by Chris Lynch
I look up from my kneeling position. “No, sir,” I say, neither here nor there, but just sayin’.
He looks a little sad, and a lot knowing.
“Yeah,” he says, hands on his hips as he turns and leaves. “Yeah.”
I find what I am looking for in my footlocker. Well, there is the forever letter I am writing to Morris. I’ll get back to that. I stuff that letter and take out the one from Rudi that I haven’t even opened yet. I am picturing a page crammed with his lunatic scribblings, on and on and crazy.
PAL,
PALLEST PAL PAL,
I DO NOT HAVE MUCH TIME RIGHT NOW, IVAN, BECAUSE I NEVER HAVE TIME LATELY IS WHY. I VOLUNTEER FOR EVERYTHING, AND IF I DID NOT HAVE TO SLEEP I NEVER WOULD. I SLEEP LESS THAN EVER, IT’S GREAT. I DO SO MUCH, I’M LIKE A WHOLE WAR.
THANKS, IS WHAT I WANTED TO SAY WHILE I HAD THE TIME. THANKS. TO YOU. THANKS, IVAN. YOU MADE IT, YOU DID IT, YOU MADE ME. IF I DIDN’T DO THIS I WOULD BE NOBODY AND WORSE THAN NOBODY. I OWE YOU EVERYTHING. YOU ARE THE ONE. WHO TOOK THAT THING I WAS, AND MADE ME BE THIS. AND I WILL NEVER EVER FORGET WHAT YOU DID FOR ME.
I HAVE TO GO BUT I WILL TELL YOU MORE REAL SOON. BUT I WANTED YOU TO KNOW. I WANTED YOU TO BE PROUD OF ME.
I AM NOT A KID ANYMORE, IVAN. I WISH I WAS YOU, BUT I WILL NEVER BE YOU, BUT I AM NOT A KID ANYMORE, THAT’S FOR SURE, AND I KNOW YOU DON’T LIKE MUSH AT ALL BUT, JUST, THANKS.
YOUR HERO I MEAN YOU ARE MY HERO,
RUDI.
P.S. HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE FREE-FIRE ZONES?
I am sitting on my bunk, elbows on knees. My left hand holds the letter while my right hand squeezes my face, rubs my face, takes the warrior paint and smudges it more and more until my face is one great soup of camouflage grease and tears and tears because I can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop and I see it all dripping and pooling and souping on Rudi’s letter because I can’t stop.
I eventually just tip over sideways, onto my bed again, onto my pillow again, leaving a horrific mess for whoever comes to claim this spot when I’m gone.
The choppers are always so loud. There is no such thing as a quiet one, and that is probably good. How many things, really, would you just be better off not hearing in a war, in any war, in Vietnam?
Parrish and Systrom have come to see me off. They stand in front of me and I think of how the unit was a unit when I arrived and now they are two guys who I don’t think even speak to each other much. Headed in different directions, I figure. Probably for the best. All for the best.
“DERUS, man,” Parrish says. “It’s just around the corner. Stay strong, Moxie.”
We hug, and I just say into his ear, “DERUS,” which I think has a nice spiritual sound now. “DERUS,” I say. “Maybe we’ll start a religion around that.”
“It already exists, man,” he says, laughing and backing away.
Lt. Systrom steps up, salutes so sharply he could cut diamonds with it. He has gone all the way back to official Armyman now.
And he’s wasting no words.
“You are special,” he says over the copter roar, which gets louder as it’s about to take off. “And you know why you are special.”
He finishes off the salute and waves me off into the helicopter. Up.
I look back at the ground, about to wave, and the two of them are chattering as they head back already to the Benewah.
I turn and watch the sky road ahead. I crunch my unopened orders in my hand as we lift into the hazy orange sunset.
The pilot knows where we’re going anyway.
That makes one of us.
Chris Lynch is the author of numerous acclaimed books for middle-grade and teen readers, including the Cyberia series and the National Book Award finalist Inexcusable. He teaches in the Lesley University creative writing MFA program, and divides his time between Massachusetts and Scotland.
Copyright © 2012 by Chris Lynch
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First edition, April 2012
e-ISBN: 978-0-545-44324-1
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