On The Front Lines—DAY
It is can early in the Iran campaign. Amid a loud series of explosions and dust, I am clutching my helmet to my head, running into the doorway of the nearest bunker and collapsing with some other soldiers behind some sandbags. When the shelling stops, we all poke our heads out. Sand dribbles in through the cracks of the bunker. As the men stare about blankly, a messenger pokes his head in the doorway, cheerfully calls “Mail call!” and flips an envelope in the direction of my prone body. I roll over, the messenger disappears. I open the letter and read.
She writes me to say she misses me and is sad I am away. I wrote back to tell her it is sad that I had to go put myself into danger and certain death for her to feel for me. The fact that I will be soon dead should put her at ease. I hope she understands—of course my penmanship is none too great amid all the bombing.
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