The Letter
November 11th 2007 11:00
The Letter
and so, dear, I can only write what I see this bleak, cold morning through the frosted windows of our home.
Snow continues to fall and the wind delights in swirling these tiny white fragments into miniature tornadoes, collapsing them against whatever force stands in their path.
Barren as the trees may be, they stand proud with their many outstretched arms accommodating the drape of nature's pristine white blanket. I look at them and envy their acceptance of fate.
Still, forcing the melancholy from me, I pen this letter to share with you the many family and friends that have called in to see me this holy festive season.
Forgive me if I do not name them, but there are so many and I do not wish to leave any out.
My, my, my. Do these eyes deceive me? The neighbour again treads the icy path to our home. How careful she is, balancing a plate of her latest experiment which she will share with me. I know, dear, that I should feel guilt for enjoying this time; savouring all her culinary endeavors and you unable to join me, but know that I will always make room for two helpings one for you and one for me.
She's knocking ever so loudly. I must go now, my dear one. Know that I pray for the time we are together to share with you the joy of this festive season and know that while you are away, I am being cared for.
1944 - Thailand
Leaning forward on his elbow, Corporal Tom 'Tommo' Hannigan, re-read the flimsy sheet of writing paper he'd discovered sticking out from under his sleeping mat. Satisfied that almost every word was now safely stored in his memory, the Corporal folded the paper carefully along its original crease lines and looked around him at his fellow Prisoners of War recovering in this crowded bamboo and palm leaf medical hut.
"Bugger!" he heard, turning just in time to see Sergeant David 'Cookie' Cooks scatter his collection of recipes, all scrawled on scrap pieces of paper.
Tommo stifled a chuckle. Their food rations were no more than a handful of rice each day and on a good day, probably some vegetables from their own garden. How this gave Cookie any recipe ideas was beyond his comprehension. As far as he was concerned, Cookie's rice resembled porridge except porridge tasted like something.
Just then Cookie turned and glared at Tommo who quickly feigned innocence and to prove it, lay back and covered his face with his Akubra Australian Army slouch hat. When Cookie turned back to his mess, Tommo quickly slipped the folded grimy sheet of paper amongst his mess. A chuckle still managed to escape his lips, thankfully muffled by the hat.
It was during the brief organisation of his recipes that Cookie saw the immaculately straight piece of paper. Unfolding it, Cookie gasped. The penmanship thin strokes, intricately shaped to form the fine arch of each capitalised letter all unique in their grandeur to the other scripted letters. He ran his finger over every line, reading and re-reading it, allowing his mind to wander to another time; another place.
They were serious, he and his girl, Abigail. And he was ready to do the right thing, too the walk down the aisle bit. Well, he was, until he got drafted. As if to remind him, his leg ached, pulling him back to reality. Tropical ulcers. Doc had scraped out the rotting flesh from the ulcer but, if it didn't heal he could very well lose his leg. Cookie winced. Couldn't exactly see himself down on one knee now, could he?
Blinking furiously, Cookie refolded the letter, sat back and stared at the injured men. One in particular, a Private they called 'Kid', lay on his mat, silent and unmoving. So bloody lucky to be alive. Very few survived a run in with them Nips. Kid had his eyes heavily bandaged and both hands as well. Cookie shook his head. He'd swear on his mother's grave, not that she was dead or nothing, that Kid was no older than fifteen.
Noise outside the hut distracted Cookie enough to peer out in time to see Corporal Martins - 'Crow', upturn the pig trough Cookie used to prepare the daily ration of boiled rice and then sit on it. "What's he doing?" Cookie cried out to no-one in particular.
Furious, and with the letter forgotten in his clenched fist, Cookie marched up to Crow, who had begun cutting into an old leather army boot, and stood before him, ready to give him a piece of his mind. The audacity. He had to cook in that trough. But, the near naked Corporal didn't acknowledge him. Wearing only what they'd began calling 'lap laps', to preserve their shorts, every single tattoo that this Corporal Martin had, glistened under the tropical sun.
