The Letter
An Anti-War Story
by DAF
It was a cool autumn Sunday morning with a new freshness in the air that made you feel good to be alive even in a military cemetery where everything was free from human disturbance and had that ambiance of serenity about it. But, if you were in a relaxed mood you could hear birds in the distance singing at their finest as if they were trying to outdo each other for first place in nature's contest for the best bird song to be heard in any resting place. Rows and rows of neat little white headstones in perfect lines
that could not be improved on where a country's military history is recorded that if you were to lie flat on your stomach, totally devoid of any distractions
and lift your head looking straight ahead, that was the only headstone you saw, the one in front of you, not the one on the right of it and not the one on the left of it and certainly not the one behind it but the one that was slam-bang in front of you, it was the only one. Casualties of war. Young men and women who fell in the line of duty were ready to honor, serve and protect, to kill and die for their country. The majority had little or no say in their final resting place and so were buried in formation where the state and the military claimed the right to them even in death before God and family.
They sacrificed their lives for democracy and country. But it was still the principles-with-honor that could worm their way into the subconscious of a nation, no matter how it was dressed up but dressed up it was to look patriotically honorable all the same.
Two first cousins, Irish in blood but not in birth and typical classic plastic Paddy's were long-time friends since boyhood days of the adventure kind married identical twin sisters, Italian in blood and blow-ins were known locally as the 'Virgin Marys' because of their pious ways of going on and for their pasta-making far and wide
after meeting on a 'blind date' in a bowling alley which is still joked about amongst family and friends. It was a big catholic double wedding that was the talk of the neighborhood for the week before and for weeks after the event. The church was overflowing with people out onto the street which caused traffic chaos that it came to a standstill with passersby asking who is the celebrity getting married, which is still talked about. Some of the guests had already started celebrating the biggest event in the neighborhood since WWII ended days before the wedding took place. They ended up sleeping through the marriage ceremony accumulating nudges in their ribs from left and right and looking the worst for it. That too is absolutely still talked about even if some of them are dead, it's still talked about. The twin sister's parents
were both Sicilians who emigrated from a small town famous for its churches in the southeast of the island. Mother, a devoted Catholic and a mother-to-all in the neighborhood, and a loving, if somewhat overprotective father to his girls who claimed to be an out-and-out atheist, a staunch fully paid-up active trade unionist, and later a Hoffa man. He restored churches as his trade and spent all his working life in them seeing the moon more often than the sun. Over time he became addicted to candle wax's burning smell, so much so, he burned candles in his bedroom to help him sleep at night. Mother didn't mind, she too was addicted to anything that smells of religion. That very same bedroom that they shared all their married life together had one wall adorned with religious icons and the opposite facing wall with trade union paraphernalia. Father was nicknamed Angelo by his grandmother who was named Magdalene by her grandmother Mary. She died in church on a Good Friday in her favorite seat just below the 12th Station. She would be happy with that end to her life if she was given a choice as to how and where she would die. Dragging Angelo off from an early age to every church service that was on the Catholic calendar that even the priest was known to have said to her ''let the boy be a boy''. She had high hopes for Angelo in becoming a cardinal and nothing less, but she would be happy too if he made it to Pope. Angelo, who was well-read on the Bible and tutored by his grandmother could debate with anybody foolish enough to engage in a debate with him about the existence of a God. Angelo's ironic end came when the scaffold he was working on in the Cathedral came crashing down in a cascade of steel and bolts in a tremendous-thunderous-
The first cousins descended from Irish immigrants dating back to the middle1800s who left Ireland because blight had devastated its potato crops leaving one million to die from famine-related diseases on the island and more than two million to immigrate with thousands dying on 'packet ships'. The first cousins grew up in a tough neighborhood of Irish and Italians competing for jobs and housing that would lead to many a street brawl at anytime day or night. But it wasn't always that way. The social boundaries were known to dissolve in relaxed times and courtship between the two ethnic groups flourished which would lead to Irish-Italian intermarriage. It was in this way the two Irish first cousins became known locally as the 'cugino brothers', though Irish blood with a Viking mix runs deep in their veins. The 'cugino brothers' are sitting on the
