Letters at the Front

This guy had just got a letter. He had come in from the field and the thick mud was caked on his hip boots. The rainwater dripped from the helmet he took off his head.

He sat down on a stool in front of the fire in the supply tent, ripped open the envelope and began to read.

I don't know why we watched him. It's no unusual sight--a guy reading his mail.

Maybe we watched him so closely because--halfway down the first page--he whistled in amazement and a frown creased his forehead.

It was bad news. We knew that and we didn't want him to know we knew it. So, some guy sounds off to help fill the emptiness in the tent:

"Anybody heard the news today? How's the infantry doin'?"

"How're you gonna hear news on a set that's on the blink?" asks the supply sergeant, shaking his head. "Those electrical experts in the Third Platoon."

The guy with the letter is staring into space. Conversation is no good because he looks like he's seeing a ghost. One by one, our glances wander back to him as to a magnet.

Maybe he becomes conscious of our interest.. Anyway he says spiritlessly: "News? Want some news? My old lady cut out on me. That's news."

His hands are trembling now and nobody dares say a word! This guy had been crazy about his old lady.

He'd boasted about her and we all remembered the days he's spent polishing and carving to make her a beautiful bracelet out of an old German shell. His cracked voice rips the silence again:

"Ain't that news? Why don't somebody comment? My sister writes me, says my wife withdrew all the money out of the bank, sold the furniture and left with some guy from Cincinnati.

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