WW2 Love • м o e & Keke14

[м o e]

Port Mayfell

Men jostled him as he gripped the side of the boat, eyes searching desperately for Grace. He almost started to think that he wouldn’t see her again, maybe she couldn’t handle staying any longer and had left? His heart sunk—then he saw her. Porter let out a whoop of triumph and leaned even further over the side of the ship, waving back to her as their eyes met. He laughed with relief just to see her face beaming at him like that. It was as if she had a glowing outline pointing her out from the rest of the crowd.

One of his friends put a hand on the his back and pulled him back by the collar of his uniform. He didn’t look away from Grace though, setting his feet backdown on the solid deck. She’d agreed to write him, that was something to hold onto, something to live for. He swore to himself then that he’d never love another as long as he lived. The wind whipped through his hair as the ship began to pull away from the dock, Grace’s smiling figure growing smaller and smaller as they headed out to sea.

[Keke14]

Grace Fletcher

Grace felt a laugh erupt from her lips as she watched Porter lean so far over the boat, she thought he might slip and fall off. Her eyes began to water again, but this time with a lovesick pride. She never looked away from him, taking a mental picture of his face as it was; smiling, youthful, and loving. The loud honking of the ships horn bellowed again and again as it began to pull away from the dock. She stood with the rest of the crowd, watching in silence as Porter drifted further and further to sea. When the ship was so far she couldn't see him anymore, she continued to imagine him standing there, smiling down at her. This is how she would remember him until the day he returned to her. Grace stayed at the dock while the crowd began to disperse, a few leaving at a time as the wind off the sea began to pick up and cool the air. Then there were just a couple dozen people standing and watching as the ship continued off into the distance. She took in a deep breath as the little dot of the ship disappeared on the horizon, holding the air in her lungs until she felt them burn. When she released it she felt a wall of emotion slam into her, crying and holding herself as she walked to her car.

She cried the whole drive home, but the moment she stepped inside, she collected herself. She had a mission, to fulfill a promise. Grace took out a piece of parchment and a pen and began writing. Almost instantly, she felt close to him once more, writing like she was sitting next to him in a field staring up at the clouds. "My Love, It has only been but a few hours since you departed, but already I feel lonely without your presence. On my way home from the dock I realized that I never got a chance to give you this, a departing present. Enclosed you will find a picture of me, a memento to remember me by as you're off saving the world, and our country. Don't forget to drink plenty of water, and brush your teeth. I know not what you will be facing, but you mustn't allow your hygiene to suffer. You are strong and brave, of that I have no doubt, but please remember how wise and bright you are as well! I will be here, waiting patiently until I can hold you once more. I love you Porter. Your Shooting Star, Grace Fletcher." She took care in placing her picture into the envelope, thinking of one more thing to add to her letter. "p.s. Whenever you might feel lonely, look up to the night sky. See the moon and know I am looking at the same one, thinking of you always. xoxo" Grace put on some lip stick and placed a kiss to the bottom of the letter, marking it beside her name, and hoping he found the smallest bit of joy in the small gesture.

Before sealing the envelope, she lightly spritzed it with a tiny pump of her perfume. Grace walked to the post office herself, needing the fresh air and a bit of distraction from the emotional day she's had. She breathed in the damp autumn air, feeling a slight chill to the breeze as it blew around her. When she arrived and placed it in the outgoing mail slot, she paused a moment to wonder, would Porter miss her as much as she already missed him? Of course she wanted him to be strong and focused, but was it selfish to also wish he would share in her heartache? The young lady left the post office, feeling accomplished, but also a little hollow. Her words would reach him in a couple weeks, maybe longer. And if he writes back, she doubt it would arrive for almost a month from now. Until then, she held tightly to the memory of their final goodbye, dreaming of the moment she'd embrace him once more.

[м o e]

Porter Mayfell

The journey was long as they sailed for the coast of Europe, to their first encampment that wasn’t quite the front lines. There they were immediately put through rigorous training and exhausting days of drills and limited sleep. Porter managed to always maintain a positive outlook though and was among the most cheerful soldiers, quickly gaining friends in his barracks. He sent up regular prayers for Grace and nightly stared at the sky thinking of her before falling asleep. This was for her, for her freedom and their country.
A couple weeks went by like the blink of an eye and Porter easily surpassed the other men in physical prowess, his lean muscle surprising many with his agility.