same park bench facing the same bandstand as they have always done since retirement from their government jobs that gave them little fulfillment in achievement but a paycheck to survive in a rising economy that was showing no down-turn, no matter what promises were coming from a politicians mouth at the time. Both had basic government medical insurance, but, they had the guarantee of a government pension, a small consolation in any rising economy and that was the 'carrot' for the job when jobs were scarce. Nothing that was said in anger or jokes between the two of them was ever taken seriously that could harm their friendship. Brothers, of the sibling kind, were not this close that they even bought their burial plots with matching headstones in the local cemetery side-by-side so that they and the 'Virgin Marys'
will be together in death. They were the kind of people that when they got married they stayed married for 'better or worse', it meant something to them. They would joke about their inscriptions on the headstone when the sisters were within earshot knowing that it irks them, but, the hard fact was that between the two couples, there was only one offspring. Both families helped in rearing the boy, and when he was younger he would get confused when asked who his real parents were. Whatever happened to 'Bambino' as he was known affectionately in the family, be-it doctor, school, or bringing him to the game, anything, it involved both couples. In school, he was known as the kid who had two mothers who looked so-alike that the other kids taught it was a big joke being played out on them, and two fathers, one, who had the energy for the two of them and the other, well, he was quite happy to sit on his rear-end and stay sitting, giving the excuse that he had a well-developed faculty for thinking which was honed over the years and he was not going to upset it by running around looking like a blue-arsed fly in heat. Too much stress and strain in that. Nobody argued with him.
Looking in the direction of the birds singing he expressed his thoughts just for the sake of having his opinion heard and just for the sake of hearing himself speak his opinion with bird-song in the background and just because he is rambling with his thoughts from the past with the 'what-if' and the 'f-word' syndrome kicking his butt.
''Forget about the times missed in having a holiday in some far-off destination with blue skies with your family on our paychecks. Now I was thinking that, if we had squeezed the administration at the time when we had that job into giving us more money for foreign holidays in a far-off unheard-of destination that we would volunteer to go to on
'government business'
just for the fun of it, but you don't tell them that because 'government business' in foreign lands is taken very seriously as 'government business' even if it had some despot regime in power, and all because it would be just to kill the boredom of having a job sitting at a desk checking other peoples permits to foreign lands on 'government business' .. just saying it mind you, just saying it. On another note, while I'm on it, do you remember that time when I was making paper trails, and we both agree that it is very important to leave a paper trail even if it was not 'required' in the event of a dispute or the likes were to come out of the woodwork at some later date, anyway, you remember it was for a so-called famous soda company and we all knew at the time who that was. You remember, don't you, when Western capitalism versus Soviet socialism, I always referred to that time in our history as the 'fat and lean' times, get it, 'fat and lean', it put things into perspective for me and not to mention the 'overtime' we had from it, checking and double checking. They were the days. Soda company my butt, but it was the best 'cover-up', presuming on the assumption that it was for 'government business' and I for one was all for it at the time, and when I think about it now, would still be. They were the times, of the cold war, cold soda, and cold outside.''
''Don't you go getting hypothermia now, you hear''.. was the only response he was going to get from his friend who was fidgeting in his pocket and reassuring himself it was still there. He did not have much energy now for anything after receiving the letter some months ago and less willpower, but for the sake of his wife and friends who got him through the day and the memories of Bambino, he was doing o.k. The two friends would joke between themselves about the government 'whitewashing' jobs they were involved in as a way of relieving the mockery of it all.
... ''and besides, medical insurance nowadays would just about cover the wheelchair they would put you in and nothing more, however, there was always money, taxpayer's hard-earned money with no end to it for military expenditure and for the 'protection' of the country.''
They joked about that too. They joked about just about everything that left a taste in the mouth that other people just called .. 'living'.
