the war - a short story

Day 54

I’m smiling while I hold a picture of her. It just got here last week and I can’t stop myself from looking at it.. at her. She’s so beautiful. The picture almost perfectly encapsulates everything that I love about her; her perfect smile, her beautiful eyes, her long hair, which seems to have gotten even longer in my absence, and her belly.. growing ever rounder with our child.

She says she doesn’t want to know the babies sex. I’m fine with that. As long as we know that she’ll, or rather it’ll, be healthy. I’m always calling it a “she.” It’s not that I necessarily have a preference of boy or girl, but there’s just something in me that’s sure that it’ll be a she. I rub my thumb over her belly in the picture, and in my head imagine I can feel the baby kicking.

God, I wish I was there. With her. With them. I miss her more every day. I used to be able to talk to her almost daily, but now I’m lucky if I can get five minutes a week. The new base I’ve been relocated to is in the middle of a dead spot. Receptions so shitty that the calls are constantly dropping. Same goes for Internet chats, which at this point I’ve pretty much all but given up hope on. I’m hoping to get moved again soon, but even if it was tomorrow it wouldn’t be soon enough.

I close my eyes for a moment and try to imagine I’m there with her. That I’m back in our apartment, sitting on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars. I’ve never been a fan of the show but she loves it and I could never say no to her, I never want to. I love the way she lays on me while we watch the show. How every five minutes or so, like clockwork, she looks up at me, making sure I’m still attentively watching the show. How, during the commercials, she kisses me and tell me she loves me. I can almost taste her strawberry lip gloss now. Almost. 

“That your lady?” he asks.

His question rips me from my fantasy and I’m back, in the desert, trudging through ankle high sand. I look over my shoulder and he’s there, standing over me staring attentively at my wife.

“Yeah.” I make sure to convey my annoyance when I answer him.

The man’s name is Chuck, and he’s an asshole. I’ve had, maybe six or seven conversations with the man, and each of them has left me with a bad taste in my mouth. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a blatantly narrow-minded, racist, prick that made me detest him so much. It was the fact that he knew he was, and didn’t give enough of a damn to change it.

Everyone, and I do mean everyone, hated the man, and he knew it, but he just didn’t seem to care. At times it almost seemed as though he liked it, the confrontations he had with the other soldiers. Like it was some sort of game of “how many people can I piss off today?” and he was aiming to beat his record, daily.

It recently become common knowledge that he’d be leaving the base and heading back stateside. The soldiers in our platoon plan on throwing a party the day after, to celebrate his departure. I suppose it only makes sense that I, whose never been partnered with him for scouting duties, would be paired with him today. His last day. Lucky me.

“She’s, uh, she’s real pretty,” he says in his thick, Southern drawl. I turn to him, shocked. It was the first kind thing I’d ever heard him say. Perhaps the fact that he was leaving had him in a good mood. 

“Thanks,” I reply.

“Yeah, yeah. I normally wouldn’t go for a Chink but she ain’t half bad.”

There we go. That’s the Chuck I know. The racist son of bitch who was always one step from catching a fist to the face. I could hit him, it’s not as though I’d be the first. He’s gotten into physical altercations with almost every single person in the platoon. Even Victoria swung at him after he made a comment about her son being gay. But I’m not one to fight another man, sticks and stones or however the saying goes.

Today’s his last day, I tell myself a few times while taking a couple of deep breathes. That helps calm me down.

“I used to have a picture just like that of my lady.” His voice lingers at the end of the sentence. If I had to guess, I would say he wants me to comment on what he said, but truthfully, I don’t give a damn about him, his lady, or anything else concerning him. We continue walking in silence for a moment when he continues, “But that was before she died.”

Damnit. I may not like this guy, I may find him utterly detestable, but even I have sympathy for something like that.

“Uhm,” I clear my throat, “what happened?”

 “Hmm?” he looks surprised that I bothered to ask, “she was killed a few years back.”

“Ah, she was a soldier too?” I ask.

“No,” he stops and pulls out his canteen and takes a sip of water, “she was killed back in the states.”

“Back in the states?” his statement catches me off-guard, “you’re saying she was murdered?”

“Huh, it’s funny you say that,” he chuckles, “is it not murder if she had died over here?”

“Well, I, uh,” I pause, unsure of how to answer the question.

“I’m just saying it’s interestin’, innit? Nobody says you got murdered when you die on the battle field. Just a casualty of war. Ya got killed, not murdered,” his smile fades, “but yeah, murdered. She was murdered.”

