Letters from War (23 page)
Authors: Mark Schultz
An end always has a start.
It's now. It's time.
Beth knows she needs to let go of James, and the only way that can happen is for her to let go of all these letters.
She's not going to throw them away. She can't. But she's going to put them in the attic where they're not visible daily. Where she can't just slip a letter out and read it as if it's part of a newspaper.
It's finally time.
She wants to reread the only letter in here that isn't from her son. The one that started it all, this journey without a conclusion, this marathon without an end. The letter that came and told her the full story of what happened, the last letter to come since James was reported missing.
The handwriting is different, harder to read, but she has the words memorized nevertheless.
December 20, 2009
Dear Mrs. Thompson:
I want to thank you once again. Not a day goes by without me thinking of what James did for me. Every time I wake up. Or look in the mirror. Or touch my daughter's hand. All these times it's hard not to think of James.
Your son, Sergeant James Thompson, saved my life.
I can still hear the sounds of the ambush along the steep trail in the mountains. I remember being hit, then remember the thought of them taking me away.
All I thought about was the fact that I was going to die over there, in the hands of the enemy.
Your son obviously had other ideas.
It took more than courage for James to come after me into enemy fire. It took more than bravery. There's a strength there that is grounded by something else. I believe it's his faith and his upbringing. I got to know James a little out there and was impressed by his maturity. I know his family meant a lot to him. He was always carrying around one of your letters with him.
After he brought me to safety behind a bluff and managed to call for help, he went back out. He engaged the enemy as I ended up passing out. And that was it. In a matter of minutes James and Francisco were gone.
I know there is nothing I can say to give you assurance or hope. But I believe that James is alive and that we'll find him. We won't
stop looking for the men who took him, the same men who tried to take me.
I know James was a praying man. Not all the guys out there are. I'd like to think that those prayers helped him. I sure know they helped me. I pray for James, in my own way.
Thank you for your gift in James. I will never forget what he did for me. I thank you. My family thanks you.
I hope for and look forward to the day I can personally thank James.
CPL Jesse Burks
PS: I've included a letter that James had written to you but not sent. It's dated August 21, 2009, shortly before he went missing. I hope the words are comforting to you.
It's time to say good-bye.
The mother thinks of his soft skin and hoarse cry and shaking hands. Holding him while he learned to nurse. His hunger and her determination. His wailing and her work.
The years blink and blow away.
She sits on the edge of the bed, a rumpled piece of paper in her hand, echoes of James's words rolling around in her head. Next to her rests a picture of him in uniform. Beth recalls James as a baby and what she used to tell herself over and over again while Richard was gone.
I won't be scared.
The first few nights, she
was
scared. She held James in her arms, wondering if she would have to do this alone⦠whether she would be a good mother⦠whether her son would love her and be proud of her⦠whether he would be everything she imagined he could be.
I won't be intimidated.
When he was a toddler, James used to hold her hand because he needed to make sure she was around. Nobody ever knew, not even his father, how tightly he held that hand of hers.
I will believe that tomorrow will come.
She recalls his different laughs and smiles. The bruises and cuts and the different cries that accompanied them. Then she thinks of his words in the letter.
I don't want you to worry.
The cool sigh of night blows through the spaces, the clean floors, the empty seats, the closed drawers, the cabinets of the house. The echoes rumble up the stairs and past vacant rooms to the four walls surrounding her.
I don't want you to wait for me in fear.
The paper feels light. As light as he felt in her hands the day he was born. As light as he looked riding his bike down their driveway. As light as his smile the day he left for Fort Benning.
I want to inspire hope in the guys around me. On the inside, where it counts.
Her hands shake.
It's okay,
she tells herself. She closes her eyes.
It's all right to remember.
Her fingers curl, tightening over the paper, crushing it. Both hands come together and scrunch the paper tightly. They remain tightened in two fists, compacting the thin paper.
No more letters.
The words remain here in this room in her heart and always will. She doesn't need to read them, just as she doesn't need to hold her baby to know. To remember.
The love.
The life.
He's not gone and will never be gone, just like Richard and Emily and Mom and Dad.
Beth falls back on the bed.
Her hand opens and the compressed page drops to the floor.
It's time even if I still don't know and maybe won't ever know.
