The Letter

"Sgt. Harmon. You got a minute?" his platoon sergeant asked.

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

The staff sergeant was four years older than him, but at 25, he seemed ancient when most of the rest of the platoon was between 18 and 21. Grant Harmon was four months away from turning 22, and having nearly finished his four-year enlistment, he was now officially a 'short-timer'.

"You got a letter for me?"

"Nah. I'm not married and I'm an only child. If shit goes sideways, two Marines in dress blues will show up at my parents' house and make their day. The last thing they need is a sappy letter from their dead son."

"So no letter for your next of kin? No one you want to say anything to after you've bought it?"

"Nope. Not really," Sgt. Harmon told him truthfully. He'd come to terms with his possible death, and he didn't think a letter would jinx him. He just didn't see it as something he needed to do.

"Okay. Just checking. You're the only Marine in this platoon who hasn't written one, and I'm not gonna ask again," the staff sergeant told him. It wasn't a threat. It was a simple acknowledgement that it was Harmon's choice.

What Sergeant Harmon didn't mention was that he did have a letter. It was just wasn't to his next of kin, and it was too private to talk about. He'd written it over the course of the last six months of their 8-month deployment, a little here and a little there, and he'd just finished it a few days earlier.

He had no intention of ever mailing it himself, but were he to 'buy the farm', he knew the staff sergeant would almost certainly be the one to inventory his personal effects, and when he did, he would find it. The only things left to do were to put in an envelope and address it. Or maybe not.

Anyone in a combat zone could use the postal system for free. But it might be smarter to put a stamp on it—just in case. The reason why was simple, or more specifically, it would make someone else's life simpler if they mailed it.

Harmon knew how Marines were. Either the staff sergeant or some volunteer would spare no effort to find her once they got back stateside in order to hand deliver it, and he wasn't about to put anyone through that. So after assuring his platoon sergeant he still had no 'if-I-die letter' for him, Sergeant Harmon pulled an envelope out of his footlocker and penned her name on it.

Just seeing it in writing made him think of her again, and as he wrote the address down from memory, he smiled as he thought back to that one day when the two of them had nearly become lovers. But at the time, she'd been married and his teacher, and in the end, he just couldn't go through with it.

It didn't matter that her husband was a first-rate shit who alternated between neglecting her and berating her, and on occasion, pushing her around. In his book, married was still married. But she was so beautiful it had nearly been impossible to say 'no', and there were times when he couldn't help but wish he'd been raised without a conscience. But he had, so nothing too serious had happened between them. And it wasn't that she lacked one herself. But after years of verbal and physical abuse, the temptation to cheat with someone she felt that way about had been extremely strong.

Since leaving his hometown, Grant Harmon had often wondered if she'd stayed with her husband, but out of respect, he'd never once tried to contact her or ever told her how he really felt. But were something to happen to him, his final wish would be to let her know.

He had no way of knowing if she'd even read it or possibly tear the letter up in anger or perhaps just sit there and cry or something in between. But because he couldn't control her reaction, he wasn't going to spend time worrying about it. All that mattered to him was that she knew.

He still had no idea whether or not he'd make it home alive, but with less than six weeks to go, and the entire platoon having only lost one Marine with two others wounded, he liked his chances.

Having penned the final words there was nothing more to say. The letter was four pages, front and back, and written in his own sloppy handwriting on unlined stationary. But it was from the heart, and she was the only woman he'd ever loved, and although neither of them had ever spoken those three words, he knew she'd once loved him, too. By now, it was likely she'd mostly forgotten him, but he'd never forgotten her.

So he fished out an envelope he'd kept tucked between the pages of the book he was currently reading and addressed it to her.

Denise Thomas
℅ Auburn High School
Auburn, WA 98002

And with those memories fresh in his mind, he went to make sure everyone in his squad was ready to move out for what could well be their last op 'in country' on this deployment. More were possible, but so far, nothing else was on their radar.

It was a little after midnight when the convoy stopped, about halfway to the village they were going to in order to offer food and render medical aid. Sergeant Harmon quickly fell asleep underneath one of their vehicles knowing that a portion of the rifle company was always on watch. It would be his turn in a few hours, so he grabbed some shuteye while he could.

