Spitball Army

New Year’s Eve 1944. “Send some snapshots, and those cigarettes,” he writes from his bunk. “And kiss one, before they get stale.”

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She felt odd writing her heart in a V-mail, so she chronicled the weather lovingly: in Iwo Jima ash, he read of her Michigan snow.

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The fountain pen, of crushed oyster shell, wrote with a gold nib. The note, on a telegraph form, began: I’ve been a damnable fool.

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