For the Love of a Marine

by Sharon Kimbra Walsh

  The night that she and Joe had been due to meet after he returned from his patrol, Katie went outside her tent at 2000 hours in the unreasonable belief that he would be waiting for her. Inside her was a fleeting hope that it was all a bad dream and that she would get to see his wide grin and the love he had for her reflected in his dark blue eyes. She waited until 2130 hours, pacing the worn down path in front of the tent but there was no sign of him. Finally, the pain of realization unbearable, she went back inside the tent, knowing at last that Joe was not coming back, hope that he might still be alive blotted out by the shadowy blackness that was taking over her heart.

  At 1100 hours the next day, Katie was summoned to Sergeant Webster’s office. As she entered, she was startled to see Sergeant Eastman seated there. Katie looked lethargically at them both.

  “Katie,” Sergeant Webster began, his voice unusually gentle. “They’re having a small memorial service on Camp Roosevelt for the casualties from Sergeant Eastman’s patrol. He came here to ask if you would like to attend. If you do, he will escort you there and back. It’s up to you.”

  Katie froze, her first thought to offer a hysterical refusal, but she thought of the members of Echo squad whom she knew and who might be dead or missing, those who had helped her on the night of the helicopter crash and she changed her mind.

  “Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll get my kit.”

  In the locker room, she slowly and tiredly put on her military cap and sunglasses. Sergeant Eastman was waiting for her outside and together they walked in silence down the long corridor and outside into the heat of the day. Neither of them spoke as they walked the long distance to Camp Roosevelt. As they approached the USMC building, Katie could see a large crowd of marines and Army personnel standing in a half circle. They were silent, heads bowed, helmets and caps in hand. She slowed almost to a stop, panic striking at her, reluctant to go any further, not wanting to see the grief displayed so openly from Joe’s men and colleagues. Sergeant Eastman turned and must have seen the pain and fear in her eyes, and he touched her arm.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Katie swallowed. “Yes, yes I do,” she replied. “I have to do this for Joe.”

  The sergeant and Katie continued to walk in the direction of the crowd. As they reached it, Sergeant Eastman led Katie to the front of the half circle of soldiers. She saw that there were perhaps half a dozen marines separate from the crowd, kneeling down on one knee, arms across each other’s shoulders, heads bowed. In a line in front was a row of combat helmets placed on upright rifles with boots neatly paired together in front of each helmet and rifle. Scattered in front of the boots were dog tags and various personal effects. Some of the kneeling soldiers had their hands resting on helmets or boots.

  The meaning behind this display was not lost on Katie. It was a serious memorial for those lost in battle, first begun back in the mists of time—the Battlefield Cross. Katie knew that a rifle with bayonet placed downward into the ground or in the boots signified a soldier killed in action. It also signaled a time for prayer, a break in the action to pay tribute to a friend and hero. Dog tags identified the soldier’s name so that he or she would never be forgotten. The helmet also symbolized the great sacrifice and combat boots represented the final march of the soldier in his or her last battle.

  Feeling as though she were intruding, Katie followed the sergeant to the half circle of kneeling marines. Nobody looked at her, they were all deep in their own grief.

  Katie gazed through blurred vision at the poignant row of helmets and boots of those who had died or were lost. Was one of the helmets Joe’s? A pair of boots or his dog tags all that was left of him? She moved slowly along the line of men toward the last helmet, knowing beyond doubt that it belonged to Joe. She stopped by the single helmet and rifle and saw the dog tags lying where the boots would have been, if there had been any.

  She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to verify that they did indeed belong to him, but she couldn’t resist, needed to know once, Then maybe she could begin the long journey of moving on.

  Bending forward, she looked at the dog tags, trying to see the name. They were lying so that she couldn’t read what was on them. Aware that this was probably not the right thing to do, she gently touched one dog tag and turned it so that the name was facing upward. She flinched as though it had burned her fingers.