He starts walking again and I follow slightly behind him. I want to ask him what happened, but I don’t want it to appear as though I’m prying. While he was the one to bring it up, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he wants to discuss it. I can imagine just the thought of it must hurt him. But, on the other hand, it could be his attempt at trying to get something off his chest.

I decide to speak, “do you want to talk about what happened?”

He slows down enough so that we’re now walking side by side and says, with a smile, “tryin’ to get the low down on ol’ Chuck so you can run and tell everyone all my deep dark secrets, eh?”

“It’s not like that,” my voice is stern, “you brought it up, so I just figured that you might want to talk about it. But if not-”

“I did, didn’t I?” he looks forward again, “I guess I’m just gettin’ nostalgic is all, since I’m heading back tomorrow. They tell me I won’t be able to do any more tours, so once I’m stateside, that’s it for me.”

That actually made a lot of sense. Chuck was older than any soldier at the base, and, now that I think about it, he was even older than some of the Captains. This was his seventh tour, which was unheard of. Most soldiers took one of three routes, they either gave it up, got promoted, or died in the line of duty.

I had heard rumors that Chuck had been offered promotions, but every time they made an offer he would reject it; that his reasoning for it was that he just loved being on the frontline. Seven tours. This was my first and I’m all but ready to pack it up and head home.

“Why would you want to do any more tours?” I ask.

“Why?” he seems baffled by my question, “why the hell not?”

“It’s just, there are other ways to serve your country. You could move up in rank. I know you’ve been offered it before.”

“Not my thing. I’m not about politics and all that bureaucratic bullshit. Just give me a gun and tell me where to point it. That good enough for me.” How ridiculously simple minded. But, it doesn’t surprise me that he thinks like that, “It’s all I know. Hell, it’s all I’ve got at this point.”

“You don’t have anyone waiting for you back home? No one?”

“I never had no one to begin with, kid,” his voice is somber, “all I had was her, and even that was taken away from me.”

I decide to come right out and ask, “what happened?”

He turns to me and looks me in the eye. His gaze is intense, and it feels like he’s staring deep within my soul, as if trying to verify my motives for asking. After a moment he gives me a slight nod and turns forward again, “it happened seven years ago yesterday,” he pauses and wipes sweat from his forehead, “she was just going to get some money out of the ATM after work.

Ya see, she worked late. Always taking overtime whenever she could. Hard worker. Just one of the things I loved about ‘er,” he smiles slightly, and I can’t help but recognize it; it’s the same smile I have when I think about my wife, “well, anyway she stopped by the ATM and got the money out when they came for. Coupla God-Damn niggers,” he pauses and looks at me, “no offense.”

It’s not as though I’ve never heard the word before, or let alone been called it; I won’t say I’m used to it, but in his case, just for today, I’m willing it let it slide with him.

“None taken,” I reply.

“Oh, okay,” he continues with his story, “well, where was I?”

“The ATM.”

“Oh, yeah. After work, at the ATM,” he continued with the story, telling me how the two men came from behind and held a gun to her, forcing her to take out all of the money from her bank account; how they then proceeded to grab her and take her in their van; how they took her to a deserted place in the city and each took turns raping and beating her until she died from blunt force trauma; how she was found in a garbage container the following day by a homeless man; how he heard the news of his wife’s death while he was stationed here, and had to wait two weeks, due to bad weather in the area, before he could even go home to attend her funeral. At one point it seemed like he was about to cry, but he held it together as he continued to tell me how, once he returned and spoke to the police he found out that the eyewitness who reported the crime did not see their faces; how the police were left with no choice other than stop searching for the suspects; and, about how it was the medical officer who told him that she was pregnant with, what would have been, their first child. It was at that point that his voice broke and I was sure that, if he continued, he would most definitely break down.

I reach out my hand and place it on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Chuck.”

“It’s,” he clears his throat, “it’s alright. I’m fine.”

I want to tell him that it’s okay to let it out, here while we’re alone, away from the others. That I’m not going to judge him for that. I can’t even see how he’s able to keep it together as well as he does. I don’t think I’d be able to, if roles were reversed. I think of my wife, and how much she means to me. What would I do if I lost her? Lost them? How could I possibly go on living? How does he go on living?

“Look I know I’m an asshole,” he says, “I cuss a lot, I’m vulgar, I can be racist and belligerent. I understand that fully. It’s not like I suddenly became this way once I lost ‘er.. once I lost them. It was just.. Well, she accepted me for who I was. Bad and all. She was like the sun to me, ya know? She was light. I loved her more than I loved myself.”

“I understand. I mean, I don’t understand what you went through but I.. I just, I get what you’re saying.” I don’t know what else to say to him that could possibly ease the pain. I’m sure there’s nothing.

