Dear Mrs. Morris

“You did what!?” Margot cried.

"Calm down, honey, please!” Arthur begged his wife.

"How can you expect me to calm down when you just signed up for..."

"Look, it’s just eight months. I’ll be back before you know it, ok?”

Margot turned away in exasperation, but she did so primarily to hide the tear running down her cheek. She didn’t want Arthur, her Arthur, to end up like all those other men—just a name on a slab of stone, a picture hung on the wall, a letter sent with little sympathy.

"Just come back safe, ok? Promise me you’ll come back safe!” Margot whirled around and grabbed her husband by the shoulders, her face streaked with tears.

“I-I promise. I’ll always come back to you, Margot. Always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Private Morris! Now isn’t the time to daydream!” Sergeant Grant barked.

Arthur looked up at the tall, muscular, battle-scarred man standing before him. Sergeant Grant was standing at the front of the roofless wagon, dragging them to boot camp.

Yes, boot camp. Arthur Morris, a 25-year-old bank teller, was joining the army. Fredrick Morris, Arthur’s father, had skipped college and ran straight to the military. He was killed in action, and Arthur barely remembered him. His mother fell into depression, and Arthur, being the oldest child, had to take care of his family.

He wanted revenge against the people who had killed his father. He wanted revenge against the people who had caused his mother to break. He wanted revenge against the people who forced him to become a man when he was ten years old.

He would get his revenge but also learn that history repeats itself.

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"Alright, you Buffleheads, up and at ‘em!” Sergeant Grant swung the door to the soldier's barracks open faster than the speed of light.

Arthur shot up in bed, banging his head against the ceiling. Below him, he felt a jolt, and the soldier on the bottom bunk cried out. The dozen soldiers in the squad scrambled out of bed and into their army fatigues.

"My brother was in the army and said you should always sleep with your fatigues on.” A soldier next to Arthur, Private Murphy, whispered.

"If you want to talk, speak up!” Sergeant Grant shouted, spraying spittle in our direction.

Private Murphy ducked down low, trying not to be noticed, but the sergeant came marching over.

"I'm talkin’ to you, Murphy! Speak it like you mean it.”

And that was what boot camp life was like. Arthur wasn’t prepared for it, but at least he got used to it. The best part was the letters. He loved writing sweet and sappy letters to Margot, and she loved writing them back. He felt lucky that he had someone to write to, unlike some of the other soldiers. Things were pretty great, considering the circumstances.

Too bad it wouldn’t last.

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Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow. Today was the day they’d been training for: their first real battle. Arthur’s heart beat so fast, he thought it was going for a world record. All the soldiers around him were shaking with fear. Some tried to hide it with stale jokes; others just kept it to themselves.

As they marched up the hill, Arthur thought about Margot. Judging from where the sun was, she was probably finishing up with the breakfast shift at the restaurant where she worked. Just thinking about that made Arthur’s stomach grumble. He longed for Margot’s cooking, easy smiles, patience, and honesty. Those things were hard to come by in the army.

Gasping for air, Arthur reached the top of a green emerald blanket beneath his feet. It smelled freshly cut, dewy, and soft to the touch. He gulped for air, and fire caught in his larynx. He blinked away the sweat collecting on his brows and lashes and realized the golden specs on the grass were real. The contrast against the blue sky made his head spin, and the clouds floated along the wind like sheep guided by a shepherd.

But down in the valley were rows of soldiers, tanks, medics, and machine gun turrets. The two sides were clashing already, and the ground was littered with bodies.

Arthur paused as the rest of the group made their way down into the valley. He gazed at all the men lying motionless in the grass. A ruby-colored liquid pooled around the soldiers, and Arthur realized with a start that it was blood. Fifteen years ago, on a battlefield not much different from this one, his father had been shot dead by a .308 caliber rifle.

Anger coursed through Arthur’s veins at the thought of his father. The fear that had initially taken over his being vanished as he remembered why he had signed up for the army in the first place. His father. Revenge.

"Private Morris, duck!” Sergeant Murphy roared over the sound of machine gun fire.

Arthur looked at the Sergeant; his eyes were glued to something a few inches from Arthur’s arm. He looked down at the sleeve of his army uniform but saw nothing wrong with it. He looked back up at the Sergeant and smiled before everything went black.

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Margot stood outside in the blazing heat, waiting, waiting, waiting for the mailman to come. When he finally did, Margot gingerly opened the letter he handed her. It was written in official-looking print, and the contents of it took her breath away.

