“Well, I came here to find out if our sergeant is returning to us and I think we can resoundingly say yes.” He sat on the corner of the bed and put his hand on Tom’s arm. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. We’re almost there. The Germans are retreating right and left. But they’re putting up a fight. This is not over yet.”

Tom closed his eyes. The idea of going back was terrifying and he could feel his blood race at the mention of it. “What a waste of life. Think of how many could be saved if they’d only surrender.”

He let out a sigh and turned his head so that Winters couldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes.

But he knew what Tom knew—that either of their lives could be taken just as the war was coming to an end.

“Tom, I’ve known you for a while now. You’ve kept things close to the vest, but I’d like to think that I’ve done a good job observing my men. You perform as well if not better than the best of them. But there is something bothering you. You don’t have to tell me—I’m not your confessor. But whatever it is, I suggest you remedy it. And soon. If you’ve ever seen fireworks, you know that the grand finale is what they save the biggest ones for. We’re about to head into that. I need you to be more focused than you’ve ever been. I need you to survive this. And all the men I’ve put in your care.”

Tom raised his right hand and brought it to his forehead in a salute. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Captain Winters.

*  *  *

“Here you are,” the nurse said. Her gentle voice was a relief to his ears. The concussion had caused him to become especially sensitive to noise. The doctor assured him that it was temporary. But he appreciated her discretion. “I’ve brought you that pen and paper you asked for.”

Tom thanked her and sat up as she put pillows behind his back. When she walked away, he was left alone with his task.

He might live through this battle. He might not. And if the worst happened, he did not want to go to his grave without having told Margaret the truth. Winters had been right—his worry over it was a dangerous distraction. He’d been waiting for the right time. And it had just presented itself.

He took the pen and pressed it to the paper.

Dearest Margaret,

I have written this letter in my head so many times to you in the last few months that I don’t need to pen draft after draft to get it right.

This is Tom Powell. Tom, who drew the flowers for you.

I hope they’ve made you smile.