One day he sat under a tent as dreary rain hit the canvas. This place was always wet, always grey. It was one of those days he struggled to keep a smile on, and he knew soon they’d be marching for the front lines. An officer walked in and handed a letter to him with a smile. “Honey back home still thinking of you looks like.” The man said before leaving. Porter sat straight up and took the paper in his hands, careful not to get it wet. Oh God, it had her perfume on it. Three weeks felt like an eternity when you were surrounded by smelly boys. Porter opened it carefully and read her words. He could tell she’d written it that same day, when they said goodbye. Her photo slipped out onto his lap and he laughed with pure relief at seeing her face. No chance he could let her memory fade now. He very carefully tucked the photo inside his inner coat pocket by his heart, sure to memorize her every feature.

He then ducked out into the rain and ran to the communications tent. There they had a desk setup with stationary for the men to write home, while they could. He wrote quickly, so many words spilling out onto paper in his slightly shaky handwriting. Not quite so elegant as Grace’s beautiful penmanship, but it would do.
My dearest Grace,
Your first letter finally arrived and has brought me hope and images of home with it. We march in 3 days for the front lines, and I fear any further letters may become lost. I want you to know, even if I am unable to hear from you again for many months, that I will write every day for you. I keep a journal with your name on it. I will come home and I will give you every letter. Though I pray these still reach you. Don’t forget me love, don’t let any buffoon of a boy flirt with you while I’m away. I fear losing you over my own possible death. For now though, I am well and safe. It’s awful gloomy here but I smile for you and you alone, they can’t harden me that easily.
I shall stare at the sky every night with you and breathe the same air.
Till I come home, yours truly, Porter.
Porter folded the note into and envelope and left it with the pile of mail that was growing from all the other soldiers writing home. Then he returned to his tent with a conflict of heaviness and joy in his heart.

[Keke14]

Grace Fletcher

The waiting was agony. Grace swore she walked to the mailbox three times a day after the second week passed. She hoped beyond logic that her letter had been received, and a reply was already on it's way. Her friend's teased her, telling her to be patient and remember how slow the mail is across the sea. She took the teasing in stride, looking to the moon each night and knowing that he would do the same. Her days were filled with daydreaming of Porter. Mostly she thought fondly of the day he would return to her, but sometimes, late at night, the daydreams turned to nightmares. When the third and fourth weeks passed with no response, she worried that something may have happened to him. That maybe, there was never going to be a happy reunion. She only cried once at the thought, cross with herself for thinking Porter was not smart or skilled enough to survive. Grace vowed then that she wouldn't shed another tear over the thought, determined to keep her hopes high and her love for him strong.

Grace was coming home one night from the library when she noticed the light on her front porch still on. She ran to the door, anticipation welling up in her chest. When she opened the door her parents were sitting in the living room reading, her mother lowering her book. She simply smiled, and Grace rushed to her side, "Where is it? Please tell me you've got it here!" she shrieked in excitement. "Calm down girl, it is on the kitchen table," her mother chided, shaking her head, but chuckling in amusement.

Her feet couldn't take her to the kitchen fast enough. She didn't even make herself a plate of whatever her folks had for dinner, she simply grabbed the letter and rushed off to her room, humming a loving tune the whole way. Grace dropped her thinks at her desk and sat on her bed quickly, tearing open the letter and reading over his words carefully. She hadn't realized when the tears started, but she felt her cheeks wet with them anyway. "My dearest Grace," Her heart was already melting from the first line. She read it over and laughed at his warning of flirting boys. Grace couldn't imagine looking to another as she looked to Porter, he was her everything. Once she read the letter ten times, she held it close to her chest and laid on her bed, imagining him sitting with her, speaking the words into the silent room. She felt him come alive with every punctuation, hearing his voice as clear as the day he left.

Before she could allow herself to daydream too far, she sat up and went to her desk, pulling out another piece of parchment and steadying her writing hand.
Porter, my Beloved,
It has been almost a month and a half since you've left my side, but not a single day has passed that I don't think of you. I am glad to hear you are well, but please never fret, no other boy could ever come close to my feelings for you. By now I am sure you've already made it to the front lines. I pray for your safety, but please continue with caution and a steady head. I look forward to reading every letter you are unable to send upon your return. Know that I will be writing to you as well, even when you receive no reply. Be careful my love, I pray the sun will shine down on you soon. Love Always, Grace She filled the letter with things going on around town, how everyone is being patriotic and doing their part to aid him and the other soldiers. Grace was going to be running a fundraiser herself in two weeks time, hoping to send over turkeys in time for thanksgiving.