His eyes darting from one tattoo to another, Cookie stood his ground, but Crow continued cutting the leather off the boot, fashioning it into a familiar shape and in no time, Cookie worked out that Crow was making a good old fashioned leather ball, poking holes for the twine to be threaded through and then stuffing it with paper. Impressed, Cookie thrust the letter at him.
Now Crow did acknowledge him. "What do you want me to do with this?" Crow growled, taking it.
Cookie shrugged. "You're the scrounger, you decide," and he left.
Crow stared at the letter, opening it just enough to make out the first line and then, folding it carefully, marched into the medical hut, stopping only when he approached Kid's mat.
"Hello Crow," Kid greeted.
Crow winced, "How'd you know it was me?"
Not too far away from Kid's mat, Tommo chuckled. "The smell," he muttered, lifting his hat a little so he could get a good look at what was going on.
Cookie busied himself with his recipes.
"You found my package from home, didn't you Crow?" Kid asked.
Never having seen a Red Cross package, many, in their darkest hours, voiced what they all feared had they been forgotten?
"What makes you think I - " A collective gasp from everyone around the hut reached Crow's ears. Crow bristled, casting a scowl at anyone, " can't really expect me to find the smokes and chocolate, now can you?"
"No, but you did find something, didn't you Crow?"
Crow shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Well, I've got this here letter and "
Before Crow could continue, Kid exclaimed, "From my Mum! It has to be! Please can you read it to me?"
"Can he read?" Tommo asked Cookie, sarcastically.
Cookie blanched. "He's gonna kill me," he gasped, falling to his knees all over his sorted pile of recipes. "Our Father, who art in heaven..."
Tommo laughed so hard he deliberately used his hat to drown it, but his muffled guffaws reached Crow who turned and glared at Cookie.
Cookie prayed louder.
"Can you read it to me, Crow, please?" Kid begged.
Tommo's hat vibrated with the force of his continued muffled laughter.
All around giggles were obscured by discrete coughs.
Cookie's praying carried throughout the now silenced hut.
Crow cleared his throat, opened the letter and after an obvious stutter and cough to hide the incorrect pronunciation of a word, read aloud -
" ... only write what I see this bleak, cold morning through the frosted windows of our home. Snow continues to fall and the wind "
'Strewth!" Cookie swore in the midst of his praying. "I bloody forgot! Kid's from the high country bet he's never seen a day's snow in his life. Bet his mother never did either. Oh, whatever made me give it to him? He's gonna kill me, he is!"
That was it. Tommo couldn't control himself any longer. Doubled over, he had to grab his abdomen from all the laughter.
"I'm dead meat, I tell you. He's gonna bloody kill me!" and when he looked up he saw Crow's eyes bore into him. He was going to faint. He could feel his blood drip down to his feet. No more recipes. No more cooking. No Abigail.
"You stole my package from them Nips, didn't you, Crow. I knew that if anyone could do it, you could and you did," Kid said, with the greatest of pride.
Crow, with his back turned to Kid, continued to stare at the cowering form of Cookie. A sliver of a smile assailed his features as he pictured the limited places Cookie could hide in a Prisoner of War camp. "What did you say?" he asked, turning back to Kid.
"Dad died five years ago and each Christmas after that, mum would say that one day she'd return home to England and be with her brothers and sister. They even offered to pay for us all to go but mum would pick some excuse. When I enlisted she cried for days and couldn't understand that I was a grown man and it was my future at stake. I told her not to wait for me, to see if she could go overseas and spend the festive season with her brothers and sister. She never stopped talking about the snow. I ain't never seen none, but she loved it so much, that's all she'd talk about, and the puddings. My mum would make the best pudding "
"Remember what she put in it, Kid?" Cookie shouted out, peeling off all the paper that had matted itself to his sweaty knees when he knelt on them.
"Nuts. Lots and lots of nuts and rum. She'd put so much rum my dad used to scold her for using all of it," he laughed.
A voice piped up from within the hut. "If I remember correctly, my aunt would always bring her 'world famous Pavlova'. Smelt to high heaven of eggs. No matter how much cream she jacked on it, it still stunk!"
