Millions of soldiers fight valiantly for their country, and millions die doing so. I pray for those who were the victims of so-called friendly fire. It’s not better or worse than any other war death, but it is its own special hell. The letter below, surrounded by paper poppies, is a letter my grandmother copied about her 20-year-old son’s death in World War II. Carefully crafted by the captain, the words do not mention how my uncle died.
That was left to me to find out. The facts were never shared with my family, thus their mantra until the day they died, was simple, “He was killed in the Philippines.” That statement always begged for more as far as I was concerned. Battle? Skirmish? Ambush? But no, it was to be none of that. Had my family known how their soldier died in 1945, I doubt they would have said anything differently.
So with only a couple of cousins left with which to share the story, I searched 70-year-old records and found out what happened to Pvt. James Curtis Morrow. My short story, Star-Crossed Soldier is available on Amazon. (First published in 2012.)