Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

He couldn't say it, didn't have to.
    Daniel nodded slowly. "Can't make promises. But I'll be careful as I can. I'll write when we hit a port. And when it's over, I'll find you."
    "You damned well better."
    From the doorway of the ward an orderly called, "Two more minutes and then visiting hours are over."
    Their eyes met in dismay.
    "The scuttlebutt says most of us are shipping out tonight."
    There were no words strong enough for that. Jacob gritted his teeth.
    "If it's wrong I'll be back tomorrow."
    "Can't count on it."
    "No."
    "Damn those Japs!"
    "Planning to."
    Jacob worked his free hand out from under the blankets and raised it a little. It took more effort than he expected. Daniel clasped it between both of his and lowered their grip into the screening bedding. For a long moment they said nothing, just looked at each other. Jacob tried to memorize this moment through his drug-addled fog. Tried to lock in the sight of Daniel's eyes and the way his over-long hair fell across his forehead, the shape of his jaw and the feel of his strong hands. It was no doubt the morphine that made him mumble. "I need to look at you. I'm scared if something... I'm scared I'll forget."
    Daniel took a breath and then said, "It's probably safer with you anyway."
    "What is?"
    He disengaged their hands carefully. Jacob wanted to protest. What could be worth losing the last moment of touch they might have? But Daniel reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small snapshot. "You have your wallet?"
    "In the box under the bed. What is that?"
    Daniel reached under the bed and pulled out Jacob's wallet, the leather stained and stiff with salt water. He tipped his hand toward Jacob, the picture half-hidden in his palm. It was a photo of the two of them, standing together in a doorway on the Gageway . In the picture Daniel was inside the room looking out, handsome and smiling, one lock of hair straying onto his forehead. In front of Daniel, Jacob himself stood grinning awkwardly, squinting a little in the light, one hand reaching back over his shoulder to fist in Daniel's shirtfront.
    "God. Where did you get that?"
    "Remember that newspaper reporter that was shipping with us, Nelson? I don't know when he took it but apparently he kept his camera in a waterproof bag and he's the kind of guy that didn't lose it despite sinking and sharks and all. He came up to me yesterday and gave me that."
    "God," Jacob repeated. It was a great picture of Daniel. It was just perfect, even if Jacob himself looked like a moron. "Do you have a copy?"
    "Nope." Daniel wrapped a stiff wrinkled dollar bill around the picture and tucked it carefully into Jacob's billfold. "There. Now you won't forget me when you get Stateside."
    "That wasn't what I meant."
    "I know." Daniel bent and stowed the wallet away.
    At the front of the room a corpsman rang a bell.
    Daniel stood abruptly, as if jerked upward by strings. Jacob reached toward him, regardless of the screaming stab it sent through his back.
    Daniel gripped his hand, briefly but hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Then he let go.
    "So long, Jacob. Have a good trip home, you lucky bastard."
    Around the room, other men were getting up, shaking hands, touching shoulders, even faces. Nothing unusual about the two of them. Jacob wanted to say something, something special, something that would carry both of them through the months to come. God, maybe even years. But his throat had closed up completely. He blinked hard, staring fixedly at Daniel's face.
    Daniel's perfect mouth tilted into a wry smile. "I know," he said softly. And then he turned and made his way out without looking back.
    Minutes later, maybe hours later, the ward nurse came by and looked down at Jacob's face. "You look like you need more pain medication, sailor."
    That wasn't really what he needed, but Jacob quite willingly let her bring the doc over to drug him into oblivion.
    ****

CHAPTER 9
    November 1945.
    Jacob slid the shoebox out from under his bed and lifted it to his lap. He hadn't indulged in this for a week now, but Thanksgiving was almost upon him and he wasn't feeling strong tonight. He untied the string and slid the lid off carefully. The thin paper in the box shifted as he carefully turned it over and emptied the contents into a pile on the coverlet. Not a lot of letters, for two-and-a-half long years. It was almost ritual now. He read from the bottom to the top.
    March 14, 1943
    Trip, I hope your back is good enough for you to get