The mail finally came. Private Leo Matsuo grabbed his letter, hands trembling. His mother's handwriting—she was alive.
"My dearest son," it read. "We are well. The camp is crowded but we have food. Your father works in the mess hall. I pray for you every night. Come home safe. We are so proud of you."
Leo read it three times, memorizing every word. His parents were behind barbed wire in America while he bled for America. The irony wasn't lost. But they were alive. That was enough.
He tucked the letter over his heart and picked up his rifle.
The war continued. But now he carried hi