Battle Scars

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “My answer is that I love you, too. So I’m saying yes. Yes, I will marry you Gunnery Sergeant Jackson Connor. With all my heart.”

  Jackson slid that foil ring onto my finger and kissed my hand.

  “Yes!” I half cried, half snorted. “That’s a yes! Big, big yes! I love you.”

  And when we kissed, dusty, salt-stained, messy and clumsy, it was perfect.

  Reboot

  I FLEW BACK to Cairo the next day wearing a beautiful diamond ring with a platinum band on the fourth finger of my left hand. I had a month to finish up current assignments, people to say goodbye to, and a few days in which to do a handover to my replacement.

  Adam Arshad Richardson was a young, darkly handsome journalist in his late twenties. He explained that his mother was Iranian and she had come to the US when the Shah was expelled in 1979. His father was a high school English teacher and had been volunteering to teach English to the newly arrived refugees.

  Adam was the youngest of three children, the only son and the only one of his siblings who’d ever been to the Middle East.

  He was excited about his new posting, mentioning casually that he’d had a girlfriend back home but had broken it off when he’d been offered the job.

  His faintly patronizing comments told me that he thought women weren’t cut out to be foreign correspondents: “too emotional,” he said. “You’ve got to be able to distance yourself from the story, stay professional.”

  I had to bite my tongue. It wasn’t that I completely disagreed with his view, but understanding the emotions of the people I interviewed was what made a story relatable to readers back home. I was only five years older than him, but that was five years of experience on the front line.

  Even so, he made me feel like a stereotype—the little woman who gave it all up to go home and get married.

  When he asked me what I’d been working on, I showed him the stories from Sharm, Amsterdam and Zataari. He was a little more respectful after that.

  I gave him my list of contacts too, and at first, there was some tension between him and my fabulous fixer Asim. I suppose it was competition to see who’d be top dog, but after a couple of days they soon saw that working together was going to be mutually beneficial. I had high hopes that they’d figure it out. Asim had been invaluable in smoothing my entry into Egyptian politics: Adam would need him.

  Asim took me out for a cup of Koshary tea on my penultimate day. It was prepared the traditional way by steeping black tea in boiled water, letting it to brew for several minutes, then adding cane sugar and fresh mint leaves.

  “It has been an honor working with you, Miss Emjay,” he said. “I have told my daughters all about you. I have always believed education is important for girls. It’s not easy for them to see that because female unemployment is so great. We had our first female cabinet minister in 1962, Hekmat Abu Zeid, but I am afraid progression is slowing down, even reversing. We have to keep fighting for our rights. Thank you for being a part of that.”

  I was surprised and touched by his words. Asim had always been very reserved with me, very formal. It felt good to know that he’d appreciated my efforts.

  For the first time, I saw myself through his eyes: a Westerner, a woman, coming to his country to write about it with no previous knowledge of Egypt. I was proud that I’d been able to exceed his expectations, but I felt a twinge of guilt that I hadn’t seen the assignment through.

  I wished him and his family well and, as was the local custom, we exchanged gifts. For Asim, I’d bought a fountain pen with an eagle’s head engraved on the silver nib. For his wife and daughters I played it safe and gave jars of American jelly and several boxes of hard candy. I’d also decided not to worry about the cost and bought five pairs of different Ray Ban sunglasses: Aviators for Asim because they were so macho, and a variety of Wayfarers for his wife and daughters.

  As was socially acceptable, Asim’s gift to me was ostensibly from his wife, a gorgeous dark blue leather laptop case from the Egyptian designer brand Wali’s, and a small silver bracelet in the Nubian style.

  “Come and see us again, Miss Emjay,” he urged as we said our goodbyes.

  I promised to stay in touch which wasn’t the same thing at all because I already knew that it wouldn’t be easy for me to get permission to travel here if I was married to a Marine. There were very strict rules about where you could visit abroad; one of Jack’s friends had been denied permission to travel to Mexico, which astonished me. And I realized with a pang that there would be a lot of places I wouldn’t be able to visit.

  I’d already discussed this with my new employers and they’d promised they could work around it, but a sense of panic shot through me—I was giving up an awful lot to be with Jack.

  Then I shoved the thought away. He was worth any restrictions his job made on mine.

  My last night was spent with Adam, a slightly strained dinner, but the polite thing to do. Not only was he moving into my job, but he’d also taken over the rent of my apartment, so I was staying in a hotel. At least the air conditioning worked.

  Gently, I tried to give him some tips, but he seemed more interested in finding out about local nightclubs. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep about it. He’d find his own way—we all did.

  And so I said goodbye to Egypt, a beautiful, uncertain country clinging to the north of Africa and a culture that stretched back thousands of years. I wondered when or if I’d ever return.

  I arrived back in New York in early January to find it snowbound with worse weather closing in. Sidewalks were slick with ice, the daytime slush refreezing as temperatures plummeted with the sunset to well below freezing, and traffic crawled along slower than a caravan of camels.

  Shivering, wearing all the wrong clothes, I lugged my suitcases and bags into the first cab that deigned to stop, returning home to an icy and empty apartment.

