The Full Story - A Tear For the Courageous
A TEAR FOR THE COURAGEOUS
The first time I was bullied was my first day of middle school when I was only eleven. My older brother Graham was attending the same middle school as me, but my true hero on the day I first experienced the wrath of mean girls was James. After Graham caught me fleeing from the bathroom with tears streaming down my face and my hand on my forehead, he told James about the popular girls pushing me into the wall in the bathroom. When I came home after school and James saw the swollen and purpling bruise on my temple he stormed over to those girls’ houses and demanded to speak with the parents immediately. After James lectured the girls, I was never bullied again. From that day on, I never felt a connection to anyone that was as intense as my connection was with James. He is someone that I will never go a day without thinking of. He is and always will be my true hero.
•••
December 21st 2010: Ellie
The drive to the airport is prolonged and silent. I am slouching in the back seat next to Graham. There are no bags in the trunk, but there’s a giant elephant in the car. He hops right in the car to come along.
We aren’t going on a vacation, so there is nothing to be excited about, except for that my brother James is returning today. He is returning from war. My parents have never been supportive of fighting in the army ‘for your country’, even if you believe in what you’re fighting for. My great-grandfather fought in World War Two and was killed in a brutal attack. My mother never speaks of the vast hole in her life where there should have been a grandfather, but it is evident how she feels. He was forced to enlist in the Second World War. He was only twenty-seven with a brand new family. The demand for men to be slaughtered was too colossal to allow a new father to stay on the mainland. She will never forgive the government for sending her grandfather to the war and for depriving her of a role model that everyone deserves to have.
•••
It was James’ eighteenth birthday when he announced to my family that he was going to enlist in the army. We were all sitting in the good living room. Mom and Dad were perched on the edge of the couch, expecting the worst news to come. James had only told us that he needed to talk with us. He gave us no further insight or information. I, only twelve years old, was slouched next to Graham on the couch. James stood in front of the T.V. shifting his weight from his left to right foot. There was sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His hands were clasped together, splotchy and red from the pressure of each hand pressing on the other.
“Mom, Dad, Graham, Ellie…” he choked out. He was obviously nervous. “I want you to know that I love you all very much.” That grabbed my parents’ attention very quickly. My father’s head snapped up, his eyes clear and focused now. He knew it was serious. I slouched further into my seat. “This morning, I drove to Chicago to enlist in the Navy Seals.” My father stood up, trying to interject, but James pushed through: “I leave for training camp next Wednesday. Afterwards, I deploy to Afghanistan. I want you all to know that I am NOT doing this to redeem our family name in the army. Great-Grandfather died a painful death. It is not my responsibility to regain our honor. I deserve the pride and patriotism that comes with being a Navy Seal. I want people to look at me when I walk down the street. I want them to respect me. That isn’t something that I can accomplish here by being the star quarterback or going to Harvard. If I die at war, at least I die a brave man fighting for what I believe.” He was done. He stalked away from the living room casually and back towards his room. My mother stood up, barely holding herself together, and climbed the stairs towards her bedroom. I didn’t see her for the remainder of the week. It was a Wednesday. My father stormed out of the front door, nearly swinging it off of its hinges. I heard the rumble of the car’s engine and the sound of rubber burning on the pavement.
I turned the cartoons back on as tears began streaking down my face. I would never be the same again.
•••
Chicago O’Hare airport is virtually never-ending. It stretches out into the distance as a mural of twinkling colored lights and the roaring of jet engines. We park on the fifth level of the parking garage farthest from the airport. It was one of the only spots left. My Uggs have no traction and I slip and slide all the way to the warmth of the baggage claim. My parents are at least 100 feet in front of me. They have no sympathy for me or for anyone. Graham is silent by my side. Once inside, we sit inside on a metal bench for twenty minutes before James’ flight number appears on the monitor for one of the baggage claims. We shuffle to another metal bench closer to it. The giant elephant follows. It is another fifteen minutes before the machine begins to spit bags out onto the conveyer belt and another five before people begin to show up.
I count ten men in identical black suits and twelve ladies in pencil skirts. I see three other soldiers before I see my brother. He stands out. He doesn’t wear the camouflage like the other men, but a navy blue suit with a matching cap. He is lean, heavily built, and clean-shaven. On the right side of his chest, colors decorate his breast pocket and small metal medallions dangle. He is a Navy Seal. I rise slowly. He beams when he sees me. I have grown three and a half inches since I saw him last. My hair is long and straight, nearly to my belly button: two inches longer than the last time I saw him. I smile back at him as he opens his arms wide. I run to him. It all feels like a dream. We embrace and I never want to let go.
I can sense my parents’ presence. And the elephant. He is here too. I let go and back up. Graham step to James and hugs him as well. My mother has tears cascading through her make-up they fall like rain drops in Hawaii: heavy and thick. She steps to him and when they embrace, it looks as if James will crush her. Perfect like a Hollywood movie, my father extends a hand and James takes it willingly.
We take his bags and ice skate back to the car. Not a single word has been muttered. We place the bags in the trunk and pile into our standard SUV. The elephant gets in. He sits with me in the very back seat. I sit directly behind James who removes his hat. I gasp when I see that his curly golden hair has been shaved, leaving little more than a buzz cut.
He turns to me in reaction to my gasp: “Is it really that bad? It’s mandatory,” he worries.
“No, just different.” I say. A silence stretches as we leave the airport. “Graham has practically been going crazy without you. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to. You two have a lot to catch up on.”
James turns toward Graham: “We’ll catch up later.”
The rest of the way home was silent. The elephant perched in its seat.
December 22nd 2010: James
The dirt is frigid. The air is unusually bitter. Around me, buildings barely stand, deteriorating around the top. Rubble lies on the street. I turn to my left and see Graham. He appears weak and fragile, trembling with his breath. On my left is my great-grandfather. In uniform and sporting a courageous expression, his presence is refreshing and exhilarating. I hear a single whistle blow through the air. Dust clouds my vision. I stand and dart to safety. Only after I have escaped from the range of the bomb, I flip around, realizing that I have abandoned Great-Grandfather and Graham in the trench. I scream to them, my lungs raw. Their heads whip around and they stare at me blankly. The bomb hits exactly on target.
•••
I know exactly what happens next. I snap out of my nightmare and shoot up in bed. My hairline is beaded with sweat and my sheets form a figure eight around each other. The clock reads 6:48 in the morning: Friday, December the 22nd. The coffee grinder is roaring and the sound of glass shattering echoes through the house. Mumbling, I sit up. There is no hope in falling back asleep. It is a miracle that I fell asleep in the first place.
In the kitchen, Dad is flipping pancakes, Mom is sipping coffee over the Chicago Times, and Graham and Ellie are at the table staring monotonously at the screens of their phones, fingers moving effortlessly over the screen. They look up and smile at me. I sit down next to Ellie and she looks up at me, glowing. She has grown so much, become so beautiful. There is so much that you miss when you have been gone for two years. It makes you hate yourself. Being a Navy Seal isn’t worth missing out on so much of life. When I enlisted, they didn’t tell me my family would never go back to normal after I left. They didn’t tell me that my little sister would need me so much when I couldn’t be there. They don’t tell you that every second of your life will be mapped out, that you will be a puppet on strings. In the army you are merely a plastic, green, toy soldier and the government is the child who controls you. No amount of medals can be worth all the pain that my family has had to endure in order for me to courageous and patriotic.
