Basilone Postal Exchange Office:

Soldier: First Sergeant; Hauser, Conrad S.

Recipient: Civilian; Hauser, Veronica E.

Address: 1072 Rine St., Clinton County, St. Louis, Missouri.

Date/Time of Mailing: 1230 hrs; 12/06/1963

Subject Matter:Family Matters

Dear sis,

You might've heard over the news it's all finally happening. Saigon - we're going. Tomorrow.

Or more specifically "they're" going...

Yep, you got your wish. Was told this morning by Lt. Colonel Colton himself me and mine have been left off the list for personnel meant to ship out on one of the Lockheeds. Men and materiel from all over are set to touch the tarmac at Tan Son Nhat by 2400 tomorrow. Lead by our esteemed leader, the ever imposing, prodigious figure of General George Abernathy. At the head of a relief force made from the best of the best. Australia, New Zealand, Taiwan, and Japan.

But not me.

Didn't make the cut.

Flint did, of course. So did Basilone's regular rogues' gallery—every hotshot with something to prove and a chip on their shoulder big enough to make the flight crew nervous. The Aussie commando who put Cheech on his back in under three seconds? She's going. So is the Irish pilot who talks like he's got one foot in the air and the other in some other dimension. Our Taiwanese spook from the Iron Pagoda, too. Even the Japanese contingents—both of them—are sending their best. The North crew arrives tomorrow, and if they're anything like the Southern bunch, I'm not sure how anyone is supposed to last six hours in a tin can with them.

But me?

Wasn't even set to load out with half of all our logistics. That's right. Little brother wasn't even good enough to make it with the bean counters and pencil pushers. When the Army keeps telling me to "be all I can be", guess my "all" isn't up to snuff.

Not that I was itching for some action, I'm not one of these guns-ho junkies over here. But a part of me feels like I let something down. I know what you're gonna say: I'm being too hard on myself. That I'm foolish - always have been. That this isn't what I needed, but what I wanted. Saigon. Action. Vietnam…

Car bombings, street shootings, a pressure cooker ready to blow.

But for me it's more than that.

You know me, Eda. I don't give a damn about the fanfare or the speeches or whatever new theory the Pentagon's cooked up to explain how we ended up here. That's never been the point. But when I look at these guys—my guys—the ones I trained with, argued with, who I'd follow to hell and back. To be told in the end we're not good enough to make a difference. It just… I don't know.

Marvin chalks it up to politics.

I agree.

Flint's got the credentials, the pedigree; tough enough to muck about with us grunts, and smart enough to yuck it up with any of the top brass or media man. Should've heard him when he was interviewed at Ginza after that train derailment. Practically sounded like he was running for office, the way he worked that reporter. Put on just enough charm to coat over that ego, flashed a quick smile, abd that's that. Thinking Lt. Colonel Colton would rather trust that face patrolling Saigon, keeping an eye out for some black pajama'd boogeyman, than some grunt like me getting his mugshots taken with his head in the clouds.

I know what you're gonna say. This is dumb, this is my own wounded pride talking. I should be grateful, and maybe I should be. Hell, maybe I am. But you know how it is—we don't sign up for this job just to sit on the sidelines. And I guess that's what this feels like. Like I've been benched in a game I spent my whole damn life training for. Eda, when that train crashed into that little town station at the end of the street, to see how devastated everyone in that town was with every person we pulled from the wreck, I couldn't tell you how relieved I felt to be there. Helping. Doing what I feel is right, and earn these people's smiles they give me every day.

I joined up for a reason, same as Dad. Same as his dad before him. Maybe our old man fought for the sake of duty, maybe for country, maybe just because that's what Housers do. But me? I fight because some folks don't get the choice. I fight because there are people out there who need helping, who don't have the power to change the course of their own lives. And if I can make a difference, if I can be the guy standing between them and whatever's coming? Then damn it, I want to be there...

That's why being left behind burns the way it does. Not because I need war, not because I've got some death wish—but because I know there's something I could be doing, and I can't.

At Ginza I saw the wreckage, the bodies pulled from the rubble. But what they didn't show you—what the cameras didn't catch—was what happened after. How the families banded together, how the shopkeepers and market vendors pulled whatever they had left and started feeding people who had nothing. How the old ladies who ran the laundromats and tea houses opened their doors to anyone who needed shelter. How a city block that had been torn to hell and back still managed to stand together.

Yeah, you're right; it's my pride talking.

But I put on this uniform because I am proud that there are people who need us, rely on us—not for war, not for violence, but for protection, for hope. Dad put on this same exact uniform because every other friend he grew up with on the block was going over, and he didn't want to feel foolish. Is that reasoning any better? If I told you it's because I didn't want to fee like some sort of coward, would that make you understand? Is that why you're putting it on, too?

I don't know.

Sometimes when I get like this, it brings back the memory of when dad and I fought right before I shipped off. The big one - remember? Hell, sure we all do. Ever since that day we've all walked around eggshells trying not to acknowledge it happened. Mom pretends it wasn't a big deal. While you try and act like it weren't nothing, not a thing. I get it; you both are trying to shield Ray and Carl from it, because they don't need to know. They don't need to see how bad dad can get. But here's the thing - he was stone-cold sober when he hit me. Hadn't had a lick of alcohol in him whatsoever.

