Moon Over Manifest

Dr. Victor Vaughn, acting surgeon general of the army, has witnessed firsthand the effects of the influenza at Camp Devens, a military camp near Boston. “I saw hundreds of young stalwart men in uniform coming into the wards of the hospital. Every bed was full, yet others crowded in. The faces wore a bluish cast; a cough brought up the bloodstained sputum. In the morning, the dead bodies are stacked about the morgue like cordwood.” Sixty-three men died at Camp Devens in a single day.

PVT. NED GILLEN

IN A TRENCH

JULY 4, 1918

Dear Jinx,

Thanks for the newsy letter. It was dated before I even left the States, so I guess the army’s still using the Pony Express. How’s doins in Manifest? Folks back home are probably having a Fourth of July parade and a picnic. I can picture everyone having the best dog-robbin’ time. That’s good. Us lumps over here feel a little better knowing that our families and friends are doing the things we remember. Like Stucky Cybulskis writing his “Ode to the Rattler” in the classroom and somehow not getting caught. Mrs. Dawkins trying to get Hadley to throw in fifteen nails for the price of a dozen. Velma T. working on the cure-all for whatever ails you. And Pearl Ann picking out a pretty new hat

.

Gives a body hope that maybe we’re fighting for something. Got to admit something to you, buddy. SometimesI lose track of exactly what we’re fighting for. But then, I’ve been losing track of a lot of things here lately. Like I can’t quite recall the last time I ate. Two days. Maybe three.

I’ve run back several times to where our supplies and rations are supposed to be but they haven’t shown up yet. So we sit and wait. The days are scorchers but I almost prefer them to the nights. It cools off some, but the sounds don’t stop.

I try to imagine they’re normal sounds. Like angry hornets are zipping past my ears instead of bullets. Or that the ack-ack-ack of the German machine gun is really just a woodpecker getting his nose out of joint.

Then I remember the last mail call. The names of the guys who got letters from family, girlfriends, kid brothers. I remember hearing those names go unanswered, one, then another and another and another. So many letters sent back home, unreceived and unopened. Gets hard to listen anymore.

Sorry, buddy. You’ve got better things to do than read my rambling. Been fishing lately? Try Echo Cove down at Triple Toe Creek. The waters run a little deeper, so it’s not as hot for the fish. You can even use my green and yellow sparkle lure. Gets one every time.

Ned

P.S. Catch one for me, will you?

Ode to the Rattler

JULY 4, 1936

It was cloudy as Ruthanne reread Ned’s July Fourth letter out loud. We didn’t hold our breath for rain, but a hot breeze blew through the tree house.

“Did you bring ’em?” Ruthanne asked.