The so-called letter from his inside pocket came out slowly for the fourth time that morning. Looked at it, held it for a while, looked at it some more and opened it, and then folded it back up
again neatly and put it back into his inside pocket, the one near his heart. The same pocket it's always in. The very same well-read military letter that never leaves his person day or night telling him that his only son died in action. K.I.A. There is no other way to say it. Killed In Action. A war that nobody knew what it was about anymore except for the government and the military people and those who needed to know. He remembers the day as if it was yesterday when Bambino was drafted into the armed forces and that very same summer's evening sitting out on the front porch drinking beers and trying to keep a somewhat normal evening more normal than normal. He remembers talking about the possibilities of what the future could bring now for all of them because now that their lives were going to change for better or worse and all because of a war and a draft lottery number that had his name on it. Nothing was left unsaid between them, it was maybe the very reason their relationship was close for a father and son. Theirs was quite close that other father and son relationships would begrudge them that in silence rather than speak out their envy and possibly end up looking like fools because something might be said without considering the impact of their words. Part of the evening was spent playing checkers just to slow down the time they had left together and between games shifting through an old school atlas of Bambino's just to see where that country exactly was that he was being sent out to fight in a war that did not make any sense anymore and scouring for other information about that same country as if they were going on a foreign holiday together. At least they knew he would not be coming home on weekend leave at the government's expense. Father and 'one-and-only' relieved their anxiety each day in a 'play-off' of sarcasm with each other. It helped to keep that big bad wolf at the door that was huffing and puffing.
''Off on 'government business' son''...
''No, just a 'government holiday', do a tour in the tropics and back home with some heat rash all over.''
It was all that could be said now before he left for boot camp. Everything was talked about, even dancing around the possibility of him not coming home. It was better to have it out in the open than have it running around in the mind like some panicked rat in a maze, but physically hopping-over-the-border and running away from it was not talked about. Too much shame in that to live down in an already clean family history. At one-time father and son visited the local police station wondering what it was like inside, even asking to see the holding cells. But besides all of that, the closer the time came for Bambino to leave the more he was proud to serve his country and told his father so that it gave him some comfort in knowing that his son would be coming home ... someday.
The last in line of a good Irish-Italian mix, their only son, a father's pride, and his mother's joy died two days before his twenty-second birthday towards the end of the monsoon season in that foreign country on 'government business' in a rice paddy field losing both legs from above the knee and bleeding out before he was got to when he stepped on a m16 mine placed side by side with a 'toe-popper' with the intent of an outright kill. It was hard enough that they had to cope with the daily physical challenges imposed by the sudden change in climate and terrain, its wildlife, snakes were the fear for most soldiers, and to add to all this, retreating soldiers
on both sides, where all men are enemies, can go savage in the madness of their mind. There is nothing honorable in warfare. Nothing that you could or would write home about anyway.
Wading across the paddy field holding the photograph of his father, mother, and fiancee of nearly two years, his first real love whom he met at a car boot sale that his father had when clearing out the basement to make more room for a new den and pool table. His excuse for a home-from-home under one roof. Bambino could still whiff traces of napalm-burning foliage and flesh in the air after the early morning bombing raid but the smell of cooking pho mixed in with it gave it a serene and cozy feeling too along with thinking to himself when ankle high in muddy water in a rice field in a foreign land when would he see them all again. Before he stepped into the paddy field he saw in the distance two water buffalos plodding about the field that he thought it was also safe for him to be in it too doing the very same thing in taking a shortcut to the other side. The rest of his patrol took the long walk around on the banks of the rice field and reminding him at the same time of yesterday's events of a water buffalo blown apart after rolling over onto a mine, and the local's, mostly old women and children, scurrying around picking up chunks of meat wanting to trade with the soldiers. Can't fault them for seeing an opportunity when it was put in front of them
... why waste good meat, but Bambino's thoughts were elsewhere. On hearing that dreaded 'click' sound that mines make when stood on, Bambino's shock took over every feeling-moving part of him. It was around midday when he stepped on the mine more or less the same time when his mother gave birth to him, those few short years ago ... one of life's shitty little jokes called coincidence kicking into play. He knew it was too late when he felt
his two legs blown out from under him and
he was slowly slipping under and away at the same time. It was all happening too fast. His eyes closed, and falling back onto his back hitting his head off a skull that rose to the surface from the vibration of the explosion, bringing it up in slow motion like something you would see in some horror movie. But this was no horror movie, this was the horror of the real thing happening, there and then, and all just for him to rest his head on it like it was some kind of pillow. Looking up into a clear blue sky with tinges of orange splashed about like a Turner painting after the rains that Sunday morning, he knew his 'tour' on a foreign ground was over.
