Free The Turtle Warrior by Mary Relindes Ellis

sleepy. I pretend sometimes, when we can’t hear any shooting or bombing, or even when the jets (we call them warbirds) are gone for a little while, that I’m home. Or when that doesn’t work, I pretend this is a real country. It is a real country, but sometimes I feel like I’m floating just above the ground and I can’t touch it. And other times I feel like I’m in a dollhouse—cause American soldiers are so big, me included. The Yards—the mountain people who live here and who help us and who are NOT Vietnamese—are the size of you, Bill. I’m a giant compared to them. I guess you could have joined the Marines with me after all (ha-ha). Speaking of big, you should see the RATS. I’m sorry I ever made fun of your mice. The rats here are like something out of the movies, and they BITE. Marv shoots any rats he sees with his .45. That’s how much he hates them. So do I. Don’t get upset. They’d EAT you.
    We were cutting trail through some jungle two days ago, and I barely missed stepping into a punji pit. The North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong dig these holes and then put bamboo spikes in the bottom. They cover the holes up with leaves and even buffalo shit so you can’t see them. If you step in one, the spikes go right up through the bottom of your boots and up into your legs. It scared the shit out of me.
    Don’t tell Mom, but I caught some shrapnel in my arm. The medic just cleaned it up and gave me a shot of penicillin. It’s not that bad. Is Mom okay? Her last letter was strange.
    Thanks for your letter—it was great! And it got here pretty fast too. You can wear my hat, and I don’t care if you wreck it. I’m not going to wear it again anyway. Hey! I’m glad I don’t have chicken wings—they’d never get me off the ground.
    The other day I saw a really big bird flying. Like a heron, only bigger. I asked one of the ARVNs what it was. (ARVN stands for Army of the Republic of Vietnam—one of the Vietnamese fighting on our side.) He said it was a crane and laughed at me. He said didn’t you ever see a crane before? I guess we have them in northern Wisconsin, but they usually stay in southern Wisconsin. They’re beautiful, Bill. I hope I see more of them. But they must get hit in the crossfire and bombing. I wish I could have wings like a crane. Seeing that crane reminded me of the geese in the fall. I really missed seeing the geese this year.
    Here’s a picture of me. I look pretty dirty, but that’s the way it is when we’re out here. Thanks for the presents and the fruitcake. Well, little man, I’ve got to go. Give Mom a hug for me. Tell the old man to piss off (just kidding—don’t do it). Say hi to the Morriseaus if you see them.
     
    Love James
    Bill stared at the Polaroid of his brother under the night-light. He had his helmet on, so Bill couldn’t see how short his hair was, but the rest looked reasonably enough like James. Except his smile wasn’t real. His mouth looked as though invisible fingers had taken his lips prisoner and pulled them sideways, the skin unnaturally tight underneath his nose. His eyes were sunken and dark, and it was clear that his brother had lost some weight. Besides the picture there was more money still, and Bill counted five ten-dollar bills. He leaned back against the wall. Little man. That’s how he felt, as though when his brother left, all the unspoken reasons for James’s leaving had suddenly descended upon Bill, and in his awareness of them, he had become old.

    It was a week past Christmas. Bill’s father had come home, had drunk and slept through Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day, getting up only to eat the holiday meal. It surprised Bill, covertly watching his father eat his turkey, how little he knew or cared about the tall, pasty-skinned man at the head of the table. His nine-year-old life had revolved so intensely lately around his daily struggle to survive at school, the strained wait for his brother’s letters, the fields, the