The Platinum Locket

Dearest Belilia,

How are you, my darling? I want to know if you planted those African violets around the garden. I can just smell the aroma of the flowers coinciding with the softness of the cocoa butter on your skin. I flew my second to last mission yesterday. As a newly minted first lieutenant, I ‘ve shot down as many as I could do. It’s so frigid around these places. Some of us have dubbed the area the “Frozen Chosin.” My plane fogs up so much, it’s difficult to see my targets. But I prevail. As a lieutenant in the first integrated sector of the United States military, it feels right. This is one of the only sectors that needs to fully embrace anyone ready to fight.

I love you, so. I will see that we start a family when we get back. They call it the Baby Boom. We’ll have plenty of time for babies. But will they remember this war? Again, they also say it’s a Cold War action. The only coldness is with these temperatures over here. When I’m not in the sky, I’m trudging around in Mickey Mouse boots that are slippery and fail to keep your feet warm. I know some guys who became afflicted with frostbite. Their feet and hands look like eggplants. The ice and snow does not deter me, though. Even when I’m up in my jet, I can feel the freezing temperatures chilling me significantly.

What have you done to the house? Does it still have that Colonial charm of so many Wilmington homes? I’m so excited to be on my last mission. I’ll be home in Delaware soon. It’s a promise I’ve already made to myself. Now, to you, too! Call it a guarantee. We’re fighting for ourselves. I’m fighting for you. You’re top on my list of people I wish to protect. This is a selfish war like any other. We are fighting not to die for a flag or even freedom unless it is our own. I would definitely die for you but that is not going to happen any time soon. We’re taking down these Commies and without regard. America still doesn’t accept us as equals before the law. I don’t mind a bit of merit on my side. It doesn’t bother me if a restaurant reads “WHITE’S ONLY.” I can just build my own restaurant and allow everyone to come into it. You make more money that way, no?

While I'm writing this, I’m in the chow hall. I’ve got a slice of pecan pie that isn’t bad but can’t top you from putting your foot into your recipe with your special dessert. I sip some coffee. It’s actually decent. The aroma of the beans and the tartness of the liquid warm my body against the bitterness outside. As they pass, white officers snicker and giggle but then when they see me, they stop and salute. I haven’t had too many problems with the white man over here. I get more issues at home than with my fellow warriors. I’ve seen some scuffles between some enlisted men still not used to the integration. I’ve seen actual scuffles in the snow and ice over skin color. It’s such nonsense. I think that there is mutual respect amongst the higher ranking personnel than with the lower ranks.

There was one fight where a black airman knocked out all of the teeth of a white airman technical sergeant. I can still see the blood stained snow. Chills course through my frame just thinking about how that black man will probably be in Fort Leavenworth for quite some time. I sip this coffee and just think about how close I am to getting this mission out of the way and coming home to you. I don’t want to see any more blood. That’s what I’ve been saying to myself. The powers that be don’t realize the tremendous impact that all of this has on the families of the men. Sure, they have their training and I’m glad we’re able to make this correspondence, but what have we been doing over here? What is the point? I don’t see an end in sight and I imagine the generals lack a clue, too.

From the time I got in country, I knew that I would need to keep you close to me. I have your locket around my neck. My dog tags clang against it like chimes. It is an emblem of how much we cherish one another. I don’t give a damn about the bullets and the bombs. I know all of that serves a purpose. We must fulfill our roles as the men who have to fight for liberty in a personal sense. You are the one that is most personal to me. I wouldn’t have flown forty-nine missions if you had not been part of me, clinging to my neck like swaddling on a child. The way you have supported me lends to the morale everybody speaks about. At first, I thought it was hooey. All that stuff seemed corny. I like it, now. I’d like to think that I am sending you these letters in hopes that your hope never waivers.

I take a few more sips of the coffee. I leave the rest of the pie, however, for the trash bin. The notes of the coffee really strike me. It’s so warm and cozy. It’s a balm to my racing mind. In training, they give you so many ways of how to compete with each other, how to properly navigate an aircraft, and how to move about like an officer and a gentleman. What they failed to talk about is something they’re calling “operational exhaustion.” I know it sounds scary, and quite frankly, it is, but it is a reality. I have to say that I don’t want it. I’ve been clear all the way to this point. I don’t expect to ever have to experience it for any reason.

You and I both know that if something were to happen to me, you’d be taken care of completely. I brush off the idea of there being some ailment that would ground me on my last flight in this theater. I can recall the way that you said, “Get here.” You put a hand on my shoulder and wiped away a tear.

I will get to where you are. This war should be remembered for all of the toil and rot and disgustingness and the honor and the truth that has been made. Just like any other war. I’m banking on the various US and South Korean forces along with the others to decisively defeat the Chinese and North Korea. There has to be some way of knowing that all of this will end with our victory.

I take another sip of coffee. It continues to enliven me and you know I like my coffee black. The sun is setting and it looks like an orangish-yellow glowing orb descending beneath the clouds. This mess hall is nearly deserted except for a few enlisted men who have just sat down to have a meal. I wonder if it will be their last. So many have had their lives stolen right from under them. Too many have sustained wounds, as well. Like the frostbite I was telling you about, it’s claimed dozens of lives already. And that’s not even the fighting! If there is a way to properly discuss the proper ways to explore death and destruction, I’d have to look to a better scribe. Homer? Sophocles? Shakespeare? Melville? I know you, my wife the librarian, would know better than I.

So, I finished my cup of coffee and I trek back to the barracks where there is a good chance that there will be a hot, steamy shower to rinse all of my worries away. This is the closest thing to therapy, my writing to you. It rests in my mind the reality of the situation I find myself in at the moment. You’re there preparing for my return as I do everything in my power to keep my wits about me. I love you, Belilia. The might you hold in the way you carry yourself is a boon to the fighting spirit welling up in me. I look outside. It’s completely dark. Quiet. The perfect conditions for relaying my information now lay on me like a blanket shielding me from the storm. We shall meet soon. I don’t make promises, only commitments. I can say that we’re going to have the time to express our love for one another on that distant day on another shore. You invigorate me and challenge me to be a total assembly like the aircraft I fly. It’s fully equipped and permits no one to enter it but myself. My dear, you are the solid rock on which I can discover who I am and what I must do. This platinum locket is the one piece that represents you as a whole and every time I have an opportunity I kiss it. I will kiss you, again.

Love,

Tarnell