He was born into a time when the world was changing fast, gave it all he got, and died in a foreign land on 'government business' with the last word on his mind asking .. why.
His life and that experience we all have of feeling alive were now gone too, no more. His chance for his bloodline to live beyond his dreams is now, no more. The same two legs that brought him there to that paddy field were now, no more. The same two legs that defeated some good runners in cross-country races which he liked to take part in before he was drafted into this war, now no more. This war was going to pull a country apart with its 'home demonstrations' and bring a so-called civilized world to shame for not demanding having more say about the war and bringing an end to it. Just another week of mop-up patrols, he was promised by his company sergeant ... just one more week of moping-up and you get your ticket out. The same two legs that were going to walk him down the aisle when he returned home on leave, now no more. The same two legs that walked him out into a paddy field and onto a mine that Sunday morning ... in a foreign land, he did not want to be in ... in a war, he did not want to be in ... at a time, he did not want to be in ... in a paddy field, he did not want to be in ... on 'government business', he did not want to be involved in.
No more.
No more.
The letter was taken out again but now it was just held in the hand unopened because he could now memorize it, word for word and backward if necessary. Looked sideways at his friend who was twirling his thumbs and smiling to himself looking up at the clouds starting to gather for an afternoon downpour and giving them the excuse later, not that they needed one to go to the 'The Currach' on their way home, catch up with friends of the drinking-buddies kind, play a couple of games of pool, drink some beers and their favorite, eat pickled eggs. The
'cugino brothers' were known to polish off all the pickled eggs in the glass jar behind the bar and the publican knew the weakness the
'cugino brothers' have for pickled eggs would fill up the jar that morning and take bets if they would finish off the eggs that afternoon. Well, let me tell you the story about the time when the
'cugino brothers' got to hear that the publican had a lot of money riding on the pickle egg jar that all eggs would be finished off that afternoon and to add some extra spice to the bet within two hours of the 'cugino brothers' ordering their first beer. That same jar held sixteen pickled eggs when full. After visiting Bambino's grave that Sunday the 'cugino brothers' arrived at the bar for their usual beer, pool, and eggs. Pretending not to know what the publican was up to and after their customary greetings to the publican and all regular patrons ordered two beers and two eggs each and went to the pool table for their first game of the day. Half-hour passed and no more eggs were ordered. The publican, getting a little anxious about his bet, and the time running out after no eggs were ordered in the last hour now started to hover around the pool table like a hawk watching a rabbit. Asking questions about how the twins were, nobody called them the 'Virgin Marys' in front of the 'cugino brothers' and talked about last week's game and finely got around to asking if they wanted more pickled eggs. The 'cugino brothers' enjoying their game of pool along with teasing the publican about not having the appetite for eating any more eggs watched the publican quick-stepping it to the bar and looking anxious about losing his bets. Five minutes passed and the 'cugino brothers' were at the bar ordering two beers and four eggs each and returning to the pool table. The publican, frowning at the jar and thinking to himself, twelve eggs are eaten and four to go, there is still hope yet, don't panic. Five minutes before the bet time was up the 'cugino brothers' were standing at the bar watching that big smile on the publican's face getting bigger when calling for two beers but no eggs. The publican put the two beers down in front of them and nodded his head in the direction of the last four eggs. The 'cugino brothers' shook their heads in unison as not interested. The publican lost his smile as fast as a roller-shutter door closing. One minute before the bet time was up the 'cugino brothers' called for three eggs, leaving one egg in the jar. The publican, glancing at the clock on the wall and getting stressed out, at the same time encouraging the 'brothers' to have all four eggs ... ''Two each, as always boys, come on, you can't leave one egg in the jar, you always have two each, it's not like you boys to leave one egg in the jar''... desperation sounding in his voice that you would think he was going to cry. The 'cugino brothers' looked at each other, then slowly turned to the publican and finally to the egg ...''O.K. ... the last egg'', with that, everybody started clapping and whistling in the bar that it could be heard out on the street. The publican called for a free round for all and free eggs and beers to the 'cugino brothers'. That was a good Sunday. The 'Virgin Marys' were not happy with pickle egg flatulence later on in the evening wafting through the house when they got together to play gin rummy as was their custom on a Sunday night but it was a small price to pay for a good laugh and a story worth repeating time and again after all that was said and done.
