Magic Merlin
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2000
- Posts
- 1,013
This story was composed in December 1991, but I'm posting it today in remembrance of my Uncle and my cousin.
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"War Letter Arrives a Little Late"
"It's in perfect condition, " my uncle says softly, cradling the small brown envelope in his hands. They're big, strong hands; the kind of hands you'd expect on a retired logger like my Uncle John.
Uncle John is holding a letter he wrote on the island of Saipan in early April 1945, just days before he went into combat in Okinawa. "The war had already hit Okinawa on the first of April," says John, carefully placing the envelope on the surface of the kitchen table. "They were losing a lot of men. A lot more than they ever told us about, back here."
Uncle John was with the 96th Division, 382nd Regiment, H Company. "At that time I was a Pfc," says John. "We were machine-gunners." Uncle John was with a group of gunners who were heading into battle as replacements for the thousands of men who's fought and died on Okinawa already. And on April 2, 1945, Uncle John knew he was headed into combat in a matter of days. So he sat down and wrote a letter to his then, one-year old son.
And then he mailed it. The postmark on the thin brown envelope paper says "US POSTAL SERVICE--APR 2--5AM--1945." He then forgot about that letter.
The letter was delivered late.....in October of 1991.
Uncle John and his wife, my Aunt Doris, live in Hood River, a tidy mobile home with views of Mount Adams out the dining room window, and Mount Hood through the living room window. They're obviously happy with their lives; the kitchen wall is covered with photographs of their grandchildren at every stage of childhood. All the grandchildren are smiling. There are pies on the stove, and cookies on a plate in the center of the kitchen table. Uncle John and Aunt Doris sit at the table and remember World War II.
"Everybody's thinking about it now, with the anniversary of Pearl Harbor and everything," says Doris. "It was one of those things that you remember your whole life exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard about it." Doris says she was standing in her kitchen,
taking a roasted chicken out of the oven when she heard the news over the radio.
John is reluctant to share his memories of the war. John is a modest man. But he will admit that he spent two months in combat on Okinawa, wielding his machine gun. "Others had it worse than I did," he says, "but it isn't something I'd wish on anybody. "I got back to Fort Lewis
on Aug. 11, 1946," says John, "two years to the day after I went in."
After John got home in 1946, he ran a dairy farm in Illinois for a few years. Then he and Doris moved back to the Northwest, where John had grown up, and settled in Dallas, Oregon. Doris ran a beauty parlor. John worked as a logger until his retirement just a few years ago. They raised a family.
And somewhere in the world John's letter sat, protected and hidden, for 46 ½ years. John admits he forgot all about the letter until his phone rang in the middle of October 1991. It was John's youngest brother, V.L., calling from his ranch in Idaho. Now, there used to be a lot of John's relatives in the valley in Idaho. It is, after all, where John grew up. But over the years John's relatives have died, or moved away as he has. V.L. is the only family left. And seeing as how the old town is so small ("Just a post office, a grocery store, a gas pump and a little bitty café, I think," says John. "It's smaller than when I grew up there), the postmaster knows everybody in town.
So when the V-mail letter with the ancient postmark arrived last month, the postmaster took one look at the name on the envelope and passed the letter along to the only Smith in those parts, V.L.
"It was pretty amazing," says V.L. , by phone from his ranch. "It was the first V-mail I'd seen since I was a kid. And you know, the letter was mailed on my 10th birthday when my brother John was waiting to go into battle on Okinawa. With the tremendous casualties the American's were sustaining at the time, I was scared that I would never see John again." V.L. called John right away and told him the letter had finally arrived from Saipan. John wanted V.L. to send him the letter.
"We had quite a talk about whether to send it through the mail or UPS," says John. "It might take another 50 years to get here from Idaho." "We don't have that much time," says Doris. But this time the Postal Service came through in less than a week.
So now John holds the old envelope in his hands. Funny thing, though. John has decided he won't open the envelope. Ever.
"This letter was to my firstborn son, and he's been dead 12 years now," says John, quietly. "It's never been opened, and it never will be." "It's water under the bridge," says Doris.
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Uncle John's son in this story was my first cousin. Someone I grew up with. Someone I will always miss. He was killed (murdered) in 1979, 12 years before the letter arrived. Today is 21 years since I lost my cousin and the 8th since the death of my uncle.
I miss you both, but will always hold you in my heart......
