I’ll try to do the same, though as you know,

all our letters have to pass through censors,

so I can’t tell you everything. To tell the truth,

it’s a mess over here, and no one can say

when this war might be over. Death smells like

rotten fish (Is that word “fish”? He went fishing?),

and sounds like a rabbit with its foot caught in a trap.

I hate to tell you all this, Muriel. I want you to

think of me laughing, on a Sunday picnic

with you and Ollie, Emma, and little Grace—

I was surprised, when I was home, to see how tall she was!

If you tell me about your days there, and I

tell you about mine over here, we’ll know

each other better by the time I get home.

(I would like that.) I think of you more

than I should, I suppose. (How much

should we think about each other?)

I’m beginning to wonder if you might be right

in some of your opinions—that’s all I’ll say.

You’ll know what I mean. From your good friend, Frank.

P.S. Tell Ollie NOT to sign up for this unless

they draft him and he can’t get out of it.

(“NOT”? “drift”? or “draft”? I can’t make it out.)

I’ll do my best to get the job finished

before he’s old enough to join me here.

I don’t show Frank’s letter to anyone.

I spend long hours weeding the garden,

picking peas and thinning rows of beans,

letting my mind go where it will—which is,

most often, straight to Frank and Ollie:

What makes boys go to war? Did Ollie sign up

because Frank did, or does he honestly believe

the president is right? If those speeches about democracy

are true, why do they censor the soldiers’ letters home?

Let our boys write and tell us what they know.

Let us write back and tell them what we think.

Blisters / Ollie

Blisters

Ollie

Latrine digger, message boy,

pot scrubber—not exactly my idea of

life as a soldier. Almost everyone at this training

camp is faster and stronger than I am—they’re all older

by several years. I can’t get out of this. I should have waited

two and a half years, until I am nineteen—except by then, Frank

could be home. (Will I see him over there?) By that time, maybe I

would have missed the whole war. Okay. Don’t think about home.

Too late now to go back. Time to lace up my boots, strap on

my pack, and move out into formation. My socks are

damp and muddy. Bloody blisters on both heels.

Right, LEFT, right … Could I kill a man?

(Not man. Enemy: Enemy Soldier.)

What if Muriel is right?

Courage / Muriel

Courage

Muriel

I try not to look as if I’m waiting, but it must