(no subject)
Dear Mother and Father,
I know you have scolded me in the past for neglecting my correspondence whenever I first go off someplace far from home and new. Unlike any of the camps you sent me to as a boy, however, Camp Toccoa is not keeping me busy from dawn until dusk with fun and games. I am sure that if you knew the full extent of my day-to-day activities here, you would take the train down to Georgia and yank me out of this war yourself. Because it is my patriotic duty not to deprive the Army of my skills at night marches, gun-stripping, calisthenics, standing at attention and latrine duty, I will spare you and your nerves the trip and simply praise Uncle Sam for doing his best to shape your son into a fighting man, despite the obstacles and odds.
You asked me in your letter what sort of people are here with me. They are a very different set from home and Harvard, all of which is quite eye-opening. Like Harvard, men join the paratroops so they can be with the best. We are a cocksure bunch - but then, we have to be: they want us to jump out of planes onto the heads of the enemy. You would think this would lend some sort of predictability to who makes it here, but all the old theories fall through, which is a marvel to see. Troopers are constantly coming and going here, many arriving fresh from basic, and almost as many washing out and shipping out to the regular infantry, straight to the war with no second tries. They come from all over, and many have daemons I’ve never seen even in New York. Lucy keeps reminding me not to stare, though more often than not the thought of a confrontation is enough to keep me in line. These are not people like I am used to, but I’ve always been a fast learner, at least about that much.
I was sure we would be out of place here, Harvard boy and swallow, but people seem more fixated on the former than the latter, and I am surprised, intrigued and, admittedly, delighted by the variety of daemons in the company. Nobody else here is like me, and I’m often reminded of it, but that is in part why I joined up. I remember how earnestly I used to go to the zoo and see if I recognized myself in any of those creatures. I can only wonder how many of these fellow would-be soldiers did the same; I cannot think the number is very high. The man from Wyoming has a coyote trotting at his heels; an otter gambols next to the redhead from the Oregon coast; a little Italian from Chicago has eyes as gleaming as his magpie’s; I swear the fellow from Arkansas has some sort of boar. (One of our officers is a Yale man, but he and his fox have not yet seen fit to introduce themselves to me, and a private besides.)
More remarkable, perhaps, is how we are already being blended together, not individuals with singular personalities but a unit of soldiers. The enemy? First Lieutenant Herbert Sobel. He is an officious man whose black swan waddles and hisses and preens while he shouts at us. I am very quickly becoming familiar with one of the favorite terms of the Army, which you would not find polite, but then, the soldiering life rarely is. Suffice it to say, Lieutenant Sobel is a shining exemplar of the chickenshit officer, and he proves it every day when we must run Mt. Currahee, three miles up, three miles down.
To give Sobel credit, and I give him very little, he runs with us, though with those heavy wings just out of reach above us, one cannot help but feel more oppressed than the summer heat intends. His daemon will nip at Lucy in midair if we are lagging, and I want to kill him myself for it; I have seen her veer close to one man’s mockingbird and swoop low over our medic’s bloodhound. The man has no respect for us, and if that is how we are to become soldiers, so be it, but for our part we return the favor. The Army is meant to strip us of ourselves, which is necessary to kill the enemy. Yet somehow, slowly, some among us emerge as more than that. There is a little fellow from Upstate in the company, one of the most popular men and we’ve only been here a month. Just as Sobel’s swan will hang overhead like some bad omen, this man’s bluebird darts in and out between us as we run in formation. Some of us stumble, some of us vomit, some of us seize up, but she rallies us; to some she even comes close enough to touch.
I always thought the old tales of soldiers in foxholes, daemons huddled together, was just plain romanticism, but now I am starting to think it’s not only necessary but possible. I imagine I’ll find out before too long, though when I do go fight the war, on whatever front, I mean to do it with the Airborne. Hitler seems content to continue his violations against Europe, and I will go meet him if someone else doesn’t get him first. In the meantime, your letters are always welcome, even if I may be too busy marching in formation and climbing ropes and eating greasy beef to answer promptly.
Your loving son,
Kenyon
Some notes: So, this is an experiment! I still don't know some hugely important daemons (Guarnere and Winters, why the hell won't you talk to me and settle? I know your names but not your shapes), but on the whole, my personal reference is here (and still taking suggestions!). Webster's daemon is named for the "Lucy poems" by William Wordsworth; I thought since he's so fond of the English poets, his parents may have had a hand in that. (She was almost Alcyone, but that would have been so nouveau-riche. I almost went with a Shelley reference, but, er, my English Romantics are not exactly what you'd call solid when it comes to what I know.)
This is written with blatant disregard for history: in real life Webster didn't join Easy until after Normandy, but he's shown with the company all through "Currahee," so if Hanks and Spielberg can pretend, so can we. He's also, to my ear, not quite cynical (or grouchy) enough to match the Webster we get in Parachute Infantry, but maybe he was more starry-eyed before he'd been in the Army too long.
Also, never fear: I intend to do lots of these -- not all epistolary, but Easy with daemons in, absolutely -- and Webster and Liebgott will definitely share the page.
