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“They miss you. Betsy heard about a helicopter pilot who’d been shot down. She was pretty upset.”

“Tell her I’m a long way from the front line.”

“But are you?”

She thought about tonight and winced. “Of course. I’m safe.” That was what he wanted to hear. “Can I talk to the girls?”

“Mom took them to a movie.”

“Oh.”

“They’ll be so disappointed. They miss you so much, Jo. Lulu keeps asking if you’re going to be home for her party.”

They
miss you. “I better go.”

“Don’t. I want to say—”

It was always about what he wanted. The thought exhausted her. She’d been a fool to need him. “I have to go, Michael. There’s a line behind me.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said after a pause.

“I’m trying.” Her voice cracked. She hung up the phone and turned back around.

Tami had heard every word. “How about a hot shower?” her friend said, putting an arm around her.

Jolene nodded. They walked to their trailer, grabbed their dopp kits, and headed for the showers. Jolene kept meaning to say something to Tami, make some idle chitchat to gloss over the emotions that lay beneath, but she couldn’t.

Even at this late hour, the base was a busy place. Thirty thousand men and women lived here. That didn’t even include the contract people who came and went.

Jolene wore her flip-flops into the shower and turned on the water.

Cold
.

Trying not to think about the shower—and the hot water—she had at home, she washed quickly, scrubbing the sweat and sand from her skin. After she dried off, she redressed in her dusty, dirty ACUs.

“Cold wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Tami said, smiling tiredly.

“Yeah.”

They walked out of the shower trailer and headed back to D-Pod.

Jamie and Smitty were waiting for them, sitting on a pair of overturned crates outside the door of their trailer, which was across from Tami and Jolene’s. Beside Smitty was a small blue and white cooler full of pops. “Wanna drink?” he said. Jolene could see how hard he was trying to smile. He might be a great gunner and a courageous soldier, but he was still just a twenty-year-old kid, and tonight had shaken him. He probably wouldn’t sleep well; none of them would.

Tami and Jolene sat down beside them—Tami on the steps in front of the door, Jolene on the crate beside Smitty. Behind them, the metal still radiated some of the day’s heat, even though it was cold out here now. On either side of the door, sandbags were piled high—rows and rows of them provided some protection from the near-constant mortar fire. Across from her, not more than eight feet away, was the door to their trailer.

“Bill Diehler was on Knife oh-four,” Tami said solemnly.

Jolene pictured Bill: a big florid-faced “old school” Guard pilot out of Fort Worth. Just last week he’d shown her a picture of the daughter who was waiting for him to walk her down the aisle.

She closed her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t; she saw the last few seconds again—the roof sniper, the shooting. She’d banked left, turned sharply away from Knife 04.

“Wally Toddan was the crew chief,” Jamie said. “His wife just found out she’s pregnant. Yesterday, he went to the Haji Mart and bought the kid a football. He hasn’t even mailed it yet.”

Jolene didn’t want to think about that, a child who would never know his father.

“They were heroes,” Jamie said solemnly.

“Heroes,” Jolene said, thinking about the word and all that it meant.

They clanked their pop cans together in a silent tribute to their fallen friends. After that, they fell silent. Finally, Tami stood up. “I’m going to bed. 0430 is going to come mighty fast. Jo?”

Jolene turned to Smitty and Jamie. “You guys okay?”

Jamie grinned. “Right as rain, Chief. I’ll keep the kid out of trouble.”

Smitty grinned at that. “He’s too old for trouble any way.”

Jolene and Tami got up together, crossed the small walkway, and went into their dark, smelly trailer. Once there, Tami flicked the light on and then looked at Jolene. “You did everything you could have, you know. Nothing tonight was your fault.”

Jolene had never loved her friend more. Afraid her voice would shake if she tried to speak, she nodded.

“I’m worried about you,” Tami said, sitting down on her bed, looking up. “Hell, I’m worried about both of us. I want to make it home.”

Jolene sat down on her own bed. She saw the fear in Tami’s dark eyes, and it did something to her, uncoiled something that had been tied down. “Me, too,” she said quietly.

“If we don’t…”

Until tonight, Jolene would have stopped Tami right then, but now she remained silent, waiting.

“If I don’t make it,” Tami said softly, “I am counting on you with Seth. You make sure he knows who I was.”

Jolene nodded solemnly. “And my girls will need you.”

Tami nodded.

“But we’ll make it back,” Jolene said.

“Of course we will.”

They smiled at each other. Jolene didn’t know how she looked, but she saw the fear in Tami’s eyes. Neither one of them was as certain of that as they’d been before.

