Willow's Story - Write Me

youtu.be/S9M2yQOlPx0 - (Simon and Garfunkel - Why Don't You Write Me)

	“Alright… there! Good as new.”
	“Thanks, sir!”
	“Course, Willow,” the engineer chuckled. “Not like there’s anywhere else this can get done.” Clipping the lighter shut he smudged the molten rubber on her forehead together, sealing the nasty cut. The little gash had been open on her forehead for a week, no free time between the loss of a helicopter and the incessant combat consuming the region. She’d finally gotten to sit down and have it looked at, concerned with the lag in her step as much as the grimy opening on her face. With it closed she wouldn’t have to worry about the awful itch of mud and grime peeking in, though her right leg had been bothering her for days.
	“One last thing,” she added, flexing her leg lightly. The man craned his head to listen, the tinny hum he’d become accustomed to missing. Replaced by a sickening rattle he shook his head, stretching for a screwdriver. Popping the cover off the bulbous ball joint at her hip he peered in, breathing in surprise.
	“Is it bad?”
	“...Not really. Looks like one of the perm-magnets got knocked out, and one of the motors is cracked.” Whitney groaned in place, hands tapping anxiously as he hopped off his stool. Rustling around in a number of scattered crates he sauntered back over. “Here we go.”
	“Sir?”
	“One moment.”
	“Ooh!” His finger wormed inside to snatch up the offending magnet. Free from it’s emplaced siblings it was interfering with the gentle glide of her hip to and fro. Weaving a brush of rubber cement back and forth on its rear he placed it back in the spherical shell of magnets it had fallen from, the nandroid shivering in response. Twisting the joint limply he focused in on the tiny motor assembly, the intricate system set to vibrate according with the associated electromagnets it shook to life. Focusing in on the crack he plied it shut with his fingers, Whitney peeping at the unfamiliar pressure, forcing it back into place as he cemented it shut in turn.
	“Well, that’ll do for now. I’ll see about getting a new one for a proper replacement but it should be… serviceable.”
	“Can I try it?”
	“Uh, yeah- just give it a sec to dry,” he added, clipping the assembly cover back into place. The man slipped away to attend to some other more irksome (and less apologetic) machine, her battery already replaced as well. Kicking her right foot she ran a hand across the bulbous sphere, giggling at the ticklish, prickly sensation. Staring around for a few minutes more she took in the mercifully quiet atmosphere, her team’s shift over and done. The others were fast asleep in the roasting hooch, the day-shifters taking up the next twelve hours until sundown. She was doubly thankful for the long-awaited replacement to the lost helicopter, a small win against the daily-doubling intensity in the hills and valleys surrounding them.
	“I think that’s good,” she whispered to herself, hopping off from the bench. “Woah…” Wobbling into step she paraded about to break the joint back in- rough, but infinitely better than the woeful lag she’d had to deal with in the previous weeks. Touching a hand to her forehead she rubbed the still-warm slag of rubber, melted and lightly blackened together where it was cut. She recoiled at the thought of coming home with any scar like that, though she knew full well the Willows would handle that and more when she rotated back home.
	“All good Willow?”
	“Yes, sir! Thank you!” Waving she dashed back out to the camp, taking in the blessed, dry air. There were few luxuries on post: checkers, smokes, a game of cards. Whitney’s favorite was the odd nice day, clear skies and sunny air kindly choosing not to strangle her joints in humidity and wet. Strolling through the sunny day, the deafening thwop of coming and going medevacs doing little to dampen her mood, she returned to the hooch with the men.
	“Yo, Willow,” Vasquez sniffed, waving and rolling over. The rest of the men snoozed lazily under the beating Sun, Whitney gingerly stepping down the step into the muddy hole after them. Cool and damp she sat in her corner, waiting and rocking in place. There was no work to do, no orders to carry out- the commander made sure that the boys did their share of work and spared her a daily battery change. Making sure the other men were properly asleep she fussed in her small pile of belongings, a little slip of dirt crumbling onto her nose.
	Pulling out the neat book of stationery she’d scooped up before crossing the Pacific she wiggled her hand. The confounding little tremor in her fingers irked her some, but a stretch of her arms and shake of her head sent it away so she could write smoother. Hands stabilized, she opened her cheery message home with an apology- sorry’s dropped left and right for her absence, her miserable disappearance and for not being there to do the housework they needed. She knew what she was doing was right, avoiding the issue of that ‘what’ as best she could.
	“Things are great,” she whispered to herself, blowing the grit from her lip. “Certainly warm!” She mused on the page about her Christmastime absence, already missing the milder climes back home on the West Coast, joking too about the Mister’s stories of home in the wintry, bitter-cold Ozarks. She shivered lightly imagining the snowy stamp of his feet when he was a boy, each December peeling away new stories from the grim man, cheeks warmed and sunny after a coffee and a cocoa prepared by her nimble hands.
	Looking over her crewmates she smiled, introducing them just by surname- nothing more was needed, and Mister Willow would approve of how seriously she was taking to things. She took an affectionate amount of time explaining their hobbies, Timothy doubtlessly interested in the life of a soldier. The youngest, Meyers, wasn’t too far off of his age either.
	“If he were from San Francisco,” she mumbled again, peeping as Dawes rolled over, “you’d have seen him as a senior a year ago!” She scratched that line out- too much. The young, snoring man had scored high in school, not a draftee or fitting any of the stereotypes of the average grunt in Vietnam. Fast-tracked through an officer training school he had his pick of the crop. Putting that to paper should do well to inspire Timothy, she figured, and the Mister would quite like a stellar example of patriotism in the younger generation.
	“Willow,” the boy murmured. “Go to bed, man.” The scribble of her pen had evidently awoken him.
	“I can’t, writing a letter.”
	“You can wait a bit, we’re sleeping.”
	“But, well, my family?”
	“They can wait too,” he grumbled, shifting on his meager pillow. “We’re here for a while longer.”
	“Well I said I’d write them…”
	“I did too, but I’m tired. Plus we gotta work.”
	“Sir, I-”
	“You can finish it later, Willow,” he whispered, a fatigued bite edging in. “I haven’t even shown you how to send ‘em yet.”
	“Just a bit more?”
	“Mmfine.” Slumping back over the tired soldier dumped his head into his pillow, Willow slowing the scrawl of her again-shaking hands. Slapping a hand to her wrist she steadied the distraction, an awful scribble finding its way onto the page. Finishing her letter her eyes flickered to life, the lengthy paper folded neatly into an envelope for tomorrow morning. The Sun had set and soon their shift would start, Meyers already up again to scold Whitney for staying up to spew her story to paper. Yawning and stretching the other two rolled off their cots, Whitney stuffing the envelope away for tomorrow to join her crewmates at work. Things further north had been heating up even worse, Dawes explained, the need for air evacuations paramount in the defence of the ancient imperial city they’d be flying into.