There was never any intention of doing a book. Launched in November 1998, the Legacy Project was created solely to preserve American war correspondence so that future generations would better understand warfare and the sacrifices made by those who have served this nation. When I asked veterans and their families to share photocopies of letters that were particularly meaningful to them, I expected to receive a few hundred at best—not fifty thousand, as was ultimately the case.
With permission of those who contributed these never-before-seen correspondence (and with a promise that all earnings would be donated to veterans’ organizations), I featured two hundred of them in War Letters. Our efforts to preserve this irreplaceable material did not end, however, with the publication of the hardcover book in May 2001. Indeed, since that time the Legacy Project has received an additional ten thousand war letters. With the release of this paperback edition, it seemed the ideal opportunity to add new correspondence—again, all previously unpublished—to emphasize that our mission continues.
Instead of weaving these new letters chronologically into the body of the book, I wanted to include them here, with commentary, to explain why they are unique. (Although I was adamant about not cutting letters in the first edition, those presented here have been slightly edited due to space constraints.) Over the past year I have been asked if we are looking for specific types of letters or why certain subject matters were not addressed in the hardcover edition. These letters represent answers to many of those queries.
A question I am asked frequently is whether or not the Legacy Project seeks out letters by veterans from other nations. The answer is yes. Although our focus is on American wars, our understanding of those conflicts are illuminated, I believe, by the insights and observations of those who fought both with and against this country.
One of the most astonishing letters I discovered concerned a heartbreaking story from World War II, involving the only fatalities on the continental U.S. caused by enemy weapons. In May 1945, Reverend Archie Mitchell was picnicking with his pregnant wife and five children on Gearhart Mountain, near Bly, Oregon. Rev. Mitchell watched with horror as one of the children picked up an unexploded “balloon bomb”—an incendiary weapon built by the Japanese that was floated over the Pacific Ocean and toward the United States, where it was intended to ignite on impact. The bomb blew up in the child’s hand, killing him, the four other children, and Rev. Mitchell’s wife. Only Rev. Mitchell survived.
Recently I received a remarkable series of letters written in 1987 by seven Japanese women who, decades after the deaths in Oregon, learned for the first time of the suffering these bombs had inflicted. In 1945 these seven women, although only high school students at the time, had all helped make the balloon bombs that killed Mrs. Mitchell and the five children. These women felt enormous guilt for what they had done, and with the help of a professsor in the United States named Yuzuru Takeshita, they sent letters of condolence to the surviving members of the Mitchell family. They also enclosed a thousand paper cranes they had folded, symbolizing the earnestness of their sorrow. Below is one of the letters, written by a woman named Ritsuko Kawano and translated by Professor Takeshita.
We learned concretely as to what happened with the balloon bombs only recently. The more we learned, the more we came face to face with the terrible past that involved the regretful loss of innocent lives. If the six persons who are resting in the hills of Oregon were alive today, they should be dose to our age. They would be fine husbands and beautiful wives, with children and being a source of strength to their country. How regretful and painful to think of what might have been had they lived! I vow that I shall join those who, with courage, fight for peace, by talking to as many persons as possible about the futility of war and by insisting more than ever on the sanctity of human lives. I pray wholeheartedly that the souls of the six victims rest eternally in peace.
I also recently received letters written by Russian, Italian, and German soldiers who fought in World War II. What is striking is not how different their letters are from those by U.S. combatants, but how similar. The following letter, mailed on December 12, 1943, by a Russian soldier, echoes many of the sentiments expressed by American servicemen who felt their sweethearts back home had forgotten them. (The “Komsomol” he alludes to was a youth communist league.)
Hello Zinaida!
If you want to write to me as if I were an old friend to whom you had no real feelings, but just a childish attraction, I’ll be happy to answer. But what for??? I’ll be dead, and you’ll be living a happy life. So go ahead and forget about a poor wretch, abandon him on the road, don’t lift his feelings from the mud. I often remember happy days and nights with you, especially the latter. I was very happy, because I thought you had loved me, and that made me so happy, but now I understand that I was a fool. I wish you well. Be happy, I joined the Komsomol in September. I’m not going to meddle in your life, I’m not the kind of man to make problems for a person I honor and love.
