Letters Home

Mom,

We deploy tomorrow. Basic is over, no more exercises, no more training. Iraq, here I come. I won’t pretend, at least to you, that I’m not scared. I am, and no mistake there. I know enough to know I don’t know what combat will be like. Basic can teach you how, sergeants can teach you why, war games can teach you tactics, but nothing can really show you what’s coming. I miss you, Mom; you’re all I have. Just keep sending letters, okay? Some of the other boys get care packages with cookies and pictures and CD’s and such, but all I want is those hand-written pages in your delicate script. Sergeant is yelling lights out, so I’m cutting this one short, but there’ll be more to come, once we get to Iraq.

All my love,
Dev



My dear Devereaux,

I hardly know where to start, there’s so much news to tell you. You remember Ginny Langford? You dated her in high school I believe. Well, she came back from a year studying in Europe with a long-haired French husband, three months pregnant. Can you believe it? I suppose you can, probably. They finally closed down the drive-in theater. They were saying too many kids were going there to smoke and drink and make out, and my question is what else is the drive-in for? When I was a girl that’s what we did: go to the movies, sneak cigarettes and beer, make out with our boys. But things are different, nowadays. What else should I tell you? I’ve been having some health issues, but nothing too serious, I don’t think. The doctor says I should be ok in a few days, so I don’t want you to worry any. I don’t know what else to tell you, I don’t want to bore you with a bunch of local gossip. I’m praying for you, every day, dearest Dev. I worry about you, I miss you. I think about you in that strange far country with your M-16, and I shudder. I know you signed up for it, it was your choice, but I just can’t help worrying, wishing you were home. I want you all to myself. There’s already been so much blood shed in that place, and I couldn’t bear it if any of yours was spilt. Keep your head down, if that’s the right thing to say. Write soon.

Love always,

Mom






Mom,

Bore me with local gossip, please! It’s a taste of home in this hot, dusty land. Sand is in everything, here. In my socks, my underwear, my mouth, my eyes, my food, my drink…when I dream, I dream of sand, of dunes and long scorching winds and the bright burning sun. It gets so hot I can’t breathe some days. We haven’t seen any action yet, but we’ve only been here a few days. I’m hearing we’re getting sent out soon. Just so you know, we’re not carrying M-16’s, that was Vietnam (you’re showing your age, my dear. Just kidding!) What we carry is pretty much the same thing, just newer.

I’m writing on a different day than the foregoing paragraph, the sarge burst in mid-sentence and started yelling for us to gear up and get moving. My first combat patrol. It was house to house, clearing a village. Horrible. Incredible. Soul-shaking. I still haven’t slept. The veterans tell me I’ll get used to it. I don’t see how, though. I close my eyes and hear the crackcrackcrackcrack that distinctive so unique sound known all the world over, the chain-rattle explosion of an AK-47, so loud so wicked so vicious sending adrenaline bashing through me like sunfire. I close my eyes and I can’t open them again for the flashflood remembering of my rifle rising up from muzzle-down ready position rising up in slow motion all by itself rising up black barrel and crosshair lines pinning the little thin man with the kaffiyeh and straggly ugly beard wagging in the pulsing hot wind, pinning him with crossed lines against the brown walls of a crumbling bombed-out house…I see him as he sees me and he too is lifting a rifle, his is wood and black steel, so distinctive, fired by children and men and women, Chinese and Vietnamese, Russians and Mexicans, Jew and Muslim, seen in newspapers and on CNN and Fox News, he is aiming at me an AK-47 and from its muzzle is the starburst of flame and I hear bees at my ear…I flinch, I cringe knowing it’s not bees but bullets missing by a hair’s breadth and my rifle is still rising too slow too slow he fires again and the bees are back buzzing by my face, whining as they recede. I fire finally, a short burst, just three rounds, my muzzle flashes, the stock smacks against my shoulder and it seems a long endless moment till crimson splashes in an arc from his chest and he falls. I’ve killed a man….I’ve killed a man…
God help me…I see it over and over again, and it’s just the first, just the first that day. We crept from house to house, infiltrating, room-clearing, and once it was just a boy, maybe thirteen, but he had a gun and he shot at us and no one wanted to drop him. Riley paid for the hesitation, not with his life thank God but with blood nonetheless, Riley with the quick laugh and dirty jokes took two bullets to his shoulder before Jake finally dropped the child-soldier. Jake wept the rest of the patrol, quietly to himself, just silent bright trickles glimmering on his dusty face as he shouldered down doors, it could have been sweat but I know better. I hear him now as I write, he’s in the bunk above me whispering he didn’t want to, he was just a kid, God forgive him, it could have been his nephew…Jake who was so tough from the Bronx streets. This isn’t what I thought it’d be, Mom. Not at all. I’m afraid that if I do live through this and come back to you I won’t be the same, I know I won’t be. I’ll have these memories haunting my dreams and awake…Now I understand Grandpa. I understand the distance in his eyes and the cold in his soul.

