Author's note 1:Apparently all I can last is 3 days between stories. I've read some Rumbelle ww2 era stories but none quite like this, I don't believe. Also, please be aware of the time period and the tags. There will be some deaths, but I promise a hea for our favorite couple :)

I also want to warn-I might use words that cause offense, that's not my intention, just trying to speak a bit like they did at that time period.
Speaking of time period: I am reading as much as I can about the time period (I read about 3-4 articles per about 1,000 words), but I may still mess something up. I apologize in advance.
In conclusion-I do not own any characters from Once Upon a Time. I am just a fan writing a fun story.

Chapter 1 The Lonely Soldier

The tiny town house was lined from wall to wall with army green bags, some filled with poor sleeping souls, some were used as an extra precaution against the ever increasingly cold European landscape as they huddled up in all their glorious stink and tried to keep warm. A handful of men were crouched near the doorway, a cigarette in their one hand, a photograph, lucky charm or memento in another. One man was sitting near the edge of his bag, paper laid as carefully as he could, and writing with ever increasing glances along the room to make sure there was no one to be privy to the words that went on his paper-the man beside him chuckling over his antics and asking if he would just describe the girl he wrote to or had he already forgot?

Roger closed his eyes taking in the stink and the chatter of the men and the ominous quiet outside the house they had borrowed-it wouldn't be quiet for long. He thought about the endless trekking they had been subject to over the past few days and the coffee and bread he had eaten and how he wished it was something better (it was truly brutal to imagine every sweet and savory thing he could conjure up and his grumbling stomach attested to it), especially now as he was making decent money for the first time in his life. No wife or child or sweetheart, or parent or anyone in the entire world to send it to-so it all was saved on the very slim chance that he survived the hell that was now his life.

'Mail bag, Mail bag!' was shouted, a rumble of men moving around followed, Roger merely stayed exactly where he was. As was reflected before, he had no one to write to him, so there was no need to even pay attention. He was glad when he heard 'Private Cassidy!' and heard the boy scramble up eagerly to get the letter that was sure to be from his widowed mother back in New York state. So young-seventeen-would have had to have his mama sign his draft papers to let him come. Roger's heart quivered with every skirmish, every battle, breathing a sigh of relief every time the wide eyed child (for that was only how he could be thought of) was still among their number.

He heard the names of several other men-he could almost anticipate the names called, they were spoken so often when it came time for mail from home. A wail was heard from one corner. 'She had the baby, look an 'em, lookin' just like my old man too!' The proud soldier made the boys around him look at the tiny photograph of the infant.

He heard a couple of sighs of 'what a dame, what a dame-did I tell you about the time…' or 'That old girl, she'll spend it all before I come back or I'm a monkey's uncle.' and ended such things with a snort or a laugh.

'Corporal Gold!'

Roger started. How many months had he been in this bloody, wretched war torn place and had never heard his name out of the mouth of the mail carrier? Had his father somehow gotten his information? He supposed he could have sent it to him via the States then to be sent out? But surely not. He doubted if his father had given him one thought since he left him all those years ago.

Before they could say his name again and thus call attention to himself, he had pulled away the top of the sleeping bag and scrambled up to the scruffy looking man laden with the mail bag. He hardly trembled anymore when he had bombs and bullets going off around him (that wasn't exactly true-he was in a trembling state since he left home ten years ago, but he just went from one thing he was scared of to another, so he hardly noticed anymore), but he felt himself tense up when he went to go get his letter. Sergeant Jeffries stood nearby, no doubt eager to hear that he himself had some sort of correspondence, and had that crazy look in his eyes.

'A letter for Gold now, and it will be from some right pretty dame, I shouldn't wonder.'

While his talent and charisma had promoted him before Roger ever had the chance (he didn't blame Jeffries, Roger wasn't the type and he honestly didn't want the extra responsibility though the pay wouldn't have hurt) Jeffries was still the guy that had been bugging him and making him feel in a constant state of annoyance since they had trained together. They had come to some sort of connection or bond because they were a few of the 'old ones' which was anyone older than the age of 25 around there.

'Ya wouldn't know something about this, sir?' He narrowed his eyes at him, though made sure none of the other officers or privates even were near enough to see or hear this broach of disrespect, no matter that they were not on alert or in the thick of a battle as of right this moment.

Jeffries shrugged his shoulders and his eyes twinkled mischievously. So that would be a yes then, he thought.

Somehow the mirth that Jeffries found in it all made him feel more at ease, and instead had a genuine sense of curiosity. It wasn't his father, he supposed, if the new Sergeant was grinning like a Cheshire cat, so he supposed he could open it without cutting himself on the nerves.

There was his name, written in the middle address line, though the handwriting differed from the rest of the letter and the address written from the sender. The censor stamp and initials made the third set of handwriting and there in the blank space was the loopy handwriting that was definitely of the female variety.

'Dear Sir,

I do hope you are able to read this. This is my first time writing a letter on this type of paper and there's such a list of do's and don'ts that I'm afraid I'll somehow make everything illegible or it will get damaged in the process.

