Friendly Fire by C. D. B.; Bryan Page B

have always been very good members of th—”
    â€œMay I see you this morning, sir?”
    â€œMe? This morning, Sergeant?… Fitzgerald, you said it was?”
    â€œFitzgerald, that’s right.”
    â€œA fine old Irish-Catholic name,” Father Shimon said still trying to be congenial, still fighting down the apprehension rising within him. “You are, I presume, Catholic?”
    â€œNo, sir, Episcopalian,” Fitzgerald said. “Please, Father Shimon, it’s important I see you this morning. As soon as possible.”
    â€œAbout Gene Mullen?” Father Shimon asked, his lips suddenly dry. “Is there something, ah-h-h, wrong?”
    That morning the sun had finally broken through the flat pearl-gray overcast that had been brooding over the Mullens’ farm. Although the temperature hovered near freezing, the week-long Arctic winds had ceased, and at last it again felt warm enough to be outside.
    Gene Mullen walked back from the mailbox to the house. As he climbed the stairs into the kitchen, he called out, “Letter from Mikey.” He dropped the bills, the Des Moines Register and the second-class mail on the kitchen table and tore open the envelope. Peg wiped her hands on a dish towel and put a kettle of water on to boil.
    â€œWhat’s he say?” she asked. “When did he write it?”
    Gene glanced at the top of the letter. “Dated the thirteenth,” he said. “Let’s see now ‘Dear Mom and Dad: Went down off the hill to get a haircut and clean up, but ended up hitching a ride to Chu Lai. Went to the MARS station by chance—they were open and not busy—so got a chance to call. Suppose it was midnight at home and guess you were surprised—’”
    â€œOh,” Peg said, “he must have written this the same day he called.” Gene had not been home when Michael had telephoned from Vietnam eight days earlier. Peg had written “Mike called” on an envelope and left it on the kitchen table for Gene to read following the late shift at John Deere. It was twelve thirty by the time Gene returned to the farm, and after reading the note, he woke Peg up. She told him that she had spoken with Michael for only about a minute and a half and that before hanging up, Michael had said, “Good-bye, Mom, it’s so bad here.…” Peg had been so depressed that she hadn’t felt like waiting up to tell Gene when he came home and had simply left him a note. She mixed Gene a mug of instant coffee, brought it to him at the kitchen table and sat down. “What else does he say?”
    â€œHe says, ‘… guess you were surprised,’ … now, here: ‘Will be on the bunker line about two more days, then back out into the field.’”
    â€œUgh!” Peg groaned. “That means more search and destroy.”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t,” Gene said. “He’s been doing company sweeps like he wrote in the other letter.”
    â€œSame thing,” Peg said.
    â€œNo, it isn’t,” Gene insisted. “A company sweep is—”
    Peg waved her hand impatiently. “Go on with the letter.”
    â€œAll right, all right. He says, ‘Glad that all is well—weather here been rather good. Have decided not to take R&R if I can get a drop. So ’til later, hang loose.’” Gene looked at the letter more closely. “Hang loose’?”
    â€œHang loose, you know,” Peg said, “take it easy.”
    Gene shrugged. “‘So ’til later, hang loose, Love Michael.’”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it,” Gene said. He passed the letter across the table to his wife.
    Peg read through it quickly, “Oh, see,” she said, “he’s decided for sure to ask for an early drop. You remember the letter before last Michael said he was writing the University of Missouri to get the necessary