Letters Home: Corresponce 7/17
Hiruma opened up his tent with a small smile on his face. He was looking forward to thinking about how Mamori had cleverly stole him some of her father’s coffee back home. He could imagine the livid look on the man’s face when he found out Hiruma got the coffee instead. Most of his men were wondering what was with that pleased expression as they sat around the morning campfire and ate their rations.
After warming up the entire company was greeted with a task they were learning to just love: dig and defend trenches. The news was met with a lot of blank stares and quiet grumbling as Hiruma ordered the company down into the hell hole. This trench smelled mostly of wet earth and unwashed bodies, a thankful relief from the smell of rotting flesh and blood. The walls were lined with sandbags as opposed to corpses.
Another person, some Lieutenant, was issuing the orders. You, make bags. You, haul bags. You dig. You, set up the machine guns. The typical fare in these parts. Though there was grumbling and faces, the Lieutenant had simply understood and didn’t comment. He didn’t want to be here any more than they did, and it was easy to see that on his face.
Hiruma hadn’t finished mounting the machine gun he had been working on when he saw the movement in the forest. Human movement. His emerald eyes widened and watched the people in the trees carefully. His sudden tenseness poured over the rest of the people, making an eerie silence. Frozen, Hiruma watched as the movement came closer, more clear in the rain and fog.
And when Hiruma realized it was the enemy, pulled the trigger, sending the machine jerking back on his thumb, causing him to cry out in both pain and warning. Letting go, Hiruma fell back into the trench, clutching his hand delicately while gunfire opened up all around him. He lay there in the mud, staring up at the crying sky. He watched a few bodies fall, blood mixing in with the rain and leaving a strong, iron taste in his mouth.
Takekura bent over his head and was speaking. Hiruma could hear the words. He was being ushered to get up, get moving. To not die, to stay with them so they could go home together.
Then he smelled it, coffee. Mamori always smelled of coffee.
And Hiruma got up, grabbed a gun with his left hand and started to bark orders and fire on the enemies. He stood tall and firm, a sturdy support in the middle of the chaos. Later, when the battle was over and the company was back at the outpost, they would learn that the Lieutenant had been the first one to fall in that battle. They would learn that Hiruma’s leadership saved several lives. And they, much to Hiruma’s annoyance, would learn that there was no coffee to be had.
Because of his injury, Munakata had demanded that Hiruma be allowed a hot bath and a clean something to wear. Him and all the other injured. Hiruma was thankful for the hot bath, but he was not thankful for the hand splint and the order to ‘not use it’. Grumbling Hiruma made his way back into his tent and wanted to smack someone around.
“A minute of your time, Sergeant?” Takekura asked as pulled back the tent flap.
“What do you fucking want?” Hiruma hissed. Takekura only held up a few sheets of blank paper and a pen.
“To help you write your girl back home.” Takekura answered and he wasn’t taking ‘no’ as a response.
Takekura had written his letter in advance, and told Hiruma half way through the transcribing process. Hiruma had started swearing up a storm that hadn’t gotten transcribed in response, but Takekura decided to include just enough to give Mamori a feel about what had happened.
Miss Mamori Anezaki-
Hello ma’am, I am Corporal Gen Takekura, Sergeant Hiruma’s second-in-command. I am transcribing this letter on his behalf as he is currently recovering from a hand injury. It isn’t anything serious, he just strained his thumb while using a machine gun the other day and is under explicit orders from our medic, Munakata, to not be using it for a day. I thought I would apologize for anything he tells me to write in advance, as Private Kobayakawa tells me he generally wishes to write swear words in his letters. I would like to assure you that despite this habit of his, he is a wonderful guy and a good leader.
-CPL. G. Takekura
Fucking Woman-
I have to admit I am fucking proud to hear that you’ve finally grown enough of a fucking spine to actually steal your own beloved fucking old man’s coffee and give it to me! There is hope for you yet!
