Soldier's Coming Home

It was four o'clock in the afternoon with the sultry heat rising in the air as it always did during the summer in Louisiana near the marsh and swamp lands. The air was still and the lake was as still as glass. Sarah Weathers sighed and stood from her rocking chair on her back porch and walked inside, her mind drifting to another time and another place. Most people spent their whole lives trying to leave here, and Sarah had been one of then. But she never had been as happy as when her husband Jeff had been stationed at the nearby Ft. Polk, three years before. It had been like a coming home.

Walking inside, she stopped for a moment near the window fan and closed her eyes, letting it cook the sweat that had formed across her face and neck. It felt nice and cool and she smiled softly to herself. For just a moment, she was lost in time and she could feel Jeff's hands on her, softly caressing her. The love that she felt still reverberated and a soft shiver flowed down her spine, warming her with a tingly soft feeling. God, how I miss him, she thought to herself.

It was a sad look in her eyes when they opened and a small tear formed in the corner as Sarah shook her head and walked inside to the family room. It was the same time every day. There was an American flag and pictures of her family. Some were just of Jeff. Some were of both of them. They had always talked of having more kids, but never were able to. Maybe, she thought, I wouldn't be so lonely, if we were able to have kids.

She passed a picture of her husband Jeff wearing desert fatigues and his green beret. She always recognized his eyes, a little rambunctious, a little mischievous, but always warm and full of emotion. It was his passion that had first attracted her to him. "Kandahar, Afghanistan, A-504," the back of the picture read, Sara memorized. The man in the picture was dirty with a two-week old beard on the face and wearing a long flowing jacket. What a stark contrast the rifle and the pale skin looked against the jacket and the round hat on his head. It's the eyes, she said to herself. I'll always know his eyes.

Wiping a tear away, she went to the small wooden chest that sat on the floor and knelt down softly. Opening it, she breathed deeply. It was a tradition that she had formed over the past few months. She was an army wife waiting for her soldier to come home. With shaking hands she removed the stack of letters that she had received. It was her way to remain connected to him. When Sarah read the words, she could hear his voice. She could see his face. She could feel his touch. And for that moment in time, he wasn't gone. The man that she loved so deeply and so completely was right there with him.

Taking the stack of letters, she walked over to a soft well worn chair near the window and sat down with the envelopes on her lap. It was his chair. No matter where he was, she thought to herself, it would always be his chair. Methodically, she moved the top letter to the bottom. They had a certain order, Sarah said to herself. You have to follow the order, she thought.

The next letter, she nodded as she read the date. Yes, this is the one, she thought with a smile. She could see his face. Her breath caught as she began to read the words...

"My dearest Sarah,

Words can't describe how much I miss you. I'm sitting here on this mountaintop and yet a part of me is home with you, will always be home with you. As night falls on this lonely place, I look up at the stars and it dawns on me that I never realized how many starts that there really are in the sky. How funny it is what one sees what one is not near the big city or all the lights. But, I look up to the stars and realize that they are the same stars that you are looking up at. Then I close my eyes and know that it will be all right.

This isn't my first time in combat, my darling wife. But something is different about this battlefield, something substantial is altered. I cannot feel it, I cannot define it and yet it is just as tangible as the bullets that we fire or the pain we feel in our legs when we march into the mountains. We may be here in Afghanistan, yet we know that what we are fighting for is farther away. What we are fighting for is at home. It is in the houses on Main Street, USA. It is in the offices, in the fire stations and in the restaurants. What we are fighting for is not here in the mountains. It is across the sea, there, at home.

I won't lie to you, dear wife. I feel fear every time I go out into the field. There is this deep ball of fear, excitement and adrenaline combined down in the pit of my stomach that I can't seem to shake. I wonder if the fear makes me coward. Or does the fear make me all the more real. Does it make the mission and our sense of duty all the more real, tangible? Someone once said that there can't be courage without fear. I guess he was right because we have a lot fear here in the mountains.

Remember when we first moved to Louisiana? You were so happy to be going home. I couldn't believe how ecstatic that you were. Being a mountain man from Colorado it felt like I was moving to a foreign country or something. I was so miserable. We used to fight so much because I was so worried about the bills and the fighting and the job and everything else that didn't matter. But none of that matters anymore.

I'm coming home soon, wife of mine. I'm coming home for good. I've heard the lives rounds snapping past my head enough. I've fought enough battles and enough wars. When I come home this time, I'll be coming home for good. I know you'll be waiting for me when I get there.

I have to go into the field in a few days, but this should be our last operation. Then we'll be on our way home. I burn for you, wife. I burn for your touch. I'll see you in my dreams.