AUGUST

How do I write about a colleague’s death? How do I use words to expel the fear and confusion that’s uncoiling slowly inside of me? I can’t. I don’t want to write about it. I don’t want to remember the smell of smoke or the terrible sound of ripping metal or the rattle of gunfire. I don’t want to think about Wally Toddan and his young widow or the baby who will never know his daddy’s smile. Or the bride who will walk down a church aisle without her father.

RIP Knife 04, that’s what I can say. All I can say. You were heroes and you will be missed.

Thirteen

After a long, excruciatingly hot day of flying—mostly moving people and Iraqi troops in and around Baghdad, Jolene was exhausted. While they’d been gone, Balad had been attacked again, and this time there had been some serious damage. It was amazing what shrapnel did to wood and metal—Humvees and buildings had been destroyed.

She walked away from the helicopter, with Tami on one side of her and Jamie on the other. No one said anything.

“I need to go to the comm center,” Tami said. “See if they’ve gotten the Internet connection back up yet. If I don’t hear from my family, I’m going to lose it.”

The three turned slightly, walked down the dark, dusty way between trailers.

It was past midnight, and even this late, the base was busy. At the communication’s trailer, Tami said, “Wait here,” and went inside. She was out a moment later, looking disgusted. “Internet is still down. Damn it.”

Jolene sighed. They headed across the base; Jamie peeled off from them and went to the DFAC, while Tami and Jolene went into their trailer.

Too tired for conversation, each flopped onto her bed and opened her laptop. They were going to write letters tonight, which—hopefully—they’d be able to send tomorrow.

My loves
, Jolene typed.

Thank you for the care package. I can’t tell you what it means to me to get mail. I can tell that Betsy picked out the shampoo—love that strawberry scent—and Lulu chose the sparkly barrette. It looks so pretty in my hair.

We’ve been flying a lot lately. Usually I leave my trailer at 4:30 in the morning, ride my bike to the DFAC (meal trailer), and then go to the helicopter. We’re lucky if we get back to base before nine p.m. We are pooped by then. But I’m thinking of you all the time. Especially when my watch alarm goes off, Betsy. I hope you’re thinking of me then, too.

Yesterday I tried to call home, but the phones weren’t working, so I guess it’s e-mail to the rescue! I bought you presents at the Haji Mart—it’s a kind of street fair set up inside the base. It’s crazy, I can tell you. I bet you’re not surprised that Tami and I have found a little time to shop. Girls will be girls, I guess.

Tomorrow we’re having a party out by the burn barrel. I hear there’s going to be hot dogs and baked beans, just like a beach party at home!

I know I’m super far away, but I’ll pretend that I’m with you for Lulu’s birthday party. I hope the present gets there in time! Think of Mommy when you blow out your candles, baby girl.
I love you.

Well, I’m sort of starting to fall asleep on my feet, so I guess I better go to bed. 4:30 will come mighty early.

Betsy, don’t forget to remind Daddy about your orthodontist appointment. You need to go in next week. Lulu, can you send me a picture from your party? I have the last one up on my wall.

Her fingers lifted from the computer keys. She wanted to say something to Michael, but what? He hadn’t written her once while she’d been here. Reaching out to him made her feel like her mother, grasping to bring closer a man who didn’t love her.

I think of you every day and I love you. To the moon and back.

Remember: Only ninety-one days till I get to see you again. Disneyland???? xxxooo

Mom

*   *   *

Jolene had never even imagined heat like summer in Iraq. Dust was everywhere—in her hair, her eyes, her nose. Her sweat was gritty, and as soon as she showered, she started to sweat again.

From her first day in-country, she’d known that every breath could be her last, and her nights were no better. She dreamed of fires and mortar and babies who forgot their mothers’ faces. She’d made an uneasy peace with death.

Injuries terrified her even more: the RPGs and IEDs ripped bodies apart, flung arms and legs into the sky and the dirt.

Never was her fear closer than on a day like today.

She was on a “hero mission,” which meant that she had flown across the desert to pick up the remains of soldiers who had died.

She had been doing far too many of these lately; each time she watched the ceremony, she imagined herself or her crew lying in one of these makeshift surgical hospitals, irreparably broken, waxy faced, crying.

Now she stood back from the hospital tent’s opening, among the crews that had been sent on the mission. All of them stood tall and straight, even in the pounding, pulverizing heat. Jolene and Tami, as pilots, could have stayed with their aircraft, but it never seemed right to them. So they were here, standing with their crew, to show respect.

The outlying-combat surgical hospital baked under the noonday heat.

The hospital was a row of dirty white canvas tents, connected by a network of wooden sidewalks. Inside, the floors were cement, stained with dark smears of blood. Jolene didn’t go inside; she was here to wait. The hero-mission procedure was very precise.