[74—Our Loss]

We were too late getting back, but I didn't know that for a while.  It wasn't until Friday of Week Nine that we knew anything, when Captain Willy came on station.  All of the staff members were informed of the facts in an officious but melancholy meeting.

On Saturday, she delivered a eulogy at morning muster.

"Today, we have lost our comrade," she read from a prepared speech. 

Still, I cried.  I knew her.

"Today, we mourn for her.

"As a woman, I grieve every time one of our own is taken so young.  I can only hope and pray that her family finds solace somehow, that they find something to fill the gap left by her untimely passing.  May whatever Gods exist grant them this peace."

"Amen," the crowd murmured, then a silence fell.

"Julia Anders Lunch, born July 7, 1951 in Boulder, Colorado—daughter, sister, and activist.  I am proud to have served with her."

The silence fell again.

"Does anyone wish to say a few words?"

"I do," I found myself saying.  I was beckoned out front.

"I knew July, not Julia, but I know much more than where she was born or what year she graduated high school.  She wasn't just a comrade.  She was my friend, my leader, my role model. 

"She was fun, and full of life.  She was from Colorado, but she was of the whole world.  She never belonged to us; she showed us her best side, then something took her away."

I stopped to dry my tears.

"That something wasn't God, or a god, or the Devil.  It was cervical cancer.  She was twenty-six years old.

"I don't know why this happens, but I know it must stop.  I don't care who, or what, it offends.  Women should not die like this, and for no reason."

I was mad now, not just saddened.  Too often I'd heard 'God's will' bandied about as the cure to grief.  I just couldn't stand to hear it one more time.  I looked into the sky and raised a fist.

"So I have something to say:

"Yahweh, or Allah, or whoever is up there—you'd better stop taking my friends, or I'm coming after you.  Don't make me come up there again!"

That last comment was meant to be supercilious, but it had the opposite effect.  All of the women, and no few of the men, were crying, even the Captain.

"That is," she said in my ear as she leant forward and embraced me, "exactly why you are here today, in her shoes."

I didn't want to be reminded that I was wearing July's squad leader badge on my collar, nor of Chantré, who was probably going to recover from the hepatitis she contracted, but she wasn't coming back to the Island. 

"Temporary Third Class Heywood is correct," she said aloud to the assembled Troop, "and as always, melifluous.  It is my honor to award her the Permanent Rank of Translator Third Class."

She handed me a pair of blue diamonds, slightly larger than the red ones I already wore. 

I took them, not sure what to do next.  There were cheers, and congratulations, and the crowd faded like the morning dew.

"Congratulations Heywood," the Captain offered after the Troop had been dismissed.

"You will be leaving soon.  The Hexagon has authorized your early completion of basic training.  It's time to get you in the field."

I was shocked.

"But what if I want to stay here?  My squad needs me."

"Not unless you stay on as an instructor, which I'm disinclined to approve.  We are bringing in someone else, somebody new.  It's better this way."

"But I'm not done.  I still have things to learn."

"We all have things to learn," she said, placing a matronly hand on my shoulder.  "And learn them you will; you'll be taking your own Camp Winsome with you."