Best regards from Sergey
Sergey’s words immediately reminded me of a letter written more than twenty-five years later by a young African-American soldier fighting in Vietnam. On May 3, 1969, he wrote to his girlfriend after she told him she had met someone else:
Little Butterfly:
I received your letter & at the time I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Everything was confused & clouded you see, I had just had my second narrow escape in a row & I was attempting to erase my nerves with the first half of this quart of rum when a comrade handed me your letter.
All that I can say in reply is that you’ve let people take advantage of you again. You think the same way I think, you believe the same way I believe, the only real difference is that we come around to needing & wanting each other at different times. We’re both so subject to ideals & therefore to disillusion. I love you but there is no way in the world that I can help you until you are ready to acccept the fact that life is not a dream & you can’t make it what you want it. I had planned on a long elaborate “Critique” but I’m too high & too much in love with you to go on. I can’t get rid of the thought that I want to marry you but that’s foolish, you love someone else & I only have $1,000 in the bank so far with a good chance of an early demise tomorrow or in the next four or five days.
Yes, I’m going out again but this time I have the best team in the 4th Div. The three of us during the next five days will either kill or be killed. I have no compulsion over killing or being killed for that matter; you have me so confused that I just don’t care anymore. The only things that I worry about is that my equipment is packed, my knives are sharpened until I can shave with all three of them & placed correctly on my belt, that my rifle is clean & I write a letter to you. All else that matters is your kiss & that’s so far away that I may as well not even think about it. Well, I gotta get some sleep.
This young soldier—whose name has been omitted to protect his privacy—survived the war. (The fate of the Russian, Sergey, is not known.) Of the tens of thousands of letters sent into the Legacy Project, only about a dozen are by African Americans. Considering their distinguished service fighting in every war in this nation’s history, it remains one of the Legacy Project’s highest priorities to seek out and find previously unpublished correspondence by black soldiers, marines, airmen, and sailors. Several months ago a man named Philip Tibbs generously sent us a series of letters by his father, Howard A. Tibbs, who served with the famed Tuskegee Airmen. Writing on March 17, 1945, to his mother in Salem, Ohio, the twenty-six-year-old Corporal Tibbs confided how he and his comrades were feeling about racial injustice.
Dear Mother:
Sat. morning and very dull. Had a furious rain & electric storm last night so it’s overcast and rather chilly today.
This is certainly a lovely base where we are stationed now. I haven’t gone anywhere at all since coming here. Been broke because I missed the pay-day having been in the hospital when the men were paid. They’ve been having dances twice a week out here on Mon. & Fri. Mon. the girls from Indianapolis and Franklin came out and Fri. from Louisville. We are midway between the two towns so that makes it rather nice that way. The nearest town, Seymour, is very prejudiced toward negroes, and it was reported that there was danger of racial friction, but nothing occurred.
It is a pity, though, that we are supposed to be defending the welfare of the country and yet it really amounts to upholding just the injustices which contradict all that we are supposedly here to destroy in this war effort. At times it is certainly ironic and makes one feel utterly disgusted. There are some really fine chaps in here who are so mixed up, angered, and hurt by demonstrations of all these things that are a constant thorn in the side.
Being philosophical about it doesn’t help one bit, because it doesn’t solve the problem. I for one will definitely devote much of my time after this is over for a more clear and better understanding. Sometimes it seems almost cruel to know that people are still having children who are going to be faced with the same thing.
Maybe I seem a bit morose, I’m really sorry for I’m not. It’s just that not facing this thing and overlooking it is just the reason it still exists. I certainly hope the people at home living in civil life will lay more ground work and try to reach a clear understanding. You Mother, nor I, nor my children, if I am fortunate to have any, shall not see co-operation, but I’m firm in my belief that one generation will see it when another generation decides that race will no longer be cause and cause alone for all this pure stupidity. My next letter shall be much brighter than this seemingly depressed one has been, and for troubling you I apologize.
I’ve always admired your strength, and philosophy, the good clean, and unselfish thoughts and actions that are part of you. It’s these things that give me faith, as your loving Son.
Although stories of tensions between servicemen of different ethnicities and faiths were common, there were also inspiring examples of unity. Lt. jg. Syd Brisker, a twenty-eight-year-old sailor from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, wrote to his parents in April 1943 to describe an extraordinary Seder he organized aboard the gunship USS Beaumont. It is a remarkable example of how essential faith was to these young men and women and the great lengths they went to maintain religious traditions and rituals.
Dear Mother and Dad,
The ghosts of thousands of years of Jews were with me tonight—from the first refugees of the Bible’s fascist Pharaoh through two destructions of the Temple and through ages of wandering and persecution—they were with me tonight at the strangest Seder I’ve ever had.