Nah, what really sent him off was Shuri Castle.

Again.

I was an idiot for trying to bring it up, but...I needed to know.

Mom never hid anything of what she did back in Greece, when she was fighting against the Turks. You can tell she was proud; fighting for her home, for pappous, for yia-yia. While other kids were being read Jack and the Beanstalk, mom put us to sleep with tales of the Trojan War under our pillows. Of brave Leonidas standing with the three hundred at Thermopylae. Of Xenophon's Anabasis.

Yeah, she was weird, but that's why we loved her.

Dad, too, even if he thought she was making a mistake. I get it - I can see his side. In his eyes we were kids, and didn't need to be told war stories growing up. That battle wasn't some "glorious" thing to look forward to.

But thing is with mom you and I always appreciated was at least she talked to us. Before Ray and Carl came along, you and I both heard those stories and never once doubted she was telling the truth. And that in a way it helped her. But when dad came back overseas, we didn't get a peep out of him. He shut in. Stayed quiet. Only ever so often did he let some things slide, but immediately he'd clam up soon as it was broached. Mom was the only one who can get through to him - I remember sitting up at the top of the stairs some nights listening them talk for hours. I'd hear them both crying, and it always revolved around Shuri.

The beginning of the end for dad's war in the Pacific.

And whatever the hell he found in that damned place.

His face paled when I asked, and I could see the veins pop in his face. He got tight again, and for a second I thought he was going stay quiet like he always does. But then he started talking. To this day I believe he did so to try and scare me from enlisting, and am wondering if he's done the same to you (that is if you even told him).

Dad described the assault on Shuri like it was a nightmare.

At the time, higher-ups wanted a swift victory, so they ordered a direct attack. The Japanese were entrenched deep within the fortress, and every step was met with fierce resistance. Sleepless nights, constant banzai charges under the eerie light of flares, and hidden bamboo traps had nimbed a lotnof guys at that point. Dad basically admitted he'd been running off three hours of sleep, and no food.

He wanted it over and done with, he told. Bad. And the only thing carrying him forward was rage. All of them, really. Because hate is a good painkiller, and sometimes he still felt that hate bubble up inside every so often. For no particular reason, he told me. And that if he didn't try to hold it in, let it all go like how Mom talked, he wasn't confident he could control it.

Why he turned to the bottle when he could - he thought it'd make it easier. But in the end, he says, it only made things worse. For everyone. Which is why he tried his best.

At Shuri dad's unit had been ordered to make sure the castle would be relatively untouched. Being a historically important and cultural site and all. That's when dad got this glazed look over his eyes, looked at me harshly before in a low voice goes, "Sure, we'll play nice, all right. We'll play real nice."

It was then I realized he was imitating his former commanding officer Sgt. Roebuck. Dad said the Sarge changed after their captain died and Polanski got gutted in an ambush towards the overlook. After that, he stopped giving a damn about "cultural importance." That's when he called in the artillery strike, and didn't care if it was danger close either; at that point no one gave a damn about personal safety.

For the enemy didn't; dad said every inch towards the main gate was won spilling guts on those lava rock steps. It was then his hands started to twitch, his leg began to bounce; his eyes weren't moving, but I could practically see the gears moving around his head. For however long it took him to describe this to me, dad was back fighting up those steps one more time. His hands didn't forget the actions of working his BAR - the fingers moving from muscle memory, recalling to change an empty magazine once it was spent, then priming the next for another assault on their positions.

Dad relented getting into much detail about the fighting inside. Only that it was close, bloody, brutal. He and the others barely held their positions against the suicide charges. Wave after wave kept coming - he said he'd lost count of how many they shot, how many bodies they had to step over just to move. It was only when it was over—when the screaming stopped and the gunfire faded—they found out why the Japs were fighting so hard to hold on to this nothing piece of rock at the end of their home island chain.

The real reason the Japs fought so damn hard to keep Shuri wasn't about history, or the Emperor, or Okinawa...

It was about these damn pods they found in the lower levels of the fortress.

At least, that's what he called them—these big, metal things hidden deep in the castle, sealed away like something out of a nightmare. They weren't bombs, weren't weapons—at least, not any kind they could recognize. The officers took one look and ordered them classified. Nobody talked about them after that. Nobody was allowed to.

The only reason Dad knew they were even there was because his buddy went to take a dump, got lost, and when they found him he'd stumbled into a giant room full of them.

Brass was immediately notified of the find, and in response sent some guy popping in from out of the ether. OSS, dad told me. And whenever one if those spooks popped up it was never good. Immediately he told everybody not to get anywhere near them - these pods were something else. Dangerous. And "classified".

Hopped up on more than a few beers, I pressed him what made them classified. I coupd see it huet him to say more than he wanted, to relive it all over again. But this time, he didn't hide from it.

