Authors: Renae Kelleigh
Meg caught his wrists in her hands as they cradled the sides of her face and leaned infinitesimally backward so as to peer into his eyes. “Then let me be yours.”
Sighing, he touched his forehead to hers. “You are mine.”
8 November 1969
Dear John,
By the time you read this, we’ll have already parted. I’m sure it was a very emotional goodbye - I’m sure I cried, while you did your best to console me. Probably you’re again questioning the wisdom of “staying together” through all of this. You may well have your doubts as to my ability to weather our separation.
Or, maybe I didn’t cry after all. I can be strong - you’ve shown me that. In the absence of all else, at least carry that knowledge with you. No matter the outcome, I won’t be broken.
I love you, John. I’ve loved you for months (probably ever since Cape Royal), though it feels closer to a lifetime. I told you before that I’d been in love, and maybe I was, but there isn’t any doubt in my mind: that was a different sort of love. It depleted me, because I lived in fear of losing it. Instead of feeling fortified by it, I felt debilitated - even crippled. Crippled by the mere thought of being without. It was the worst kind of co-dependency.
This love, though - the kind I feel for you and from you? I’ve never felt richer, and certainly never stronger. I’ve never felt better equipped to confront the challenges of the coming months, no matter how many or how frequent.
So, thank you. Thank you for making me want to be the best possible version of myself. And thank you for believing it’s possible.
I love you.
Meg
i carry your heart with me,
i carry it in my heart.
i am never without it.
anywhere i go, you go, my dear;
and whatever is done by only me
is your doing, my darling.
i fear no fate,
for you are my fate...
(e.e. cummings)
* * *
9 November 1969
Dearest Meg,
I just finished reading your letter. It meant everything to me. It does me no end of good to have this reminder of your lion’s heart. Please forgive me for ever having doubted your tenacity.
Tonight I’m sharing a cramped hotel room with five other men. Some of them have taken to the floor, but I get one of the beds on account of my senior citizen status (ha). They are all so young. One of them, Beckinsale (the Army doesn’t do first names), is only eighteen. Fresh out of high school, if you can believe it. The poor kid is scared shitless, I can tell. He’s warmed up to me for some reason, though. Follows me around like a lost dog.
They’re waiting on me to turn off the light, so I’ll have to save the rest for another letter. For tonight, I’m afraid it’s goodbye.
From the bottom of my heart, Meg, thank you for choosing me, and for trusting me with such an extraordinary thing as your heart. I cannot pretend to claim you - I can only express that I am as much or as little yours as you would like for me to be.
Always have been.
Truly,
John
* * *
November 1969
Dearest Meg,
I’m not completely certain of today’s date. I think it must be the 14th or 15th, but it’s difficult to tell since we’re rapidly jumping time zones. The International Date Line is hundreds of miles behind us by now.
We left California at 0630 on the 12th and flew directly to Hawaii. I’m not sure where we were along the chain of islands - needless to say, we weren’t allowed any time for sightseeing.
We deplaned while they refueled and swapped crews. They held us in a part of the terminal where they could keep an eye on us. I get the sense that the higher ups are pretty distrustful - with good reason, as it turns out. They called roll when we got back to the plane, and one guy had bailed. We got on the flight and left without him. I don’t like to think about what sort of future the deserter has in store for him. All I know is, he must have wanted out pretty badly to think of risking it all in such a heavily guarded area. It would’ve been simpler to disappear back in Oakland. I can’t imagine he got very far.
Next we made a really brief stopover on Midway Island, which is quite literally just an airstrip in the middle of the ocean, apparently surrounded by other atolls and volcanic islands. I remember my Uncle Lloyd talking about it when I was really young - he was a naval commander who fought there in the Battle of Midway during the Second War. So it would’ve been interesting to see, had I been in the right mindset.
Our last stop was in the Philippines. The original flight plan had us stopping in Guam, but we were diverted because of a typhoon. (Don’t worry, we steered clear of it.)