This morning goes like any other: Ellie and Graham go off to school, Mom and Dad go to work, and I am left at home. I make plans to meet with my psychiatrist in one hour at the coffee house down the street. When I meet with her, I describe my reoccurring dream to her, and she tells me to write down what bothers me about war. I do this when I get home and I feel satisfied. But then I rip the page out of my notebook and throw it in the trash, disposing of my horrible experiences thus far in the war, trying to release my memories to the universe.
March 5th 1942: Great-Grandfather
The pain is intolerable. A high-pitched ringing is all I can hear. It echoes and echoes. It seems to go on for eternity. The edges of my vision are tinted crimson. My vision wavers in and out of focus. Peter’s face jumps into my line of sight. He is leaning over me, his nose smudged with dirt and blood trickling down his forehead, but it halts at the eyebrow, which gradually begins to dye red with the blood. His mouth moves, his forehead pressed into lines with stress and his eyes look as if they will pop out of their sockets. He stands, turning his attention to someone else for no longer than five seconds, then leans back over me and crouches to pick me up.
I try to speak. I wish for him to leave me here. My mouth moves, but no words come out and Peter lifts me anyways. Pain explodes in my shoulder. The ringing returns and my vision is pitch black with scattered stars, like a July night.
There is no saving me now. A bullet has hit me directly in the shoulder, too close to my artery. I will bleed out in less than an hour.
I think of my beautiful family. Mary, my elegant wife: she will have no way to support the family. My two children Anthony and Kate will have no male role model as they grow up. Kate is only one and Anthony only three. Mary has one more child on the way.
Peter has set me down now. We are in the medical tent. He leans down to me and whispers something into my ear. I cannot hear it but I look to him with worry in my eyes and place one finger on my palm, signaling for pen and paper. He nods and runs off returning with pen and paper in less than two minutes. He sits me up in the bed and gives me a hard surface to write on. I begin to write:
My Dear Family:
I write to you on my death bed. I wish for you to know that I love you all very much and that I have planned for my death accordingly. Mary, you should know that I wish for you to remarry. Do not mourn my death, but celebrate my life. Find someone to support you and strive for happiness. Children, please work hard to fulfill your lives. Dedication and hard work always pay off. I know you are very young, but know that it takes wisdom and careful stepping to succeed in life. I love you all very much and I ask you to not think of how life would be different if I hadn’t died, but embrace this as a chance to experience life in a new way.
Love,
Edward
I lay back and breathe steadily. I will die before a doctor can see me.
July 5th, 2009: James
It has become clear to me now, on my first day in Afghanistan, that being in the Navy Seals isn’t about earning pride and patriotism; it is strictly about accomplishing tasks. You are never to commit any actions that aren’t approved. You are never to be anywhere besides where an officer expects you to be. There is no deciding for yourself or going by your individual schedule. Once in the army, you are no longer an individual, but a number.
This is not what I expected. Due to countless movies and television shows that I have watched while growing up, it has always been believed that being in the army is something that should bring pride and confidence to a person. In reality, I have been stripped of my traits and left as simply another soldier. I am merely a number with the same qualities as all the others: tall with a buzz cut, respectful towards others, and brave enough to conquer a town by myself. I am only a copy of all the others. We march together as one united army of clones and we couldn’t care less.
July 5th 2009: Ellie
I wake up to an eerie silence that is spread throughout the entire house. Today, we figure out how our lives will be without James. Which relationships will be strong enough to withhold the pressure of a betrayal? Who will be the person to fill his shoes? Will there be shoes to fill?
Today is James’ first day in Afghanistan and that is tearing at our hearts; the pieces being taken away gradually. It is an untamable force that eats away at our family. When night falls, my family will determine its fate. Will we survive this loss? How big of an influence was James on our family and can things return to normal? Will the health of our relationships have James to blame or to thank?
We will just have to see.
March 5th 2011: James
This morning, I rise slowly and walk across the dusty floor to my duffel bag. I crouch slowly, letting out a quiet groan. My muscles are very sore from training. I am relieved that I don’t have to return to that training camp today. Today, I return to the base camp. I pull on a pair of black socks and return to sit on my bed. I slip my feet into my shoes and stretch my hands to the ceiling. I pick my jacket up off of the ground and shake it out, dispersing dirt throughout the entire room. The dust resettles on the ground and I slip out of the door with my bag, my stripes over my heart.
Three hours later, I step off the plane and back to my normal routine. I walk to the main tent, for my tent assignment, only to find that I am assigned to the same tent with the same people as I was before. Nothing here has changed. The same consuming and eventless routine will continue and I will continue to eat a turkey sandwich with an apple and chips every day for lunch at 12:15. I stalk to my tent and place my bag on the foot of my bed, somewhat disappointed that I wouldn’t start off again with new, fresh faces.
I pull out my pen and paper, writing to Ellie and Graham, the only two people in my entire family who accept what I decided to do with my life:
Dear Graham and Ellie,
All is well here. I have arrived safely back at camp and I am settled into my tent again. We do not expect to go into any action any time soon. But, as I’ve said before, many things can change within the blink of an eye.
How are things at home? Have things returned to normal yet? When I came home, I had no intentions of bringing a blanket of despair along with me. I’m sorry for making things at home so uncomfortable for you when you see the way mom and dad treat me. It seems like I’m not even a part of our family anymore. It seems unfair that I should be treated differently than you just because I chose to go into the army. Once again, I’m going off on the same rant as I always do.
I love you all very much and I will write again soon.
Love,
James.
There is nothing else for me to say. I stand and begin to unload my belongings into my trunk to the left of my bed. It is now 12:15 so I lift my chin and walk to the mess tent like all the other men who surround me. I am one fish in a giant sea.
March 6th 2011: Ellie
I went to James’ room to look for a sweater to wear to school on this brisk spring morning. I only want to look into the closet. But the trashcan is in my path. Not paying attention, I ram my toes into the metal edge of James’ trashcan. I let out a yelp and bring my foot to my hand, hopping in small circles.
What a brilliant start to my day. I lean down to return all of the dispersed items back into the trashcan when something catches my eye. Scattered across the floor, among many gum wrappers and sticky notes is a single page of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook. It reads:
December 22nd, 2010
There is no possible way to describe the horrors of war. I will do the best that I can through these words.
The pain of seeing a friend warp and crumple into death is something that can never be unseen. There are certain positions that bodies are not supposed to lie in, shapes that people should not be bent in to. War defies all of these laws, snatching it’s victims and bending them like clay, morphing them to creatures that weren’t meant to be created.
As a boy, I always dreamed of arriving at war to claim back pride. To be the soldier I see on the TV and in the movies. I enlisted to earn my own name and place in this cruel world. To break out of my shell. But I also fight to prove myself to my family. I am not a little boy anymore. My parents no longer intimidate me. I fight for my mother and her fragility. I hope that some day she too will believe in herself as well as her family’s capabilities. I fight for my father, who has never been as courageous as to disobey the orders of my mother, even if that means not supporting the actions of his children. These simple imperfections in each of my parents are why I wake up every day and stand underneath the fire breathing sun that withers my skin. I fight for their respect and their belief in me.
I am unable to mask the pain that I endure everyday. I return home and my family sees the pain that I go through. It is etched all over my face. I try to hide it for the confidence and attitude of my little sister, who has never committed a bad deed in her entire fifteen years of life. I hide it for my brother, who has grown to be a young man who is capable of standing up for himself as well as the things he believes in.
