Eli & Paul
Letter 1
October 12, 1943
Dear Paul,
I’m not sure where to start, but I guess that’s what happens when months go by without a word. It’s strange—out here, time blurs together. The days feel endless, and the nights are even longer. I’ve seen so much, too much, really, but none of it sticks in my mind the way you do. I wake up, and for a split second, I forget that we’re worlds apart. Then reality hits, and the only thing that makes sense is reaching for this pen.
I wonder where you are, what you’re doing. I think about you every day. It’s funny—before all this, I never realized how much I’d rely on the sound of your voice to keep me grounded. Now, all I have are memories and the hope that your next letter is already on its way.
Things here are hard to put into words. It’s my job to describe the world, but I find myself coming up short more often than not. How do I write about what it feels like to be in the middle of a war zone, when all I really want to do is talk to you about something, anything, other than this? I can handle the danger, the fear, but missing you—that’s what keeps me awake at night.
I picture you in moments of stillness, maybe working on one of those projects you were always tinkering with, or reading one of those dense engineering books. The thought of you keeps me going, Paul, it really does.
I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re finding moments of peace, even in all this chaos. I know you don’t like to talk about what you’re going through, but if you need to, I’m here. Always.
Take care of yourself, Paul. I’ll write again soon.
Yours,
Eli
Letter 2
November 2, 1943
Eli,
I got your letter today. It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be the one who keeps things grounded and practical, but every time I read your words, I feel like I’m floating somewhere else, somewhere better—where you are. I miss you more than I can say, but your letters make it easier.
It’s strange how everything here feels like a machine—well-oiled, predictable. The days blend together, but your words remind me that there’s more than just routine. I catch myself thinking about our nights at school, when we’d sit and talk about everything, anything. I miss those talks.
I keep picturing your face, and I swear I can almost hear you laughing at the absurdity of all this. I could use that laugh right now. Things are tough, but I’m getting by. I won’t bore you with the details—they keep me busy enough to keep my mind off things, but not busy enough to stop missing you.
You asked about me? I’m fine. Mostly. I’m doing what I can to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. The work isn’t bad, but it feels like I’m just counting the days until I see you again. Every time I get a letter from you, it’s like I’m right back there, like nothing’s changed. It keeps me going.
I won’t ask if you’re okay, because I know you’re holding up, the way you always do. But just know, I think about you all the time, Eli. We’ll make it through this, one way or another.
Write soon. Your letters mean more than you know.
Yours always,
Paul
Letter 3
November 12, 1943
Paul,
I’m writing this as fast as I can, hoping it reaches you before Thanksgiving. It’s a long shot, I know, but something about the thought of you reading this before then feels right. I’ve been thinking about how strange it’ll be to spend the holiday apart. Back home, Thanksgiving meant something different. Now, it feels like just another day without you.
Things here are…unsettling. My unit’s on the move, but no one will tell us where yet. We’ve been ordered to be ready. Ready for what, though? Who knows. It’s the not-knowing that gets to me. I’ve always been the kind of person who needs to understand what’s coming, but I’ve learned that war doesn’t work that way. I’ll try to keep my head on straight, though, hoping that you’re out there somewhere thinking of me too.
I won’t lie, Paul—every time I hear the mail call, my heart skips a beat hoping it’s from you. I read your last letter more times than I can count. It’s good to know you’re getting by, but don’t brush it off too easily. If it’s tough, say so. I know you try to keep it together, but you don’t have to do that with me.
Anyway, I’ll wrap this up before I get too sentimental. Just promise me you’ll write back soon. I’ll need to hear from you wherever we end up.
Yours always,
Eli
Letter 4
November 28, 1943
Eli,
I don’t know where to start this time. I’ve been sitting with this letter for hours, trying to find the words. Last night, the Germans hit us. Bombs out of nowhere. I was with Tommy Fritz when it happened. We weren’t close—just knew him from around the base—but I ended up holding him while he died. Shrapnel to the neck. There was so much blood.
I tried to stop it, but it was too fast. I’m sorry if this is hard to read, but I need to tell you, Eli. I sat with him until he was gone. He wasn’t scared at the end, though. I think he was just tired.
I’ve never felt more helpless. I can’t get the image out of my head. It’s different now—this war. It feels closer than it ever has before. I can’t stop thinking that it could’ve been me. It could’ve been anyone.
There are tear stains on the page, Eli, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve never cried like this before. I think about you constantly, about the fact that I might never get to see you again. And that terrifies me more than anything else.
I’ll write again when I’m clearer in my head, but I needed to get this out. I love you, Eli. More than ever.
Yours Forever,
Paul
Letter 5
December 10, 1943
Paul,
I’m sorry. I’ve read your last letter over and over, and I keep coming back to the same thought: I wish I could’ve been there with you. Holding Tommy, watching that happen… I can’t even begin to imagine. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, even if we’re miles apart. You’ve always been the strong one, but you don’t have to be with me. You can let it all out. Whatever you’re feeling, don’t hold back.
It’s strange how this war forces us to see things we never thought we’d have to face. It makes everything else—our old lives, the things we used to worry about—seem so small. But those small things are the ones that keep me going. And I know it’s the same for you.
Speaking of small things, I have to tell you about something ridiculous that happened last week. I was sitting outside, writing in my journal—nothing fancy, just trying to clear my head—when Sam (you remember Sam, right?) came over. He’s always bumming smokes off of everyone, and when he couldn’t find a paper to roll one, he tried to tear a page out of my journal. Can you believe that?
Anyway, I wasn’t about to let him get away with it. So I grabbed him, and before I knew it, we were wrestling in the dirt like a couple of kids. He’s bigger than me, but I pinned him, and I’m proud to say that my journal survived unscathed. You should’ve seen the look on his face. He was half-mad, half-laughing. The others got a kick out of it too—said it was the most entertainment they’ve had in weeks.
I know it’s not much, but I figured you could use a laugh. It’s the little moments that remind me why we have to make it through this, Paul. So we can get back to laughing together, not just in letters.
Please write soon. I need to know you’re okay.
Yours always,
Eli
Letter 6
December 26, 1943
Eli,
Merry Christmas. I wish I could say that it felt like Christmas here, but you know how things are. Still, my mom sent a care package a week before Christmas, and it made things a little better. She sent socks (which I desperately needed), some homemade cookies, a pint of whiskey—don’t ask me how she managed that—and a picture of home. It’s funny how a few small things can make everything feel just a little more normal.
Have you heard from your folks? I’ve been meaning to ask. I know things have been rough, with both you and your brother over here and not helping on the farm.
I want you to know I’m doing alright. Tommy’s death shook me up, but I’ve made my peace with it. This is war, after all. It’s made me more determined than ever to make it through this—to come back home. I need you to promise me the same, Eli. No matter where they send you or how tough things get, you’ve got to make it back to me. Promise me that.
Oh, and about that wrestling match with Sam? I’m starting to think I might need to train a bit before I take you on. You’ll have to teach me your moves when this is all over. I can’t wait to steal your journal.
Write soon. And promise me.
Yours always,
Paul