Machine Dreams

back there even though the farm was gone—just to see it. Go back to look at the fields.
    But I didn’t go back for a long time, even though I wasn’t far away. When I was married and had my own kids I was down that country—selling cranes and bulldozers for Euclid to a strip-mine outfit. The land was all changed, moved around. There were a few buildings left from the Main Street of Coalton, used as equipment shacks and an office. But out where the farm was—almost nothing. Heaps of dirt, cut-away ledges where they’d stripped. Looking at it made me think I’d been asleep a long time and had wakened up in the wrong place, a hundred miles from where I lay down. Like I’d lost my memory and might be anyone. Only thing they left alone was the wooden church, all falling in on itself, and the cemetery.
    I walked up by the stones, between the rows of names. Warwick. Eban. Ava.
    Icie. What kind of name is that for a woman. You always asked why I didn’t try harder to find her. Why should I? She left me.
    The cemetery was still and clean, though the grass was ragged. You know I thought of the leper; hadn’t thought of him in years.
    I never saw the inside of that shack. What did he do all day. No country, no family, no job. No one. Maybe he wasn’t sure anymore who he was. He was a secret. I was the only one ever saw him. He could have stopped talking because I didn’t seem real either, only another sound he heard in the woods. A sound in his head. During the war I used to dream of him, walking toward me on one of the tarmac landing strips we laid in New Guinea. I’d wake up in a sweat.
    I was a secret myself. I used to lie awake nights when I was a kid, before I slept. I grew up in different places: with Bess, with Ava, with cousins at the farm. I’d fall asleep and hear a voice I’d never heard. I was called Mitch, or nicknames like Cowboy. But this voice said, “Mitchell … Mitchell … Mitchell …” with no question, till the sound didn’t seem like a name or a word.

WAR LETTERS
Mitch

1942–45

    Physically the Japanese is a mixed race of all shapes and sizes. He is intensely patriotic, aggressive and stubborn. He is mostly an ignorant villager drilled to fight to the end through years of teaching. While of an inferior type to the civilized Western nations he believes himself to be immensely superior to everything on earth, so he does not surrender freely and is eternally disgraced if taken prisoner. He is liable to run if surprised or rushed by a determined attack and on these occasions you will hear him utter loud squeals. He is entirely treacherous and has no sense of a sporting instinct. He will attempt any number of tricks.
    —
Soldiering in the Tropics

(Southwest Pacific Area),
prepared by the General Staff, LHQ., Australia,
and issued under the direction of the Commander,
Allied Land Forces Headquarters, SWPA.
(Revised edition, January, 1943)
    FORT WARREN, WYOMING
    March 31, 1942
    Dear Aunt Bess. Was glad to hear from you, got all five letters at once. So far I have not been able to see much here because we have been under quarantine ever since we arrived, measles and scarlet fever, some fun. We have classes and daily drill anyway but we are not allowed out at night. Maybe it is just as well. They keep us on the jump and by the time night arrives I am ready for bed. The sun comes up every day but there is always a strong, steady cold wind and it carries a lot of dust. I am 2 miles south of Cheyenne and about 500 miles from Yellow Stone Park, don’t know how far from Sun Valley. On the train out I didn’t see much—we traveled at night a lot—but what I did see was just level flat land and once in awhile I could see a house. The boys were looking for Cowboys & Indians but we didn’t see any. Guess that has all passed. Everyone says they will never go to another Western Picture. People live here just like you do at home. Give Clayton my best and I wish I could come East before I leave this country. I look to be sent to the West Coast and then on across, where I don’t know. However I have at least six weeks more here. Well Bess, hope you are taking care of yourself. Tell Katie Sue and Chuck the Twister hello from Old Man Mitch.
    Love to all,
Mitch
    OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA
    Pvt. M. Hampson
Company C
327th ZMC Bn (Port)
Subport of Oakland, CA
May 26, 1942
    Dear Clayton. We hope to go across soon. Have been issued all our clothes and helmets and lack only our rifles—I understand we