0615 Hours — Company Mess Line, Camp Barracks 🔍

At quarter past six I filed into the mess line outside the long timber-and-screen cook shack, tin tray in hand, the smell of powdered eggs and motor oil hanging together in the morning air. The cook, a big fella from Ohio we called Sarge Two, slopped a ladle of pale scrambled eggs and a square of canned Spam onto my tray without looking up. I found a spot at the end of the long pine table next to my bunkmate Eddie Kowalski, who was nursing his coffee like it owed him something. We didn't talk much — just ate and listened to the distant rumble that might've been a truck convoy or thunder out over the water; hard to tell anymore. I folded the Stars and Stripes that someone had left on the bench, tucked it under my arm for later, and reminded myself to write home to my mother in Cleveland tonight.

1930 Hours — Back of the Barracks Tent, Folding Table by Lantern Light 🔍

By half past seven in the evening the heat had softened just barely, and I sat at the little folding table at the rear of the tent with a sheet of V-Mail paper and my government-issue pen, the kerosene lantern throwing a warm circle of orange light. I tried to find the right words to tell Ma that I was eating fine and keeping my boots dry — the usual reassurances that cost nothing and mean everything. Eddie was playing cards with a couple of the guys from Third Platoon two cots over, the slap of the deck and low laughter filling the tent. I sealed the envelope, pressed the flap down twice for luck, and set it by my helmet to hand to the mail orderly tomorrow morning. Outside, a gecko had found its way onto the tent rope and just watched me with those flat black eyes, and for some reason that small, still thing made the whole evening feel almost peaceful.