He normally slept under a Humvee, but this night he lucked out and found himself under an MRAP which stood for Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected, a heavily armored vehicle that could withstand the shock wave of an IED. If the only Marine they'd lost so far had been in one of them instead of an 'up-armored Hummer' he'd undoubtedly still be alive, and the other two men who'd been wounded wouldn't have had a scratch on them. But even now, after all these years in Afghanistan, not everyone got to ride in an MRAP, and that's just how it was.

He pulled his two-hour watch from 0200-0400 then fell back asleep. It was a few minutes before sunrise when the fire watch, the two Marines assigned to stay awake for rotating, two-hour shifts woke him up.

He sat up, shook off the cobwebs, then cursed the god-forsaken hellhole called Afghanistan before packing up his poncho liner then taking a leak and brushing his teeth with water from his canteen. The big change since around 2008 was that even Marines no longer had to shave when deployed to a combat zone, so Harmon thanked God for minor miracles as he tossed his pack into the Humvee he'd be riding in and waited for 'the word'.

He hadn't ridden point in over a month, but this was his turn. He'd be riding with the company commander, the company air officer, and the CO's driver, a lance corporal from third platoon.

"Sgt Harmon. You ready to get out of here?" the Marine captain asked as he approached without saluting, something Marines also didn't do in combat zones.

"Oh, hell yeah, sir," he replied.

"I'll second that shit," the other captain, who wore aviator wings on a flight suit, something that still surprised the young sergeant, said. This officer was so good that the CO had made him the company operations officer, too, as he looked around scanning the area for any sign of bad guys.

The driver overheard and laughed but didn't say anything. His only job was to drive for the company commander, and he was waiting for the order to move out.

The CO met with the other three officers and the company first sergeant to discuss the route of travel and for the umpteenth time to go over rapid-reaction drills in the even of an IED or an ambush.

"All right. Saddle up!" the first sergeant hollered after the meeting ended, his order sending Marines scurrying to their vehicles as lieutenants briefed sergeants who then briefed their men.

As they rode along, the air officer said, "I'm thinking one more op before we start cleaning up gear and get ready to get the hell out of here."

"I agree," the company commander said. "Barring anything unforeseen."

Everyone listening knew that meant they could be extended for any reason at any time, but with any luck, they'd really have just one or maybe two tactical operations left. Or this one could be their last. No one really knew. It took time to clean vehicles and get them ready for embarkation back to the States, and that required a minimum of ten days. So with just around 40 scheduled days remaining, it was very possible that one last, 3-4 day op could be it.

"Okay, let's get off this road," the company CO said. "See that little stream bed?"

"Yes, sir," his driver responded.

"We're gonna go right through that then stay more or less parallel to the road."

"Aye aye, sir," the lance corporal replied.

The 'road' was really just some hard-packed sand, but anything of that nature was avoided like the plague wherever possible, because that's where the 'shitheads' buried IEDs. They'd learned to cover their work so well no one could visibly see anything of concern, so a lack of any trace of human activity didn't mean a lack of IEDs.

In the event a vehicle rolled over one, the dreaded 'click' of a pressure plate might or might not be heard. Most of the time it was too noisy to hear, but once the wheel that hit it rolled over it and released the pressure, all hell broke loose. It was rare for the enemy to sit and watch a road with a cell phone to detonate the explosives. Pressure plates were simple to use and didn't require a babysitter. They just sat there waiting for some unsuspecting American or Brit of other NATO vehicle to drive over them and—-wham!

"With any luck, we'll back before your wife delivers," the CO told his air officer.

"Yeah, right. Trish is due the 10th of December, and...knock on wood...we should be back before Thanksgiving."

The CO turned around and smiled at the only other captain in the unit and said, "Right. Knock on wood."

The hummer slowly made its way into the stream bed, a place where no IED could reasonably be buried, and as it jostled along, everyone's guard was lowered just a tad knowing they were temporarily safe.

Streams were rare, and any stream as deep as this one was almost unheard of. The water level reached the middle of the doors and the air officer said, "Hey, be careful up there. You're gettin' me all fuckin' wet!"

