Pen Pal
John Lennon x Reader
Warnings: mentions of war (a lot of it), WW2, swearing, death, sexism, mentions of smut but doesn’t happen, HISTORICAL INACCURACY.
(I know VE Day is the 8th of May, but I messed up the times line, I’m really sorry!)
The Beatles Masterlist
John Lennon Masterlist
It originally started as a way to boost your spirits. It was early September of 1942, the War still ranging on in the society around you. You were on the way to the factory (having been working there as a contribution to the home from) and saw a flyer, well: multiple flyers, which were advertising a thing called a: ‘pen pal’. You stopped, and read it. After all, you were early and it didn’t seem as if the blitz were suddenly returning. (The rubble had only just been completely clear). You shook your head, attempting to rid the horrid thoughts from your mind.
‘PEN PAL EXPERIMENT
SEND A LETTER TO A SOLDIER. BOOST THEIR MORALE.’
It had the address of an enrolling office and a small ticket to take. You ripped one off, shoving it into your pocket - not thinking much of it, as you went about your day. It slipped your mind when you were assisting with building the ammunition, a level of unimportance rising within the small slip of paper.
It was only when you got home, that your memory rebooted. You were loading your washing machine, digging into the pockets, when you found it. You assumed it was worth a shot, grabbing your bag and heading out of the house, tuning into the radio beforehand for any air-raid warnings, hearing that the sky was clear - much to your delight. It was a cool, almost calm night. It offered a sense of relief to the most tragic world around you.
You reached the steps, and inside were a few men. Some: elderly or disabled. Others: young and peaceful protesters. They raised their eyebrows on your way in. “Can we help you, miss?” You had gathered respect since women had helped the war effort, but were still getting mixed feelings for the more sexist of the British Common Wealth’s population. You nodded, smiling lightly as you handed the younger man the slip of paper. He returned your grin, leading you into the next room.
“It’s good what you’re doing, you know - really going to boost someone’s spirits, love.” He told you, skimming down a list, consisting of names you had assumed, and he picked one. “Ah, perfect.” You gave him a questioning look. “Some of the lads signed up to get a pen pal. They get lonely, you see. It really helps what you’re doing.” He explained. “And obviously with the war efforts, thank you for that too.” He spoke quickly, under his breath. You appreciated it, being recognised for your assistance by a man. Maybe the world was changing.
“Right, if you just fill this out, then we’ll send it off and you’ll make a soldier a very happy man.” He handed you the clipboard, and you nodded beginning to fill out the information. It consisted of: your name, date of birth and your address. “Right, give it a week or two, and you should receive a letter in the post. Thank you.” He told you after you had given him the paper. He showed you out, thanking you once again, grateful for your volunteering.
In the span of a few days, you had simply forgotten the ‘pen pal’ thing. Whether you were busy with work, or trying to maintain independence in a world like this, you had just forgot. That was until the lady who delivered your post knocked on your front door a week or two later. “Morning, (Y/n)!” She said chirpily. “Morning, Louise!” You replied, taking the letters politely from her grasp. “Not a bomb in two weeks. You reckon it’s nearly over?” She asked, creating the kind conversation you nearly always had, unless none of you was in hurry. “How longs a piece of string?” You laughed, and she joined in. “You’re right there, love.” She agreed. “See you later!” And with that, she carried on with her rounds, although uncertain of when you would actually see her again.
You flicked between the unpaid bills, the newspaper - bored of the same old shit. That was when a letter in scribbled cursive caught your eye. “France?” You asked yourself, reading the stamp on the front. ‘Miss (Y/n) (L/n) - (Your Address), England’. It read. You didn’t recognise the writing, and did you certainly didn’t know anyone from France. You turned it over, and it immediately clicked in your head. ‘The PEN PAL EXPERIMENT’ an alternative stamp said. Sure, it had crossed your mind over the past fortnight, but you hadn’t expected a letter, nor a reply so quickly. “The post is faster then it was before.” You told yourself, but it was understandable. Urgent transmissions, trying to keep the boys in the fighting spirit, you know - morale.
You opened the sealed envelope, sitting down at your kitchen table to read what your pen pal had to say.
‘Saturday the 19th of September, 1942.
Dear,
Miss (Y/n) (L/n),
I do apologise if my writing is too scribbly, or hard to make out, or even the odd mistake here and there. You see, I am hurriedly writing this as we are moving posts again tonight. Typical of them to give us a last minute warning. But you know the Germans, as if they would cooperate with the British Military. However, I am very appreciative of your interest in this letter business. My mother passed of tuberculosis last year, and my father died when I was a young child. So to me, this means a lot. My troop is my family, I suppose. My brothers. Just having someone to talk to, even a stranger, just gives me the hope to fight through this, as the fighting doesn’t seem the be getting any lighter, nor easier. I hope this helps you too. I’d love to know about you. I’d love to make a friend. My name is John Winston Lennon, I turn twenty in a few weeks time, the 9th of October, and I am from Liverpool. It would be delightful to have a response - I’m sure you will be offered my next address and whereabouts?
Sincerely,
Your pen pal,
John.’
