Excitement slammed into me, growing with each step as I hastened down the hall. Entering my empty classroom, I tossed the other articles onto my desk, clutching the envelope reverently in my hands. Oh, thank God! The children had asked when we would hear back from a soldier, but I could do nothing but tell them we hoped someone got our letter who would write back.
Last summer, at an educational in-service for classroom projects, a former soldier had spoken about the morale-boosting effects of receiving items from home. He explained how many soldiers might not get anything from family or friends, but letters from children would often provide the emotional boost needed when working and serving in a war zone.
I was concerned at first, wondering how the children would respond to the idea of a soldier in a real-time war. Fourth graders are still children and I had no desire to take away their childhood with a project dealing with the effects of war. So the classroom project was a gamble, but the principal had been supportive…as long as I informed the parents. Ugh—that had been my greatest fear. But thank goodness, every parent signed the permission form for their child to participate. In fact, several had offered to help when needed.
Now, with shaky hands, I opened the envelope feeling the need to read the contents before the children came back into the room. After all, I might have to censor part of the letter to them, depending on what he or she said. My eyes scanned the neatly printed writing, and I could not help but smile at the formal letter.
Specialist Ethan Miller. My fingers automatically traced the words across the page, as the reality of him writing while half-way around the world struck me. Sucking in a deep breath, I finished the contents, now excited for the children to come back from their music class.
Sitting at my desk, I looked around the room. I loved my classroom, with the desks arranged in clusters of four and a reading corner filled with bookshelves of any books I thought they would like to read. The windowsills were filled with the pots of plants we worked on last month. Halloween and fall decorations were taped to the walls, including the latest examples of their artwork. Carefully designed bulletin boards covered with both the children’s work and learning tools hung on each wall. My desk, which I tried, but failed, to keep organized held a conglomerate of pens, pencils, papers, files, artwork, and knick-knacks given to me from students.
On one wall, a large world map hung, with our city marked with a large red push-pen and Afghanistan marked with a yellow one. For a moment, my mind wandered to where he was…so far from us.
Hearing the slight noise of children in the hall, I could not even jump up to hush them, my anticipation at such a high. Rushing to the door, I opened it and with only a raised-eyebrow-teacher-look, the children quieted as they entered the room.
Before they took their seats, I clapped my hands and said, “Okay, everyone, we’ve got a treat, so listen up.” Once all eyes were on me, I reached behind me and picked up the envelope. Holding it for all to see, I announced, “We’ve got a letter back from our soldier friend.”
The excitement was palpable as the children cheered and clapped. Raising my hand, in our signal for silence, they quieted, but the undercurrent vibration of anticipation was felt throughout the room.
“Okay, remember when you were in kindergarten and you got to sit in a circle around the teacher?” I asked, receiving nods from all the children. “Well, we’re going to do that now, so come on up, find a place and let’s gather around to see what he has to say.”
The sound of chairs shuffling and little feet hastening to the front as excited voices whispered loudly filled the classroom. Soon, all twenty-four children were in a semi-circle around my chair and I smiled at their eager faces.
“Brad, would you go to the globe and point out where Afghanistan is?”
I watched as he stood, moving to the globe sitting on my desk, and spun it around a few times before landing his finger on the right country. “Good, good. Now, it is on the opposite side of the Earth, so is his time of the day the same as ours?”
Gaining the correct answer, I smiled at their attention and then pointed to Stan as he raised his hand.
“So when we’re sleeping, he’s working and when we’re at school, he’s sleeping?”
“Essentially, that’s right,” I replied. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll be studying the solar system in our science lessons and we’re going to talk about how the Earth rotates around the sun and how that makes day and night different for different sides of the world.”
“But read the letter now!” begged Sarah, her impatience mirroring the other children’s.
Nodding, I grinned. “Okay, okay. We have a letter from a soldier in the Army and his name is Ethan Miller.” Unfolding the paper, I began to read.
Dear Ms. Thompson and class,
I was very glad to receive your letter and to have the chance to write to your class this year. I will try to answer some of the questions the students asked. I have been here for just over a year and have one more year in this tour of duty (that means my time here). I am originally from Roanoke, Virginia and love the mountains. But I have to admit, I love the beach as well. I notice you are from Chesapeake, VA, so I suppose you get to see the beach a lot.
I live in a tent filled with bunk beds. It’s not very private, but we’re usually just in here for sleep or some down time. There are twelve of us sharing this tent but some tents hold almost fifty soldiers. I have a small locker and a footlocker (like a little chest) that I keep my things in.
It’s very hot here in in Afghanistan (where I am) in the summer – there are some cooler mountains but I’m not stationed there. Then in the winter, it gets really cold.
My job in the Army is to work as a mechanic. Most of what I do is here at the base but I do go out and work in the field. Yes, I do know how to shoot a gun and have one with me at all times.
Someone asked about the food – it’s not too bad. Although sometimes it tastes bland and I really miss places like Pizza Hut and McDonald’s. And a new coffee shop opened up so we can get fresh coffee. They also have chocolate chip cookies, which is a treat.
