Mail Call
Military service is one of those "universally individual experiences": Everyone here has their own background, baggage, and stories to tell. We're able to relive and appreciate those stories because of our shared experience, shared understanding, shared knowledge, and shared hardship. We all took unique steps down a well-worn path.
Awareness of this reality started for me almost on Day One in the Army, oddly enough at mail call.
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PVT <PERSON>: Hey <PERSON>, let me smell 'em.
Me: Sure thing. They're on the top shelf of my wall locker.
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We've been in Infantry OSUT (Basic training and Infantry school all together) at Fort Benning for about 9 weeks and it turns out I'm one of the lucky ones - my girlfriend has been sending me letters pretty consistently. She found some girly stationery with sexy watercolor eyes printed on the envelopes. Every time we have mail call the rest of the platoon has started paying attention - waiting to see if the Drill Sergeant calls my name. They recognize those envelopes, they know what's inside.
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I'm kicked back on my bunk for a few minutes of relaxation on Sunday morning after marching back from the chapel . . .
<PERSON>: Hey <PERSON>, can I smell 'em?
Me: Sure thing. Top shelf.
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The first one arrived early in week 2, and ever since then the pretty eyes on the envelopes have provided the open source intel. My girlfriend sprays a good dose of perfume on the pages inside. Nobody in the platoon asks to read the letters - they don't dare violate the sanctity of her private words to me - but without exception they all want to catch just a bit of that heavenly, womanly aroma. Delicate on the nose, but a carrying a sharp reminder that cuts right to the heart.
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After evening chow the next day, prepping for the next morning's road march . . .
PVT <PERSON>: Hey <PERSON>, <PERSON> told me you got another letter. 119
Can I get a whiff?
Me: No problem. Top shelf.
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Anticipatory, and knowing I won't turn them away, they come to me for the key that'll unlock their memories of the girl they left behind; their longing for the woman they'll go back to; their dreams of the lady they hope to find.
I won't say no to any of them - lord knows how many times I've lain there in the dark, breathing in the ghostly reminder of my woman from the open tops of the envelopes. It wouldn't be right to deny that spark to the 50-some guys who're sweating and swearing with me at the start of my military journey.
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Out on bivouac . . .
<PERSON>: Hey <PERSON> - heard your name at mail call . . .
Me: Yep. Just a sec, I'll grab it from the ziplock in my ruck.
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Once word gets around about what PVT <PERSON> has, the pull is irresistible.
It's almost a ritual. They walk up, make a polite request, reverently cradle it while gently squeezing open the top of the envelope, inhale deeply, pause for a moment of quiet reflection while admiring the girly eyes peering across the address, maybe take another whiff, offer a quiet "thanks, man", and walk away lost in thought.
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My girlfriend eventually agreed to walk at my side through a life of military hardship. We celebrated 31 years of marriage last December and those letters are tucked away in an old shoebox now. They still smell as sweet, and if you ask me nicely, you too can breathe deeply . . .
. . . and tell me - who do you remember? 406