Happy Birthday, Vic Morrow: "Dear Goon"

It's Vic Morrow's birthday today.  You know he's a favorite of mine.  You know I love the character he played on Combat! (1962-67), Sgt. Saunders, more than any other fictional character I've ever met.  You might even know that I have, for many years, co-maintained a fansite dedicated to Combat! that features all the fanfiction I've written for the show over the past 20 years.  I haven't written any for a couple years, but today, a friend shared a new story with me, and I'd been thinking a lot about Vic because it's his birthday, and, well... a story happened.

This is basically a first draft.  I wrote it after my kids finished school, ran over it once to find typos, and now I'm posting it.  If you've ever wondered what an unedited story from me looks like, well, now's your chance to find out ;-)

Happy birthday, Vic Morrow.  Thank you for everything.

"Dear Goon"

by Rachel Kovaciny/White Queen

Saunders turned the unopened letter over and over in his fingers, wondering.  He'd gotten hundreds of letters from home over the past few years.  His mom favored regular letters over V-mail, but she'd use the faster method if she thought she had things to say that needed to get to him quickly.  Never good things.  Getting V-mail from home usually meant a problem.  Something she thought he could somehow fix from the other side of an ocean.  Something that usually left him feeling frustrated at not being able to be two places at once.

Except this wasn't from his mom.

That wasn't her tight script spelling out his name.  And it wasn't her name in the return address section.  It was a loopy handwriting that said 'Louise Saunders.'  And that worried him.  What could his kid sister need to write him about?  She usually just added a line at the end of their mother's letters, maybe a joke or a funny remark.  She'd never written him a whole letter, much less sent him something on her own.

Saunders headed for his quiet spot in the corner of what had once been a greenhouse.  The platoon had set up their HQ in a bombed-out manor house, and they'd been there for almost three whole days.  Long enough for the mail to catch up with them.  He should be trying to grab some sleep that afternoon, resting up before tonight's patrol.  Night patrols were always rough.  But he'd never sleep until he knew what Louise needed.

Thinking her name brought a half-smile to his face.  Louise.  Such a grown-up name for a runny-nosed brat with skinned knees and pigtail braids and freckles.  No wonder he almost never used it.  Not to her face, anyway.  Maybe she'd grow into it one day.

He settled into the corner he'd cleared for himself, sunshine pouring through the glass above and behind him, good walls to his back, all approaches in clear view.  Half of the greenhouse was a twisted wreck, smashed when a bomb tossed a huge tree on top of it.  The other half had been cluttered up with junk and debris, but the panes of glass and metal framework holding them were still just fine.  And it was quiet.

Saunders knew he was just delaying the moment when he'd have to open the letter, read about his sister's problems, maybe see if he could write her back with a few words of... whatever she needed.  Advice, probably.  Didn't daughters and mothers sometimes butt heads?  Maybe she and their mom were on the outs. That was it.  Probably.

Unless there was some reason their mom couldn't write to him.  Chilling thought.

Unfolding the paper against his knee, he skimmed the letter through first, checking to make sure there wasn't any dire news.  No deaths, no illnesses.  She'd typed the whole thing, with occasional misspellings and X-ed out words.  Probably thought she could fit more words that way.  He went back and reread the whole thing slowly, once he saw there was nothing serious to worry about.  

Dear Goon,

I suppose I shouldn't address your letter that way.  Not on the outside, anyway.  Bet they wouldn't deliver something marked 'Sgt. Goon Saunders.'  Maybe they would.  Maybe I should say 'Dear Sergeant' here instead, too.  They read V-mail, don't they?  I guess they read all your mail.

I'm stalling.  Sorry.  I've got a problem.  This is so awkward, but I don't know who else to talk to.  My problem's name is Terry Dawes.  He's sixteen too, and funny, and he reads more books in a week than I read in a year.  I like him an awful lot.  I even asked him to the Fourth of July dance last week -- it was a Sadie Hawkins dance, so that wasn't awkward, me asking him to the dance.  That's not the problem.

The problem is, I mean it when I say I like him.  So much.  Have you ever been in love?  How do you know if you are?  I know you've had girlfriends.  I even liked some of them.  But you didn't ask any of them to marry you before you left for the war, so I guess you didn't love any of them.  And I don't guess you'll fall in love while you're fighting a war, unless you meet a nurse or something.

Stalling again.  Here's the real problem: what if I'm falling in love with Terry?  How do I know if he's a good guy?  I mean, a really good, solid guy?  My friends like him.  But they're all sixteen like me.  What do they know?  Mom likes him.  But what does that tell me?  She liked our dad too, once.  Look how that ended up.  And I don't want to end up that way.  I know I'm too young to get married yet, but it won't be long before I'm not.  I'll be seventeen next year, and eighteen a year after that, and then... 

I know you understand people.  I just wish there was some way for you to meet Terry and tell me what you think of him.  I want your approval.  Isn't that wild?  You're probably laughing your head off by now.  That's what you usually did when I asked you for help with something.  Glad I could amuse you.  But, after you'd laugh, you'd help.  You always did.

Don't worry, I'm not eloping with him or anything.  I've promised Mom to finish high school, and I will.  Maybe by the time I do, you'll be home, and you can meet Terry and tell me what you think of him, first-hand.  I don't even know why I'm writing you this.

Thanks for listening, Goon.  When you get home, can I still call you that?  Or should I start practicing saying 'sergeant' and 'yes, sir' and saluting?

Your bratty little sister,

   Louise

Saunders smoothed the creases and wrinkles in the paper against his knee, rubbing his palm over the letter. The Brat was sixteen?  The Brat had a steady boy?  When did that happen?  While he'd been gone, obviously.  Almost three years -- yeah, she would be about sixteen by now.

What had it been like to be sixteen?  He'd been sixteen when their dad left.  Sixteen was a lifetime ago.  What could he tell her?  Be careful?  Mom would tell her that.  Be sensible?  Maybe.  

Saunders leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.  What did he know about the kind of love a sixteen-year-old girl might be feeling?  Not that swift, aching desperation he'd felt a couple times the past year or so, that yearning for a private little oasis in the middle of a war.  Just two kids, pure and clean and sweet and happy, holding hands and dancing the jitterbug.  And thinking, maybe, this is it.  Asking a wise older brother for advice.  

Some wise older brother he was.

Sergeant Saunders, all out of advice.  Wasn't that a laugh.  Why did the words and the wisdom come easily when he had shells going off all around, or when he was pinned down in a firefight?  But now, nothing.

Who had he loved when he was sixteen?  Could he even push his mind back that far, past the war, past his jobs, past making sure his mom could make rent and his siblings could eat.  Sixteen.  A face teased him, taking its time coming into focus.  His high school sweetheart:  perky nose, red hair, little gap between her top front teeth.  Not his first kiss, but his first real sweetheart.  And he couldn't even remember her name now.  The Brat was right -- he'd never loved any of his girlfriends back home.

Be patient.  The Brat was never patient.  That's what she needed him to tell her.  Take her time, enjoy being sixteen, and let the rest come when she was ready.

Saunders opened his eyes.  It was better than nothing.  Maybe more words would come to him when he had those down.  He pulled out the pen and paper he'd stashed in his jacket's inner pockets, uncapped the pen, and started writing.

Dear Louise,

You can call me Goon as long as you want.  If I can still call you the Brat to your face.  What would your Terry think of that?

Listen, the thing I remember about being sixteen is, everything's happening all at once and you're in a big rush about it all.  Well, don't be...

The End