Dear family,
I really like the ocean life! I wanted to write you a note before you start to worry that I’m out here crawling through dirt and dodging bullets. If this is the “hardship” they told us about, I’d rather do this than work on the farm.
First, tell the boys that they are working ten times harder for old man Jenkins than I am here. They get up before dawn to milk cows and go through mud, but we “sleep in” until 5 a.m., which is an hour later than rooster time back home. In the morning, we had to fold our blankets and polish our boots perfectly. You don’t have to carry feed sacks, suffer splinters from mending fence posts in the rain, or chase pigs that have run away through the orchard.
Let’s talk about the food now. It’s better than what I’m used to: small boxes of cereal, juice in little cups, and bread that comes already sliced. But I’ll be honest: I miss Ma’s biscuits and gravy. There isn’t any sausage, thick-cut bacon, or even a fried egg with a broken yolk. But I’ve learned a few things. I sit next to people who drink a lot of coffee and can’t finish their trays because they are too jittery. I assist them clean up after themselves. You shouldn’t squander anything, right?
When it comes to the physical stuff, “grueling marches” is an understatement. A lot of these city guys fall over halfway through what I would call a warm-up stroll to the south pasture. A guy tripped over his shoelaces and had to sit out for the day. I struggled to hold back my laughs. We would be halfway through our morning tasks by the time most of these guys finished their stretches.
The police aren’t that bad. Most of the yelling comes from the sergeants, although it’s more like barking than biting. The captains stand boldly with their hands on their hips. The top brass ride around in jeeps, pointing at things and giving the odd thumbs up, just like parade marshals. I think I’m safe because no one has used a whip yet.
You might be astonished to find out that I’m the best shooter in my group! They taught me how to use a rifle and handed me one. Now I’m the best shot in the bunch. firing with paper targets is like firing at the side of a barn after years of chasing rabbits that sprint and hop through the brush. And what makes it even better? They already create the bullets for us! You don’t have to load shells by hand, spill powder, or pour lead. Just aim and shoot.
When you battle with your hands, things get a little more fun. Most of these new recruits are wimpy, city-bred kids who get hurt quickly and are afraid to tackle. I could easily knock them over with a sneeze. There is, however, a man from a nearby county who has a very outstanding body. He has a lot of muscle and weights twice as much as any cow I’ve ever tried to catch. I was able to flip him once, but it was only by coincidence. But now, my main goal is to not be flattened. When you wrestle that guy, it’s like trying to tie a bull with a shoestring.
In general, I think I’ve done well. You don’t have to shovel manure, your clothes are clean, you eat three meals a day, and your fingers don’t get frostbite. Tell the brothers to join up now before the bosses find out how good of a deal they’re offering us. The other farmhands will find out soon, and the barracks will be filled of individuals who want to trade pitchforks for firearms.
Your son in uniform loves you.