The morning sunrise crests the tree line to the east and creeps slowly across the 200 feet of barren land, across the concertina wire, stacked 3 rows high between fence pickets driven firmly into the thick, dry ground. The night was cold, even colder inside the thick cinderblock walls of the platoon house, as the wind whipped viciously through open windows on the upper floors, keeping mosquitoes at bay, but freezing our sweat-laden clothes. The first rays of sun slowly climb the base of the window, effortlessly mount the lower frame, and shine brightly onto my face. Groggy from my 2 hours sleep, I reach for my helmet, balancing it just right over my face, not so much comfortable, but bearable. Inside the helmet, my world is reduced to 4 inches, and I stare at the leather and lace harness, trying to dream with my eyes open, thinking of being anywhere but here; thinking of the same sun, cresting a different window, almost two years earlier to the day.
And the morning sunrise crests the old machine shop that backs onto my apartment, the 2nd floor of an old house in Little Italy. The bed runs the length of the same wall, so the sun shines from the foot to the head of the bed, so that by the time the sun hits my eyes every morning, my whole body has been claimed by the new day. But it’s too early, a good 7 months before I take to waking up before the sun. I wake early because for once, I’m not alone.
Today, the stink of the sweat-caked helmet liner drives me to accept the eventuality of the morning. It would have been easier to stay asleep if I had unpacked my blanket, but I hadn’t expected to be able to sleep as long as I did. I’m lying on a narrow air mattress, boots unlaced but still on my feet, a frag vest firmly velcroed around my chest. I strip off the vest and reluctantly take off my dry t-shirt underneath, fold it neatly and return it to the waterproof bag inside my rucksack, replacing it with yesterday’s shirt, still damp from a day of long work in the hot sun, and a late patrol all night long. Looking around, I see soldiers still sleeping, scattered against walls all over the interior of the house, dressed in a dozen different ways, some curled up peacefully under ranger blankets, others sprawled out in full fighting order, not so much asleep as just, off. Closest to me is a loaded rifle, a few feet away my machine gun is set up on a pile of rucksacks, just peeking above the reinforced window, the tired soldier behind it watching the road to the small settlement to our north, eating some sliced fruit out of a foil bag with disinterest, waiting for his shift to end.
And two years ago I’m all but naked in rich blue sheets, one luxury among an otherwise frugal student lifestyle. And next to me, there is a goddess in matching black bra and underwear. And she’s young, beautiful young, only 19, and I have just recently reached the wise, old age of 22. And of course, the whole time, I feel like I’m the mature one, that I’m her guide to the exciting world of adulthood; but of course, short of being a slightly better cook, and having made more bad decisions in that 3 extra years than she could ever hope for, like most girls her age, she is far more mature than I. In fact, she is on the cusp of womanhood, that age when she will stop falling for the bullshit antics of young men like me. Because I’m the last mistake she will make, as a girl, before she catches on. But she doesn’t know this at the time, and I do, but I’m trying not to realize it. Because I don’t want a beautiful woman who wants me, no, I want adventure, and success, and really, attention, and popularity, and to feel wanted. I am vain and restless, and I am vain and restless because my pride has been wounded, and I’m really not much these days than a self-destruction complex with a decent jaw-line and a bit of charm.
In the present, I’m waiting for a ration to cook, the boiling water rattling my canteen cup, perched precariously on my precious pocket stove. I’m field-stripping my weapon, oiling up so that it’s ready for whatever might happen that day. I’m having a baby-wipe shower, debating if I have to urinate badly enough to justify getting fully kitted up, in helmet and frag vest and load bearing vest and weapon, just to head out behind the house to the platoon pits. And then I’m getting orders, to bomb up on ammunition and water, to get ready for a patrol.
Two years ago, I’m kissing her, Nicole, gently while she sleeps. Because we didn’t sleep together, but it’s the first time we’ve slept next to each other, and everything is still sexy in that sweet, innocent way before you’re used to each others’ bodies, when your heart still beats with the excitement of grazing the soft skin at the rise of a woman’s breast with your lips, when she still holds her breathe with equal parts fear and excitement as an unfamiliar set of arms wraps themselves firmly around her shoulders when you kiss, holding her close. She’s skinny, not malnourished, but naturally slight, and tall. She looks Eastern European, like a wheat farmer’s precious daughter. She wakes up and I tell her I have to go to work, and she knows this, but she asked to stay over instead of going home late at night on the bus. And we kiss for longer than I can afford, even having woken up early, but I don’t care. I tell her that I have to have a shower, and that’d I’d invite her, but I know she’s too much of a lady to say yes, smirking, but honestly believing it. And she smiles back, with playful eyes, and asks me if I’m sure.
And that was a moment that standing on the edge of an earthen berm, gazing into a shanty village made from old abandoned sea containers, checking my radio and weapon, suddenly struck me. Because they were one and the same, these moments, what you might call critical decision points. Moments where the things you think you want, and the things you think you believe in, suddenly present themselves as real, physical dilemmas – when, essentially, you have to throw your chips into the pot, or just get out of the game.
And I knew that I was going over that berm, because the decision that started this all carries a hefty obligation. But two years ago, I had to make a choice, about how far I was willing to go, about what I was willing to represent about my intentions. And I stared at this beautiful, intelligent, witty, ambitious girl, who for some insane reason seemed to want nothing in the world more than myself, and instead I chose self-destruction. Or I should say, adventure, or duty, or opportunity, or whatever I was telling myself on that given day. And I shrugged it off with a laugh, and showered alone, and got ready for work, and turned down what would have happened between us, fantastic though it would have been, because I know how much it would have meant to both of us.
And would she have been worth it? Not to have embarked on this ‘life of adventure’? Of course, a thousand times over. I told her later, on the phone (and I thought I was so brave that I even did it on the phone) that it wasn’t what I wanted, but I couldn’t explain, even if I really did want her.
And would I have done it all differently, in retrospect? Not a chance.
Because it’s addictive, this life of excitement, even when it’s usually really a life of challenge, and suffering, and boredom, and never-ending change. Because it’s a different life, at least, and because I’m young, we’re all still young. And when you’re young you can handle having a temporary life, you can accept that every beautiful, good thing that you have is only yours for maybe a few months, maybe a few weeks, at best. Because you can still mourn what you will inevitably lose while moving forward and experiencing new things, until you’ve had too much, and the joy of the unknown is overcome by the crushing nostalgia of so many possibilities lost, so many opportunities squandered.
And for real, I’m getting close. But still, I’m addicted, to this lifestyle, to living more places in 2 years than most people will in their entire lives, to the attitude and personality it allows me to claim; to being the prodigal son, the long lost friend, the wise counsel, the experienced expert, the success, the career man, the charming stranger, the mysterious traveller, and the hopeless romantic.
And Nicole is but one of a handful of the most beautiful, and radiant, and truly fantastic women that can be found in this country, that I had the pleasure of having, however briefly in my life, during the turbulent period between deciding to join the army and where I sit today. Women to whom I am both deeply grateful and sorry; sorry that I could never resolve my desire for the unknown in favour of their worthy company, but grateful for the memories of all the truly good possibilities in this world, and the enduring reminder that soon, much sooner than later, it will be ok to give up this restless life.
And today, boots on the ground, sweating under layers of protective equipment, and litres of water, and the weight of hundreds of rounds of ammunition, sweltering in the hot afternoon sun, I am happy to be here, for now.
