Kristina McMorris - Letters From Home

Christian.

Her fiancé.

“I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”

What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.

Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.

Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.

Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.

Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.

Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.

At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.

Chapter 3

July 5, 1944 Chicago Union Station

The minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.

“Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.

Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.

Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.

“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.

With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.

“Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.

The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.

Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.

“Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!” Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.

“Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.

“Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.

“Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.

Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.

Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”

“Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”

At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.

“Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”

Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way, Jack- ass.”

“Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”

“Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”

Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.

“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”

“Yeah, what for?”

“How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”

Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”

“Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.