It made your heart melt when you read it. It contained a lot of personal things, but you understood the fact that he had no one to confide in - it gave you an overwhelming sense of trust. Going to put the letter back in it’s envelope, you discovered an address, of which it told you to address your letters. It went onto explain that they would then send it to your pen pal, not being allowed to send them to his direct locations, due to the confidentiality of their whereabouts, and the massive risk of interception but Nazi forces. You placed the envelope into a small, prior to this encounter, empty basket and set out to reply. You address it as he did, but was way too hyper to keep it extremely formal.
‘Monday the 28th of September, 1942
Dear,
Mr John Lennon,
I’m not sure entirely sure what to begin this letter with, other than hello. Thank you for the introduction, and the sense of trust you are offering me. I promise to help you as much as I can, practically be a shoulder to cry on from miles away. I, myself, live alone. My dad went off to fight in the war. And my mother was placed into a mill making clothes for shoulders, a while away from here I work in the factories you see, I make ammunition and only hope I’m helping you lot. It’s not much, but it’s what I can offer. As you know, my name is (Y/n) (M/n [if you have one]) (L/n), I also turn twenty soon - (Your Birthday), but it’s a while away yet, and I’m from (Home). And Happy Birthday, John! I do hope the chocolates haven’t melted in the envelope?
I look forward to your reply!
Sincerely,
Your Pen Pal,
(Y/n) (L/n).’
Enclosed, you added your ration of chocolate for that time, unsure of whether you were actually allowed to send it or not, but you still did it, adding the return address, and making your way to the post box near the end of your street. You, (im)patiently awaiting the man’s long-awaited response although you had only sent it, merely moments ago.
Over the course of a year, you and John grew close. You sent photos of one-another, all of which; you posted on your fridge, and him - kept in his coat. To him, you were the warmth his dull heart needed. You brightened his day. Your letters were frequent, and always awaited by the latter (whoever that may be). It kept his spirits up, and kept you going. Well, it was the way your parents met dusting The Great War, so that gave you a sense of hope. To John, you were a dream, you were his lady without even asking permission. He was head-over-heels in love with you, at least that’s what his troop were guessing from the way he’d beg the correspondence men for your letters. You two shared interest, finding out he loved to play the guitar and sing, himself and a friend who he was stationed with, Paul - decided they we’re going to form their own band when they got out. He loved when you wrote about your own aspirations, reading them over and over until they were branded into his head.
John made your heart flutter, made the postwoman wonder why you were always so chipper, why you begged her for the stack of bills in her hand. You two were in love, and didn’t even know it. Well, until John mentioned in in one of his letters, in the late July of 1943. The one that was addressed differently.
‘Tuesday the 27th of July, 1943
Dearest (Y/n),
I write this to you with a heavy heart. Not of sadness, but of hope and love. For you. My love, I dream of the day I should marry you, the day I hold our children, the day we get to meet, the day I get to love you. But until then my darling, I must confess through the use of our conventional letter. To which I hope you understand, the day I wish to whisk you away, and take you by the hand. If you would be ever so kind to let me, and to this is strongly plead, would you be my girl? I promise when this is over we’ll be together. Have a cottage in the country. Love and cherish past the mortal world of living, after death do us part. Make you (Y/n) Lennon as soon as I shall return. Darling I do not know if I should make it, for I walk blind in this war. But would you make me the happiest man alive, and be mine?
Sincerely,
Your pen pal,
Your soldier,
John Lennon.’
He was scared of sending it you, shaking as he handed it over, loosing the chance to take it back and risk everything he loved. Everything that was you. He fought for you, he would even die for you, but for now, he awaited your response. If it was ever to come, of course.
‘Monday the 9th of August 1943
My darling John,
I write to tell you your heavy heart is not necessary. I’d give my life for you, my love. It would be my honour to be your girl. And I shall impatiently await the day we can make all of our dreams come true. I promise to stick by your side; whether by pen or person. John Lennon you made my heart full. I can’t wait to run into your arms the day you get back. I hope this war should finish soon. To create a family of our own back here, home - in England. Today you made me the happiest woman alive. It would be my upmost honour to become (Y/n) Lennon.
Sincerely,
Your pen pal,
Your girl,
(Y/n) (L/n).’
John practically jumped around with glee when he heard this, making the others think he were mad - shell shocked, perhaps. Even when they were moving posts. “What’s getting you so chipper?” Another asked him, who was sulkily trudging through the poring rain of the trenches. “I’m just counting down the days to go and see my missus That’s all.” He said, with a shrug. A large smile on his face despite his drenched clothing, and low spirits of the other men.
You conversed back and forth, more than ever before. And the few times he was forced to go a form of ‘radio-silent’, almost killed him. He was the one, well - more like you were the one keeping the spirits up. And without being able to send or receive letters was a stab in the heart. How could you check he was okay? How could he check that you were okay? He wrote you a letter every day. Not knowing when he was allowed to send them. You had done the same, patiently waiting until you got his letter to ensure his safety to do the same.
The girls at work noticed you weren’t your usual high-spirited self, and it showed. They would ask if you were alright and you shrugged it off. The only person you wanted to talk to was him. And you couldn’t. But what was a few weeks of silence compared to a lifetime of sorrow? One of the girls whom you were particularly close with, even knew about your ‘friend’, walked up to you, held you close, and simply said: “Is it John?” Your tears burst from your eyes, with wails of sadness streaming down your cheeks. You all had a little intervention on your lunch break where you all spoke about what was going on, none of you even ate. Just chatted, and more importantly - listened.