************************
"War Letter Arrives a Little Late"
"It's in perfect condition, " my uncle says softly, cradling the small brown envelope in his hands. They're big, strong hands; the kind of hands you'd expect on a retired logger like my Uncle John.
Uncle John is holding a letter he wrote on the island of Saipan in early April 1945, just days before he went into combat in Okinawa. "The war had already hit Okinawa on the first of April," says John, carefully placing the envelope on the surface of the kitchen table. "They were losing a lot of men. A lot more than they ever told us about, back here."
Uncle John was with the 96th Division, 382nd Regiment, H Company. "At that time I was a Pfc," says John. "We were machine-gunners." Uncle John was with a group of gunners who were heading into battle as replacements for the thousands of men who's fought and died on Okinawa already. And on April 2, 1945, Uncle John knew he was headed into combat in a matter of days. So he sat down and wrote a letter to his then, one-year old son.
And then he mailed it. The postmark on the thin brown envelope paper says "US POSTAL SERVICE--APR 2--5AM--1945." He then forgot about that letter.
The letter was delivered late.....in October of 1991.
Uncle John and his wife, my Aunt Doris, live in Hood River, a tidy mobile home with views of Mount Adams out the dining room window, and Mount Hood through the living room window. They're obviously happy with their lives; the kitchen wall is covered with photographs of their grandchildren at every stage of childhood. All the grandchildren are smiling. There are pies on the stove, and cookies on a plate in the center of the kitchen table. Uncle John and Aunt Doris sit at the table and remember World War II.
"Everybody's thinking about it now, with the anniversary of Pearl Harbor and everything," says Doris. "It was one of those things that you remember your whole life exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard about it." Doris says she was standing in her kitchen,
taking a roasted chicken out of the oven when she heard the news over the radio.
John is reluctant to share his memories of the war. John is a modest man. But he will admit that he spent two months in combat on Okinawa, wielding his machine gun. "Others had it worse than I did," he says, "but it isn't something I'd wish on anybody. "I got back to Fort Lewis
on Aug. 11, 1946," says John, "two years to the day after I went in."
After John got home in 1946, he ran a dairy farm in Illinois for a few years. Then he and Doris moved back to the Northwest, where John had grown up, and settled in Dallas, Oregon. Doris ran a beauty parlor. John worked as a logger until his retirement just a few years ago. They raised a family.
And somewhere in the world John's letter sat, protected and hidden, for 46 ½ years. John admits he forgot all about the letter until his phone rang in the middle of October 1991. It was John's youngest brother, V.L., calling from his ranch in Idaho. Now, there used to be a lot of John's relatives in the valley in Idaho. It is, after all, where John grew up. But over the years John's relatives have died, or moved away as he has. V.L. is the only family left. And seeing as how the old town is so small ("Just a post office, a grocery store, a gas pump and a little bitty café, I think," says John. "It's smaller than when I grew up there), the postmaster knows everybody in town.
So when the V-mail letter with the ancient postmark arrived last month, the postmaster took one look at the name on the envelope and passed the letter along to the only Smith in those parts, V.L.
"It was pretty amazing," says V.L. , by phone from his ranch. "It was the first V-mail I'd seen since I was a kid. And you know, the letter was mailed on my 10th birthday when my brother John was waiting to go into battle on Okinawa. With the tremendous casualties the American's were sustaining at the time, I was scared that I would never see John again." V.L. called John right away and told him the letter had finally arrived from Saipan. John wanted V.L. to send him the letter.
"We had quite a talk about whether to send it through the mail or UPS," says John. "It might take another 50 years to get here from Idaho." "We don't have that much time," says Doris. But this time the Postal Service came through in less than a week.
So now John holds the old envelope in his hands. Funny thing, though. John has decided he won't open the envelope. Ever.
"This letter was to my firstborn son, and he's been dead 12 years now," says John, quietly. "It's never been opened, and it never will be." "It's water under the bridge," says Doris.
*******************************************
Uncle John's son in this story was my first cousin. Someone I grew up with. Someone I will always miss. He was killed (murdered) in 1979, 12 years before the letter arrived. Today is 21 years since I lost my cousin and the 8th since the death of my uncle.
I miss you both, but will always hold you in my heart......
I'm very sorry for your loss. It kind of makes you wonder how many other letters to loved ones were never recieved, and how many of the people who wrote them never got another chance to say to their loved ones what was on your mind. At least you Uncle got another chance to tell his son he loved him. 
