Home Front

Jolene didn’t want to think about that, a child who would never know his father.



“They were heroes,” Jamie said solemnly.



“Heroes,” Jolene said, thinking about the word and all that it meant.



They clanked their pop cans together in a silent tribute to their fallen friends. After that, they fell silent. Finally, Tami stood up. “I’m going to bed. 0430 is going to come mighty fast. Jo?”



Jolene turned to Smitty and Jamie. “You guys okay?”



Jamie grinned. “Right as rain, Chief. I’ll keep the kid out of trouble.”



Smitty grinned at that. “He’s too old for trouble any way.”



Jolene and Tami got up together, crossed the small walkway, and went into their dark, smelly trailer. Once there, Tami flicked the light on and then looked at Jolene. “You did everything you could have, you know. Nothing tonight was your fault.”



Jolene had never loved her friend more. Afraid her voice would shake if she tried to speak, she nodded.



“I’m worried about you,” Tami said, sitting down on her bed, looking up. “Hell, I’m worried about both of us. I want to make it home.”



Jolene sat down on her own bed. She saw the fear in Tami’s dark eyes, and it did something to her, uncoiled something that had been tied down. “Me, too,” she said quietly.



“If we don’t…”



Until tonight, Jolene would have stopped Tami right then, but now she remained silent, waiting.



“If I don’t make it,” Tami said softly, “I am counting on you with Seth. You make sure he knows who I was.”



Jolene nodded solemnly. “And my girls will need you.”



Tami nodded.



“But we’ll make it back,” Jolene said.



“Of course we will.”



They smiled at each other. Jolene didn’t know how she looked, but she saw the fear in Tami’s eyes. Neither one of them was as certain of that as they’d been before.



AUGUST



How do I write about a colleague’s death? How do I use words to expel the fear and confusion that’s uncoiling slowly inside of me? I can’t. I don’t want to write about it. I don’t want to remember the smell of smoke or the terrible sound of ripping metal or the rattle of gunfire. I don’t want to think about Wally Toddan and his young widow or the baby who will never know his daddy’s smile. Or the bride who will walk down a church aisle without her father.



RIP Knife 04, that’s what I can say. All I can say. You were heroes and you will be missed.



Thirteen



After a long, excruciatingly hot day of flying—mostly moving people and Iraqi troops in and around Baghdad, Jolene was exhausted. While they’d been gone, Balad had been attacked again, and this time there had been some serious damage. It was amazing what shrapnel did to wood and metal—Humvees and buildings had been destroyed.



She walked away from the helicopter, with Tami on one side of her and Jamie on the other. No one said anything.



“I need to go to the comm center,” Tami said. “See if they’ve gotten the Internet connection back up yet. If I don’t hear from my family, I’m going to lose it.”



The three turned slightly, walked down the dark, dusty way between trailers.



It was past midnight, and even this late, the base was busy. At the communication’s trailer, Tami said, “Wait here,” and went inside. She was out a moment later, looking disgusted. “Internet is still down. Damn it.”



Jolene sighed. They headed across the base; Jamie peeled off from them and went to the DFAC, while Tami and Jolene went into their trailer.



Too tired for conversation, each flopped onto her bed and opened her laptop. They were going to write letters tonight, which—hopefully—they’d be able to send tomorrow.



My loves, Jolene typed.



Thank you for the care package. I can’t tell you what it means to me to get mail. I can tell that Betsy picked out the shampoo—love that strawberry scent—and Lulu chose the sparkly barrette. It looks so pretty in my hair.



We’ve been flying a lot lately. Usually I leave my trailer at 4:30 in the morning, ride my bike to the DFAC (meal trailer), and then go to the helicopter. We’re lucky if we get back to base before nine p.m. We are pooped by then. But I’m thinking of you all the time. Especially when my watch alarm goes off, Betsy. I hope you’re thinking of me then, too.



Yesterday I tried to call home, but the phones weren’t working, so I guess it’s e-mail to the rescue! I bought you presents at the Haji Mart—it’s a kind of street fair set up inside the base. It’s crazy, I can tell you. I bet you’re not surprised that Tami and I have found a little time to shop. Girls will be girls, I guess.



Tomorrow we’re having a party out by the burn barrel. I hear there’s going to be hot dogs and baked beans, just like a beach party at home!



I know I’m super far away, but I’ll pretend that I’m with you for Lulu’s birthday party. I hope the present gets there in time! Think of Mommy when you blow out your candles, baby girl. I love you.



Well, I’m sort of starting to fall asleep on my feet, so I guess I better go to bed. 4:30 will come mighty early.



Betsy, don’t forget to remind Daddy about your orthodontist appointment. You need to go in next week. Lulu, can you send me a picture from your party? I have the last one up on my wall.



Her fingers lifted from the computer keys. She wanted to say something to Michael, but what? He hadn’t written her once while she’d been here. Reaching out to him made her feel like her mother, grasping to bring closer a man who didn’t love her.



