by Zhang Ling
The boy helped me find my shoe, and I gave him a bullet casing in return. He was very ugly, with one big eye and one small eye, upturned nostrils, and two protruding front teeth that made it almost impossible for him to close his mouth. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from liking his smile. I asked him if he would like to work for the Americans. Two silver dollars a month, plus food and lodging, an excellent income for the locals. He agreed, and since then, he has been our loyal, hardworking servant. His Chinese name has a difficult inflection that none of us can say clearly, so we call him Buffalo, because of how he and I met.
Mother, I still haven’t dared to write directly to Father. I can only imagine how he felt when both of his sons enlisted at the same time. But if he were our age, I think he’d do the same thing. When he’s in better spirits, please read my letters to him and tell him I miss him a lot.
Also, would you do me a favor? On the corner of Madison Avenue and Springfield Street, next to the Blue Lake Café, there’s a building called the Maria Apartments. A Miss Emily Wilson lives there with her aunt on the third floor, room eight. I met her when I was in that mechanics class at the community college and she was a student in the nursing school. I like her a lot, and she likes me too. We’d gotten somewhat serious before I left. If there were no war, I would’ve brought her to meet you and Father. Maybe I would’ve asked her to marry me by now. But now, I have to wait until after the war. After I left, I wrote her some letters, and I got some from her as well, but I haven’t heard from her at all in the past three months. If you could find the time to visit and see if there is anything wrong, please let me know. When you ring the doorbell, just say you’re my mother, and her aunt will know who you are.
I’m eager for news from home. Has Jacob written? Do you know where in Europe his unit is? Has Father found any relief for the arthritis? Do you still have coffee with Aunt Louise every Wednesday afternoon? Please tell Leah that the cards she and her friends made for her big brother and his fellow soldiers are really cute.
I’ll stop here for the time being. I hope you’re all healthy and happy.
Love from your son,
Ian
Somewhere in China
P.S. Please send flea powder and chewing gum in your next package. I break things a lot, and the chewing gum is useful for repairs.
The Second Letter
From:
Ian Lawrence Ferguson
Navy Post Office 86
US Army Postal Service
Postmark Date: July 31, 1944
Passed by Naval Censor
To:
Elizabeth Maria Ferguson
307 Douglas Street
Chicago, Illinois USA
July 26, 1944
Dear Mother and Father,
Today feels like my birthday, because the postmaster brought me twelve letters and two packages, all in one heavy bundle. My comrades are green with envy. Three of the letters are from you (May 29, June 18, and July 3), two from Leah, three from Jacob, one from Aunt Louise, one from cousin Daisy, one from my coworker Andy at the mechanic shop, and one from Leon. You remember him—my high school classmate, who you thought sounded like a girl. I was really glad for the letters I got from Father and Jacob. Jacob had written to me from Belgium and Holland, but I didn’t get his letters until today because the mail routes were blocked. Father, now I understand that you weren’t angry with me for joining the navy, but because I didn’t tell you beforehand. I was afraid to tell either of you, especially Mother, because I was afraid I’d lose my nerve. I think Jacob felt the same way. I hope you can understand why I did what I did and forgive me.
I was excited all day. I read the letters over and over so many times, I can practically recite them by heart. You can’t imagine how much letters from home mean to us here. Some American soldiers farther away haven’t gotten mail in nine months. Nine months—can you imagine? Nine months, completely isolated, without communication. I heard that President Roosevelt personally promised to make every effort to improve the military’s mail service. I hope he does, and I’ll be able to get a steady flow of letters, like one a week, instead of twelve all at once.
