March 20

Dear Sister Josie,

Sounds religious, doesn’t it? Remember the nun? She hated the boys. Liked you, though. Okay, so you want to know everything. I mean, it’s basic training, manageable but prisonlike. My problem is I’m never alone, not in the barracks, the bathroom. On the grounds I’m marching, running, someone tagging alongside. In the mess it’s elbow to elbow. At night, in bed, the guys talk in their sleep, and I swear their dreams mix in with mine to wake me. Not one of the NCOs, not one, speaks in a normal tone. They shout everything day and night. My eardrums are taking a bigger beating than my feet, which I’m told are not doing their job until the pain reaches my eyeballs. Food’s bad, rubbery. Cooked too long. My tongue’s beginning to swell from all the salt. Sounds awful but actually it could be worse. Our sarge has a sliver of heart (just a sliver) while most of the other NCOs are complete vultures who live off blood, sadists who get their jollies from driving the guys till they drop. Everything they shout has sexual content, it’s bizarre.

Mainly, though, they’re forcing (breaking) our bodies into shape and teaching us how to use guns, bayonets (scary), and other ways of killing. But the word they constantly throw at us is “endurance.” I see their point. If we make it through this, and there’s no guarantee everyone will, we’ll be ready, although no one says for what. Words like “jungle,” “gook,” “Communist,” but there are no picture books, so it remains X, the unknown.

I mean, I didn’t expect paradise, and that’s what it’s always about, expectations. So if it’s a decent day, I’m pleased but surprised, if it’s a grind (most of the time), I take it in stride. What else can I do?

Rumor has it we’ll get leave after basic, but another rumor says not. If we do, I accept your invite to crash at your new digs, which sound outstanding. That you can afford them even more outstanding. The girl’s going up in the world. I received a letter from Celia, one from Miles (who vows never to serve), and a package from Terry, whose notes are so short they worry me. Is she all right? Anyone hear anything about Cousin Grace? Probably not or you would’ve told me. I’m not sure I need your blow-by-blow of every action against the war. Some of them sound more dangerous than boot camp. Anyway, I’m not going to comment on your comments about Nam. I’m not even sure these letters aren’t read. I’m not really sure about much, except wanting out of Dix. That’s their philosophy, work us to the marrow so no one in his right mind would ever want to spend an extra day here, and when it’s time to leave, we’re all going to fight to be first in line.

We’re about to lockstep into the showers. Remember those movies about concentration camps? It gives me the creeps when all the water comes on at the same time.

So that’s it for now. If you take care of yourself, I’ll do the same.

Love,

Richie

PS: Who’s this guy you’re seeing? Sounds mysterious. Does he have a name? I mean, if you’re spending so much good time with him, you must know it. Why would I mention him to anyone at home? Don’t get paranoid.