You explained your situation and to your surprise - a lot of the women knew what you were going through. Some had husbands in there, others a writing buddy (like myself), and the rest were amazing comforters for the rest of us. It felt nice to have someone to talk to about things like that. It made you feel a bit better.
What truly made you feel better?
When there were bags of letters being delivered to your house.
“Lover boys writing again!” The postwoman said, and you almost began crying again, but you gave her all of your letters, as she said that she was willing to send them for you, first-class, as well. You read them all. One by one.
‘Thursday the 4th of November, 1943
My sweetheart,
The Germans are close. We have been to defend British and allied territory and remain radio silent. I’m not sure if you should ever get this letter, nor do I know if I shall ever get yours. I will write daily, my love - just keep dreaming of you and I. The day this is all over and I can kiss you for the first time.
I love you, my sweet (Y/n) Lennon.
Sincerely,
Your love,
John Lennon.’
Thats the day the letters started. Of course, tears were shed while you read.
‘Friday the 5th of November, 1943
My dear,
We have arrived.’
‘Saturday the 6th of November, 1943
My love,
It has only been a day but I already miss you. I look at your pictures as a way of consoling myself.’
‘Sunday the 7th of November, 1943
Sweetheart,
The Germans are nearing.’
‘Monday the 8th of November, 1943
My life,
I am scared.’
‘Tuesday the 9th of November, 1943
Darling,
We’re going into battle. I’m not even sure we’re in France anymore.’
‘Wednesday the 10th of November, 1943
My love,
Are you okay? I miss you dearly.’
‘Thursday the 11th of November, 1943
My princess, I have been without you for a week now.’
‘Friday the 12th of November, 1943
My darling,
I don’t know if I can go on.’
‘Saturday the 13th of November, 1943
My darling,
I love you.’
Until December. Every bloody day. You read every letter, every poem, every hopelessly romantic word that kept you hanging on.
‘Wednesday the 15th of December, 1943
My dearest (Y/n),
We’ve finally stopped fighting today. They’re sending us back to our previous post. We won, but there have been many casualties. My darling, I am finally allowed to send my letters. I can’t wait to receive yours. I have missed your beautiful words, your voice through the page. Sweetheart I’m unsure of what will happen. When will the fighting stop? But I am sure of one thing, my princess.
I love you and I always will.
Sincerely,
Your soldier,
John Lennon.’
You smiled broadly, the wet visualisations of relief running down your cheeks, your dear John Lennon was alive. He was well. He was here. Despite the numerous letter you had already sent, which were drastically similar to his, except the broad subject of fighting - as you didn’t have the experience to talk about that. You spoke about the factory. And the girls. Your friends; your sisters. You felt impulsed to send another.
‘Tuesday the 21st of December, 1943
My darling John,
I have received your letters. All of them. My god have I been worried sick. I have prayed the nights away for you safety, and by god I hope the war is to be over soon. Sweetheart, I am fine now that I know you’re okay. John Lennon you make me the happiest woman alive. You are my hero, John. You saved me and this county. I love you. So so much. Merry Christmas, my love.
Sincerely,
Your girl,
Mrs Lennon.’
You applied an evenly generous layer of red lip stick to your lips, and kissed the corner of the page, offering him a small confession of love.
John was overwhelmed when he received the heap of parcels. The man came in, gave the others their letters, leaving a desperate John until last. “John Lennon?” He read off of the list. His head quickly shot up, as he addressed himself. “There’s not much.” The man said sarcastically, but John just wanted your letters. Even if I just said one word. The man turned the bag over, and tipped the letters in front of him, almost creating some sort of pile. “You’re missus must love you.” He said, whistling at the amount. “Aye.” John smiled for the first time in weeks. “I think she does.”
One by one, he opened all of your letters - eagerly reading all of them, his heart melting into a splotchy pile in his stomach when he read your love-sick, worried words. He felt warm inside despite the coldness of the French winter. His heart rapidly pumping bloody into his love-stuck body. Cupid striking again.
You had even sent a present. A small box, with brown paper and a white string bow. It was a pair of gloves. Thermal winter ones, may I add. Your mother had made them in her work-mill, but she added a special touch to it, upon request. A small: ‘John & (Y/n)’ stitched into the lining. Along with a letter inside one of them, it was small and square shaped. ‘Thank you for giving my daughter hope. I look forward to meeting you - my son in law. Stay strong. (Mother’s/Name) (L/n).’
He tucked it into his pocket, behind the photos he had of you, slipping on the gloves and practically basking in the warmth they offered his almost frost-bitten fingers, lovingly tracing the lining with each of your names. That’s when he remembered it was Christmas Eve. Amidst all the low-spiritedness and the fighting, he completely forgot that is was Christmas. And he wasn’t giving his girl anything? Well, he didn’t have much to give. But he told himself that was only an excuse - determined to reply to you in a letter along with something special. Just for you.
