It was the fifth of July when a letter arrived from Jack. John was back at work after the forced holiday of the day before—he and Wilma had spent the day at each other’s throats, and she had refused to go see the fireworks. John had taken Jinny, and Harry had gone off with his friends. John was glad to be back at work, and only wished it wasn’t a Friday. Maybe he would spend tomorrow at the creamery on the pretense of checking up on things.

Florence came rushing into John’s office that afternoon, waving it in her hand. “Mr. Mickelson! A letter from your son! From Jack!”

He jumped up, holding out his hand, greedy. He could still be dead, he reminded himself, but his relief, his joy, was overwhelming. He snatched the envelope from Florence. And there it was, Jack’s handwriting: Mr. John Mickelson, First National Bank of Pine Rapids, First Street, Pine Rapids, Wisconsin. John flopped back into his chair, tore open the envelope. The letter was dated June 16, and read:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am writing with terrible news. We have been in a battle. The first day, Chase’s company was one of the first to attack enemy positions. I moved closer to the front on the second day. On the way there, I saw some of the boys from Chase’s company who were wounded moving toward the rear. They told me that he had been killed. They said that he was charging a machine gun nest with some others and was shot several times at once. They said that he was killed almost instantly. It was terrible to think I had not been with him. But I tell you, in the days since, I have exacted a revenge several times over on his behalf. We have been relieved now but will go back to the front again. I regret having to tell you this. I only hope that this will reach you before you hear in another way. I am sending this letter to you directly, Dad, in hopes you can break the news to Mom more gently than I can. Cannot write any more now. Chase was one of several hundred killed that day. I am sorry. We will not give up until we have taken this area. Give Mom and the Kids a hug from me,

Your son, Jack Mickelson
USMC, 2nd Div., 4th Brig., 5th Regt.,—Machine Gun Co.

“What does he say?” Florence said.

“I—” John said, and found that he couldn’t form words.

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll leave you be.” He watched her walk out. The door clicked closed behind her.