Love, Della

Kent, Ohio

Miles sighed, his chin resting on his hand while he watched out the front window of the small apartment. He had been waiting at least an hour already, and he was running out of patience and energy.

His eyes snapped open when he heard the doorbell ring, and he rushed to the door to scoop up the square envelope the mailman had pushed through the slot. He smiled. It was another thank-you card.

July 15, 1971

Miles,

Thank you so much for all your letters, you’re part of my only sanity. I’ve been in contact with the paper, making sure I’m keeping my article and research on track. I’ve sent letters back and forth with Elle. But you’re my favorite. 

The paper usually only contacts to make sure I’m far enough out from a combat zone. You’re the only one I’ll tell that I’ve been much closer than I should have been. Should I tell you I felt a bullet whiz by my head? It buried itself in the vines barely a few inches off its mark. I most likely shouldn’t have told you, you’ll worry more now. But what a story! Maybe it will inspire you. I’ll be including it in the article. At this rate, I’ll be writing hundreds!

It’s exciting being here. Even though I feel I shouldn’t be so excited. Do you think it’s wrong? Even though we’re over here for a good cause, it feels strange. There’s a lot of division between the soldiers, some of them think we shouldn’t be here in the first place. And I have a horrible feeling about some of the others

Still, I’m glad for the opportunity it’s given me. Can you believe I’m here? Can you believe I’m a true reporter, writing articles and sharing truths from the front lines? I never would have thought.

What’s life like, back in the states? I’ve been gone a month and I already feel like I’ve forgotten everything. Are you still protesting? I imagine so. I’m sure I haven’t changed your opinion on the war. I couldn’t do it before, can’t imagine my letters are doing it now! That’s alright though, I liked you then and I like you now.

Thank you so much for writing back. I haven’t had a penpal in forever. It makes me feel like I’m young again. Not too young, after this trip I won’t be able to feel too young ever again. But thank you, for letting me feel at least a little more my age.

Love,

Della”

Vietnam, 50 miles west of Saigon

Della nearly hugged the mail man when he approached her while she was sitting just outside the tent. He didn't respond, just handed her the square thank-you card she was always waiting for. He knew by this time not to bother trying to make conversation when he knew she got something from whoever was sending her thank-you cards, of all things.

He walked away, glancing over his shoulder and shaking his head at Della's grin while she opened up the card.

July 23, 1971

My dear Della,

Thank you for your letters. Thank you for being my spark and my laughter, even from so far away. How many times can we say thank you during this separation? It seems like we've already said it too much. But I remain ever grateful for you, and I'll gladly continue to express it.

Sending thank-you cards instead of letters was genius on your part. It feels much more charming than writing war letters to my girlfriend in Vietnam. That feels too real, don't you think so?

I suppose it doesn't matter if you're going to use your "thank-you cards" to tell me about your narrow escapes from enemy fire. You'll be the death of me.

I agree, however. Quite the headline for an article, I think it'll make front pages.

Stateside, things have changed a little more than you think. The country grows more divided by the day, and the protests on either side are increasing in frequency and hostility. It's getting bad, Della. The war needs to conclude one way or another if this country wants to avoid one of our own.

All I ask is that you do the truth justice. I know that some of what you're seeing isn't all you thought it was. Don't be afraid to publish honesty. I know you, and I know you will.

Thank you in advance for your next letter, my love.

All my love,

Miles

Kent, Ohio

Miles’ first thought, as always, when he approached his front door was finding a letter. He was thrilled when there actually was one.

August 2, 1971

My dearest,

Thank you for your observation, I also think we’ve said “thank you” more than most people have in a lifetime. I’ll keep saying it a lot longer than that, because I am beyond thankful for you.

Thank you for your other observation, as well. I’m learning everything I thought I wouldn’t.

I convinced the unit I’m with to let me follow them on another patrol. You won’t be happy to hear this, but we encountered some “opposition”. Shots were fired before questions were asked. 

I need to talk to someone about it, but at the same time I don't want to relive another second. At the very least, someone else will know.

Who we thought was the enemy turned out to be civilians. A kid, too. Probably only 6 or 7. Two adults, probably a mother and a father. I don't know what they were doing out in the jungle like that. No one will ever know, now.