“Trippy shit is, ya know, I was over here fighting for the damn people in my country, and those same damn people were fighting against me. I fight for their, whaddya callit, inalienable rights? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, right?” I nod to confirm, “yeah, and those bastards went and shitted all on it. Took her life, fucked up our liberties, and took away the only happiness I ever had. But yet and still, here I am, fighting for good ol’ America. Shit, not everybody’s bad. There’s good people,” he turns to me and smiles, “people like you, and that wife of yours. I’m sure ya’ll are good people. And I hope to Heaven you make it back to her.”

I open my mouth to respond when I feel his hand push into my chest, and I fall down towards the sand. In the same instant I see him quickly bring his assault rifle to arms and aim out into the distance.

Just as I hit the ground I turn my head and, a few clicks away, I see four armed men aiming their guns toward us.

Bullets fire from both sides.

As I’ve been taught, I keep my eyes on the enemy. I get to one knee and aim my rifle. I fire, shooting in short bursts to maintain my accuracy on the targets. One goes down, then another. I feel something rip into my left arm. It burns, but I don’t lose my focus. Pain means I’m still alive, and if I’m still alive then I’ve got to keep fighting to keep it that way.

Another one drops, this time from Chuck’s gun. I take aim at the last one and fire. The bullet rips through his skull as he falls to the ground.

All dead. I let out a sigh of relief, and then realize that I’m out of breath. It dawns on me that for the entirety of the conflict I was holding my breathe. I take a look at my arm and see that I’m bleeding, but it’s definitely not going to kill me.

I find myself laughing, glad to be alive. I turn to Chuck and am about to speak when I see that he’s not standing.

“No,” I frantically push off the ground and run towards him, “no, no, no!”

He’s lying on the ground, staring at his bloody hand, as blood gushes out of a wound in his neck.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I quickly bend down next to him and place my hand on the wound. I feel the blood pumping out of him and I realize that this is going to be ineffective. I yell, “hang in there, man! Hang in there!”  I wiggle my pack off of my shoulder and use my free hand to grab gauze. I take as much as I can, ball it up in my hand, and place it on the wound on his neck. The white gauze almost instantly turns sticky with crimson, red.

I reach to grab another spool when I feel his hand on my arm. I quickly turn back around to look at him and see him shaking his head no.

“What?” I ask, frantically. He tries to speak, but the blood in his mouth makes it difficult to understand him, “I can’t understand you Chuck. But it’s going to be okay. I’m going to get you help.”

Help. Yes. How could I forget? I reach for my walkie and radio in, “Soldier Down. Need assistance. East Wall. Repeat. East Wall. Need assistance. Soldier Down.” I turn back to him, “you’re going to make it, man. I promise you that you’ll-”

“No.” I’m able to make out the word this time.

“Yes. You will. I promise you.”

“Let me,” he coughs up blood, “die.”

A wave of ice flows through me as I realize what he’s asking me to do. He wants me to let him die.

“No!” I snap, “you’re not going to die here! That’s not happening! There’s no fucking way you’re going to die here!”

Tears swell in his eyes as he stares intently into mine and says, “Please,” he places his hand on mine, and with what little strength he has left, attempts to push it away from his neck. I keep it promptly attached, all the time staring into his eyes.

“Why? Why do you want to die? You have so much to live-” I stop midsentence and think about what I was about to say. You have so much to live for. But, does he? It’s something that people say; something you tell someone when they’re in a bad place, when things seem bleak. But with Chuck, was there really anything he had left to live for? Could it be that, perhaps, letting him die here, in this desert that he’d spent the last 10 years of his life serving in, be the best thing? He said it himself that he has nothing to go back to, and now, here he is, using what little strength he has to move my hand so that he can die.

Chuck, still looking into my eyes, sees that I understand what he wants. He grabs my hand and pushes it once more. I don’t fight it. I watch him give me another smile as the blood continues to spurt from the side of his neck. He then turns from me, and looks towards the sky. I wonder what he’s thinking about now. I wonder if it’s right, what I’m doing; letting him go like this. I want to reach back and put my hand on his neck, but stop myself. Would I really be doing it for him, or would I be doing it so I don’t have to watch him die?

While I’m debating, it happens. The blood stops, as does his heart, and he dies.

In the distance I can hear fellow soldiers approaching to provide medical assistance. It’s too late now, though. He’s gone.  

I keep my eyes on him, engraving this into my memory forever. The memory of a true solider; loyal to his country to the very end.

Goodbye, Chuck. I swear that I’ll never forget you.  

Updated 07/16/2016



Image from Reddit