There is no escaping the trauma of the war. It stays with you throughout your entire life. At night, I gasp, trying to survive the reoccurring nightmares. Now I understand why soldiers in T.V. shows go to therapy, their faces are sullen, but their uniforms are pressed. I have been transformed into a typical soldier: somber and in a deep state of depression. There will be no escaping. I am trapped forever. I have been shaped and manipulated by the higher powers of the army. To them, I am nothing more than one soldier, a weapon.
There will be no forgetting when I stood on the battlefield for the first time, prepared for anything, completely confident, and my reflexes feeling prime. I was prepared for anything except for what happened next. Out of nowhere, a bullet sailed through the air, dancing through the wind and lodged itself directly into solid human flesh. It wasn’t mine, but it might as well have been. The bullet had found its target. My best friend had been hit directly in the chest. Gasping, his chest appeared to cave in on itself, and he collapsed to the cold dirt. To me he muttered: “Tell them I love them.” And then he was gone. Without a second thought, a struggle, or a doubt. One life was gone. People in his hometown would cry for weeks. He would never smile again or laugh or cry. There would be no more Matt Hall in my life or anyone else’s.
And that was hard to accept. To this day, I still mourn for Matt. I don’t think I will ever go a day without thinking of him. His death was the first I witnessed in a battle.
•••
It took me no longer than five minutes to read James’ writing. Afterwards, I found myself on the ground. It took me two hours to motivate myself to stand up. Another three before I convinced myself it was ok to show to Graham after he returned home. I didn’t go to school today. Nobody even appeared to ask me if I was ok.
Now I lay in bed. I am reading a book for school. It is very difficult for me to read this book. It is called All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. I read this passage, and I cannot go on any further: “When I see them here, in their rooms, in their offices, about their occupations, I feel and irresistible attraction in it, I would like to be here too and forget the war… They are different men here, men I cannot properly understand, whom I envy and despise. I must thing of Kat and Albert and Muller and Tjaden, what will they be doing?” I ponder this passage. I feel guilty. This must be exactly how James feels when he returns to watch us go about our normal lives. I am precisely what he describes. I sit here in my room with not a care in the world. We are all terribly guilty of being innocent. We are guilty because we sit here carefree and clueless while our neighbors, fathers, brothers, and peers are enduring unbearable trauma and pain.
As I fall asleep I wonder if James is aware that we think of him everyday. He is such a separate part of our life that we already consider him as dead. We do not expect him to return home. We are already mourning his death.
April 4th 2011: James
Since returning to Afghanistan, it is my first day back in battle. This is an act as a reinforcement to ensure that I am ready to be permitted back into my Navy Seal squad. Today, one simple goal is to be accomplished. There is one car of us being transported from our base camp to a small abandoned city of Afghanistan. Today, my senses are very sharp. I’m aware of everything surrounding me.
It takes two hours to reach the ghost town. We step out of the hum-vee and bolt for our base, a dilapidated warehouse. We meet in a small room, possibly an office. When we reach the warehouse we are assigned stations. I am assigned to machine gun station five, about a half a mile away with John Miles. I search for him in the office and when we find each other after about a minute, we grab some ammunition and run to our station. We make it all the way there without any injury. After searching for a couple minutes, lurking around the building, we acquire the targets. They are about two or three blocks ahead. We are hidden from their sight by one building. We will have to wait for them to move around the building before we fire at them. No other station will have a clear shot.
We perch by our machine gun for ten minutes before we have a direct shot at our target. They are on foot and we fire. They have spotted us and shoot back. We shoot at each other until we are forced to cease-fire. We have hit five out of the ten of them. We reload and fire again. Once again, they fire back. We are nearly out of ammo when a bullet rips through my upper arm. I do not let out a scream. We have been trained to know better than that. “John!” I grunt.
His head whips around, in the midst of reloading the gun. There is only one left to hit. “Hang in there, James.” He whispers. He looks through the scope and fires three bullets. The last target has been hit. He whispers through his radio. “Target has been destroyed. We have a man injured. Left upper arm. Retreating to the base right away.” He says more, but I cannot hear what he is saying. I focus on the clouds above me. My arm throbs with pain I have never endured before.
We are on the outskirts of the city. We don’t have far to go until we reach the base. I picture the hand-drawn map of the area in my head. We are at machine gun station 5. The base is only a half a mile away. John pulls me to my feet, I waver slightly, but regain my balance and begin jogging next to John, my arm screaming with pain. All I can think of is my grandfather and his death during battle. He was hit in the neck, I reassure myself. This is only my arm. They can fix it at the warehouse, although I have no knowledge of how deep the bullet has hit.
After the most excruciating run I have ever been on, we finally reach the warehouse where I collapse on to a table. A medical assistant comes nearly immediately. He inspects the wound: “It’s not looking too bad. We will see what we can do. You definitely need stitches and a sling. You will be out of action for about two months.” He gives me some painkillers and proceeds to stitch up my arm. John winces at the sight. It takes him twenty minutes to finish stitching me up: 27 stitches he says proudly. After the stitches are completed, he wraps my arm with gauze, then places my arm in a sling. Because I’m still dizzy and nauseous, the medic gives me a wheelchair to be taken back to helicopter. John wheels me all the way there. Then we head back to base camp. I write a letter to Ellie.
April 20th 2011: Ellie
I have had the worst day. I spilled my coffee this morning on myself this morning, which made me late to school. I got my math test back. I failed it. My hair looks like a frizzball and now I received this letter from James. I can only expect the worst:
Dear Family,
I write inspired by boredom. Yesterday, I was at battle, my first glimpse of action since I returned from leave. I went into battle very confident, but when the battle was over, sweat was trickling down my face in reaction to pain, in a wheelchair, and my arm in a sling. I was hit during a small mission. Left, upper arm. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. The first day was the worst. The doctor says I will only be off for two months. That is enough time to return home, but I would rather just stay here. Avoid the jet lag. I will be ok. I just wanted you to know.
Love,
James
It isn’t the worst news. He’s going to live. I just wish he had come home. We all know that jet lag isn’t that horrible. I know that he wanted to avoid my parents. We told you so, they would tell him. That the war is dangerous, that he was foolish. And now he will pay for his mistake of enlisting. He must feel like no one cares for him. My parents disapprove of his life choices and the army definitely doesn’t care for him: he is one out of hundreds of thousands of men. Simply one more uniform to provide and one more number to consider. To avoid this, I take the letter and hide it in my room before anyone else can see. I will show it to Graham when he gets home from football.
I retreat to my room to work on my homework with a bag of pretzels. I try to do my math homework, but my mind has been overrun with thoughts of James. I worry that his arm will be amputated. I know that he is in pain. My mind wanders imagining scenarios when he is convinced to come home. I daydream for an hour. In my head, James returns home and we go to the Six Flags theme park, which is only two hours away. We eat at Deangalo’s, the best Italian restaurant in the county and then we go to see a movie. It is an ideal day. If only we were on the same continent right now.
August 6th 2011: James
When I wake up, the air is humid and the clouds hang heavily in the air. I have a superstitious feeling that I can’t shake. I know something horrible is going to happen.
Today is big. I am one of the only Navy Seals who is being involved in this rescue who is not a part of Team 6. I go to breakfast, and all the men around me boast big smiles. They pat me on the back and tell me good luck. That I’ve made them proud. If only my family was proud too. I will write them when I reach headquarters after the mission. They will be so happy.
I eat breakfast slowly, savoring my last day with these men who surround me; they have been so kind. I will not return to this base, but to the headquarters. I step out into the humid, warm day. I walk slowly to my tent and pick up my duffle bag. Then, I strut toward the air strip. I see the other men and they holler at me to join them.
