Dear Andy,

I know you're probably down in the dumps right now about Mary Jane. Well, let me tell you, you're better off without her! Do you know she asked Alice to be her Matron of Honor? What kind of a person dumps a guy and then asks his sister to be part of her wedding? Okay, okay, they're best friends, but that makes it even worse! What kind of a girl dumps her best friend's brother, I ask you! (And what kind of a sister accepts?! Well, don't worry, you have plenty of other sisters who aren't jerks!)

So, like I said, you're better off without her! She's obviously not worth your time. (Love isn't worth your time, but I guess you're the kind of sap who needs that sort of thing. No offence. Most people are saps.)

I realize that getting over her is easier said than done. Well, the best way to get over a girl is to find a new one! Get back in the saddle as the saying goes! (By the way, I took Buttercup for a ride yesterday. She's doing good, but she misses you.) But how do you do that when you're in a POW camp? Don't worry, Andy! I figured it out!

One of the magazines I read has a soldier of the week page. It's kind of a pen pal thing where they showcase a few soldiers and people can write to them. I wrote to them and they're featuring you! See, look! I included the magazine page. There you are. There's even a picture of you!

I bet there's going to be loads of girls that read that who will be falling all over themselves to write to you! You'll have your pick of the litter! Am I the best sister, or what! No need to thank me. (Although if you really wanted to, I know where your piggy bank is hidden and I really need a new baseball bat and glove.)

Take care of yourself over there.

Love,

Rebecca

Carter finished reading his letter and groaned as he fell back into his pillow. The magazine clipping was nowhere to be found—most likely it had been confiscated by their special censors in London who didn't want information about their top-secret saboteurs to be delivered to the enemy—so he had no idea what it said. Knowing Rebecca, it contained more than one fib that turned him into something he wasn't.

The fact of the matter was, he wasn't over Mary Jane and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be. Oh, sure, he didn't want to escape anymore, but it still hurt. His girl in town, Mady, had been great, but that fling fizzled out quickly. Heck, it had fizzled before it could even be classified as a "fling". Two dates and she had decided that it was just too dangerous to be going around with an escaped prisoner of war. While she had no love for the Nazis, she still lived under their thumb and the Gestapo loomed large over everyone. He really didn't blame her for calling it off. Understandable or not, it didn't help the heartache he was feeling.

He wished Rebecca had just left the whole thing alone and had let him figure it out himself.

But what was done, was done. Odds were, any girl would take one look at his photo and decide he wasn't worth the postage.


"Carter, Carter, Carter, Carter," Schultz repeated as he pulled out several letters from his bag. "Ca—" He paused and smelled the next one he pulled out. "Oh, wunderbar! This one smells better than the rest!"

Carter quickly snatched the letters from Schultz's hand. The smell of a dozen perfumes assaulted his nose, nearly causing him the choke.

"Another love fest for Carter, eh?" Newkirk mused from the table where he was smoking a cigarette and playing a game of solitaire. "What's your secret, mate?"

Carter blushed and retreated into his bunk. He tossed the letters to the end of his bed where they could stew in their fragrances. "My sister," he grumbled.

Newkirk whipped around and arched an eyebrow. "Your sister is sending you perfumed letters?"

"No!" Carter cried. "No, she signed me up for some dumb pen pal thing and now I'm getting all these letters from complete strangers who want to marry me! Boy, there are some whackadoos out there!"

"Seems you could have worse problems," Newkirk grumbled. "Oi, Schultzie, any mail for me?"

"Not today, Newkirk," Schultz apologized.

"You want to read some of mine? It's not like I know them or they know me," Carter said. He leaned forward to dare the swamp of perfume to pull out a few letters.

"No thanks," Newkirk said curtly. "I don't want to be writing to anyone who is interested in you."

The smell and Newkirk's comment made Carter scrunch his nose. "Suit yourself."

He sighed— regretting the action when his lungs burned— and grabbed a letter off the pile. On its own, it actually smelled really nice.

It had been four months since his sister had written to tell him about that magazine. The very next month he had received a deluge of letters from women all over the United States. Rebecca must have really played fast and loose with the facts—-he wouldn't have been surprised if she had sent in a picture of Clark Gable considering how many women were writing to him.

A good portion of the letters came from women who seemed downright crazy. He didn't know how some of the more explicit content had made it past the censors, but a few letters had made Carter's face burn with embarrassment. He would've handed them over to someone who would appreciate them more, but he didn't want the guys to tease him about not being able to handle such racy letters. He didn't dare throw them into the fire for fear the perfume would cause an explosion. So he locked them away in a little case where no one could find them. He'd find a way to dispose of them later. Heck, maybe he'd combine the noxious collection and use them to create some sort of stink bomb.

But it wasn't all a hopeless venture. Some letters were sensible and sweet. He actually found himself enjoying them. He had written back to several women with the intention of striking up a friendship—after all, a guy could always use a few friends, especially when he was a prisoner behind enemy lines. And he found it much easier to converse with a woman in writing than he did face to face. When confronted with a real live woman, he often found himself tongue-tied and more than a little awkward. But in writing, he felt he could really be himself.

