Dear Soldier Boy (14 page)

Sixty-eight days. He was almost there,
almost home. And he wasn’t coming back. Thank Christ. He was done. Done with
freezing his ass off in the winter and being boiled alive in the summer. Done
with being shot at. Done with shooting. Just done.
Matthew groaned as he stretched his
hands above his head. His back was killing him. Vivian was right; he was an old
man. Too old for this shit. The corners of his mouth pulled up when he thought
of her. Only sixty-eight days.
He squinted over the red haze of the horizon.
Almost time to head back to base. Today had been a good day, and by that, he
meant no one had shot at them. The Taliban were the official enemy, but the
makeshift soldiers of the Afghan National Army could be just as deadly, and
unlike the Taliban, they were expected to stand shoulder to shoulder with the
ANA, train them, help them, and pray every day that they wouldn’t turn on them.
There was no way to verify their allegiance. The ANA had no loyalty to America
or the coalition. They were held together in a tenuous truce because they had a
common enemy. But there was no denying the animosity the Afghani soldiers felt
towards their foreign trainers. Matthew felt it every day. He didn’t trust them
anymore than they trusted him. He would train them to fight because that meant
he could go home. The hope had been to leave the Afghan Army able to defend
themselves, but that hadn’t happened. More than a decade later, they still
weren’t ready, and they probably wouldn’t be. It didn’t help that their loyalty
was split, or that they had something in common with the Taliban. After all, religion
made for powerful ties.
Matthew opened his water and poured some
over his head. The dust congealed in the lines of his face. He had
more of those than when he came. But he was almost done, another day ticked
off the calendar. They were done for the day. They would come back tomorrow to continue the
lesson in futility. “OK boys, round um up.”
The Dari translator rattled off more
words than Matthew had spoken. He always did. He was fairly certain his
language specialist provided a commentary more often than he translated, but he
didn’t care, because he was going home. Soon, this would be someone else’s
problem.
Shots rang out in the distance. His head snapped up to see where the gunfire was coming from. “Fuck,”
Matthew muttered under his breath. They had almost made it all day. Clearly,
that was too much to ask. “Get
down. Down. Go! Go! Go!” He jumped into the trench. “Anyone hit?”
One of his men answered in the negative. But then his eyes caught sweat glistening on bronzed skin. “Get down, Garcia! Get off the fucking road.”
But it was too late. Garcia’s back arched as his body lunged forward.
“Ah, shit!”  To the other soldiers, he ordered,“Stay down!” More shots. “Where is it coming from?”

“The trees,” someone said.
His eyes darted over the flat expanse,
searching. He tore his radio from his waist. “Any Comanche down there, I need
support up the river.” Shit, they didn’t have time to wait. Bullets were coming
down faster, in the telltale pop-pop-pop pattern.
Hurry
up! We need support!
Shit, they didn’t have time. They needed to fight
their way out of this. No time like the
present to put the ANA training and his teaching to the test. “Use the RPG,” he
shouted to the translator. “Tell him to aim high, but not too high. He always shoots too high.
Lower. Shoot lower at the trees. We need to try to get an L shape ambush going.”
Garcia tried to stand. His face
contorted in a pained plea, begging for help, not to be left in the road to
die. “Get down,” Matthew screamed. “Get the
fuck down.” Garcia was in shock. He couldn’t hear anything Matt was saying. He
was going to get himself killed. Stupid kid. He was only nineteen. “Get Down!”
 

Matthew jumped out of the trench. Before he could stop himself, he ran to Garcia
and tackled him to the ground. The younger man screamed, and thrashed, and spit
at him to get off him, but Matthew didn’t budge. “You’re going to be fine. We’re
going to get you out of here. Just stay down.”
More shots. The blades of helicopters
buzzed in the distance. “Almost home,” he whispered. “We’re almost there,
buddy. Stay down. Stop fighting me. We’re going to be OK. We’re almost home.”
He repeated the last words like a mantra, over and over, until Garcia stilled
beneath him.
Billows of dust erupted on the side of
the road as bombs fell in quick succession. The Comanche’s were there. Help was
there. But they were too close. Oh fuck, they were too close.
             

Chapter Thirty-Three

[email protected]
Sent 10/01/16

[email protected]

Dear Soldier Boy,                                                                     

Boo! Guess who? I thought this would be the perfect time to write again, even though I haven’t heard from you. Given that my last email talked about necrophilia, I’m hoping that’s not why you haven’t written? Actually, I suppose with what I've seen on C-SPAN, it would be preferred that the reason for silence was because I grossed you out and you couldn’t bring yourself to write me again.

So here it goes, Matthew, I’m sorry. I don’t have a thing for necrophilia. I was just being silly about the idea of me being in a coma and you going so long without sex to find me unavailable. I suppose I could have given you some alternatives other than to have sex with my corpse of a body, but I was trying to be funny and obviously failed.

I’m sorry.

No more necrophilia jokes. I promise. Well maybe one more? Haha, just kidding no more.

And I really don’t sit around with any dolls. I do have the GI Joe doll, but he has been sitting on my desk since I bought him. I haven’t touched him. I promise.

It feels odd to write to you, since I haven’t heard from you, but I will anyway. I began our letters not sure if I would hear back, and then I did. So, I’m going to hope that I will this time, too. Maybe I shouldn’t joke in this letter? Maybe it would be better if I keep it serious and poetic?

No, I can’t, Matthew. I can’t. When I think about you, it makes me so happy, and my heart is dancing around inside my body. Not really, obviously, because that isn’t physically possible, but I do feel this incredible surge of happiness when you cross my mind. Which is every freaking day.

