Thousands of Japanese marched into Myitkyina from the gap in the east. In the south, the trap set by the Chindits had been breached at Mogaung, and the enemy flooded the town.
They’re dug in at the Myitkyina rail station, and everyone knows they’ve vowed to die before they’ll surrender.
It’s dusk, and this is what I think about as I retreat to my tent to get some privacy. Our camp, in the jungle along the Myitkyina airfield, continues to be plagued by snipers, but I feel safer here than by the rail yard. The last letter from Ruthie came about a week ago. It’s already dog eared, and some of the ink has bled from the seeping rain. I unfold it to read one more time.
I’ve been sitting on my bed, pen in hand, for the last ten minutes, thinking about what to write that would make you smile and tear you away from the war, if only for one moment. But what do I have to say that would be meaningful? I feel so small and insignificant when I think of all that you and the boys have done for us.
Most of the entrants in the 4th of July parade this year will remind us about our boys overseas. How can we forget? I made a few dozen paper flowers with the girls at work for our company’s float. Remember the little fruit stand at the end of the parade? This year, they’ve got the best tomatoes and corn. The Heirloom are sweet and juicy, and, with all the rain we’ve had, the corn is already taller than my knees. My friend Doris just had a baby, so I knitted her little one a tiny red, white, and blue sweater for the 4th.
Babies smell so fresh and pure. We’re all waiting for our men to come home.
Won’t your two years be up soon? What does it take to get you home? All I have to offer is my love, but love for you makes my life worth living.
Forever yours, Ruthie
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