"Pavlova, huh?" another voice joined in, "My mother still carries on the traditional ol' English fare for Christmas pudding as hard as a bloody rock!"
Taylor, recovering from an amputation spoke out for the first time since he lost his leg, Stunned, everyone listened. "My mum would begin complaining a month before Christmas that our house was worse that the cattle yards. Every one we ever said hello to during the year would drop in to wish us a Happy Christmas some my mum and dad couldn't even remember, but they always put on a spread for them, that's for sure. For a whole month my mum would wear the biggest smile and boy could she cook."
"Hey, I'm saying 'hello'. Reckon you mum would welcome me to your home next Christmas?" a voice in the crowded hut cried out.
Taylor looked around as if he was seeing his bunk mates for the first time, his melancholy finally lifting. "Guess she would at that," he answered with a smile.
Amidst all the celebratory voices, Crow folded the letter and lay it on Kid's chest, carefully placing both Kid's bandaged hands over it.
"I'm happy she finally went," Kid whispered to Crow "Now she won't miss me too much."
And with the encroaching darkness, reminiscent jovial chattering in the attap, succumbed to groans of recollected pains and non-existent medication.
From his little corner of the attap, Doc lit the lone lantern he kept for this hour of the evening, and as was his practice, each and every evening, walked down the rows of patients and prayed he'd find no more than a handful dead.
Within an hour of his rounds, Doc spied the young soldier, Kid and smiled. The vision of Crow reading that letter was awe inspiring. However, nearing Kid's mat, Doc felt the familiar sensation of dread wash over him.
There, before him, the young man lay still, his hands still folded over his chest, the letter safely beneath them. Doc crouched down, smoothed the young man's matted hair away from the bandages, felt for a pulse in his neck and found none.
Doc closed his eyes. Weariness, such as he had never felt before, seeped into his bones. He wanted to say a prayer, but all he could think of was "My God, why have you forsaken me "
Devastated, Doc rose, removed the letter from beneath the young solder's hands and pressing it briefly to his lips, pocketed his greatest possession - the last letter his mother penned to her departed husband.
and so, dear, I can only write what I see this bleak, cold morning through the frosted windows of our home.
Snow continues to fall and the wind delights in swirling these tiny white fragments into miniature tornadoes, collapsing them against whatever force stands in their path.
Barren as the trees may be, they stand proud with their many outstretched arms accommodating the drape of nature's pristine white blanket. I look at them and envy their acceptance of fate.
Still, forcing the melancholy from me, I pen this letter to share with you the many family and friends that have called in to see me this holy festive season.
Forgive me if I do not name them, but there are so many and I do not wish to leave any out.
My, my, my. Do these eyes deceive me? The neighbour again treads the icy path to our home. How careful she is, balancing a plate of her latest experiment which she will share with me. I know, dear, that I should feel guilt for enjoying this time; savouring all her culinary endeavors and you unable to join me, but know that I will always make room for two helpings one for you and one for me.
She's knocking ever so loudly. I must go now, my dear one. Know that I pray for the time we are together to share with you the joy of this festive season and know that while you are away, I am being cared for.
...000
1944 - Thailand
Leaning forward on his elbow, Corporal Tom 'Tommo' Hannigan, re-read the flimsy sheet of writing paper he'd discovered sticking out from under his sleeping mat. Satisfied that almost every word was now safely stored in his memory, the Corporal folded the paper carefully along its original crease lines and looked around him at his fellow Prisoners of War recovering in this crowded bamboo and palm leaf medical hut.
"Bugger!" he heard, turning just in time to see Sergeant David 'Cookie' Cooks scatter his collection of recipes, all scrawled on scrap pieces of paper.
Tommo stifled a chuckle. Their food rations were no more than a handful of rice each day and on a good day, probably some vegetables from their own garden. How this gave Cookie any recipe ideas was beyond his comprehension. As far as he was concerned, Cookie's rice resembled porridge except porridge tasted like something.
Just then Cookie turned and glared at Tommo who quickly feigned innocence and to prove it, lay back and covered his face with his Akubra Australian Army slouch hat. When Cookie turned back to his mess, Tommo quickly slipped the folded grimy sheet of paper amongst his mess. A chuckle still managed to escape his lips, thankfully muffled by the hat.
