The Enemy

The prequel to "Fireworks." Again, completely fictional and definitely not historically accurate.

Dear Mother, Father, and Carl,

I hope you are all well.

Carl, I hope you're studying your English. Math is important, but you've got to be able to write well too, little brother. I miss you, and I'm sorry I had to leave the way I did. Take good care of Summer for me, will you?

Father, Mother, I know you aren't pleased with me, but I want to tell you I'm doing fine. Boot camp is over and I'm officially in the Marine Corps Women's Reserve working as a field cook. I am proud to be serving with the Marine Corps and I hope you come to be proud of me too.

Sorry for the rather short letter - the mail is leaving soon.

Be safe.

Yours,

Tana

     I seal the envelope with a frown and hand it to the man at the mail desk, smiling to be polite, though I really don't feel like smiling.

     I lied in the letter. The mail isn't leaving until tomorrow. But I didn't want to write too much, mostly because I don't have a lot to say, but also partially because I know they won't reply. Maybe Mother will read it and then throw it away. Carl will come home from high school, check the mail for something from his sister, find nothing, and go to his room sulkily, and he'll study his calculus. He'll think about his big sister, and he'll wonder why she didn't stick around long enough to say goodbye, and he'll be sad. Or maybe not.

     I'd stormed out of the house with my belongings shoved into a duffel bag the morning my parents shunned me for enlisting in the Marine Corps, without even getting a chance to say goodbye to my little brother. I can imagine him now, disappointment coloring that baby-face, blond strands of his deliberately messy hair falling into his eyes. That hair, how he loves styling and messing with it. Carl has always been popular wherever he went; everyone he meets adores him because he's just such a sweet kid. I can't count the number of pretty girls he's brought home for dinner, and I didn't agree with all of his choices, but I liked seeing him happy and having fun. My heart pangs as I think of my brother's laugh, light and hushed like he never meant to let it escape from his mouth but it did anyway.

       I'm missing his final year of high school by being here instead. I'm missing his 18th birthday. 

     "All right there, Tana?" Polly, my fellow cook, asks as she licks her envelope and kisses it before giving it to the man at the desk.

     I smile, refocusing myself on the present, the now. "Well, considering the fact that my letter is to my parents who kind of hate me..."

     Polly laughs airily. "C'mon, Tana, they'll write back. They're your flesh and blood, after all." She tilts her head at me, her dark shoulder-length curls bunching up against her collar as she does so. 

     I smile at that, and say nothing. Maybe they will write back. Who knows?

     Polly raises a penciled eyebrow at me expectantly, and my eyes flicker to her playful pout. She's always got time to put on makeup. I can barely put a thin coat of lipstick on in the morning without smearing it all over myself. 

     I realize I'm staring a little and glance away. "Let's go get those crates from the supply officers before Winnie has a fit." I mumble.

     It's not like it makes a difference because Lieutenant Winston does glare at us when we walk into the kitchen carrying two crates each. I pretend I can't see over the top of the boxes in my arms as he huffs. "Master Sergeant Carstairs, Sergeant Heffron, you're late. And Carstairs, the Colonel's on base. Wants to talk to you."

     I suppress a sigh. "Yes sir." He really doesn't have to refer to me by my full title. No one does that, honestly, except him.

     He frowns. "Don't be late again."

     "Sorry, sir." Polly says calmly, then when the stout man leaves she hisses in my ear. "Sorry you've got a stick up your a*s twenty-four hours a day."

     I laugh out loud and almost drop the stack of cans balanced in my hands, setting them down on the counter quickly. "Maybe a few sticks."

     Polly giggles and jerks her chin at me. "See you later, Master Sergeant."

     I blush and pretend to brush off some flour stuck to my uniform to hide it, and straighten myself out. "Right."

     The colonel nods when he sees me walk into battalion headquarters, turning away from Captain Johnson to shake my hand. "Sergeant Carstairs."

     "Sir," I answer politely, "You requested my presence, sir?"

     "At ease. Sit down, Carstairs." he gestures with a little smile.

     I blink once in surprise and sit. He pours himself some wine and sits on his desk, tipping the glass at me. "Care for a drink?"

     "No thank you, sir." I say slowly. I glance quickly around the office. Captain Johnson's got a little grin on his face, standing at ease off to the side. The colonel doesn't look angry or upset. Just sort of relaxed, calm, like usual. He takes a sip and smacks his lips, making a satisfied sound.

     "I'll cut to the chase, since you're about to be pretty busy, Sergeant." he starts. "Sergeant Lawrence was killed in action a couple days ago, as you know, on a patrol. Being on this island as we are, it's not like we can get a replacement officer shipped in very easily. I know you've asked multiple times to be given charge of a squad, so I'm taking you off reserve and giving you command over Lawrence's squadron."

     I gape. Me? A woman? Taking over a group of men? Sure, I've been asking for this to happen, but I didn't think he'd just relent. "F-for how long? Sir?" 

     He takes another chug and sets his glass down. "Indefinitely. You work hard, you finished boot camp at the top of your group. You deserve it, Carstairs. Lead these men with honor during our next campaign."

     I let out a surprised huff and stand up. "Th-thank you, sir." I look at Captain Johnson, who grins widely. He comes over to shake my hand, his lip twitching with amusement. 

     "Congratulations, Sarge. You're not a cook anymore."

~~

     "You're not a cook anymore." The words echo in my head as I march along the slippery path, side by side with the men I've learned to command and work with for the past couple of weeks. We're moving forward, deeper into the jungle in an attempt to stop Japanese forces from taking a vital airfield on the island.

     The men took the news surprisingly well. I expected lots of backlash from the men of the squad, but whether or not they've got complaints about a woman officer in charge of them (let's be honest--I highly doubt they don't) they say nothing. No one dares challenge the colonel. It's been six weeks since I took over the squad, supervising and preparing them for this campaign. So I guess I haven't really given them much chance to complain; I've proven myself over and over to be helpful, to be capable while I've been with them. I'd only been around the base camp for a few months before this, and made it to be clean and organized, as the former mess staff failed to keep it that way. I got promoted to Master Sergeant quickly, primarily for my leadership abilities and being able to manage the mess staff and supply staff.

     It was hard at first. No one wanted to listen to me. Lieutenant Winston scoffed whenever I said anything, the supply officers eyed me warily as I lifted slightly heavy objects. I made sure to carry more than they did at all times and move more quickly while I was at it. I used my most authoritative voice and though my fellow girls told me not to walk around with my chin up so high, I did anyway. I wanted to be the best, and the only way to do that is to act like the best. I demanded respect and eventually they stopped treating me like I was some kind of inferior.

     I'm glad I had Polly with me. She made things bearable, with her sparkling humor and quick wit. I smile to myself when I reimagine her bouncing up and down on her heels when I told her I was to be leading a squad. "You did it, Tana! You did it!"  

