He imagined what it would have been like if they’d all made it. John would have been a wonderful father. William would have taught philosophy or psychology or some other heady subject at a university. Ten years down the road when this nightmare was over, they might have remained friends in the civilian world. Met up for holidays. Watched their children play together. And reminisced about Mrs. Brown’s Yorkshire pudding.

The war had taken their lives. And it had rewritten the future that they might have enjoyed together.

His only consolation was reading and rereading the letters Margaret had written to William all these past months, which he’d taken possession of at William’s insistence before they left Chilton Foliat.

What kind of prescience did William possess that he could have known what this would mean to Tom?

Because the letters bolstered him more than anything could have.

Tom pulled her latest one out from under his pillow, which he kept next to the picture of her that was quickly wrinkling with time. A white line ran through the middle where he’d folded it into his pocket as they headed toward that helicopter.

But even with its damage, she remained perfect to him.

There was only one problem. She’d written the letters to William.

She had no way of knowing that it was Tom’s handwriting that graced the letters. That Tom’s words had fashioned the last few.

Because William had wanted it that way.

William had received one from her on one of their last days in Chilton Foliat, which he read and then handed to Tom as he always did.

“You know,” he’d said, “this girl’s perfect for you. If I were a different man…”

“When you get out of the army, maybe you need to take up matchmaking. Because you’re relentless, William.”

It wasn’t until after the jump, after the battle, after Tom had awoken from the morphine haze that he’d actually read her letter.

She talked about the baby.

She talked about the upcoming wedding of Dottie and George.

She sounded the happiest she’d been since losing her brother.

She’d signed it Love, Margaret.

Love, Margaret. Tom’s eyes rested on those precious words and his heart beat fast as if they had been intended for him.

He lingered over it, hoping that it might mean more than a casual footer. But he shook off the notion, supposing that it was merely the shift from pen pal to that of good friend.

He did, however, allow himself to make the observation that the word had been written after a couple of the letters had been penned by him alone.

Margaret sounded full of the kind of optimism that believes in a bright future.

How could he dash that?

Tom asked the nurse for some paper and a pen. “Papier et stylo, Capitane,” she said as she handed them to him.