An Excerpt from:

SINCERELY YOURS
by Rebecca Goings

BLACKED OUT, October, 1944

My Dearest Kat,

For the first time in years, I cried when I read your letter.  The rose was a wonderful surprise, and it struck me then how much I truly miss the scent of my mother’s flower garden.  You cannot possibly know how much it means to me for you to have thought of me enough to send me this rose.  I’m glad she gave you my picture.  Now we’re even.

I wish I could say that I’m happy here, that I’m proud to be BLACKED OUT but truth be told, I’m not.  A day does not pass that I don’t see someone wounded, or worse, dead.  And who knows at this point how many men my rifle has killed?  That presses on me the most sometimes when I lie in bed awake at night.  But clutching on to your picture seems to help calm me. 

I’m sorry to say that this poor, poor picture has taken quite a beating.  It is wrinkled and folded, and I think it even got wet once.  But I still look at it every day and think fondly of you.  I often wonder what you’re doing when I think of you, whether you’re sleeping, working, eating... Never again will I take America for granted, that’s for sure.  BLACKED OUT  

It’s moments like those that make you proud to be a soldier, but they are too few and far between to be worth it all. 

I’m crying as I write this to you because I’m one of the only surviving members of my original convoy BLACKED OUT a few months ago.  Not even ‘Mad Dog’ Morrison or my friend Craig Bryerson could escape the horror of a minefield we had to cross with enemy fire strafing behind us.  I thought I had a one-way ticket to meet my Maker that day, right along with them.

But this flower, this one simple, little, dried flower that I’m holding in my hand has been the only thing capable of bringing tears to my eyes.  Does that make me a horrible person?  How can you not cry when some of your best friends are blown to kingdom-come right in front of you?

I’m not sure I can stand much more of this.  The more I gaze at your picture, the more I want to feel your arms around me, holding me tight, telling me everything will be all right.  You cannot imagine how often I dream of being with you, of drinking tea in your parlor, of chatting about the weather as if it might rain.  These atrocities of war are images no one should ever have to see, and yet there are children, Kat, children who see these horrors every day, who live them every day, and I cannot . . . I just cannot bear to see their tears any longer.

When you remember me in your prayers, please pray for this war to be over soon as well.  I feel my heart slipping away from me every time I squeeze the trigger.  I don’t want to be a shell of a man.  I want to live, to be alive.  I want a wife, kids, a house, a car, a dog, I want it all!

I’m sorry for venting on you like that, but I have no one to talk to but you.  The guys aren’t friendly any more.  We’ve all given up on making friends, since you seem to lose them every day.  It’s easier that way, to shield yourself from the pain of death.  You cannot cry if you don’t have a connection to the dead soldier in your foxhole.

But what kind of man will I become if I simply stop caring?  I don’t want to stop.  Please help me to stay sane, Katrina.  I need you to keep me grounded.

Always,
Danny

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