     "Y'know, when they said we were going to a tropical island, I didn't expect this." Walter Gunderson, one of my eight squad members, mutters behind me, breaking my train of thought.

     "What'd you expect, Wally? Coconuts and flamingos and naked girls?" Harvey says mockingly.

     I glance behind me at that, a smile threatening to pull at my lips.

     Harvey blushes and averts his eyes when he notices I'm looking at him. "Maybe just the coconuts and flamingos." he mumbles.

     I chuckle and turn back around. "Coconuts might be around here, but flamingos don't really live around these parts. You'd have to go to Africa or South America for those. Sorry, Wally." I say dryly. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple and I wipe at my forehead, my sleeve coming away damp.

     Jimmy, a young Marine of only eighteen years, laughs at that, his black hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Another of my squad members, Nate, chortles.

     "You learn somethin' new ev'ryday," he intones in his deep voice.

     "Indeed you do." Stevens says somewhere near me. He, along with Jimmy, warmed up to me immediately upon learning I was the new squad leader. I was taken aback and he quickly explained that "his mama taught him to always respect a woman," and that his grandmother had been a nurse during the first world war. Jimmy just thought it was neat that I was a woman willing to command a bunch of men. At first I was a little wary of him, because he's of Japanese descent, but he's convinced me that he's loyal to the U.S.. He was born in San Francisco and only knows a bit of Japanese because his parents didn't want him to forget his heritage. In all honesty, I respect that a lot. I just wonder if it upsets him, being here, but he doesn't seem to mind. He reminds me a bit of an excited puppy; enthusiastic and willing to do just about anything if it means you'll talk to him. I wish everyone here was that excited about life.

     "Were you a real bookworm back in school, Sarge?" he asks now, a lopsided grin plastered on his face, cheeks bearing a sheen.

     I shrug. "I like learning."

     "I believe that. Weren't you the top of the group in your Women's Reserve cohort?"

     "I s'pose."

     "Aw, she's blushin'! I can tell you're quite the braggart," Nate grins teasingly.

     "Shut the hell up, Ford."

~~

     "Sergeant Carstairs, take your men up ahead and wrap around this stream. We'll meet you up there."

     "Yes sir." I nod and motion toward my group to follow. 

     Silence, except for the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze and a group of birds chattering away somewhere. It's almost peaceful. 

     A commotion comes from ahead and a figure appears from behind the undergrowth.

     I stop short and immediately get into position to fire at the enemy, bringing the butt of my rifle up to my shoulder a little too fast. It hurts a bit.

     It's a Japanese soldier, a short man with grime smeared across his face, his hair disheveled as he gapes for a moment. He's alone, and surprised, evidently, as his eyes sweep across my group, finally resting on me.

     I hesitate, seeing as he isn't hostile at this very moment. Can we capture him for intel? 

     Nothing to do but to spring into action. "Hands up!" I shout, aiming my rifle at him and approaching slowly. "Get down on your knees!"

     Jimmy repeats my words in Japanese, his voice sharp.

     The soldier puts his hands up, but then he sneers, a twisted look that mangles his otherwise plain face, and suddenly he seems much more menacing. He says something that I can't understand, staring me straight in the eyes. The tone in his voice isn't exactly comforting. He spits out his words, the language fluid yet choppy all at once. He remains standing, raising his chin in defiance. 

     "Get down!" I motion with my rifle, heart pounding. Why doesn't he kneel? "Get down or I shoot!"

     He shouts the same words again, baring his teeth. 

     A sharp crack goes off from behind me. The man's body jerks once, then falls to the ground unceremoniously, where he lays still.

     It was a good shot.

     I turn sharply, my ears ringing, to see who fired. "Jimmy, what the hell?" I say to the bristling man behind me. "I did not give you the order to fire!"

     Rage fills my companion's eyes, rage I've never imagined Jimmy, of all people, was capable of. This isn't like him. 

     "What'd he say?" Phillips questions, voice hushed, like he's afraid the soldier will rise again. I know that won't happen. Jimmy's our best shot.

     Jimmy shakes his head slightly, lowering his weapon slowly as if he's realized what he's just done, his chest starting to heave.

     He didn't answer Phillips, so I repeat the question.

     The young man doesn't quite look me in the eye. "D-doesn't matter what he said. We gotta kill all Japs," he mumbles.

     "We could've captured him and used him for information. You've caused us to miss out on that opportunity. Wait for my command next time." I say lowly.

     Jimmy's chin sets and he looks away pointedly. "Yes'm."

     "God, Jim, you weren't tryin' to prove nothin', were you? You know we trust you." Nate whispers.

     Jimmy glares. "F**k off, Nate."

     "Cool it, guys," I say warningly, afraid a fight will break out. 

     He turns away, clearly wanting us to drop the matter.

     I frown and decide not to push further. "Let's keep moving," I sigh, and step over the still-warm body of the soldier.

     Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harvey nudge the soldier with his foot.

~~

     "Aw, this is great!" Phillips exclaims, shooting at the enemy before ducking to reload.

     "We're finally getting some real action!" Another soldier nearby grins. 

     I don't see how this is exciting for them. I'm terrified. Loud shots everywhere, the possibility of death around every corner. I ignore it though. I'm here and I might as well suck it up; not to mention I really want to show them that I can perform just as well as the rest of them can. I have to do this. I've gotten this far. I cannot let some gunfire scare me off.

     I practice taking controlled breaths, slow and deep. They're shaky at first, but gradually I can draw a long, steady breath. I let it out through my mouth and stare into my rifle scope down the line of the enemy. Suddenly it's like the world around me doesn't exist outside of the view inside my scope. The sounds fade away, until all I hear is the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Concentrate, calculate, squeeze the trigger, and pull. If you don't think about what you're really doing, it's not so bad out here, I suppose. It's like a carnival game. Hit or miss. Knock down some glass bottles with a ball. Shoot down an enemy soldier. It's all the same.

      It's all a game, I tell myself in my head over and over. Soon I start to believe it, too. Soon I start not caring who I kill, I stop thinking twice about it, and I start forgetting that we're killing and being killed by fellow humans. 

     "All right there, Tana?" Captain Johnson huffs as he hurries past me.

     "Fine," I mutter back and reload.

~~

    "Hey, Sarge, you're from Wisconsin, right?" Jimmy walks next to me, his face grimy and sweaty. I imagine I look just as awful.

     "Sure am," I reply, turning to glance around us for a few moments. I squint into the trees, seeing no movement. 

     "Don't tell me you're gettin' paranoid like Sergeant Nelson," he says dryly, noticing where I'm looking. "That man is off his rocker, I swear. Every time he hears something he starts panicking and telling us we're bein' ambushed."

     "Nelson is paranoid. I'm careful. There's a difference." I look back at him and flash a smile. "Besides, this heat is driving everyone nutty. Can't blame him."

     "You hear about Dave Wicker in Delta Company? He sleeps hugging all his weapons next to him and won't even let them outta his sight," mutters Nate behind us.