"Sorry, sir!" the lance corporal said as all four of them laughed.

The hummer passed through the deep water with ease then made its way back onto dry ground meaning—loose sand.

"Okay. Let's stay about 50 meters or so away from the road as we head south," the commander told the driver.

"Roger that, sir," came the reply.

Those words were the last thing Sergeant Harmon remembered hearing before waking up in a medevac helicopter.

"Where am I?" he groggily asked as he slowly regained consciousness.

"You're on your way to Bagram, Marine," a Navy corpsman he didn't know told him.

"Am I okay?" Sergeant Harmon asked as he tried moving his arms and legs.

"You will be," the young sailor hollered. "Your left side took the brunt of the blast, but you'll be fine."

What he really wanted to do was reach into his trousers and check his 'junk', but he wasn't about to do that then and there.

"What about the other guys?" he asked, his head now pounding with pain like he'd never experienced.

"I uh, I don't know," the 19-year old 'doc' told him in a way that said he did know. "Listen, I'm gonna give you some more morphine. You may fall back asleep, but trust me. You're gonna be okay."

That he wasn't being given anything stronger than morphine told Harmon he probably really was okay. But as the corpsman plunged the syringe releasing more of the clear liquid into his bloodstream, Grant Harmon found his eyelids too heavy to hold open, and the next time he woke up, there was a female nurse smiling at him.

"Hi there," she said with a smile as his eyes fought to focus.

"Hey," he replied, his brain still too foggy to notice the silver bar on her uniform. Had he seen it he'd have addressed her as ma'am, in spite of her 'only' being an Air Force lieutenant—and a nurse.

"I need to change your dressing," the woman, who was about his platoon sergeant's age, said, the smile still there.

"How bad is it?" he asked as she gently rolled him on his good side.

"I'll let the doctor explain. For now, we need to get everything cleaned up again and put some fresh gauze on that."

When he flinched she apologized.

"No, it's okay," he told her in spite of the pain.

"I'll see about getting your pain meds adjusted."

"No. I'm fine. Really."

"Okay. Just let me know anytime you're not."

He fell back asleep after she finished then woke up to see an Army doctor looking down at him.

"Sergeant Harmon," the 34-year old major-doctor said as he read the name off of his chart.

"Yes, sir," he replied after seeing the huge brown oak leaf on his uniform used in lieu of the bright gold worn in garrison.

"You took some shrapnel to your left leg here and here," the major said as he gently touched the wounded areas. "And you took another piece in your rib cage that went up under your body armor."

"So...I'll live?" Grant tried to joke.

"You will. And with any luck we'll have you on a flight to Germany within the next 48 hours or so."

Grant wanted to ask him about his fellow Marines, but it was unlikely he knew, and the young doctor turned and left before he could ask.

Back at base camp, the entire contingent of Army soldiers and Marines were lining the way as their fallen comrade's flag-draped body was brought back. They saluted in pairs as the flag passed them then cut their salute as the next two raised their arms.

Everyone of them knew the air officer who hadn't survived the blast. He was a Marine aviator, and the most likable officer any of them had ever known. He insisted on being addressed by his call sign and he talked to every man there using their first name. He was as proficient as he was friendly, and they'd all, at one time or the other, watched him call in airstrikes on enemy positions with deadly accuracy. No one knew how many Marine lives he saved, but to a man, they all respected him.

And all of them knew he had a two-year old son and a pregnant wife waiting for him back home, and that they would never see the husband and father they loved again.

Two hours later his flag-draped body was loaded onto transport helo and headed to Bagram where Sergeant Harmon was recovering from the blast that had killed the captain and left the CO with a serious concussion. Only the driver had escaped without serious injury suffering no more than a gash in the forehead where the force of the blast shoved his kevlar (Marine-speak for a helmet) into the steering wheel.

But that's how IED blasts worked. It was all a matter of where one was sitting in relation to the shock wave and, of course, how much explosive material had been used. It could kill everyone in the vehicle or no one, or any combination of death or injury from scratches to missing limbs.