She sealed the envelope with a kiss, carefully dabbing a light sprits of perfume to it once more. It felt heavy in her hand as she walked it out to her mailbox, trusting that it would find it's intended destination. Grace stood out in the cooling fall air, looking up to the moon and breathing in the scent of the falling leaves. She couldn't imagine what Porter was going through, what that part of the world was like this time of year. Her thoughts raced with so many possibilities, but she silenced them, thinking only of Porter and his handsome face. His strong hands, holding her, his warmth that would surround her on a night such as this. She sighed contently, giving the moon one last glance before returning to her warm home.

((OOC: I cannot apologize enough. Between some health issues I had this month, I haven't had the energy or mindset to reply. I am so sorry, but I am back and should be able to continue posting as I had before this nonsense.))

[м o e]

Porter Mayfell

He had been mentally preparing himself for the front lines, but what he hadn’t been ready for was the gruesome march there.
They were pressed for time, orders given to head out as swiftly as possible and push hard for the war front. Many had been walking practically non stop for two weeks now, and he felt his soul slowly slipping into an unexpected numbness.
You’d fully expect trauma occurring at the hands of battle, the ringing shots firing in your ears and impeding terror into the brain.
But this walking, it was a different kind of torture. Porter wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore, his feet bled with calloused sores, and his shoulders aches with his pack. The men occasionally sang but it was hard to force it out.
How would they finally arrive only to be thrown into a blood bath?

Porter was handed Grace’s letter one random morning, though he wasn’t sure if it even was morning anymore, the sky was just always a light grey; unrelenting for sunlight to break through the thick cloud blanket.
At first he didn’t open the letter, his love and passion for Grace felt so distant. He found tears trickling down his cheeks at the realization and he clutched the paper to his chest for a long moment, letting himself reminisce on his life back home with her.
Finally, as his group marched on, he fumbled with the envelope and tore it open.
God bless her, she helped transport him back home with news of family and friends, and random goings on in town. He managed a smile at her reassurance no other man would get her attention, but it wilted quickly. Surely she wrote this weeks ago now.
Surely he wouldn’t be the same man in another two weeks time.
Did he even deserve such a wonderful woman? He struggled to cling to his hope that she really would still love him.

“Beloved,” he whispered into the cold air, “I promise you, I will uphold my honor. I will fight for you alone. I will come home.” He shut his eyes for awhile and tried to hear her voice through the shouts of men all around him.
“Be ready!”
Porter’s eyes whipped open suddenly at the sound of gunshots just ahead. An ambush? They were still a days trek from the front line, what was happening?
His world evolved suddenly into chaos as everyone began to run towards an unseen enemy. Someone bumped shoulders with him roughly and he gasped as Grace’s letter was torn from his hands, trodden into the mud below his feet.

[Keke14]

Grace Fletcher


With a new found hope, Grace wrote to Porter every chance she got. She did not send every love-sick letter, too embarrassed by her fits of passion. She felt giddy after receiving Porter's letter, and she missed feeling this close to him. Grace refrained from asking too many questions, not knowing when he'll receive her letters or when she'll receive his next reply. She wrote short poems, small scenes she witnessed around town, her longing to hold his hand. But most importantly, she wrote how much she loved him, and how her love grew stronger every day he was away. Grace continued to help as much as she could with the war effort, her fundraiser having been successful. She would never know if any of the turkeys arrived on time, or if she would be lucky enough to send one right to Porter himself.

Grace busied herself with volunteering around town, but her daydreams continued. Imagining Porter at her side helped her get through the longing and the heartache. Just as she was getting a routine down, the unthinkable happened. Once a month the mayor gets word of soldiers who, for one reason or another, were no longer coming home. Grace hated the days that followed the news, the names of the fallen and lost listed in the paper, spoken aloud on the radio, and posted at the city hall. Whenever the news got out that the new list arrived, the whole town seemed to hold their breath. Mother's shrieked, girlfriends and wives wept, and fathers fell to their knees. Everyone remained supportive, although they were relieved themselves to not see their soldier's names on the list.