     "Again, can't blame him," I sigh. "And Jimmy, why'd you ask if I was from Wisconsin?"

     Jimmy laughs. "Nate wanted to know if your parents were farmers. I told him they were a lawyer and a teacher and he didn't believe me."

     "That they are," I say wryly. 

     "What's with that tone?" Jimmy asks with a chuckle. 

     "My parents and I aren't really on the best of terms. Last I heard from 'em, they were real upset at me for joining the Marines."

     "Maybe they just said that because they missed you," Phillips chimes into the conversation. 

     I shake my head. "Wasn't in a letter. The last time I had contact with either of them was the day I left home. And the last words my mom said to me were 'I hope you get your head blown off like you so badly want.'"

     "Gosh, that's harsh," Jimmy whispers, eyes wide as he watches me carefully. 

     I shrug. "She's not a sweet talker."

     "Huh. So you ain't a farmer, then? You're pretty strong for not having worked on a farm your whole life,"  Paul, another squad member, joins in, having listened the entire time. 

    "I may be a spoiled rich girl, but that doesn't mean I haven't had my fair share of playground scuffles."

     They all laugh at that. 

     I smile, pleased that I made them laugh. 

     "My parents aren't farmers, but we do have chickens," Nate says matter-of-factly, determined to also get in on the chatting. 

     Gunderson lets out a rumble of a groan. "What I'd do for chicken right now."

     "To hell with chicken, I'd give anything for some water," Phillips moans.

     I swallow, my throat dry. The humor that had distracted everyone temporarily is gone now as we all sober up and remember where we are. We ran out of water a few days ago; the enemy forces have been relentless for who knows how long.  I've forgotten just how long we've been trapped out here in the area.

     We've been engaged in combat every so often. I don't know how else I can explain it. They come, they attack us, dirt and rocks shatter around our heads, bullets fly, weapons fire, chaos ensues, people get wounded. No one I know personally has died, though.

     Not yet. I shudder despite the intense, oven-like heat. Only it's not dry, it's humid. So humid it feels like breathing with a pillow smothering your face. That thought makes me crack a smile. I haven't had felt the comfort of a pillow in forever. And then I frown again, realizing I haven't slept with a pillow in forever.

     It's like what Jimmy said. I'm starting to lose it. Everyone's starting to lose it a little bit. I can see it in their eyes. In the way they move, slow and hesitant. Stumbling around aimlessly when they're not assigned to a job or resting. The relentless attacks, the constant ducking to avoid being hit by bullets, the dry mouth and the red eyes from lack of sleep. It's real, and it's all too real.

     I shut my eyes. My head hurts, a throbbing pain that isn't improved at all by the beating sun or the lack of water or the constant vibrations of the exploding rocks around us.

     I'm tired. So tired. It's a dull, aching tired, one where you can still function if you push yourself to. You're past exhaustion, somehow. You're so numb that you can force yourself to keep moving, keep ducking, keep shooting, keep running. It's a deep, heavy kind of tired and it settles in your bones, never letting go. I'm not sure if I'll ever feel not tired again. 

     Sometimes I can hear crying at night, when it's pitch dark save for the occasional moonlight peeking through the cloud cover on dry nights. It's a harsh, choking sound, but I hear it more often than not. I don't blame them. I feel like crying too, but I'm much better at holding it back. Not because I'm ashamed or anything, but because I can't afford to lose any more liquid from my body; I'm already dehydrated as it is.

     Isn't that sick? Can't even let myself cry because it'll just bring me that much closer to dying. Once again that thought echoes in my head, the one that's been running through my head every day for the past...however many days we've been stuck on this wretched hell: It's not fair.

     I ignore the inane and, quite frankly, depressing conversation around me and keep marching.

     

     Eventually night falls and we're given permission to rest. I curl up in a shared foxhole with Jimmy and push away all thoughts as I let my guard down, finally letting go of the rifle I've been carrying like a ragdoll all day.

     "Nighty night, Sarge," Jimmy mumbles half-deliriously, yawning. 

     "Night, Jim," I murmur back. 

     "Hey, Tana?"

     "Yeah?"

     "When do you think we'll get outta here?"

     Not soon enough, I want to reply. "Probably before Christmas."

     "Good. Hey, Tana?"

     "Yeah, Jimmy?"

     "You should come to my place for Christmas if your folks won't be too happy to see you. My mom makes the best food. And we have an extra bedroom for guests where you could stay. You'll love it."

     I smile, lifting my head up to look at him. His eyes are open, watching me with that puppy-dog look. "Sure, I'd really like that."

     "Good." He grins briefly, then closes his eyes and hugs himself tighter. 

~~

   

     I roll my eyes. The conversation around me is ridiculous.

     "Howard, you were drafted? What kind of Marine is drafted?"

     "C'mon, lay off him, Will," Sergeant Brady sighs tiredly.

     Will, scoffing, shakes his head. "I didn't even know Marines could get drafted. I thought we were all supposed to be better than that. Hell, it's fine to be drafted but shouldn't you be with the Army dogs?"

     Private Howard bows his head, avoiding the gaze of everyone around as they watch the encounter.

     "Didya hear me, Howard? Why didn't you join the Army instead, if you didn't want to fight so badly?"

     Finally I can't take it anymore and glare at Will, head pounding from the heat. "No one gives a damn if he was drafted, he's one of us now. Would you mind doing us all a huge favor and shut the hell up?" I snap, the words harsh as they are laced with agony from my headache. I need water. 

     Will clamps his mouth shut and flushes with heat, mumbling something inaudible, but sits back down.

     "Hey, Jackson's back, everyone!"

     Cheers erupt from the men around me and I glance up. PFC Jackson was sent to run back to base quite a few days ago since our communication systems haven't worked.

     "Aaaand..." he reaches into his pockets now, "I've got mail for some of you! Colonel said it'd help lift your spirits. Whatever that means," he adds jokingly.

     My breath hitches and I turn away again, uninterested.

     "Carter, Hanegawa, Peterson, Richards, Howard..." Jackson rattles off names of the lucky ones who've gotten letters, "...Carstairs."

     I blink in surprise and reach up from my seated position to take the letter, heart thumping. They wrote back. My parents wrote back!

     Right before I tear open the envelope, I spot the name of the sender. Not Carstairs.

     The letter is from Polly. I'm happy, but can't stop the crushing disappointment from sending my heart plummeting to my stomach. I shouldn't be affected this much. I shouldn't care so much. But I do. Is that so wrong? Is it wrong for me to feel so upset that my own parents don't care enough to write me?

     I read the letter anyway, focusing on Polly's loopy handwriting in the hopes of cheering me up. But it doesn't do that at all. 

     At first it's all normal, she's doing her duties, she's fine, she's wondering how I am. It's the next paragraph that makes me a little sick to my stomach. 

