Since we all wear the same brown uniform, everyone in my platoon looks alike. And we march everywhere—to eat, to class, to our drilling activities, to the barracks. We’re up each morning around four o’clock—something I’ve adjusted to more easily than most thanks to the hours I kept back home—and we eat whatever they give us without complaining (how I miss Mamm’s cooking!) and speak the way we’re told to. Too often for my liking, we do long-distance runs till we’re either told to stop or drop from exhaustion, which happened to several guys the first few days here. Two of them are no longer with our platoon, and I’m not sure what happened to them.

Copies of the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice) are posted everywhere in the barracks, at the mess hall (huge room where we eat), the classrooms, and in the latrines (bathrooms). We’re required to know it inside and out, and the same with the Code of Conduct. If we’re called on (hollered at) by the drill sergeant, we must recite the exact section of it he asks for, stating it perfectly.

I’m sure by now you can tell that my life here is very different from anything you’ve ever experienced, Ellie. We’re even told how to think! Honestly, between you and me, I’m still trying to figure out this strange world called the U.S. Army. Plenty of days I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but it’s too late for me to back out.

That last line haunted her, but Ellie continued reading the remainder of the letter, thankful Mamm had busied herself with making beef stew for supper, putting a pot of it on the woodstove to cook. She had no idea which part of Evan’s letter wouldn’t alarm Mamm. Now, Dat was a different story. Ellie wasn’t sure what he knew about military life, but she guessed he might know a tad more than Mamm even though all of this was so new to them. New even to Evan.

“He’s happy to receive letters from home,” she told Mamm, sharing something he’d written close to the bottom of the second page. “He also hopes we’ve passed along his address to Lydia and the boys and anyone else amongst the People who’d like to write him . . . if any aren’t still too upset.” She paused. “Maybe Sol would like to write him,” she said more to herself than to Mamm.

“So . . . Evan’s okay?” Mamm turned around to ask.