From: sumrall@delphi.com (L. Sumrall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Dear Mom Part 1
Date: 6 Oct 1995 05:04:53 GMT
I don't know if anyone else as addressed this issue, so
I thought I would fill in some of the blanks myself.
This is a Skinner story, who, as we all know, is a
character created by Chris Carter, who's got Skinner
copyrighted, so please don't sue.
DEAR MOM
"Dear Mom,
I am well. You'll be glad to know I am still in
one piece. I believe the fungus I told you about
in my last letter was not the jungle rot the others
have contracted. Tell Bryant I won't be sending him
my toes in a jar as he expected, which I'm sure will
greatly disappoint him. How is Candace doing in school?
Tell Teddy to make sure he starts wrapping the pipes.
It's never too soon to prepare for winter. We don't
have winters here. I miss snow.
The local villagers are preparing for an annual
festival whose name I cannot pronounce and will not
even try to write down for you. Needless to say,
it's a big wingding here. The guys are hoping we
don't get ordered out before getting to see all
the hoopla. Even if we get only one night of
festivities, it would be enough. I'm torn, though.
Part of me looks forward to a night of music, food
and dancing, while another part tells me I should be
mourning Buck.
I wish I could have been there for his funeral. I
feel I am remiss in not being there for him, as well
as being there for his family. As I write this, Mom,
I can hear you thousands of miles away. I hear you
telling me I shouldn't feel guilty and Buck would
understand. I have to question you, though. Does
Buck understand? I don't."
No, this wasn't going right. Walter hadn't meant
to start sounding so morose. He tried to keep his
letters light and reassuring, so his mother wouldn't
worry anymore about him than she was. The result
was his letters home were heavily self-edited. He
didn't tell them half of his experiences in Vietnam.
He didn't tell them about the 10-year-old boy.
He may never.
Walter sat back and rubbed his sore eyes. He didn't
know was happening. More and more the words on the
paper wouldn't come into focus. He worried that if
words wouldn't focus on the paper before him, would
the enemy not focus down his sights. A man needed
all his sense to survive in this country.
Besides, it was bad enough his hair was starting
to thin like his father's, now it looked as if he
would have to wear glasses.
He put aside the unfinished letter. He would
start over again later. Pushing aside the front
flaps of the tent, he stepped outside into the
unforgiving heat. He glanced around the camp.
It was unusually quiet and subdued. An unspoken
tenseness laid about the camp. The buzz circling
the grape vine was the head honchos were planning
something soon.
Walter studied the unfamiliar fauna surrounding
the camp. These aren't my trees, he thought to
himself. What am I doing here? More and more he
had been asking himself this question. He had never
asked it before. It had been clear cut in the
beginning, or so he believed. Uncle Sam was defending
democracy in the world, and he needed brave young
men to protect it. Walter had felt it was his
duty to fight. His older brother hadn't.
"Don't talk to me about duty, Walter! I know all
about duty. When Dad died, I took care of this family.
I paid the bills, I kept a roof over our heads, I
took care of Mom. That's duty! Not traipsing off to
some God-forsaken country you probably never heard of
until now.
Teddy was tired. He'd just gotten off third shift
from the plant, and all he had been looking forward
to was a hot meal and his bed. When he'd encountered
his younger brother in the kitchen, he had tried to
be civil by wishing Walter a happy birthday, but
as usual, their "discussion" degenerated into a fight
when it came to the war and Walter's talk of
participating in it.
"What about Dad," Walter shouted back. "He fought
in World War II. And Grandpa, he did a stint in the
army. I'd be carrying on an honorable Skinner
tradition."
Teddy shook his head as he poured himself a cup
of hot coffee. "How about starting a new honorable
Skinner tradition, like going to college and making
something of yourself." He took a careful sip and
added softly, "Not being another number in a factory."
The dart hit home. Walter reddened at the memory.
Teddy had been all set to attend college himself. The
first Skinner to do so. He'd had plans to become an
engineer, to buy a bigger house for them to live in,
to buy a car made in this decade. Then Dad had had
a sudden heart attack, and all of Teddy's dreams had
gone up in smoke, No, not up in smoke. All of his
dreams had been transferred to Walter to fulfill.