It was during the brief organisation of his recipes that Cookie saw the immaculately straight piece of paper. Unfolding it, Cookie gasped. The penmanship thin strokes, intricately shaped to form the fine arch of each capitalised letter all unique in their grandeur to the other scripted letters. He ran his finger over every line, reading and re-reading it, allowing his mind to wander to another time; another place.
They were serious, he and his girl, Abigail. And he was ready to do the right thing, too the walk down the aisle bit. Well, he was, until he got drafted. As if to remind him, his leg ached, pulling him back to reality. Tropical ulcers. Doc had scraped out the rotting flesh from the ulcer but, if it didn't heal he could very well lose his leg. Cookie winced. Couldn't exactly see himself down on one knee now, could he?
Blinking furiously, Cookie refolded the letter, sat back and stared at the injured men. One in particular, a Private they called 'Kid', lay on his mat, silent and unmoving. So bloody lucky to be alive. Very few survived a run in with them Nips. Kid had his eyes heavily bandaged and both hands as well. Cookie shook his head. He'd swear on his mother's grave, not that she was dead or nothing, that Kid was no older than fifteen.
Noise outside the hut distracted Cookie enough to peer out in time to see Corporal Martins - 'Crow', upturn the pig trough Cookie used to prepare the daily ration of boiled rice and then sit on it. "What's he doing?" Cookie cried out to no-one in particular.
Furious, and with the letter forgotten in his clenched fist, Cookie marched up to Crow, who had begun cutting into an old leather army boot, and stood before him, ready to give him a piece of his mind. The audacity. He had to cook in that trough. But, the near naked Corporal didn't acknowledge him. Wearing only what they'd began calling 'lap laps', to preserve their shorts, every single tattoo that this Corporal Martin had, glistened under the tropical sun.
His eyes darting from one tattoo to another, Cookie stood his ground, but Crow continued cutting the leather off the boot, fashioning it into a familiar shape and in no time, Cookie worked out that Crow was making a good old fashioned leather ball, poking holes for the twine to be threaded through and then stuffing it with paper. Impressed, Cookie thrust the letter at him.
Now Crow did acknowledge him. "What do you want me to do with this?" Crow growled, taking it.
Cookie shrugged. "You're the scrounger, you decide," and he left.
Crow stared at the letter, opening it just enough to make out the first line and then, folding it carefully, marched into the medical hut, stopping only when he approached Kid's mat.
"Hello Crow," Kid greeted.
Crow winced, "How'd you know it was me?"
Not too far away from Kid's mat, Tommo chuckled. "The smell," he muttered, lifting his hat a little so he could get a good look at what was going on.
Cookie busied himself with his recipes.
"You found my package from home, didn't you Crow?" Kid asked.
Never having seen a Red Cross package, many, in their darkest hours, voiced what they all feared had they been forgotten?
"What makes you think I - " A collective gasp from everyone around the hut reached Crow's ears. Crow bristled, casting a scowl at anyone, " can't really expect me to find the smokes and chocolate, now can you?"
"No, but you did find something, didn't you Crow?"
Crow shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Well, I've got this here letter and "
Before Crow could continue, Kid exclaimed, "From my Mum! It has to be! Please can you read it to me?"
"Can he read?" Tommo asked Cookie, sarcastically.
Cookie blanched. "He's gonna kill me," he gasped, falling to his knees all over his sorted pile of recipes. "Our Father, who art in heaven..."
Tommo laughed so hard he deliberately used his hat to drown it, but his muffled guffaws reached Crow who turned and glared at Cookie.
Cookie prayed louder.
"Can you read it to me, Crow, please?" Kid begged.
Tommo's hat vibrated with the force of his continued muffled laughter.
All around giggles were obscured by discrete coughs.
Cookie's praying carried throughout the now silenced hut.