  The radiators hadn’t been on for months, and a friend who’d been looking after the place and watering my plants had left a message apologizing because she’d promised to turn the heating on, but had gotten stuck at work and didn’t want to risk traveling across town in such bad weather.

  The refrigerator was empty, too, and I couldn’t face going out to buy milk, so I drank some aging instant coffee black and munched on a couple of slightly dusty-tasting Pop Tarts that were only a month past their eat-by date.

  I pulled a thick quilt over my shoulders and gazed around the apartment, looking at the black and white photographs that I’d taken on assignments; the photograph of my parents, and another of me with my dad; one with Jackson at his mom’s home, sitting on the porch like an old married couple. I remembered that photo because I was trying not to make it obvious to his mom that he had his hand up my skirt at the time. Even now, I could see the mischievous glint in his dark blue eyes.

  I was dreading packing up another place, but my home was in San Diego now, with Jack.

  Just as I was feeling a little lonely and a lot sorry for myself, shivering in my slowly warming apartment, my cell phone rang and Jack’s photo lit the screen.

  “Hey, sugar! Welcome back to the US of A. How are you?”

  “Jack! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. Yes, I’m okay. Cold, though! There’s a foot of snow on the sidewalks and there’s another storm coming in. It’s going to be a complete whiteout.”

  “Sounds bad, and it’s pretty cold here, too. I’ve been shivering through PT in thirty-five degrees. Last time I was here it was eighty-five degrees and the mosquitoes were as big as squirrels.”

  He pronounced it ‘skwurls’ and I loved the warmth of his southern accent. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel the heat of his large, solid body.

  I knew he was in a training class at Camp Lejune in North Carolina. I didn’t know exactly what was involved in this training, although he sounded happy but tired.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said honestly.

  “I’ve missed you too, sugar. But it won’t be for much longer.”
<
br />   He was only 500 miles away and I was so tempted to hop on another plane and fly down to Wilmington, but we were working with a deadline of March 13th for our wedding and I had so much to do here.

  I wasn’t superstitious about the date in fact I welcomed it. Our love had begun in the most unprepossessing circumstances when I was nearly killed and Jack had saved my life. It seemed symbolic to me—there could be nothing worse, so why worry?

  I knew that wasn’t very rational thinking, but love isn’t rational. The ancient Greeks believed that the fickle gods made humans fall in love for their own amusement, enjoying the chaos and disorder that would surely follow. Well, if that was the case, bring it on.

  Besides, it would be a small wedding, Jack’s mother the only parent we had between us, and with my friends spread all over the world, I wasn’t expecting many to fly out to San Diego. The thought made me sad: Dad would have been so proud, so happy to walk me down the aisle to marry the man I loved.

  I basked in the warmth of Jack’s voice, so much closer now that we were in the same country on the same continent, but still too far away.

  I fell asleep on the sofa listening to the rise and fall of his warm words and when I woke up hours later, my phone was stuck to my cheek.

  Stop all the clocks

  I SPENT THE next couple of weeks boxing up my clothes and books, selling off furniture and bookshelves, contacting utility providers and having to run out to the local Abraço coffee shop every time the realtor had someone who wanted to view the apartment.

  I’d also started my job with International Rescue Committee, so I was trying to get an understanding of the charity and the roles and responsibilities of my new colleagues, even though I was still in New York.

  Over in San Diego, Jack was trying to find suitable housing for us, no more than fifteen miles off the base so he could be there quickly in an emergency.

  As we had no dependents, we weren’t eligible for family housing on the base, for which I was grateful. I was moving to Jackson’s world, but I wanted to have a little normalcy, something non-military, too. Although as so many Marines and former Marines lived in the area, the chances were we’d have serving military or vets as neighbors.

  I’d seen Jack’s room at Camp Pendleton. Because he was a sergeant he’d been upgraded from three or four bunk beds, to a single occupancy room. His bed was narrow but comfortable. I knew that because we’d tested its limits rather athletically one day when I was visiting. I think he got a kick out of screwing in the barracks. I didn’t want to know if he’d ever done it before so I didn’t ask.

  But he was finding it surprisingly challenging to locate an apartment or house somewhere that met our budget. After all, he’d never paid rent before and never even had to pay a utility bill. So self-assured in many ways, he’d never had to learn the skills that most of us do when we leave home at eighteen. He was catching on quickly, but I had to nix several pretty homes with enormous yards and glistening pools that were out of our price range.

  And even though we didn’t yet have a house, Jack had already treated himself to an enormous leather reclining chair for his man cave.

  Time was running out and at this rate we’d be camping on the beach. Jack wasn’t worried: at least we’d have a comfortable chair to sit on.

  I was sitting in Abraço’s, trying to get my head around writing IRC’s annual report and praying that the latest viewing of my apartment would result in an offer this time, when Jack called my cell.

  I was a little surprised, because he’d usually be taking PT at this time of the morning.

  “Hiya! This is a nice surprise. How are you?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Not so good, Maggie.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He let out a long sigh.

  “It’s Kevin Murphy’s funeral tomorrow.”

