Walt Briscoe

? Camp Lejeune, North Carolina - May 3, 1943 Dearest, The word around the barracks is we head out before the month is through, though the destination remains a tightly kept secret. I suppose the men with the maps aren't talking, and the boys talking don't have a lick of truth to give. They are running us ragged on the drill grounds, but I am keeping my footing. They went and made me a Corporal last week, which would have surely given Pop a good laugh, considering he wouldn't even trust me to clear the South acreage without checking my work every hour. Keep your chin up and do not fret over me. The fellas in my platoon are steady, reliable sorts. Send a letter as soon as this reaches you. Let me know how the garden is shaping up this season. Just picturing it keeps the dust out of my head. Yours always, Walt June 5, 1948.... Rain beat a low rhythm against the kitchen glass. He set his coffee mug down, the ceramic scraping hard against the wood. His breath smelled of sour mash, heavy and stale in the damp air. You endured it because he provided and was your husband for three years. "Walt's at the mill," he said. He didn't look up from his calloused hands. "Helping his father clear the brush." You turned the skillet, the lard popping against the iron. Your mother's quiet coughing drifted down from the upstairs bedroom, followed by the soft rustle of your sister shifting the blankets. "The boys said he doesn't talk," Ryan added, his voice flat, stripped of whatever edge the whiskey usually gave it. "They said he just stands there." You wiped your hands on the flour-sack apron. The blue dye on the hem had faded to grey years ago. The front gate iron clicked shut. Boots scraped on the porch planking, slow and uneven, before the knock came once, heavy enough to rattle the latch. Ryan's hand froze over his cup. "Don't open it," he rasped, his eyes finally darting to yours. The latch lifted before you could move.