I know you have scolded me in the past for neglecting my correspondence whenever I first go off someplace far from home and new. Unlike any of the camps you sent me to as a boy, however, Camp Toccoa is not keeping me busy from dawn until dusk with fun and games. I am sure that if you knew the full extent of my day-to-day activities here, you would take the train down to Georgia and yank me out of this war yourself. Because it is my patriotic duty not to deprive the Army of my skills at night marches, gun-stripping, calisthenics, standing at attention and latrine duty, I will spare you and your nerves the trip and simply praise Uncle Sam for doing his best to shape your son into a fighting man, despite the obstacles and odds.
You asked me in your letter what sort of people are here with me. They are a very different set from home and Harvard, all of which is quite eye-opening. Like Harvard, men join the paratroops so they can be with the best. We are a cocksure bunch - but then, we have to be: they want us to jump out of planes onto the heads of the enemy. You would think this would lend some sort of predictability to who makes it here, but all the old theories fall through, which is a marvel to see. Troopers are constantly coming and going here, many arriving fresh from basic, and almost as many washing out and shipping out to the regular infantry, straight to the war with no second tries. They come from all over, and many have daemons I’ve never seen even in New York. Lucy keeps reminding me not to stare, though more often than not the thought of a confrontation is enough to keep me in line. These are not people like I am used to, but I’ve always been a fast learner, at least about that much.
I was sure we would be out of place here, Harvard boy and swallow, but people seem more fixated on the former than the latter, and I am surprised, intrigued and, admittedly, delighted by the variety of daemons in the company. Nobody else here is like me, and I’m often reminded of it, but that is in part why I joined up. I remember how earnestly I used to go to the zoo and see if I recognized myself in any of those creatures. I can only wonder how many of these fellow would-be soldiers did the same; I cannot think the number is very high. The man from Wyoming has a coyote trotting at his heels; an otter gambols next to the redhead from the Oregon coast; a little Italian from Chicago has eyes as gleaming as his magpie’s; I swear the fellow from Arkansas has some sort of boar. (One of our officers is a Yale man, but he and his fox have not yet seen fit to introduce themselves to me, and a private besides.)
More remarkable, perhaps, is how we are already being blended together, not individuals with singular personalities but a unit of soldiers. The enemy? First Lieutenant Herbert Sobel. He is an officious man whose black swan waddles and hisses and preens while he shouts at us. I am very quickly becoming familiar with one of the favorite terms of the Army, which you would not find polite, but then, the soldiering life rarely is. Suffice it to say, Lieutenant Sobel is a shining exemplar of the chickenshit officer, and he proves it every day when we must run Mt. Currahee, three miles up, three miles down.
To give Sobel credit, and I give him very little, he runs with us, though with those heavy wings just out of reach above us, one cannot help but feel more oppressed than the summer heat intends. His daemon will nip at Lucy in midair if we are lagging, and I want to kill him myself for it; I have seen her veer close to one man’s mockingbird and swoop low over our medic’s bloodhound. The man has no respect for us, and if that is how we are to become soldiers, so be it, but for our part we return the favor. The Army is meant to strip us of ourselves, which is necessary to kill the enemy. Yet somehow, slowly, some among us emerge as more than that. There is a little fellow from Upstate in the company, one of the most popular men and we’ve only been here a month. Just as Sobel’s swan will hang overhead like some bad omen, this man’s bluebird darts in and out between us as we run in formation. Some of us stumble, some of us vomit, some of us seize up, but she rallies us; to some she even comes close enough to touch.
I always thought the old tales of soldiers in foxholes, daemons huddled together, was just plain romanticism, but now I am starting to think it’s not only necessary but possible. I imagine I’ll find out before too long, though when I do go fight the war, on whatever front, I mean to do it with the Airborne. Hitler seems content to continue his violations against Europe, and I will go meet him if someone else doesn’t get him first. In the meantime, your letters are always welcome, even if I may be too busy marching in formation and climbing ropes and eating greasy beef to answer promptly.
Your loving son,
Kenyon
Some notes: So, this is an experiment! I still don't know some hugely important daemons (Guarnere and Winters, why the hell won't you talk to me and settle? I know your names but not your shapes), but on the whole, my personal reference is here (and still taking suggestions!). Webster's daemon is named for the "Lucy poems" by William Wordsworth; I thought since he's so fond of the English poets, his parents may have had a hand in that. (She was almost Alcyone, but that would have been so nouveau-riche. I almost went with a Shelley reference, but, er, my English Romantics are not exactly what you'd call solid when it comes to what I know.)
This is written with blatant disregard for history: in real life Webster didn't join Easy until after Normandy, but he's shown with the company all through "Currahee," so if Hanks and Spielberg can pretend, so can we. He's also, to my ear, not quite cynical (or grouchy) enough to match the Webster we get in Parachute Infantry, but maybe he was more starry-eyed before he'd been in the Army too long.
Also, never fear: I intend to do lots of these -- not all epistolary, but Easy with daemons in, absolutely -- and Webster and Liebgott will definitely share the page.