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.