Tom was a good deal older and was here by choice. But none of that mattered on the field. What was important was to remember Hank and Dr. Weinstein and the McClintocks and William. Every soldier had their own version. How could he give up? How could he not press on with everything he had?

Renewed determination coursed through him. He stood up, muscles stiff and bones freezing.

After brushing his teeth with the new tube of Pepsodent that he’d been given, he read his letter to Margaret one more time. He set it aside, next to its envelope, already addressed and stamped in his eagerness to send it. But he was not going to. Not this one. When he returned from today’s jump, he’d write a different one.

With a new signature.

Love, Tom

He opened the pocket of his rucksack and pulled out the two bottles of perfume that he’d bought at the House of Fragonard, surprised that they had both survived. He looked for the one with the little V written in the corner and put the other one back. He held the vanilla one to his nose, inhaling deeply, pretending that he could smell its warm scent through all of the wrapping. He closed his eyes and remembered what it had evoked when the shopgirl had sprayed it on his arm. It was a scent that he now associated with Margaret, even though it had never graced her skin. But he hoped that it would. And until then, it was one more thin tie to the woman whose letters had inadvertently kept him going.

He returned it to the pocket, resisting the temptation to open it. It was not something you could buy at your corner Walgreens. If he ever had the chance to present it to her personally, he hoped that having thought of her in Paris and purchased something so special, his delay in telling her about William might be forgiven.

Tom exhaled, feeling emboldened by the release in his lungs.

He took out a fresh piece of paper from the air mail pile and picked up a pen. This one had blue ink, a surprise for a standard-issue army pen. He smiled. Maybe it was symbolic of a new start.

Dearest Margaret,

It was beautiful. Beautiful and liberating. Just to write those two words from his heart and from his hand. As Tom.

This is Tom Powell. William and John’s friend. You know me from the flowers I draw at the end of the letters.

I have to tell you about William…

“Powell! Jump time!” one of the sergeants called out to him.

He folded the page and put it in his pocket, to be finished later.

*  *  *