for this, um, meeting.” “And why was that?” asked Puller. “Mrs. Demirjian’s

husband, Stan, served at Fort Monroe with your father. He was a sergeant first

class back then. He’s retired now, of course. Do you remember him?” “Yes. He

served with my father over in Vietnam. They went way back. But can you tell me

what’s in that letter?” Hull said, “I think it best if you read it for yourself,

Chief.” He handed it over. It was three pages in length and it seemed to be in a

man’s hand. “She didn’t write this herself?” said Puller. “No, she’s too weak.

Her husband wrote it, to her dictation.” Puller spread out the pages on the

small table next to his chair and began to read. The two men watched him

anxiously as he did so.

 

The sentences were long and rambling and Puller could imagine the terminally ill

woman trying to sufficiently collect her thoughts to communicate them to her

husband. Yet it was still more a stream-ofconsciousness outpouring than anything

else. She was probably medicated when she had dictated it. Puller had to admire

her determination to accomplish this when so near death.

 

And then, with the introductory preambles out of the way, he got into the

substance of the letter.

 

And his mouth gaped.

 

And his hand shook.

 

And his stomach felt like someone had sucker-punched him there.