THREE YEARS AGO
The jolt from the blast rattled through the truck, blowing out the front window. All of the doors flew open. Unlatched, I was ejected from the vehicle—thrown onto the open road. I slid before coming to a grunting halt against a nearby building.
I remember every second of it. There’s no way to describe how it feels when you think you’re going to die. No white light, no moment of clarity. The one thing that crossed my mind was that I wanted to kill the motherfuckers who did this.
With so much adrenaline pumping through my veins, I couldn’t feel a thing. The blast from the IED into the truck as we were leaving a neighboring village also meant that I couldn’t hear shit. I knew from his anguished face Duke was screaming, writhing on the ground, but as I stared at him, I heard nothing but a low ringing between my ears.
Smoke swirled around me as I fought to get my bearings. My eyes felt like they were lined with sandpaper, and my lungs couldn’t seem to drag in enough air.
Get up. You’re a sitting duck. Get. The fuck. UP.
Dragging myself to my knees, I patted down my most tender places, and except for my right arm, which hurt like a bitch, I was fine. I looked back at Duke, whose face had gone still. Although I already knew, I checked his vitals, but it was pointless. Fanned out around us were eight or nine other casualties—some Americans, some villagers. One set of little feet in sandals I just couldn’t look at.
Ducking behind another car, I drew my gun and swept the crowd. Come on, motherfucker, show yourself. Civilians were getting up, walking past like nothing had happened. Those affected by the blast were screaming, begging. It was a total clusterfuck. My eyes darted around the area, but I couldn’t find the trigger man. He’d melted into the crowd.
I ran back toward the mangled, smoking remains of our Humvee. Fuck. It was a twisted mess of metal and blood. Crouching around the base of the truck, I moved to find the guys. Lying in the dirt, knocked halfway out of the doorframe, was Keith, hanging on by the cables of the radio, his left leg torn at a sickening angle. He was dazed, staring at the pooling blood staining the dirt around him and growing at an alarming rate. Without my med kit, I had to improvise. I ripped his belt from his waist and using that and a piece of metal, successfully made the world’s worst tourniquet around his upper thigh.
Over the constant, shrill ringing in my ears, I yelled at him, “I got you! FOCUS. Look at me . . . We got this!”
His nod was weak, and his color pallid. He probably only had minutes, and that was not going to fucking happen. I grabbed the radio mic. The crackle of the speaker let me know we weren’t totally fucked. Calling in a bird was the only way we were getting out of this shithole.
“This is Corpsman Lincoln Scott. Medevac needed. Multiple down.”
“10-4. This is Chop-4. Extent of injuries.”
“We’ve got a couple hit here. Ah, fuck, Wade took two in the chest. At least four down.”
“Roger that. Let’s get you men onboard.”
Leaning back on the truck, weapon across my legs, I felt warmth spread across my neck and chest. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I became aware of the pain in my neck, shooting down my ribs and arm, vibrating through my skull. Reaching up with my left arm, I traced my fingertips along my neckline and felt my shirt stick to my skin. Moving back, I found a hot, hard lump of metal protruding from my shoulder and neck. It had buddies too—shrapnel littering my upper torso, arm, and neck. My fingers grazed the pocket of my uniform, and I held my hand there. I could feel the outline of the letter I kept in my pocket. Its presence vibrated through me. Touching my right forearm, I thought about my tattoo beneath the uniform. Looking down, all I could see were shreds of my uniform and thick, red blood.
Hold steady. Breathe.
My fingers explored. My vest was the only thing that kept the worst of the blast from reaching my vital organs. This neck wound though . . . damn. This wasn’t great.
The cold prick of panic crept up my legs and into my chest.
Calm the fuck down. Stop dumping blood because you can’t keep your shit together. Breathe.
I focused on Keith’s shallow, staccato breathing next to me. I tried to turn my head, but that wasn’t fucking happening. “You good, man?”
“Shit, doc. Never better.”
“Hah. Atta boy.”
We sat in labored-breathing silence. Listened for the medevac helicopters. As the scene around us came into focus, I realized how easily the lifeless bodies of the Marines around me could have been mine. I counted six members of my platoon killed or badly wounded. Our machine gun team, Mendez and Tex, had been among the dead. Mendez was only twenty.
Already struggling to breathe, I felt the wind knock out of me. Just last week, in a quiet moment outside our tent, Mendez told me he was afraid. He missed his mom and little sister and just wanted to go home to Chicago. Becoming a Marine was a mistake, he’d said.
“Doc, I don’t wanna die out here, man.”
