November

Josie, hi. It’s my birthday. I know you know that. Turkey dinner from a can of rations plus all the goodies the guys got from home dropped on my bed. Here’s the thing: I wasn’t in a sweets mood. Here’s another thing, about which I do care. My brother-in-arms, Al, my buddy forever, no longer fears death. That’s good. But that’s about the only good thing I can come up with, except it doesn’t really help. He got hurt bad, and well . . . he didn’t make it. Being with Al here on his second tour (which I never understood before, and now I do and will explain later if I remember), he was tired of being afraid, and I bet he didn’t fight to keep his eyes open, because peace here means something very different than peace there where you are struggling to get peace here. Ha-ha. Peace here means not just ending fear but also stopping the thick, spooky jungle silence that isn’t at all silent. Peace here means avoiding the dampness that makes you shake with cold sweat and the constant itching and so forth and so on. Peace here means gladly leaving earth for heaven and has nothing to do with religion. I miss Al a lot, sure, but I kind of envy him too. Here the concept of future slowly recedes, and then one day it simply doesn’t matter the way it once did. I hope you don’t understand what I’m trying to say, because that would mean you were feeling like I am. Or I don’t like thinking about you in my shoes, as the saying goes.

The night I heard my buddy didn’t make it or I believe didn’t want to make it I got so high I couldn’t find my socks, which is important. Yesterday’s sweaty socks cause mucho painful foot problems. It was a strange high, though. I mean, I’ve been high before, clearly. Only this time, with my buddy gone, or because of that, I wasn’t able to forget his absence. I wanted to. I tried. I drank. I smoked weed/hash. I drank some more. Passed out, of course, which didn’t stop me having to get up again knowing what I knew.

The guys here say peace ain’t gonna happen soon. Most of their predictions are bracketed with fuck or fucking, so I won’t go into too much of the content. Except . . . there is growing, and I mean growing, resentment toward the brass. We get orders galore, one set more ridiculous than another. An example: check out the nearest village for VC. (That’s slang for search and destroy.) What village? we look at each other and ask. They don’t know. The LT doesn’t know. The brass just wants to keep us busy so we don’t have time to ponder the utter waste of our time. Like I said before but just remembered, I didn’t understand why anyone in his right mind would want to come back here for a second tour. And no one in his right mind does come back, because by the end of your stint here, no one is in his right mind. Hope that wasn’t too confusing. But I am of sound mind. Maybe. Nevertheless, listen carefully to what I have to say. I can’t go home, not yet, and don’t know when I can and can’t explain it except that I can’t leave here while it’s still going on, so I’m staying. Okay, even if you’re right and I’ve lost it, so what?

So yeah, it’s my birthday and I was trying to remember if I ever had a birthday party at home. Except, Josie, I can’t see home. Remember when I told you I couldn’t hear Pa’s voice in my head anymore? Well, here’s another deficit. I can’t picture home or even imagine having a slice of pizza and a beer as meaning anything like what it used to mean, which was simple pleasure. Because, sister, after time spent here . . . Well, it’s like this: if you stare at the sun too long, all you can see for a while is a glare and nothing else. When I try to see, really see, Ma’s don’t-touch living room, it’s a blur. When I try to visualize the block or the stores or the high school, it’s a struggle. Thing is, I haven’t been away a lifetime, but that’s just it, Josie, that’s exactly it. Over here a lifetime is spent in a day, and a day-after-day lifetime, well, it sure is wearing. There’s no good way to explain any of this to anyone on this earth, let alone at home, especially if that person hasn’t been where I’m standing.

Maybe because it’s my day of birth, I ask myself: Who are these people in our family? I mean, I love them. How could I not? I mean, I’m supposed to. But I can no longer feel a part of family, because I can’t remember what that actually felt like. It’s true we take all of that for granted. But don’t. On some nights, particularly when I’m out on patrol, I spend a lot of silent time trying to identify with each one of you. I know we all share the same shape of nose, but that’s not enough. In a way the family have become strangers. You too, except your letters keep you up front, less distant, helped even more by your overly descriptive narratives (too much) of your activities. I see my devilish sister running from corner to corner trying to change everything between. I didn’t say that, you did, in one of your recent letters.

You haven’t mentioned Ma in your letters. Is she okay living at Johnny’s? He’s such a control freak, but maybe at her age she likes having everything taken care of. Except you know Ma. She has her own means of control, way different from Johnny’s. I know, asking about them after telling you they are strangers must sound loony. But that’s how I get through writing a letter, saying it as it comes out of my head, kind of free-associating, but very unclear about why one thought follows another. You did mention some mysterious shit about Miles being gone. Please be more specific, because mystery is the last thing I need to ponder. Oh, right, I started this letter because it’s my birthday. If this is my most confusing letter, so be it.

So take care of you, don’t worry about me, and yeah, I do like getting your letters. My fifty girlfriends have sort of given up on me. Ha-ha. But the few who were managing to stay in touch I fear must have gotten somewhat pissed at my attitude, and truthfully, I don’t even know what that is.

Tell the gang hello and whatever else you feel like. Josie, don’t get hurt.

Love you sister,

Richie