In the jungle heat of Guadacanal and the torridness of the African desert, in the biting cold of Iceland and Alaska, and the foggy dampness of England, modern Maccabeans in the uniforms of their beloved countries gathered tonight to celebrate the deliverance of the Jews from the persecution of an ancient fascism. The modern parallel is quite startling at first. It can be said, without fear of contradiction, there are no Jews in the ranks of the enemy.
When I look back on all the Seders I’ve sat at, in my own home with my beloved family, and in strange cities with friends, I wonder if I could ever have dreamed that I might be spending Passover on a U.S. Warship, bound on a mission of war. Or perhaps, I should say, a mission of peace, because we are fighting for the peace for which each Passover we lift our voices in prayer.
One enlisted man (ship’s cook, third class) and myself are the only Jews aboard the Beaumont, but we decided to spend the Passover with a Seder. At our last port of call we obtained two boxes of matzoh, and a hagadah from the Chaplain. Alcoholic beverages are prohibited aboard U.S. men-of-war, and grape juice was unobtainable, so we substituted prune juice for wine. The Captain said he would cooperate in every way possible to help us hold our Seder. We got two chickens from the chief commissary steward. (I am the commissary officer, a recent appointment, so it was easily arranged!) For bitter herb we used stalks of Chinese cabbage; and for parsley we used the celery tops. The officer’s steward baked a sponge cake. Everything else was quite orthodox—to the salt water and hard-boiled egg. But lacking matzohmeal, there were no knadels. That would have been something to see—the matzoh balls rolling around with the motion of the ship.
A bay in the Chief Petty Officer’s quarters was partitioned off by hanging two blankets, and the Seder was set at a table large enough for eight. We had several guests, the Pharmacist’s mate 1/C, a Protestant, another ship’s cook, who is Catholic, as well as the officer’s steward. And to this gathering I related the story of Passover in English to the Four Questions as asked by Goldstein.
The modern parallel was more startling. When I read “And it is this same promise which has been the support of our ancestors and of us too: for at every time enemies rise against us, to annhilate us; but the most Holy, blessed be He, hath delivered us out of their hands” I could substitute Hitler for the Assyrian Laban who intended to kill every Jew—root out the whole race. And I read a prayer, which has been repeated for centuries, and today more loudly than ever “May He who maketh peace in His heavens grant peace on us all Israel, and say ye, Amen.”
But if I was startled by the modern parallelism, it was the myriad of ghosts of long dead Jews, visiting me tonight, who make me feel this prayer for peace need not be repeated year in and year out. We have the answer in our power now. The United Nations can make this Victory one of everlasting Peace, and build a world in which Jew and Gentile, white and colored, can live in peace, harmony and security—just like we of different faiths and races sat down at Seder tonight.
Good night, dear parents—God Bless You.
All my love, Syd
Syd survived the war and is alive and well to this day.
Frequently I am asked if the Legacy Project receives, along with the countless “why we fight” letters, correspondences written by pacificists and conscientious objectors. To date there have only been a handful, and not surprisingly, they are mostly from the Vietnam War era. One that struck me as particularly memorable was by a twenty-five-year-old Peace Corps volunteer in Liberia named D. Michael Van De Veer who wrote to his brother, John. The brothers were from Montgomery, Alabama, and John was in the army training for “graves identification registry,” which entailed collecting the body parts of men killed in action and then shipping the remains back to the States. John found the work emotionally unbearable and deserted the army. Michael, who was recovering from both a serious illness and a car accident, offered moral support to his younger brother.
My Dearest Brother John,
I am not sure if you will ever read this letter but I needed to write you. If I could see you, and hold you in my arms, I would tell you how proud I am of what you have done. You know that is one of the reasons I joined the Peace Corps. I, too, am a “deserter” from that cruel, unjust war. On that day when all the soldiers show the same valor that you have, on all sides, and walk away, there will be no more war. The suffering is not just limited to South East Asia and Vietnam. The money that is used to make one bomb, can build two schools.