Whatever the fucking old man told you, ignore it. He’s too fucking a sentimental old fool for his own good.
-The fuck!? What the hell do you mean I should be fucking ‘nicer’ you fucktard!?-
Fuck you all!
-Sgt. Y. Hiruma
“Stealing coffee?” Takekura asked as he read over what was written.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Corporal?” Hiruma snapped, irritated.
“Just reading a line you asked me to write.” Takekura commented.
“I didn’t ask you to writing write anything.” Hiruma glared.
“You like this girl.” Takekura observed.
“Put that fucking letter in the mail or I’ll have your ass demoted.” Hiruma growled. He didn’t want to have any talks about what was happening with himself and Mamori. That was their business and their business alone.
With a nod, Takekura stood up and prepared to leave Hiruma’s tent. On his way out he shot a glance at his commanding officer. The man was staring at the tent ceiling, thinking hard about something. His left hand was gripping something that was underneath his shirt like that thing was his only anchor to reality.
Perhaps it wasn’t right for him to pry, Takekura thought to himself as he exited the tent.
“How is he?” Kurita asked, approaching Takekura worriedly. His air was coming out in white puffs in the chilly night air.
“No worse than the rest of us.” Takekura answered. “No worse at all.”
Days turned into weeks, each one more wet and damp than the last. The dirty trench got longer and longer, higher and higher. At one point Togano, a man who had been aspiring to be an author, made a poetic joke about how these trench walls were going to become their coffin walls.
“They already are.” Another solider had responded humorlessly. “We’ll all be buried in these trenches!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Hiruma snapped at the man. “This a fucking trench in fucking hell, I won’t deny that, but men can be fucking angels and angels can be fucking reborn!”
Everyone stared at Hiruma while he was talking. Where had he gotten this stuff?
“As long as you don’t lose your fucking soul and your fucking head, you’ll get out of here.” Hiruma told the guy pointedly. “So no more shit about coffins, got it?”
Sena didn’t say anything, because he knew that was something Mamori had said in the past.
It was Sunday and every member of that small town came in from the fields and from their shops to pray. Even old Mr. Hiruma would show up, sit in the very back, and listen to their pastor, kind man by the name of Ichiro Tamaki, speak the words of God. Youichi Hiruma had shown up his first Sunday in town and was never seen in the church again.
It took about four months for him to be confronted on the issue.
“Why don’t you come to church?” Mamori asked him innocently.
“There isn’t a fucking God.” Hiruma answered.
“Maybe not,” Mamori conceded unexpectedly if the look on Hiruma’s face was anything to go by, “but there are angels.”
“What?” Hiruma stared at her.
“Don’t you know? People can be angels for other people!” Mamori told him. “It’s when they do something nice and life-altering without asking for anything in return!”
“Really.” Hiruma hadn’t met it like a question because he was starting to think he understood.
“Really!” Mamori assured him with a brilliant smile.
Hiruma hadn’t said anything but he looked at Mamori carefully. She was an angel, to him anyways.
Sena only cocked a small smile. Because by keeping him alive and his hope mostly together, Hiruma was being his angel. Though, right now Hiruma would needed the support of his angel back home, so Sena walked up and held out a brilliantly white envelope.
“Your mail, Sergeant.” Sena told him.
Hiruma wordlessly took the letter and sat down against a trench wall. In front of everyone he opened it up.
Youichi-
You’re hurt!? Are you okay!? Did it get infected!? Are you better now!? I am so worried!
Corporal Takekura seems like a very reliable man. I hope you thanked him properly for writing that letter up for you. And would you extend a thanks from myself as well?
Please, please tell me something I can do to help!
Lots of love,
Mamori A.
Hiruma only smiled gently. Someone out there gave a fuck that he lived to see the next day. That meant everything to Hiruma at this time. Looking inside the letter he pulled out the coffee and filter, then tucked them back away. He’d save that stuff for tonight.