Now we’re on the last leg of our journey - soon we will be landing at Bien Hoa airbase in Vietnam, about 30 km northeast of Saigon. The entire trip up till now has been in sunlight, but the rest of the way will be in the dark.
It’s gotten pretty quiet since we took off from Manila. I think reality is setting in pretty fast. Even though it’s dark, I don’t know that anybody’s sleeping. Even the really chatty ones have shut up for the time being, probably trying to guess what might be in store for them. If only there was some way to know.
The stewardess announced a little bit ago that we’re over country, but I can’t see a thing - just blackness, deep and weighted down, and every so often, a pinprick of light. It seems almost peaceful. Makes me think of the people who live down there, passing their lives in rice paddies or on fishing boats, now sleeping in their beds. I wish I could know what they think about all this. If they knew we were up here, looking down on their villages, what would they feel? Relief? Fear? I hope it’s the former, but more likely it’s somewhere in between.
Meg, I miss you so much. You’ve heard that sentiment from me before, and I know you’ll hear it many, many more times in the coming months, but I hope you’ll never take it for granted. There’s a gnawing, aching pit inside of me, and it hurts like hell.
Thankfully, there’s a remedy for it - not a cure, but a tonic. You see, all I have to do is think of how much I love you, too. All it takes is the memory that I belong to you, and some of the pain goes away. Do something for me, will you? Kiss your hand, right in the center of your palm, and then press it against your heart.
Truly,
John
P.S. I’m enclosing the address they’ve given us. I’m not sure how long we’ll be there, but write to me anyway. I want to hear everything, especially the good things. Don’t hold anything back - nothing could have a greater effect on my morale than news of your happiness.
* * *
27 November 1969
Dear John,
Happy Thanksgiving, darling. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when I opened the box yesterday and found your letter. It must’ve taken over a week to reach me, but I suppose it had a long way to travel.
As I read, I tried to imagine how it must have felt for you, flying over a foreign land, knowing in some small measure what awaits you on the ground. All I can think is, God bless you. God bless all of you on that plane. Your valor is so far beyond admirable, John. (And please, believe me. Knowing how humble you are, I can just see you shaking your head at that. Never think you are anything less than completely deserving of such an accolade.)
In light of your request, I suppose there is one piece of exciting news I can share. On Tuesday I was called for an interview with Grayson & Greer, a publishing house in San Francisco! They’re looking for a copy editor - not very glamorous, but you have to start somewhere. I imagine it would involve some fairly tedious work at first, but there’s the potential for a promotion to content editor. My interview is on Monday, so odds are slim you’ll receive this letter before I’ve gone. You can rest assured I’ll let you know of how it went, though.
I wonder how your Thanksgiving is. (Or was, rather. I believe you’re fourteen hours ahead, which would make it the early hours of Friday morning there now.) I wonder whether you even knew it was Thanksgiving, or whether it was simply another day.
We had our meal here, at my parents’ house. Virginia came early this morning to help with the preparations. Of course, I use the term “help” loosely. She is well aware of what an absolute terror she is in the kitchen. Irene put her in charge of polishing the silver instead.
It was a nice dinner. Turkey, rolls, creamed spinach, pumpkin pie - and my specialty, the mashed potatoes. I’ll have to make them for you sometime. I never learned your favorite foods, but I have to believe everyone likes mashed potatoes.
So really, I have much to be thankful for this holiday. For your safety, for your love, for family, and for the promise of a brighter future yet to come.
I love you always.
Meg
P.S. I mailed your portfolio to Dr. Woodlawn and received a note back from his secretary confirming receipt. They all made it in good condition.
* * *
1 December 1969
Dear John,
Well, my interview could certainly have gone better this morning. I interviewed alongside two other candidates, both English majors from UCLA, both men, neither of them with any experience.
First I talked one-on-one with the man who would be my direct supervisor. That part went reasonably well. He was a nice man, a bit boring, but he really liked my cover letter. (I quoted Dr. Seuss: “So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads.”)