You wouldn’t recognize me. I am in the middle of a rubber plantation, with tubes running out of my left arm, and I weigh about 116 lbs. We are in the midst of a cholera epidemic and already 42 out of 165 have died. As you would expect, I did my best, but especially the old, and the young died too fast to bury. Some few days ago I developed diarrhea, vomiting and fever, like nothing I have ever known. I thought it would pass but it wouldn’t let up. As no one else could drive, I tried to drive myself and remember leaving the road and smashing into the bush. When I woke up yesterday, much to my surprise, I was/am alive! I feel too dehydrated to cry and don’t know how it will be to return to the village, but with all the troubles I have with the Peace Corps, I have found some kind of “true peace” there, even amongst all this poverty and death. I guess I will recover and at some point we will be reunited. Until then, and Forever, I Love and Respect You,
Your Big Brother, Michael
PS take care of yourself and remember you still owe me $40.
Not all of the letters sent to the Legacy Project are profound or philosophical. Funny things happen in wartime, and servicemen and women have penned their share of whimsical missives. These letters serve a valuable historic purpose as well, for they remind us that it is not statistics that head off to war, but individual combatants with their whole lives ahead of them. Humorous letters, no less so than battle accounts or messages of love, humanize these young men and women. The following was written during World War II by two mail-deprived ensigns named Nye Moses and Bill Wilhoit. The letter is self-explanatory.
Dear Elizabeth Jane,
This is fan letter! You see, you wrote a letter to C. W. Faust on L.C.I. 540. My Executive Officer and I saw your beautiful and neat handwriting, smelled the sweet perfume on the letter and said, “Anyone who sends letters such as this must be more wonderful than Paulette Goddard, Lana Turner, Betty Hutton, and Ingrid Bergman all put together!” We then said, “Why not write her a letter?” So I (we) did, I mean we are now. This is it! How does it feel to have a “public”?
Before I begin, let me explain that we are two very lonely lads and our morale is very low. We have hearts of gold but girls never seem to bother finding it out after once looking at our comical faces. My Executive Officer’s name is Bill. He graduated from Georgia Tech in February. He’s a “rebel” from way back. As for looks—well, he doesn’t really have any. Your first impression of him is Gargantua has arrived in England. But if you look closely, you will discover that he has yellow hair, it is not exactly hair, it is more like fuzz being only ¼ inch long at the present time. For ears, he has sort of curley protrubances that look not unlike cauliflowers. He claims he was born with them that way, but I don’t believe it. God couldn’t make a man with ears like that. I don’t think he has any eyes, at least I’ve never been able to find them. He says he can see so that settles it—he has eyes. His nose looks like a large, very red apple. It is his best feature. At least you know he has a nose. His mouth is really a good looking one except that he has no lips. We are at a loss to explain why, he just has no lips.
I should stop here, but I won’t. His physique? Well, he has 26 shoulders and a 36 waist. His arms and legs are nice. They are only about the size of a baseball bat but are all muscle. He claims he had a girl once, but I doubt it. Anyway, every day he wishes he would get a letter from a girl, but he never does. Couldn’t you surprize him with one?—just for the morale of the boys in the service?
Girls don’t like me either, but I really am a swell guy. I am not good looking, but I think I have sort of an inner beauty radiating from my heart within. I can not explain why others don’t discover it. To begin with I have beautiful red eyes (at least you can see mine), I have a long, finely formed nose. I have the best looking ears. They are real big and they sort of stick out, but attractively. I think my lips are a little thick, but you wouldn’t notice them much if I didn’t lisp. (At least I don’t stutter like Bill.) My best feature, though, is my dark bushy hair. I am short and very round—just healthy looking. My name is Nye, and I never had a girl in my life.
Won’t you write us a letter so we can see your handwriting and smell your beautiful envelope again? If you only knew how low our morale is, you’d rush right down and send a telegram only we’d rather have a letter so please, please write and send us a snap shot of yourself?
In ending, let us say it has been fun knowing you already and you haven’t even answered us. Just think how much fun we’ll have after you have answered us and we are old friends. We know you won’t let us down. Now don’t forget: First, fall in love with us. Second, write us a letter. Third, enclose a snap shot. So until we hear from you, good by and we eagerly await your answer.
Bubbling over with unwanted love,
Nye (Pinochio) Moses
Bill (Atlas) Wilhoit
President and Vice President E.J.K.E.C.O.E. (Elizabeth Jane Kivell Fan Club of England Post No. 1 membership closed)
Although Elizabeth Jane Kivell did respond to them, she was in love with—and would go on to marry—a pilot named Dale Leslie French. (Bill Wilhoit ultimately survived the war and married in 1949, but Nye Moses, tragically, was killed at D-Day.) Not all of the humorous letters sent to the Legacy Project were meant to be funny. Some are unintentionally amusing, such as this Civil War letter written by a Union soldier to President Lincoln, who almost certainly did not see it. I have not included his full name for reasons that will be obvious.
