Letters Home -

Saint John's Letter aka Lost in the Mail -

July 4, 1969 - 1100 Hours

Hunched over, Saint John Hawke huddled over his cot writing. Sweat dripped down his back and the air was acrid with the stench of gunpowder. To have said he was ready to go home would've been an understatement.

He was tired of the heat, the bugs - another one bit mercilessly at his neck and he slapped at it, the fighting and the war nobody seemed interested in winning.

Most of all, he was tired of watching his buddies die. He swallowed, thinking of Danny yesterday, getting shot in the gut and him, blood oozing over his fingers, thick and sticky as he tried to stop the flow. He'd lied to him, telling him it'd be okay, he was going to be okay and they'd both known it. He'd seen it in Danny's eyes and he'd felt it the instant he took his last breath.

The paper blurred in front of his eyes, and he hauled in a tight breath.

The fact that Saint John had shot the sniper that did it was cold comfort. Come down from his tree to survey his handiwork, he'd been on the two of them almost before he'd had heard him. The only thing that'd saved him was he'd stepped on a branch at the last instant and Saint John had swung around, emptying his handgun into him.

He didn't know who'd been more surprised.

He just knew he'd come within a hand's breadth of dying yesterday.

Which was what had brought him to writing this letter to String.

He'd signed up with Mace as part of a Special Operations Group. Mace because he liked the adrenaline rush and him because he wanted baby brother out of it. They needed a helicopter pilot and he had no intention of it being String. He'd seen too easily what a moment of distraction could cost you.

Better he stuck with flying rescue missions, at least no matter how bad it got there, you had some idea what you were flying into.

For once, fate had seemingly conspired on his side, String's portion of the unit was on a three day leave when the position had come up, allowing him to take it without any argument. He had no doubt the kid was going to be hot when he found out.

But with any luck, the only way String'd be flying in there would be if they needed rescuing - something Saint John had no intention of ever needing if it was in his power.

Still…he couldn't shake the creepy feeling this mission was giving him. Common sense said it was the aftereffects of yesterday. Mortality had a nasty way of kicking you in the gut. Watching Danny die and almost doing the same himself would make anybody spooky.

Superstition told him it was something else.

All he knew was, he was glad it was him going and not String.

And so, here he sat, writing a letter he hoped no one would ever read, least of all String. After all, how do you tell your brother goodbye?

Yet, he couldn't not do it. He'd seen too many guys go out and not come back. He knew how String'd been when their parents died.

Frowning, his hand hovered over the paper, fighting the urge to crumple it. No, he owed his brother this much. He shoved the note into an envelope before he could re-think it.

Pounding feet halted outside his tent door. "Sinj! Let's go!" Mace yelled. "They've moved up the timetable. Bird in the air in five!"

No more time. No more second thoughts… Scrawling his brother's name across the envelope, Saint John tossed it on the bed, consoling himself he could always rewrite it when he came back.

And if not…

Well, he grimaced wryly, scooping up his helmet. They'd at least find it when they came to pack up his effects…

Loping, he ran for the helicopter.

July 4, 1969 - 2200 hours

Wind sweeping the camp with gale force winds, Stringfellow Hawke waited out the storm leant against a lone battle-scarred huey, waiting to go up, waiting to go back... waiting to find Saint John.

Compassion darkened the steel grey eyes watching him. Ten hours gone. Not that it mattered. He was grounded, he just didn't know it yet.

Four trips was enough. Okay, maybe not, but sometimes it didn't matter how many trips you made. Unfortunately, this looked to be one of those times.

Nine men gone - two good pilots. One of which who belonged to the half-drowned chopper pilot he had left.

Rain poured down, turning the hard-packed dirt to muck. The sky overhead crackled with luminescent fire, the rumblings of approaching thunder loud in his ears. If anything, the storm was getting worse…

A thick hand started to reach for his poncho.

"Sappers in the wire! Sappers in the wire!" The desperate yell rang out across the camp. Even as he spun, a grenade lobbed across the razor wire.

Men scattered, ducking, yelling, cursing as shrapnel ripped into sandbags. Flames licked at outlying tents burning as Viet Cong clamored through the wire. Saint John's was among them.

Behind him, rotor wash swept across the ground, flattening everything in its path as the last remaining Huey abruptly swung into the air, guns blazing.

Smoke and mist whipped the wind as the helicopter joined the fray, and the war waged on.