There were fifteen file folders and 103 envelopes. She put them in one of the empty garbage bags and carried them back to her hut.

Her mobile rang almost as soon as she’d stepped inside. It was her group commander. He told her to report to the Joint Forces Special Operations component post immediately. The Component requested conventional air-support sorties for Special Operations Forces on a mission-by-mission and priority availability basis. Was she being taken off the roster? If so, why’d they have to meet with her? Her CO could have alerted her.

She grabbed some of the letters, including the one Frank had stapled to the earliest file folder. Start here, he’d written on it. Maybe they’d make her wait and she could take a look at it. It was still warming up, so she threw her hat on her bed.

Back through the mud she went, although by this time the planks and blocks were down. The boards were already grimy, but it was nothing like the boot-sucking ooze surrounding them. While she was walking, she tried to call to Landstuhl to check on Frank. After more than a few failed attempts, she decided she needed to check with someone at the base hospital. There might be a better number she didn’t have. She was ready to dial the hospital when she realized she’d not been paying attention to where she was going. The component post was never easy to find. Now she was lost.

She backtracked, feeling daffy. She remembered how some sailor she’d met had broken down the branches: Air force was too sensitive and squishy. Army was too conservative and Christian. Marines were too serious. Navy was just right—how’d he put it?—for a fella who likes drinkin’, fightin’, travelin’, and chasin’ women. Frank’s take was simple: Squishy. What did “squishy” mean? Every so often, Frank would intone, “Give me your sensitive, your squishy and love-tossed.”

She tried another right turn, and there she found it. She hurried into the post, reported to the clerk, got told to wait, and sat down with Frank’s first envelope. She was about to open it when she noticed the clerk hyperfascinated and not even trying to hide it. Mary stared back, blatant and offended. The girl looked away but maybe only because the phone rang. What was it about an envelope? Precious on any base, she knew that. There was a country song Purdue loved about letters from home. It was more than that. An unopened envelope had an alluring tang, a whiff of momentous. An olden aura too, like riding through base in a chariot. She put it back in her leg pocket. She’d not wanted to read it in the hut either. She’d have to think of somewhere else. Luckily, it wasn’t too long before the senior NCO came out of his office and told her to step in.