JulieAB

August 29, 1855, Texas

Dear mother
This is the first letter I am writing, and I am sorry I haven’t taken my time to write back home yet, but life is busy as a newly wed. I received your letter yesterday. My heart made a jolt of happiness when I recognized your handwriting. I do allright here, but I have never felt so much joy over getting a sign of life from anyone in my family, as when I read it. I miss Norway. You do not have any idea how much I long to see the fjords, with the greenish water during the spring thaw, the water breaking into a thousand rainbow-coloured drops on it’s way down the steep mountainside. Oh, blessed be the soul who could breathe the fresh air of the western mountains again! Most of all I miss you all so very much. Not that this life in Texas is not fairly good, and people are mostly very friendly, but I miss hearing some true rogalending-talk around me. The landscape here is at first sight very bare. The prairie stretches out as far as one can see, only interrupted by hills and some trees here and there. Now I have learnt to see the beauty in this nature, though it seemed to me very unpleasant the day my train stopped here two months ago. Nothing looks like surroundings I used to lay my eyes upon. Even the grass here is way different from the fresh, greens back home; here the grass is high, harsh and stiff, and more greyish that I am used to. Oh, mother, it truly was insanity to let me go. Though, I do not blame you, because it was a choice of my own to leave the country, which now seems to me the most beautiful place in the world. Still I cannot understand what was going through my head the day I decided to leave all my friends and my family. My life has changed more in these two months than I ever dreamt was possible. I still haven’t reached eighteen, and now I am no longer Nora Holgersen, but mrs Andersson. The journey over the great Atlantic ocean was terrible. I have never been a good sailor, and I prayed for mild weather. God did not answer my prayers; a stiff breeze followed us nearly all the way, making the ship roll on the waves. I kept to my hammock for the first four days, unable to even stand up. The ship was fully packed with picture brides like me and a couple of families. With so little space and so many people, we had to live squeezed together during the long-drawn-out voyage. Most of the girls were of my age from Norway, Sweden and Ireland. I managed to communicate with a fourteen-year-old from Ireland, who had to go, if she did not want to starve to death. I am glad I got to choose this destiny myself.

Although the heavy winds made me sick, God had still been kind to us. The wind blew us to Manhattan a week earlier than the arrival date. The selection on the Isle of Tears is to me a very unclear memory. I think I must have repressed it. It was not a very pleasant experience, and my heart dropped like a stone when I saw how they selected people, and all the poor souls who had to travel all the way back to the misery they just left. My fears about the American Dream being nought but a rumour to make naïve people like me give up everything to travel across the world, were strengthened. During the week-long train journey I feared I had ruined my life, and I looked at the picture from the newspaper of the man I was going to spend my life with.

I recognized Jake the moment I stepped onto the train platform under the baking midday sun. He looked more grave than on the picture, but in fact he is a quite handsome man, only five years older than me. His grandfather was from Norway, so he knew some phrases, and with the English I picked up on the journey, and the universal finger- and body language, we could at least understand each other a bit. We got married a week after my arrival. It was not the wedding I dreamt of as a child, and I would give anything to have you all there, and that father could be there and walk me to the altar. It took place in silence in the newly built church in the town centre. The first weeks there was a rather tense atmosphere in the small house, because Jake is not a man of many words, and I feared that my life as a wife was to be lived in silence. But as time goes on, and my English improves. It turns out that he is not as black as he is painted. Now we get along very well. Every day he is opening up a bit more, and I have become really fond of him. Jake is a grave man, but at times he lightens up with a laughter, and then I feel that my worries about him were superfluous. I think you would have liked him, and especially father. He is a real worker, a reasonable man and does not care about trivial matters. At first sight he looks like a callous person, but in intimate moments, I have discovered the soft and affectionate man under the surface. We spend the days working. Jake is out in the fields, and I do the cleaning and the usual housework. I also have my own spot behind the house to grow a vegetable garden. The climate is extremely hot, and I have to wear a hat when I leave the house to avoid getting sunburned. This summer is even hotter than usual in these areas, Jake told me.

You wrote that Jens is getting married. I am terribly sorry I am unable to be there when the wedding takes place. Give my brother all the best wishes from me. Perhaps we meet again someday over here?

Life is not bad, though I miss you all terribly. My heart trembles at the thought of how long it will take until we once again are united.

//**Thinking of you every day,**// //**- Mrs. Nora Andersson**//

March 24th, 1968 Son Tinh district of South Vietnam

Dear papa.
You were wrong. There is nothing honourable about fighting for your mother country. You can’t even imagine what it is like. There is nothing like sonorous swords and heroic soldiers on the backs of sweaty horses. Even though it was, I wouldn’t find it heroic at all, even though I am on the field of glory. Even so, some of my companions think they are national heroes and goes on about their guns and how many yellow people they killed for the country. I just cannot see where the glory comes in. You don’t know how it feels when a person collapses while a dark spot on the shirt grows larger, and you know that because of you he will never be able to see the sun again. There are no shiny uniforms and polished weapons. Everything is dirty. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that feeling.

I arrived two weeks ago and was ordered to ”move in” in a tent along with six other soldiers. Two of them are even younger than I am, but they have all been here since December. The first week went on in what you can call silence. But not a comfortable silence, because the atmosphere was extremely tense, and fear was affecting everyone. We were just sitting in our base, waiting for a signal, and waiting for something to do. After six days the lieutenant, a warlike man called Will Calley, woke us up an early morning. There had been rumours that the leaders were planning an attack on a nearby hamlet, because there were north Vietnamese combatants staying there.

Maybe there is something good in this world after all, or at least a bit luck, because I was among those who were picked out to stay guard by the camp. I thank the Lord for not having to walk out there. We waited all day long. Sometime during the afternoon the troop returned, and they all acted kind of funny. Nobody spoke much, but when he didn’t watch, some of the soldiers sent the lieutenant killing looks. Nobody told me what had happened, but two days later I involuntary found out. We were training and were divided into groups of six. Suddenly one saw some smoke billowing way ahead. Although we aren’t supposed to go too far away from the camp, we sneaked closed. The village seemed so silent. At that time of the day, there would usually have been market or something, but nobody moved. As we drew nearer we understood something was completely wrong. We first felt the smell. You remember how it smelt when our sheep died, and lay in the sun all day? This was a hundred times worse. Dead bodies everywhere. Most of them old ones, women and children. The blood had dried in the heating sun and was now dark brown or black spots in the yellow dust. Most of the cottages were burnt down, and goats, sheep and other domestic animals laid spread in front of the houses.

What kind of person is able to perform such evils, and then live on afterwards? We couldn’t stand it any longer. Suddenly I recognized the empty cartridges on the ground. .45 mm, just like the ones we were carrying. We ran.

I am still at the camp, but I am about to go crazy. I can’t stand the sight of any of the guys who were out there that day. I don’t want to be here anymore. This beautiful country with its green rice fields and mountains. These friendly, smiling people with the big hats. Why is it all to be destroyed, ruined, just because of some insane warlords who can’t agree?

Pa, if I ever get out of this alive, I will never, ever again hear you talking about wars and fighting like something to be proud of. You don’t become a man of being a soldier. You become less human.

James//**
 * //Your son,