Blogposts from the Edge 3

My Dearest One,

I have only a few moments to scrawl this message before my squad moves out into the field. Today we are leading an assault on yet another unimportant hill. Sometimes I think the boys up in HQ forget we are real people under all this armor. Day after day- and every single night- we huddle in our bunkers, ducking sniper fire, and wishing we were home. The worst part is listening to incoming artillery and waiting for the one with our name on it. Then it's up and out of the bunker and into the jaws of enemy fire from where most of us will not return. That's how I got this new stripe on my sleeve. Sarge took one for the team last night and I got a field promotion. I hope the extra cash will buy you something pretty. I hope the extra stripe doesn't buy me the farm.

It's not all bad, of course. Basic training was cake after all those years on Papa's farm. Learning to run with the armor was the toughest bit: you have to develop a kind of gliding gait and let the suit's internal actuators handle the load. Firearms and grenade training were fun- after the endless hours of safety instruction. The weapons are pretty neat and all pack a hell of a punch, which is good and bad since the enemy has the same tech.

Let me tell you about the enemy, the Reds. Those dirty bastards are master snipers at distance, but will happily stick you with a brute grenade to save a rifle round if they can get close enough. They are a scourge on the face of the earth and- though the conditions are horrible, the food little better than excrement and the weather as likely to kill you as one of their bullets- they must be stopped.

But enough of that. Let me tell you about the boys in my squad. (That's them in the picture with me on the far left.) They all swap stories about the "sweethearts" back home: bawdy tales of fast cars and faster women, with each trooper trying to outdo the last in terms of debauchery and sin. The Chief, stoic that he is, never participates in these bull sessions, so when it come my turn to share I follow his example and I keep my lips sealed.

The one time they pressed me on it I broke all their hearts. I told them about your apple pie and baked ziti. I told them about your angelic voice and how your solos in the church choir leave nary a dry eye among the pews. I mentioned the time we drove up into the mountains to return that red-tailed hawk to the wild. I mentioned the aluminum can drives and food drives and winter coat drives. I told them of every kind thing I ever saw you do and how our devotion is pure and beautiful and unspoiled by the distance between us, the war I'm fighting.

I told them why I fight: for the love of a good woman, for her safety, for our child that she still carries and his future. Like I said, I broke their hearts. Like mine is breaking here without you. That war is hell, everyone knows. What most people fail to realize is the hell within, the worry and unabated anticipation of return home. Whether in a body bag or as a decorated hero we'll never know- not until the constant pop and snap of high caliber rifle rounds stops echoing and the bombs stop falling, waking us from dreams of the farm and apple pie.

I must go now, my lover. May you have peace in my absence and remember our song...

There's a far and distant river
Where the roses are in bloom
A sweetheart who is waiting there for me
And it's there I pray you take me
I've been faithful, don't forsake me
I'll be with her when the roses bloom again

Your Loving Husband and Faithful Soldier,
David

Blogposts from the Edge 2

Dearest Rachel,

Another short note, here, to keep you up to date on the Mokpo season.

Last night was spent in engaging and fruitful conversation at the Old Mokpo home of Jamie and Leah. Joining the soirée was Rocky Mountain Mike; Cary and Lacey; new addition to the Mokpo scene, Laura, late of Minnesota; and native residents Tim and his wife, whose name I heard over and over but was unable to parse. Also attending, and the belle of the bash, Peanut the dog, an incurable flirt who passed through more laps than a Heinlein heroine.

Our gracious hostess prepared an interesting Mexican dish that was one part cheese, one part sour cream and two parts delicious, all wrapped in soft tortilla. The refreshments were even more exquisite than the bon mot Mike produced at the expense of a certain young lady (whose name will go unmentioned here for it was a scandalously rich remark that will be repeated and savored over the coming months regardless of my own discretion.)

Later in the evening, Leah and yours truly locked horns in a debate regarding the relative merits of snobbery and the (devolving, I contended) aesthetics of popular culture. It was a friendly pow-wow, of course, though I am afraid our Canadian friend has been subverted by the doctrines of Spielberg, Donner and Cameron. All philosophers, true, but to my mind, poor substitutes for Altman, Hitchcock, and Boorman. In the end, however, we were able to agree on one fact: Toy Story is a great motion picture.

The evening wrapped up rather late, so I am writing this with very little sleep on a cloudy Mokpo morning and I've only time for a short siesta before returning the favor of hosting for friend Jamie. Electronical gaming is on the menu.

"I hate it here,
When you're gone..."

As always, I remain your loving husband,
David

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Listening to: God Only Knows [foobar2000 v0.9.3.1]
via FoxyTunes

Blog Posts from the Edge 1

Dearest Rachel,

In speaking to your father, my esteemed father-in-law, I have learned of your safe arrival in Columbia. This is very good news, as I have spent this past night in an apprehensive state, and in dreaming all sorts of terrible dreams. That is past, now, since you are in good hands with your family. I understand you are catching up on some much needed sleep. Good for you!

News from Mokpo is minimal. The dog, Jack, misses you, of course. He has been moping since your departure. Actually his despondence set in when he realized you would not be home from work to feed him. I have tried to engage him in games of 'Fetch' and 'No Bite', but, alas, he is too crestfallen for frivolity. I have planned a short hike for this afternoon to try to raise his spirits.

Our favorite, fuzzy, feline menace, Bob, is nonplussed by your absence. He has been his normal aloof self. Last night, as I drifted off to sleep, we held a staring competition. I awoke this morning with his eyes boring into mine, so I must assume he was the winner.

Beloved friend Travis has updated his MySpace page with dozens of photos, so be sure to leave a message and compliment his burgeoning aesthetic skills. I will see him and his wife, the beautiful Bella, later tonight as we dine with our cousins from the Northwest, Cary and Lacey. Shabu-shabu is on the menu and I am skipping lunch to leave room in my interior pantry.

A strange odor has invaded our home: it smells like burning rubber mixed with low tide. I have been sniffing the air from room to room, trying to discover its cause- to no avail. I guess it is coming in from the outside, its source some kind of tire fire-cum-fishkill. Hopefully, the breeze will soon offer relief from this malodorous olfactory assault.

This meager note is all I have to write for the moment. Please respond soon, as a single word from you will do wonders for my outlook.

You are my heartbeat.

Your loving husband,
David

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Listening to: Sparklehorse - [Sick Of Goodbyes -single CD2 #02] I shot a dog [foobar2000 v0.9.3.1]
via FoxyTunes