Sunday 30 January, 1944

Dear Arthur,

I hope this letter reaches you all right. Just a quick note to let you know that all is well. I can't say much... the censors monitor everything we write, and they might cut it out.

We arrived here the other day. Pretty messed up landing but we are getting on our feet. Hope you are well!

From Alfred.

.

Sunday 6 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Things getting better. This place is amazing, but I miss... England. Yeah. I think about England all the time. I can't wait to get back to... England.

Still can't say a lot, but... let's just say the Krauts have good reason to be pretty darn scared now that the Americans are here! Oh, and the Canadian too. Matthew sends his greetings!

From Alfred.

.

Tuesday 15 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Sorry these letters are so short - we're not supposed to say much.

The weather is good. Food terrible. Still miss England.

Yesterday was Saint Valentine's Day. Next year I will send a real Valentine. Until then...

Lo... From Alfred.

.

Thursday 17 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Getting this sent with the officer's mail so hopefully it gets past the censors.

These Krauts fight pretty damn hard. I've taken down four of em already - that's the most in the whole squad! Their Messerschmitts ain't no match for our Mustangs!

Our song came on the radio this morning. I was singing along until the guys in the squad started throwing empty cans at me for no reason. I guess they're just jealous that I've bagged more Krauts than any of em.

I still miss England. Oh, and in case you're confused, when I say England I mean you.

Love, Alfred.

.

Monday 28 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

I found out today that the Krauts have a name for me. They call me - you're gonna love this one - the Magician. Because I appear and disappear like magic. Great, isn't it! Lady Beth and I are the terror of the skies! Matt is really jealous, even though he says he isn't. I always said I was the hero of the squad!

I keep your handkerchief close to my heart every day. But I can't say too much. Even though this is sent with the officer's mail there is still a chance it'll be seen by the censors.

Love, Alfred.

P.S. Just to prove I really am a Magician, I'm going to do something AMAZING - add an extra day to the month! That's right! Just you wait, I'm gonna make February twenty-nine days long this year!

.

Tuesday 29 February, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Abracadabra! 29th of February, told you I'd do it!

Love, Alfred.

.

Thursday 9 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Things aren't going as well as planned, but we've been told to expect that. Matt and I are fine but some of the squad... well...

I have to be careful of the censors.

The higher ups tell us that things will get better once reinforcements arrive. Guess we just have to hold out 'til then.

On a brighter note, bagged me another Kraut today, which makes me officially a fighter ace. They say I might get a medal. Funny... I thought I would be happier about that.

But if I fight and defeat them here, that means they won't get to England. That's what I think about every time I go up.

Love, Alfred.

.

Wednesday 15 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Two of my squad were captured yesterday. No sign of those reinforcements we were promised. We've been told we might be moving out soon but no word on when.

Knowing that you are safe and waiting for me gets me through each mission. Right now it's the only thing that does.

Love, Alfred.

.

Sunday 19 March, 1944

Dear Arthur,

Well, we were told we'd be heading to France but no sign of that... just stuck here day after day going nowhere. The countryside would be pretty if it weren't for the burnt out tanks and flattened barns everywhere. And the villagers are friendly enough but they seem so damn scared... and I don't blame em. And the assaults keep coming, and we go up and do our job, but it don't seem to do nothing.

Getting sick and tired of this place. God knows how long we'll be here.

Lost three more of my squad this morning. Three in one morning... Damn sick and tired.

There's nothing I wouldn't do right now to hold you for just one minute. I want it so much it hurts. Damn the censors, I don't give a damn anymore. If you're getting these letters it means they got through. I pray you're getting these letters.

All my love, Alfred.

.

Thursday 23 March 1944

Dear Arthur,

It's funny. I've shot down more of the enemy than anyone out here and yet... it doesn't feel like I thought it would.

We bagged this German pilot today. Flew like an eagle, all power and strength and grace, you know. Took a pack of us to bring him down and he still survived. He told us his name - Ludwig something or other - his rank and his number, and that was it. We bring him into the base and one of the guys takes the German's wallet. He pulls out this photograph and starts laughing, showing it to all the guys... and the German just stares at them with this look that is both the most terrifying and the saddest thing I ever saw. I didn't think it was right, so I take it off the guy, thinking it's a picture of Ludwig's wife or something. It's not. It's this young guy, smiling this bright laughing smile, this young guy with dark eyes and dark hair that sticks up in this one wild curl. And he don't look like no relation to this blond haired blue eyed German. It's strange. I didn't think that I would have anything in common with the Krauts. Seems I was wrong.

The special forces arrived soon after and took the German away. Before they left I put the photograph in his pocket when no one was looking. He didn't say nothing, but I ain't never seen someone look so grateful. And I thought how strange it was... that it was people like this that I'm shooting down. Just ordinary people with dreams and hopes and photographs.

There were two words written on the back of the picture... "Bella Ciao." It means "Goodbye, Beautiful."

Love always, Alfred.

***
Arthur held the latest letter to his chest and let out a deep, yearning sigh. He had already read it eight times. He was not sure whether the letters helped or made things worse. Of course he devoured every word, but being left with no way to respond was almost unbearable. Each sentence stabbed at his heart. With every letter Alfred seemed to lose a little more of that naivety and wide eyed optimism that had made him so endearing and so exasperating at the same time. But it seemed the reality that had been thrust upon Alfred had also made him more open, more understanding. While sometimes painful, each letter also left Arthur a little more in love than he had been before.