In that quiet moment, he’d revealed what we all felt, but never spoke aloud. Instead of offering him some comfort, I’d stared out into the blackness of the desert by his side until he turned, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked back inside.
Leaning my head back, I let my own thoughts wander to Finn and Mom. His easy smile, her lilting laugh. I wondered what they were doing back home while I was slowly dying, an imposter in the desert.
When I walked off the plane, the airport had an eerie feeling of calm. I could smell the familiar summer Montana air over the lingering stale bagels and sweat of the airport. I hoisted my rucksack over my shoulder and began to walk toward the exit when a small voice floated over my right shoulder. “Thank you for your service.”
My whole body shifted, I still couldn’t turn my head quite right, and I peered down at a little boy—probably six or seven at most. “Hey, little man. You’re welcome.”
Then he clipped his heels together and saluted, and I thought I’d die right there. He was so fucking cute. I saluted back to him and dropped to my knee.
“You know, they give these to us because we’re strong and brave and love our country.” I peeled the American flag patch off my shoulder, felt its soft Velcro backing run through my fingers. “I think you should have it.”
The little boy’s eyes went wide, and his mother put her hand over her heart, teared up, and mouthed, “Thank you.” I tipped my head to her as I stood.
“Linc! LINCOLN!” I heard Finn yell above the crowd and turned to see my younger brother running through baggage claim. His body slammed into me, and we held onto each other for a moment. I ignored the electric pain sizzling down my arm. Over his shoulder, I could see Mom, tears in her eyes, running with a sign.
“Damn, kid. We missed you!” Finn laughed, his sprawling hand connecting with my shoulder. I braced myself, refusing to wince at his touch. But Finn was huge, a solid two inches taller than my six-foot-one-inches. He’d definitely grown up, reminding me that he wasn’t the same gap-toothed fifteen-year-old kid I’d left behind when I enlisted.
“Kid? Don’t forget I’m older and can still beat the shit out of you. Hey, Mom.” I engulfed my mother in a hug. Her tiny frame reminded me why everyone called her Birdie.
“Eight years. Almost a decade and now I get to keep you forever!” We hugged again, her thin arms holding onto me tighter, nails digging into my uniform. Mom was a crier. If we didn’t get this under control now, we’d be here all afternoon with her trying to fuss all over me like I was eleven and just wrecked my dirt bike. But the truth was, while I’d been home for the occasional holiday leave, Chikalu Falls, Montana hadn’t been my home for over a decade.
She finally released the hug, holding me at arm’s length. “I’m so happy to have you home,” she sighed.
“I’m happy too, Mom.” It was only a small lie, but I had to give it to her. I was happy to see her and Finn, and to put the death and dirt and sand behind me. But I’d planned on at least another tour in the Marines. I was almost through my second enlistment when the IED explosion tore through my body. The punctured lung, torn flesh, and scars were the easy part. It was the nerve damage to my right arm and neck that was the real problem.
Unreliable trigger finger wasn’t something the United States Marine Corps wanted in their ranks. In the end, after the doctors couldn’t get my neck to turn or the pain radiating down my right arm to settle, I’d been honorably discharged.
I glanced down at the poster board that Finn scooped off the ground. “Oh, Great. You Somehow Survived” was written in bubble letters with a haphazard smattering of sequins and glitter. Laughing, I adjusted my pack and looked at Finn. “You’re such a dick.” I had to mumble it under my breath to make sure Mom didn’t hear me, but from the corner of my eye, I could see her smirk.
“Let’s go, boys.”
It was a four-hour trip from Spokane, Washington to Chikalu Falls, Montana—but only out-of-towners used its full, given name. Saying Chikalu was one way to tell the locals from the tourists.
The drive was filled with Mom’s updates on day-to-day life in our small hometown. Finn eagerly filled me in on his fishing guide business, how he wanted to expand, and how I could help him run it. I listened, occasionally grunting or nodding in agreement as I stared out the window at the passing pines. Ranches and farmland dotted the landscape as we weaved through the national forest.
I was going home.
“You know, Mr. Bailey’s been asking about you. He heard you were coming home and wants to make sure that you stop in…when you’re settled,” Mom said.
“Of course. I always liked Mr. Bailey. I’m glad to hear he’s still kicking.”
Finn laughed. “Still kicking? That old man’s never gonna die. He’s still sitting out in his creepy old farmhouse, complaining about all the college kids and how they’re ruining all the fishing. I saw him walk into town with a rifle on his shoulder last week like that’s not completely against the law. People straight up scatter when he walks through town. It’s amazing.”
