Robert Heinlein - Time Enough For Love

"I will, I will!"

Quickly and silently she was gone.

Somewhere in France

Dear All my Family,

I am writing this in my pocket diary where it will stay until this war is over-not that it matters; you'll get it just as soon. But I can't send a sealed letter now, much less one sealed into five envelopes. Something called "censorship"-which means that every letter is opened and read and anything that might interest the Boche is cut out. Such as dates and places and designations of military units and probably what I had for breakfast. (Beans and boiled pork and fried potatoes, with coffee that would dissolve a spoon.)

You see, I had this lovely ocean voyage as a guest of Uncle Sam and am now in the land of fine wines and beautiful women. (The wine has been yin extremely ordinaire, and they seem to be hiding the beautiful women. The best-looking one I've seen had a slight mustache and very hairy legs, which I could have ignored had I not made the mistake of standing downwind. Darlings, I am not sure the French take baths, at least in wartime. But I'm in no position to criticize, a bath is a luxury. Today, given a choice between a beautiful woman and a hot bath, I'd pick the bath-otherwise she wouldn't touch me.)

Don't worry that I am now in a "war zone." That you've received this is proof that the war is over and I am okay. But it's easier to write a letter than it is to put trivia into a diary every day. "War zone" is an exaggeration; this is "fixed warfare"-meaning both sides are in the same fix: pinned down-and I am too far behind the lines to get hurt.

I am in charge of a unit called a "squad"-eight men-me and five other riflemen, plus an automatic rifleman (the rifle, not the man; this war has no robot fighters) and an eighth man who carries ammunition for the automatic rifleman. It's a corporal's job, and that's what I am; the promotion to sergeant I was expecting (in my last letter as dated from the United States) got lost in the shuffle when I was transferred to another outfit.

Being a corporal suits me. It is the first time I've had men permanently assigned to me, time enough to get acquainted with each one, learn his strong points and weak ones, and how to handle him, They are a fine bunch of men. Only one is a problem, and it's not his fault; it results from the prejudices of the time. His name is F. X. Dinkowski, and he is simultaneously the only Catholic and the only Jew in my squad-and, twins, if you've never heard of either one, ask Athene. By ancestry he comes from one religion, then he was brought up in another-and he has had the tough luck to be placed with country boys who have still a third religion and are not very tolerant.

Plus the additional misfortunes of being a city boy and having a voice that grates (even on me) and is clumsy, and when they pick on him (they do if I'm not right there), it makes him more clumsy. Truthfully he's not soldier material-but I wasn't asked. So he's the ammunition carrier, the best I can do to balance my squad.

They call him "Dinky," which is only mildly disparaging, but he hates it. (I use his full last name-I do with all of them. For ritualistic reasons having to do with the mystique of military organizations at this here-&-now it is best to call a man by his family name.)

But let's leave the finest squad in the AEF and bring you up to date on my first family and your ancestors. Just before Uncle Sam sent me on that pleasure cruises I was given a vacation. I spent it with the Brian Smith family and lived in their house, as they have "adopted" me for the rest of this war, me being an "orphan."

That leave was the happiest time I've had since I was dropped from the Dora. I took Woodie to an amusement park, primitive but more fun than some sophisticated pleasures of Secundus. I took him on rides and treated him to games and things that were fun for him, and fun for me because he enjoyed them so-wore him out and he slept all the way home. He behaved himself, and now we are chums. I've decided to let him grow up; there may be hope for him yet.

I had long talks with Gramp, got better acquainted with all the others-especially Mama and Pop. The latter was unexpected. I had met Pop for a few minutes at Camp Funston, then he was to come home on leave the day I had to go back, and I didn't expect to see him. But he got away a few hours early, a bonus an officer can sometimes manage, and we overlapped-and he telephoned to the camp and got me a two-day extension. Why? Tamara and Ira, listen carefully-

To attend the wedding of-

Miss Nancy Irene Smith & Mr. Jonathan Sperling Weatheral.

Athene, explain to the twins the historic significance of this union. List the famous and important people in that line, dear, not the total genealogies. And Ira and Tamara in our own little family, of course, and Ishtar, and at least five of our children-and I may have missed someone, not having all the genealogical lines in my head.

I was "best man" to Jonathan, and Pop "gave the bride away," and Brian was an "usher" and Marie was "ringbearer" and Carol was "maid of honor," and George was charged with keeping Woodie from setting fire to the church while Mama took care of Dickie and Ethel- Athene can explain terms and ritual; I shan't try. But it not only gave me two more days of leave, much of which I spent running errands for Mama (these medieval weddings are complex operations), but it also gave me time with Pop, and now I know him better thin I ever did as a son under his roof-and like him very much and heartily approve of him.

Ira, he reminds me of you-brainy, no nonsense, relaxed, tolerant, and warmly friendly.

Bulletin: The bride was pregnant (a proper Howard wedding!-at a time when all brides are assumed to be virgins)-pregnant with (if memory serves) "Jonathan Brian Weatheral." Is that right, Justin, and who is descended from him? Remind me, Athene. I've met a lot of people over the centuries; I may even have married some descendant of Jonathan Brian at some time. I rather hope so; Nancy and Jonathan are a fine young couple.

I turned "my" landaulet over to them for a six-day honeymoon, then Jonathan was to (did) join the Army- but too late to get into combat. Nancy's warrior hero just the same; he tried.

Some fiddling sergeant who couldn't find his arse with both hands wants me to round up my squad and do something about a dugout that someone was careless with. So-

All my love from

Corporal Buddy Boy

Somewhere in France

Dear Mr. Johnson,

Please give this a second censoring; some of it will have to be explained to the rest of my adopted family.

I hope that Mrs. Smith received the thank-you note I mailed from Hoboken (and could read it-writing on my knee while bouncing on the C. & A. roadbed does not improve my handwriting). In any case I thank her again for the happiest holiday of my life. And thanks to all of you. Please tell Woodie that I will no longer spot him a horse. From here on we play even or he can find another sucker-four out of five is too many.

Now for The Rest-- Note signature and address. My rocker did not last to France, then three chevrons dwindled to two. Can you explain to Mrs. Smith and to Carol (those two in particular) that being busted does not disgrace a man forever?-and that I am still Carol's own special soldier if she will let me be-and in fact I am far more of a real soldier; I am at last free of being tagged as "instructor" and am now leading a squad in a combat outfit. I wish I could tell her where...but if I stuck my head up over the parapet, I might see some heinies if one of them didn't see me first. I'm not gold-bricking a hundred miles back.

I hope you aren't ashamed of me. No, I'm sure you are not; you are too old a soldier to care about rank.

I'm in it and that's what counts with you. I know. May I say, sir; that you are and have always been as long as I've known you an inspiration to me?