Why do we do this to each other? Pray for me, Mom.

Your loving son,

Dev





My dear Devereaux,

Your last letter was difficult for me to read. You have always had a way with words, and in that letter you truly evoked harsh images. For me, as your mother, reading what you had to go through…well, I went through a box of tissues before I was dry-eyed. I am your mother, it is my job to protect you, to comfort you, and I can’t. I can’t protect you from the bullets, I can’t kiss your scraped knees like I used to, I can’t hold you and tell you it will be all right, you’re too many thousands of miles away. All I can do is write you letters and pray for your safety. I’m sorry to hear Riley was hurt, I know he was your friend, you talked about him in letters during basic training. Is he going to be ok? Stupid question I suppose. Things here are okay. Still not feeling the greatest, but it’s probably just stress. I’ve had some money troubles with the way the economy has been, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m just lonely and worried and missing you, mostly.
You say you want news from home? There’s not a lot to report, honestly. This being the small town it is, everyone is still talking about Ginny and Andre, her husband, who is a nice enough man, I suppose. His accent is thick and difficult to understand (I suspect he puts it on a little). He’s a mechanic, a real genius with cars, if Al McMaster can be believed. I think Andre must be pretty good if Al talks about him like that. You remember how Al fixed up that old Taurus for you? He had it running like new by the time he finished with it. Well, this Andre of Ginny’s says he’s also an artist, does things with scrap metal or something, he wants to do a big piece for the town square. Mayor Steinberg told him to do the piece and they’d talk about putting it up after the mayor had seen it. Andre acted like he was insulted at that, but you how Dan Steinberg is, bluff, tough, and doesn’t take any guff. What else can I tell you? Marge Nelson died of a heart attack, no surprise there. Johnny Albrecht was arrested for drunk driving again, which makes three times this years. Sherriff Olsen just takes his keys and locks him up for the night. One of these days he’ll smack into a tree and that’ll be the end of old Johnny. He’s been told this, of course, but he just says “Oh, I know, I know. When the good Lord wants to put a stop to my sinful ways, he will.”
Oh, Dev, I miss you so. I can’t stand it, almost. Your letters do me a world of good, I’ll tell you. I’ve got them all, and they’re creased and wrinkled from being read so many times. You asked a question at the end of your letter, ’Why do we do this to each other?’ The answer to that, my son, is something that’s been debated for centuries. Why do we fight? Why do we kill each other? Is it really for the this piece of land or that ideology? I don’t claim to have any definite answers for you, but what I think is that we just use those things as excuses, and that we as people have some need for violence, some deeply-rooted hunger for violence and pain. War is a horrible thing, and I think every soldier wonders, at some point, why he is fighting. Your answers have to come from yourself, from your God.

Anyway, my son, I love you. I can’t wait for your next letter. God keep you safe.