We march out to the helicopter and board, but only after the orders are given. I sit on the edge. I can see everything that goes on. We take off. The blades of the night black helicopter slice the air effortlessly. The tents below us disappear and the people shrink to tiny grains of sand. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the headrest. I think of my family at home. Of how much Ellie has matured, and of Graham filling my shoes in the family. I think about my weak parents and them being incapable of accepting me. I sigh heavily and roll my head to the side, opening my eyes to look out the window.
Today, we fly to assist troops under fire. This is ‘our responsibility’. To go in and save these foolish men. We are all only the puppets and toy soldiers. The government picks up a handful of us and throws us into battle up here or down there. We have no control of our own actions. When in the army, you no longer have freedom.
My action was inopportune. As soon as I opened my eyes, I see fire erupting from the underside of the helicopter. I see pieces of shrapnel punching holes into the metal of the helicopter; I see a piece hit me directly in the stomach. I feel the helicopter begin the to lose balance. I am not aware of why the helicopter is spinning. I only feel the hole in my skin. I know the dent in my flesh and the fire in my stomach. I lean over my knees and vomit onto the floor. Maybe it’s the ceiling. I don’t know, but my vomit is red and thin. The helicopter is engulfed in flames. I only see red. Hear only screams. Think only of my love for my family and how they would say I told you so.
That’s when I know I am going to die. That is the most terrifying thought of my life.
August 15th, 2012: Ellie
School starts in two weeks. I am sort of excited. Like every year, I am mainly excited for new shiny, bold school supplies and to see my friends again. I stand at my closet surveying it for the cutest outfit to wear on the first day of school. There is a knock at the door. No one else is home and I don’t have any plans with anyone. Who could be at the door?
I walk leisurely to the front door and swing it open to find a man in sunglasses and a black suit standing on my porch.
“Mrs. Mason?” he asks, removing his sunglasses.
I stick out my hand. “I’m Ellie.” I say. “Can I help you?” I ask cautiously.
He answers my handshake. “Hi, Ellie. My name is Shane Nass.” His tone is sullen. “Are your parents home?”
“Um, no. But they will be in a half an hour. Is something wrong? Did Graham in trouble?” I begin to worry.
“No, Graham did nothing wrong.” He states in a melancholy tone.
“Well you can come in if you want to.” I say stepping aside from the door. “Sir.” I feel obliged to add at the last moment.
“Thank you very much ma’am.” He responds as he steps into my house. I take him to the kitchen and offer him a drink. He asks for a glass of water. I give him one. I pull out my phone and text mom to hurry home because someone is here waiting to talk to her and dad. ‘This is how teenage girls end up missing… or dead.” I think. The next half of an hour passes slowly. The man in the suit and I make small talk. We speak of the weather and he asks me when school starts, what grade I’ll be in, etcetera. He won’t tell me why he is here, no matter how many times I ask.
Finally, after what feels like eternity, I hear my mother’s car pull into the driveway. “I think that’s my mom.” I say feeling relieved. “Hold tight, I’ll be right back.” I add. I walk casually around the corner and as soon as I’m out of sight I bolt to the garage. It is my mom. “Mom!” I exclaim with a scowl drawn across my face. “Please hurry. I have no idea who this guy is. He could have murdered me or something!”
“Ok, ok Ellie. Settle down. Goodness gracious.” My mom sighs as she lowers herself from her SUV. She walks past me and into the house, her face emotionless. When I arrive in the kitchen, my mother has found the man in the suit and is sitting at the table with him. I see he has helped himself to another glass of water. I grab the box of Goldfish and stalk back to my room to continue searching through my closet.
When I walk back to the kitchen to return my box of Goldfish to it’s rightful spot in the pantry, I see my mother sitting at the kitchen table with the man in the suit. I smile at them. “What’s going on?” I ask mom.
“We are waiting for your father to grace us with his presence.” She replies sarcastically.
“Sounds boring.” I murmur and I return to my room once again. I sit on my bed and think about James. I wonder what he is doing right now. What time is it over there? Should he be sleeping? Does he ever think about us? About me?
Ten minutes later, I am still pondering on the thought of James, when I am shook from my trance by the sound of a wail and a gasp, followed by the unmistakable sounds of crying.
And now I know that James isn’t thinking of me. And he never will again.
August 19th 2011: Ellie
The past few weeks have been silent and unbearable. The days are filled with sobs and handkerchiefs and the nights aren’t filled with sleep. All we can do is cry. If you aren’t crying at night, you can’t fall asleep because you can’t ignore the sobs of your family. After learning this, I only cry. Nobody talks. I don’t talk. Why would I? I never talked before James was killed in a helicopter accident. There is no reason for me to talk now.
My heart has been ripped to shreds. I feel as if there is nothing left. Like I will never be happy again. I will never love. My heart is too tattered. It is as if there is no hope for me. No one will ever love me because I can’t love him back. It is all because of James. My heart can never be put back together again. No one will ever take James’ place in my heart or in my family. He was the life of the party and the base of the pyramid. He was the glue that made us stick. Now, we drift. Farther and farther away from each other. There is no one to keep us together anymore. We have no hope.
The funeral is in one hour. I try and pull myself together enough to get ready. My hair is in curlers. That’s a good start. All I have to do now is put on my makeup and hold it together so that it will stay on.
At the funeral, no one tries to socialize with us. We sit in the front pew with our heads down. There is no body in the coffin. He burned. Leaving nothing left for us to bury. He will just have a tombstone. When it is my turn to speak, I rise slowly and shuffle to the altar, my head still looking at my feet. I reach the microphone and look up. There is a sea of black stretched in front of me. All eyes glisten with tears. Graham’s speech was particularly moving.
“I don’t have much to say. It would be to difficult. But I will tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. This combination of words has never come out of my mouth in my entire life.” I pause and look down at my hands as a tear falls off of my face and plops on to my palm. I blink away the remaining tears and push on through my speech. “The first time I was bullied was my first day of middle school. I was only eleven. My brother Graham was attending the same middle school as me, but my true hero on the day that I first experienced the wrath of the mean girls was James. Graham told James that the popular girls at my school had pushed me into the wall in the bathroom. When I came home that night and James saw the swollen, purple bruise on my forehead he went to those girls’ houses and demanded to speak with the parents immediately. After James talked to those girls and their parents, I was never bullied again. Everyone across town knew not to mess with me because James Mason was MY big brother. He was there for me and no one could defeat him.
“From that day on, I never felt a connection to anyone that was as strong as my connection was with James. He is someone that I will never go a day without thinking of.
"He was a truly courageous man who fought for what he believed in. I personally believe that the time that James spent in Afghanistan was worthwhile and meaningful to him. I will always think him of as an amazingly courageous, loving, kind person who to this day, is my inspiration.
"He wanted to fight for his country, but he was aware that his actions could never make an impact on such a gigantic world. He knew he would always only be another soldier from another small town and nothing more. Still he help his head high and wore his colors proudly.
"Now that he is gone, I sometimes worry. What will people think of me now? Will they treat me differently? With pity? Or with caution? Will I be bullied again? I want you all to know that you do not need to pity me and don’t be cautious around me. James has helped me to be strong. And now it is clear to me that not only was James an influence to me, but he was also a very strong role model to Graham. Now it is Graham’s time to shine. I will look to him for guidance and he can protect me now. So thank you for coming here today to assist us in this rough time, but it is clear to me now that I don’t want to mourn James. I want to celebrate his life and his accomplishments.”
“I step away from the microphone and teeter down the steps. I sit next to Graham on the pew and he takes my hand. We are all here for you, James. We always will be.
