Grace for Drowning

I nodded.

"What about this?" she asked, fingering a red rose that stretched up the length of my bicep.

"Rosy. Another guy from my platoon."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Rosy?"

"He was young when he started — a nice little Christian boy from a nice little Christian family. He hardened up fast enough, but in the beginning, he wasn't prepared for the sort of shit army guys talk about. It was rare a day went past when something didn't make him blush. And so, Rosy."

She laughed. "That's horrible."

"It's a term of endearment," I replied. I actually found myself smiling too. It had been a long time since I'd thought about that. I needed to follow a little of my own advice. Given all the shit that we'd been through, it was easy to forget that some of my best memories involved those guys. They were gone, but those moments weren't.

I'd never explained my ink to anyone before, not even Fi. She'd remarked on how beautiful it was, but she never asked questions, which meant she didn't really get it. It was more than art. It was personal, intimate. I'd chosen to have these symbols etched onto my body forever, and they were part of who I was. Sharing them was sharing pieces of my soul. I'd have given that to Fi if she'd asked, but the mere fact that she didn't meant that maybe she wasn't worthy. Grace, however, was worthy. She understood the pain behind those symbols. I'd never felt so close to her as I did in that moment.

She continued to explore me, fingers dancing across images of dog tags, sugar skulls, a battlefield cross, before eventually coming to rest on the largest piece, the one that covered both sides of my chest. It was beautiful work; tombstones set in dark soil with a storm brewing behind them on the horizon. "And this?"

I hesitated, feeling my mouth go dry. "That's not for a friend. It's...worse than that."

She didn't ask for more. I think she could tell from my voice that this wasn't an easy topic to discuss. I could have left it at that — she wouldn't have pushed — but I felt strangely compelled to continue. She knew most of my secrets now, and she hadn't fled. That still seemed incredible. I never thought I'd actually find someone who would tolerate my bullshit. But now I wanted to know if she really could take it all, not just what had happened to me, but the things I'd done as well. There was more to my pain than loss. There was also guilt. So much guilt. Part of me was afraid of where the conversation might go, and how she might react, but I found my mouth opening nonetheless. Maybe I wanted her to absolve me somehow, or maybe I just needed someone else to understand.

"That tattoo is for all the other people who died over there."

"The other people?"

I nodded. "I had a pretty fucking naive view of military life before I joined. I had all these visions of heroic battles, fighting the good fight and protecting our freedom and all that propaganda bullshit. But the war over there isn't anything like you expect. It's not two armies digging ditches and charging with bayonets in the middle of an open field. It's sneaky and messy and brutal. Ambushes, night strikes, suicide bombers, air raids."

Memories were playing through my mind again, ruined buildings, bodies, smoke and screams. I forced them away. I didn't want to break down in front of her again.

"A lot of the fighting took place in local villages. The enemy was ruthless, and they were happy to use whatever they could to gain an edge, including civilian lives. People died because of us, Grace. Regular people, just minding their own business."

"But that's not your fault," she replied. "You were there to protect them."

"I'm sure our good intentions will be appreciated by all the families that we ripped apart." It came out harsher than I intended. I could almost taste the bitterness on my tongue. "I'm sorry. I know that objecti

vely we were doing a good thing, but theory and reality have never been further apart than they are over there. The bottom line is, we brought the war to them. All those bombs, those bullets, they wouldn't have been there if not for us, and a lot of civilians would still be alive."

She exhaled slowly, her eyes pinched with concern. "Maybe," she replied, "assuming they weren't killed by their own government. And the ones that did survive would be living in fear, always looking over their shoulders. Look, I'm not going to pretend war isn't awful. It's an ugly, heartbreaking thing, and I'm sure a lot of innocent people lost their lives, but nonetheless, I think you were incredibly brave going over there. You risked your life to make the world a better place. You stood up for what you believe in. Not many people have that sort of conviction."

"I don't feel brave. I feel like an idiot."

"Well you're not."

I shook my head. "You don't understand! The things I saw, the things I was a part of..." I felt this horrible grinding sensation take up residence in my stomach. We were delving into the heart of my guilt now, the stuff that kept me up night after night. Maybe it was pointless. Maybe it was impossible to get it if you hadn't been there. But I had momentum now, and the words kept coming.

"Toward the end of my second tour, our forces were making a big push into the center of the country, trying to pry a little territory from enemy hands. My unit was always on the front lines, in the thick of the fighting. One day, we had a group of militants on the run, and they retreated into a nearby village. Our intelligence said they'd been using it as a base for the past few weeks, after the residents apparently fled, but we didn't have any more information. We pinned them down in there, but they had some heavy firepower and we weren't making any headway, so I called it in to get further orders, maybe some support. It was standard procedure, but this time..." I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut tight, as though I could just sink into that simple darkness and forget all of this. "Of all the things I've ever done, that's the one I'd give anything to take back."

Grace's hand wrapped around mine and she gave a comforting squeeze, but she didn't speak. It was one of those pauses that can't be filled, one that trembles under the weight of what is coming next.

"Halfway through the call, our radio died. The fucking thing never seemed to work right. I kept meaning to replace it, but..." I gave my head a shake. I was drifting, my brain desperately fighting to avoid finishing the story. "The brass sent support, but it was in the form of an air raid. We hadn't scouted the village properly. We had no idea who was down there. Normally, that would mean the bombers would stay away, but somewhere along the line wires must have gotten crossed."

The way she was staring at me with wide eyes said she could see where this was going.

"I tried everything I could to reestablish connection, but it was pointless. There was nothing I could do. They leveled the place." I drew a long, shuddering breath. My chest felt like it was filling with cement. "The first thing I saw after the explosions finally stopped was a child stumbling out of the smoke. A fucking child!"

"Jesus." The horror in her voice mirrored what was rising inside me, that aching guilt that had threatened to swallow me so many times in the past.

"I can see that moment in my mind like it happened yesterday. He was so goddamn small, and he was just painted black with dirt and soot from head to toe. What really sticks with me though were the sounds he was making, this fucking gut punch of a cry that just made me want to burst into tears on the spot. I've never seen a more frightened person in my entire life. His world had literally exploded around him. I felt this overpowering urge to run to him and scoop him up and tell him it was all going to be okay, but that wasn't true. Nobody else walked out of that place. When the dust finally settled, we found fifteen villagers in the wreckage — all women and children. The militants had been holding them hostage."