A Vacation to War

I wrote this story in 2016 for a "Creative Writing" Class.

It's based on my experience in the Army.

One trip to Afghanistan. Nine soldiers: eight men, one woman. Two duffle bags, one rucksack and one footlocker per person. A total of 18 duffle bags, nine rucksacks, nine footlockers, plus an additional five black book bags for four of the crew. Approximately too many pounds to remember, yet full of a lifetime worth of memories. No one knew exactly where they were going and no one knew who would make it back. One war story is like all war stories which is like no other stories. The things you feel, the sounds you hear, the smells you smell are all specific to that one time of your life and none of it makes sense. Yet the moment your boots step onto foreign soil everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Or you think so because you’re there and there’s nothing else to believe in except that you were meant to be there for the greater good of man. Or for man. Or for the man. It’s semantics. How you got there. How you’ll leave. How you’ll make up for the time in between.

Nine months. Three seasons. Five major holidays. Ramadan. Halloween. Christmas. Valentine’s Day. Easter. The time in between. None of which you get time off for. A new year. A year full of death. Full of life. Full of resurrection. A birthday. If I could tell you one memory from there it’s that I can’t. I can’t explain to you what it was like. It was amazing. It was awful. It was so out of control and wonderful and weird and…and…and. The days and nights blur together and memories pop out like flashes of lights.

Being alone.

Flash.

Watching ants.

Blur.

Firing weapons.

Deworming children.

Cleaning details.

Flash.

Coworkers.

SITREP Reports.

Chow halls.

Card games.

Friendships.

Blur.

The gym.

Movies.

Work.

Flash.

If I told you what I did for work, you’d laugh. You’d be so taken aback from what you thought I did compared to what I actually did. You’d be so convinced that you knew from your preconceived notions of war from watching movies or reading books, that when I tell you what I did, you’ll be disappointed.

And disappointment weighs more than rucksacks.