Mother, thank you for the precious items in the packages. Of course, coffee powder ranks first. Our supply of coffee is really tight, sometimes even cut off altogether. I only use half a spoonful a day, brewing as much as I can from it. Even stingy Buffalo can’t stand it, saying that my last cup is as weak as his mother’s foot bath. (His mother has bound feet.) Canned beef is also a rare thing. Our food supply is almost entirely from local products. We don’t want for chicken or pork, but we rarely get beef. For vegetables, we usually have green beans, loofa, or rape. When I got here, I wasn’t used to all the fried food that the local cooks make, and I often got the runs. Now, my stomach is as strong as a cow’s—I could probably digest iron. Still, I can’t help but miss Mother’s steak. And turkey. I can hardly bear to eat these two cans of beef in just one or two meals. I’ve been trying to figure out how many bites they contain and how I can make them last until the next package arrives. Of course, once I’ve opened them, I have to eat them before they go bad.
Father, you asked how we entertain ourselves. Well, however we can, really. We cleared a basic field, where we run or play basketball or volleyball. When we’re free, we hunt wild pheasants and turtledoves. If the weather is warm, we swim in the river, even though our medical officers discourage us, fearing we might pick up parasites. We don’t have light at night, so we all go to bed early. After dinner, we usually listen to the radio. We don’t get American programs, of course, so mostly it’s local music like Chinese operas. The opera music is strange, with lots of ups and downs between the high and low notes, and the plot is basically incomprehensible for us, but Buffalo listens enthusiastically, occasionally even swaying and singing along. Sometimes we tease him, putting towels on our heads and pretending to be in the opera, dancing around him like demons. He says we’re a bunch of crazy Americans.
In the last few days, there’s been news that’s caused a great fuss—after the summer harvesting is over in early September, a theater troupe from the city will come here to perform. The locals haven’t seen a troupe in years, and our Chinese colleagues are noticeably distracted, discussing this every time they get together. The lead actress is supposed to be very beautiful. No one’s actually seen her, but they all talk as if they’ve known her all their lives—about her voice, her features, her figure. They’ve already discussed where the stage should be, what sort of lighting they’ll use, where the troupe will stay, and what food they’ll make. Basically, from now until the performance, I don’t expect to hear about anything else.
This is our entertainment, Mother, which is why the Time magazine you sent is so precious. Even though it’s out of date, everything is news to us. I didn’t even get the chance to flip through it before it was snatched away from me. When I got it back, the cover was gone and one of the colored inserts was missing. Later, I found the torn page by the head of Jack’s bunk: a picture of Vivian Leigh.
My only regret is that the chocolate had sprouted a layer of green fuzz, probably from the heat. With disappointment, I tossed it to Ghost. Ghost is a dog who followed us here from our last station. He’d never had chocolate before, and after taking a lick, he shook his head vigorously, so I guess he didn’t like it either.
I did another silly thing recently. Saying I was going to pick up the mail, I wandered around the small town (which I’m not supposed to do). I couldn’t help but stop in for a look in the furniture store. Chinese furniture can be categorized by whether it’s a round wooden piece or a square wooden piece. I think this shop specialized in round, and there were some interesting items, like some buckets painted with landscape and flower patterns on them and a wooden basin, probably for laundry, with a handle carved as a goose head. It was really unique. There was also a wooden bucket with a lid, covered in a shiny layer of lacquer and with a delicate pattern carved on the edges. I was taken with it,
so I asked how much it was. When I converted it to dollars, I realized it was just over a dollar, so I bought it, planning to put my letters and clothes in it. Since it didn’t have a handle, I had some trouble carrying it, so I finally put it on my head and carried it that way. All the way back, I noticed that people were laughing at me. When I got back to camp, Buffalo told me that it’s used as a toilet, and it was something mothers usually prepared as part of their daughter’s dowry. I was the biggest laughingstock in the platoon all week after that.
Mother, I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to visit Miss Emily Wilson. I haven’t gotten a letter from her yet, so I’m getting worried. If you have any news of her, let me know as soon as possible, even if it means sending a simple telegram.
