange and ghostly they were.

I woke up in a small house. The family who owns it is called Annunzio. They also own the orchard I happened to collapse in. Mama Annunzio took care of me for three days--during which I was too delirious with pain and fever to be moved. I saw the weirdest things, and thought that I had hallucinated the most beautiful girl. She was browned all over, with black, raven curls and a wide smile. When she spoke it sounded like a bird chirruping. When my fever broke, I still saw her, and realized that she was real. Her name is Andalucia, and she is the daughter of the house.

When I was well enough to be moved, they took me to the hospital, five miles away over rocky road. It's run by the Red Cross, but populated by Italian mammas who want to find a good American husband for their girls. They come bringing giant pots of soup, and enough food to, literally, feed an army. Then they show us their daughters' pictures and extol their virtues. Andalucia comes to visit me everyday--twice a day, brining meals from Mama Annunzio. Then she pulls up a chair and gossips to me in Italian. I can't understand her, but I know who she is talking about by how she looks at them. She is a bright, funny girl, and her family is wonderful. They are really the kindest family I have ever come across, and if I worked my whole life to repay them, I wouldn't even come close to paying my debt. They saved my life, Juliet.

I'm not coming home--yet. I have a gash on my forehead from shrapnel, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung, and the hearing has gone tinny in my right ear from the loud blasts. But it may return. I've lost partial sight in one of my eyes--only partial, dear, don't worry. I barely notice it. Even will all of those maladies, I still must go back to the front. Things are picking up over here, and every man is needed. But here I'll stay for the next few weeks, playing the invalid, so write me soon and rescue me from my boredom. Andalucia is a sight for sore eyes, but not a very good conversationalist--since we don't speak the same language, you know.

Yours,

Allan.

Juliet read certain parts of the letter over again. The most beautiful girlAndalucia comes to visit me everydayshe is a sight for sore eyes

She had been expressly forbidden by Mother to do anything strenuous until she was completely better, but Juliet stood now and slipped out of her bedroom slippers and into her boots. She was thinking of the letter she had written, not ten minutes before.

"Allan loves her--Allan loves her," she said helplessly. "What a fool I am! Oh, I must get that letter before it's posted."