The worst part isn't the fact that they're dead. The worst part is that they came out with their hands up in surrender, and the soldiers I was with didn't hesitate to fire anyway. The worst part is they laughed about it. They laughed, Miles. It was like it was a joke to them, the fact that they murdered innocents. The worst part is the way they roughly searched their bodies. I have a horrible feeling that they would have done so much worse if I hadn't been with them.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you said a war isn't filled with the noble and just. I'm sorry that I didn't believe you when you said some people join for all the wrong reasons. I was more naive than I ever thought.

Thank you for still loving me even though I've been blind. Thank you in advance, I suppose. But if you haven't broken up with me because of my naivety, you probably won't break up with me while I grow out of it. So thank you for sticking by my side, and thank you for your continued support.

Apologetically,

Della

Vietnam, 50 miles west of Saigon

Della sighed as she sank down to sit in the mud just outside the tent. She tilted her face up to feel the rain on her face, to help her calm down.

She looked behind her, and her heart leaped when she saw a letter sitting on the table.

Sure enough, it was a thank-you card.

August 20, 1971

My love,

Thank you for your honesty. It doesn’t bring me any joy that you’ve gone through something like this. I’ve spent this entire time apart worrying about this exact scenario. The moment you told me you’d be on the front lines I knew you’d be trying your hardest to get into the action. 

What I wouldn’t give to get you out of there. But that’s selfish, I know how big this is for you. I know that it’s for the best, and you’re doing a lot of good out there. But still, I can’t help but wish you were home with me. Not just because I miss you, but because I don't want you seeing anymore of the horrors. I know you didn’t believe me before but maybe you will now; what you saw is mild compared to some of the things soldiers have done (and are still doing).

I admire you, you know that? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be there. And yes, it’s different, I have never been in support of the cause as you were (are you still?). But all the same, no matter if I was in support or not, I couldn’t be on the field like you are. I think you’re stronger than I am, Della. Drafting hasn’t begun yet, but I’m terrified for the day they start. I pray every day I don't join you. Isn’t that funny?

As for the rest of your letter, I don't think you were ever naive. I think you are passionate, and set in your own opinions. You did your research, and it’s no fault of yours that everything to research is in support of this war. It’s not as if anyone from Vietnam itself is able to tell their story. I hope your articles are able to do that for them. Don't be afraid to tell their story, Della. 

Thank you for loving me, your dear coward. And thank you once again for your truth, honesty, and your strong sense of justice. 

Yours in cowardice,

Miles

Kent, Ohio

Miles was shocked at how fast the next letter arrived, but he wasn’t about to complain.

August 25, 1971

"Miles,

Firstly, thank you. I’ve almost run out of things to say thank you for, but right now I’ll say a simple thank you for your letters.

Secondly, I don't want to hear anything else about cowardice. Cowardice and fear are two different things. You’re afraid, but you are no coward. I don't think you could be if you wanted to!

I think the other soldiers here would agree. There are plenty who are on your side, who would give anything to get away from all the violence and bloodshed. You would like them. They’re the most courageous and honorable people I’ve ever met.

Anyway, I’m craving something beautiful. I don't get much of that out here. Of course, the environment is something to look at, the country of Vietnam itself is full of natural sights and inspiration. It's the war that ruins it.

I wonder, could you write a beautiful poem about the war? The right words would flow easier for you, you haven't had to see it.

You always have such opinions. I don't know if you could write something lovely about something you hate so much.. I see what you see now. How horrible it is.

I think my article will be written a little differently than I first expected.

Thank you, for your new perspective. And thank you in advance for your next letter!

Yours,

Della"

Vietnam, 50 miles west of Saigon

 The jungle downpour dripped down the tent corners at a steady pace. Della clutched at the square letter that had just been handed to her by the man in a sturdy helmet, now stomping through the mud to deliver more.

She toyed with the already broken seal, the old fashioned wax stamp barely clinging on. Della quickly and carefully removed it before tucking it into her heavy jacket. It clicked faintly against the few others she treasured just as much.

She pulled out the cardstock, smiling to herself when she saw the elaborate thank-you card.

September 2nd, 1971

"Della,

Thank you!  I cannot express enough my gratitude for you. Just you. I thank you greatly for your attempts at writing your articles in complete and respectful honesty. But I mostly thank you for being you, and falling in love with me.

I do believe you're correct; I don't know how to write something beautiful about the war I so thoroughly despise. Besides opinions, I haven’t been able to write more than just letters without my muse by my side. I’ve tried, I promise. The most I can come up with is sad stories, and that’s not what anyone needs right now. If you have any sensational ideas, please share them.

