A timeless World War II love story…
Based on authentic letters from the era, My Darling Dorothy is a timeless love story that transcends both hard times and the brutal impact of war. The tumult of the Great Depression and World War II provides the background for a novel about three young people; Tommie, Jack and Dorothy and their challenges, struggles, defeats and triumphs.
Tommie struggles to survive the Bataan Death March in the fall of 1941, clinging to his dream of a gratifying future with Dorothy as his bride. On the frontlines of the European Theatre, Jack experiences the horrors of endless battle. Dorothy, caught between the two, works to maintain her dream of a life beyond small-town Nebraska. The hopes and hardships they share are reflected in the letters that they exchange. Are they remnants of lost dreams, or the foundation for a joyful future?
Available on Amazon.
Jack looked away, unable to tolerate the lifeless, hollow eyes of his six-year-old sister, Annie. He knew she was still alive because her body shook in violent spasms as feverish chills consumed her. Not a trace of color remained in her face.
“Jack, get me another quilt from upstairs,” his mother ordered, an edge of panic in her voice. “I can’t get her to stop shaking.”
Outside, the unyielding Nebraska wind howled, and snow beat against the front door in a horizontal pattern. An eight-foot drift covered the front window. Jack figured it might just keep the place warmer. He moved closer to the kitchen stove, the only heat source in the drafty, ramshackle farmhouse, opened the door to the wood box, and tossedin the last of the corn cobs, trying not to think about what would happen when they were gone. He took the stairs two at a time, yanked the last blanket off Annie’s bed, and rushed back to the stove, where he warmed it before placing it on her trembling body.
His pa had left hours ago in pursuit of Doc Olson, who lived in Beaver City, twenty miles to the south. Now, Jack worried that his pa might be stuck in the blizzard somewhere, or worse. He looked at his ma, and a sense of helplessness welled up inside him like the snowdrifts mounting outside the front door.
I’m the man here. I gotta do something! Anything!
“Ma, I gotta go find some more wood for the stove. We’re out of cobs. Maybe I can chop a branch off the old elm tree. They’re hangin’ pretty low with all the snow. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“You stay right here, Jack Smith. You’re not goin’ anywhere!” his mother admonished. He didn’t look back, opened the front door, and began digging his way through a solid wall of snow with a nearby broom handle. All the while, his mother screamed in anguish for him to stay, not to leave her there alone with Annie.
Once outside, he grabbed the ax from the front porch and headed in the direction of the elm tree in the front yard. He knew it was there, had always been there, even though all he could see right then was a wall of white. He closed his eyes and began walking in the direction that he was sure would lead him to the tree, waving his arms in all directions in the hopes he would stumble into one of the low-lying branches. It worked. He began chopping at the tree with more strengththan a ten-year-old should have, but a child filled with the mission of saving his ma and baby sister renders even a scrawny kid into a valiant hero. He swung, he chopped, he yanked, he tugged until the limb gave way. Branch in hand, he closed his eyes, pictured the front porch, and dragged the large piece of wood behind him. Continue reading