She couldn’t believe it; it had to be a fake! And yet, something about the official government seal and the signature at the bottom made it look natural. No. No! She refused to believe it. He had promised her! Arthur never broke a promise!

As Margot burst inside the house, she could feel her heart breaking. Tears filled her eyes as she collapsed into a chair. Right then, a saying floated into her head: “Like father, like son.” That just made Margot cry harder.

When she had shed an ocean's worth of tears, Margot washed her face in the kitchen sink and returned to re-read the letter.

"Dear Mrs. Morris,

The United States Army reluctantly informs you that your husband, Arthur Morris, is missing in action. We highly suspect that he is dead, although we cannot confirm this. You will receive financial compensation for this mournful occurrence, specifically DIC and SGLI.

With deepest apologies,

Marcus Grant

US Army Sergeant”

Arthur had broken his promise to Margot. He wasn’t coming back. He was gone.

Forever.

Right?

Right!?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur woke to the clattering of wheels on an uneven dirt road. He saw puffy white clouds hanging in a perfect, clear blue sky. His nose wrinkled with the smell of sweat and blood, and he noticed he was in the back of a truck carrying dead bodies. They thought he was dead.

Arthur winced as he felt the pain in his arm for the first time since he woke up. He’d been shot. Sergeant Grant had been trying to warn him!

He knew he had to focus on the present. He wanted to get home, to see Margot again. He had to get off this truck of corpses. Now.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur jumped off the truck and rolled to a painful stop in a ditch at the side of the road. His arm felt like it was on fire, and he was losing a lot of blood, but at least he was alive. Now, he had to find his way back home. Home. Yes, home to Margot and his tedious job as a bank teller, boring but safe.

Arthur got to his feet unsteadily and looked around. On either side of the dirt road was forest, and beyond that were columns of smoke. Smoke meant civilization. Hopefully, he could find a phone or something and call Margot.

She probably thought he was dead, and that broke his heart. He loved Margot deeply; she saw the bright side of everything but didn’t have a strong heart. Oh, Margot! Arthur couldn’t imagine Margot in depression, but he knew that the letter about his death had broken her. It must’ve.

Arthur limped towards the columns of smoke and stopped when he got to the forest's edge. It wasn’t a city or a factory. Not even close. In what used to be a giant grass field were dozens upon dozens of smoking machinery, war machinery.

Next to the piles of metal were– Arthur felt bile rising in his throat. Next to the piles of metal were bodies. Some were soldiers; some were just civilians. The soldiers’ uniforms showed that they were enemy soldiers, but they weren’t responsible for what their government was doing. They were innocent people who wanted the same thing Arthur did: revenge for a loved one.

Why did they have to die? Why did anyone have to die? Why was there a war at all?

Arthur stood with his back against a tree and slid down to the ground. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He sobbed for all the dead soldiers. For their families, patiently waiting for their husbands, sons, and brothers to come home. For the civilians caught in the crossfire. For the refugees searching desperately for a new home and finding only more battlefields. More cemeteries.

When he had sobbed his heart out, Arthur stood and wiped the tears from his eyes. He was about to start walking when suddenly he heard a high-pitched whistle in the air. Arthur had enough time to duck before a grenade bounced off the tree he was leaning on and exploded. The blast blew Arthur into the air and slammed him, hurt-arm-first, against a boulder. A blinding pain invaded his senses, and everything went black.

Permanently.

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Margot was devastated. The love of her life had been taken away from her. Arthur was gone, just like his father, swept away by the arms of war and the cold grip of Death. He would not be coming back. Her Arthur was no more.

Margot continued working; she needed the money. But in her spare time, she thought about everything. She had read the letter so many times she could recite it perfectly. Yet, she still couldn’t believe it.

Arthur had broken his promise, something he had never done before. He said it would only take eight months. He said he’d be back before Margot knew it. He didn’t come back.

Then, a question popped into Margot’s mind, a question that terrified her, a question that infuriated her, a question that helped her escape depression.

What if Arthur was still alive?

She knew it wasn’t possible; the army didn’t lie. But she didn’t want to feel this heartbreak; she wanted hope. She needed Hope. To survive.

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A few months later…

Margot sat propped against a pillow in a hospital bed. In her arms, she cradled her baby girl. This glowing baby was Arthur’s and looked painfully like him. The eye color and the shape of the nose all reflected her lost husband.

Margot had been seeing a therapist, and she had coped with the loss of her husband. Even though they had never discussed names for their child, she knew what Arthur would want.

Margot held up her baby and smiled, “Welcome to the world, Hope Morris.”