January 18, 1945 – A Soldier’s Last Goodbye from World War II

January 18, 1945 – 101st Airborne Division, Bastogne

Somewhere in a frozen battlefield, with life slipping away…

My dearest Eleanor,

If you are reading this, it means I did not make it home. My hands tremble as I write, my fingers stained with blood—some mine, some from the brothers I fought beside. The battle still rages on in the distance, but for me, it is over. My leg is gone, taken by a landmine, and the cold is creeping into my bones faster than I can stop it. I do not have much time. But before I go, before the darkness takes me, I need to speak to you one last time.

I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you, but I have to believe it will. I have to believe that some part of me will make it back to you, even if my body never does.

Eleanor, my love, I am so sorry. I promised you I would return. I swore I would hold you again, that I would kiss you beneath the oak tree where I first asked you to be mine. I told you I would come home and hold our son in my arms. But fate is cruel, and war is even crueler. Our little boy is only five months old, and I have never even seen his face. That is the pain that cuts deeper than any bullet ever could.

I close my eyes, and I try to picture him. Does he have your golden hair? Your warm, kind eyes? Does he have my stubbornness, my laugh? I will never know. I will never hear his first words, never watch him take his first steps. I will never get to tell him how much I love him.

That is why I need you, Eleanor. You must tell him for me. Tell him that his father was not just a soldier, not just another name carved into a memorial. Tell him I was a man who dreamed of coming home. A man who fought not for war, but for peace. A man who loved him, even before he took his first breath.

I am alone now. The others have moved on, charging into the fight, leaving me behind in the snow. The sky above is gray, the wind howling like the cries of the fallen. The warmth is leaving my body, but in my mind, I am not here. I am with you. I am back in our little house, sitting by the fire with you curled up beside me, your head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.

It is still beating, Eleanor. Faint, weak, but still beating. But not for long.

I wish I could hold you one last time. I wish I could press my lips to yours, feel the softness of your skin, run my fingers through your hair. I wish I could watch the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, hear you call my name, tell me everything will be alright. But I know better now.

War takes everything. It takes young men and turns them into ghosts before they even die. It takes love and replaces it with silence. It steals fathers from sons, husbands from wives, leaving behind nothing but grief.

But promise me one thing, my love. Promise me you will live.

Do not let my death steal your joy. Do not let it darken the life we dreamed of building together. Raise our son in laughter, in love. Let him know happiness, let him chase dreams. Tell him it is okay to miss those who are gone, but that life must go on.

And Eleanor, if one day you hear my name in the wind, if you feel a soft touch when no one is there, know that it is me. I will always be with you. Watching, waiting, loving you from beyond.

This is not goodbye, my love. This is just a pause—a brief moment of separation—until we meet again.

Forever yours,
James