Once the company bid a final welfare to the slain officer, someone had to inventory his personal effects. And because Sergeant Harmon had been medevaced, his gear had to be inventoried, as well.

The company commander personally went through his friend's personal items and made sure there was nothing embarrassing before carefully cataloging them. He, of course, found the letter the captain had written to his wife, and set it aside to deliver to her in person when they got home, long after formal notification had been made. He would also call her himself, once she had a couple of days to try and deal with her world that was now spinning out of control.

Grant's platoon sergeant was doing the same for the best squad leader he'd ever known. He, too, found a letter, but after having asked him about that very thing so soon before the blast, he wasn't sure what to do with it.

He knew this Thomas woman wasn't his Marine's wife, mother, or sister. And since it was addressed to her with a school address, he felt safe assuming it was meant to be mailed. Once the inventory was complete, he dropped it in the outgoing mailbox in the company office, honestly believing he was doing the right thing.

Had Sergeant Harmon died, he'd have asked his lieutenant and maybe even the 1stSgt for advice. But this seemed like a no brainer, and with that the letter would soon be on its way.

As Grant lay in his hospital bed, and as his head began to clear, he was very grateful to not only be alive but have full use of his arms, legs, and...Mr. Happy. The fate of the other Marines in the vehicle weighed heavily on his mind, but there was nothing he could do for them, and the fact that he was there alone gave him hope that no one had been killed or seriously wounded.

A few hours later someone brought a satellite phone around, and asked who he'd like to call. Moments later, two very worried, but very relieved parents breathed a sigh of relief when they heard their son's voice and received the good news.

******

Three days later at a US military hospital in Germany.

"Well, well. Look who's up and walking around," another female nurse said. She was Army and a captain, and Sergeant Grant Harmon addressed her with respect.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be ready to run a PFT here in a few more days."

"PFT. Is that Marine-speak for a PT test?" she asked, knowing only the Army term for it.

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, ma'am. We also go 'TAD' while you go 'TDY'."

She laughed then thanked him for the lesson on joint service etiquette.

"I also know that what you call a 201 file we jarheads call an SRB."

"Okay. I'll bite," she replied.

"Service Record Book."

"Ah, okay. Your personnel file. A 201."

Sergeant Harmon laughed and said, "Yes, ma'am. Sort of, anyway."

The captain wasn't about to tell her young Marine how attractive she thought he was, but she couldn't help but notice he was an extremely good looking man. A little too young for her, but that didn't make him any less attractive.

"You keep up the therapy, Sergeant, and we'll have you back at Camp Pendleton in no time."

"Music to my ears, Captain!" he told her as he forced himself to take a few more painful steps, putting a bit more weight on the injured leg before the pain stopped him.

*****

Auburn High School, one week after the blast.

"Oh. Ms. Thomas. I have a letter for you," the new school secretary said.

"Please don't let it be from another angry parent," she said, forcing a smile as she took the envelope.

She only glanced at it, but when she did, the secretary asked if she was all right.

"I...I'm not sure," the teacher replied as she took a second, longer look.

She recognized the handwriting immediately. And when she saw his name in the upper lefthand corner, she gasped.

"You sure you're okay?" the older woman asked with even greater concern.

"Um...yes. I'm...I'm fine," Denise told her, forcing another-yet-different smile as she hurried out of the office toward her classroom.

She opened the door, tossed her purse on her desk then sat there staring at the letter, unable to open it as her mind raced in an attempt to figure why, after all this time, he'd written her. There'd been no contact whatsoever for nearly four years, and now, without warning, a letter had appeared at her place of work, no less.

She didn't need to wonder when the last time she saw him was. That was easy. It was graduation day. It had taken all of the willpower she had not to seek him out and tell him she was leaving her husband and that she still loved him. Well, maybe it was more accurate to let him know that she loved him, as she'd never said that before. She had trouble even admitting it to herself, but it was true.

She could have done so under the guise of congratulating him, but that would have been a lie. She'd fallen in love with him, and were she to have held him even one more time, she'd have done something she'd have deeply regretted...or perhaps he'd have told her he no longer felt that way and broken her heart.