Changing the subject, Mom glanced at me over her shoulder and chimed in with, “The ladies at the Chikalu Woman’s Club are all in a flutter, what with you coming home this week. You make five of our seven boys who’ve come home now.” A heavy silence blanketed the car as her words floated into the air. No one acknowledged that three of the five who’d returned came home in caskets.
Clearing her throat gently, she added, “And you got everyone’s letters?”
I nodded. The Chikalu Woman’s Club was known around my platoon for their care packages and letters. Without fail, every birthday, holiday, and sometimes “just because,” I would get a small package. Sometimes because we’d moved around or simply because the mail carrier system was total shit, the packages would be weeks or months late, but inside were drawings from school kids, treats, toiletries, and letters. I’d share the candies and toiletries with the guys. We’d barter over the Girl Scout cookies. A single box of Samoas was worth its weight in gold. For me, the letters became the most important part. Mostly they were from Mom and Finn, young kids or other mothers, college students working on a project, that kind of thing.
But in one package in November, I got the letter that saved my life.
I idly touched the letter in my shirt pocket. Six years. For six years, I’d carried that letter with me. After the bombing, it was torn and stained with my blood, and you could hardly read it now, but it was with me.
“The packages were great. They really helped to boost morale around camp. I tried writing back to the kids who wrote when I could. Some of them didn’t leave a return address,” I said.
Mom continued filling the space with anecdotes about life around Chikalu. My thoughts drifted to the first time I’d opened the package and saw the letter that saved me.
In that package, there had been plenty of treats—trail mix, gum, cookies, beef jerky, cheese and cracker sandwiches. When you’re in hell, you forget how much you miss something as simple as a cheese and cracker sandwich. Under the treats was a neat stack of envelopes. Most were addressed to “Marine” or “Soldier” or “Our Hero” and a few were addressed directly to me. I always got one from Mom and Finn. When I got the packages, I shared some of the letters with the guys in camp. The ones marked “Soldier” were always given to the grunt we were giving shit to that week. Soldiers were in the Army, but we were Marines.
On the bottom of this particular box was a thick, doodled envelope—colored swirls and shapes covering the entire outside. It was addressed directly to me in swirly feminine handwriting. Turning it over in my hands, I felt unsettled. An uncomfortable twinge in my chest had me rattled. I didn’t like not feeling in control, so rather than opening it right away, I stored it in my footlocker.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that the letter was calling to me. I spent three days obsessing over the doodles on the envelope—was it an art student from the college? The mystery of it was intoxicating. Why was it addressed to me if I had no idea who had written it? When I finally opened it, I was spellbound. The letter wasn’t written like a traditional letter where someone was anonymously writing notes of encouragement or thanks. This letter was haphazard. Different inks, some cursive, some print, quotes on the margins.
It became clear that the letter had been written over the course of several days. The author had heard about the town letter collection and decided to write to me on a whim. It included musings about life in a small mountain town, tidbits of information learned in a college class, facts about the American West, even a knock-knock joke about desert and dessert. I read that letter every day until a new one came. Similarly decorated envelope, same nonlinear ramblings inside. A voice—her voice—came through in those letters.
There were moments in the dark I could imagine her laughter or imagine feeling her breath on my ear as she whisper-sang the lyrics she’d written. Her letters brought me comfort in those dark moments when I doubted I’d ever have my mom’s buttermilk pie again or hear Finn laugh at a really good joke.
Over the years, she included small pieces of information about who she was. Not anyone I’d known pre-enlistment, but a transplant from Bozeman. She’d gone to college in Chikalu. “The mountains and the river are my home,” she wrote. Her letters were funny, charming, comforting.
The one I carried with me was special. News reports of conflict in the Middle East were everywhere, and she’d assumed correctly that I was right in the thick of it. She told me the story of the Valkyrie she’d learned about in one of her courses.
In Norse mythology, Valkyrie were female goddesses who spread their wings and flew over the battlefield, choosing who lived and who died in battle. Warriors chosen by the Valkyrie died with honor and were then taken to the hall of Valhalla in the afterlife. Their souls could finally rest.
Reading her words, I felt comfort knowing that if I held my head high and fought with honor, she would come for me. I carried her words in my head. Through routine sweeps or high-intensity missions, her words would wash over me, motivate me, and steady me. She connected with something inside of my soul—deep and unfamiliar. At my next leave, I’d gotten a tattoo of the Valkyrie wings spread across my right forearm so I could have a visual reminder of her. I could always keep her with me.
Glancing down now, I slid my sleeve up, revealing the bottom edge of the tattoo. It was marred with fresh, angry scars but it was there. My goddess had been with me in battle, and I’d survived.
Pulling into town, I knew I had to find her—the woman who left every letter signed simply: Joanna.