"I'll go to college when I come back. That way
I'll qualify for the GI Bill."
"What if you don't come back?"
Walter started to feel an icy cold shiver down
his back, but shrugged it aside. Of course he
would come back. He wasn't meant to die, he just
knew it.
Teddy turned a chair backwards and straddled it,
placing his cup on the table. "If you register now
for college, the government can't draft you. By the
time you graduate, this whole crazy thing will
probably be over and you will have come to your
senses."
"It's too late," Walter replied softly.
Teddy said nothing. His face said it all. "What
do you mean it's too late?"
Under his cold gaze, Walter shifted nervously from
foot to foot. At one time he had thought of Teddy
as nothing but his brother, slightly older, but an
equal. When their father died, Teddy had seemed to
overnight inherit Dad's authoritative voice and
stance.
"I turned 18 today, remember. I--I went down to
the recruitment office with Buck this morning. I
volunteered." There, it was out. That wasn't so
bad, was it?
Teddy fairly leapt up from where he was sitting,
knocking the chair aside. "You bastard!" he hissed
as his thick fist lashed out and connected with
the side of Walter's mouth. Walter fell back against
the wall, bumping a pastoral picture crooked. Teddy
reached out with one hand, grabbing his brother's
shirt collar, while he cocked his fist back again.
"Theodore!"
"Teddy's arm froze in mid swing.
"Walter!"
Both boys' eyes flew to the back door where their
mother stood with a basket of clothes in her hands.
"What in God's name is going on here?"
Teddy sheepishly dropped his hold on Walter and
shrank underneath his mother's disapproving glare.
Walter stood up and wiped the blood away from his
mouth.
She put her basket down and placed her hands on
her ample hips. Her eyes went back and forth
between her boys. "Is anyone going to tell me
what's brought you two to blows?"
Teddy looked back at Walter, then to his mother.
He thought frantically. Maybe there was a way
to undo this mess. Perhaps he could go down to
the recruitment office himself, maybe tell them
Walter wasn't really 18, that he was legally
under Teddy's guardianship.
Walter hadn't meant for the news to be learned
like this, but now it was all out.
"Mom, I've joined the Marines." He said it in
a hurry, slurring the words together so he could
get it over with.
"Oh," was all she said. Walter had heard about
a person's face drain of all color, but he had
never seen it happen before. Until now.
"Oh." She edged over to the kitchen table and
sank down into on of the chairs.
Walter rushed over to her side and knelt down.
"Mom, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Her voice sounded dead. He looked
into her eyes. There were no tears gathering in
them, yet there was a deep sadness in her pale
blue eyes he hadn't seen there before. Not even
when she had buried her husband.
"Mom, please." He had to swallow a hard stone
in his throat. "Please undestand. It's the right
thing to do. It's what I have to do. You'll see,
I'll make you proud. Wait until you see me in a
dress uniform. And when you go to church, you
can brag to the other ladies about what a brave
son you have in the Marines. I'll win you medals,
Mom. Please, understand. Please."
She reached out a hand, rough and dry from all
the work she did for her family, and cupped Walter's
cheek. She felt the stubble beneath her fingers.
She still had problems thinking of her baby being
a man now. Today he was 18. She had baked his
favorite cake. They were waiting for Candace and
Bryant to come home from school before cutting
into it.
Her baby was looking up at her, now, like he
used to do, his eyes so much like Frank. Walter's
eyes, his face, his whole body, was pleading with
her for understanding and acceptance. Pleading for
support.
It was a sacrifice for her to say what he wanted
to hear. It was a sacrifice all mothers had to make
for their children.
"I understand."
Walter was still daydreaming of the memory
in the kitchen when a blur swept in front of
him. "Get ready."
He blinked. It took a second's delay as his
mind registered what had been spoken to him.
"Dresden, wait!" he called out. "What do you
mean?"
Dresden turned around, walking backwards. "It's
come down. We move out tonight. Get ready." He
turned back and went down the line of tents,
alerting the rest of the platoon.
