Mail call came around. It was a testament to the efficiency of the military that letters and packages reached them even out here, but then again, mail from home was considered almost sacred. The kid went down to collect his mail. He almost always got a letter from home or from a girl he was sweet on back home.
Cole didn’t bother. Instead, he spread out his rifle on a blanket and began to clean it meticulously. He did this daily, whether or not the rifle had been fired or dragged through the mud and dust.
The kid came back all smiles. “Cleaning your rifle again. Why don’t you just wait until before we go on patrol?”
“If you’re always ready, you ain’t got to get ready.”
“Maybe you can tear yourself away from that rifle long enough to take a look at your mail.”
“What?”
He looked up in surprise at the envelope the kid was waving at him. Cole had received exactly two letters while in Korea, both from Norma Jean Elwood.
“It’s your girlfriend again,” the kid said. Because he had read Cole’s two previous letters to him, this could only mean that this was another letter from Norma Jean.
Truth be told, she was the reason why Cole was in Korea in the first place. He had been hunting on a fall morning back home when he came across two men about to attack the young woman after her old car had broken down. Those two lowlifes had ended up dying of lead poisoning, and Cole had been left with the choice of prison or Korea. He didn’t regret those events at all and would do it all over again in a heartbeat rather than choosing to leave Norman Jean to the wolves.
Cole shook his head at the proffered envelope.
“Go on and read it to me,” he said. “I’ve got gun oil all over my hands.”
The kid tore open the envelope. Although Cole hadn’t come out and said it, the kid had figured out by now that the hillbilly couldn’t read. The kid had even written back to Norma Jean on Cole’s behalf.
He knew that he could josh Cole about spending all that time cleaning his rifle, but he left the topic of illiteracy alone. He thought it would be a bad idea to embarrass Cole about not being able to read — not if you wanted to live to tell the tale. If Cole liked you, you could consider yourself lucky. If you got on his bad side, you were just a step away from getting flensed by that big Bowie knife he carried. When Cole got mad, he had the coldest, hardest eyes that the kid had ever seen.
Without further comment, he cleared his throat and read:
Dear Caje,
Another season has gone and went, so I reckoned I should write. I do appreciate your letter. It was real nice to get that.
The mountains have changed a lot because many of the younger people who left for jobs during the war never came home. That’s the way of things, I suppose, but I never plan to leave home. I want to stay here and raise a family someday. What do you think of that?
I hope you don’t mind that I went by your workshop and swept out the cobwebs and mice. Mrs. Bailey said that was all right to do. I figured it was the least I could do so that is ready when you come back.
Maybe that won’t be so long from now. President Truman says this war won’t last much longer, and who don’t believe what they say in Washington?
“Well how about that,” Cole said. He was a man who mostly kept his emotions in check — except for the angry ones — but he had to admit that the letter made him feel an unexpected warmth inside. It wasn’t the words so much as the fact that someone on the other side of the world gave a damn about Caje Cole. She was even looking after the workshop that Hollis Bailey had given him.
“You want to write her back?” the kid asked.
“No,” Cole said.
“What? Why not? She’s got it bad for you, you know.”
“The next time I say something to Norma Jean, it’s going to be in person, not in a damn letter.”
Cole went back to cleaning his rifle, his lips tight, but he was grinning to himself.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Hardy reluctantly left the company of the tankers and went down to complete his primary mission, which was to interview the soldiers from Puerto Rico.
At his arrival, a few soldiers had emerged from their foxholes. While it wasn’t unusual for discipline to be relaxed on the front line, this was the most motley crew of soldiers that he had seen by far. Their uniforms were new enough, but the troops had a disheveled look that ranged from untucked shirts and ragged, muddy trouser cuffs to several men wearing wide-brimmed hats rather than helmets. Compared to the rest of the U.S. Army, their appearance was certainly unique.
Hardy had seen a few Aussies wearing similar hats, but no Americans. Anyhow, who wouldn’t prefer a steel helmet on his head?
These Puerto Ricans were in stark contrast to the well-disciplined tank unit that he had just left. Under Lieutenant Dunbar, the tankers were not necessarily spit and polish, but they were battle ready. They drilled relentlessly, followed a strict schedule, and maintained everything from their rifle and uniforms to the tanks themselves religiously. Could the same be said of these men?
Hardy didn’t think so.
While Hardy sized up these soldiers, they were busy staring curiously back at him, mainly because he carried a notepad and a camera.
There was something else different about these soldiers and he stared back, not quite able to put his finger on it.
Before Hardy could figure out what had caught his attention, an officer appeared from the dugout. The man was not as dark-complected as the men, but like them, he wore a carefully trimmed mustache.
That’s when it dawned on Hardy that all of these men wore mustaches — the ones who were old enough to shave, at least. In an army where most men were required to be cleanshaven, this instantly set them apart.
During a few days in the field or under combat conditions, soldiers weren’t expected to shave. A few days of stubble was the norm. But once they were back in camp, out came the razors as the soldiers cleaned up their appearance.
“Who the hell are you?” the officer with the mustache demanded. To Hardy’s surprise, the officer did not look or sound Puerto Rican.
“Private Hardy, sir. I’ve been sent by Stars and Stripes to write about the 65th Infantry. I flew in yesterday. Didn’t anyone tell you I was coming to do a story?”
“Hell, no,” the officer said, looking Hardy up and down skeptically. “That was you who flew in? When we saw the chopper, we were expecting General Ridgeway. Or somebody important, at least. Not a reporter.”
“No sir, just me. I hope that I can have a few minutes of your time, sir.”
“Here we are facing the Chinese, and this is what division sends. A guy with a notebook and a camera? It figures. We could use some ammo. Better yet, why not ship us a crate of steaks on that chopper?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
The officer muttered something in Spanish. “Que desastre. Qué idiota.”
“Sir?”
“That’s Spanish for hello and welcome.”
Having caught the word idiot mixed in there, Hardy thought that he wasn’t getting the full story. However, he wasn’t here to antagonize the officer. Just the opposite — he needed this officer’s blessing to write the story. If he didn’t get it, it was going to be a long trip back and a chewing out by the editor out once he returned to Stars and Stripes.
“Do you have a few minutes to talk to me, sir?”