March 27, 1863
Dear Mr Lincoln
When this Civil War broke out I went right in I did and fought and bled for the Cause and left my wife and family, and when I came home on furlough last month I found she had been diddling other men and I would like to have a discharge to take care of my children for I won’t live with her, and I don’t want any of my children to live with her for she diddles all the time, and has got the clap which I have got too and I want a discharge for me to take care of my children, when I get well.
John N—
Another humorous letter (this one intentionally so) was written by Robert Guttman, who was serving as second mate with the U.S. Merchant Marine aboard the SS Rover, an ammunition ship delivering explosives to the coalition forces in Saudi Arabia during Operation Desert Shield. On October 11, 1990 Guttman wrote to his older brother Jon to describe the one bit of “entertainment” he and his crewmates were enjoying while at sea.
Dear Brudder,
Can’t say where I am exactly, loose lips and all that, but the postmark should give you some idea. Suffice it to say that it’s the place to be this season. Clear skies, bags of sun, temperature in the low 110s. What more could anyone want?
Everybody whose anybody is here as well, all you have to do is listen to the VHF Radio-Telephone.
“THEES EES HESPANEESH WARSHEEP. IDENTIFY YOURSELF POR FAVOR. CAMBIO.”
“MENCHANT VAYSEL ON ME STAHB’D BAHW! THIS IS ASSSTAYLIAN WAHRSHIP, CAHM IN PLEASE, AHVER!”
“GOOD DAY THIS IS CANADIAN WARSHIP CALLING THE VESSEL ABOUT 3 MILES AWAY FROM ME. HOW’S IT GOING, EH?”
“THIS IS BRITISH WARSHIP CALLING THE VESSEL 4 MILES OFF MY STARBOARD BEAM. DO BE SO GOOD AS TO RESPOND ON CHANNEL 16 OR I SHALL RELUCTANTLY BE COMPELLED TO BLOW YOU OUT OF THE WATER. OVER”
“ZEES EES FRENCH WAR-SHEEP CALLING ZEE SHEEP ON MAH PORT QUARTAIR. IDENTIFY YOUR SELF, OVAIR”
“FRENCH WARSHIP BE DAMNED! BURN ME FOR A HANDSPIKE, I FLY MY SOVEREIGN’S COLOURS AND I’LL NOT HEAVE-TO FOR ANY SNAIL-CHEWING, GARLIC-BREATHED SWAB OF A FROG, AND YE MAY LAY TO THAT! OVER.”
And then, of course, there are the Americans. The Americans are immediately distinguishable from the foreigners in that the foreigners all speak better english than the Americans. The Americans don’t actually speak english at all, they speak Navy, to wit:
“MERCHANT VESSEL ON COURSE THREE FIVE TWO SPEED ONE SEVEN THIS IS CHARLIE OSCAR U.S. NAVY WARSHIP THREE FIVE ZERO ZERO YARDS BEARING TWO FIVE FIVE RELATIVE WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS REGARDING MY UNIT, OVER?”
This to an Indian Tanker where there may only be one person on board who even speaks english at all, and badly at that.
In any case you see that we don’t lack for free entertainment. It’s better than Bob Hope any day.
I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, but I hope it won’t be long because everybody expects the balloon to go up shortly. By the way, it may interest you to know that we have a couple of W.W.II veterans on board, both merchant marine vets. One is 76 years old. They both volunteered for this trip. After dodging U-Boats and Kamikazes, they both find this a bit of a yawner, except for the heat.
Give my best to everybody. Hope to see you soon.
Robert
Due to the relatively brief duration of Desert Storm and the availability of phones for the troops, there were fewer letters being written, relative to other wars. I am partial to Gulf War letters not only because they are more difficult to find but because they, for reasons that are still unclear to me, disproportionately capture the surreal nature of warfare. One example is the following letter by army specialist Don Odom, who found himself in a Saudi Arabian village that may have suffered an Iraqi anthrax attack. (Kim is Odom’s girlfriend.)