I don’t really know what else to say right now, but thank you for the letters. If you write back, I promise to answer.
Sincerely, SPC Ethan Miller
The children’s eyes, glued to me as I finished reading his letter, all blinked, almost in unison, before they clapped and comments abounded.
“I can’t believe he sleeps in a bunk bed!” “We should send him chocolate cookies!” “He didn’t tell us if he gets to shoot his gun!” “My dad works on trucks!” “Can he send us pictures?”
Lifting my hands, I shushed the children once more, and said, “Okay, find your desks and get ready to write. I’ll give you twenty minutes to write your next notes to Mr. Miller and then after lunch we’ll discuss what we would like to include in a box to him.”
The children scrambled back to their desks, eager to have this project for their writing assignment for the day.
“Are you going to write to him also?”
Looking down at one of the girls in my class, Heather’s large blue eyes staring up at me, I replied, “I suppose I should send a note as well.”
Heather reached out and placed her small hand on my arm and said, “I think he would like it, Miss Thompson. You’re awfully pretty and it would make him feel better if you wrote to him too.”
Laughing, I patted her hand as she hurried back to her seat. Sitting down at my desk as the children wrote their notes, my mind wandered over her words. Would he like a personal note? What would I say? What if he’s married? That would seem weird. But the more I thought about it, I decided that a friendly, pen-pal letter from an adult might be welcome. He doesn’t have to reciprocate.
Forcing it out of my mind, I pulled out a stack of math homework papers and began to grade as the children worked eagerly on their letters.
“So, what’s he like? Come on, Brooke, you can’t keep secrets!”
Emily, my roommat
e, was shooting a Cheshire-cat grin toward me over her plate of Chinese food. We ordered in and the scent of sesame chicken, egg rolls, and fried rice filled our apartment. I had shared an apartment with her for two years, but she was getting married in the spring so I would need a new roommate—a daunting prospect.
My chopsticks halted in mid-lift on their way to my mouth and I stared back at her. “I have no idea,” I replied. “It’s not like we got that personal in letters from a bunch of nine-year-olds!”
“Yeah, but you decided to write a more personal letter back.” Emily pouted slightly, which only made her look more childlike. With her trim, petite figure and short black hair she appeared elfish and while I was only a few inches taller, my curves always made me feel so much bigger than she.
Shrugging, while taking a bite of egg roll, I said, “Don’t know what he thinks. We haven’t gotten a letter back yet. He might be old…might be married…might have five kids of his own.” Chewing thoughtfully, I added, “And this is not some project to find a man! Geez, Emily…this is about the kids learning geography, world studies, politics, writing, and community service.”
Rolling her eyes, she popped another piece of chicken into her mouth, before replying. “Aren’t you the least bit interested in what kind of man decides to write to a bunch of kids?”
“One who’s probably lonely and has a little bit of time on his hands,” I replied, although secretly I knew that not everyone has the ability to relate to kids. “Anyway, it was only one letter. Who knows it he’ll keep it up?”
We changed the subject, but now that she brought it up, I could not get Ethan Miller off my mind. After dinner, Emily headed out to meet her fiancé and I had the apartment to myself. I loved my space and felt lucky to have found the first-floor apartment with a killer view overlooking a neighborhood park. My apartment had been the model when the complex was built and had been fitted with upgrades all through the rooms. It shouldn’t be hard to find a new roommate, but the idea of inviting a stranger to my comfortable corner of the world made me want to rethink my finances. Maybe I can make it on my own!
My mind easily slid back to the soldier as Emily’s questions about him moved through my thoughts as well. Curiosity grabbed ahold of me and I sat down on the sofa with my laptop. How can I write to him intelligently, if I have no idea what his life might be like?
Clicking on my search, I started with a soldier’s life in Afghanistan. I began with the images and viewed picture after picture of tan tents in perfectly straight rows. Some of the pictures showed the interiors and I scrolled through many of them, hitting print on the ones I thought the children would like the most. The starkness of the accommodations hit me and I looked up, my gaze moving around my apartment. All of this for just me and Emily. After absorbing the images, I moved to a few articles about life for U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan.
Later, as I lay in my bed, sleep not coming, I turned on the lamp on my nightstand. Padding over to my dresser, I opened the top drawer, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. Crawling back into bed, I sat for a few minutes deep in thought of what to say. Sighing heavily, I finally began to write.
Chapter 3
(November – Ethan)
The Boeing Apache helicopters, with forty-eight feet rotor diameters and fitted with their Longbow missiles, were a sight to behold lined up in the airfield. The dark, sleek bodies, ready to rain hellfire down on their targets never ceased to make me pause and view them with pride. Waspish in appearance, I knew at some time, a new breed of warbird would take the place of these, but that would be long after I was no longer in the Army. For now, these were the best we had and working on them made me feel as though I was involved in something important.
