This is War✔

Thirteen

Tom sat at the desk in his room and looked out at the glistening snow. In one hand he held a glass of port (which had apparently been nicked from his brother's pantry by O'Connor) and in the other, he held a pencil, which he tapped against the top of the desk repeatedly. He was thinking.

   It had been two weeks since Cranston had been killed and it had also been two weeks since Tom had sent a letter to his superiors to inform them of the young pilot's death. That morning he had gotten a letter of response.

   In that letter, they had said three things of importance: first, that they officially recognized James Cranston as deceased, second, that they would be sending a pilot to replace him in the new year, and lastly, that they would appreciate it if he, Group Captain Thomas Brooks, would write a letter to the Cranston family, informing them of his death.

   So that was what Tom Brooks was doing that early winter morning, brooding over a blank sheet of copying paper. He began the letter, but it seemed wholly inadequate and ineffective. These people were about to discover that their family member had died and Tom felt like he was somehow invading their privacy.

   Nevertheless, he somehow finished the letter and sealed it to be sent. He prayed that it didn't arrive on Christmas. Just then, he heard arguing voices coming from far inside the house.

   "No, Papa! I love him and he loves me! You can't keep me in my room like some sort of animal!"

   "Yes, I can. And I will!"

   Tom rolled his eyes. His brother and niece had been arguing incessantly ever since Tony had found out about his daughter's dalliance with O'Connor. She would claim he was ruining her life and he would say he was protecting her. And round and round again.

   Tom massaged his temples. If they would just shut up.

                          ---

   On Christmas Eve in Oxford, a young woman sat with her mother-in-law, wrapping gifts. Her hand would brush against her stomach from time to time and she would smile down at it. "I can't wait to meet the baby. James keeps insisting that it's most certainly a girl, but I know it's a boy." She smiled up at her mother-in-law.

   Her mother-in-law, Dalia, smiled back. "Oh, I don't know dear. My son is a smart fellow. You should listen to him."

   The mother-to-be laughed. "I do, just not in this." A knock sounded at the front door. She began to move towards the door, but Dalia insisted that she sit. At the door, a man in a military uniform stood, waiting patiently.

   "Hello?"

   "Hello, Madam. I have a letter here for a Mrs. James Cranston?"

   "Yes, I'll give it to her. She's here."

   He nodded in solemnity.

   "Here you are. My condolences, Madam."

   The color drained from the woman's face as the meaning of the man's sentence hit her in the gut. Was her son...? "What do you mean?"

   "I'm sorry, I truly am." And he was off.

   Dalia's breathing was shaky. She had to tell her daughter-in-law, but how? She slowly entered the sitting room and locked eyes with James' wife.

   "Elizabeth, this is for you." She said it quietly and solemnly handed the letter to her.

   Lizzie was alarmed. She examined the envelope in confusion and opened it. It read:

To Mrs. Elizabeth Cranston, my condolences.

I regret to inform you that on November 23rd, your husband was killed by a German fighter plane. I knew him for only a very short time, but the bravery he showed on that night has led me to believe that he was a man of great morals and character. I regret that I could not have known him better. Another pilot stationed here, Samuel Hancock, became the closest friend of your husband and told me about you and your husband's child. I hope that you tell him or her of their father's courage. If ever you need anything, please attempt to contact me.

Condolences, Group Captain Thomas Brooks.

   Elizabeth looked up from the letter, her face stained with tears. "No! No, no, no! It can't be true, it can't!" She stood up and sobbed into her mother-in-law's shoulder. Her voice sounded obscured and choked. "What about the baby?! What do I tell him?! His father couldn't wait for him?!"

   Dalia attempted to soothe Lizzie. She stroked the back of her head and said, "Oh, my love. We'll find our way, we always do." Silent tears slid down her cheeks. Her only child was gone.