24 December 90
Dearest Kim,
Well, it’s Christmas eve and all is quiet on the western front. I know it’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote last, so I’ll try to fill you in on what’s going on. My platoon was attached to an air cav unit with the 101st Airborne. These are the guys who get to fly all of the fancy helicopters, Apache’s, Cobra’s, Black-hawks. We travelled north for a couple of weeks to conduct training exercises, so that’s why I haven’t written. At one point, we were only a few miles from the Iraqi border.
After travelling through the desert for 2 weeks, there is only one thing I can say for certain about this country, There’s an awful lot of sand. I’m making a promise, I swear I’m never going to the beach again.
We did get to travel through several Saudi villages. It’s pretty amazing how different our cultures are, yet how similar the children at play. I saw a group of young children playing a king-of-the-hill type game on a pile of rubble. Of course the game broke up rather quickly when our convoy stopped for lunch. All the children quickly ran towards us begging for candy. We were mobbed by these dirty little hands reaching up in the air at us. Needless to say, no one got to eat the dessert in their M.R.E,’s for that meal. The kids horded the chocolate brownies and oatmeal cookie bars and ran off to taste their sampling of American food.
We came across another village that was really weird. As we approached the outskirts of the village, the desert was covered with the dead corpses of camels and goats and sheep. They were all just lying there rotting in the sun. We didn’t actually go into the village, we just stopped in a grove of trees, almost like an oasis, on the outskirts of the town. We stayed there for the night. As I was laying in my cot, I looked up and saw a goat’s leg in the trees above me. How it got there I’ll never know. We were supposed to stay in that village for several days, but the next morning we had to pack up and move somewhere else. Lt. Bolluytt told us the village had been wiped out by anthrax, that’s why all the animals were dead. I don’t remember if anthrax is contagious or not, but if it is, I’ll probably be dead by the time you read this letter….haha ha. In all seriousness though, there were thousands of flies everywhere, buzzing from one carcass to another and then landing on our food. Pretty unsanitary conditions if you ask me. Some of the guys in the squad are wondering if this village was the result of one of Saddam’s bio weapons. My thinking is that if that was the case, we would have heard about it all over the news. I don’t know, then again maybe not.
By the time you get this, Christmas will be over and you’ll probably be celebrating New Year’s. I hope you had a great Christmas, and I’ll try to beat the lines at the phone center tomorrow to call and hear your voice.
All my love,
Don
Neither Odom nor any of his comrades became ill after the visit, and to this day Odom does not know what killed the animals they saw.
One of the most remarkable Gulf War letters I found was notable not only for what it said but for who wrote it. Serving on a Coast Guard patrol boat in the Port of Dammam, Persian Gulf, PS1 Sandy Mitten manned (for lack of a better word) a 50 caliber machine gun. She also happened to be a grandmother. Mitten had joined the Navy in 1959 and then, in 1974, entered the Coast Guard Reserves. In 1990, Mitten’s port security unit represented the first Coast Guard reserves called in for active duty, and she left for the Middle East one week before her oldest son was married. While overseas she wrote regularly to her family, and on January 22, 1991, she sent the following letter to her mother describing what it was like to be at war.
Dear Mom,
Well, we are 5 days into war. Amazing isn’t it? It’s been some trying times in the past 5 days and I’m sure there will be many more before I leave here.
We were awakened on the morning of the 17th at about 2:40 to “SKUD ALERT, MOP LEVEL 4. COME ONE, COME ON, OUT IN THE HALLWAY AS SOON AS YOU CAN!!”
Since this began the women have moved in with the men, at night. Otherwise our barracks is out at the end of our compound. These are our buddies, our compatriots. We felt stranded. Besides we’re all scared—men & women and we need each other for support. We sit in the hall and hold hands and just wonder what will happen next. Some sleep, some cry, some just look straight ahead, but all are scared.
I’m fine and I plan on staying that way. We’ve had some pretty close calls. Two nights ago, the Patriots went off right from our Port which is about 1 mile from our compound. I though that the missiles landed right in our courtyard. A terrible BOOM when it took off and a second BOOM when it broke the sound barrier. There was debris all over.
If I ever had any doubts about whether
Next P.M.
Back again. In the middle of the sentence, we had a SKUD attack. You should have seen it. One of my people called me outside to tell them what was coming toward our tower. I ran outside and when I looked I saw these flashes in the sky. They looked like tracer shells off of a weapon being fired.
People are really doing strange things now and emotions are high. Tempers short. Iraq ended up putting a missile or two into Israel again. That country isn’t going to hold back much longer. I can’t blame them. That bastard Hussein is trying to kill civilians. He doesn’t care. Rumor has it that his people are also uprising against him. He needs to be killed. That’s how this whole thing will be eased.