The first time I was bullied was my first day of middle school when I was only eleven. My older brother Graham was attending the same middle school as me, but my true hero on the day I first experienced the wrath of mean girls was James. After Graham caught me fleeing from the bathroom with tears streaming down my face and my hand on my forehead, he told James about the popular girls pushing me into the wall in the bathroom. When I came home after school and James saw the swollen and purpling bruise on my temple he stormed over to those girls’ houses and demanded to speak with the parents immediately. After James lectured the girls, I was never bullied again. From that day on, I never felt a connection to anyone that was as intense as my connection was with James. He is someone that I will never go a day without thinking of. He is and always will be my true hero.
•••
December 21st 2010: Ellie
The drive to the airport is prolonged and silent. I am slouching in the back seat next to Graham. There are no bags in the trunk, but there’s a giant elephant in the car. He hops right in the car to come along.
We aren’t going on a vacation, so there is nothing to be excited about, except for that my brother James is returning today. He is returning from war. My parents have never been supportive of fighting in the army ‘for your country’, even if you believe in what you’re fighting for. My great-grandfather fought in World War Two and was killed in a brutal attack. My mother never speaks of the vast hole in her life where there should have been a grandfather, but it is evident how she feels. He was forced to enlist in the Second World War. He was only twenty-seven with a brand new family. The demand for men to be slaughtered was too colossal to allow a new father to stay on the mainland. She will never forgive the government for sending her grandfather to the war and for depriving her of a role model that everyone deserves to have.
•••
It was James’ eighteenth birthday when he announced to my family that he was going to enlist in the army. We were all sitting in the good living room. Mom and Dad were perched on the edge of the couch, expecting the worst news to come. James had only told us that he needed to talk with us. He gave us no further insight or information. I, only twelve years old, was slouched next to Graham on the couch. James stood in front of the T.V. shifting his weight from his left to right foot. There was sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His hands were clasped together, splotchy and red from the pressure of each hand pressing on the other.
“Mom, Dad, Graham, Ellie…” he choked out. He was obviously nervous. “I want you to know that I love you all very much.” That grabbed my parents’ attention very quickly. My father’s head snapped up, his eyes clear and focused now. He knew it was serious. I slouched further into my seat. “This morning, I drove to Chicago to enlist in the Navy Seals.” My father stood up, trying to interject, but James pushed through: “I leave for training camp next Wednesday. Afterwards, I deploy to Afghanistan. I want you all to know that I am NOT doing this to redeem our family name in the army. Great-Grandfather died a painful death. It is not my responsibility to regain our honor. I deserve the pride and patriotism that comes with being a Navy Seal. I want people to look at me when I walk down the street. I want them to respect me. That isn’t something that I can accomplish here by being the star quarterback or going to Harvard. If I die at war, at least I die a brave man fighting for what I believe.” He was done. He stalked away from the living room casually and back towards his room. My mother stood up, barely holding herself together, and climbed the stairs towards her bedroom. I didn’t see her for the remainder of the week. It was a Wednesday. My father stormed out of the front door, nearly swinging it off of its hinges. I heard the rumble of the car’s engine and the sound of rubber burning on the pavement.
I turned the cartoons back on as tears began streaking down my face. I would never be the same again.
•••
Chicago O’Hare airport is virtually never-ending. It stretches out into the distance as a mural of twinkling colored lights and the roaring of jet engines. We park on the fifth level of the parking garage farthest from the airport. It was one of the only spots left. My Uggs have no traction and I slip and slide all the way to the warmth of the baggage claim. My parents are at least 100 feet in front of me. They have no sympathy for me or for anyone. Graham is silent by my side. Once inside, we sit inside on a metal bench for twenty minutes before James’ flight number appears on the monitor for one of the baggage claims. We shuffle to another metal bench closer to it. The giant elephant follows. It is another fifteen minutes before the machine begins to spit bags out onto the conveyer belt and another five before people begin to show up.
I count ten men in identical black suits and twelve ladies in pencil skirts. I see three other soldiers before I see my brother. He stands out. He doesn’t wear the camouflage like the other men, but a navy blue suit with a matching cap. He is lean, heavily built, and clean-shaven. On the right side of his chest, colors decorate his breast pocket and small metal medallions dangle. He is a Navy Seal. I rise slowly. He beams when he sees me. I have grown three and a half inches since I saw him last. My hair is long and straight, nearly to my belly button: two inches longer than the last time I saw him. I smile back at him as he opens his arms wide. I run to him. It all feels like a dream. We embrace and I never want to let go.
I can sense my parents’ presence. And the elephant. He is here too. I let go and back up. Graham step to James and hugs him as well. My mother has tears cascading through her make-up they fall like rain drops in Hawaii: heavy and thick. She steps to him and when they embrace, it looks as if James will crush her. Perfect like a Hollywood movie, my father extends a hand and James takes it willingly.
We take his bags and ice skate back to the car. Not a single word has been muttered. We place the bags in the trunk and pile into our standard SUV. The elephant gets in. He sits with me in the very back seat. I sit directly behind James who removes his hat. I gasp when I see that his curly golden hair has been shaved, leaving little more than a buzz cut.
He turns to me in reaction to my gasp: “Is it really that bad? It’s mandatory,” he worries.
“No, just different.” I say. A silence stretches as we leave the airport. “Graham has practically been going crazy without you. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to. You two have a lot to catch up on.”
James turns toward Graham: “We’ll catch up later.”
The rest of the way home was silent. The elephant perched in its seat.
December 22nd 2010: James
The dirt is frigid. The air is unusually bitter. Around me, buildings barely stand, deteriorating around the top. Rubble lies on the street. I turn to my left and see Graham. He appears weak and fragile, trembling with his breath. On my left is my great-grandfather. In uniform and sporting a courageous expression, his presence is refreshing and exhilarating. I hear a single whistle blow through the air. Dust clouds my vision. I stand and dart to safety. Only after I have escaped from the range of the bomb, I flip around, realizing that I have abandoned Great-Grandfather and Graham in the trench. I scream to them, my lungs raw. Their heads whip around and they stare at me blankly. The bomb hits exactly on target.
•••
I know exactly what happens next. I snap out of my nightmare and shoot up in bed. My hairline is beaded with sweat and my sheets form a figure eight around each other. The clock reads 6:48 in the morning: Friday, December the 22nd. The coffee grinder is roaring and the sound of glass shattering echoes through the house. Mumbling, I sit up. There is no hope in falling back asleep. It is a miracle that I fell asleep in the first place.
In the kitchen, Dad is flipping pancakes, Mom is sipping coffee over the Chicago Times, and Graham and Ellie are at the table staring monotonously at the screens of their phones, fingers moving effortlessly over the screen. They look up and smile at me. I sit down next to Ellie and she looks up at me, glowing. She has grown so much, become so beautiful. There is so much that you miss when you have been gone for two years. It makes you hate yourself. Being a Navy Seal isn’t worth missing out on so much of life. When I enlisted, they didn’t tell me my family would never go back to normal after I left. They didn’t tell me that my little sister would need me so much when I couldn’t be there. They don’t tell you that every second of your life will be mapped out, that you will be a puppet on strings. In the army you are merely a plastic, green, toy soldier and the government is the child who controls you. No amount of medals can be worth all the pain that my family has had to endure in order for me to courageous and patriotic.