     She's getting married. Her boyfriend proposed, and she said yes, and she hopes that I can make it to the wedding in December.

     Swallowing hard, I tilt my head back and lean heavily against the wall of the foxhole I've been sitting in.

     "Hey, Sarge, your parents write?" Jimmy's cheery voice approaches and I glance at him, mustering as straight a face as I can. 

     "No, my...my friend wrote me," I say, clearing my throat.

     He senses something is wrong and sits beside me. "Gee, Tana, I'm sorry. Did your friend say anything nice, at least?"

     "I...they're getting married." I look away, my heart beating fast again, hard, like it's going to burst out of my chest.

     "Is...isn't that good?" he asks, confused.

     "I don't want my friend to get married."

     "Why...oh. Do you have feelings for him?"

     I shut my eyes and press a palm to my temple, wiping away sweat. "Her." The single word comes out of my mouth quiet, a little broken, like it doesn't belong in the spoken world. I want it to, though, in this moment of desperation.

     Jimmy is stunned silent for a few long moments. I messed up. I should've kept my mouth shut. I'm an idiot.

     But then he speaks. "That's rough, Tana. I'm sorry."

     I turn to look at him, expecting disgust, hatred. But all I see is sympathy. 

     He takes hold of my hand and squeezes. "It's gonna be okay."

     "I'll get over it," I mumble in embarrassment, but keep my hand there, appreciating the friendly touch.

     "I know. But you're not over it yet, so I'll coddle you now, Sarge." He grins cheekily.

     "Thank you, Jimmy," I whisper with the deepest and most sincere gratitude I've ever felt toward someone.

~~

     "Carstairs. Wake up," something nudges my thigh and I blink my eyes open. It's dark. How long have I been asleep?

     "You awake?" Sergeant Fick peers down at me. "Lieutenant wants officers over at HQ for a meeting."

     "Yeah," I grunt and get up slowly, grimacing at my sore and slightly damp body. I yawn as I grab my weapon and follow him.

     HQ is really just a small tent they've pitched up for the higher officers to convene in and I duck my head under the flapping top to see Lt. Parsons sitting with a grim expression.

     "Battalion wants us to send recon teams up to the mountaintop there," he gestures to a nearby cliff, "and see how many enemy soldiers are there. We're fairly certain that a large number of them are hiding out, and they certainly won't be expecting us. This is a good mission for us, men. A chance to show what Bravo Company is capable of."

     "Sir, what if there are more enemy soldiers than anticipated?" Sergeant Taylor questions.

     "I'm assured we'll be fine. Battalion's not that concerned if they aren't assigning reinforcements, and they're not. We're on our own on this." Lt. Parsons sighs almost inaudibly, sounding strained. He's probably tried asking this question too, only to be met with unhelpful answers.

     "Sir, that sounds like a suicide mission!" another sergeant gasps.

     But Parsons looks him evenly in the eye. "I'm assured we'll be fine, Sergeant."

     "When do we depart, sir?" Fick asks.

     "2300. Fick's team will be on point, Carstairs' team following up last."

     I blink and try not to let my face show anything. He always puts my team in the back, or sends us off on our own. It's like he's hoping something bad will happen to my team.

     The rest of the officers nod and Lt. Parsons dismisses us. I linger for just a moment, conflicted. Do I say anything?

     "You got something to say, Carstairs?" Parsons says, raising an eyebrow.

     My mouth twitches. "No, sir."

     "Good. Carry on," he says curtly.

     I salute and turn away, irritation nagging at my thoughts.

     And then I can't bear it anymore. I whip around. 

     "Actually, sir, I do have something to say."

     "Then spit it out."

     "Why is my team always in the back? My men are always at the most risk of getting separated and are the most endangered, without rotation."

     "Sounds to me like you just don't like being in the back, Carstairs," he says nonchalantly, lighting a cigarette. 

     "Look, sir," I say through gritted teeth, "you can treat me however you like, but do not--I repeat, do not risk the lives of my men just because you have a problem with me."

     He glances at me then, surprise coloring his face slightly before he masks it by blowing smoke. "Dismissed," he states and turns away. 

     I glare and salute, mockingly, my body stiff, then leave, infuriated.  

~~

     I groan softly, staring out at my surroundings as I slowly rotate in a circle, desperately trying to catch any sign of movement. 

     The rest of my squad is up ahead a ways, Jimmy leading them for now since I paused to check our bearings. 

     And then a shot goes off, then more, and then I hear a pained grunt and my head whips around to see who got hit. No.

     "Everyone take cover!" I shout, running over to crouch beside Jimmy. I barely dodge a bullet as I half-lift, half-drag him behind a boulder. 

     "Wally, tell us when the coast is clear, we'll get the hell out of here," I say breathlessly, mind reeling as I turn back to Jimmy. 

     He gasps for breath as he writhes on the ground, bullet holes in too many places on his body for me to stop the bleeding, the awful bleeding. This isn't fair, it's not fair, he shouldn't have been shot. Not now.

     I knew we'd get separated from the rest of the company, and we did. It's exactly what I thought would happen. It's not fair. 

     I kneel by him, frantically patting at his face, my stomach twisting and turning in knots. "Please, Jimmy, don't--don't die. Stay awake. C'mon, buddy, stay awake!" I shout, my voice shaking.

     He grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly. "Sarge, somethin' I gotta tell you."

     "Yeah, Jim?" I choke out. I have to lean closer in to hear because of the gunshots that erupt from around us.

     "That Jap soldier I shot...called you a...somethin' bad 'cause you were a woman in the military. That's why I shot him. I'm sorry." He says feebly before going into a bout of coughing. Blood bubbles at his lips. His eyes start to droop. 

     My chin trembles. "Jimmy..."

     He looks up into the trees above and his eyes glaze over a bit. "I don't wanna die. God, Tana, I don't wanna die. Not yet."

     "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I shouldn't have brought you here. I'm so sorry."

     He lets out a choked sob. "Not your fault. You were followin' orders. It's just--I ain't even gone to college yet. I didn't get to tell my parents goodbye, that--" his breath hitches for a moment as he spasms in pain, "I loved them. Hey Tana, tell them for me...when you go to my place for Christmas. Tell 'em, okay?"

     I nod, tears streaming down my face, trying not to scream at how unfair this is. "I'll tell them."

     "Thanks, Sarge," Jimmy says through half-lidded eyes. He reaches up and touches my cheek with the back of his bloodied hand. I can feel warm wetness smudging on my face and I bow my head just as the hand falls away and Jimmy dies. Just like that.

     The strangled sob that escapes my mouth startles me and then the next thing I know, more tears are flowing down my face, hot like his blood, and I can't stop. It's not fair.

     Someone shakes my shoulder, tense and urgent. "C'mon, Sarge, we gotta get out of here."

