Class of Love
Letters From Home Series
By
Maryann Jordan
Class of Love (Letters From Home Series)
Copyright 2017 Maryann Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by: Sommer Stein
Editor: Shannon Brandee Eversoll
ISBN: 978-0-9975538-8-8
Dedication
As a high school counselor, I worked with many students who joined the military after high school. A few of them I stayed close to and watched as they matured during their enlistment. I know letters from home meant so much to them and they were the idea behind these stories. For those, and all who have served, I dedicate this story to them.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author Notes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Other books by Maryann Jordan
More About Maryann Jordan
Author Notes
When writing military romance, I do a lot of research in my desire to accurately portray the soldiers’ jobs, duties, and situations, but know that in some areas I will fall short simply because I have never walked in their boots. I hope my readers will focus on the love story, while appreciating the service our men and women in the military.
DFAC – Dining Facility
ACU – Army Combat Uniform
MWR – Morale, Welfare, and Recreation
bird – helicopter
Chapter 1
(September – Ethan)
Tan. Brown. Khaki. Beige.
In Afghanistan, the color scheme rarely changed for someone in the Army. Good for camouflage…bad for morale. I’d been here for six months and the rest of my tour loomed long and hard in front of me.
I jogged along the wide, dirt path between the large, tan tents, the Moon Dust swirling with every step of my boots. The sand-colored powder that covered the ground, kicked up with the wind, our steps, and the movement of every vehicle.
Looking down the long row of tents, each one was almost the same as the next. Same color, generally the same shape. Everything here was bland…the dusty road, the tents, the sky when the wind blew, and even our clothes. I sometimes wondered if the monotony of our world was to match the monotony of our duties.
Coming to the tent I shared with my squad, I kicked the dust off my boots before I darted inside, glad to be out of the burning sun. The heat was oppressive, bearing down with a blistering intensity that made you want to hustle to get where you were going while at the same time zapping you of all strength.
It was only when you stepped inside that the differences in the tents became evident. Each side of ours was lined with three metal bunk beds, footlockers at the ends and tall metal lockers in between. I felt lucky to have a small tent. Lots of soldiers were packed in tents with twenty or more bunks. Hell, ours even had mattresses where some bunks were barely more than cots. Sparse compared to most people’s standards, but over here, we learned to take our advantages wherever we could find them.
The floors were wooden, scuffed and worn planks. Not very aesthetic but better than just the dirt. We also had air conditioning and heat—a real luxury considering the weather in this country.
This tent held my squad and was not too far from the airfield where we worked. We had a card table in the middle, often used for poker nights. Pictures were taped to some of the lockers…wives, families, girlfriends, pinups. A couple of strings of drying laundry crisscrossed the space as well. Walking past the first two bunk beds, I came to mine in the back corner. That was another small advantage. I had the side and back wall next to my lower bunk, giving me a sense of privacy.
When I first came to Afghanistan, I had the front top bunk and as soon as the squad member with the back corner rotated home, I claimed dibs on his space. I didn’t have any pictures taped to my locker—no wife or girlfriend, and hell, my old man sure as shit didn’t deserve a place there.
Jerking my hat off my head, I ran my hand over my short hair, noting it was almost time to get it cut again. Deciding to take care of that later in the week, I nodded at the few members already in the tent as I stopped at my bed. A large, padded envelope lay on my blanket, assumedly left there by my best friend and bunkmate since he had gone to the mail tent. Looking over at Jon, I tilted my head in question, observing him opening up a large box.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, continuing to watch as he dug into the now open box, pulling out several well-packed bags of cookies.
Jon shot me a victory grin as he ripped open a bag and shoved a homemade cookie in his mouth. Answering while chewing, he replied, “We got these in the mail. You know…shit sent to soldiers. They were giving these out at the MWR.”
The MWR—Morale, Welfare, and Recreation—was located in a large tent containing a library, computers, pool tables, and games. They gave out whatever they could to keep up morale. The Army tried to make us forget we were fighting a war on the other side of the world, but there was only so much they could do.
Shifting my gaze between the large box on Jon’s bunk and the much smaller envelope on mine, I pressed, “And how did you get the box of cookies and I get this?”
Grinning with another cookie stuck halfway in his mouth, he replied, “Told you I was getting the mail. I was there first, so I get the goodies and you get what’s left.” Swallowing a large bite, he added, “Seems fair to me. You know, finders keepers and all that shit.”
I shook my head while grumbling, “You’re a selfish fucker, you know that?” Sitting down on my bunk, I ripped opened the padded, yellow, wrinkled envelope covered in smudges, and dumped the contents next to me on my bed. Well over a dozen folded pieces of paper dropped out and to make sure I had all the contents, I stuck my hand into the now empty envelope. Hearing Jon laugh, I looked up sheepishly. “Hell, I thought maybe they sent just one candy bar!”
