I didn’t believe in that weird voodoo crap. Not me, never. If I could touch it, it was real. And they say there are no atheists in foxholes—guess that much is true. But when there are sniper rounds parting your hair more often than a comb does, you get a lot more interested in the REAL—in the here and now.
So when Stewie Shimes started writing letters to his girl—not just every day—but all the damned time, I thought he was nuts. He must have had 20 of them…ones he never mailed. He wrote others of course, that he DID mail. But he was always scratching away—love songs, poetry, some damned thing.
One night we got word—the next day was going to be bad. Normally, the brass doesn’t share that sort of thing. After two years of combat, you get a way of knowing how the wind feels, or smells—and it tells you what’s coming. But that’s not voodoo anymore than knowing the smell of rain when you first get up, even when the sky isn’t saying a word.
Now I need to tell you a word about Lucille. We all had sweethearts—some of us had more than one. Old Dexter had so many photos it looked like he was trying for a deck of cards. But for Stewie, there was only Lucille. When a man hands you a photo of his lady, you always say something nice—it’s required. That’s manners.
But Lucille…whatever it was she had didn’t show up real well. She wasn’t ugly—but this was no dish. Stewie and I had been in the same regiment for two years. And late at night when sleep was scarce, we’d talk about our ladies…and mostly Stew would listen. You could see his eyes…this little smile he wore in them. One night Joe from Chicago noticed it.
So he asked.
“So Stewie—what’s the deal with Lucille? What makes her the one?”
Stew sat up, and shifted. Then he leaned forward, and I watched his eyes as he began to speak softly.
“My Lucy…is like that second you get in Summer, a minute before the clouds dump a ton of rain—you know it’s coming—and you’re glad it is, because it’s been stinking hot, and you need it.
My Lucy is that first cold night in autumn—when you need more than a sheet, but it feels good to be covered up.
Lucille is the place I go, where the world can’t follow. They come prettier—they may even come smarter—though I doubt it. But kinder? She has of a kind of stillness that makes you just happy to be alive. And when she laughs—you know she is laughing with you—never at you.
She’s just…Lucille.”
And I can’t speak for anyone else there, but I’ll bet you we all fell a little in love with the plain woman he carried so close to his heart, in that one minute. Stewie wasn’t a man with a hurry up crush, so he wouldn’t feel alone on the line. He had married for keeps. He was one who had fallen in love—to whom leaving his lady behind was a hardship.
So when he started writing the extra letters, we didn’t say a word. Then came that night. Like I said, the brass didn’t make a point of telling us when we were headed for a sausage grinder. Bad for morale—but this time, they did. The mood was quiet. The men talked softly, and everyone prayed. And then Stewie cleared his throat. Such a small sound…but it got our attention.
“Guys…I gotta talk to you.”
Now he wasn’t a big one for talk…not unfriendly—just sort of quiet. He was a damned good soldier, and more than one of us owed him our lives. He had respect—and if he felt like talking—we let him.
“Tomorrow will be bad. Real bad. And it’s time for me to do something I have been getting ready for. You can think I am crazy, that’s ok. But I need to ask you for a favor.”
There was a murmur of assent. Stewie reached into his pack, and drew out a thick packet of letters. God—there must have been about fifty.
“I want you to ask you to do something that will sound pretty damned strange—but hear me out. Anyone who doesn’t want to doesn’t have to. But it would mean a lot to me. These are letters for Lucille—ones she will need. After tomorrow—she will really need to read them…but not all at once. I want you each to take a few…and mail them with your own letters—but no more than one a week. When she’s gotten the last one—well by then I know she’ll be ok…”
Nobody laughed. Nobody called him stupid. It seemed like a weird thing—but hey…sometimes you just went along. A dozen of us took Lucille’s letters…but Joe from Chicago tried to break the mood when he took his.
“Tell you what Stewie—when this is all over, and we’re heading home, I’ll give these back—and you can give them to her yourself.”
Stewie stopped a moment, and looked at him. Not sad. Just sort of thoughtful. Then he nodded, thanked us, and curled up in his blanket to sleep.
The next day was Hell. Fire from everywhere—and our guys fell like flies. I stopped wondering if I would live, and thought instead of what would take me out. Mortar? Grenade?
Or just one fast ping from a sniper round? Staying alive became the priority…and very suddenly in mid afternoon the hell just came to a halt.
We found Stew last. He was sitting there, and I swear the look on his face…just like the night he explained Lucille to us. I won’t say I cried…and I won’t say that the import of those letters didn’t come crashing down on me—and every other man who accepted them the night before. Joe took it the worst—and when we mustered for dinner, we could hardly eat any of those rations.
Those of us who accepted the letters sat together. You could call it a wake of sorts. One of the guys had a flask of brandy, and we all took a pull—for Stew, and his Lucille.
“I’ll send the first.” I said…in five days.
There was agreement.
“And guys…we owe it to Stew…NOBODY goes down until the lady gets her last letter…you understand?”
I did not sleep that night. Instead I watched the stars, and wondered if Lucille had felt him die in her heart. It seemed possible. Anything seemed possible. Not long after, I noticed that Joe took up letter writing. He wasn’t a big one for that before…but suddenly he started. His mother, I figured—maybe a girl. Joe never carried a photo—said he liked to be fancy free.
For the next year, once a week, one of us would send a letter to Lucille. She never wrote back—and sometimes I wondered how it felt—to have them come from a man she knew had already died. But it made no difference. Your word is your word. I sent my last one three days before they announced the end of the War.
We all sat around the fire that night—snipers weren’t much an issue by then, and the fire felt good. It was Dex who finally spoke…and made the small hairs dance on our heads.
“Jesus…” he whispered.
“What?” I asked.
“Guys—we did it. We made it. And the whole platoon—cut to hamburger—but none of us—none of the ones with Lucille’s letters…none of us took a scratch.”
And he was right. Joe said nothing—just stared into the fire. The war ended. We all promised to keep touch…but life intrudes. Forty years later, we had a reunion—the left overs of my platoon. We all traveled to Chicago, and stayed at the Drake. You won’t believe how the years fall away—but they did.
We were all grandfathers—great grand fathers—and we brought our ladies—some the same ones who kept us alive during the war—with letters, and love, and simple belief.
And I saw Joe again—looking younger than the rest of us—still had his hair, and teeth—the only thing missing was a look in his eyes—a hunger—almost a longing. Instead, he looked quietly content—slightly amused.
“i want you to meet my lady.” he said…almost shy.
“Fellas…this is Lucille…”
We understood in that moment, why Stewie loved her—and why Joe, when he waited till the war’s end to deliver his last letter—could never forget her. I felt a pang of jealousy—not that I did not love my wife, of those many years—but that Joe had been smart enough to find her. We all hugged, and talked, and when the night ended, I asked for a toast—to a lady who kept us alive at the very edge of hell.
She kept us living—and lived for those letters.
To Stew…and his Lucille.
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