  The name Joe Anderson seemed to leap out at her and she recoiled backward. She forced herself not to cry out. It was too quiet here, so many people suffering their own grief and loss. She put her hand across her mouth and closed her eyes, her shoulders shuddering silently. She wanted to be away from this lonely place, lonely because of the tangible atmosphere of loss and suppressed emotions. But something made her reach out for the helmet, balanced on top of the butt of the weapon. As she touched it, it rocked slightly, unbalanced, from side to side. She placed the palm of her hand on the top. Warmed by the sun she could feel the roughness of the camouflage material of the cover and tears began to build up, threatening to overwhelm her. She bit her lip hard, tasting the coppery essence of her own blood. She grasped the rim of the helmet, and without conscious thought, lifted it from its precarious perch on top of the rifle. Turning it upside down, she looked through tear-blurred eyes at the name written in felt tip along the inside—Anderson.

  Katie suddenly clasped the helmet against her stomach and uttered a small moan of desolation. She pressed the helmet against her and slowly sank down on one knee, bending forward until she was hugging the precious helmet as though it were a lifeline. She tried to suppress the harsh sobs that were coming fast and furiously. In a small part of her, she felt that she was almost certainly making an exhibition of herself but could not control her grief. It was almost too much to bear.

  She became aware that someone had knelt down beside her, a shoulder brushed against hers, and an arm placed around her shoulders. Someone else knelt down on her other side and another arm went around her shoulders. Looking up, Katie saw that the marines, who had been kneeling in front of the line of helmets and boots, had surrounded her. She recognized Corporal Carver on her right, and as he glanced at her, he nodded, his own eyes wet with emotion, and squeezed her shoulder, letting her know that she wasn’t alone and letting her know that she had a right to be there.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next two weeks were a living hell for Katie. She completed her duties in a dazed numbness, grateful that she felt nothing. On the final day of her tour, another worry had arisen. For a few days, Katie had been feeling sick, and on two occasions had vomited while at work. She felt tired and her breasts hurt. She knew what these symptoms meant but could not believe that the single night she had spent with Joe could have resulted in her becoming pregnant. She hoped with all her heart that it was true, but she was going to wait until her return to the UK before she confirmed it.

  Now here she was boarding the C-130 Hercules for home. The first leg of her flight was to Base Chora, where she would catch a commercial flight to the UK. She was leaving Afghanistan but more importantly, she was leaving Joe behind. There had been no further news. Everyone had moved on with their lives, their duties, their commitments, except for herself. She felt like she was stuck in limbo with the pain of loss always with her.

  Taking her seat on the aircraft, she locked the seat belt around her waist and turned her gaze to the window. Outside, the sky was an uncaring blue. A heat haze caused the airfield buildings to ripple and shimmer. Conversation inside the aircraft surrounded her, the voices excited and enthusiastic as most of the passengers were going home either having completed their tours of duty or going on leave. She felt isolated and alone. She didn’t want to leave. She was leaving Joe, and it felt as though she were giving up on him.

  The engines of the aircraft grew louder and it began to taxi toward the runway. Katie moved closer to the window, her nose pressed against the cold glass, head turned sideways so that sh
e could see the buildings of Base Independence. She felt as though the life was being wrenched out of her. The aircraft reached the end of the taxiway and turned onto the runway, its engines rumbling, waiting for clearance before taxing. Katie wanted to scream out, telling the aircraft not to take off, begging to be allowed off the aircraft. What am I thinking? Joe could still be alive and I’m deserting him.

  The engines rose in pitch before the aircraft hurtled down the runway, Katie watching as Base Independence raced past. She pressed the palms of both hands to either side of the window and the tears ran down her face. Joe’s name coursed through her brain, as she called to him silently, over and over again.

