New Guinea

August 14, 1944

My dearest Leora,

Now that we have been in country for a while I can tell you that New Guinea is unlike what I imagined it would be. I thought it would be desolate. I thought that the people would be harsh and cold. But I was wrong, so wrong.

How beautiful and lush this little country is! Flowering trees, tall green grass, and swaying palm trees occupy the island. The insects are loud and boisterous. The people are friendly and helpful. I wonder how they feel about all us outsiders on their land, foreign people fighting other foreign people. I wish we all didn’t have to be here, to step on their grounds. This entire island is their home, understand? There are no doors, no windows, no real fences to mark property because this entire island is theirs. At times, I feel like a trespasser.

I can’t really say more about what our plans are, what our mission is while we’re here, or these parts will be censored, or my letter may not make it to you altogether. But I’ll say this: we are on the move, and I’m sorry I’ve been scarce in my writing.

I have seen a lot in the weeks we’ve been here. Some not so good, but I try not to dwell on it. This is war. We are here to fight.

But you needn’t worry. I am with my brothers. Not brothers by blood, true, but brothers at arms. Months ago, I didn’t know they existed, but now I can’t imagine life without them. It’s much like how I feel about you. Just as the scent of cigarette smoke reminds me of the nights we snuck out to meet at the dance hall, the inside packed with people smoking and dancing, my brothers are like the other parts of my brain. We work together well. Many times, I don’t even have to look to know who is on my left and who is on my right.

In your last letter, you asked me about them, so I will tell you.

Raul hails from Louisiana. He was a farmer. He has a wife and a son, and reminds me of my father as a younger man. He is very serious, though he talks in his sleep. We all give him a hard time about it, that one day we’ll write down what he’s saying.

Ernie is from Illinois and a lawyer. Yes, a lawyer, sponsored by a Jewish family. He’s older, almost forty years old. He eats everyone’s leftovers, but he’s also adept at spotting the right plants we can cook to enhance our supplies. He’s very smart and has picked up some of the language of the native people, which is helpful because they are like our eyes and ears.

Ferdinand is from Seattle. He worked in the fish canneries. He is the best shot out of all of us. I know that must scare you, but his eyesight is a godsend. He can spot anything moving in the trees, including the wild animals. Beyond the enemy, sinta ko, we also have to watch out for beasts because we are prey!

And finally, Ignacio, who is more brave than I have given him credit for. He might be the smallest, but he is fierce and loyal. He offers his food, his bed, to anyone who needs it. He is calm when there are too many decisions to make.

I hope one day you will meet them all.

Your letters are my comfort. Today, I received four! I had to put them in order to read them. I welcome them with open arms.

I admit I’m a bit of a braggart. I think I got the most letters out of anyone in the squad today. I hope you don’t mind, sweetheart, but I read one aloud this evening. Not the personal parts, of course, but the everyday news from town. My buddies miss home. Or what they thought of as home. It’s funny how home can hold both happy thoughts and sad memories. That even if they had experienced the worst in America, what they remember are the good things.

Your letter helped them, too. Your descriptions of our world: the trees, the grass, the blue of the sky. It helps the men, because some have received no letters at all.

Not to say that we aren’t looking forward. Ignacio continues to promise me a home-cooked meal when we make it to the Philippines. I’ve taken it upon myself to watch over him. In the last two weeks, he seems to need help in everything. Please don’t mention him in your next correspondence to me. I wouldn’t want him to know I was writing about him. Please, just keep us in your prayers!

I must run.

Iniibig kita,

Antonio