It had been hard to get back to normal life after Alfred had gone. Arthur was completely unprepared for how much he would miss the bloody Yank. After the life and joy and, well, sheer bloody frustration that Alfred had brought into his life, the days without him now felt flat and empty.

Arthur waited anxiously every day to see if a letter would be delivered. The postman was slowly getting used to being practically accosted when he came to the door. And Arthur was almost obsessed with reading every newspaper he could get his hands on, talking to every returning soldier, listening to radio broadcasts day and night, desperate for any news he could possibly get on the war in Europe. Gathering information on the war had become his life, to the extent that he wondered what he ever had to do with himself before Alfred had appeared and turned everything upside down.

Arthur took one last look at the letter, folded it, and placed it carefully in a locked drawer behind the counter. He looked around to see if he was needed, but the evening was fairly slow. The evenings generally were these days, now that the Americans had disappeared. Only a few regulars remained in the pub, clustering around the far end of the bar and making small talk about the war. A few months earlier Arthur would have been bored stiff with the conversation. Now, he hung on every word.

"They say the landings in Italy went appallingly," said one of the men, a gentleman in a suit who tapped his pipe against the bar and sent ash flying everywhere. Arthur barely noticed, too focused on the man's words.

"Of course the Americans would make an awful great mess of it," agreed an elderly regular, who looked disapprovingly at the pipe ash settling on the bar.

"I heard the Germans were tipped off somehow," added another patron, tapping his glass to be heard. "Seems someone was in on it."

"Well I hear the Germans are about ready to pull out of there. Just about had enough," said Arthur. Well, an English soldier had mentioned something to him along those lines earlier in the week. Arthur wasn't sure how reliable the information was, but he wanted to believe it.

"Smartest thing they've done in the whole bloody war, I say," said the regular. "Although certain sources of information would have us believe otherwise."

"Oh! That reminds me." Arthur reached for the wireless and fiddled with the dial. He smiled wryly to himself, remembering how only several weeks ago he had told Alfred that he couldn't stand the radio. Now he was practically glued to the thing. He scrolled through the endless static until he found what he was looking for.

"Germany calling, Germany calling..."

The grating voice was met by a chorus of groans. "Why are you listening to that traitor, Arthur?" asked the pipe smoking gentleman.

"At least we get some information from him," said the elderly patron.

"Bah! All lies, you all know that. He'll be hanged, that Lord Haw Haw, you wait and see."

"And good riddance to him! Doesn't mean we can't hear what he has to say right now."

Arthur ignored the men. He listened to Lord Haw Haw's every radio broadcast. As difficult as it was to listen to the traitor's posh, smarmy voice night after night telling the English nation they were fighting a losing battle, talking about the superiority of the German nation and spinning obvious lies about the war, occasional truths got through and Lord Haw Haw's broadcast was one of the only places to get information on the fate of Allied troops.

A heated debate quickly sprung up among the pub patrons, but Arthur was too busy trying to hear the radio to get involved. Most of the time the broadcast held nothing of interest, but over the din Arthur managed to hear a few words which caught his attention. Italy... American... pilot... "Ssh," said Arthur, holding up his hand. "What's that he's saying?" He turned up the radio and the men fell quiet as Haw Haw's jarring voice filled the room.

"The New York Times reported today that an American fighter ace over Italy has shot down nine German planes single-handedly in the midst of an ambush. This is, of course, an absurdity. The pilot, whose name was not released but who is referred to as 'The Magician,' was unable to take down a single Messerschmitt before his plane, a P-51 Mustang named the 'Lady Beth,' was shot down over the Italo-Austrian border..."

Arthur ceased to hear anything. The radio faded to a distant hum as black waves pounded through his head. The phrase repeated in his head over and over... a P-51 Mustang named the 'Lady Beth' was shot down... Arthur looked around for a chair but, not finding one, sank to the ground. Alfred's plane shot down over enemy territory... Alfred's plane... Alfred...

Arthur couldn't breathe. This wasn't real. He had imagined it... surely he had imagined it... The distant hum snapped back into focus and that awful voice droned on above him, cutting into him, slicing his heart and his sanity into pieces. The cruel words refused to stop.

"The pilot was captured barely alive by German forces soon after being shot down. He is believed to be a valuable officer in the American Army Air Force and thus in possession of a vast amount of important information. He has been taken into official custody by the SS and will be questioned extensively before he..."

The radio faded into pounding black waves once again. SS... questioned extensively... before he... oh God before he what... "I can't breathe..."

Unrecognizable voices thrummed through the thick air around him.

"Get some water."

"Someone call a doctor!"

The room tilted dangerously. Arthur didn't even notice he was screaming until someone appeared before him, taking his hands and trying to calm him. Arthur couldn't hear anything clearly but those terrible words. Lady Beth... shot down... barely alive... questioned extensively... SS...

Arthur tried to nod. He tried to say he was all right. But he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. Alfred was captured and soon to be interrogated. And after that... the SS weren't exactly known for letting prisoners go free. Arthur swallowed a wave of nausea and fought to stay conscious. He barely noticed the people around him.

Of course Arthur wasn't all right. How could anything ever be all right now?