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Well, I’m here at basic training. I wish I could tell you it’s fun, but mostly it’s a lot of standing at attention and saluting and making sure your uniform is just so.

We have not fired any guns yet or driven around in tanks, Obal, sorry. Our NCOs—who are all black—are trying hard I think to train us as best they can with XXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX and XXXXX XXXXX XXXXXX. But the XXXXXXX officers XXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX and XXXXXXX XXXXX so we don’t really XXXXXXX much.

I have told my sergeant I want to apply for XXXXX school, but that has to go through XXXXX XXXXX, who doesn’t seem to think colored soldiers will be needing any XXXXX because he doesn’t think they’ll let us fight ever. I suppose that’s fine with me, but I still really want to be a XXXXX. All I can do is keep trying, I guess . . .

Love, Frangie

Dear Mother and Father,

I am safely ensconced in a place I shall not name for fear of the censors leaving big black marks on this page. But I am well. I am doing my best, and the lessons are challenging. There are obstacles I shall not describe nor name, but I expect to overcome them. And I believe my circumstances will change substantially very soon.

I am getting plenty to eat, and while I have not been able to keep kosher, I have managed to avoid the bacon. I am required to be present at Christian chapel on Sundays, but I am of course not required to participate other than to sit respectfully. I won’t say that being a Jew does not present some difficulties, but they pale compared to the obstacles presented by those who disapprove of my XXXXX.

But you know me: I am not easily discouraged . . .

Sincerely, Rainy

Dear Ary,

I hope you’re half as bored and safe as I am. I hope you’re sitting out in the sun on the deck of some big gray ship or better yet on the beach at XXXXX XXXXX. I can’t allow myself to think too much about the danger you might be in. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me, because you should. Maybe not Mom and Dad, but you can tell me. At least as much as you can with the censorship.

Sadly, I can tell you nothing. It’s unfair and unequal, I suppose, but that’s the way it is.

I’ve arranged for twenty-five dollars to come out of my monthly pay and go to your “friend.” It’s probably for the best: it keeps me away from the poker games . . .

Your loving sister, Rainy

Mother and Father,

It’s me, your little soldier girl Jenou. I am so tired and can barely move. I’m so sore my fingernails hurt. My hair hurts. My eyeballs actually hurt.

But at least I’m out of Gedwell Falls and out from under your feet, right?

I don’t know how much I’ll write. Sergeant XXXXX orders us to write, and I am doing so because she scares me. But I don’t think you care if I write, and I know I don’t. I expect if things go the way I hope they do that I will never have to return to the Falls, and I’m pretty sure that would leave both of you feeling relieved.

There you go, just like the sergeant ordered.

Private Jenou Castain

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RIO RICHLIN—CAMP MARON, SMIDVILLE, GEORGIA, USA

My rifle.

It is 43.5 inches long, measuring from the butt plate to the muzzle. It weighs 9.5 pounds and fires a 30.06 cartridge.

The slug itself is no bigger in circumference than a toddler’s little finger, but that slug flies from the muzzle at 2,800 feet per second.

Rio has her rifle in hand. She’s seated cross-legged like all of them, with the rifle butt on the grass and the muzzle pointed at the sky.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is why we have

brought you here and given you those snazzy uniforms.” Captain Jessep raises a rifle in the air, two-handed. He holds that pose for a moment so the dozens of men and women seated on the grass can see.

“This is the M1 Garand rifle. It is the finest rifle ever to be entrusted to an infantryman. Many of you will never fire a rifle in anger, but each of you will learn how to do so. There may come a time when even the cooks and the clerks and the ladies will be required to shoulder a rifle and fire it at the enemy.”

“The ladies,” Cat whispers derisively, just loud enough for the captain to hear, though he doesn’t react. “Ladies with rifles.”