‘Friday the 24th of December, 1943
Princess,
I wish I could spend Christmas with you. I wish I could hold your hand. I wish I could hold you close. I wish I could kiss you. I wish I could do unholy things which shan’t me mentioned in a letter. My darling, Merry Christmas. I will shower you with gifts when I return, make you feel like the only girl in the world. But until then, I hope you should find my heart adequate.
I love you my dear,
Sincerely,
Your man,
John Lennon.’
And attached, his compass. You giggled giddily, a belated Christmas present close to New-Years. You ran your thumb delicately over the intricate detailing of its outer shell, holding it to your chest as you inhaled a deep breath - grinning with delight.
‘Wednesday the 29th of December, 1943
Darling John,
I wear your gift with pride. Thank you. I have shown the ladies at work and they all want to meet you. You are the luckiest thing to have happened to me, John. I wish you the happiest new year. And hopefully sometime soon we should be able to celebrate it together. Just you and I.
I love you,
Your girl,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
You always addressed your letters like that now, (Y/n) Lennon. Yes, it was highly unconventional, but you could only think of the smile on his face he had described to you in his letters.
‘How it brings a warm feeling to my cold heart.’
He had told you, bringing you to say it over and over again. It was iterated within your letters, you would do it until the day he returned to you, having never actually left.
Your letters continued through the new year, speaking constant declarations of love to one another. After every letter, came another. Every day of January, 1945. And every day of February, 1945. A memorable letter arrived, on:
‘Wednesday the 14th of February, 1945
My love,
My life,
My world,
My everything,
The war keeps going, the fighting bestowing,
Noble men, with the job of ten,
I write with a full heart, though we are apart,
I dream of you, just us two,
A family of our own, our names written in stone,
We shall marry, happy and merry,
As on this dreadful day, we shall shout with joy,
Like every girl and boy, as I love you, my lady.
My girl,
My (Y/n) Lennon.
Sincerely,
Your Valentine,
John Lennon.’
A poem. He writ you a poem. A poem just for you. His girl, his darling, his love, his future wife. He was so proud he showed it to his ‘brothers’, Paul, George and Richard. The men all wolf-whistled for him, cheering him on as he wrote your address onto the letter. “That’s it, Johnny Boy, getting the girls.” They teased and teased, but all he did was laugh - mind clouded with thoughts of you.
John stood on the front line, mindlessly shooting into the bright flashes across no-man’s land. He shot and shot, cold fingers, and numb toes. Yet his chest was warm, the photos of you making his blood rush, making his heart beat quicker.
He looked down at his fingers, clad in his gloves, he smiled. John thought about you, and what your life would be like. Just shooting.
Shooting.
Shooting.
Shooting.
He was pulled away from his thoughts by an unbearable, sharp pain in his right shoulder - the sheer force sending him back into the border of the barrack walls. His ears began ringing, heart thumping, eyes growing weak, as his fellowmen gathered around him.
As his eyelids fell closed, he murmured one last thing, “(Y/n).”
You paced back and forth, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Was he ignoring you? Was he forced into transmission silence? Was he…
You refused to think about that. You wouldn’t let yourself, but the horridly graphic images in your mind thought otherwise, carelessly wandering into the drastic thoughts of what had happened to John.
No letters.
For two whole weeks.
Two bloody weeks.
Nothing.
Not a word.
There was a knock at the door, the first in a while. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t answer it with crossed fingers, praying that there wouldn’t be two men stood their; giving you the unbearable heartbreak of news.
But it wasn’t. It was the postwoman. Thank god it was the post woman. You broke down into her arms when she handed you a letter, all she did was hold you. It broke her heart, she knew how much of an impact your soldier had on you, it brought a tear to her own eye. “He’s okay, sweetheart. He’s okay.” That’s all she said before you were left to your own devices, left to read his letter.
When you had calmed yourself and sat down, you were quick to discover it wasn’t your lover’s handwriting. It was something morphed from a typewriter. Your feeling of unease set itself upon your shoulders once more, as you read the stamp - the same confusion within you as when you had first received a letter from your lover addressed via France.
‘Hospice’
In red writing, as well as your address. You ripped the sealing, immediately reading the neatly written contents of caused distress.
‘Friday the 23rd of March, 1945
Dear Miss (Y/n) (L/n),
As Mr John Winston Lennon’s listed next of kin, we have written to inform you of his whereabouts. Mr John Winston Lennon was shot in his right shoulder in Northern France. Thursday the 15th of February, 1945. Fortunately, he is alive and well, recovering under the treatment of a remaining unnamed hospital in France, away from the current circumstances of war. We have attached an address to send your letters, until Mr John Winston Lennon has made a full recovery, and is able to return to the Front Line. He is awake, and is awaiting your letter.
Sincerely,
Staff at Hospice.’
The tears that ran down your cheeks screamed in relief, he was okay. He was injured. But he was okay. John was okay. Your brave, brave soldier was okay.
You grabbed your pen, and began scribbling, as well as steadily copying down the address as neatly as humanly possible. This letter happened to be the most informal one you would ever send to John Lennon.
