Journal Entry, December 1, 1944:
When I return to Corpus Christi, I have three letters from Mac waiting for me. I hold them carefully, as though they are fragile and might break. Or maybe it’s me who is fragile, afraid that I might break.
After seeing up close and personal the toll that war has taken on my brother, I worry even more for Mac. For myself. And for our country. Though the outcome of the invasion at Normandy has been positive for the United States and its Allies, it still feels as if this damned war is never going to end. I wonder sometimes whether I have the strength to see it through without feeling Mac’s arms around me, if only just one more time.
At night, I have dreams—nightmares—where I can’t make out Mac’s face. In the dreams, we’re together, but when I look at him, his face is fuzzy. I worry that I am forgetting him. Glad and the others try their best to cheer me up but by November of 1944, I have become inconsolable.
One night, as I toss and turn in my bunk, one of the radio operators, I think it is Marian Bigelow, bursts into our room.
“Virginia, come quickly,” she says excitedly.
I rub the confusion from my eyes and swing my feet over the side of the bed. “What is it?”
Marian grabs me by the hand and drags me from my bunk. She pulls a pair of Navy-issued coveralls from my locker and tosses them to me. “Get dressed. Now!”
I dress quickly and follow her across the base to the radio room. Chief Kirkwood, also known as my good friend Charlie, ushers me into his office. He shoves his headset into my hand. “Put it on.”
I slip the headset on and speak into it. “This is PFC Hansen. To whom am I speaking?”
“How’s my girl?”
It’s been almost three years since I’ve heard Mac’s beautiful voice and I am instantly overcome with emotion. Tears flood out of me like a great Texas storm. I try to speak but the words pile in my throat.
Mac’s hearty laughter breaks up the silence. Just hearing it makes me laugh, too. “Oh, Mac,” I choke out between sobs. “I can’t...believe it’s you. How…are you? Where are you? I want to know everything.”
“I’m fine, Virginia. I’m here in Honolulu for a short stay. How are you? How are your folks, and Francis?”
“Oh, Mac.” I revel in the sound of his voice. “I’m fine. We’re all fine, except Francis. Didn’t you get my letters?”
“Ginny, what happened to Francis?”
“He’s okay, but he lost a leg in Normandy. He’s home now, in Battle Creek, recovering at the Army hospital. Oh, God, I miss you, Mac. I miss you so much I can hardly stand it. How much longer is this war going to last? I’m going crazy without you.”
Mac’s reply is broken up by static. “Mac, are you there?”
After a long pause, the static clears. “Give my regards to Francis, and to your folks. Virginia, I love you, but I have to go—”
Panic rises up inside me. “No, Mac, please. Not yet.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll try to call again soon, but I can’t promise. In the meantime, I’ll write every chance I get. The war will end soon, I promise. And I will come home to you.”
“I’ll never let you out of my sight again.”
“I won’t let you. But for now I’ve got to run. I love you, Virginia.”
Before I can tell him that I love him, too, the connection is broken. A small sob catches in my throat and my heart feels like it has been strangled. I lay my head on Charlie’s desk and cry. Hot tears of longing cascade onto my lap in a loud plopping sound that fills the air.
When Charlie comes into the room, I launch myself into his arms. “Thank you,” I whisper. “You’re a good man, Charlie Kirkwood.”
“Aw, gee, Virginia. It’s been breaking my heart to see you in such a state. I’m just glad Mac happened to be there when I called.”
Back in my room, I open the stack of letters I’ve been holding since I returned from leave. After seeing my brother, I was afraid to open the letters from Mac. Afraid that the war had claimed him and the letters would represent his last words to me. And even though I know he is safe, I’m still terrified that a time will come soon when I’ll have to say goodbye to him forever.
I know my fears are not unfounded. I’ve seen firsthand what war does to men, and I see Mac’s face in every one of them. I worry now, far more than I ever have.
After I finish reading the letters, I place them under my pillow and replay the call with Mac over and over in my head until the sun rises and it’s time to get up and start the day.
For months now, there has been a lot of activity in the Pacific. It seems as though daily we are hearing of some air raid in Okinawa, the Philippines, Iwo Jima, and other such places. Each one brings a fresh wave of fear.
Though my phone call with Mac lasted only a couple of minutes, I carry his voice in my head, telling me that the war will end soon and he will be coming home to me. I believe his words. Need them to be true so that I can make some sense of the world, and my place in it.
On the third Saturday of November, 1944, Glad and I report for duty as usual. We arrive fifteen minutes prior to our shift start at three o’clock in the afternoon.
The large, open office, normally teeming with activity, is quiet. All around us, people sit in stunned silence. I freeze, paralyzed by fear. Something catastrophic has happened, and we are apparently the last to know.
Charlie rushes forward, pulls me by the arm toward Lt. Croft’s office. I turn toward Glad, and motion for her to follow, but before she reaches us, I am ushered into the lieutenant’s office. The door abruptly closes behind me.
Things begin to happen around me. I feel like I am floating. Like I am in a dream. Moving in slow motion. Whatever it is, it isn’t good. It is bad. Very bad. Charlie sits in the chair next to me and takes my hand in his. Lt. Croft places a glass of water on the desk before he sits down across from me, a grim look upon his face.
My body prickles with heat. My stomach heaves so forcefully I think it might actually jump out of my mouth and land on the desk in front of me. The thought of it almost makes me laugh except I know that whatever is wrong is not funny. Not funny at all.
“Virginia,” the lieutenant starts, “I...we—” He shifts his gaze from me to Charlie.
“Virginia.” It’s Charlie speaking now. I dutifully turn my head toward him. I raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to continue. He does.
“It’s Mac.”
I hear very little of what is said after that. “F6F Hellcat...shot down...Iwo Jima...body never recovered.”
I glance down at the telegram that someone—presumably Charlie—has placed in my hand. And the room goes black.