spencer is headed to california to get his wings, before he goes tommy gives him one night of freedom before he is swept up in the inevitable tide of war. in the tropic heat spencer holds tommy’s close to his heart and sends him letters from vietnam.
inspired by the song “travelin soldier” by the chicks.
text below the cut! feel free to send me questions ab this wip!
Dear T,
I thought it was hot in Florida, but it doesn’t compare to the heat here in Vietnam. Even on the base, which is pretty far inland, it still feels like the tide could just sweep you away. I almost wish it could.
I had to do my first air strike yesterday, it’s crazy how something you love to do can quickly turn to something you hate. The first few minutes in the sky I feel free, like I can just float above it all, like maybe I could fly back home to you. But then reality knocks me on my ass as I plug in coordinates to drop more bombs or agent orange. Every time I hear one of those bombs go off I feel sick, like it’s my fault. I know logically I’m just a cog in the machine, but sometimes I feel like i’m responsible for the whole damn system. I try not to think about it, but it’s hard not to think there are poor Vietnamese men and women who are in the same place as me. Fighting in a war with no end in sight. They have momma’s and daddy’s and children. Hell some of them probably enlisted for the same reason as me.
But I put myself here. Ran away from my problems right to the recruiters office. I suppose three hots and a cot seemed like a good deal when I was living in my car. If only I had known how much it would all cost. It doesn’t feel real when you hear it on the news. They talk about how there were 5,000 casualties. They don’t call it what it is, murder. I wouldn’t wish seeing that on anyone. I’ve seen a lot of good men, people who were kind and had their whole life ahead of them die. People who sat beside me in the mess hall on Thursday, to be going home in a box by breakfast on Friday. There’s no quiet here, no reprieve from it all. I can hear gunfire and screams in the distance. But I keep trying to pretend it’s the sounds of the fair and fireworks back home.
When I get real low, when I think about nosediving my plane right into the battlefield, I think of you. Of your kindness, your laugh, your brown eyes. I think of how we danced in that bar and you held me while I sobbed like a baby. And how you didn’t judge me for it. I think of how it felt right to have your hand in mine and your lips pressed against my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything that could ever compare or bring me a greater sense of peace. So late at night, when I hold my grandma’s rosary, and clutch my pocket bible to my chest. Know I’m thinking of you and that your picture is the one marking 1 John 3:20-21.