You can’t imagine how much it encourages me to know you’re with others who share less violent ideologies. I’ve never doubted there are good men over there, but it’s hard to remember sometimes. I can only imagine how inspiring the different personalities would be. Would you tell me about them? Whatever you can, perhaps I’ll glean some ideas from your eccentric/interesting/regular friends.

Everyone back home is the same as ever. Robert is still making fun of me for our thank-you cards, and Lisa still punches him for it. She thinks it’s cute. Elle misses you, has she sent you letters yet? She’s dying to read your article the second it’s published.

I miss you. I can’t wait to see you again.

Thank you for inspiring me, my dear muse.

Gratefully,

Miles"

 She smiled, made sure her tears weren't visible, and stored the letter away with the others. Directly over her heart.

Kent, Ohio

The apartment was well-kept and bright, as it always was. It simply lacked a little life. Life that left with Della.

A fraction of it returned when the letter box opened and dropped a square envelope onto the mat. "Thank you" was written in the most lovely cursive script across the front. Miles smiled when he saw the little heart next to his name in the address line.

September 10th, 1971

"Miles,

Thank you for the news on friends! It’s good to know there’s still normalcy for me to return to eventually. I miss you more than anything. Thank you for these cards. They help more than you know.

As much as I want to be happy, to give you good news, I'm running out. I'm getting closer and closer to admitting defeat, saying you were right. I’ve seen more, more than I want to think about right now. I can’t even write about it. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you everything when I come home.

I want so badly to believe in this, to justify where we're here. But I'm seeing too much. There is too much violence, hurt, pain. We have no history in this country, no ties that justify our men dying here. And there is, and will never be, a justification for some of the acts I've seen carried out here. You were right.

As for the company, they’re much more than that now. I’ve gone through too much with them than to be anything less than good friends. I find them inspiring, I imagine you will too.

Andrew is passionate about everything. How much he hates the food, how much he loves the green of the jungle, how much he misses his girlfriend. Most of his passion is loud, but his hatred of this war is quiet, only showing up when he knows he’s in safe company. The strength of his opinions rivals yours.

David’s quiet. But I’d be more wary of him than anyone else if I was on the other side. He’s one of the best soldiers I’ve met so far. He’ll find his way into my article, I can promise you that.

Mark, unfortunately, is a character in a negative way. At least in my opinion, most likely in yours too. He’s quite happy to be here, and for all the wrong reasons. It’s a difficult balance, I’d like him if not for everything I’ve seen him do, heard him talk about. 

I don't care if I’m taken off the article, I have to say it. This is deeply wrong, wildly out of control.

I'm sorry I have nothing more to say. Thank you, beloved, thank you for your listening ear (or eyes, I suppose).

Yours,

Della"

Vietnam, 50 miles west of Saigon

Della had been getting worried. Miles’ replies always came within a week or two. It had been three and a half. Della did her best to rationalize and reason. The card had probably gotten lost in the mail. Maybe hers had never reached him to begin with. Had she even sent it? Yes, she was sure she remembered to hand it in with her response to Elle’s letter. 

She almost passed out from relief and excitement when she got back to the tent and saw the elaborate envelope, addressed to her in the typewriter text. Miles wouldn’t ever let go of the ancient typewriter he insisted on writing with. No matter how many times the keys stuck and rendered it useless for a good week.

October 3rd, 1971

Della,

My love. This will be the last letter you receive from me. I’ve been drafted. By the time you receive this, I’ll already be in Vietnam. I don't know where yet. If I’m extremely lucky, I’ll end up with you. 

I love you so much. I don't know what’s going to happen next, but whatever does, know that I love with my entire being. I’ll do anything for you, and I’m so sorry to be failing you like this. I’m sorry, I wish I could still be in the states writing to you about the mundane. 

I’ll send you another thank-you card as soon as I’m stationed somewhere and you know where to send one back to. If you still want to, knowing that I’ll be joining all the bloodshed. Trust me, I’ll do everything in my power to protect the innocent. But I already know I won’t be the same next time I see you.

I love you darling. Thank you for your bravery. It inspires me to try and find my own. You’re my muse in more than one way.

Don't worry about me. My dad has shown me more than enough tricks to hopefully get me by.

I love you more than anything in this world.

Love,

Miles.