‘Tuesday the 27th of February, 1945
My love,
John,
Thank God you’re alright. I’m not religious yet I’ve prayed for days for your safety. I’m sorry if this paper is covered in tears. I’m crying as I write - as I have the past few weeks. I need you, John Winston Lennon. And so help me God if I need to come over there and drag you back home with me, I will. Stay safe. Always.
I will always love you,
Sincerely,
Your very worried love,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
John sat, arm in a sling - reading along with a gentle smile on his lips, desperate to reply. He threw his head back, looking at his hand in the sling, your photos laced in between his fingers. The nurse walked over par his request, smiling gently at him. “Can I help you, sir?” He nodded at the elder woman. “Are you able to help me write a letter?” He watched her lips quirk upwards, as she hurried over to grab a pen and some paper. “Is this for family?” She asked, he was about to address you as his girlfriend, but he knew from experience that people were unwilling to help when there was a chance that the letter fell upon careless hands. “My wife.” He felt good saying that. A simple word. It wasn’t lying, he was just foreshadowing the future, for when he arrived home. His future wife.
“What would you like me to say, sir?” He thought for a moment. He never actually told anyone what words he spoke to you. Each of yours privacy valuable to him. He cleared his throat,
‘Saturday the 31st of March, 1945
My darling (Y/n),
I am terribly sorry for worrying you, princess. And I shall make my reply simple. I shall also make my recovery as quick as possible. I love you dearly, and long for my arrival with you, at the end of this godforsaken war. I love you so very much, I love you so much that you couldn’t possibly imagine. I not only fight for my country, but for you. Just for you. If the handwriting seems unfamiliar, my dear nurse Darla has written upon the uselessness of my writing hand. It’s her birthday today, she turns seventy-two. (Our postage is slow, and may be delayed - Darla).
So farewell,
Sincerely,
John Lennon and his new friend, Darla Trevvors.’
Your heart melted when you read the letter, it reflected on the sweet-natured personality of your John. You were quick to write your response.
‘Wednesday the 4th of April, 1945
To my perfect John,
And his friend Darla,
Darla, thank you for taking care of my John. Goodness knows he needs a friend without his brothers there. I will be forever grateful to you. John, the women at work have also wished for your speedy recovery, but I hope this doesn’t sound selfish when I say I hope it is slow. I’d rather you be safe in a Hospital, than risking your life out there. I could speak the words of Shakespeare to express my love for you, but it could never amount to your incredible songs and poems you bless me with, my sweetheart, and his carer.
Until we speak again,
Sincerely,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
‘Thursday the 12th of April, 1945
My sweet princess (Y/n),
(Again, apologies for the late response, and / or arrival time).
(Y/n), my arm is quickly healing, a week or so more and I am back to full strength, able to write to you freely. Although the restrictions of best-rest will confine me for another few days after, I shall be free to go back to fighting for my country. For our freedom. For you and I. I can imagine the saddened look on your face, and my dear do not worry. I shall be more careful. You see when I was wounded, I was thinking of you. You will be the death of me, my sweet girl. And I will hold my word to that when I marry you.
I shall be writing soon,
Sincerely,
Your love,
John Lennon, and his friend, Darla Trevvors.’
You weren’t fond of the distance between exchanged letters, but were contempt with the fact that your lover was alive and well, recovering in a hospital, although distant. It was true, you weren’t fully happy with the idea that he would return to the dangers of the constant fighting, but it was selfish to think like that. He was determined to fight, and you weren’t in any place to stop him. You may never have exchanged verbal words, but you knew him well enough to read between the lines and know what he wanted. And he wanted to be with his friends. You could all but love him and await his return.
‘Thursday the 26th of April, 1945
My dearest John,
I hope by now you have no sling. And are able to write to me with full mobility. Although I have come to love your nursing companion, Darla, I have missed the gorgeous cursive curls on your writing, and how you scribble my name. I miss you, although I am unaware how. How can you miss someone you have never actually met? But I miss you, my love. I can’t describe how much I’d love to be with you, help you recover.
See you soon,
Sincerely,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
At this point, John’s arm was almost completely useful once more. His right arm had been released from its horrible prison, and now just a bandage on his shoulder replaced the past of injury. So now he was sat, reading your letter weeks after it had been sent, angrily swearing at the postage system from which he was positioned, for keeping him away from your gorgeous words. (Although extremely appreciative of what the hospital had done for him, in this time of desperate need).
‘Friday the 11th of May, 1945
My gorgeous love,
I finally have my arm back. My shoulder is painful, but it is merely a healing wound beneath a clad of bandages. The days are long, the nights are sleepless. My ears still ring with the gunshots, as if a white noise for me to sleep. But during this time however, I have been busy. I have written a song for you, my love. When I see you, you’ll hear it. I’ll play it to you on my guitar. I am unable to send you the rhythm through words, but I hope the poem through the words is music enough. I shall return to fighting soon, so my address will return to what was.
Sincerely,
Your solider,
John Lennon.’
Attached, was the most beautiful thing you have ever read. And instead of going in your letter basket, it was pinned to your fridge with the help of magnets.
