February something

Josie, my sister, what a place this is, but I’ll put off inviting you for a visit, although you do keep bothering me for details. Thing is, one day slides into the next, and if there’s a difference, it disappears like we do. How can everything that happens happen and still stay the same? It’s deranging. Even when we set up another base—a joke and a half—it looks and feels like yesterday. So I wonder if I’ve actually moved anywhere. Once I tied a piece of material around a tree trunk so I’d know if I returned there. I never found it, no surprise. Besides, trees are everywhere, green, green, green, everything green. Remember the coloring books Ma bought us? We’d fill in the pages until there was no white space left. Here, too, foliage chokes the air, can’t see a fucking thing.

Yes to your slogan. Bring the troops home right now. However, no piece-of-shit brass will agree. Please, don’t send posters or articles. The guys would be too insulted. No picture or article is going to tell us anything we don’t already breathe firsthand. By the way (and don’t advertise this) no one gets through a day or night here without major assistance. My present aid (think high) is almond-toasted hash, next best thing to black beauties, and here’s the trade-off: for every life on the line, there’s a stash of excellent drugs provided.

A few nights ago out on patrol, my buddy and I shared a weed of such sweet taste and smell it must have grown in heaven. We cupped the tip so none of the birds in the trees, who have better than 20/20 vision and hearing you wouldn’t believe, would relate to us. There I was drifting in and out of reverie, moon close enough to touch (which is scary), and Uncle Lou floats into my head. And I’m thinking about Easter dinner when he’s telling us about his job at the Ford plant, how the speedup was so great he could only manage to tighten every other bolt. And suddenly this feels hilarious. I can’t control myself. Stuff my fist in my mouth and laughter spurts past it. I’m going to die laughing. Can’t stop, Josie. Every other bolt (outrageous, I know) is so fucking funny I’m passing out with mirth, laughter filling my gut. I go belly down, press my mouth into the dirt but the laughter explodes, oh God, it felt so good, hurt so much keeping it in. Story ends this way: woke up the neighbors in the trees, who began shooting. My buddy lost his eye. That’s a day in the life . . . every event a lesson in what you better not ever do again in this fucked-up place, so no more laughing. Thing is, nothing, absolutely nothing, makes sense here. The only reason to kill the little bastards is to save my ass and those of my buddies, who look out for mine. Otherwise who are these people? Everyone looks like everyone else, and what does a Communist look like anyway? It feels like such a waste.

You can’t really want to read this stuff, but what else can I write about? Ah yes, the medals, they’re a trip and a half. Kill more than three, you get a medal. Lose a leg, get a medal. Get shot saving your buddy, get a medal. Who’s crazy enough to want a medal? One thing for sure, the distance between here and home gets longer, wider, and more complicated by the hour. In a way, that’s okay, even helpful.

Received Celia’s letter about Paul. Poor guy, right? I mean, I always liked him. Do you think she’s looking for him? I wonder how much West Point will change Quince. He may actually end up in this forsaken place when he graduates. As the guys here say, no end in sight except one’s own. Terry wrote me that Ma’s volunteering two hours a day in the church on Tremont. Hope she’s not cleaning it, for God’s sake. At the end of T’s letter, Johnny noted he’s putting in more overtime than ever because of you antiwar guys. Now, there’s someone who’d relate to Nam. I mean, how often does he get a chance to shoot his weapon in the Bronx?

Yes, of course I’ve heard about the Black Panthers. They’re legend here. Several black guys in my unit came back from R&R with Panther tattoos. Melvin sounds like one tough dude, but then again, from everything you’ve said, he doesn’t really. I plan to meet the man someday.

So what’s next in your obstacle course? You didn’t say. I’ll write when I can, but don’t get nervous if I can’t.

Love you kid,

Richie