Love,
Mom







Mom,

More patrols, some boring and uneventful, some not. A few were especially terrible, but I won’t describe them to you. Days are long, nights are longer. My conscience is full, my soul is weary and this tour has only begun. Just begun. God help me, I don’t know if I can do this, Mom. I just don’t think I can. Not and stay sane. Eyes closed I see horrible visions, like something out of Blake or Dante. The other guys seem to be doing ok, but I hear them whispering to themselves, fingering rosaries, writing letters, staring off into the distance, what they call the thousand-yard stare. Same as me. Oh, there’s a few fellas that are genuinely okay with what they’ve done, what they’ve seen, but they’re the cold ones, the hard ones, those who’ve seen this stuff before, in other places less exotic. Maybe this all just me, just how I’m handling this, or rather, failing to handle it. Am I supposed to be tougher? Harder? More immune and desensitized to the blood and death? The longer this goes on the less I remember how things used to be, who I used to be. The more blood I see spilled, the more I spill, the further home seems to be.
I miss you, Mom, and I can’t wait for the day when I get my discharge papers and can go home. I love you, Mom, so much. I’ll try and call soon, I promise.

All my love,
Devereaux





My dear Devereaux,

You said you would try to call but I guess you couldn’t? The tone of your letters is getting darker, more worrisome. I’ve been praying for you, son, day and night. I’ve had horrible nightmares lately, of you in that war, of things happening to you, terrible things. God, I’ve seen you die so many ways and I wake up sweating and crying but I can’t even reassure myself that it was just a dream. My friend Jenn Stanley had a son over there, and she kept having dreams, like I am now, and one of them turned out to be true, her son John was killed exactly in the manner one of her dream showed. Maybe it was coincidence, but she doesn’t think so and neither do I. Oh, Dev, I shouldn’t be writing these things to you, I know I shouldn’t, I should be writing about happy things, and I’ll try. Let me see. Well, there’s Ginny, she’s about 7 months now and her ultrasounds are showing a boy, and I should tell you that scrap-metal art piece Andre was making was just so odd and no one liked it, and Andre was so mad, he called us all stupid Americans, and uncultured backwater Philistines. We laughed at that, let me tell you. Well, all except Johnny Albrecht, who was drunk and got offended, took a big swing at Andre. Old Johnny-boy still has the grit and spit I guess ’cause he laid Andre flat on his back. Sherriff Dan told Andre he’d earned that one and he’d best just walk away, and if he didn’t, well he’d let Johnny tear his house down, and everyone knows how Johnny used to be quite a scrapper back in his younger days. I guess Andre got the message, ‘cause he got up and left, swearing under his breath in French (I don’t think he realizes I’m fluent in it).

I’m trying, Dev. I just can’t pretend I’m ok. I’m spending all my time worrying about you. After your father died I just haven’t been the same, I suppose. I can’t seem to keep it together as well. I miss him, Dev. I lost him a year ago today. I can still see Sherriff Dan’s face, long and sad as he told me Luc had been killed. It was raining that day, like it is now, and Dan’s hat was dripping, he was soaked through. He came in before I’d invited him, which wasn’t like him, he was always so polite and gentlemanly. He sat down on the sofa and looked up at me and I could tell it wasn’t just rain on his face, and I knew then before he spoke, I’d felt for hours that something was wrong. We women know when our loved ones are hurt, Devereaux, it’s part of our magic, I think. I knew in my gut when you broke your arm playing football with Gabe, I knew it when you fell off the water-tower, and I knew it when your father died. I’ll know it if anything happens to you over there.

I’m sorry Dev, I can’t seem to stop my maundering. I pray for you every morning, every night. Please keep writing me, son. Your letters have gotten more sporadic lately. Call when you can, I’m looking forward to hearing your voice. Any idea if you’ll get leave soon? I love you, Devereaux. God be with you and protect you.

Love,
Mom


My dear Devereaux,

It’s been more than a month and still no word from you. Not a letter or a call or anything. I’m starting to get really worried. I can’t sleep at night, I can’t focus at work. The doctor says I should take some time off of work, but I’m not sure that will help. Please write me, even just a few lines to let me know you’re alive.