This morning goes like any other: Ellie and Graham go off to school, Mom and Dad go to work, and I am left at home. I make plans to meet with my psychiatrist in one hour at the coffee house down the street. When I meet with her, I describe my reoccurring dream to her, and she tells me to write down what bothers me about war. I do this when I get home and I feel satisfied. But then I rip the page out of my notebook and throw it in the trash, disposing of my horrible experiences thus far in the war, trying to release my memories to the universe.
March 5th 1942: Great-Grandfather
The pain is intolerable. A high-pitched ringing is all I can hear. It echoes and echoes. It seems to go on for eternity. The edges of my vision are tinted crimson. My vision wavers in and out of focus. Peter’s face jumps into my line of sight. He is leaning over me, his nose smudged with dirt and blood trickling down his forehead, but it halts at the eyebrow, which gradually begins to dye red with the blood. His mouth moves, his forehead pressed into lines with stress and his eyes look as if they will pop out of their sockets. He stands, turning his attention to someone else for no longer than five seconds, then leans back over me and crouches to pick me up.
I try to speak. I wish for him to leave me here. My mouth moves, but no words come out and Peter lifts me anyways. Pain explodes in my shoulder. The ringing returns and my vision is pitch black with scattered stars, like a July night.
There is no saving me now. A bullet has hit me directly in the shoulder, too close to my artery. I will bleed out in less than an hour.
I think of my beautiful family. Mary, my elegant wife: she will have no way to support the family. My two children Anthony and Kate will have no male role model as they grow up. Kate is only one and Anthony only three. Mary has one more child on the way.
Peter has set me down now. We are in the medical tent. He leans down to me and whispers something into my ear. I cannot hear it but I look to him with worry in my eyes and place one finger on my palm, signaling for pen and paper. He nods and runs off returning with pen and paper in less than two minutes. He sits me up in the bed and gives me a hard surface to write on. I begin to write:
My Dear Family:
I write to you on my death bed. I wish for you to know that I love you all very much and that I have planned for my death accordingly. Mary, you should know that I wish for you to remarry. Do not mourn my death, but celebrate my life. Find someone to support you and strive for happiness. Children, please work hard to fulfill your lives. Dedication and hard work always pay off. I know you are very young, but know that it takes wisdom and careful stepping to succeed in life. I love you all very much and I ask you to not think of how life would be different if I hadn’t died, but embrace this as a chance to experience life in a new way.
Love,
Edward
I lay back and breathe steadily. I will die before a doctor can see me.
July 5th, 2009: James
It has become clear to me now, on my first day in Afghanistan, that being in the Navy Seals isn’t about earning pride and patriotism; it is strictly about accomplishing tasks. You are never to commit any actions that aren’t approved. You are never to be anywhere besides where an officer expects you to be. There is no deciding for yourself or going by your individual schedule. Once in the army, you are no longer an individual, but a number.
This is not what I expected. Due to countless movies and television shows that I have watched while growing up, it has always been believed that being in the army is something that should bring pride and confidence to a person. In reality, I have been stripped of my traits and left as simply another soldier. I am merely a number with the same qualities as all the others: tall with a buzz cut, respectful towards others, and brave enough to conquer a town by myself. I am only a copy of all the others. We march together as one united army of clones and we couldn’t care less.
July 5th 2009: Ellie
I wake up to an eerie silence that is spread throughout the entire house. Today, we figure out how our lives will be without James. Which relationships will be strong enough to withhold the pressure of a betrayal? Who will be the person to fill his shoes? Will there be shoes to fill?
Today is James’ first day in Afghanistan and that is tearing at our hearts; the pieces being taken away gradually. It is an untamable force that eats away at our family. When night falls, my family will determine its fate. Will we survive this loss? How big of an influence was James on our family and can things return to normal? Will the health of our relationships have James to blame or to thank?
We will just have to see.
March 5th 2011: James
This morning, I rise slowly and walk across the dusty floor to my duffel bag. I crouch slowly, letting out a quiet groan. My muscles are very sore from training. I am relieved that I don’t have to return to that training camp today. Today, I return to the base camp. I pull on a pair of black socks and return to sit on my bed. I slip my feet into my shoes and stretch my hands to the ceiling. I pick my jacket up off of the ground and shake it out, dispersing dirt throughout the entire room. The dust resettles on the ground and I slip out of the door with my bag, my stripes over my heart.
Three hours later, I step off the plane and back to my normal routine. I walk to the main tent, for my tent assignment, only to find that I am assigned to the same tent with the same people as I was before. Nothing here has changed. The same consuming and eventless routine will continue and I will continue to eat a turkey sandwich with an apple and chips every day for lunch at 12:15. I stalk to my tent and place my bag on the foot of my bed, somewhat disappointed that I wouldn’t start off again with new, fresh faces.
I pull out my pen and paper, writing to Ellie and Graham, the only two people in my entire family who accept what I decided to do with my life:
Dear Graham and Ellie,
All is well here. I have arrived safely back at camp and I am settled into my tent again. We do not expect to go into any action any time soon. But, as I’ve said before, many things can change within the blink of an eye.
How are things at home? Have things returned to normal yet? When I came home, I had no intentions of bringing a blanket of despair along with me. I’m sorry for making things at home so uncomfortable for you when you see the way mom and dad treat me. It seems like I’m not even a part of our family anymore. It seems unfair that I should be treated differently than you just because I chose to go into the army. Once again, I’m going off on the same rant as I always do.
I love you all very much and I will write again soon.
Love,
James.
There is nothing else for me to say. I stand and begin to unload my belongings into my trunk to the left of my bed. It is now 12:15 so I lift my chin and walk to the mess tent like all the other men who surround me. I am one fish in a giant sea.
March 6th 2011: Ellie
I went to James’ room to look for a sweater to wear to school on this brisk spring morning. I only want to look into the closet. But the trashcan is in my path. Not paying attention, I ram my toes into the metal edge of James’ trashcan. I let out a yelp and bring my foot to my hand, hopping in small circles.
What a brilliant start to my day. I lean down to return all of the dispersed items back into the trashcan when something catches my eye. Scattered across the floor, among many gum wrappers and sticky notes is a single page of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook. It reads:
December 22nd, 2010
There is no possible way to describe the horrors of war. I will do the best that I can through these words.
The pain of seeing a friend warp and crumple into death is something that can never be unseen. There are certain positions that bodies are not supposed to lie in, shapes that people should not be bent in to. War defies all of these laws, snatching it’s victims and bending them like clay, morphing them to creatures that weren’t meant to be created.
As a boy, I always dreamed of arriving at war to claim back pride. To be the soldier I see on the TV and in the movies. I enlisted to earn my own name and place in this cruel world. To break out of my shell. But I also fight to prove myself to my family. I am not a little boy anymore. My parents no longer intimidate me. I fight for my mother and her fragility. I hope that some day she too will believe in herself as well as her family’s capabilities. I fight for my father, who has never been as courageous as to disobey the orders of my mother, even if that means not supporting the actions of his children. These simple imperfections in each of my parents are why I wake up every day and stand underneath the fire breathing sun that withers my skin. I fight for their respect and their belief in me.
I am unable to mask the pain that I endure everyday. I return home and my family sees the pain that I go through. It is etched all over my face. I try to hide it for the confidence and attitude of my little sister, who has never committed a bad deed in her entire fifteen years of life. I hide it for my brother, who has grown to be a young man who is capable of standing up for himself as well as the things he believes in.
There is no escaping the trauma of the war. It stays with you throughout your entire life. At night, I gasp, trying to survive the reoccurring nightmares. Now I understand why soldiers in T.V. shows go to therapy, their faces are sullen, but their uniforms are pressed. I have been transformed into a typical soldier: somber and in a deep state of depression. There will be no escaping. I am trapped forever. I have been shaped and manipulated by the higher powers of the army. To them, I am nothing more than one soldier, a weapon.