It’s late and the light is fading, so I’ll stop here. Tomorrow, I’ll write to Aunt Louise and Daisy. Daisy said she’s singing on the street corner every weekend to raise money for soldiers who’ve been deployed. I’m really proud of her. I remember how she always used to say that she was born with a good voice, but had nowhere to use it. Now, she’s finally found a good use for it. The war has changed everyone so much. The only thing that hasn’t changed is my love for all of you.
Yours always,
Ian
Somewhere in China
The Third Letter
From:
Ian Lawrence Ferguson
Navy Post Office 86
US Army Postal Service
Postmark Date: April 21, 1945
Passed by Naval Censor
To:
Mrs. Leah Frasermann
8 Main Street, Room 609
Chicago, Illinois
USA
April 18, 1945
My dear beautiful, naughty sister Leah,
I can’t believe you’re not Miss Leah Ferguson anymore, but Mrs. Leah Frasermann. You married so fast, without even waiting for your brothers to return home. I almost wanted to get angry, but when I saw your wedding photos, my heart melted. You’re enchanting in your wedding dress. How could I be angry with such a beautiful, happy young woman? The young fellow beside you, this Alan Frasermann, doesn’t look too bad. Has anyone told him he’s the luckiest man in the world? Don’t let him forget you have two brothers, both of us combat trained. If he ever hurts you, he’ll pay for it in flesh.
Actually, I understand your decision. Since Alan’s brother died in the battle at Omaha Beach, I’m sure you’re both aware of the fragility and impermanence of life. You no longer trust the damned unreliable thing called tomorrow, so you just want happiness in your hand immediately.
Emily Wilson (now Robinson) thought so too, when she decided to get married. She told me the news herself, though I know everyone was trying to hide it from me. After a few months of silence, she finally wrote last fall to say she was married. She said her best friend’s fiancé had died in a plane crash during battle. Her friend was devastated, turning to alcohol and sleeping pills just to get through each day. She didn’t want that, so she decided to marry the first man who proposed. Her letter was quite euphemistic—at least she didn’t say outright she thought I would die in China. She repeatedly asked me for forgiveness, but really, what is there to forgive? We liked each other a lot, and though we were getting serious and our feelings were strong, we hadn’t made any promises. Even if we had been engaged, the war has loosened all promises. I replied to wish her happiness. But I cried when I went to bed that night.
We were all shocked by the death of President Roosevelt. We had a simple memorial yesterday, with our Chinese comrades. Pastor Billy, an American who’s been preaching in China for many years, led the service. When the locals heard about it, they all came, and it was so crowded that people had to stand in the aisles and even outside the door. As the pastor read prayers, the people lit incense for the dead. It was a moving scene. On behalf of my comrades, I read Whitman’s poem mourning the death of Lincoln, “O Captain! My captain!”
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
By the time I was done, many people were crying. The war is at a critical point. The American warship has lost its captain. What sort of surprises will Mr. Truman—who we don’t know yet—bring?
OK, I’ve said too many sad things. You’re still a bride, and here I am dampening your mood. Let me tell you about the gift I found for you and Mother instead.