Crow cleared his throat, opened the letter and after an obvious stutter and cough to hide the incorrect pronunciation of a word, read aloud -
" ... only write what I see this bleak, cold morning through the frosted windows of our home. Snow continues to fall and the wind "
'Strewth!" Cookie swore in the midst of his praying. "I bloody forgot! Kid's from the high country bet he's never seen a day's snow in his life. Bet his mother never did either. Oh, whatever made me give it to him? He's gonna kill me, he is!"
That was it. Tommo couldn't control himself any longer. Doubled over, he had to grab his abdomen from all the laughter.
"I'm dead meat, I tell you. He's gonna bloody kill me!" and when he looked up he saw Crow's eyes bore into him. He was going to faint. He could feel his blood drip down to his feet. No more recipes. No more cooking. No Abigail.
"You stole my package from them Nips, didn't you, Crow. I knew that if anyone could do it, you could and you did," Kid said, with the greatest of pride.
Crow, with his back turned to Kid, continued to stare at the cowering form of Cookie. A sliver of a smile assailed his features as he pictured the limited places Cookie could hide in a Prisoner of War camp. "What did you say?" he asked, turning back to Kid.
"Dad died five years ago and each Christmas after that, mum would say that one day she'd return home to England and be with her brothers and sister. They even offered to pay for us all to go but mum would pick some excuse. When I enlisted she cried for days and couldn't understand that I was a grown man and it was my future at stake. I told her not to wait for me, to see if she could go overseas and spend the festive season with her brothers and sister. She never stopped talking about the snow. I ain't never seen none, but she loved it so much, that's all she'd talk about, and the puddings. My mum would make the best pudding "
"Remember what she put in it, Kid?" Cookie shouted out, peeling off all the paper that had matted itself to his sweaty knees when he knelt on them.
"Nuts. Lots and lots of nuts and rum. She'd put so much rum my dad used to scold her for using all of it," he laughed.
A voice piped up from within the hut. "If I remember correctly, my aunt would always bring her 'world famous Pavlova'. Smelt to high heaven of eggs. No matter how much cream she jacked on it, it still stunk!"
"Pavlova, huh?" another voice joined in, "My mother still carries on the traditional ol' English fare for Christmas pudding as hard as a bloody rock!"
Taylor, recovering from an amputation spoke out for the first time since he lost his leg, Stunned, everyone listened. "My mum would begin complaining a month before Christmas that our house was worse that the cattle yards. Every one we ever said hello to during the year would drop in to wish us a Happy Christmas some my mum and dad couldn't even remember, but they always put on a spread for them, that's for sure. For a whole month my mum would wear the biggest smile and boy could she cook."
"Hey, I'm saying 'hello'. Reckon you mum would welcome me to your home next Christmas?" a voice in the crowded hut cried out.
Taylor looked around as if he was seeing his bunk mates for the first time, his melancholy finally lifting. "Guess she would at that," he answered with a smile.
Amidst all the celebratory voices, Crow folded the letter and lay it on Kid's chest, carefully placing both Kid's bandaged hands over it.
"I'm happy she finally went," Kid whispered to Crow "Now she won't miss me too much."
And with the encroaching darkness, reminiscent jovial chattering in the attap, succumbed to groans of recollected pains and non-existent medication.
From his little corner of the attap, Doc lit the lone lantern he kept for this hour of the evening, and as was his practice, each and every evening, walked down the rows of patients and prayed he'd find no more than a handful dead.
Within an hour of his rounds, Doc spied the young soldier, Kid and smiled. The vision of Crow reading that letter was awe inspiring. However, nearing Kid's mat, Doc felt the familiar sensation of dread wash over him.
There, before him, the young man lay still, his hands still folded over his chest, the letter safely beneath them. Doc crouched down, smoothed the young man's matted hair away from the bandages, felt for a pulse in his neck and found none.
Doc closed his eyes. Weariness, such as he had never felt before, seeped into his bones. He wanted to say a prayer, but all he could think of was "My God, why have you forsaken me "
Devastated, Doc rose, removed the letter from beneath the young solder's hands and pressing it briefly to his lips, pocketed his greatest possession - the last letter his mother penned to her departed husband.
...000
Text and original characters copyright © 2007 by Teresa Strati
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