There will be no forgetting when I stood on the battlefield for the first time, prepared for anything, completely confident, and my reflexes feeling prime. I was prepared for anything except for what happened next. Out of nowhere, a bullet sailed through the air, dancing through the wind and lodged itself directly into solid human flesh. It wasn’t mine, but it might as well have been. The bullet had found its target. My best friend had been hit directly in the chest. Gasping, his chest appeared to cave in on itself, and he collapsed to the cold dirt. To me he muttered: “Tell them I love them.” And then he was gone. Without a second thought, a struggle, or a doubt. One life was gone. People in his hometown would cry for weeks. He would never smile again or laugh or cry. There would be no more Matt Hall in my life or anyone else’s.
And that was hard to accept. To this day, I still mourn for Matt. I don’t think I will ever go a day without thinking of him. His death was the first I witnessed in a battle.
•••
It took me no longer than five minutes to read James’ writing. Afterwards, I found myself on the ground. It took me two hours to motivate myself to stand up. Another three before I convinced myself it was ok to show to Graham after he returned home. I didn’t go to school today. Nobody even appeared to ask me if I was ok.
Now I lay in bed. I am reading a book for school. It is very difficult for me to read this book. It is called All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. I read this passage, and I cannot go on any further: “When I see them here, in their rooms, in their offices, about their occupations, I feel and irresistible attraction in it, I would like to be here too and forget the war… They are different men here, men I cannot properly understand, whom I envy and despise. I must thing of Kat and Albert and Muller and Tjaden, what will they be doing?” I ponder this passage. I feel guilty. This must be exactly how James feels when he returns to watch us go about our normal lives. I am precisely what he describes. I sit here in my room with not a care in the world. We are all terribly guilty of being innocent. We are guilty because we sit here carefree and clueless while our neighbors, fathers, brothers, and peers are enduring unbearable trauma and pain.
As I fall asleep I wonder if James is aware that we think of him everyday. He is such a separate part of our life that we already consider him as dead. We do not expect him to return home. We are already mourning his death.
April 4th 2011: James
Since returning to Afghanistan, it is my first day back in battle. This is an act as a reinforcement to ensure that I am ready to be permitted back into my Navy Seal squad. Today, one simple goal is to be accomplished. There is one car of us being transported from our base camp to a small abandoned city of Afghanistan. Today, my senses are very sharp. I’m aware of everything surrounding me.
It takes two hours to reach the ghost town. We step out of the hum-vee and bolt for our base, a dilapidated warehouse. We meet in a small room, possibly an office. When we reach the warehouse we are assigned stations. I am assigned to machine gun station five, about a half a mile away with John Miles. I search for him in the office and when we find each other after about a minute, we grab some ammunition and run to our station. We make it all the way there without any injury. After searching for a couple minutes, lurking around the building, we acquire the targets. They are about two or three blocks ahead. We are hidden from their sight by one building. We will have to wait for them to move around the building before we fire at them. No other station will have a clear shot.
We perch by our machine gun for ten minutes before we have a direct shot at our target. They are on foot and we fire. They have spotted us and shoot back. We shoot at each other until we are forced to cease-fire. We have hit five out of the ten of them. We reload and fire again. Once again, they fire back. We are nearly out of ammo when a bullet rips through my upper arm. I do not let out a scream. We have been trained to know better than that. “John!” I grunt.
His head whips around, in the midst of reloading the gun. There is only one left to hit. “Hang in there, James.” He whispers. He looks through the scope and fires three bullets. The last target has been hit. He whispers through his radio. “Target has been destroyed. We have a man injured. Left upper arm. Retreating to the base right away.” He says more, but I cannot hear what he is saying. I focus on the clouds above me. My arm throbs with pain I have never endured before.
We are on the outskirts of the city. We don’t have far to go until we reach the base. I picture the hand-drawn map of the area in my head. We are at machine gun station 5. The base is only a half a mile away. John pulls me to my feet, I waver slightly, but regain my balance and begin jogging next to John, my arm screaming with pain. All I can think of is my grandfather and his death during battle. He was hit in the neck, I reassure myself. This is only my arm. They can fix it at the warehouse, although I have no knowledge of how deep the bullet has hit.
After the most excruciating run I have ever been on, we finally reach the warehouse where I collapse on to a table. A medical assistant comes nearly immediately. He inspects the wound: “It’s not looking too bad. We will see what we can do. You definitely need stitches and a sling. You will be out of action for about two months.” He gives me some painkillers and proceeds to stitch up my arm. John winces at the sight. It takes him twenty minutes to finish stitching me up: 27 stitches he says proudly. After the stitches are completed, he wraps my arm with gauze, then places my arm in a sling. Because I’m still dizzy and nauseous, the medic gives me a wheelchair to be taken back to helicopter. John wheels me all the way there. Then we head back to base camp. I write a letter to Ellie.
April 20th 2011: Ellie
I have had the worst day. I spilled my coffee this morning on myself this morning, which made me late to school. I got my math test back. I failed it. My hair looks like a frizzball and now I received this letter from James. I can only expect the worst:
Dear Family,
I write inspired by boredom. Yesterday, I was at battle, my first glimpse of action since I returned from leave. I went into battle very confident, but when the battle was over, sweat was trickling down my face in reaction to pain, in a wheelchair, and my arm in a sling. I was hit during a small mission. Left, upper arm. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. The first day was the worst. The doctor says I will only be off for two months. That is enough time to return home, but I would rather just stay here. Avoid the jet lag. I will be ok. I just wanted you to know.
Love,
James
It isn’t the worst news. He’s going to live. I just wish he had come home. We all know that jet lag isn’t that horrible. I know that he wanted to avoid my parents. We told you so, they would tell him. That the war is dangerous, that he was foolish. And now he will pay for his mistake of enlisting. He must feel like no one cares for him. My parents disapprove of his life choices and the army definitely doesn’t care for him: he is one out of hundreds of thousands of men. Simply one more uniform to provide and one more number to consider. To avoid this, I take the letter and hide it in my room before anyone else can see. I will show it to Graham when he gets home from football.
I retreat to my room to work on my homework with a bag of pretzels. I try to do my math homework, but my mind has been overrun with thoughts of James. I worry that his arm will be amputated. I know that he is in pain. My mind wanders imagining scenarios when he is convinced to come home. I daydream for an hour. In my head, James returns home and we go to the Six Flags theme park, which is only two hours away. We eat at Deangalo’s, the best Italian restaurant in the county and then we go to see a movie. It is an ideal day. If only we were on the same continent right now.
August 6th 2011: James
When I wake up, the air is humid and the clouds hang heavily in the air. I have a superstitious feeling that I can’t shake. I know something horrible is going to happen.
Today is big. I am one of the only Navy Seals who is being involved in this rescue who is not a part of Team 6. I go to breakfast, and all the men around me boast big smiles. They pat me on the back and tell me good luck. That I’ve made them proud. If only my family was proud too. I will write them when I reach headquarters after the mission. They will be so happy.
I eat breakfast slowly, savoring my last day with these men who surround me; they have been so kind. I will not return to this base, but to the headquarters. I step out into the humid, warm day. I walk slowly to my tent and pick up my duffle bag. Then, I strut toward the air strip. I see the other men and they holler at me to join them.
