My body falls into the cushion of the 747 airliner seat. The sound of the engine escalates as I feel my body being sucked into the seat. We are finally leaving this place. I am going home. My body shakes with anticipation. I feel like screaming the word.
My mind races back to that cold dark night in Saudi Arabia. We had just spent two long weeks living in a warehouse with 3,000 other soldiers. My personal space was a cot and two feet of space on either side between the next cot. How difficult it was to change in a tight sleeping bag, struggling to tug my clothes on and off with hundreds of male eyes invading me. To hold myself from going to the bathroom until my stomach made me boil over in pain and I knew that I had to enter the same wooden toilet that hundreds had used before me and smelled of human waste so awful that it made me gag and throw up on some occasions. To avoid sitting down; squatting at such an angle that I would aim at the hole for fear of contacting my exposed flesh to the remnants of human waste dripping off the sides of the seat. To close my eyes and avert my glance from the slimy maggots that squirmed on the ground. To shower in a 4x4 foot wooden box that only covered me from my neck to my knees, being careful not to drop my soap for fear of exposing my naked body to the male soldiers who lined up a few feet away to occupy the same shower. How often would I pray that I chose the right shower, for some contained human waste left by those soldiers who could not bear to enter a toilet.
After enduring these conditions, I was anxious to enter the desert where our unit of thirty people would set up our own tents, showers, and toilets. I was anxious to leave this place, even if it meant moving only thirty miles from the Kuwait border and closer to a war that I did not understand. We left silently and swiftly one cold dark night receiving live ammunition for our M-16's that we would carry with us everywhere before we ascended into a bus.
As I board the bus and find a seat, the weight of the ammunition in my ammo pouch strapped to my waist lays heavy upon my side, reflecting the heaviness in my heart. I lay my tired body on the narrow hard seat as a deep dark sense of doom overwhelms me in awareness of my destination; like a calf on my way to the slaughter house. My body trembles involuntarily from the engulfing fear and chill of the night air. All of my energy fights to silence the deep sobs in the darkness as tears storm down my face.
I find myself racing back further in time to an image of Harry's tear stained face illuminated by glistening moonlight, hearing his gulping sobs. Couples walked by us, hand in hand unaware of the turmoil raging through our heads. "Can't you get out of it?" Harry's words plead with me.
"God, how I wish I could. It's either war or prison. I wonder how long I'd be in prison?" His smile radiates through the dark night and my heart melts. How I will miss that face, those dancing eyes, and that heavenly laughter. Every portion of my very being screamed desperately to run and escape my fate, like a criminal on the night before his hanging. Yet, there was no where to run.
"I don't want to go." I hear my own words echoing through my head as if it belonged to someone else. Everything felt as if it were surreal, as if I were in a never ending dream I longed to wake up from. "What if there really is a war and I have to see bodies? I don't know if I can handle it. I don't know how I can make it." My sobs fill the dead silence between us.
"You'll make it," Harry's stern voice reassures me. "I love you so much, I just wish that I could go for you."
"Harry," I begin again, unsure of the words. "Will you still love me if I come back missing my legs?"
"Oh God, sweetheart," Harry's voice quivers in the darkness. "I will love you if you are missing both arms as well." He grabs me into his shaking body and we both weep uncontrollably.
"Harry," I release myself from his grasp. "If I do not make it back somehow, promise me that you will find someone else and be happy."
"There is nobody else that I want," he shouts through tears.
"But I know you Harry, you will sit around for years dwelling on this. I don't want that for you because you deserve so much more. This is nobody's fault. It just happened. Promise me that you will find someone that will make you happy."
"O.K.," he whispers softly.
We walk hand in hand a few feet and my heart turns to ice. "What if I have to kill someone Harry. Oh God, " I gasp horrified. "I don't know if I could do it."
Harry's strong hands fix themselves heavily on my shoulders. An expression of profound seriousness hardens his gaze upon me.
"Now it's your turn to promise me one thing, " his voice unsteadily shakes. "Promise me that you will do everything to survive and come back to me. Even if that means killing someone. Promise me that one thing."
"I can't . I just can't."
His hands squeeze even harder upon my trembling shoulders. "Promise me that you will. You can do it, you are strong. Much stronger than me. War is ugly and you may have to kill someone, but look at all of the innocent women and children they have already killed. Isn't your life more important than theirs? Oh I love you so much."
He releases my shoulders and collapses into deep sobs as he sinks sitting onto the ground. I sink down and hold him , feeling my whole body shaking uncontrollably. The loud chatter of my teeth echoes through the silent darkness . I place that trembling mouth next to his ear and whisper so softly, I can hardly hear myself, "I promise."
My mind is jolted back to the present. I look up to see a smiling well-kept stewardess smiling at me. "No thank you," I refuse quickly. My stomach moves in nauseous ness still overcoming yet another bout of dysentery. "Where is the bathroom," I ask. She points to a door down the aisle.
I quickly race over to the door with a sense of urgency. Quickly disassembling the many layers of clothing, I sit down in relief. I look at my reflection in the mirror, startled at the stranger staring back at me. The stranger's dark solemn stare reflects the deep sadness that I feel inside. Is this really me? Dark circles have underlined the cold blue eyes. Sand and dirt have colored the blond hair brown and weighed it down listless, reflecting my spirit. Streaks of lost tears in the desert sand have left their traces along the narrow inclines of my face that once belonged to me. Will they recognize me still? I turn on the faucet and scrub the face with warm water and soap, hoping to wash away the deep dark cold expression. I quickly look into the mirror. It is still there, this stranger is still there.
I return to my seat. A poking sensation draws my attention to my right leg.
I look down to notice a bulge in my right leg pocket and unbutton it to reveal a diary. Lifting out the worn, stained, leather book, I sift through the empty pages. Empty, for I could never bring myself to write down my deep, dark thoughts. They were too frightening, and admitting to them would somehow be admitting to my weaknesses. There was no room for weakness in this war if I were to survive and stay strong.
On the top of each page in bold red ink, Harry had hand written over and over again the same words , over one hundred times, "You are strong. None of this means a thing. I love you."