===========================================================================
From: sumrall@delphi.com (L. Sumrall)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Dear Mom Part II Kinda short
Date: 12 Oct 1995 03:10:39 GMT
Dear Mom (Part 2 **short**)
Walter's face itched.
It always did when they had to put on camouflage makeup.
Tim Tucker's theory was Walter was allergic to the
government issue, and suggested once he got back home,
Walter switch to Avon products. Tim was a good friend.
Not a best friend, mind you. In war, best friends were
taken away too easily. It was for one's own good not
to get too attached to a fellow soldier.
Walter was bent down low, walking behind Adams and
Sorvey, his eyes and machine gun simultaniously sweeping
back and forth. Not that he could make out anything in
the darkness. No one made a noise as they proceeded
through the jungle.
His body was covered in a cold sweat. When on his
first patrol, Walter had refused to admit to any fear.
Now, though, he knew any soldier who wasn't the least
bit afraid, was a fool. Fear kept you alive. It kept
you awake. It kept you alert.
He swallowed convulsively. His tongue was sticking
to the top of his dry mouth. Although he hadn't
spoken a word in hours, his mouth and throat felt
like he had eaten sand. But he couldn't afford to
reach for his canteen least he create noise when
he unscrewed the cap. The concession he made was
to remove his trigger hand from his gun to wipe
the slick sweat off his palm.
It was the wrong moment to do so.
There was a shout up ahead, drowned out quickly
by gunfire. Eerie shadows were cast against the
fauna by the bright fire from the tips of machine
guns exchanging fire. The deafening noise surrounded
Walter, making him unsure of where the enemy was and
where his own people were.
He fell to his stomach, same as those around him.
They had walked into a trap. He pressed his rifle
to his shoulder and opened fire in the general
direction he hoped was the Cong.
There was shouting in both languages. Shouts of
orders, shouts of pain, and shouts of pleading.
Walter tried to block the sound out. He told
himself over and over he had heard it all before.
But above the din he was able to make out the
voice of his commander. "Fall back!" Cohen
screamed. "Fall back!"
"Fall back?" Adams cried back. "They're back
here, you ass hole! There's nowhere to go!"
Somebody was wailing. "I'm hit! Oh God, I'm
hit!"
Walter lifted his head dangerously. "Timmy?"
"Walt, help me! I'm shot! Help me!"
There was a moment, a single moment, where
Walter froze. A million thoughts flew through
his mind.
"I'm coming, Timmy! Hold on!" He started to
crawl forward when his leg was grabbed. A
short cry escaped his lips. He was caught!
"Are you stupid, white boy? Stay down." It
was Sorvey.
"We've got to help him," he protested.
Sorvey shook Walter's leg. "We've got to help
ourselves, first. Stay down. That's an order."
Walter felt every muscle in his body contract.
He didn't want to be here. He wanted to throw down
his gun and say "I quit. I don't want to play
anymore. I'm going home." He wanted Timmy to be
calling anyone's name but his.
He shrugged off Sorvey's hand and started running
in a low crouch. A grenade exploded to his left,
raining clods down hard on his helmet. It was knocked
askew on his head over his head. He rammed it back
upright in time to see the Vietnamese soldier right
in front of his path.
The man's expression was almost comical, and Walter
could imagine the same expression was on his own
face.
Like mirror images, they both stopped as their minds
understood the implications. Like mirror images, their
bodies reacted by pure fighter's instincts. Like
mirror images, they both raised the muzzles of their
weapons at each other.
He was blinded temporarily at the synchronized fire.
The after image burned into his retina was of the
Cong soldier's mouth forming a perfect O. It was a
silly face to be wearing at the moment of death.
Walter felt like laughing.
Instead, he sank to his knees. He didn't have the
breath to laugh. He didn't have the breath to call
out. He struggled to suck in the gunsmoke-tainted
air, but his body wasn't responding. What was
going on? He raised his hand, seeing the action
more than feeling it, and pressed it against his
chest. He looked down but it was too dark to
see anything. The gun slid from his grasp, landing
softly on the bed of leaves with a muffled thunk.
His head began to swim, the sounds of the battle
growing distant. Distant and unimportant.
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