Mail Call

Excerpt from Chapter 11, Mail Call
The whop, whop, whop preceded the announcement on the intercom of a chopper's arrival. I ran up the ladder to meet my helicopter fire crew and assemble them at the Helo deck. I opened the repair locker and distributed the firefighting and rescue equipment. My primary function was to be the ship’s firefighter, the scene leader in charge, especially in the combat zone..

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...As the helicopter descended slowly onto the deck, one of the helicopter crewmen lowered the anti-static cable to the sailor, who was wearing the cable glove. Grabbing hold of the helicopter's cable, the sailor attached it to the ship's anti-static cable that was attached to his glove. Once safely connected, he removed his glove from the combined cables and ran over to where the rest of us were standing. Permission was given to land. Whop, whop, whop, the helicopter blades slowed to a stop.

Only one of the chopper's crew jumped out onto the Helo deck. The setting sun, behind him, allowed only his silhouette to be seen. He turned around and pulled out a large bag and placed it on the deck. It was the mail. I smiled, along with my entire fire rescue team in anticipation of getting a letter from home. The ship's postman signed the release that the crewman had given him. He picked up the mail bag, threw it over his shoulder and, looking like a young Santa Claus in July, hobbled down to his office below decks to sort out the mail. When the chopper flew off, and we finished putting away our rescue gear, I hurried down to the galley and stood in the crowd of sailors waiting for the postman to arrive. It always seemed to take the postman a long time to sort the mail and take it up to the galley. And today was no different. While we waited, we talked about past letters that we received from girlfriends and our parents and wondered if the questions that we had asked in previous letters would get answered.

All eyes were glued on the postman when he entered the galley, carrying a large box with letters and a few packages. Taking a handful of letters in his hand he began calling out names. We waited like kids at an elementary school raffle. Those who weren't waiting in the mess decks were on watch or battle station. The postman would deliver their mail to their racks, later. But for now, those of us in the galley waited and hoped for our names to be called. As each sailor's name was called, he ran up grabbed his letter and ran out of the mess decks. My feet twitched at the announcement of each name. I wanted to grab the letters out of the postman's hand and search through his box. I hoped that the postman would call my name and that I would receive a letter from someone, anyone. I always looked enviously at anyone who received a letter from home when I ended up empty handed. Mail call always felt like playing a slot machine; someone always won. And when it wasn’t me, I felt forgotten and lonely.

Cigarette smoke billowed out of Matty's mouth when he said, “Damn, he's only got two letters left; I hope one of them is mine.”

“Montoya! You got a letter, a post card and a package,” called the postman.

“Wow! I hit the jackpot!” I yelled and I ran up to the front to get my prizes. A smile erupted on my face while Matty's eyes looked down, almost as if he were going to cry. I looked at the return addresses, a post card from a friend from firefighting school, a letter from my friend, Kathy, and the package from my parents. I had just passed through the galley door when Matty caught up with me. He was an eighteen year old radioman from the Bronx. He reminded me of my younger brother, only taller.

“What's ya got in the package?” he asked. “Cookies?”

“If we're in luck,” I said. “Come with me to my berthing compartment and we'll see.”

I took out a pair of scissors and cut open the brown paper bag wrapping and string. I pulled out the letter that was on top, and set it aside.

“What's in there? I wanna see,” said Matty.

“Hold on to your horses. Wow! A bag of homemade tortillas and venison jerky.”

I pulled out the jerky and read the note. It said that my grandfather had gone hunting and he made some jerky. My fingers became uncoordinated with excitement as I struggled to remove the clear cellophane wrapping. I lifted out a piece of jerky. When its odor hit my nose, I said, “Oh shit!”

“Oh shit what?” Matty asked.

“The venison has mold on it. Hand me the letter. I want to see when my parents sent this to me.” The date on the letter was three weeks ago. My heart sank. I felt cheated. “Damn humidity and damn this war. Well, so much for the jerky.”

“Gee, that's too dad, Mushroom. What about those tortillas? They look thicker than what I usually see.”

I took one of the tortillas out of the plastic bag and sniffed it. It didn't smell moldy. But when I took a bite, the sour taste made me spit it out. My eyes drooped and I hung my head down low. I wanted to cry.

“Isn't there anything else?” Matty pleaded. He looked as dejected as I did.

I pulled out some photographs. Under the photographs I felt cardboard, the bottom of my package, or so I thought at first. “We're in luck!” I exclaimed, pulling out a yellow and brown box. “Ginger snap cookies! My favorite. Here have one while I read my letter.”

“I didn't get a letter,” he said, his shoulders slumped. He took a bite out of the cookie and smiled. “Can you read yours to me?”

“Hola Hijo. Cómo estás? ”

“Ah sucks,” Matty said as his smile flattened. “I didn't think that your letter would be in Mexican.”

“It's not in Mexican. Mexicans don't speak Mexican any more than Americans speak American. I'm just teasing, you Matty. It's written in English. There is not much too it. Here, you can read it.

It just says that they hope the food is still good when I get it and a couple of notes about my son.

While Matty read my letter, I looked at the photographs in the box. When I pulled out the third photo of my son, I slapped my thigh and said, “Hey, look at this photo of Jeremy, he's covered in flour. They wrote on the back that he wanted to help make tortillas for me.”

Matty took a look at the photo and grinned. He said, “My mom has a photo of me covered in flour too. I was helping her make my birthday cake when I was about 3, like your son. What's the other letter say?” ...

You can purchase my book:
https://www.amazon.com/Viet-Body-Count-Mushroom-Montoya