Always,

Jeffrey"

"God, how I miss you, Jeffrey," Sarah whimpered as the tears flowed freely. She crumpled the letter, no longer caring about it as her shoulders shook. She wept and wept as if silently wishing that it would bring him home. "I miss you."

She didn't know if she had wept for five minutes or five hours. But however long it had been, Sarah had felt her touch, seen his face, heard his voice. His smile was indelibly burned into her brain and as much as it hurt, she couldn't help but smile. Jeff always knew how to make her smile. There were enough smiles and enough love to last a lifetime. It filled her. It consumed her.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah found the letter that she had moved off the top. She touched the return address wishing that she could make it go away. Closing her eyes, a lone tear ran down her cheek but she didn't sob. She opened the letter and read the words silently.

"Dear Mrs. Weathers:

It's with a heavy heart that I write you this letter. I was your husband's commanding officer and I felt the need to write personally in order to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. By now you have received the telegram and already know that he is gone, but you also have the right to know how he died.

Jeff was a very courageous man, whose loss was be felt by all of us. He died doing what he loved, for the people that he loved. He had I had come from the same area and we often talked. He spoke very fondly of you and looked forward to retiring upon returning home after this deployment. He loved you very much and never passed up an opportunity to tell us what a great woman you are. I know I can't begin to comprehend the pain that you must feel right now.

He gave his life for his team mates. It was the last operation of the deployment before we rotated home, and he was the team's medic for the patrol that was supposed to last less than two weeks. Four days into the patrol, we were ambushed and started taking fire from all sides. Three of us were wounded immediately, including myself. Jeff ran to me and pulled me to safety. Your husband patched me up and left me to go find the other wounded. He was a hero, Mrs. Weathers. Jesus said in John 15:13, that 'greater love hath no man than this, to lay down his life for his friend.' Jeff did just that.

Running out into the open taking a lot of fire, Jeff tried to reach the last of the wounded men. I saw him wounded, but he kept going. He wouldn't stop. He reached the downed man and pulled him to safety but was wounded again. Your husband killed the enemy and patched his wounded teammate up under a hail of bullets. An enemy mortar round fell into his position a few minutes later.

I can't describe the loss that we feel without your husband with us. He gave his life for us. We all feel empty. He save our lives and he'll always be remembered. Someone once said that patriotism is not singing a song in the streets, or reciting a speech on a national holiday. Patriotism is enduring great pain for your country, standing up for what one believes in no matter the cost, or the price. Patriotism is an act, an act of selfless sacrifice and courage that will live on even in death. Your husband was a patriot, Mrs. Weathers. Know that he loved his country. And that he loved you more.

His spirit will live on and will never die. He will never be forgotten.

With regards,

Brian Ainsley
CPT, US Army"

Closing the letter up, Sarah wiped the tears from her cheek and took a deep breath. She couldn't believe that he was gone. Part of him would never be gone. Jeff would always be there. In his favorite chair. In the bed frame that she slept in that he had made by hand. In the roof and the porch that he had repaired. In the car that he had picked out. He was there. Jeff would always be there.

Standing up, Sarah replaced the letters in the chest and then stopped by the folded flag. The pillow next to it had his medals pinned to it. Behind the pillow was a picture of Jeff, wearing his green beret and his rakish, mischievous smile. She touched the picture with a soft smile curling her lips, knowing that yes, he was still here.

Turning around, Sarah Weathers walked out to the front porch and sat in the wooden rocking chair that Jeff had built.

She was waiting for her soldier to come home.

When I am gone do not cry for me
For I am always there, though you may not see
I am in the shadows, the darkness
I am the glimmer of light when the moon grows dim
I am the shimmering moon when you fear the unknown
Do not cry for what is gone, for I am always with you
I am in your heart and in your mind
So how can I ever be gone from you
In the darkness of the night that nay will end
In the shadows of the fear on the road that you tread
I am there, watching o'er the love of my life
I am present in your strength the quiet confidence you take
Do not fear for I am always there as long as you believe
When you laugh you will see my quiet smile
When you cry you will feel my tender touch on your cheek
When you are afraid I am that quiet confident smile you know
I am never gone even though I am not there with you
Do not cry for me, wasted tears will not bring me back
Though my body may die, my spirit never will
Just believe, you must believe in your heart
For when I am gone, I am always there in your heart
Do not cry for me

This story is dedicated to all the families who have lost a loved one in the Global War On Terrorism. Though they may be gone, they are never forgotten. Their light will always shine on for us, lighting the way with their courage, fidelity and honor. They drew a line in the sand and would not let it be crossed...They are the ghosts of war...

Always,

James R. G.
Chief Petty Office
US Navy Reserve