     I bite my lip and furiously wipe at my face, though that results in more smudging all over, probably. I take one last look at Jimmy. I wish I could say he looks peaceful, like he's sleeping, or whatever people say when they're trying to comfort themselves in the face of death, but he doesn't look at all peaceful. His limbs are all wrong because of the way he fell and the way I dragged him here and there's red splotches all over his uniform and his eyes are still open and I don't think I'll ever get that image out of my head. Explosions shake the ground near where I kneel, and dirt and pebbles splash onto me, like a gruff pat on my back.

     "Tana, we need to go. Now." I recognize the voice as Gunderson's, and I let him pull me up.

     I let out a sharp breath and tear my gaze away from my dead friend.

     "It's not your fault." Gunderson murmurs.

     I take a deep breath, shutting my eyes for a brief moment.

     "You gonna be okay, Tana?"

     I turn away. "Let's go." My voice sounds harder than I intended, but I take off running after the rest of my fleeing squad, feeling like a coward as I crouch to stay hidden behind the boulders, Jimmy's last words echoing in my head.

     "Thanks, Sarge."

~~~

     

     "How much ya think this'll sell for?"

     "Who cares, just get it over with."

     I turn my head slightly to see what the fuss is about.  

     We hooked up with the rest of the company eventually, and now we're back to waiting like before, waiting for recon squads to come back and tell us what's ahead. There's not much to do. 

     A couple men are standing over something, one man watching the other do something as he bends over, and upon further inspection I realize he's standing over a body.

     I get up slowly, grimacing at my sore bottom as I approach them. "What are you fellas up to?"

     The one crouching over the body glances up at me. "What's it look like we're doin'?"

     But halfway through his sentence I've realized what he's doing. I gape, disgust filling me, and I want to puke. I stare in horror at the bloody knife clutched in one of the private's hands, and the object he's holding in his other crimson fist.

     My eyes slide down to the corpse, a Japanese soldier, probably long-dead, but his face has been completely mutilated by these men. A large gap in his gums where the--evidently proud-- soldier just cut into his mouth.

      "What the hell kind of sick thing do you think you're doing?" I manage to spit out, trying not to gag as I look back up at the American soldier's face.

     He gazes back nonchalantly, the look in his eyes telling me everything. "These Japs got gold teeth. I'm just harvesting it, figure it'll make some good money. Solid gold, y'know?"

     He's crazy.

     Rage accompanies my disgust and I let out a sharp breath. "Do you realize how immoral that is? This is a human!"

      He shrugs. "Not anymore. He's dead now. And he's a Jap. We were told to kill Japs. We killed him. Now we're making good dough off it too."

      "This--" I point a jabbing finger at him, "you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. This is inhumane, it's disgusting, you've completely lost your sense of humanity--"

     He straightens up and scoffs. "I see you killin' them too, Sarge. You don't seem to give a s**t 'bout humanity. You think any of this is normal, that any of this is humane? This is war. This is a f****n' war!"

     I shake my head with disbelief. "I don't mutilate corpses."

     "But you kill 'em, 'cause otherwise they kill you. It's what happens. And I just so happen to be taking advantage of what I've got. So if you'll excuse me, I got more gold to dig." The soldier says flatly, stepping away from the dead man and ambling off with his accomplice.

     I stare down at the Japanese soldier, the man's words ringing in my head. I kill them, too. I do this, too. 

     But I have to. This is war. We're sent here to fight, to accomplish our missions. And we have to put a stop to anyone in our way. Right? That's what we are here for. 

     "Hey, Sarge!" a voice cuts into my thoughts and I whirl around, tearing my eyes off the dead soldier before me.

      "Nate," I stutter, "what is it?"

     He furrows his eyebrows questioningly. "You okay, Sarge? Never seen you this pale."

     I shake myself a little. "Yeah, I'm fine. What is it?"

     Nate looks uncomfortable now. "Well, see, Tana, it's--uhh, you better come see it yourself."

     I narrow my eyes. "Go on."

     He nods solemnly and turns, weaving his way through the people and brush peeking out of the cliff rocks. I follow, mind spinning, and for just a second I can't stop myself from glancing over my shoulder once more, back at what I just saw.

    Nate's led me to the little clearing a few yards lower in elevation where my squad has been foxholed in. Large jagged outcrops of stone surround us in a strange shape, and it's a little secluded from the other squads, save Rick's squad, but it feels safer to me than being out in the open like the other squads assigned above us.

     "What's the matter?" I ask, and then I see it.

     Harvey. Harvey Oswald lies dead on the ground, still and with a trail of blood lining his face. A huge gash marks his temple.

     I sit down quickly, feeling like I've just been punched in the gut. "How'd it happen?"

     Paul sighs heavily, and then sighs again and then I realize he's crying. Sobs escape the large man and I look sharply at Albert. 

     "What the hell happened?" I press.

     Albert shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a moment. "He fell asleep, and had a nightmare or something. Wouldn't stop screaming, and thrashing. He was making such a commotion, it would've led the Japs straight to us. We tried wakin' him up but then he panicked even more. And so--so the Gunny hit him upside the head with a shovel."

     "Had to be done. Poor b*****d," Wally intones softly, his face darkened with grief.

     I close my eyes. This is war, that soldier's voice from before echoing in my head. "God, god!"  I burst out, louder than I intended. My fists slam against the rocky ground in frustration. "We're losing more guys than we can afford. They shouldn't be dying. This shouldn't be happening! I shouldn't have--"

     "Sarge--Tana, it ain't your fault," Nate assures, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

     I shake my head slowly. "This needs to end."

     Paul presses his lips together. "We gotta keep fighting." He chokes out, voice slightly shaky from crying.

     "And you're doing a fine damn job of leading us. You're doin' great, Sarge." Wally chimes in.

     My chin trembles and I open my mouth--

     And a dark object lands in the center of us all, and for an almost comical moment we all stare at it before I realize--

     Everything, the world explodes around me, and I feel something warm and heavy pushing me away--

     Pain, and everything goes dark.

     Something's tickling my face and that's probably the only reason I open my eyes. My whole body aches, and I wonder if it's possible to be in this much pain, to feel so much hurt. The wound on my leg has probably reopened, my head throbs, and I feel nauseous and wrong everywhere.

     Half of my face is pressed against cold dirt, and my limbs are in a weird position. I take a second to wiggle everything slowly, making sure I'm all still intact. And then I remember what just happened, what I think just happened, and I sit up as quickly as I can, squinting at my surroundings, trying to focus my eyes on something. Anything.

     Ruins. Scattered...bodies. I blink slowly. I'm a little far off, but I don't want to believe what I'm seeing, so I crawl closer, and from doing so I learn that my leg is probably broken. 

     But that isn't what matters. What matters is the scene before me. My squad. My squad members. They're not moving. No. No no no no.

     I move towards the closest one. Wally, his face tarnished black from soot, his body lying at a horrible angle, and his arms are stretched out like he'd been reaching for something--

     Or pushing something. He shoved me as far as he could from the explosion, I realize. My eyes water and I keep crawling, trembling, my hands raw from rubbing against the rough and slightly damp ground.

     Paul, Nate, Albert. All breathless, all still, frozen in time. They're all dead. Every single one of them. My squad. Dead. Gone. Just like that.

     I'm alone. I'm alive, and I'm alone. 

     My body gives out and I lie on my stomach, arms bent in front of me, and I shut my eyes and lean my forehead on my forearm, terror and grief gripping me.

     A roar startles me, and I lift my head to see a Japanese soldier running toward me, triumph flashing across his grimy face. 

     That's when something in me snaps. I think of the bloody, mangled face of the Japanese soldier from before, and I see this one, and suddenly my hand is at my belt and I prop myself up on one elbow and I shoot the soldier down. Once he's dead, I push myself up--it takes a while to fully stand, but I force myself to do it because I don't care what happens to me anymore. Anger, red-hot fury, has taken me in its refuge, and I scan the ground for a rifle.

     I find one next to Nate and pick it up, making sure it has ammo, and feel at my belt for more weapons. I feel a knife and the sidearm I just used, and I start marching, one thing on my mind: kill.