‘I give her all my love
That's all I do
And if you saw my love
You'd love her too
I love her
She gives my everything
And tenderly
The kiss my lover brings
She brings to me
And I love her
A love like ours
Could never die
As long as I
Have you near me
Bright are the stars that shine
Dark is the sky
I know this love of mine
Will never die
And I love her
Bright are the stars that shine
Dark is the sky
I know this love of mine
Will never die
And I love her’
You read it again and again, over and over. It was about you. You. Your perfect love wrote a song about you. About you. You were over the moon. Both about the song, and about the fact that he was recovering healthily. But that meant he was back in the trenches by now. Back fighting by now. Back in dancer by now. And you were back to praying to an entity you didn’t believe in. God help your John Winston Lennon.
‘Monday the 28th of May, 1945
My love,
I expect you are back in the trenches by now? I hope your spirit is not lowered. Of course I worry for you, but I understand how you want to fight, and win. How you want to leave with a full heart of accomplishment. So I will write to you so proud of your resilience. Say hello to the boys for me, would you? I know you find the drama of my work place amusing, so I will tell what happened the other day. One of the ladies I work with, Angelica, (we don’t really like her that much), had been sleeping with our boss. That surprised all of us, but I am now five pounds richer, having betted on that’s why she got nice new shoes on a working woman’s pay check. And thank you ever so much for the song, I, sure you’ll be pleased to know it’s pinned on the fridge and I read it every day when I walk past it. I have it memorised actually. I do hope this reaches you quicker then the last ones.
Stay safe, my brave soldier,
Sincerely,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
You wanted to keep his spirits as high as possible now that he had returned to the bottomless pit of a depressive hell called the borders protruding through France. He found the gossip and drama amusing, pretty much knowing everything about what was going on at your factory while he was away. He was not only your lover, but your best friend, also.
‘Saturday the 2nd of June, 1945
Princess,
I am ever so optimistic. The yanks truly have been helping us. With every aspect of the fighting effort. I feel this prolonged few years is finally coming to an end, and I will be able to hold you in my arms soon enough. I am so glad you liked your song, there will be many more to come when the band gets on its feet. Thank god the postage is quicker, as well. During my hospital stay, they took the mick. Snail post, if you will. And that doesn’t surprise me with Angelica, wasn’t she the one that slept with Sylvia’s husband, a few months back? She’s like a bloody rabbit, that woman. Anyway, my morale is high and I am determined to keep it that way, I am almost certain we should be together soon.
Sincerely,
Yours truly,
John Lennon.
(P.s. I hope you don’t mind, the lads wrote you a letter, and begged me to send it).’
He had written, a small smiley face at the end. There was a glowing warmth in your chest when his happiness radiated out of the paper, almost visible through his carefully written words. You turned the envelope upside down, finding another piece of paper, with an array of messy handwriting in it.
‘Saturday the 2nd of June, 1945
My dearest (Y/n),
Just joking, love. We just wanted to say hello. I’m Paul, Paul McCartney, Good old Johnny boys on cloud nine. You’ve made him a happier man. It’s soppy, but it keeps everyone else happy, and I suppose that’s what we need. (I helped him with that song), no doubt he’s nicked all the credit like a cheeky git, I can’t wait to meet you - see what angelic beauty John is always bragging about.
So long,
Paul.
Hi! My names Richard Starkey, but everyone calls me Ringo - it’s something weird the lads call me because of the rings I always wear, anyways I just wanted to write to let you know we’re taking good care of your John, and we’re all eager to meet you. (With the way he talks about you it’s like you’re the Ruler of England). And can your mum make me some of those gloves? They just look so nice and my hands get a bit cold.
Bye, thanks pet,
Ringo.
Bonjour, je suis George. I don’t know if that’s right, some of the soldiers taught me it, but for all I know I could be saying anything. It’s nice to meet you (finally), even though it’s though paper. You make our John Boy so happy, and I also wanted to ask if you’d make him give me his spare chocolate. He’s got a load and is stashing it. Nice talking to you!
The much more handsomer than John,
George.’
Their letter caused you to laugh, their handwriting almost unreadable. You showed a few of the ladies at work, who told you to: ‘keep that John lad’, while you were all gossiping about Angelica and the boss. Julie had already called dibs on ‘maid of honour’ position, making you roll your eyes, attempting to construct the twentieth gun of the morning.
‘Saturday the 9th of June, 1945
My handsome John,
(And I suppose Paul, Ringo and George),
I’m over the moon to hear your optimism. Hopefully any day now. It was nice to hear from your friends, and please thank Paul for his contributions to my incredible fridge decor. And tell George if he wants chocolate, just give him yours and I’ll send you some special from my rations (I’m sure they’re better than the muck they give you over there). And when you all get back, I’ll get you as much chocolate as you all want. And please give the gloves to Ringo, he very politely asked for some, and I just couldn’t say no. But in all seriousness, stay safe, my love.
Sincerely,
Your girl,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
The following letters were uneventful for a few weeks, but it was comforting for him to finally have a nice feeling of normality, not a suicide mission waiting to happen. It was also amazing that John had such great friends, ones he could confide in, and them the same. You also had a routine, going to work and back, talking about what each other had been up to, listening to the radio. Telling John about your day. It was comforting.
You even went to the library for the first time in a while, finding the opportunity on the way home from work one day. Life was going up, you were sure of it. Not by much, but since the Americans had truly contributed to the war effort, Germany was quickly loosing all sense of control they had one the outcome of the war, perhaps there could be a happy ending, after all.