The senior editor, however, is the very definition of a chauvinist pig. His name is Glenn Harper, and he met with all three of us during lunch. John, he barely gave me a passing glance. He asked the two other candidates lots of questions about their favorite books and past experience, but even though neither of them had anything particularly intelligent to contribute, he essentially ignored me whenever I tried speak.
At this point, even if they offered me the job, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t accept it. The copy editing floor was overflowing with females, but do you know how many of the content editors are women? ZERO. Would I like to launch my career in a place with such a culture of discrimination? No thank you. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.
So, it’s back to the drawing board, I’m afraid. There have been one or two other firms that have expressed interest, but nothing I’m excited about. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to keep looking. Meanwhile, perhaps I’ll give some thought to going back to school. Even a man like Glenn Harper would have a hard time overlooking someone with a master’s degree, vagina notwithstanding.
I love you.
Meg
* * *
20 December 1969
Dearest Meg,
You don’t know what your letters have meant to me. For hours after receiving them, it didn’t matter what went on around me - I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. Beckinsale would tell you. He’s the one I met back in Oakland, before we left (I think I may have mentioned him in passing in a previous letter?). His first name, as it turns out, is also John, though back home he went by Johnny. He’s been my constant companion for the past month and a half, and I must say, regardless of the fact that he’s the youngest man in our unit, I believe he is an old soul.
I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write back sooner. We’ve been on the move, and your last letter just now reached me. We’re told the next place will be more permanent - I’m enclosing the address. You’ll notice it’s at FSB Franklin (that stands for Fire Support Base), which I’m given to believe is near the Cambodian border.
Before I fill you in on all I’ve been through in the past several weeks, let me make up for lost time with the following:
1. Happy Thanksgiving! It wasn’t much of one here, but the mess tent did serve turkey (or some version of it - I think it was actually closer to Spam, but it was the most flavorful thing any of us had tasted since leaving the States). It just so happens that mashed potatoes are my favorite Thanksgiving fare, so learning of your talent for making them only further confirms how privileged I am to have found you.
2. Congratulations on your job interview. I was so proud when I read your first letter.
3. I’m sorry some men are assholes who haven’t yet caught up to the present. I think you’ve got the right idea, though - don’t let it bother you. Graduate school seems like a fine idea. As my father used to tell me, anything you can do to further your education will not be in vain. Even now, after changing careers and pursuing a path so vastly different from the field I trained in, I still agree with his statement. I’m a better, brighter person because of the education I received as a younger man.
4. Still, I wish I could give this Glenn Harper a piece of my mind. Perhaps I will once I’m back in California.
Now, I’m supposing you’d like for me to back up and tell you a little about what my life has been like since I got here. Stepping off that plane at Bien Hoa was literally like stepping into a different world. It felt hot and sticky, even in the dead of night, especially after the controlled temperature onboard the airplane. Given that it was just after 2 AM local time, I expected quiet, but the reality was far from it. There was the constant noise of engines - truck engines, Jeep engines, jet engines, chopper engines. Always coming or going, taking off or landing.
And the smells. So many new smells, but one in particular that stuck out above all the others: diesel. The air was thick with exhaust - this pungent, acrid smell of plastic and oil. Made me wonder whether, if somebody lit a match, we’d all go up in flames.
We went inside one of the terminal buildings, where there was a group of guys waiting to board the plane we’d just gotten off of. We all just stared at them, wishing like hell we could be in their shoes, at the end of our year, ready to head back home. Watching their faces was fascinating. Some of them looked haggard - aged ten years in the span of one. Others looked hopeful, and still others looked right back at us sorry bastards with what I can only guess was pity.
Eleven months from now, I hope I can count myself among them, waiting in line to fly back home to you.
About the time we all made it inside the building, a siren sounded, and we heard three explosions, all in a row. All the men in my group, myself included, dove for cover. We were wide-eyed and scared shitless, wondering what in the hell just happened. Then someone squeezed through the crowd in fatigues and a helmet, yelling at us all to calm down, that it was over. It happened so fast, and just like that, the world went quiet again.