I'm sittin here propped up against my cot as I'm writin this to ya, Stevie. I know what day it is. I know ya know what day it is. I suspect youse already wrote me a letter too, wishin me happy birthday and whatnot. I hope I get it soon, but I guess mail has been a lil slow since the war's started. I hope your letter has got one of your lil drawings in it, Stevie.
Once I get back from tha war, I'll buy ya real paper and new pencils for your art. It's what ya deserve. No more drawing on tha back of wrappers and tha margins of newspapers with pencils so dull, none of tha lines look crisp no more. Your drawins will look good enough to belong in a museum. In fact, some hoity-toity high class lady will prolly want to snatch it up before anyone else and pay ya a fortune and we'll be rich, Stevie. All thanks to ya.
Imagine that, Steve Rogers, tha savior. That'll be a sight, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Rogers strollin down tha streets of Brooklyn, our clothes all nice and presst and heads held high. We'll use wrappers for what theyse meant for, eatin hot fish and chips straight outta tha fryer. Slurpin down fresh oysters, livin tha good life. Can't wait for tha war rationing to be over, Stevie. We'll live like kings. In fact, once I get home, before I see ya, I'll buy ya a nice fat slice o cake. That'd be nice, dontcha think?
I'm bein told that I'ma get paid bout thirty dollas a day, but that was back when I was a private. Now that I'ma sergeant, the pay would even be more than that and I can finally afford your medicine, Stevie! I told em to send the money to the house under your ma's name, and theyse was suspectin somethin since her name was Sarah Rogers and didn't match mine, but I just told em she was my sickly aunt and needed medicine. Which is half tha truth, I guess? Hopefully I'll get paid even more cos I make one hell of a gunman and I'm one of tha best shots they got.
Can't wait to see you again, Stevie. Hope you're proud of me. It's hard keepin this a secret. Tha war is awful and I don't wanna give you too many horrors to think about, but this war is unlike anythin I've ever seen. Tha trenches are prolly what tha pits of hell look like, and tha machine guns are just tearin through us. All tha boys here always talk of some dame to go back home to, that's what's gettin em through this. They always ask me if I've gotta dame back in Brooklyn, but when theyse talkin of some blonde with blue eyes and dainty a lil smile, it ain't some dame I'm thinkin of.
I am glad you ain't here with me though, Stevie. I wish you were healthy but I'm glad you don't hafta suffer through this war. I couldn't take it if somethin woulda happened to you out here. At least I know that you're safe and sound in Brooklyn, wrapped up in blankets.
Or at least you better be, Steven Grant Rogers. I'ma come home and beat tha livin daylights outta you if youse out gettin pneumonia because youse tryin to save some hapless abandoned puppy out in the rain. No, I'll never forget that, you can count on it. You gave me one hell of a fright that day, half frozen to death, your skin so white, I'd thought youse a corpse already. Course, both you and the puppy curlt up right up right next to me as I was nappin by tha fireplace. Both of ya so small, I only needed one arm to wrap around ya.
How is Becca, anyhows? I told ya, it's hard enough feedin both of us already but ya just had to keep that damned dog. If she goes around gettin pregnant, I dunno what we're gonna do, Stevie. I dunno if I can support both us and several other hungry mouths. Would be quite a sight in our cramped lil apartment, however. Eh, to hell with every soldier's dream of a pretty lil wife and her pretty lil apron and three or four perfect lil children runnin around. I'd much prefer comin home to my lil Stevie and six or seven scrappy lil pups romping around, the same spirit in their barks to match the fire in your eyes.
Dammit, look at what youse doing to me. Not even here, Stevie, and here ya are, turnin me into some kinda sap. I swear to god, if you reply to this letter and start callin me doll, you're not gettin another letter from me for the rest of tha year. Just jokin, I don't think my I could wait that long, but seriously, I'm not gettin soft ya hear?
Ya wanna hear somethin funny though? The other day, I was just sittin round the campfire, eatin my rations with tha other boys, and outta nowhere, good ol Dugan with his funny lookin mustache takes a long hard look at me and says, "Hell, Barnes over here never talks bout no girl, I'd be suspectin that he's sleepin with some of ours!" And tha whole campfire just roars with laughter and I'm over here glarin at em so hard, some of em could just bout burst into flames, and then Morita pipes up and says, "Maybe he can't get none, that's why he don't never talk about one!" Again, the camp lights up with laughter again and I'm still glarin but then Dernier jumps in, sayin, "Nah, with a face like, that he's probably sleepin with the women AND the men!" and my heart was thumpin so hard, I thought it was boutta burst out of my chest and then everyone woulda known about us, and I woulda been kicked out and there woulda been no way I coulda afford your medicine.
But there was no burst of laughter this time and everyone was just silent and it scared me so much more than any bomb had, Stevie, so (and forgive me for this) I had to save face and I said, "The hell y'all talkin bout? I just don't talk bout no doll because there's too many to count!" and the camp got to chucklin again and I started breathin normal again. But then Falsworth to my left just sorta shrugged and said to me, "Even if Dernier speakin truth, I wouldn't care." And I dunno Stevie, maybe it's just Falsworth givin me false hopes (the damned man always talkin bout how insulatin snow is, just to distract us from the bitter cold), but maybe we could truly be happy one day, Stevie.
Anyway, I better wrap this letter up quick cos the sun is settin real fast, and no one is goin to waste oil burnin gas lamps just for me to write some letter. Besides, my back is kinda achin cos I been sittin against my cot for so long. Time just kinda flies when I'm thinkin of ya, Stevie. Can't wait to see Brooklyn again. Can't wait to see you again. And alright, maybe I miss Becca too. Even if you might love that damned dog more than me. I'll write you again soon as I can.
Your letter back will be the best late birthday present. Beats a kiss on the cheek from any dame. Don't be takin on any bullies too big for your size by the way. You better not be all beat up and bloody when I get home. But remember Stevie, no matter what, I'm with you till the end of the line.
Yours,
Bucky
(P.S. feel free to use the back of this letter to draw on. I'll get you real sketchin paper soon. But here's a lil doodle of Dugan's mustache. My drawin don't even compare to yours though. We call him Dum Dum Dugan sometimes.)
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