“Quit whining, man,” he joked as he tossed a bag of cookies over to me.
Catching the bag in mid-air, I grinned as I dug in greedily. The chocolate chip cookie was still slightly gooey, and the chocolate melted on my tongue. It wasn’t as though I had not had a cookie while in Afghanistan, but a homemade one just tasted different…better.
The military tried to make things seem more like home, but where we were and what we were doing were always first and foremost on our minds.
Moaning in delight as I chewed another treat, I leaned back against my pillow, the pile of folded papers next to me. Picking up the first one, I unfolded it, my eyes quickly reading the carefully printed words.
Hi Soldier,
Our teacher said we need to thank you for your service. My name is Todd and our class will write to you all year. It is raining here. Does it rain there? We get a lot of rain and I hate it because we can’t go outside. Staying inside during recess really sucks stinks. (my teacher made me take out the world suck). I had a grandfather who was in the Army and I saw his medals when we visited. Do you have any? Maybe you can send a picture of them if you have any. If not, maybe you’ll do something to get one.
I looked up as a few other soldiers walked past us on the way to their bunks, eyeing the box Jon had as well. Grumbling, he tossed a small bag to one of them, growling, “That’s it! The rest are for me!”
Grinning, I glanced back at the letter and thought that if I got shot, I could get a medal. Hope that’s not what the kid wanted. Picking up another letter, my eyes scanned the contents.
Hello,
My name is Sarah and I am excited to be writing to a real live hero. My teacher says we get to write to you to make you happier. We are studying geography now and just learned where you are. It is really far away. I hope you are not missing home too much. I got to go to camp last summer and was away from my family for six weeks. I loved it but got homesick. I asked my teacher if she thought that you got homesick but she said I should ask you. So I will. Do you get homesick? She said we can send you goodies. What kind of treats do you like?
Unfolding the next one, I grinned at the careful print.
Dear Soldier,
My name is James. I got excited when our teacher told us what our classroom project is going to be. I’ve got an older brother in the Army and my dad was in the Air Force. My grandpa was in the Marines and he likes to say they are the best. But he is my mom’s dad and my dad calls him an old jarhead. I don’t know what that means, but it makes my grandpa mad and my brother laughs. So I laugh too. When I told my mom that we got to write to a soldier, she said that was wonderful. Then I told her I wanted to be a soldier too but she got mad. My teacher says we have to finish our letters now, so I will write more next time.
Each letter was similar and as I read them all, I noticed Jon staring at me, a wide-eyed dubious expression on his face. Looking over I barked, “What?”
“Do you have to answer all those? Hell, I woulda dumped them on someone else’s bed if I thought there was nothing in there but letters.”
Shrugging, I replied, “No worries, man. They’re from a bunch of kids…kind of funny actually.” And I realized those words were true. Hell, over here I’d take any diversion.
Jon’s curiosity piqued and he stood, leaning over to snag one of the letters off my bed. Squinting, he said, “How the hell do you read this? God, it must be a boy’s handwriting.”
Picking up another one I nodded as I observed the penmanship. “Yeah, you can tell the girls’ handwriting from the boys.”
Jon, already bored, tossed the letter back to me before hiding the rest of the cookies in his footlocker and grabbing his toiletries. “Hittin’ the shower,” he called out as he headed through the front flap of the tent.
I found one neatly folded piece of paper, the handwriting clean and precise. Gotta be the teacher.
Hello,
I am the teacher of the fourth-grade class here at Eastville Elementary School, and we have chosen to write letters to a soldier for our class project this year. We will send monthly packets of letters to you – you do not need to answer each child, but we would love for you to just write the class as a whole when you are able.
We will be studying world geography and we already have pinpointed on our map where we have sent the letters. Any information you can give us about the terrain, weather…whatever you think the kids would like to know.
We would also like to know more about you. I know there is much you cannot share (and since these are fourth graders, there is much they don’t need to know!), but we would love to hear about your life there.
We appreciate your service to our country and hope that we may provide you with a little bit of home. We would also like to send care packages to you, so feel free to let us know if there are certain things you need or just would like to have. Several of our homeroom mothers are ready and willing to take cookie orders! Hope to hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Ms. Thompson
I sighed heavily as I pushed the notes back into the envelope. The idea of writing to a fourth-grade class held little appeal. What the hell would I tell them? I stood up and stretched, moving my head back and forth as my neck popped. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was almost time for dinner and I didn’t intend to be late. I heard it was lasagna night and that was one thing the cooks could make and it tasted almost as good as the local Italian restaurant back home. And if they had garlic bread, I knew I’d have to be early to make sure they did not run out before I got there.