It had been three or four lists, and almost two months since Grace last heard from Porter. Christmas came and went, Grace wishing and praying for only the safety of her love, and New Years was on the horizon. It appeared the new list would be late, as it typically came at the end of the month, but with the holidays the mail must have been slowed. Grace didn't mind, enjoying the blissful thoughts of Porter returning in one piece and remaining at her side for the rest of their days. December 30th had different plans. The town was buzzing with gossip, but the loudest story was the new list that had just arrived that morning to the mayors office. The ladies in the beauty parlor hummed with worry, while the old men debated over coffee about whether or not they would post the list before or after the New Year. Grace listened to the frantic words of uncertainty, suddenly feeling a heavy lump in her stomach.

The list was posted later that day. Grace heard the news from a friend- who heard it from their cousin- who's uncle was reported missing on the new list. Her friend regretfully informed her that she hadn't seen the list herself, or knew what other names resided on it. So Grace was left wondering and worrying. She caught herself, shaking away the nerves and fears, knowing in her heart that Porter was right, and he would return to her safely. She took the long way to the city hall, smiling at people as she passed, waving at the familiar faces she's known since she was a babe. When she rounded the corner she heard a fresh scream from a young girl. Grace's throat locked up, eyes watering at the pain she heard in that scream. The girl was being comforted by a crying woman, a man standing behind them and staring ahead as if he'd just seen a ghost.

Grace slowly made her way forward, her feet moving slowly and seeming to drag on the ground beneath her. Another man who was checking the list got the small families attention just enough to get them away from the list, allowing others to step forward and check it. One by one people slowly scanned the names, turning to one another for comfort and sighing their own relief. Finally it was Graces' turn. She stepped forward after a mother who seemed thrilled to have not seen her son's name. Taking a deep breath, her hazel eyes slowly read over the names of the MIA, missing in action. She recognized a few, feeling her heart burn for the families she knew. Grace felt guilty to be so relieved she hadn't seen his name so far.

More confident now, Grace continued down to the deceased portion of the list. Inelegantly called KIA, or killed in action, Grace wished the city would honor the dead with a more dignified title, "made the ultimate sacrifice" or something more meaningful than simply KIA. She scanned the names and froze on the second to last one. The letters looked familiar in that order, but she must be having a trick of the mind. There wasn't any way that this name could be on this part of the list. Grace rubbed her eyes, starting back at the top and re-reading the list. She shook her head, this can't be. The young girl brought her finger up to the name, underlining it over and over as she read it and re-read it. No. Not possible.

"Well shoot," she heard someone behind her, "That poor family. The Mayfell's are such wonderful people, they don't deserve this heartache," the man casually speaking behind her spoke her greatest fear into existence.

The world came crashing down on Grace's daydream, the clear skies turning grey, the singing birds dying and falling from the trees. Worst of all, she no longer felt Porter's presence at her side. Her eye's began to water, but her throat was so closed up she couldn't utter a whimper. Grace felt her knees wobble as she took a few steps toward a bench, crumbling onto the wooden surface. She stared ahead blankly, feeling a numbness coming over her. It was as if her body was going into shock, shutting down any and all major functions to preserve homeostasis. Grace's eyes leaked, but she didn't cry. She felt her heart stop in her chest, but her blood continued to pump. Slowly her body regained function, and somehow she mindlessly stood and walked home. Her face remained blank, eyes staring forward but not seeing. She no longer waved to people she knew, or even noticed anyone around her at all.

When she returned home, her mother was in the kitchen cooking up supper. She called a greeting to Grace, but her ears didn't hear. Heartbroken and numb, Grace went to her room and fell to the floor, landing rough on her knees. She sat like that for what felt like moments, but when her mother came in to ask her to dinner, it had been two hours. Grace didn't move, didn't even react as if someone had entered her room. Her mother worried, calling to her father who came quickly and shook Grace's shoulders. Grace blinked, regaining some form of consciousness. The adrenalin and flight response that had taken over her body faded, and Grace was hit all over again with a mountain of grief.