Idly, Hiruma watched as Sena delivered the last of the mail. He watched some of the men cry, some of them smile, and some of them swear angrily.
“Angels, huh?” Takekura asked.
“Yeah.” Hiruma answered. “Angels.”
After warming up the entire company was greeted with a task they were learning to just love: dig and defend trenches. The news was met with a lot of blank stares and quiet grumbling as Hiruma ordered the company down into the hell hole. This trench smelled mostly of wet earth and unwashed bodies, a thankful relief from the smell of rotting flesh and blood. The walls were lined with sandbags as opposed to corpses.
Another person, some Lieutenant, was issuing the orders. You, make bags. You, haul bags. You dig. You, set up the machine guns. The typical fare in these parts. Though there was grumbling and faces, the Lieutenant had simply understood and didn’t comment. He didn’t want to be here any more than they did, and it was easy to see that on his face.
Hiruma hadn’t finished mounting the machine gun he had been working on when he saw the movement in the forest. Human movement. His emerald eyes widened and watched the people in the trees carefully. His sudden tenseness poured over the rest of the people, making an eerie silence. Frozen, Hiruma watched as the movement came closer, more clear in the rain and fog.
And when Hiruma realized it was the enemy, pulled the trigger, sending the machine jerking back on his thumb, causing him to cry out in both pain and warning. Letting go, Hiruma fell back into the trench, clutching his hand delicately while gunfire opened up all around him. He lay there in the mud, staring up at the crying sky. He watched a few bodies fall, blood mixing in with the rain and leaving a strong, iron taste in his mouth.
Takekura bent over his head and was speaking. Hiruma could hear the words. He was being ushered to get up, get moving. To not die, to stay with them so they could go home together.
Then he smelled it, coffee. Mamori always smelled of coffee.
And Hiruma got up, grabbed a gun with his left hand and started to bark orders and fire on the enemies. He stood tall and firm, a sturdy support in the middle of the chaos. Later, when the battle was over and the company was back at the outpost, they would learn that the Lieutenant had been the first one to fall in that battle. They would learn that Hiruma’s leadership saved several lives. And they, much to Hiruma’s annoyance, would learn that there was no coffee to be had.
Because of his injury, Munakata had demanded that Hiruma be allowed a hot bath and a clean something to wear. Him and all the other injured. Hiruma was thankful for the hot bath, but he was not thankful for the hand splint and the order to ‘not use it’. Grumbling Hiruma made his way back into his tent and wanted to smack someone around.
“A minute of your time, Sergeant?” Takekura asked as pulled back the tent flap.
“What do you fucking want?” Hiruma hissed. Takekura only held up a few sheets of blank paper and a pen.
“To help you write your girl back home.” Takekura answered and he wasn’t taking ‘no’ as a response.
Takekura had written his letter in advance, and told Hiruma half way through the transcribing process. Hiruma had started swearing up a storm that hadn’t gotten transcribed in response, but Takekura decided to include just enough to give Mamori a feel about what had happened.
Miss Mamori Anezaki-
Hello ma’am, I am Corporal Gen Takekura, Sergeant Hiruma’s second-in-command. I am transcribing this letter on his behalf as he is currently recovering from a hand injury. It isn’t anything serious, he just strained his thumb while using a machine gun the other day and is under explicit orders from our medic, Munakata, to not be using it for a day. I thought I would apologize for anything he tells me to write in advance, as Private Kobayakawa tells me he generally wishes to write swear words in his letters. I would like to assure you that despite this habit of his, he is a wonderful guy and a good leader.
-CPL. G. Takekura
Fucking Woman-
I have to admit I am fucking proud to hear that you’ve finally grown enough of a fucking spine to actually steal your own beloved fucking old man’s coffee and give it to me! There is hope for you yet!
Whatever the fucking old man told you, ignore it. He’s too fucking a sentimental old fool for his own good.
-The fuck!? What the hell do you mean I should be fucking ‘nicer’ you fucktard!?-
Fuck you all!