~~~

     All is quiet. They're finished. They're dead. And only then do I let myself down, let myself feel the dead weight of my leg, the ache in my muscles and bones, the fatigue of my entire body. I lean against a boulder and then I'm on the ground, the muddy ground, and I don't get up. Everything feels awful, hot and cold all at once, like I'm being boiled alive but also like someone's dumping a bucket of ice water on me constantly. It's raining. When did that start?

     There are about six or seven other men still moving a little around me. I still don't know their names and I don't want to try right now.

     I drop my sidearm to the ground with a clatter--I think it's out of ammo anyway-- and stare at my hands, eyes half-closed. Bloody, and I'm not sure whose blood it is anymore. Is it mine? Rain soaks my body and I shiver. You'd think it'd wash the red off my hands, but that seems to be burned onto them, coating my fingernails like nail polish, staining the grooves in my palms. I let my hands fall to my stomach.

     I shut my eyes all the way and try to assess the damage. My leg hurts because I got shot in the thigh. I hit my head really hard from that grenade. Memories of the explosion flood my mind again and I push them away, suppressing a whimper when I picture my friends, all mangled and broken and dead--

     Everything is sore. I'm sticky all over. I'm tired. God, I'm tired. My hands are covered in blood and dirt and my uniform is ripped and muddy and what the hell am I doing here?

     How did I get here? What happened? For a wild few minutes I'm not sure if this is real, if everything that's happened actually happened. Did I do this?

     I lift my head and peer over the edge of the ridge. Bodies of the enemy lie scattered along the rocks, as common as weeds down there. Broken, mangled, and dead, just like my friends. Did we do that? Did I do that?

     I fall back against the stone and grit my teeth when my leg moves as a result, throbbing agonizingly. 

     And I guess this is the oddest time to think about it, now of all times, here of all places, this of all situations. I can't help but wonder if my parents ever read my letter, and more importantly, if they ever responded.

     I welcome death, in this moment. 

     When help comes I can't bring myself to believe it. I've gone crazy. We're all dead and I'm imagining things. Imagining the men dressed in cleaner Marine Corps uniforms than I've ever seen in my life; nothing's that clean. Imagining the sounds of terror--relief? coming from the men around me, my fellow dead soldiers.

     But maybe I'm not hallucinating. Steady hands prod at me and I force my eyes up and try to make out the details in the face staring down at me.

     "Oh my God. It's her. She didn't die with her squad. S-Sergeant Carstairs? Can you hear me? Say something!" he shakes me gently.

     I wince at the movement. My body is stiff and it hurts to move. I've spent so long sitting caked in the mud that I've practically turned into a stone on this rocky mountainside myself.

     "Careful, she doesn't look like she's moved for a while. Something might be broken. Hey," someone else kneels beside me, "you're gonna be okay. We've got you now. Okay?"

     My breaths come out shallow and I manage a tiny nod, mind spinning, struggling to comprehend the situation. Help has come. I'm safe at last.

     Safety. That's hard to think about right now. How long has it been since I felt safe?

     Everything happens in a blur. I'm lifted onto a stretcher and it's agony. Everything aches, a deep pain within my very bones that threatens to break me from the inside. 

     "Geez, you've been through hell." A voice grunts quietly as someone carries me away from this wretched place.

     I say nothing. What can I say? What am I supposed to say? I shut my eyes and whimper softly every time the three men carrying me trip or slip on mud or jostle me around too much.

     Why am I still alive?

     Hours or maybe days later--I don't know, I haven't tried nor wanted to keep track-- I'm deposited onto a bed and I almost groan in relief. Actually, I think I do.

     Soft, comforting, so soft that it hurts even more than before. Because now I can really feel how sensitive my whole body is, how filthy I am all over.

     Before I know it, tears escape my eyes and they burn, and I let out quiet sobs that get louder and more desperate, more wild, more agonized. I think of the Marine who cried nearly every night in his foxhole and I feel what he must have felt. I feel my chest threatening to tear in two, I feel my lungs heaving from the gasping sobs I'm coughing out, I feel the ache in my jaw and the hot tears rolling down the sides of my face as I lie on this too-soft, too-good-to-be-true bed. 

     I can hear the nurses around me muttering. They think I can't hear but I can.

     "She's completely lost it."

     "She's been through worse than hell."

     "What kinds of things did they all see there?"

     "What was the general thinking, letting a woman go there?"

     And then, a familiar voice. Furious and panicked, but familiar. "Let me through, I'm her friend, she needs me!"

     I pause for a moment and stare up in shock, feeling like my chest is caving in when I see who has come to stand by my bed. 

     "Polly?"

     Her perfect curls bounce as she nods fervently. "Yes, Tana, it's me." she murmurs, eyes watering. 

     I shut my eyes for a moment, her words a relief to hear. "Polly, I--I didn't die."

     "I know, Tana, and I'm so glad you didn't." She says softly, her voice breaking. She kneels by me and holds my hand. "You went through such a rough time, Tana. I'm so proud of you."

     I shake my head. "Don't." I can barely choke the word out before I'm a pathetic sobbing mess again, but this time it feels better because Polly's there; someone familiar, someone who knows me for what I think I still am. 