  Then they were lifting off the ground, the landing gear retracting with a thump and Base Independence disappearing into the heat haze. Katie sobbed silently until she became vaguely aware that someone had sat down beside her. Startled, she turned, and the female sergeant aircrew handed her some tissues with sympathy showing on her face, as though she had done this a hundred times before. “Leaving someone behind?” she asked quietly.

  Katie choked, couldn’t find the words for a minute then said, “He’s missing,” and completely broke down.

  The sergeant quickly put her arms around Katie, pulled her close, and held her.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A hundred kilometers away from Base Independence, at the foot of the northern mountains of Afghanistan, hidden among rocky hills and a tree line of native trees and thorny scrub bushes, lay a Taliban compound, its sand and mud walls blending into the surrounding desert and rocky terrain. A few days earlier, the compound had been alive with boisterously loud Taliban insurgents, celebrating their latest success against the ‘white dog Americans’. Now, advised of an approaching US contingent of troops, they had moved on, dragging along with them the innocent villagers to be used as hostages.

  Outside the walls of the compound knelt a man, a US marine, alone without food or water, hands tied behind his back and a two-inch thick rusty chain wound around his neck then staked to the ground. Tethered in this position for over two weeks, he was extremely dehydrated and sick. His dark blond hair was wet with sweat, his face sunburned, bloodied, and swollen from the beatings he had sustained. There was a deep, infected cut that ran from his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. Blood had leaked from the wound and crusted on his neck and body armor, and day and night flies buzzed around it, landing and taking off like aircraft from an aircraft carrier. He had lost roughly twenty pounds in body weight and his lips were dry and cracked, his tongue swollen from lack of water. Flies landed continuously on his face, drinking his blood and sweat, and where he had frantically tried to tear the bonds around his wrists, deeps cuts festered and wept with infection. He was sure that he had a couple of broken ribs where they had kicked him and hit him with their rifle buttstocks. His combat trousers were soaked with urine where he had had to relieve himself where he was kneeling, and he was covered in dust and sand. He stank.

  Joe Anderson knelt with his head lowered and eyes closed, dozing under the hot sun. He was grateful for the warmth. The nights out in the open were torture, the temperatures almost at freezing with the area being so close to the mountainous region as it was, the season edging toward autumn. He felt that one night he would end up falling asleep and die of hypothermia.

  None of the Taliban had been near him for two days now, and he couldn’t hear any noise drifting from the compound. He suspected that they had left him to die. He was so thirsty he could kill for one cool mouthful of water. As it was, he couldn’t see any coming any time soon. He struggled with his bonds again, frustration and fury giving him added strength, but he was becoming weak, dehydration, and hunger taking its toll with the pain in his wrists increasing. He needed medical treatment, as he sometimes shook with fever and suspected that an infection in his cuts was beginning to spread throughout his body.

  The only image that distracted him, that kept him going, kept him sane, chained up as he was like some kind of dog, was that of Katie. His memories of her were like a brilliant flaming torch in the darkness of his mind. He could picture her face with crystal clarity, her startling green eyes—how she looked at him, how her smile lit up her whole face, her stubbornness. He remembered how she felt in his arms, and sometimes he allowed the memories of their lovemaking during the night they had spent together to intrude into his thoughts, but the memories were more than he could tolerate. He remembered that she was due to fly back to the UK today. She was leaving without knowing that he was alive. He was going to lose her, and the pain in his gut was like a live thing. He had lost most of his men and now his woman. Frantically and viciously, Joe wrenched at his bonds, but they only dug deeper into the flesh of his wrists and fresh blood started to flow freely, dripping onto the sand and dusty earth. He suddenly raised his face to the sky and uttered a howl of pure pain, like an animal that had lost its young and mourned them.

  Joe suddenly overbalanced and crashed to the ground onto his right side, the resultant pain in his ribs blotting out all reason. He groaned, closed his eyes, and curled into a ball. “Katie,” he murmured hoarsely. “Katie, I love you.” Then he passed out.