Since you haven’t written back, I’ve been reading all of your previous emails and letters to me. It makes me feel closer to you. I’ve got them all printed for our wedding book ;)

Just kidding I don’t have a wedding book, and I’m sorry for saying that part about my dream, and you getting on your knees, and everything. I was trying to be silly and funny, but I really don’t want you to feel some sort of weird pressure about engagement, and weddings, and all of that. I just want to see you and be with you. Really. So, despite my jokes, please know that I have no expectations. Other than sexual. Haha! (That parts not a joke though. ;) )

It’s October, and this year I’ll have to forgo couple costumes, but don’t think you’re getting out of that next year. No way. We will have to come up with something really amazing. Liz and her husband always have a huge (you know what I’m talking about) Halloween party and costumes are a big (again) deal.

This year, I’m going as Little Red Riding Hood, but unfortunately, I’ll just have to have my little wolf doll stuck in my basket, since you won’t be there to play along with me.

Kind of like now, it’s just me typing out into the interwebs,  hoping to hear back from you. Matthew, I know I shouldn’t type about what’s going on, but it’s bad. Really bad. I’ve almost given up watching C-SPAN. I battle myself from covering my ears so I can’t hear what is being said, and closing my eyes so that I can’t see what’s happening. I want to be ignorant,   pretend like it isn’t real and that it’s some scary, horrible movie I’m watching, and that the reality of the situation is fake. That you aren’t really there. I almost want to pretend that you aren’t real, just so that you wouldn’t be there.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that, but I won’t delete it because I want you to know how scared and worried I am about you. I’m so worried.

I just came back. Duke and I ran ten miles. Ten Matthew. Can you believe that? I can. I had to get out. I had to run. We ran the entire mall eight times. I just kept circling and passing by every single monument. Each time I got to the Lincoln Memorial, I teared up. I’m not a crier, Matthew. But every time I got to it, I stopped, and I sat down on the steps and cried. Every single time. The image of you kissing me in front of the Lincoln Memorial was there in my mind, and it was like a picture that was fading. Every time I got to the steps, the picture got lighter and lighter. Duke would nudge my elbow, and force me to get up and keep going. And I did. I’d start running again. I passed by the reflection pool, and God, how I reflected. On everything. On us. On our letters. And on you, and where you are, and what you are going through, and then I’d hit the Lincoln Memorial again, and the tears would start falling. I’m sure I looked like a crazy woman. Which makes sense, because I am crazy. I’m going crazy thinking about you and not hearing from you.

Please email back if you can,. even if it’s just a word. Something. Anything. I’ve got to know if you’re okay. I have to know. I need to know.

With Love, Your Civilian Girl,

Vivian

Chapter Thirty-Four

Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but the
only thing that came out was a moan.
Where
am I? What happened? Where is Garcia? Tell them to abort. They are too close.
It was happening again.
Not again. Not again.
Don’t let it happen again.
No, this was just his dream. The words
would not come out because he was dreaming. That’s why his eyes wouldn’t open.
But it was so loud, like the blades of a helicopter buzzing. Yes, a helicopter.
He was in a helicopter. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? He
screamed, but only a gurgled sound came out. His lungs burned. He needed air. He was drowning, but not in water. What was it? Was it the sand? Yes, it
must be the sand, that's why his feet burned. He needed to cut off his feet.
Cut them off, and then he would wake up. Almost over. Almost home.
He was on the ground now. The helicopter
landed.
No, keep going! Take me home!
His feet still burned. And his face. Why did his face burn? Why couldn’t he
see?
Open your eyes!
he screamed at
himself. It was time to wake up. He was moving. Someone was moving him.
Someone touched his arm. Vivian? Was he
already home? Yes, he was home and dreaming.
Wake up and see her. Wake up!

“Matthew, I’m the Chaplain. You are at
the hospital. You’re at Landstuhl
Regional Medical Center. You’re in safe hands. We’re praying for you.”
No. No. No!
he screamed, but nothing came
out.
Wake up you mother fucker. Wake up. Vivian!

“He is agitated. He’s in pain. Give him
another shot of morphine.”
No, no drugs. I want to wake up.
But he was being pulled under. Darker…warmer…black…nothing.

Chapter Thirty-Five

[email protected]
Sent 11/01/16

[email protected]

Dear Matthew,                                                                                    

I did it. Today, I changed the calendar in my kitchen from October to November. I’ve been waiting to do this for so long. A while ago, I even purchased a bottle of champagne so that I could celebrate with some bubbles. I’m not an alcoholic drinking in the morning or something. I bought some orange juice, too, so I could make mimosas. A big pitcher of them. I was going to sit in my kitchen drinking my mimosas and staring at my calendar.

My calendar? What is wrong with me? Isn’t that crazy? No, it’s not actually. I was looking forward to the big “moment” of changing from October to November. Because, after all this time, I would get to stare at the circled date of the 27
th
. I would see it every day without peeking underneath the page. There would be no reason for me to touch my calendar as I was making coffee in the morning and dinner later at night. I wouldn’t have to look underneath anymore. It was finally going to happen.

You. You were going to happen. It’s been three months since I’ve heard from you. Ninety days, twenty-two and a half- half weeks. I added half to that because that is real. But I’m feeling so much like you are not. Like I made all of this up. Like I catfished myself or something. That I was having this epic romance with this amazing, creative, hilarious, intelligent, sexy man, and it was all me. By myself. Alone. And afraid. I’m so afraid. What we had made my life. You are my life. With you, I felt whole. I felt complete.