Dad and his squad were given a choice - No, scratch that. They weren't given anything. The OSS man said it plain: Dad's unit saw something they weren't supposed to. And now they could either be a liability - in which case all present would be detained and thrown into the nearest holding facility, till they signed over waivers denying everything they saw.

Or they could be an asset helping stop what comes next.

Every single man in the unit signed on.

And dad of course followed suit.

Whatever mission they were sent on, it's buried so deep I can't find record of it anywhere. Only thing he said it took them beyond enemy lines—deep into Japan where they shouldn't have been, chasing leads till Hiroshima.

Dad didn't say who or what they were looking for. When I prodded even further, calling him chicken shit how even then he still didn't have the sack to come clean. That's when he hit me. I deserved it. But afterwards he claimed it was his fault and took his medicine sleeping on the couch for a month.

Then I left for basic...

Don't even know why I'm telling you any of this - know for a fact they've been going through all our mail.

And before you even think it, no, it's not ninja.

Can't tell anymore. "Classification" goes right out the window soon as you start broadcasting everything we do on USNBC Nightly. It's downright comical, honestly

All of Basilone's been on edge since Ginza, and things aren't getting any easier. With The Wall patrols stretched thin—men getting pulled left and right for the expedition force—you can feel the tension rising. Nobody says it outright, but it's in the way people carry themselves, in the way conversations die the second the wrong person walks by.

Like Lt. Colonel Colton.

Man's had a hair across his ass for weeks. Short fuse, shorter patience. He's always been a hard-ass, but this is different. He's got the look of a man who's always checking over his shoulder, like he's expecting something—someone—to be there. Nobody dares say it to his face. That's a death wish. But we all see it.

Even the shit coffee isn't helping his mood.

The other day, I saw him tear into Lamont—Marvin's cousin—right there in the mess. All because he screwed up Colton's cup. Like any of us have ever had a good cup of coffee on this base. Didn't matter, though. Colton was wound tight, looking for a reason to snap, and Lamont just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor guy didn't even flinch, just took it, tight-lipped the whole way through. We all do.

Because that's just the way things are right now.

I don't know anymore, Eda.

Besides Charlie of course - he seems to have all the answers nowadays. He's been spacey as usual, saying we've all been chosen for a fight. And it's coming - that doesn't sound ominous, right? Cheech tells him he's full of it, and says if Charlie continues going on his "spirit walks", "Chief's" bound to get lost somewhere beyond The Wall. Wouldn't be the first time that's happened.

And that's not me saying we're going to war with anyone right now. Technically. But if you keep watching the USNBC Nightly, everyone's hemming about the Doomsday Clock again. Forty-eight seconds. Worse it's been since Cuba. Then we see a guy like McNamara go up in front of a tv camera, throw a bunch of numbers and stats at everyone, trying to make the "plan" sound palatable for us plebs too stupid to know what he's saying, and no one feels all right.

Maybe I'm letting my mind get away from me, reading into things too much. But I've got this gnawing feeling in my gut, Eda. The kind that doesn't go away easy, and I'm torn: I want to help - that's why I chose to do this. But I'm also getting goosebumps everywhere I walk. It's like the feeling you get when you knick yourself with a straight razor. The burn sting ain't so bad, but it's enough to notice. Especially, when I try to sleep. And when I'm in my bunk, I keep thinking about about my conversation with dad, Vietnam, Ginza, Charlie going on about how we've been "chosen"...

Yeah...

We have been actually. Chosen, that is; that old papa-san I tell you about? The one who comes by the base with that red-haired bodyguard of his? Well, he needs us for a detail. Wall duty. Clayton informed us B Company will be attached to a local JSDF recon unit for security. Colton's signed off on it, too. So while everyone gets the limelight in Saigon, I'll be a den mother and hold down the fort.

I guess that's fine. Something tedious like this will help me get my mind off of everything.

So, don't go worrying yourself over me. Whatever happens over, I'll be here. Safe and sound.

In lighter news, your boy Cheech's been leery around me ever since I found the last letter he was writing you. You'd think I stumbled across some top-secret war plan the way he froze. I think it's funny. Been busting his balls about it ever since—latrine duty, extra PT, the works. Don't fret, he's not one to get scared off easy. But if he wants to get in good with you, then by God, he's gonna earn it.

Speaking of which, you put a word in for me with Margaret yet? Fair's fair, you know. I won't bust your chops about that Air Force recruitment thing if you do. I still don't agree with it, mind you. But if that's what you feel is right—well, who am I to stand in your way? Never won a fight with you before, don't see why I'd start now.

Anyways, write back soon, alright? And tell Mom to send over more of the baclava if you can. Better than half the dessert Marv can whip up in the mess. And for dad...give him my best. Not the truth - I'd rather not hear it from him, too, if I can. But say Connie's doing what he said he'd do. Hopefully, that'll be enough.

As always, love you, sis. Tell Carl and Ray the same. I'll send them something fun when I get a chance. Maybe another one of those Japanese comics they liked so much.

Forever and Always your "Little" Brother,

First Sergeant Conrad S. Hauser

US Sixth Army, "B" Company; Camp Basilone, Tokyo, Japan