‘Thursday the 16th of August, 1945
My love,
My life,
My world,
There has been talk of this all ending. Many of us attend a funeral today. A British spy ran across no-man’s land, and was unfortunately shot by his own bullet. It’s difficult whether to decipher friend or foe, whether carrying a flag or not. It hurts, you know? These men have girlfriends, fiancées, wives, children, they have families. And it’s all being given up for the fault of power hungry, selfish men who sit back and watch noblemen die for a pointless cause. And in moments like these I can help but think of you, my love. My inspiration, my reason to keep fighting. It’s you, it’s all for you. Every man I shoot, every trigger I pull, every effort I make, it’s for you.
Stay strong my princess,
Sincerely,
John Lennon.’
The days moved quicker now, like a cycle, it was a comforting feeling - was the world going back to how it was? No. Certainly not. It never will, never can. But everything has to change eventually. And if that meant being left to fend for yourself with a pen and paper, then so be it. Maybe, just maybe, it was actually going to be over.
‘Tuesday the 21st of August, 1945
My dearest,
I am sorry for your loss. As I am sorry for everyone’s. I hope the boys got their gifts, and you are all doing okay. I’m right here, John. Right here. Believe me, if you needed me to, I’d march my way to France myself. I just need you, as much as you need me. Not much longer now, hopefully. You can stop winning a loosing battle that wasn’t yours to be fought.
Sincerely,
Your soulmate,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
‘Monday the 27th of August, 1945
My everything,
There has been a lot of fighting these past few days. More than usual, which says a lot for the crisis of a war. The Germans have given up a lot of land to us, retreating their territory further and further back. It’s like a final surge to the end, to victory. It has been hard, and I would be lying to tell you I haven’t struggled. I can hardly describe in words how much I just want to hold you, kiss you, love you, dance with you, sing to you, make love to you, marry you, do unholy things with you that are forbidden to be mentioned in writing. I need you (Y/n). My beautiful girl.
See you soon,
Sincerely,
John Lennon.’
‘Friday the 31st of August, 1945
My one and only John,
The days are peaceful now. Now that I have a true hope of having you home. I have been listening to the radio religiously, my love. It only speaks of good things. My heart is yours, John Lennon. Finish it. Finish everything these horrible men started and come home. I love you ever so much. Just keep fighting, for me. For you. For us.
Sincerely,
Your (Y/n) Lennon.’
That was when it happened. The day two longing heart leapt for joy, after three years of bottomless hope. The day the guns fell silent. All the guns, fell silent.
‘Sunday the 2nd of September, 1945
Baby,
It’s over. It’s fucking over. They still haven’t given me your letter, but it’s over. I cry while I write this. My darling it is finished. I shot my final bullet. I killed my final man. The war is over. It was over in the west months ago, but not here. Here, is where I don’t know. But what I do now, is. The fighting is done. I’m coming home to you my sweetheart, I’m coming home.
Sincerely,
Your John Lennon.’
‘Sunday the 2nd of September, 1945
My sweet John,
They told us on the radio today that it was over. That it’s finished. That this Godforsaken waste of a war is over. It’s bloody over, John. They’ve announced it in stages it started in May and took practically years to get to you, my whole life. Please hurry and come home. Please.
Sincerely,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
It took ages to get John home. That ages felt like an eternity, just waiting for your beloved to come home. They were sent home in groups, depending on where you came from, and the Liverpudlians were send home in Early December. Thursday the 6th of December, 1945 - more specifically.
‘Thursday the 6th of December, 1945
Love of my life,
I am finally coming home. We have been moved countless times, just to be kept in this foreign land of which I am unaware. But now I am seated on a ferry, back to port in Liverpool. I will update you in a few days to let you know which one, when I am told. (If you even receive this letter). I didn’t want to get your hopes up, just for nothing, but now. I am actually coming home. Home to you. I estimate it should take three days from here (wherever here is), to you. What’s a few more days of waiting, after almost four years?
I’ll see you soon,
Sincerely,
John.’
You received the letter on Friday the 7th of December, it was sent first class, along with a new return address to send your own, and a pack of first class stamps, of your own. Apparently now they thought it was more important than ever to connect loved ones. And as his first of kin, yours and his letters took priority over distant relatives trying to talk back and forth.
‘Friday the 7th of December, 1945
My sweet darling John,
I have received your letter, and should only hope you have received mine. I am currently on a train to Liverpool, and I have booked into a hotel by the port. I’ll be there when you get here. I hope the journey isn’t too treacherous, and the seas remain calm. Tell the lads I said hello. I’m off at the next stop, just tell me where you are, and I’ll be there, John.
Sincerely,
Yours,
(Y/n) Lennon.’
