Letter From Zanderij
Zanderij Airfield, Dutch Guiana
July 1, 1943
Dear Dad:
Happy 4th of July, although I am aware that this letter won’t find you until well after the holiday. Boys are trying to finish the corner of the airstrip. We had to halt the work. The sudden rainfall is our worst trouble. Instead of laying down the strip, we’ve been sinking into the red bauxite mud. If it weren’t for the men running behind schedule, I would welcome it. It’s a nice change from the usual sweat drops running down my forehead.
I still keep the same morning routine they taught me in training camp. Stretches, beans with sausages, and clean my rifle. Here, I’ve added the rounds. By now, I can do them with my eyes closed. I tuck my shirt when I remember. But the brass is feeling the heat, same as we do. Then I head out of the mess tent. Seconds after I hear it: Lieutenant, the ditch is full of water. Or: Henry, there is a problem with the bulldozer. At least it is not: Lieutenant McBride, the locals are stealing my cigarettes, just like Corporal Morrow did the other day. Morrow claims he overheard Captains Faulk and Williams talk about our company being rotated. If that’s true… I know I complain, but I like it here.
The officers love the local helpers. More showed up yet again, and the boys dug drainage trenches near the jungle in half a day. They mostly keep to their villages nearby, but you can see groups of Creole men chatting and smoking American cigarettes they bartered from the soldiers. Also, they like our boots; they buy them from the quartermaster, and afterwards they stand around the old gramophone and listen to jazz. The Maroons usually disappear into the jungle at night, coming back in the mornings to ask about work. Most of our men barely give them a second look, only point to shovels or machetes, and get back to work. Faulk swears some of the privates are sneaking off at night. He says he won’t inspect for now.
A few nights ago, I went for a walk after my rounds, and I saw a group of locals gathering around a campfire, bringing baskets of fish, fruit, and cassava bread. I stood beside a few of our men when they started to wave at us. We drew closer, and I saw a Javanese woman stirring something in the large pot. It smelled of salt and spice. A Creole man who helps us dig the ditches was laying packets of banana leaf on a metal grate over a fire. Men around me pursed their lips, but it smelled delicious, and I couldn’t resist. The Javanese woman handed me a wooden bowl of fried rice. I tasted it. It burned my mouth, but I was convinced and yelled, “Prima!” Locals burst into laughter and were offering more to the soldiers who followed. Soon after, we were all sitting around a campfire. If it got too deep into Sranan Tongo, I’d ask Wat zegt u? And they would repeat in Dutch. Then the man with the banana leaves tore them, and the smell of fish, garlic, lime, and herbs filled the air. People around dipped their fingers inside and ate it just like that.
I had some Coca-Cola stashed in the cooler in the officers’ tent. I handed them all to the locals. Hours into the night, the skies opened up, so we dispersed. I ran back to my tent, boots sinking into the ground again. The planks pressed my back, but I didn’t get up for another blanket. I closed my eyes and listened to the raindrops on the canvas. I could still taste the chili.
I hope this letter finds you well, Dad.
Your loving son,
Henry McBride
2nd Lieutenant, Corps of Engineers,
U.S. Army
Regards, Jakub