The letter in his hands was from a girl named Sophie. He had replied to her first letter two months ago and now she was writing him back. That made him happy. She seemed like a nice girl and he didn't mind the opportunity to know her better. When he finished her letter, he grabbed a pad of paper to write her back immediately. With that done, he grabbed another letter from the pile. It turned out three more of them were replies from earlier correspondents. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

Maybe Rebecca did deserve to raid his piggy bank after all.


Five months later, Carter was regularly corresponding with at least two dozen women. He felt like kind of a heel for having so many girls write him—and more than a little embarrassed that LeBeau referred to them as his harem—but he figured a guy like him needed all the chances he could get.

Despite his initial misgivings, he had actually found himself falling in love with a few of them and, unless he was grossly mistaken, he had the feeling that they were falling in love with him. Could it be that one of them was "the one"?

Carter grabbed a letter from the pile. He couldn't pick out a specific scent, but the name gave him a thrill. Sophie. Gosh, she was something. She had sent him a picture two months ago and he had found himself daydreaming about her more than once.

He eagerly tore open the envelope and began reading.

Dear Andrew,

I've really enjoyed corresponding with you over the last few months. But I think I might have given you the wrong impression when I said I loved you. See, I actually already have a boyfriend. He just came back on leave and I remembered how much I love him and I just don't feel right about continuing to write to you. I hope we can still be friends, but please don't write me anymore.

Sophie.

Oh.

Well, that was disappointing.

Carter frowned and studied the letter in disbelief. Things had been going so well and now it was over, just like that. Sophie had had a guy all along. Boy, if that didn't take the cake!

Well, disappointing as that was, the whole point of these letters was to remind him that there were more fish in the sea. So, he pushed aside any gloomy thoughts that were forming in his head and grabbed another letter. It smelled heavenly and was from a girl named Abigail. She was nice. Carter liked her.

Dear Andy,

How are you? Have I ever told you that you're so brave and wonderful for staying so cheerful during your captivity? I don't know how you do it. You must be made of something special! I certainly think so, anyway. I can't tell you how much I enjoy receiving your letters. They're the highlight of my life. Really. I hope you will return my feelings when I say I love you.

You'll never believe what happened to me! I opened the door the other day and there was a baby on my front step. Some poor soul must have made a bad decision, saw me and thought I would make a good mother! She's such a dear little girl, I fell in love immediately and couldn't bring myself to take her to an orphanage. I swear, she has my eyes and nose!

I hope when you get home, we can meet. And I hope you will fall in love with this baby as much as I have. We would make such a perfect little family.

I love you dearly,

Abigail

Nope!

Carter might have been a dope, but he had heard all about the whole "baby on the doorstep" routine and he wasn't about to fall for it. He liked Abigail, but not that much!

He grabbed another letter. This one was from Martha, an interesting girl who was going to university to study chemistry. Could there be a more perfect match?

Dear Andrew,

Your last letter didn't make any sense. Your conclusions about molecular orbital theory are ridiculous. I suggest you re-read Charles Coulson's work on the subject. Until then, don't write back!

Ooookay. Since he doubted the camp library held any reference to Coulson, he assumed this correspondence was over.

Thankfully the next letter in the pile was more uplifting. Penny was still sensible and thought he was a real catch.

He finished the letter and laid it on his notepad. But before he wrote back, he looked over the "Dear Johns" he had just received. He supposed the best thing to do would be to throw them out. But then one of the guys might find them and tease him about them.

With a shrug, he put them away in the case where he kept his other unwanted letters.


Six months later and his case of unwanted letters was practically overflowing. A sizable chunk of them could be classified as Dear Johns. It seemed his luck with women hadn't improved at all. It had almost become a game to see why they were throwing him over.

I didn't realize you have blue eyes. I hate blue eyes.

My husband doesn't want me writing you anymore.

I've decided I can't date someone who spent the whole war as a prisoner. I want to be proud of my husband's war record!

I found someone else.

You like The Andrews Sisters? I can't stand them. I guess we're not the match I thought we were!

I don't want to wait for you.

I just realized your last name starts with C. And since my name is Francine Ursula, I don't think that would make for good initials.

If it wasn't one thing, it was another. All the Dear Johns served as a double-edged sword. On the one hand, no one liked rejection and, boy, had Carter received an avalanche in the last few months. But, on the other hand, receiving so much rejection had kind of numbed him to it. And he found that Mary Jane's rejection didn't hurt so much anymore. In fact, there was only one conclusion for it all: women were just plain crazy!

Seeing as that was the case, Carter didn't bother to open his latest letter. He just held it against his forehead and closed his eyes. "Yep, a Dear John," he said before putting it in what he had dubbed his "Dear John Case."

Then he pulled out his pad of paper and began to write.

Dear Rebecca,

You better put all that money back in my piggy bank. And the next time you get a brilliant idea about my love life, forget it!