Before this all came about, I wondered if I would really be able to use my weapon against someone else. I have no question now. You know, like so many others, I prayed for a peaceful end before this. But, now that it isn’t peaceful & it won’t be, I just want to do whatever has to be done to get this whole damn mess over with. It’s now become a situation where you shoot if someone shoots first and they say shoot to wound. Bull, if I shoot and I end up killing someone, if they were trying to do me in, that’s too bad. I really thought I wouldn’t ever say that. It really does put a different light on things when you’re right here, not knowing what to expect next.
Well, Mom, take care & God Bless You. Keep praying. Every little bit helps.
Love,
Your daughter, Sandy
Gulf War servicemen and women did not write many e-mails. A crude form of e-mail existed, but when military personnel wrote home, it was mostly by letter. Although e-mails tend to be more stream-of-consciousness, weaving together the profound with the trival, the Legacy Project has received many well-written and insightful e-mails. We are looking for more—especially by the men and women serving in Operation Enduring Freedom.
I personally prefer handwritten letters because their physical condition accentuates the conditions under which the letters were composed. Through the rips and tears, the splotches of mud and grease, and the hastily crossed-out words, one better understands that these letters were often written under punishing circumstances. What is paramount for those serving in the armed forces, however, is that their loved ones know that they are alive and well—regardless of how the message comes to them. Wartime e-mails may not have the physical texture and beauty of handwritten letters, but for speed and convenience they are unrivaled.
Many e-mails written after the September 11 attacks have been forwarded to the Legacy Project, and we save every one. The great majority have been heavily circulated over the internet, but one of the more unique (and, up to now, previously unknown) e-mail exchanges we have is between Rye Barcott, a twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant in the U.S. Marine Corps and Salim Mohamed, a twenty-five-year-old Muslim friend of his living in Kenya. Barcott and Mohamed are coleaders of a nonprofit organization called Carolina for Kibera (CFK) Inc., which created and now maintains a youth sports association, a medical clinic, and a nursery school in the Kibera slum of Nairobi, Kenya. (Barcott started the program after a summer visit to Kibera while doing research on his thesis at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.) As soon as Mohamed heard about the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, he rushed off a message to Barcott. (Barcott and Mohamed often wrote to each other in Shen’g, a ghetto youth dialect made up of Swahili, African tribal languages, and American slang. The English translations appear in brackets. “Semaj” is another friend of theirs involved with CFK.)
Rye beshte [friend],
We keep watching planes crashing into buildings in New York and Washington. Uko wapi saa hii? [Where are you now?] Are you OK? What about Semaj?
Salim,
Thanks for your email. I don’t have much time because our communications are limited. I’m sitting in a room with a dozen lieutenants wondering what the hell is going on. We are OK, but I have not heard from Semaj. He works in South Bronx though, so I would presume he is far from the World Trade Center. I hope that these events don’t cause the Muslim community in Kibera to turn on CFK, or the US to react with violence before we know who perpetrated this and why.
Tucheckiane (Later], Rye
Barcott sent another e-mail which prompted a candid, but cordial, exhange on issues of faith and loyalty.
Salim kaka Vipi? [Salim Brother, How are you?],
You know, it’s odd. We have been busy doing CFK business and never talked about US/Muslim relations. What are your thoughts? How is the Muslim community in Nairobi and Kibera reacting? I’ve been reading the Koran and came across a few puzzling excerpts. I’m wondering what you think of them.Surah V: Verse 51:
“O ye who believe! Take not the Jews and Christians for friends. They are friends one to another. He among you who taketh them for friends is one of them. Lo! Allah guideth not wrongdoing folk.
“Surah IV: 91
“Ye will find others who desire that they should have security from you, and security from their own folk. So often as they are returned to hostility they are plunged therein. If they keep not aloof from you nor offer you peace nor hold their hands, then take them and kill them wherever ye find them. Against such We have given you clear warrant.”