Jon and I had our hands inside the motor of one of them. The four-blade, twin turboshaft attack helicopter had a tailwheel-type landing gear arrangement and was equipped with a tandem cockpit for a two-man crew. It featured night vision systems and was heavily armed.
Cables ran from the electronics to our computer diagnostic system. Our job was to perform maintenance on the weapons components, fire control units, and sighting systems as well as all electronic and mechanical components. In other words…we kept the helicopters ready to fly at top capacity any moment. Thanks to us, the pilots just had to concentrate on their missions and not how their bird was performing.
Clearing the fire control system, I patted the side of the Apache, loving the mechanics of this flying armament. One of the pilots sat in the cockpit as we ran through the maintenance checks of the lighting and communication systems. By lunchtime, we cleared and armed several of the Apaches in our section, making them ready for their next mission.
The large hangar where we worked was cloth, suspended over the massive metal framework. Today we had it mostly closed off to keep the wind from tossing sand onto our instruments as we worked. Wiping my face, I glanced at my watch, glad to see the shift almost over.
“Hey Miller?”
The shout came from another buddy and I lifted my head from the electronics I was working on.
“Yeah?”
“I was just at the mail tent. Rogers said to tell you that you’ve got a package.”
Jon looked over at me, his head tilted in question.
Shrugging, I replied, “Got no idea. God knows my old man isn’t sending anything.” Jon nodded, not asking any more. He already knew my mom had died the year before I graduated from high school. Dad, a car mechanic, fell into depression without mom. He worked, but that was about all. Every night after he got home, he opened up a can of anything he could microwave, ate and then sat in his old recliner in front of the TV. Never even made it to my high school graduation. I joined the Army a week after high school and here I was, six years later. So, nope…no care package coming from my dad.
“You think it could be from those kids who wrote to you before?” Jon’s question interrupted my musings concerning my old man. At his words, my thoughts perked up. A care package from a bunch of kids would probably have food in it. And more letters. I had no clue why the idea of more letters from a bunch of kids sounded good, but I could not stop the hope that filled my chest.
By the end of the day, I was ready for a shower, a meal, and a bed, but the desire to make it to the mail tent overshadowed all other thoughts. I jogged along rows of dirt-tan tents, sandbags stacked at the entrance to each one. Making it to the one that distributed the mail for our platoon, I entered. The front section of the tent was bifurcated with a long wooden counter. The back section, behind a tent flap, was where the shelves, stacks, and bins of incoming and outgoing mail was kept.
“Hey, Miller,” came the greeting.
I smiled at the uniformed woman standing behind the wooden plank counter. “Howdy, Kerns,” I greeted back. Her cute smile gave most men a hard-on when they came in for the mail, but she ignored them all. Her husband back in the states had her complete loyalty and so for us, she was just a good friend. “Hear I got something and you just can’t wait to have me take it off your hands.”
Laughing, Private Kerns replied, “Yeah, you got a nice sized box. Hang on.” She turned and headed behind a flap into a rear room. A minute later she walked back, a cardboard box at least eighteen inches long in her hands. “Looks like you got something from Brooke Thompson…ring a bell? She must be someone special to send something to you,” she joked.
Reaching for the box, I grinned. “She’s a teacher at an elementary school in the states. I’m her class project.”
Kern’s smile faded as she said, “Oh, damn. And here I thought you had some hot chick sending you goodies!”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I threw out, eager to get back to my tent to see what they sent. Walking away, I had to admit, I was curious about the teacher, having had a few hot-teacher dreams about her even while knowing she could be a married grandmother. Well, hell…I can dream, can’t I?
Stepping inside my tent, I was glad that most of the squad was either in the showers or not back from
duty. I set the box on the floor and pulling out a knife, sliced through the packing tape. Opening the top carefully, I peered inside. Jackpot!
I pulled out bags of Halloween candy, pumpkin spice cookies, chewing gum, supplies of deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste and, near the bottom, a folded t-shirt. Pulling out the x-large hunter green shirt, I turned it around, grinning as I saw Eastville Elementary Eagles emblazoned on the front, with a giant eagle, its wings spread in flight. It even looked like the shirt would fit.
Laying it to the side on my cot, I reached into the bottom of the box, pulling out the large envelope, stuffed full of what I hoped were letters. Funny, but while the treats were great, it was the letters that had my attention.
Grabbing out the first one, I unfolded the paper, once more recognizing the handwriting of a little boy.
Dear Mr. Miller,
It is nice to now have a name to put to the letter. I was excited to hear that you work as a mechanic. So does my dad. He’s going to let me help him when I get older. If you get a chance to show us a picture of one of the trucks, I would like it. Maybe I can be a soldier when I grow up also. I hope you like the candy. Our class decided to share our Halloween candy with you. This is all I could write and the teacher is telling us it is time for lunch. Goodbye, Chad
Jesus, was I ever that young? I tried to remember the fourth grade and visions of my older teacher, Mrs. Martsen came to mind. Oh, she was a stickler for rules! Opening another note, I laid back on my bunk and read.
Class of Love (Letters From Home Series Book 1) Page 2