She couldn't put it in words, all she could manage was a shake of her head as the pain overflowed into her eyes, loud cries escaping her throat and burning her lungs. Both her parents clung to her side soothing and loving her as much as they could. No amount of love could bring him back. No amount of soothing could erase his name from the list. Nothing could change this new dark world from encircling Grace's life, and completely destroying her. In Grace's eyes, her life was over. Her future was ripped from her, her love was gone. There was nothing left for her, not here not anywhere. When she finally cried herself to sleep, her parents left her to dream, but Grace's dreams were filled with only lies of the promise of a future. She woke up often that first night, screaming into the heavens and crying all over again. She read his letter to her, imagining the responses he would have given her to her later letters. Grace tried to bring him back, to feel close to him once more, but the reality of it all was too powerful for daydreams. Porter was gone, and she was left empty.

[м o e]

Porter Mayfell

He had been mistaken to think the march to the frontlines was hell.
There he was, crouched in the mud of a trench, clammy hand gripping the splintering wood of a hastily made ladder that led up into deadman’s land. This was a fresh kind of hell, and he couldn’t shut his senses off to it.
Bombs exploded, friends screamed and died beside him, and officers shouted unintelligible orders as the next wave of soldiers waited to run. Run to their deaths.
An explosive set off not 20 yards away, and dirt rained down on him, adding to the mud. A dreary rain fell, wet and cold until it soaked into his very bones.
Oh Grace how I need your warmth right now.
He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to hold onto her name and memory through all of this, but he clung to her with desperation.
Someone behind him grabbed onto his pack, and Porter wasn’t sure if he was trying to push him forward or make sure he didn’t turn coward and jump down off the ladder. Either way, it was a signal it was time to run.

Porter’s gaze scanned his immediate horizon, and all he saw was barbed wire and dead soldiers from both sides. Why were they doing this? This was madness. Why was war even a thing, and why had he glorified it so much as a boy? There was nothing glorious about this. He just about wet himself with fear as his wave hopped over the edge of the trench and pressed forward. His legs pumped and his mouth went dry. No one lived through this, oh God He was going to die.
Gunshots rang out and the man directly to his right fell with a gasp.
Porter wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears that streaked his cheeks, but still he ran.
The last thing he remembered was jumping a puddle, then looking up and making eye contact with a man holding a grenade.

It was oddly quiet when he awoke, but his brain filled with pain that was louder than any deathly silence.
Was he dead? This must be hellfire.
Porter released a groan that rose into a wail; he couldn’t open his eyes. His chest felt like it had been ripped to shreds by a wild animal. So much pain inside and out it was unbearable, he wanted to die.
“Hey, hey I found a survivor!” Someone yelled nearby and then moments later strong hands lifted Porter from a pool of his own blood. He briefly remembered realizing he was still alive, then the agony knocked him out once more.

He was transported through the country to the nearest hospital, but he remained mostly unconscious. His body was ravaged by fevers and nightmares, and he still couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, he found himself in a proper bed, surrounded by bright lights and the sounds of a real hospital. Where was he? Back in the states, or still somewhere in Europe?
Doctors tried to talk to him and asked his name, his dog tags had somehow gotten, well, destroyed. No one knew his name and he was unable to give it. He overheard that he had shrapnel in his ribs. So that was why every breath was misery, and the heat of the explosion had apparently caused temporary blindness.
All he could do was lay there and cry, willing the pain away and whimpering Grace’s name incoherently.

[Keke14]

Evelyn Winthrop

A young woman with short red hair patrolled the hospital halls. She checked in with patients, both conscious and unconscious, administering aid where needed. The war had been going on for years, and it has changed her whole world view. Evelyn joined the nurse corps right out of high school. She was assured her training would be completed before she was sent over, but upon arrival she was instructed to learn quickly on the job. The terrors that she saw on her first night of the job seemed like distant dreams compared to what she saw daily now. Evelyn had seen men ripped to shreds from explosives, infections that overtook the whole body and ate at the dying skin around the wounds. She has witnessed painful deaths on the surgical table out just off the battlefield, but had been lucky enough to be reassigned to a hospital that needed more trained hands. The horrors didn't cease, death was a common conclusion of those who came through the front doors.