-Sgt. Y. Hiruma
“Stealing coffee?” Takekura asked as he read over what was written.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Corporal?” Hiruma snapped, irritated.
“Just reading a line you asked me to write.” Takekura commented.
“I didn’t ask you to writing write anything.” Hiruma glared.
“You like this girl.” Takekura observed.
“Put that fucking letter in the mail or I’ll have your ass demoted.” Hiruma growled. He didn’t want to have any talks about what was happening with himself and Mamori. That was their business and their business alone.
With a nod, Takekura stood up and prepared to leave Hiruma’s tent. On his way out he shot a glance at his commanding officer. The man was staring at the tent ceiling, thinking hard about something. His left hand was gripping something that was underneath his shirt like that thing was his only anchor to reality.
Perhaps it wasn’t right for him to pry, Takekura thought to himself as he exited the tent.
“How is he?” Kurita asked, approaching Takekura worriedly. His air was coming out in white puffs in the chilly night air.
“No worse than the rest of us.” Takekura answered. “No worse at all.”
Days turned into weeks, each one more wet and damp than the last. The dirty trench got longer and longer, higher and higher. At one point Togano, a man who had been aspiring to be an author, made a poetic joke about how these trench walls were going to become their coffin walls.
“They already are.” Another solider had responded humorlessly. “We’ll all be buried in these trenches!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Hiruma snapped at the man. “This a fucking trench in fucking hell, I won’t deny that, but men can be fucking angels and angels can be fucking reborn!”
Everyone stared at Hiruma while he was talking. Where had he gotten this stuff?
“As long as you don’t lose your fucking soul and your fucking head, you’ll get out of here.” Hiruma told the guy pointedly. “So no more shit about coffins, got it?”
Sena didn’t say anything, because he knew that was something Mamori had said in the past.
It was Sunday and every member of that small town came in from the fields and from their shops to pray. Even old Mr. Hiruma would show up, sit in the very back, and listen to their pastor, kind man by the name of Ichiro Tamaki, speak the words of God. Youichi Hiruma had shown up his first Sunday in town and was never seen in the church again.
It took about four months for him to be confronted on the issue.
“Why don’t you come to church?” Mamori asked him innocently.
“There isn’t a fucking God.” Hiruma answered.
“Maybe not,” Mamori conceded unexpectedly if the look on Hiruma’s face was anything to go by, “but there are angels.”
“What?” Hiruma stared at her.
“Don’t you know? People can be angels for other people!” Mamori told him. “It’s when they do something nice and life-altering without asking for anything in return!”
“Really.” Hiruma hadn’t met it like a question because he was starting to think he understood.
“Really!” Mamori assured him with a brilliant smile.
Hiruma hadn’t said anything but he looked at Mamori carefully. She was an angel, to him anyways.
Sena only cocked a small smile. Because by keeping him alive and his hope mostly together, Hiruma was being his angel. Though, right now Hiruma would needed the support of his angel back home, so Sena walked up and held out a brilliantly white envelope.
“Your mail, Sergeant.” Sena told him.
Hiruma wordlessly took the letter and sat down against a trench wall. In front of everyone he opened it up.
Youichi-
You’re hurt!? Are you okay!? Did it get infected!? Are you better now!? I am so worried!
Corporal Takekura seems like a very reliable man. I hope you thanked him properly for writing that letter up for you. And would you extend a thanks from myself as well?
Please, please tell me something I can do to help!
Lots of love,
Mamori A.
Hiruma only smiled gently. Someone out there gave a fuck that he lived to see the next day. That meant everything to Hiruma at this time. Looking inside the letter he pulled out the coffee and filter, then tucked them back away. He’d save that stuff for tonight.
Idly, Hiruma watched as Sena delivered the last of the mail. He watched some of the men cry, some of them smile, and some of them swear angrily.
“Angels, huh?” Takekura asked.
“Yeah.” Hiruma answered. “Angels.”