     She shushes me, stroking my hair and squeezing my hand as gently and gingerly as possible. 

~~~

     I startle when a nurse approaches me with a rather important-looking man. He's wearing a Marine uniform and has an envelope in hand.

     "Have I got mail?" I ask.

     The nurse shakes her head. "Sorry."

     I try to ignore the disappointment welling in me and turn my body more from the window, where I was staring out at the blue sky. It's a pretty day, anyway. My gaze rests upon the Marine. He looks in his mid-thirties, and sports the mark of a major on his uniform.

     "Good morning, Sergeant. How are you feeling?" The man says humbly, saluting.

     I return the salute with my good arm. "Spectacular," I say wryly. "And yourself, sir?" 

     He smiles. "I'm doing fine. I've got good news for you, Sergeant Carstairs."

     "Are they finally letting me out of this place?" I ask, trying not to let the hope be too audible in my tone.

     "Well, that's not going to happen for a few more days, I'm afraid," the man laughs ruefully. "You've been nominated to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor."

     I stare at him.

     "Ma'am?"

     "Why?" I manage to choke out. What could have possibly warranted me getting the Medal of Honor?

     "You committed extreme acts of valor on that island. You defeated over twenty enemy soldiers almost singlehandedly, saving the lives of thirty-six Marines."

     I look away. "I did what needed to be done. I don't want an award for it."

     The man lets out a surprised huff. "I'm afraid this isn't a choice. You've earned this honor."

     I bite my lip. Sure doesn't feel like it.

~~

     I let out a deep sigh as I step onto the front porch of the place I've called home for most of my life. 

     Movement in the window makes me glance over and I break out into a grin. Summer, in all his tabby glory, paws at the glass when he sees me.

     I press my lips tightly together, the sight of my cat comforting me a little. Maybe this won't be so bad. I knock on the door and wait. 

     I hear footsteps, and then the door opens, and suddenly my little (not so little, I suppose) brother is clinging onto me for dear life, his arms wrapped around my neck. 

     "Tana, you're back you're back oh my gosh I missed you--" his words are barely intelligible as he blubbers on and on. 

     I close my eyes tightly and hug him back. "Carl, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't say goodbye."

     He lets go and stares into my face, tears streaming down his cheeks as he laughs in relief. "Tana, you're a war hero."

     I smile grimly. "That seems to be the case." 

     He bites his lip and then hugs me again. 

     "Carl, who is it?" comes the most familiar stern voice before I meet eyes with my mother. 

     Her gaze sweeps me from top to bottom and lingers on the chevrons on my arm and the decorations on my uniform. "You're back," is all she says, mild surprise coloring her usually monotone voice. 

     I nod. "Hello, Mother." 

     Carl looks between us, back and forth as his grip on my shoulder tightens. "Come on inside. I'll bring your stuff up to your room." he says too cheerfully as he bends down to lift my duffel bag. 

     Once he's gone, I step through the door and my mother steps back, letting me in warily. The silence is horrible. 

     "You never wrote me back." I blurt out suddenly, the words coming out more hurt than I meant. 

     "You ran away from home." she counters. 

     I scoff in disbelief at the simple yet stinging remark. I'm your child, I want to yell. You're supposed to care about me no matter what!

     Instead, I look away and go to the window where Summer awaits me. He starts purring loudly as he pushes his head into my hand. I pick him up and bury my face in his fur for a while. It feels more like home then. 

     My father is less cold. Not exactly warm, though. He comes home from work, sees me, and pats me on the shoulder while eyeing my decorations. "A war hero, huh?" 

     "That's what they're saying." I reply. 

     He nods. "When are you leaving?"

     I tell him I need to go do a press tour in three days. He nods once more and leaves the room. 

     

     Carl's eyes are wide as he sits on my bed with me, talking like we used to do during our childhoods. "Were you scared?" he asks. 

     I nod. "All the time."

     "And...are you okay now? Is it better to be away from it?" he asks more hesitantly.  

     I think. Is it better to be away from it all? 

     The images that I've been suppressing since it happened come flooding back and my breath hitches in my throat for a moment. I shut my eyes to try to block it out. I try to take a deep breath, which only results in a choked sob emitting from deep within me, and I'm crying and trembling. 

     After a few moments, Carl scoots closer to me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. "It's over," he murmurs gently. "You're safe now, Tana."

     I can't believe I'm the one being comforted by my younger brother. But now I feel like the weaker one, the more broken one, as he holds me close while I threaten to fall apart. I want to say sorry, to let him know I'll be fine eventually, but I can't bring myself to say it, and even if I could muster the will to, I'm crying too hard to say anything. 

~~

     I don't know if this is more difficult than visiting my own home or not. I double-check to make sure I've got the right address, then knock, rocking back on my heels and looking down at what I'm carrying in my arms. 

     The door opens and a man with strikingly black hair and the warmest brown eyes I've ever seen stares at me, then at the neatly folded uniform I hold in my arms, and then his hand goes to cover part of his face as his eyes well up with tears. The eyes, they're his eyes. 

     They're his wide puppy-dog eyes and suddenly I'm back in the mud, watching him die again, hearing explosions all around us, feeling hot blood on my hands.

     But it's over now. That's all over.

     I take off my cap and bow my head slightly. "Mr. Hanegawa, I'm Sergeant Tana Carstairs. May I speak to you and your wife, if she's home?"

     He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then composes himself and nods, letting me in. 

     "J-Jimmy wrote to us about you," Mr. Hanegawa says softly, Mrs. Hanegawa nodding at his words, her chestnut curls bobbing up and down. 

     "Jimmy was a fine Marine, and a very good friend of mine. We...we were separated from the company and he was caught by a sniper. I-I was w-with him when he died. I'm...I'm so, so sorry." My voice breaks and I stare down at my feet, his face flooding my mind as I bite back a sob.  

     Jimmy's mother leans over and takes my hand, squeezing it. That gives me strength and I take a deep breath. "He told me to tell you that he loved you very much. That was all he wished for, was for me to tell you."

     "Thank you." Jimmy's mother whispers, tears rolling down her face. "Thank you for being with him when--when it happened. He respected and cared about you very much, from his letters. I think he was glad to be with you in his last moments."

     I nod, balling up my fists as I struggle not to cry. "I loved him like my own brother. I should have protected him better."

     "It's not your fault," Jimmy's father says firmly. "We forgive you and I know he would too." 

     This feels wrong, to be comforted by mourning parents. I should be the one comforting them, and yet here I am, the broken one needing to be reassured. 

     "Come back and visit us whenever you like. And please do write," Mrs. Hanegawa says as I'm leaving. They asked me to stay for dinner and we talked about Jimmy and the Marine Corps and what it was like working with him. I love Jimmy's parents; they're kind and generous people. It makes me feel a little sick, though, how of all people, his parents are so kind to me, especially considering how my own mother and father treated me when I went home. 

~~

     Bright lights blind me and I blink quickly, looking down at my shiny heels. I'm in my dress blues, clean and primped, talking in front of over a hundred people. I hate it.

     The man bombarding me with questions prods me. "Sergeant Carstairs, do you think you'll return to the frontlines ever again?"

     Another man nods enthusiastically. "Yes, you must miss it!"

     I feel like I'm going to throw up. "No. I don't think I'll return."

     "But why?" Voices clamor.

     I shake my head and they just continue, undeterred.