Evelyn did her best to keep spirits high, the nurses were told when they arrived that their first job is to ensure the soldiers never lose hope, no matter how bleak their outcomes were. She has collected hundreds of stories, listening to the soldier's hopes and dreams on their death beds, hearing the names of their long distance loves back home. A weaker person would have crumbled under all the grief, but Evelyn forced herself to separate her job from her feelings. When she was in this hospital, treating wounded and dying soldiers, she was not herself. She was someone else, a fragment of the person who arrived with bright eyes and a caring soul.

During rounds about a week ago, she helped to take in a fresh explosion victim. Like a few before him, his dog tags were lost. He could not see, and his speech was compromised as a symptom of the wounds he sustained. Unable to communicate a name, she called him John Doe, hospital policy. Every once in a while, maybe through some sort of fever, she thought she heard him say a women's name. Evelyn deduced that this woman was the one waiting for him back home. She would sigh and fantasize knowing a love like that. Back home Evelyn was seen as too difficult to pursue, her opinions too loud and her demeaner too aggressive for that of a woman.

Today she stopped into the room to check on the John Doe, thankfully sleeping. He was in immense pain, and the pain killers were strictly rationed because of the volume of wounded soldiers coming in. She watched his face for a moment before checking his chart. Stabilizing more and more every day, he seemed to be healing faster than most men who came in with his type of wounds. Must have something worth fighting for. She hated to bother him, but needed to check his vitals, so she stepped around the bed and carefully placed two fingers onto his left wrist, looking to the clock on the wall and counting pulses.

[м o e]

Porter Mayfell

Time passed strangely for Porter, the war had been going for so long he had lost track of what day of the week it was, and now that he was confined to a hospital bed he was no longer even sure when it was night and day.
Men lay dying no matter what hour, and he slowly began to realize he was not among those who were fatally injured.
This did a lot in boosting his hopes; even if he wasn’t home yet, there was a chance he would see Grace once more in this lifetime. How old was she now? Porter spent days agonizing over little facts about her, but his mind struggled to recall even basic information on his lost love.
Did she remember him? She promised she would, and that only worked to drive a nail of guilt into Porter. He was no longer the proud and smiling young man who had left the docks that day, waving goodbye to a face he had memorized.
No, now he was battle worn and injured almost beyond recognition. He wasn’t sure what he looked like anymore, but the pain along his chest and neck was intense enough to tell him his appearance was permanently altered.
The day they’d finally decided it was safe to remove the shrapnel remaining imbedded beneath his surface wounds was a day he blocked out completely, the pain too horrifying to dwell on with the lack of pain killers available.

He now lay in bed on another blank day, restlessly sleeping and trying to think clearly on, well, anything.
Nurses came regularly to check vitals or change his bandages—a task that always involved weeping like a baby when they moved his broken body and peeled off bloody gauze from his torso.
Because of this regular experience, when Porter subconsciously heard a nurse enter his room, he tensed. His breathing became labored and panicked, almost as if he was reliving the battlefield and the explosion that had nearly taken his life.
A soft hand touched his wrist. Grace?
Porter turned his head slightly, tension vanishing as he mumbled her name. Then, with renewed strength, he lifted his calloused fingers and gripped the forearm of the woman his mind presumed to be Grace beside him. Not realizing he had any real strength at all left, the tired soldier pulled her down towards him almost desperately. He needed someone familiar, someone who would call his name. “You found me.”
The words cracked and grated hoarsely as Porter managed a coherent sentence for the first time in weeks, and his grip on her arm tightened.

[Keke14]

Evelyn Winthrop

Evelyn flinched as Porter grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer to him. She fell a little off balance, catching herself with her other hand on the side of his bed. Taking in a quick breath, the young nurse studied his face, his eyes were barely opening, and his voice was harsh and dry. The tightening of his hand and the words he spoke made it seem to her that he is just now coherently aware of the fact that he is in a hospital. Of course he had been awake many times for bandage changing, but only now did he seem conscious, and capable of communicating. "Of course soldier, you're safe here," she responded simply, still unsure of his true name. She had to take this opportunity to get his identity, so she could send the information along and notify the young soldier's family that he was still alive. Evelyn looked quickly between his eyes and his hand on her wrist and back. "Please," she paused, taking in the frame of his face for a moment, "Identify yourself solder," she spoke gently, knowing that this may be all confusing for someone whose been in and out of it for a few weeks.