Pamoja [Together], Rye
Rye,
There have been some riots by some Muslims in Nairobi. But those people are in the minority. It’s too bad the press focuses on that. In the central Mosque downtown last week we prayed at mid-day for all the victims in your country. I think Bin Laden is really hurting the religion. I hope he is caught. In Kibera there is some anti-American talk. But it is not much. I get worried though that the US will just bomb and kill a lot of innocent people. There is a passage in the Koran that comes before Surah IV Verse 51. It condemns murder like your Commandment “Thou shall not kill.” Verse 32: “For that cause We decreed for the Children of Israel that whosoever killeth a human being for other than man slaughter or corruption in the earthy it shall be as if he had killed all mankind, and whoso saveth the life of one, it shall be as if he had saved the life of all mankind …” I think this verse is for everyone. But at the same time people need to defend themselves. So this is how I see verse 91 in Surrah IV. This is also how I can say the US is right in its war.
How are the Marines? Why did you join anyway?
Salaam [Peace], Salim
Salim,
Asante kwa email yako [Thanks for your email], I joined the Marines back in high school because I was attracted to the image, wanted a challenge (and respect), respected my father’s friends who were Marines, and wanted the autonomy and pride to put myself through school. The last two still apply, though I am most moved now by the astounding opportunity to take on a great deal of responsibility at a young age that the Corps offers. However, the decisions we made and make with CFK on a day-to-day basis will probably always weigh more heavily on my conscience because they have an effect, directly, on so many lives of people we know and admire. As a junior officer, even in the most intense combat imaginable, I will not face decisions of that magnitude (in part because I am now part of an enormous institution, instead of leading a smaller one).
So your turn, why Islam?
Rye
Rye, soldja wa ghetto [soldier of the ghetto],
I wasn’t born Muslim. But when my mom died I lived on the streets. And one day a Lady named Mama Fatuma picked me up and took me to her home for chokora [street kids]. Mama Fatuma was a Muslim. She didn’t force Islam on us, but I got interested in it because she saved me.
Islam is really important to me. I like the comfort it provides and discipline. In that way it is kind of like the Marines maybe. I found after I became Muslim that I had a community that cared about me. On the streets there was no one. The Marines helped you get educated. Muslims like Mama Fatuma helped me get educated too. So I feel a commitment and duty to Allah, praise be His name. I think we are all here for a purpose. I believe that purpose is guided by Allah. There is a lot of bad in this world. Allah I can count on to show us goodness and peace and so I hope this war will end and the terrorists will be stopped so that we can go back to goodness. Kibich damu [Kibera blood], Salim
The power of war letters (and now e-mails) is their ability to bring to life the individual voices and stories that might otherwise be lost in the blur of history. Ironically, of everyone whose correspondences and images were part of the first edition of War Letters, the only individual whose name I did not know was also the most prominent—the soldier featured on the book’s cover. Found in an archive, the photograph gave no clues as to his identity, background, or fate. I often looked at this photo and wondered what happened to this young man. I wondered if he made it back alive and started a family. I thought of the children he might have raised and what, if anything, he told them of his war experiences. And, of course, I wondered what happened to the letter he was writing.
Twenty-four hours before my deadline to finish this afterword I received a call from a woman named Suzanne Kerr, who said she knew the young man in the photo—it is her uncle, Russell Helie. (We have since authenticated this.) Originally from Middlesex, Massachusetts, Helie was a private first class serving with the 7th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division in Korea. All of his letters, except one, were lost when the family moved from Massachusetts to Tennessee several years ago. Helie’s one remaining letter is dated November 22, 1950. It reads:
Dear Mom,
How are things at home? Everything is fine here. I got your letter written last month and was glad to hear from you. I am now in Korea and it isn’t so bad. I am in a fighting zone but I am not doing any fighting. We are acting as a guard for some engineers who are about twelve miles up the road. We are not doing much except cleaning up and loafing around, getting ready for tomorrow which is Thanksgiving, and we are expecting some big brass to come down so we have to be all sharped up. I received the birthday greetings. I want to thank everyone for them and thank Gladys for the two dollars. It sure came in handy. I was broke. Mom I won’t be able to send any Christmas presents so I dont expect any, as I am so broke it is pitiful. I have no place to spend any anyway. Well mom I guess I will close for now, as I have said about all the news for now. Your loving son, Russ
Three months later, on February 16, 1951, an artillery shell exploded near Pfc. Russell Helie. Slashed by flying shrapnel, Helie bled to death. He was only nineteen years old when he died.
For all those like Russell Helie who never came home, for those who survived but still live with the physical and emotional wounds of war, and for all those who lost loved ones in combat, the Legacy Project will continue to seek out, save, and share their words so that what they experienced and what they sacrificed is not forgotten. This is our mission, and it grows more urgent with every passing day.