I think of you every day and I love you. To the moon and back.



Remember: Only ninety-one days till I get to see you again. Disneyland???? xxxooo



Mom



* * *



Jolene had never even imagined heat like summer in Iraq. Dust was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nose. Her sweat was gritty, and as soon as she showered, she started to sweat again.



From her first day in-country, she’d known that every breath could be her last, and her nights were no better. She dreamed of fires and mortar and babies who forgot their mothers’ faces. She’d made an uneasy peace with death.



Injuries terrified her even more: the RPGs and IEDs ripped bodies apart, flung arms and legs into the sky and the dirt.



Never was her fear closer than on a day like today.



She was on a “hero mission,” which meant that she had flown across the desert to pick up the remains of soldiers who had died.



She had been doing far too many of these lately; each time she watched the ceremony, she imagined herself or her crew lying in one of these makeshift surgical hospitals, irreparably broken, waxy faced, crying.



Now she stood back from the hospital tent’s opening, among the crews that had been sent on the mission. All of them stood tall and straight, even in the pounding, pulverizing heat. Jolene and Tami, as pilots, could have stayed with their aircraft, but it never seemed right to them. So they were here, standing with their crew, to show respect.



The outlying-combat surgical hospital baked under the noonday heat.



The hospital was a row of dirty white canvas tents, connected by a network of wooden sidewalks. Inside, the floors were cement, stained with dark smears of blood. Jolene didn’t go inside; she was here to wait. The hero-mission procedure was very precise.



Besides, she knew what it looked like in there: cot after cot filled with the damaged and the dying. Gruesome, devastating injuries were survivable in this modern age. The field docs were nothing short of miracle workers.



It wasn’t just soldiers, either. Inside lay rows of Iraqi civilians, children and women, who’d been too close to an exploding IED or been hit by mortar fire. The smell was terrible, made worse by the unrelenting heat.



A doctor ducked through the tent’s canvas opening and held it open behind him. Six soldiers followed him out, pushing four gurneys. On each lay the black-bagged remains of a soldier.



Jolene and Tami immediately stood at attention and saluted. The look that passed between them was as solemn as the mood: each was thinking of how it would feel if the other were in that bag. Somewhere close by a mortar round hit, exploded through concrete. No one even flinched.



The doctor looked as weary as Jolene felt. He placed a hand on each one of the bagged bodies in turn and said simply, “Thank you.”



Jolene’s throat tightened. She looked down at the gurneys, knowing that the lost soldiers deserved this last measure of respect from all of them. One of the bags was small, too small, a bad thing. It meant that pieces were missing. The result of an IED or RPG probably. Beside each body was a small clear bag containing personal effects. Even though the bag was marked with bloody fingerprints, she could see the watch and dog tags and wedding ring inside.



It made her think of Betsy, holding up Jolene’s dog tags, asking if they would identify her …



The silence stretched a second more, and then someone said “Captain Craig” inside the tent, and the doctor went back inside.



Led by the gurneys and their silent watchmen, the two Black Hawk crews walked across the base to the waiting helicopters. Here again, the exact manner of transport was prescribed.



At Jolene and Tami’s helicopter, Jamie and Smitty saluted the bodies again; then they loaded the fallen soldiers onto the helicopter, using exquisite care, placing them just so.



As the loading went on, soldiers came from all over, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, and formed two straight lines out from the helicopter’s open side door, saluting their fallen friends one final time.



She wondered who these fallen soldiers were. Husbands? Fathers? Mothers? Did their families know yet that their worlds had changed?



Jolene and Tami nodded to each other and climbed into the aircraft. Tami was left seat today. She leaned forward, placed the white hero-mission card in the windshield.



Jolene strapped herself into the right seat and began the preflight checklist. The helicopter doors were closed. Within moments, they were taking off amid a swirl of beige sand.



Below, the soldiers began to disperse.



On the flight to the Baghdad airport the crew was quiet, as they always were on hero missions. The deaths weighed heavily on their minds. The war had begun to heat up in the past few months. It had begun to be normal to be shot at, to be hit. Jolene heard the ping! of machine gun fire hitting a helicopter in her sleep and often woke up screaming. Last week, a bullet had gone through the window beside her head, shattering it, and bounced off her helmet. She’d felt the slightest thwack to her head and kept flying. Only later did she begin to have nightmares about it, to imagine her head exploding, her body coming back to her children in a black bag that was twelve inches too short.



By the time they made it back to Balad, Jolene was beyond exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in weeks, and it was beginning to take a toll on her. She couldn’t remember the last time there hadn’t been a middle-of-the-night mortar attack. She slept through the shelling but woke to the sound of the blaring alarm.



After the end of the mission, the maintenance crew swarmed to check out the helicopter. Jolene and her team walked away. On this dark night, there was no camaraderie, no “let’s go to the DFAC for pie.” Each of them, like Jolene, was thinking how thin a piece of luck separated them from the bodies they’d transported today.