     "Ma'am, the other day you were spotted punching a man. Can you explain to us why? Is it true he said indecent things to you?"

     "He asked to sleep with me," I say shortly. "I said no. He tried to touch me. I punched him. The end."

     "But you were out alone, yes? What were you doing?"

     "Does it matter if I was alone or if I was just taking a walk at nighttime?" I say through gritted teeth, my patience wearing thin. I can't do anything without these people getting on me about it, can I?

     A flash goes off with the sound of a shutter. I close my eyes, the lights too much. "Can you quit with the damned photos?" I snap.

     An awkward quiet settles for a moment over everyone and I would appreciate it if it weren't for the fact that I've probably just done something really stupid. Never say anything you'll regret later, I was told by my publicity manager. A wave of disgust and nausea rises in my stomach and I leave my spot at the podium, searching for the exit. 

     "Please forgive her, she's very exhausted. Long trips and all, you know!" I can hear his reedy voice as I push past the reporters and escape the room. I hear them clamoring behind me, so once I pass a corner, I take off running and don't stop until I realize I don't know where I am.

     I look around, panting, wiping away tears I didn't know were flowing down my cheeks. I hate them. I hate the reporters and my publicity manager and everything about who I've become these past few months. I hate having people recognize me from pictures in the newspapers, and I hate that I'm being called a hero. I didn't do anything to deserve that. I did the exact opposite!

     A figure near the brick wall next to me catches my eye. A Japanese soldier, aiming right at me. I jump back, startled, and the next thing I know I'm firing shots at him. I fire and don't stop until his dark face is completely riddled with bullet holes, until all that's left of the poster are the words "Stop him and the job is done!" written in large block letters. And then it sinks in. A poster. It's a poster. Mere war propaganda. 

     I didn't mean to do that. Realization grips me and I drop my sidearm to the ground, staring down at my hands. I just shot a soldier--no, a poster. I thought he was real for a crazy moment. This is what I've been turned into. I can't even distinguish between what's real and what's not. I blink and my hands seem red for a brief second. Bloody, glimmering in the dim streetlights before my eyes. I blink again and it's gone. There's no blood. 

     "Ah, there you are! What in the devil's name have you done?" a voice behind me says. I turn and face the senator I've been traveling with for my silly publicity tour; I forget his name already. I had no interest in learning it, so I've just gotten away by calling him 'sir' or 'Senator.'

     "I can't do this anymore. Just send me back or something. I'd rather be there than doing this." I beg, looking up at him. I told myself I'd never fight again. That I couldn't bear to do what I now realize I did back on that island.

     But now I wish I could be back there because at least I'd be doing something; helping train recruits, cooking, managing supplies, anything. Not running around doing these stupid interviews and stupid shows where people gather to get a look at me, the woman officer who killed a bunch of enemy soldiers. I don't want to be a celebrity. I don't want to be an icon. I don't want to be the inspiration of America. I'd rather be dead.

     I want to be at peace, to silence the constant screaming in my mind, the screaming that tells me it's my fault those Japanese men are dead, it's my fault their families won't ever see them again, it's my fault, all my fault, and I don't deserve a medal for it. Yet why does my only solution for peace seem to be more fighting, more war?

    "You're the nation's newest hero. People want to know more about you. Can you blame them?" the senator says in his usual smooth tone. "Did you know that since your story became known to the public, more and more women have enlisted in our military services?"

     I say nothing. More people whose lives I'm responsible for.  I don't want to be a hero. And I'm not one. All I did was kill people. Just like what every other soldier does. I did what I was told to do. I got rid of the enemy.

     The senator runs a hand through his graying hair. "Come back. You haven't even talked about war bonds yet."

     Of course that's all he cares about. I bite my lip angrily for a moment, deliberating. "Fine," I say finally, glaring up at him. "I'll come back."

     Relief shows on his face very briefly and I feel bad, but only briefly.

     "I...apologize for earlier. I wasn't feeling well." I gaze around the room, face hot. They people all stare back at me with various looks on their faces. Some sympathetic, some annoyed, some just curious.

     "I'm supposed to tell you all to buy war bonds. I was even given a speech here," I hold up my prompt cards, "but the truth of the matter is, I don't want to read off what's on these cards. Look, if you want to buy war bonds, go ahead. Do it. But you need to know what it is you're supporting." I take a deep breath, heart racing, avoiding looking at the senator.

     "War is hell," I start, "and lots of people say that but it just doesn't seem to sink in. War is hell, war is pain, and war is suffering. It's endless days and nights in the mud and dirt and blood and rotting corpses. It's not about glory and freedom like the posters say; not when you're trapped in the middle of nowhere, trying not to get shot. These Purple Hearts, this Medal of Honor--" I finger the pins on my uniform as I list the awards-- "all that doesn't matter when you're just trying not to die. You don't care about why the war is happening when you're there and all you can think of is what your family's doing, whether or not you'll be home in time for Christmas, wondering if your friends will still be your friends when they understand the terrible things you've seen and done. War is about brotherhood, sisterhood, companionship, and then getting all that ripped away from you with a single grenade. It's about losing not only your friends, but also yourself, and losing the ability to think clearly and keep a sense of morality. It's about killing, endless killing, until you're not even sure why you're doing it anymore. Your sons and your daughters need to know what they're signing up for when they enlist. They're signing up for nightmares, for rage and fury and hatred, for wounds deeper than bruised skin and broken bones, for never being their old self ever again." I turn my stare onto the senator, who is turning purple with anger, though he can't do anything to stop me now and he knows it.

     I breathe in slowly, evenly, though my heart is still pounding in my chest as the words just come out of me before I know what I'm saying.

     "To the families with daughters enlisting, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that because of me, your children are joining in on this crazy, stupid war. I'm so sorry that you might lose them just like you and many others have lost their sons. I'm sorry that they may never again know what it's like to live in peace."

     I bite my lip and lean forward into the microphone once more. "That's all I have to say. I'm done with this press tour. I'm not a hero and I'm not a glorious war story for everyone to fawn over. I was told to fight the enemy and I fought, and it was the biggest mistake of my life."

     With that, I step down from the podium and walk towards the senator.

     He's beet-red now, breathing harshly and quickly. "You--you--"

     "Sir, I don't regret what I just said. Now if you'll excuse me," I say coldly as I shoulder past him. 

     

~~~

     "You're going to be assigned to work in the Department of Scientific Warfare. Away from the frontlines, but you'll be able to help the cause. You'll do more good than harm there, at least."

     I shut my mouth, stunned. Help the cause. Maybe if I do enough good, enough helping without killing people, without murdering them. Maybe then things will feel okay. If I could just make up for all the lives of the soldiers I killed, of those who died because of me. I swallow hard, the faces of the dead flashing in my mind. I want them to forgive me. I want to forgive myself. And maybe this will help.

     I think of Polly, and then I think of her letter, and I think of her upcoming wedding. She'll be all right. 

     So I look up at the senator, and I find my voice again.

     "When do I start?"