  I closed my eyes, picturing Jack’s distraught face. Eleven days ago Jack heard the news that his friend had been killed while on guard duty at the US Embassy in Baghdad. A suicide bomber in a bomb packed with explosives had driven straight at the security barrier, killing himself and three Marines.

  There had been several delays, and the authorities had only just released his body to the family for burial after a long inquest.

  Jack had been Kevin’s sergeant in Afghanistan and that gave them an unbreakable bond, even in death.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. I wish I could hug you right now.”

  “God, me too.”

  I heard the sounds of a marching song in the background and men’s voices, so I knew that he must be standing somewhere close to the parade ground.

  “That’s kind of why I’m calling, Maggie. Will you come?”

  I was momentarily taken aback.

  “To the funeral?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But . . . I never met Kevin. Would his family want me there?”

  His reply was certain and immediate.

  “Yes, you’re one of us now.”

  My lungs felt like all the breath had been squeezed out of them. It was almost as if Jack was right here, hugging me fiercely. I didn’t have to think about my answer.

  “Then I’ll come.”

  “Thank you, sugar. I love you.”

  He hung up and I used my phone to book the first flight out. Then I speed-walked back to the apartment, just in time to find my realtor locking the front door and talking to a dark haired man in a suit.

  The man was in his early forties and looked tired. The journalist in me wondered if he was recently divorced. I just got that vibe from him.

  “Oh, Ms. Buckman! I was going to call you,” said my realtor smoothly. “This is Derek Johnson and he’s just made an offer on your apartment.”

  “That’s great,” I smiled briefly. “Perhaps we can discuss the details later—I’m rushing to catch a flight.”

  “To San Diego?” she asked knowingly.

  “Yes,” I said flatly. “For a funeral.”

  Her professional smile evaporated, but it was the man who spoke.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Buckman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be in touch with Ms. Suarez about the apartment.”

  He took her by the elbow and guided her to the elevator. He seemed like a nice guy and I hoped he’d be happy in the apartment.

  I hurried to pack a small suitcase, throwing in the usual things, plus my favorite black dress and a pair of heels.

  Then I called a cab and headed out to Newark.

  Eight hours later I stepped out into the blazing California sunshine, hopelessly overdressed in boots and a quilted coat.

  Jackson was waiting for me, handsome and casual in blue jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that looked so soft I couldn’t resist burying my face in it.

  He held me tightly, murmuring over and over again, I love you.

  Now the words had been said by both of us, he seemed to feel a need to say them every time we spoke, and to hear them every time we spoke.

  That made me happy.

  I’d spent too much time with the specter of death growing up, and later in my job, and now here I was at another funeral, this time for a man I’d never met.

  A scorching blue sky was the pitiless backdrop to Corporal Kevin Murphy’s funeral, mocking the sweating Marines in their Dress Blues as they marched solemnly to the boom-boom boom-boom-boom of the drummer.

  Jack was a pallbearer, so I’d been left in the care of one of his brother’s wives while he did his final duty for his comrade.

  A shiny black hearse carried the coffin, with the Murphy family walking behind, heads drooping like wilting flowers. There was also an escort of four men following the pallbearers, two carrying the regimental colors and two with swords drawn.

  The hearse stopped outside the base’s Catholic church, and in eerie silence, like a movie that had been deliberately run at half-speed, the pallbearers slow-marched toward the coffin.

  Then, to the accompanimen
t of a drumroll, the coffin was carried up the steps.

  The church was filled with men and women in uniforms and an equal number of civilians, like me, dressed in black. The uniformed Marines with their white covers and gloves seemed almost colorful.

  When the eulogy had been read and the service concluded, some people sobbing, some stoic, we made our way to the graveside.

  It brought back memories of burying my parents, and tears were close to the surface for a man I’d never met. He’d died doing his duty for his country and I hoped that his family could draw some comfort from that, however small.

  I wondered how many funerals like this Jack had attended. Too many. Far too many.

  I could see sweat mingling with tears on the faces of two of the pallbearers, but Jack’s face was stony and grim, the emotions locked tightly away.

  At least I could be there for him when he needed me later.

  There was another drumroll, then the Honor Guard pallbearers briefly lifted the coffin to shoulder height, as if letting their fallen comrade see the sun one more time, before lowering him to his final resting place.

  The mournful skirl of a lone bagpipe lay thickly on the burning air, and then ‘Amazing Grace’, the saddest of hymns, rang out across the graveyard.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  We have already come.

  T’was grace that brought us safe thus far

  And grace will lead us home.

  I wanted to believe that Marine Kevin Murphy was home at last, but it was hard when his death had been so senseless. Or maybe all deaths seem senseless to the ones left behind.

  When Jack handed the folded Stars and Stripes to Kevin’s mother, she clutched it to her chest, sobbing as her white-face husband wrapped his arms around her. They sagged and clung together, crumpled and despairing.

  “May we who mourn be reunited one day.”

  The Priest’s words rang out, calm and certain, and maybe—just maybe—a little of his faith seeped into me.

  The three-gun salute made me jump and clutch the hand of the woman next to me. We held hands tightly, each wondering if one day we’d be mourning someone closer to us, wishing that words or prayers could ward the danger away.