On a lighter note, I must tell you that Holland has the most beautiful flowers. Tulips as far as the eye can see. One would scarcely believe that the front lies just miles away. As the weather turns, the edges of their delicate petals brown and wilt. Much like the soldiers observing them. But they have reminded us that beauty exists even among ugliness. And that there is reason to hope.

He signed the letter Love, William.

As he looked it over, the pretense continued to wear thin and he found that what had once been liberating now felt like a prison. He longed to confess to the charade and to write unfettered. As Tom. No secrets between them.

It had been easy enough after William’s death to convince himself that Margaret didn’t need to suffer another loss so soon after John’s. The postcard from Paris was forgivable as well—with no paper to write a proper letter and no space on the card to tell William’s story, signing his name was expedient at the least.

He’d had enough of it.

“There comes a time in a man’s life, Thomas, when he must determine right from wrong and choose right, no matter how difficult it is.”

The first time he’d heard his father say those words, he was about three years old and had been caught spreading his finger across the iced cake that his mother had baked for the church bake sale. Perhaps it was premature to begin talking of manhood to one so small, but it was a theme his father had pressed on him all through his life.

And he wasn’t wrong. Tom had recalled those words again that night under the bridge and every day since.

He set the flashlight down. He was shivering in his bunk, sore from curling in a fetal position through the night. The sun ascended through the clear plastic windows of the canvas barracks, though it did not bring warmth. Dawn had always been his favorite time growing up. The household was quiet, accompanied only by the sound of the geese that gathered in the river. For a blissful second, he could close his eyes and pretend he was there.

The other men were waking up, preparing for whatever lay ahead. There was a wilted look to them—just as he’d told Margaret—the excitement over the new supplies already overshadowed by fresh worries.

Tom was saddened by the loss of their youthful bloom. These were not warriors who had volunteered with patriotic enthusiasm. These were boys scarcely out of high school who’d had aspirations of college or factory work or other callings. Not near-death on a land they could barely find on a map.

They had become warriors. Baptized in blood.