Looking back over my shoulder at my bunk, I grabbed the envelope full of letters and shoved it into my footlocker as some of the other soldiers called out greetings before we all headed out of the tent.
Four days later, finishing a long shift of backbreaking work, I stood underneath the water in the shower, the Moon Dust and grime washing away as my muscles relaxed for the first time that day. The helicopters had been flying almost non-stop and our work to keep them ready had seemed never ending.
Once clean, I shut off the precious water and toweled off, stepping out into the larger room, grateful to put on a clean Army Combat Uniform. The Afghan nationals who were employed in the laundry, kept our ACUs in top shape.
Jon finished shortly after and called out, “I hear they got a new Green Bean shop. Wanna check it out?”
The thought of fresh coffee made my mouth water as I agreed, anxious to try the new coffee shop. Entering the shop’s tent, the scent of ground coffee beans drew us closer to the counter. Behind the counter I could see the espresso machine, bean roasters, and grinders. The long, wooden bar held bottles of various flavored syrups and while I’d never been a fan of flavored coffee, the smells assaulting my nose made me want to try all of them.
Seeing most of our team already there, sitting at picnic tables placed inside the tent, we made our way up the line, placing orders. The murmur of satisfied customers along with the rumble in my stomach had me anxious to wrap my hands around the cup of brew.
“You got any more of those cookies?” Jackson, one of our squad members, called out to Jon.
Hell, naw,” he grumbled. “What I didn’t share with you all, I ate in two days.”
Many of the amenities on base were run by Afghan nationals and the Green Bean was no exception. The worker behind the counter grinned as he handed me the steaming cup of coffee and said, “Got cookies here!” He pointed to a basket of large, plastic-wrapped chocolate chip cookies.
Holding up two fingers, I threw more money down on the counter, picking up two of the cookies. Twisting around, I tossed one to Jon, saying, “Here you go. You shared with me, so I figure I owe you.”
“Damn, man,” Jon grinned, ripping the plastic off immediately and taking a bite before he even ordered his coffee. He continued to smile as he chewed, rolling his eyes up toward the heavens as though pondering the meaning of life.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
“Fuckin’ good, but they ain’t made with love like those from home,” he replied, still shoving more of the chocolate goodness into his mouth.
Laughing, I shook my head as I turned to walk over to a table that some of our squad had commandeered. The conversations droned on all around me, but my mind was elsewhere as I drank the fragrant brew. I’d chosen a caramel latte, not even worrying about my man-card and when I sat down and scanned the orders from my squad members, I knew they’d decided to sample the flavors as well.
While they talked, I could not get the letters from the kids out of my mind. I had intended to write a simple thank you, or even possibly share them with some other guys, figuring that between several of us, we could occ
asionally write back. After all, what the fuck could I say to a bunch of nine-year-olds?
“Where’s your head?” I glanced up to see Tom staring at me, his eyes raised in question. “You’re drinking that high-octane coffee and your mind is somewhere else.”
Tom was a good friend and I was grateful he was not drawing undue attention to me. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to think my head wasn’t in the game. Out here, keeping your wits about you could mean life or death.
“Just remembered something I have to do,” I said as nonchalant as possible. Nodding to the others, I stood, tossing my now empty cup into the trash and grabbed a water bottle before heading back to my tent. A breeze was blowing and I was grateful it wasn’t enough to kick up the dust. The relentless sun bore down and I almost regretted the hot coffee. Twisting the cap off the water, I chugged it eagerly.
Nodding to a few people I knew along the way, I passed the MWR, not interested in any of their offered activities today. Stepping inside my tent, I moved straight to my footlocker. Kneeling down, I opened it and found the large, stuffed envelope still lying on top. Grabbing it, I dumped the contents onto my bunk again, only this time I sorted the notes as I opened them. Grabbing a pad of paper, I wrote down the names of all the children, figuring if I was going to send just a thank you letter, I should add some personal comments as well.
An hour later I walked over to the mail tent, handing the newly addressed letter to the clerk. As I walked back out into the blistering sun, I grinned as I slid my sunglasses back onto my face.
Chapter 2
(October – Brooke)
There is something unnatural about a quiet elementary school classroom…and yet so welcoming to the teacher.
The children in my class were at their music session, giving me the opportunity to check my mailbox in the school office. Nodding at the school secretary as I passed her neatly organized desk, I made my way back to the hallway leading to the teacher’s lounge. Bending to peek in my mailbox, I viewed the papers filling the small cubby and I pulled them out with little enthusiasm. I shuffled through them, walking back to my room. A catalog of classroom furniture, weekly announcements, a newsletter on educational learning opportunities, and a reminder about the upcoming professional development committee meeting. And an envelope…from an APO address.
Class of Love (Letters From Home Series Book 1) Page 1