She looks up at the ceiling. Vacant and open like the ocean. Colorless and shapeless.
It's okay.
She turns off the light and finds herself under the covers.
It's okay.
She closes her eyes and sleep comes.
It's okay.
And in the dream, he laughs as she sprinkles water over him in the baby bathtub. The water is warm and the giggle is low and the bathtub is blue and his smile is eternal.
It's okay,
that smile says.
It's okay, Mommy.
August 21, 2009
Dear Mom:
Some days I feel like I grow up a little more with each passing hour. I feel like the sun and the foreign soil and the threats all around weather and chap my heart and my soul.
Yet I write to you as someone softened and humbled.
I need reminders about the good things in life. I ask God for reminders. And today, I was reminded.
It was with the dry, hard palm of a little girl's hand.
I met her in the village I was patrolling with my unit. We were told that her whole family, parents and brother and sister, were killed in some bombings by the Taliban. She was just four years old and didn't have any idea what was happening. She looked at me with those chestnut eyes that seemed to ask me to take her home.
Maybe that was all in my mind, Mom. I don't know. The mind is a tool, shaped and trained just like our muscles. Sometimes I wonder how sharp and tough mine really is.
This little girl smiled at me even though she had nothing to smile about. Then she grabbed my hand and I swear it didn't feel right. It was so hard. So strong.
I don't know why she even grabbed my hand.
It made me think of our child that will soon be here. It made me think of Britt, of you, of all of you.
I think how easy it is for us back home to have our families and our comforts. This girlâthis little precious soulâdidn't have a family or a home to continue to make a life in. It had been obliterated. I don't know if she had been told. But I do know she managed to smile and laugh and even play like any other child might in the world.
It's easy to grow callous. To view all of these men and women and children as others, as “them,” as something different from you or me.
This girl wasn't one of them.
Her name was Khatera.
The doubts I've hadâthe longings to go back homeâthe questions about the suffering and the violence and just the absolute hell of it allâMom, Khatera reminded me of something.
I'm not in Afghanistan to carry on a Thompson tradition.
Or to be a hero here or back home.
She is why I'm here.
I think we're helping. And I continue to feel inspired to lead and to help and to fight.
One day, God willing, I'll be able to hold my son's or daughter's hand and feel their tender touch and know that I have the right to freedoms. To raise a family and to love and protect them. This is my hope.
So today, I pledge again to do my job and to inspire the
men around me. I want to be a light like this precious soul was for me.
Want to know what “khatera” means? Someone told me it means “memory.”
I'm never going to forget that sweet little smile or that name. And I pray I'm not going to forget why we fight.
Sometimes the world needs us to fight for them.
I look forward to talking with you soon. And seeing all of you again.
Love,
James
It is a Friday like any other.
Beth has been home for an hour after making the rounds at the Mountain Home VAMC this morning. She thinks of Murphy and misses him. It doesn't feel the same without his wisecracks. She's cleaning the kitchen after making a pie she will take to church tomorrow. The air smells of apples.
A day just like any other.
The windows are open and the autumn day is cool.
It's the sort of day when you need to be outside on the deck drinking a glass of iced tea, she thinks. A day for watching the kids play with the dog and talking to the neighbors.
A day to sit and relax and close your eyes and hold your spouse's hand for no other reason except it's there.
She hears the sound of a car door and wonders if it's Britt coming over to see her. But it's five o'clock. Britt is coming by later. She wipes her hands and then goes to the living room to look outside the window.
Then everything changes.
She sees the car and the figure getting out of it.
The uniform is all she needs to know that news is coming.
Sometimes all you need to see is a snapshot in order to know the rest of the story.
This is the day she's been waiting for the past two years. The day she's known would come, when the men would approach the house and knock on the door and deliver the news.
The news she's been waiting to hear.
The news she's been fearing.
God help me.
She doesn't realize it but she's already on the ground, the window no longer in view, the table blocking it, the chair next to her. She leans on it.
Tears like bullets are already unloading.
God, please.
Beth knows but she can't move. She can't get up, can't force herself to gain control, can't even think about saying or acting or doing anything.
All she thinks about is him.
She thinks of the blue blanket his grandmother made for him, the way he used to suck his thumb with the blanket wrapped around him.