  * * * *

  Awakened by gentle hands on his body, Joe felt himself turned onto his back. On opening his eyes, he discovered that it was night and cold with a strong, icy wind blowing down from the mountains. He was burning up but shivering violently. He could hear the murmur of voices speaking in Pashto, the native language of Afghanistan, and hands were unwinding the chain from around his neck. Some of the links were embedded in his flesh and he hissed with pain. Another pair of hands checked his wrists then he felt the repetitive movements of a sharp object sawing through his bonds. As his wrists fell apart—no longer bound—his arms fell down by his sides and he almost cried out with relief. He could barely move them because they had been in the same position for so long. Someone helped him to sit up and a heavy blanket, smelling strongly of goat, was flung around his shoulders. Someone crouched down beside him and handed him a goatskin bladder that sloshed with water.

  Joe looked up into the face of an old Afghan peasant, bearded and grizzled but with kindness directed at him out of wrinkle-surrounded, deep-set eyes.

  He took the water, nodded his thanks, and upended the water bladder so that the water trickled into his mouth. It was the sweetest taste he had ever sampled. He drank the water slowly, knowing that if he gulped it, he would probably throw it back up. He became aware that a rickety old truck, in great need of a paint job, was backing toward them, and a vague hope surfaced that he might now be safe. This was confirmed when the old man beckoned for him to stand up. Joe tried but he was too weak, however another equally old man joined the first and together both of them helped him to stand, offering silent support as he strove to remain standing on legs that had not supported his weight for some weeks. Once he was steady, they led him to the back of the truck. With their continued assistance, he climbed awkwardly onboard, where he sank down onto the metal floor and closed his eyes. He had no idea where they would take him now, but wherever it was, he was sure that he could make it back to a friendly unit.

  “Katie,” he murmured, “I’m coming home.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Joe took Katie in his arms, a warm look of love and longing etched on his face. His arms were tight about her and there was a smile of tenderness on his mouth. “Hey,” he whispered gently, “I love you and miss you so much.”

  Katie smiled through her tears. “Is it really you, Joe?” she asked, raising a hand to stroke his face. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Away,” Joe answered evasively, “and I can’t get back. Not yet. But remember that I love you very much and always will.”

  “But you’re here…” Katie began, panic beginning to rise inside her, “and I have something to tell you.”

  “I have to go,” Joe said, his voice fading slightly. “Don’t forget me, Katie. Keep on loving me and keep be
lieving in me.”

  His face became insubstantial as though disappearing into misty darkness. Katie tried to hold on to his arms but within a few minutes, he was gone and she was clutching at air. She screamed his name and awoke with the scream on her lips.

  With dry, painful sobs, Katie sat bolt upright in bed, heart hammering, unable to catch her breath. It had been another nightmare, nothing but a heart-wrenching dream, and Joe was still gone. He had never been there at all, although the warmth of him and the sound of his voice had seemed so real. Katie hugged herself, feeling as though her heart was breaking all over again. She wanted to moan like a wounded animal, crawl back beneath the covers, curl up into a ball, and never move again. She closed her eyes, willing the numbness to return and block out the painful thoughts and feelings. “Oh, my God,” she murmured in a choked trembling voice. “Joe, where are you?”

  Burning tears threatened to spill over onto her cheeks and she felt as though she was going to choke with the upwelling of desolation and loneliness inside her. Struggling to compose herself, she violently wiped away her tears and swung her legs from beneath the covers to sit on the edge of the bed. The electric clock on her bedside table said 0630 hours and it reminded her that she had something to do this morning, something that would almost certainly change her whole life. But she still didn’t move from her position on the bed. She gazed at the heavy curtains hung at the window and at the small crack of gray daylight, but didn’t register it in her mind. She was exhausted with emotional pain and worry. Joe was on her mind ceaselessly and it was draining her resolves and resources, leaving her apathetic, without energy, as if her life had stopped moving forward, leaving her trapped in a nightmare with no way out.