A few days ago, our servant, Buffalo, and I were walking through the village when we heard a rhythmic hum in a courtyard. Curiously, I peeked through the door of the courtyard, and I saw that it was a young woman weaving. The “loom” was just a few planks nailed together. I’d never seen such a primitive thing. Her foot operated the pedal, and she passed the shuttle back and forth, tossing from one hand and catching it with the other. This required amazing hand-eye (and foot) coordination, and the woman managed it expertly. The cloth she was weaving was green. Of course, calling it green is simplistic. There were so many shades in her green. The lightest was close to white, and the darkest almost black. Combining the countless hues of green this way, the effect it created was a magical, mist-like feeling. I was mesmerized. The woman was engrossed in her weaving and didn’t notice us watching from just outside the door. By the time she looked up, we’d already walked into the courtyard. She blushed. In rural China, women—particularly young women—are very shy, not used to talking to strange men, especially foreigners. Buffalo said she was a new bride, judging from the red string wrapped around her bun. I asked him to ask her if she had designed the pattern. She nodded and pointed to two rows of colored thread hanging to dry in the yard, indicating she had designed other patterns too. I was amazed by the artistic instincts of this probably illiterate village girl. In America, she could become a great artist if someone discovered her. I touched the thread hanging from a bamboo pole. They were thick and hard and like colored spaghetti at first glance. Buffalo said the thread was stiffened with sweet potato starch so that the yarn wouldn’t break when it was woven, and the seams wouldn’t fray. I asked Buffalo to ask the woman if she would sell me some cloth. When she hesitated, Buffalo put on an attitude, saying, “Weren’t you weaving in order to sell? You’ll sell it at the market, but when this American wants some, you won’t?” The woman blushed and gave him a price. I could see from his eyes he thought it was too much. But I didn’t counter. The price she named was almost embarrassing by American standards. With such exquisite craftwork, I couldn’t bring myself to haggle with such a lovely bride.
I paid for the cloth and had Buffalo collect it the next day. The woman saw us out, bowing low to me. I’ve already thought about it. Using the cook’s wife as a model, I’ll have a Chinese-style blouse made for you and one made for Mother. She’s a little shorter and thinner than you and Mother, but we can add an inch or two in length. The blouse has a slanting open collar with stitched flower buttons and is good for spring or fall. You’ll be the most stylish women in all of Chicago in them.
The whole way back, Buffalo kept mumbling, “Just some handwoven cloth. It’s not worth it.” He sometimes thinks I’m stupid, sometimes crazy. Most of the time, he just thinks I’m an American, and Americans are both. Since I brought Buffalo to our squad several months ago, my Chinese hasn’t improved much, and his English isn’t much better, so it’s odd that we always seem to understand one another. I’ve found that when we communicate, we don’t speak either English or Chinese, but something between the two, which only we seem to understand. When I get home, I’ll have to ask Father’s friend John what kind of language phenomenon this is. As a professor of linguistics, he’ll know, I think.
It’s alr
eady dark and almost time for lights out, so I should stop here. Please be patient and wait for my return, and I’ll offer you a belated wedding blessing. We’ll drink a toast to my dear sister and my brother-in-law, who looks pretty decent. We will ganbei, which, by the way, was the first Chinese word I learned here. At the time, I only understood the word in the literal sense, which is to drain the glass in one gulp. So every time a Chinese friend invited me to ganbei, I really downed it. The local rice wine is deceptive. At first, it feels harmless on your tongue, but it’s like a time bomb, exploding in your stomach after half an hour, then going all the way to your head. Once you realize it, it’s too late. But your big brother was knocked out by the sweet wine a few times, then wised up. Now, I’ve quietly adjusted the definition of the word from “bottoms up” to “scratching the surface.”
Please give my greetings to the Frasermann family. Also, remember to write to me. Letters from home are a lifeline. I live for them.
Love always,
Ian
Somewhere in China
Ian Ferguson: Miles’s Dog
I was anxious to come to Yuehu, not just to keep my appointment with you two but also to see Ghost. When we left Yuehu, we left no physical remains. If all the records were lost, there’d be no proof we were ever here. Ghost is a different story. He left his physical body on this land, so his DNA can testify for itself.
I remember burying Ghost and Snot together in the sloping field behind Pastor Billy’s church. We put two stone headstones over them, the larger one for Snot. Snot was the nickname your other Chinese students gave him, because he had severe rhinitis, and his sniffing could be heard throughout the classroom, even when he was sitting in the back row. The number on his uniform was 520, and that’s how he was known in the training camp, just like you were 635, Liu Zhaohu. But on his tombstone, we engraved his real name: The grave of the patriotic hero Yang Lianzhong. September 9, 1926–September 5, 1944. He was actually younger than eighteen when he died. The age he gave on his registration form when he enlisted was false.