I also hope you do not find my letter forward or unwelcome. While my community is riddled with empty chairs and yellow ribbons on their doorposts, my own door has been very obviously free of such reminders. When the Red Cross posted their desire to send letters to men who don't receive much correspondence, I thought it would be a chance to help in a way I hadn't before.

Now, to know what a stranger would want to hear. According to the suggestions I've been given, you'll not want to hear anything very domestic, so I won't bore you with such trivialities, you want no reminder of your current state, and I am to ask no personal details, for fear of detection (our dear censor I am sure would appreciate not having to black out any portion).

Would you be horribly upset at some sort of correspondence, sir? I can not promise to be the most interesting pen pal, but I shall endeavor to be consistent.

What else is there to write about? The season is getting colder here and the trees here have put on quite the show-puts me in mind of 'Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour.'

I promise I am not so melancholy, and this letter is supposed to be everything uplifting and encouraging. I am off to a terrible start, aren't I?

The letters are not to be long, and I've already filled it to bursting.

Your newly acquainted friend,

Belle French'

Roger read the letter a half dozen times, trying to figure out exactly what it all meant. He also tried his best not to burn with humiliation that he was singled out because his loneliness in the world was so obvious. He ran his fingers through his hair.

'Corporal Gold?'

He turned his face to Cassidy at his side as he held on to his own letter and looked curiously at his.

'Who was your letter from, if you don't mind me asking?'

Now he rubbed the back of his neck. He looked around at the men in various states of what they were doing before, only now a handful were smiling or looking wistful (or some even blushing, though he wouldn't think too much on that) at the pieces of paper in front of them. They didn't seem to be paying much attention to his conversation so he decided he might as well reply as not.

'Aye, it's fine, 's suppose. It's from eh lassie I've never met before.'

'I didn't think I had ever heard you mention a wife or sweetheart-but then again, the boys and I have always said you're more a mystery than all the officers put together!'

He narrowed his eyes, but not angrily. He didn't like giving his information, and he didn't really enjoy hearing details about 'the boys' either. The more he knew, the harder it was when they didn't make it. Cassidy was just so naively open that he would have had to be stupid not to have gathered his personal information. He also looked at him with such large puppy eyes it would be hard to be upset when such information was lad shared his life's story of growing up in the New York state, where there were more woods and game than could be imagined. He was the opposite of Roger, open where he was closed, warm where he had grown up cold and hardened and bitter and wary. Cassidy was too naive to be scared when he first came, and it wasn't until he had his first major skirmish that pain replaced the excitement and adventure. He was angry at the world for taking away the boy's innocence, and yet Roger could not have been more proud that after he had pulled him up and given him a look that said they had to carry on whether they wanted to or not, the boy rallied himself and while the young lad that came with him was no longer there, the young man that could fight through the pain of the memories they would forever carry with them was nothing short of brave in his book. Thus, again, nothing like himself. He always hoped the fear that clung to him like an unwanted plague wasn't as obvious to others as it was to him. He hated every second he was in training, and then every second that he had been on foreign soil. There was no desire for fame and glory-he wanted no medals, he just wanted to get out. Honestly , he had no reason to be there outside of Uncle Sam pulling him by the collar and putting him there against his will. There was no family or friend or loved one that made what he was doing feel worthwhile. While he was supportive of the cause, he hadn't the drive so many of his fellow soldiers did. He was a coward in a soldier's uniform-and he hated himself about as much as the circumstances that made it so obvious.

'No, no wife or sweetheart, nor mother or father that would want to know whether I lived or died.'

Cassidy's eyes went wide, but he knew better than to look on with pity. 'No one?!'

Roger shook his head. Cassidy understood and asked no more about it.

'And so this girl?'

'Some sort o' volunteer work-the war effort and all that. Probably some sort of prim little princess thinking she's doing some grand effort and this letter will inspire me to turn the tide and win the war. V-mail! You write, he'll fight!' He trilled, mocking the advertisement had had seen on one of the pamphlets he'd seen.

Cassidy smiled, his face all puffy and freckled, and young.

'Will you write her back?'

'I dunno-Cannae decide yet. She probably wrote twenty o' these and thought she had done her duty.'

'You should! You'll never know unless you write, will you?'

Roger didn't want Cassidy to know what it would mean to have someone in the wide world to know and think about him-to care if his name was on the list of the wounded or dead. It would be too much of a dream to then be so thoroughly broken when he would wait weeks and receive nothing. When he would care and she wouldn't because her perfect little world was too smiling and happy to include a lonely soldier. Then again, he might not even make it long enough to really fret-what was the hurt in trying, if so?

After he had his discussion with Cassidy, he asked for a letter form that they used for the new V-mail, and began to write.

Author's Note 2:Let me know what you think!

Historical facts:
V-mail: A new type of mail service for US soldiers. You can look up Vmail and find out how it worked and all the issues people had with it!
I made up the whole thing about the American Red cross asking for people to correspond with soldiers who were lonely, however, the red cross were big proponents of the 'you write, he fights' and had a whole list of dos and don'ts for women to follow when they wrote.