Love,
Mom



Mom,

Don’t have much time, so I have to keep this short. Sorry I haven’t been writing much recently. My unit has been fighting pretty much non-stop since my last letter, and each time is worse than the last. I can’t take much more, Mom. I just can’t. But I have to, don’t I? War is hell.

Dev







My dear Devereaux,
Don’t give up, son. You’ll make it through. Just take it one day at a time, and don’t forget to breathe. Seems like silly advice, I know. But when things are at their hardest and everything is just breaking apart and you’re empty…it just takes everything you have inside to keep breathing, because it seems like it’d be so easy to let go and just stop breathing, let all the numbness creep over you…But you can’t do that. You have to hold on and keep breathing, wake up every morning and remind yourself breathe in, breathe out.
I miss you. Things are hard here, all alone. Please call, or write, or just a postcard. Anything so I know you’re alive…

Love,
Mom






Mom,

I don’t want you to worry, but I’ve been injured. I’ll be leaving for home soon. I’m actually writing this from the hospital bed, the nurse is going to mail it for me. I’ve gotten my honorable discharge papers and as soon as I’m able to get up and around I‘ll be on plane for home. I haven’t gotten any letters from you in awhile, I hope you’re ok. I know that you were pretty worried when my letters stopped coming, but I just couldn’t write for quite awhile. I get the sense that there’s things going on with you that you’re not telling me…maybe I’m reading in between the lines but I’m just worried about you, something in my gut, like you were talking about. Anyway I’ll enclose the phone number where you can reach me in the military hospital. I’ll be here for awhile yet. I hope to hear from you soon, Mom.

I love you.

Dev


Mom,

I’m all healed up and ready to fly out. I’m sending this out, but at this point I’ll probably be in the States before you’ll get it. I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. Where are you, Mom?

All my love,

Dev


Devereaux,

I’m sending this as priority express as I can, hoping it will get to you before you leave for the States. I should have told you this before, but I just couldn’t bear to admit it, until it was too late. I’ve been in the hospital myself. It turns out I have a rare form of fast-moving cancer. They’ve been doing chemo and all sorts of things, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Just pray for me, son. I think God is bringing me home. I love you, I hope to see you again, just one more time.

Love,

Mom


Mom,

What do I say? I got your last letter just before I got on the flight home. I wish you had told me, I wish I had known sooner, I wish…so many things. I wish I had never joined the Army, then I could have been at your side. I wish Dad had never gone out that night, I wish my patrol had gone down a different road that afternoon, if we had I might still have my foot, Riley and Jake and Tony and Hector and Manuel might all still be alive. We got ambushed…it was just unmitigated slaughter. I made it out, me and few others, but that’s it. Then I spent weeks in the hospital, unconscious…and then I come to, I write you, I call you, but I hear nothing. Then I get the letter just before I get on the plane. You had cancer, and you didn’t tell me. I come home, and you’re not there. I try the hospital downtown, and they tell me they had tried to call me too, but I’d already left. You’d already slipped away, you took your last breath at 3:49 a.m., you were unconscious, barely breathing. The nurse who had the nightwatch at your bedside told me said my name as you passed on. Why, Momma? Why? Couldn’t you hold on, just one day more, so I could have said goodbye? You’re gone, you’re buried. I stood at your grave, alone, I couldn’t think of anything to say then. I couldn’t speak. The reverend started to give his speech, but I stopped him, silence was the most eloquent elegy for you, Mom, you were always so quiet in life, you chose your words, you measured them, hoarded them, and when you spoke, it was in soft and delicate tones, gentle and precise.
I couldn’t speak at your graveside, Momma. I write this as your requiem, I say with my pen what I couldn’t say with my lips. I love you, Mom, I will miss you, I will weep for you, I will remember you, always. Goodbye, Momma.

All my love,

Devereaux