June 25, 1942. The day I went off to war. My sweetheart, Alice, whom I started dating my junior year of high school, drove me to the station to see me off. We were in love, and the thought of being apart was overwhelming for both of us.

Alice parked the car, and we held hands as we walked silently through the station and out onto the platform. Our hearts bursting, we gazed at each other for a few moments before she spoke. I remember the conversation almost verbatim.

“Promise you’ll come back to me.”

“I promise.”

“And promise you’ll write to me.”

“Of course I’ll write to you.”

“Every day.”

“Every day? Hmm. Well, I’ll certainly try. I mean, I’ll be in a war. I’ll be fighting. But, sure, if I have the time to do it, I will.”

“Nan gets letters from Brad every day.”

“Yeah, but Brad is some sort of adjutant in an office. He has a desk. If I were in an office with a desk, I’d write three times a day. Also, now that I think about it, I don’t know where I’ll be getting all this paper from. I can’t really walk around with a ream of paper in my knapsack. It’s pretty heavy as it is. I gotta carry bullets, grenades, a sleeping bag, a canteen. I don’t know if I can load up with paper.”

“I’m not asking you to load up, but I’m certainly worth a few sheets.”

“Absolutely you’re worth a few sheets. You’re taking this all wrong.”

“How does everyone else manage to write?”

“That’s a good question, and, believe me, it’s one I intend to get to the bottom of,” I said, catching a glimpse of myself in the train window. Damn, I looked good in a uniform.

“Did you at least pack a pen?”

“I did, but, I’m not gonna lie, it was skipping a little, so there’s a good chance it could run out in the first letter.”

“Well, get another one. Maybe a few.”

“Not really sure if they sell pens on the front. And you know what I’m like with pens. They fall out of my pocket. The good news is that I think they have some pretty good pockets in Army pants. Maybe even with zippers! I don’t know why all pockets don’t have zippers. You know, when I come home, maybe I’ll get into the pants-with-zipper-pockets business,” I went on, popping a Life Saver into my mouth in preparation for our goodbye kiss.

She looked at me strangely.

“What’s that look for? You don’t think zipper pockets are a good idea?”

“Sounds like you don’t want to write at all!”

“Alice, I just said I’ll look into the whole thing once I get situated! I want to write. The problem is—”

“I know, the paper and pen.”

“Right! And the time. Suppose I’m fighting all day, killing people, getting fired at. Saving buddies. Canteen low on water. I get back to base camp, exhausted, filthy. My first thought, if I can be perfectly honest, is going to be to sit down, relax, have some C rations—that’s food that comes in a can.”

“I know what C rations are!”

“Anyway, after the rations, I’m going to look into a shower or something. You know how fussy I am about being clean. So, after all that, yes, if I have the pen and paper, I’ll try to write, although it might be dark. I suppose I can use a flashlight, but it’ll be tough to hold the pen and the flashlight at the same time. And, by the way, if it’s windy all bets are off.”

“O.K., enough! You know what? I don’t even want you to write.”

It was time to board. I hesitated, not wanting to leave her like this.

“Boy, you’re really twisting things here. I just can’t believe that after a day of putting my life on the line for you and our American way of life the first thing you want me to do is somehow come up with a sheet of paper and a pen that works and write you some long letter. I have to say, it’s starting to feel like a homework assignment. I’m not Shakespeare, for God’s sake. I mean, if anybody should be writing every day, it’s you. You’ve got time. And a desk.”

I picked up my duffel. “I better go.” I moved in for a kiss, but she recoiled. Crushed by this unfortunate turn of events, I shook my head and boarded. Once seated, I leaned out to her.

“Alice, this is no way to say goodbye.”

“I’m serious. Don’t write at all.”

“Don’t be like that!”

“No. Here’s your ring. I don’t want it.” She threw it, nailing me in the forehead, where it left an imprint that lasted until I got to North Africa.

As the train pulled away, I called out, “Alice, please!”

But she stood firm. “Goodbye.”

“O.K., Alice, I’ll write!” I shouted desperately. “Surely someone will loan me a pen and a few sheets of paper!”

“I hope they shoot you in the arm and then you won’t have to think about it.” With that, she walked away. I never saw her again.

In the end, the things I said about the pens and the paper were all true. On the front, guys were constantly complaining that they didn’t have time to write and that paper got all crumpled in their knapsacks. Pens were in such demand that they were constantly being stolen. And don’t even get me started on stamps.

I did, however, find time to write to Alice one lonely night with my flashlight on. This had the tragic consequence of alerting a troop of German soldiers to our whereabouts, resulting in the deaths of my platoon leader and the guy whose backpack I had pilfered for paper. I myself was shot in the arm, making it impossible for me to ever pick up a rifle again, much less a pen. ♦