I built my best fighting hole there, in the rain no less. It was coming down so hard, I was finding it difficult to breathe. To see what I was doing, I kept my head down the whole time I was building. The sand there had turned into a firm clay so whatever I made, stuck. I dug about five feet deep, placed angled gutters all around, put a little bookshelf inside to keep my bible and newspapers on and at the foot of the hole I dug a fire place with an exhaust vent I made from an aluminum cylinder I found around in the rubble. I was always concerned about my place burning down so I used Sterno cans to cook my meals. I also found a metal wire to frame out the top to give it more room. Then I put my poncho over it and fastened the corners. When I was finished, it was bone dry on the inside. If there was anything I could've brought back from that desert, aside from Marty if he was still alive, it was that hole, my ultimate bachelor pad. It was time to pick up and move out again and I had to say goodbye to my home I made in the earth. With every move, we were getting closer to the Kuwaiti-Iraq border which Saddam doesn't believe exists. We got our gear, said goodbye to the family and got on that five ton headed for the border. Before we advanced, I heard a shout, Freedom radio said Bush ordered a cease fire! I couldn't believe it. We go as planned until the order officially comes down the chain of command! Sargent Hicks yelled. Til then, we hold the line! Somehow, that stuck in my head, like a credo to life. No matter what, hold the line.
The military term, holding the line, means to maintain an existing position or a state of affairs. To hold the present position in an aligned formation side by side called a firing line facing the enemy never moving back at all not letting the enemy or anything from them pass. Never swaying, no matter how destructive, we should not let anything force us back, only moving forward to advance. Standing our ground, never losing hope.
Not even a minute later we receive the order for the cease fire. We cheered and hugged each other in the five ton truck. Some accepted Jesus on the spot while others just prayed thank you! The burden on our shoulders was lifted. We were collapsing on the ground, in the five tons, on each other. I Stood up on the seat of the truck laughing with my hands clasped together I repeated God is good! Over and over again.
By late May, we were heading back to our side of the world. We couldn't get in the planes fast enough. We should've been dead according to that crappy, blood of the infidels will flow like a river, speech Saddam made. I really believed we weren't coming back at all. The separation and uncertainty the war caused was sobering and gave my parents time to reflect. The fear of losing me to the war brought them closer. Unlike a lot of my so-called friends who forgot I was in the war, who I wrote to but never wrote me back, my parents wrote me every week. I got a package, every two weeks, from mom that had canned fruit, Chips ahoy chocolate chip cookies, the latest New York daily news and a letter from both mom and dad. I also got a package of canned food and home-made cookies from a church in Brooklyn that knew where I was. There was a point in my life when I hated my father and didn't care if he lived or died. After trying to kill me twice in his drunken rage, once with his bear hands and another time with a butcher knife. Strangely now, all I wanted to do was hug him. The last time I saw him was when he dropped me off at a place nicknamed swoop-circle over on 41st and 8th ave outside the drunken-high, piss-infested cesspool they called Penn Station to catch a ride back to Camp Lejeune with some friends for deployment to the Gulf. He watched me get in the van and stayed until we rolled out. When we did, he started running behind the van, waving goodbye, yelling that he loved me.
The flight back was over twenty hours long. When we weren't reading, we were talking about home, when we weren't doing that, we slept. We landed in Bangor Maine for a pit stop and got the whole nine yards. Cheerleaders, marching bands everything to say welcome back. That day there was no under age drinking. Even the cops were drinking. Some of us joined in with the band. Playing as horribly as they did, it was still music to my ears. There was a common euphoria in the terminal. We came back heros and were appreciated.
It was a happy ending to an uncertain story. I was on the second level of the terminal, leaning over the railing, taking it all in, reflecting and deciding on what was next when I felt a light tug on my blouse. I turn and see a little girl about three years old and five apples high with short blond hair, holding up a pad and a pen Atagaf? She said. I looked up to see her parents standing behind her, smiling. The mom said she's asking for your autograph! I was moved at the fact someone would want my autograph sure thing kid. Making it back to see this little girl smile made all of it seem worthwhile. She gave me a big hug and said thank you. I went back down stairs to join my platoon. Things were ok, Life wasn't perfect, but I was happy.
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