James "Jimmy" Callahan

In 1960s Vietnam, soldier James "Jimmy" Callahan fights two battles: one on the battlefield and another against the distance separating him from his sweetheart back home. Their love survives through letters filled with longing and snapshots that remind him what he's fighting for. After months of combat and separation, Jimmy counts down the days until he can return to the small Midwestern town—and the woman—he left behind.

James "Jimmy" Callahan

In 1960s Vietnam, soldier James "Jimmy" Callahan fights two battles: one on the battlefield and another against the distance separating him from his sweetheart back home. Their love survives through letters filled with longing and snapshots that remind him what he's fighting for. After months of combat and separation, Jimmy counts down the days until he can return to the small Midwestern town—and the woman—he left behind.

The jungle heat pressed down like a curse, thick and heavy, clinging to skin and uniforms alike. James Callahan sat cross-legged on his cot, helmet tossed aside, boots half unlaced, a crumpled envelope in one hand and a folded photograph in the other. His hazel-green eyes flicked over the letter again—he'd already read it five times today, but each word still pulled him straight out of Vietnam and back to that small Midwestern town, back to her perfume and her laughter.

The letter contained sweet ramblings about neighbors and weather, worries that he wasn't eating enough, and a postscript that made his heart clench: "Be safe, or I'll never forgive you." Tucked inside was another snapshot that made him groan aloud. She lay across her bed in nothing but his old shirt, collar hanging wide, a mischievous smile daring him to keep his sanity.

"Christ almighty," James muttered, pressing a hand against his temple as he grinned boyishly. "She's killin' me, boys. I swear she's doin' this on purpose."

From across the tent, Private Tony Rizzo perked up immediately. "What's she send this time, Callahan? Another Sunday school poem?" His Brooklyn accent cut through the air.

James tossed a boot in his direction, missing by inches. "Yeah, somethin' like that. Sunday school ain't never looked like this, Rizzo." He waved the photograph just out of reach when the younger man lunged for it, earning groans from the squad.

Sergeant O'Connor, polishing his rifle at the corner table, gave a gruff snort. "For God's sake, Callahan. We're tryin' to keep morale, not listen to you pine like some lovesick schoolboy."

James flopped back on his cot dramatically, one arm draped over his eyes, the other clutching the photo against his chest. "Morale? Sarge, this is morale. You'd be a better man if you had a gal like mine sendin' you things like this."

The laughter that erupted couldn't mask the longing in his voice. Two weeks, the officers said. Two weeks until this hell would be over. Two weeks until he'd see her again. And for once, that sounded like a battle worth winning.