Stretching out his
feet and arms till he was fully stretched out, as was his way when he was about to give his opinion, hyper-fantasizing as it might be,
and
telling his friend that he just saw what might be a dragon or maybe a
unicorn turning into a Mustang and then breaking up into more dragons. Still looking up at the clouds changing formation and counting dragons at the same time, said ...
''There is a meaning there in them clouds breaking up like that, from that beautiful Mustang and now into dragons ... I know there is, I just ... I know what it is now, it's to do with Bambino in that foreign land, he is the Mustang, and when he stood on that mine and was blown apart, there is no other way of saying the truth, he became all those dragons in that foreign land. Yep, that's it ... from a Mustang to a dragon, but in my honest opinion better to be a Mustang anytime anywhere. Having said that, do you think that if we were a father and son
we would sit here not speaking a word and be content
in each other's company?''
Having returned the letter safely back to his pocket near his heart and having reread it in his mind .. again, he answered looking up towards the sky to see if he could find any dragons, no, no dragons to be seen but he could see Mustangs racing across the sky from East to West ...
''If so, it would be the best
friendship that anyone could ask for in any given lifetime between a father and a son.''
''Yep, the best friendship, no doubt about that .. let's take a walk to the boy's grave while we still can walk.''
The letter, now safely back inside his pocket knowing that the words would not have any different meaning in its facts if they were to be read over and over again and that his only son was not too far away from him now in the military cemetery where the same two legs that brought him to war in a foreign land now got him a small white headstone in a cemetery he did not want to be in. Standing now in front of Bambino's white headstone with a couple of dimes placed on top of the stone by his military friends it was remarked between them that the birds seemed to have stopped singing, just for less than a minute but enough time to notice the stillness and calm in the air they started up again, on cue and louder, with more energy to outdo each other in musical vocalizations. Hitchcock would have been more than happy with that scene in his movie. Since their last visit to Bambino's grave a quarter was placed on the stone, which meant, whoever visited the grave was there in the paddy field with Bambino when he died, maybe holding his hand. It was a small comfort to know that Bambino did not die on his own, but they will never know who placed that quarter on the stone, and maybe it's best not to know but leave things as they are for everybody's sake. Two little flags were placed in front of the stone by Bambino's grieving mother and her sister who visited the grave earlier that Sunday morning after their early morning Mass with the new priest that looked like Bambino that the 'Virgin Marys' were convinced that God works in many ways. The
'cugino brothers' were not ones to speculate on how God works, that was left to the 'Virgin Marys'. Both couples agreed amongst themselves to visit the grave separately, hard as it was for now for reasons of avoiding any breakdown or emotional scenes like what happened before. They all had their own cross to bear on this one and that was hard enough to carry. It was the best solution buffer which was as good as any other for everybody concerned. Bambino's father leaned in on his friend gently just for the support of just having him there with him but also in knowing he felt it too. He realized that to pine over what
cannot be undone is to die a slow death, but that actualization took a long time in coming to him. Reassured, no, it was more like being whitewashed by so-called political views that conveyed the 'underline bullshit' that could not hide the fact that his son died in vain in a war he did not want to be in. Very few if any politicians worth their salt would divulge to that, he would tell himself ... de novo.
Will we ever learn ...
Epilogue
... ... and now for that 'part' of my story where karma has a way of working itself into life and because this is my story so I am going to tell it as it is. The two mines Bambino stood on were manufactured in his own country and were part of an arms deal before his government got involved in the war. The skull in the paddy field was the boy soldier Bambino had in his rifle scoop just the week before he stepped on the mine but did not shoot because the boy also had him in his scoop, it was the perfect catch-22 situation, he knew that, and then the boy was gone, just vanished into thin air.
There is nothing worse than a soldier dying in vain but more soldiers dying in vain in any war at any given time.
Will we ever learn?