John was due to arrive at port in Liverpool, on Sunday the 9th of December, 1945. He and his mates just sat below deck, singing, and just enjoying their freedom. “We still gonna be in a band when we get back to port, lads?” Paul asked, I’m all seriousness. They all hummed in agreement. “We all live in walking distance, we should be able to.” Ringo suggested. “Yeah, that’s if John Boy here doesn’t pack up and move somewhere with his missus.” George joked, elbowing his friend, to which John disagreed, shaking his head ‘no’. “We’ll stay in Liverpool. I’ve inherited my parent’s house, got the letter a few weeks ago.” He took a swig out of his water bottle. “What if she wants to go, lad?” Paul retorted, raising an eyebrow. John just shrugged. “Then we’ll go.” They all looked at him. “I’ll go anywhere with her. Home is where the heart is, and the heart is with her.” He explained. “Yeah ‘cause I thought she loved where she lived?” George asked. “She did, but I know her, it holds a lot of bad memories that place. Bad, bad memories.” They didn’t say much more, when the post came around, John thanking the man for his routine letter.
“We’re arriving tomorrow, lads.” The post man told them, about to walk off, before being stopped by John. “Where we docking?” “At the port.” The man raised an eyebrow. “Which one?” “The only one left.” This took them all back. “What d’ya mean?” George asked. “The Blitz, were lucky if there is anything left of Liverpool.” That brought an uncomfortable silence upon them all. Was there any home to go back to? John shook his head, opening the letter, and was quick the respond with his own.
‘Saturday the 8th of December, 1945
My darling (Y/n),
We should arrive at port tomorrow. The only one there, apparently. The Blitz hurt my home, I’ve just been told. Me and the lads are trying to not let this ruin our spirits, we’re almost home, after all. Will you stay in Liverpool? With me? It occurs to me that we never actually decided. The lads say hello, and I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll see us coming, promise.
Truly yours,
Sincerely,
John.’
That brought you to now.
You were stood on the port of Liverpool, surrounded by many other women and children, also waiting for their lover’s return. You grasped his letter tightly, twiddling your thumbs as you rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet. The woman beside you looked the same, but she smiled at you. “Excited?” She asked, her lips trembling also. “And nervous.” You nodded appreciatively. “You?” She also nodded. “Just happy he’s safe.” She told you, causing an anxious laugh from the two of you. “God, I know how you feel.” You agreed, but you were both silenced by the horn of a nearby vessel coming into port.
Many men were stood over the edge, waving their hats in a stampeded cluster. Everyone began clapping, a deafening noise as it drew ever closer. It felt like an eternity just waiting for it to dock, before the sound appeared over a nearby megaphone: “ladies, your men are back.” You all whistled, clapping off the bravery that the men had forcibly surrendered to, for the past six years.
One by one, they filed off of the boat, each going straight to their loved ones, an overbearing feeling of love and companionship surrounded you, clouding your thoughts with the man who had invaded just three years before. John Winston Lennon. “Good luck.” The lady next to you said, before running forward into the arms of a man who spun her in circles, and fluttered her face in kisses. You smiled thoughtfully, happy that her love was home safe and well.
You looked around you, watching as ones left in twos, the port slowly becoming less and less crowded, as more and more men returned home. You looked down at your shoes, trying to be patient in waiting, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to collect yourself. You inhaled deeply, iterating to yourself that everything was going to be okay.
“(Y/n)?”
Your eyes shot open at the unfamiliar yet homely voice. You were frozen, staring at your shoes. Slowly, you looked up, and were met with the most gorgeous of hazel eyes staring back at you, his mouth agape, the messy mop of hair on his head as flowing incoherently in the breeze as your mind finally accepted who it was.
“John?”
Your feet became unstuck, and your worries melted away. Your feet moved fast than ever before, as did his. Your eyes flooded with tears, loud trembles heard as you ran into an embrace. John wrapped his arms around you, and held you so close that it was like he was afraid to let you go. Like you would get away from him. You stood like that for a moment, both crying into each other’s shoulders, holding each other so tight it was suffocating. He pulled your face up to meet his own, his eyes red and puffy. He leaned down to capture your lips with his own, a slow, desperate, long-awaited kiss. When you separated, it didn’t feel like long enough. It never could be. “I love you.” He whispered, kissing you once more, each kiss more fiery and sensual than the last. “I love you too.” You replied wholeheartedly, crying now more than ever. He looked at you for a moment, just appreciating you - holding you close.
John quickly released you from his grasp, digging into his pocket for something. He slowly lowered himself onto his left knee, holding a gorgeous ring in his right hand, his left was linking with your own. “(Y/n), I’ve wanted to do this since the day we first wrote. Since the first hello. I realised quickly that I needed you. That you were what my life was missing. I realised what I was fighting for. Why I was fighting. It’s all because of you. Every time you address your letters as (Y/n) Lennon I imagine our wedding all over again. Imagine our lives together. (Y/n), I need you. I always have. And I always will. You put a smile on an injured soldiers face. I don’t deserve you, (Y/). No one ever will. But here I am, asking you to fulfil our promises. Will you be (Y/n) Lennon? My gorgeous pen pal, will you marry me?”
You couldn’t breathe, God you were hyperventilating. You listened to his speech, and your heart broke and pieced itself together allover again, in one go. You nodded, you nodded so hard you felt as if your head was going to fall off, separate from your neck. “Yes, yes, of course I will.” You managed to say between sobs, his own colliding with yours, as he slipped the small diamond ring onto your finger.
Your soldier,
Your soulmate,
Your darling,
Your fiancée,
Your pen pal,
John Winston Lennon.