We march out to the helicopter and board, but only after the orders are given. I sit on the edge. I can see everything that goes on. We take off. The blades of the night black helicopter slice the air effortlessly. The tents below us disappear and the people shrink to tiny grains of sand. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the headrest. I think of my family at home. Of how much Ellie has matured, and of Graham filling my shoes in the family. I think about my weak parents and them being incapable of accepting me. I sigh heavily and roll my head to the side, opening my eyes to look out the window.
Today, we fly to assist troops under fire. This is ‘our responsibility’. To go in and save these foolish men. We are all only the puppets and toy soldiers. The government picks up a handful of us and throws us into battle up here or down there. We have no control of our own actions. When in the army, you no longer have freedom.
My action was inopportune. As soon as I opened my eyes, I see fire erupting from the underside of the helicopter. I see pieces of shrapnel punching holes into the metal of the helicopter; I see a piece hit me directly in the stomach. I feel the helicopter begin the to lose balance. I am not aware of why the helicopter is spinning. I only feel the hole in my skin. I know the dent in my flesh and the fire in my stomach. I lean over my knees and vomit onto the floor. Maybe it’s the ceiling. I don’t know, but my vomit is red and thin. The helicopter is engulfed in flames. I only see red. Hear only screams. Think only of my love for my family and how they would say I told you so.
That’s when I know I am going to die. That is the most terrifying thought of my life.
August 15th, 2012: Ellie
School starts in two weeks. I am sort of excited. Like every year, I am mainly excited for new shiny, bold school supplies and to see my friends again. I stand at my closet surveying it for the cutest outfit to wear on the first day of school. There is a knock at the door. No one else is home and I don’t have any plans with anyone. Who could be at the door?
I walk leisurely to the front door and swing it open to find a man in sunglasses and a black suit standing on my porch.
“Mrs. Mason?” he asks, removing his sunglasses.
I stick out my hand. “I’m Ellie.” I say. “Can I help you?” I ask cautiously.
He answers my handshake. “Hi, Ellie. My name is Shane Nass.” His tone is sullen. “Are your parents home?”
“Um, no. But they will be in a half an hour. Is something wrong? Did Graham in trouble?” I begin to worry.
“No, Graham did nothing wrong.” He states in a melancholy tone.
“Well you can come in if you want to.” I say stepping aside from the door. “Sir.” I feel obliged to add at the last moment.
“Thank you very much ma’am.” He responds as he steps into my house. I take him to the kitchen and offer him a drink. He asks for a glass of water. I give him one. I pull out my phone and text mom to hurry home because someone is here waiting to talk to her and dad. ‘This is how teenage girls end up missing… or dead.” I think. The next half of an hour passes slowly. The man in the suit and I make small talk. We speak of the weather and he asks me when school starts, what grade I’ll be in, etcetera. He won’t tell me why he is here, no matter how many times I ask.
Finally, after what feels like eternity, I hear my mother’s car pull into the driveway. “I think that’s my mom.” I say feeling relieved. “Hold tight, I’ll be right back.” I add. I walk casually around the corner and as soon as I’m out of sight I bolt to the garage. It is my mom. “Mom!” I exclaim with a scowl drawn across my face. “Please hurry. I have no idea who this guy is. He could have murdered me or something!”
“Ok, ok Ellie. Settle down. Goodness gracious.” My mom sighs as she lowers herself from her SUV. She walks past me and into the house, her face emotionless. When I arrive in the kitchen, my mother has found the man in the suit and is sitting at the table with him. I see he has helped himself to another glass of water. I grab the box of Goldfish and stalk back to my room to continue searching through my closet.
When I walk back to the kitchen to return my box of Goldfish to it’s rightful spot in the pantry, I see my mother sitting at the kitchen table with the man in the suit. I smile at them. “What’s going on?” I ask mom.
“We are waiting for your father to grace us with his presence.” She replies sarcastically.
“Sounds boring.” I murmur and I return to my room once again. I sit on my bed and think about James. I wonder what he is doing right now. What time is it over there? Should he be sleeping? Does he ever think about us? About me?
Ten minutes later, I am still pondering on the thought of James, when I am shook from my trance by the sound of a wail and a gasp, followed by the unmistakable sounds of crying.
And now I know that James isn’t thinking of me. And he never will again.
August 19th 2011: Ellie
The past few weeks have been silent and unbearable. The days are filled with sobs and handkerchiefs and the nights aren’t filled with sleep. All we can do is cry. If you aren’t crying at night, you can’t fall asleep because you can’t ignore the sobs of your family. After learning this, I only cry. Nobody talks. I don’t talk. Why would I? I never talked before James was killed in a helicopter accident. There is no reason for me to talk now.
My heart has been ripped to shreds. I feel as if there is nothing left. Like I will never be happy again. I will never love. My heart is too tattered. It is as if there is no hope for me. No one will ever love me because I can’t love him back. It is all because of James. My heart can never be put back together again. No one will ever take James’ place in my heart or in my family. He was the life of the party and the base of the pyramid. He was the glue that made us stick. Now, we drift. Farther and farther away from each other. There is no one to keep us together anymore. We have no hope.
The funeral is in one hour. I try and pull myself together enough to get ready. My hair is in curlers. That’s a good start. All I have to do now is put on my makeup and hold it together so that it will stay on.
At the funeral, no one tries to socialize with us. We sit in the front pew with our heads down. There is no body in the coffin. He burned. Leaving nothing left for us to bury. He will just have a tombstone. When it is my turn to speak, I rise slowly and shuffle to the altar, my head still looking at my feet. I reach the microphone and look up. There is a sea of black stretched in front of me. All eyes glisten with tears. Graham’s speech was particularly moving.
“I don’t have much to say. It would be to difficult. But I will tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. This combination of words has never come out of my mouth in my entire life.” I pause and look down at my hands as a tear falls off of my face and plops on to my palm. I blink away the remaining tears and push on through my speech. “The first time I was bullied was my first day of middle school. I was only eleven. My brother Graham was attending the same middle school as me, but my true hero on the day that I first experienced the wrath of the mean girls was James. Graham told James that the popular girls at my school had pushed me into the wall in the bathroom. When I came home that night and James saw the swollen, purple bruise on my forehead he went to those girls’ houses and demanded to speak with the parents immediately. After James talked to those girls and their parents, I was never bullied again. Everyone across town knew not to mess with me because James Mason was MY big brother. He was there for me and no one could defeat him.
“From that day on, I never felt a connection to anyone that was as strong as my connection was with James. He is someone that I will never go a day without thinking of.
"He was a truly courageous man who fought for what he believed in. I personally believe that the time that James spent in Afghanistan was worthwhile and meaningful to him. I will always think him of as an amazingly courageous, loving, kind person who to this day, is my inspiration.
"He wanted to fight for his country, but he was aware that his actions could never make an impact on such a gigantic world. He knew he would always only be another soldier from another small town and nothing more. Still he help his head high and wore his colors proudly.
"Now that he is gone, I sometimes worry. What will people think of me now? Will they treat me differently? With pity? Or with caution? Will I be bullied again? I want you all to know that you do not need to pity me and don’t be cautious around me. James has helped me to be strong. And now it is clear to me that not only was James an influence to me, but he was also a very strong role model to Graham. Now it is Graham’s time to shine. I will look to him for guidance and he can protect me now. So thank you for coming here today to assist us in this rough time, but it is clear to me now that I don’t want to mourn James. I want to celebrate his life and his accomplishments.”
“I step away from the microphone and teeter down the steps. I sit next to Graham on the pew and he takes my hand. We are all here for you, James. We always will be.