Inspired by the 1980 Kate Bush song
October 27, 1973
Grief overwhelmed both Maria and Isabelle as they sat in silence on the latter’s front porch. Both of their sons were nine thousand miles away, drenched in the blood of their fellow soldiers as this useless war raged on. It didn’t matter what the people wanted, though. The war machine would keep turning, and the presidents would keep sending the poor. Maria’s son, James, had only sent one letter. She couldn’t tell if it was intentional or if they didn’t let him send anything at all. Even though they weren’t religious, they would often pray together that their children would make it through. There was no harm in trying. The cold autumn breeze floated by, making them shiver. Maria’s parental instinct suddenly kicked in. Something was wrong.
A delivery van stopped in front of Maria’s house and a man stepped out,anxiously looking for her. He was wearing a military uniform, his shaky hands grasping a letter and a tin box. Something was definitely wrong. All of the possibilities flooded her mind as the man inched closer to the porch. He didn’t make eye contact, as if he was ashamed of what he was about to do.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His eyes were red. He was gone, she registered. Her sweet baby boy was gone. “They ambushed the fort James was stationed at. His body was found mutilated, deep in the ruins.” The levees in his mind were clearly shattered, and he couldn’t hold it in either. “We salute your service…” he mumbled, handing her the letter and tin box before rushing back to the van. The sadness in her body subsided as anger surged. They had forced her son to go fight in a futile war across the world, which they had no business getting involved in. Her innocent son had been caught up in this unnecessary fight and died alone. While her world fell apart, Isabelle wrapped her in a tight hug, trying to console her as best she could. Once the barrage of tears ended, she felt nothing else. She was truly empty inside.
After a moment, Maria eventually gathered enough courage to open the letter. She slowly broke the seal and took out the cream-colored paper inside.
The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that your son, Private First Class James Smith, was killed in action in the Republic of Vietnam on August 12, 1973. Please accept our deepest sympathies.
That was all it said. Nothing else. The dams broke again, and tears streamed down her face once more. She aged what felt like twenty years since the moment he’d been drafted. They had stolen his future, sent him off for no good reason, and barely offered any consolation. How cruel, she thought. She couldn’t hide at Isabelle’s house forever, though. Soon enough, she’d have to go home and face the music. Maria’s tears had dampened the envelope, and she was struck with the reminder that she was now childless. It had only been a few months ago since James crumpled his draft card and almost threw it out, and now he had come to terms with his fate. Death had taken him—no, President Richard Nixon had taken him. America had failed her.
She began the descent down Isabelle’s stairs, the tin box and envelope secured under her arm. Her little army boy was finally coming home, even if he was in a different place now. Jeff, her husband, was waiting outside, his face grim as always. At the sight of him, Maria broke down once more into tears, trying to process everything that had happened. James would never see their little Georgia townhouse again. He would never see his parents again. He would never see anything again. Maria handed everything to Jeff, who silently opened the envelope just like her. His eyes widened as he read further down the page, his ominous facial expression unchanging. After their son had been drafted, he shut down completely, refusing to talk to even his closest friends. This final news was the last straw.
They had been too tired to put something together for dinner, so they ordered Dominos. The pizza on the table had gone lukewarm, as neither of them could stomach any food. The unopened tin box remained on the counter. They didn’t have the courage to open it yet. For Maria, the tears had temporarily receded. For Jeff, he hadn’t shown any emotion at all, instead returning to his usual bleak expression.
By 10:00 that night, almost everyone in the neighborhood knew. They shared the same grief as her, as many others in the neighborhood had their children snatched and flown to the other side of the planet in the same cruel way. A couple of people came to the house to offer their condolences. A few had actually asked to stay, and everyone gathered to mourn in silence. James was a great kid. He had perfect grades, he was on the baseball team, and he had a girlfriend, Charlotte, who loved him dearly. Maria didn’t know how she would break the news to her. Charlotte had already been heartbroken when he was first drafted, and she called their house every few days to see if he’d come back yet. She would have to tell her when the next call came.
After gathering as much courage as they could muster, Maria and Jeff brought the tin box onto the dining room table and gingerly opened it. Inside was a flurry of unsent letters, photos with various people, sketches, clothing, books, and some daily soldier gear. Again, the tears flooded down her cheeks, drowning her in her own sorrow. She picked up one of the unfinished letters and opened it. The envelope wasn’t even sealed.
I’m being deployed to Khe Sanh. Please, Mom, tell Charlotte that everything is going to be okay, because it will. They said that we’re making progress against the North, and the war might be over soon. I’ll finally be able to see you again!
The date further down on the paper said July 4, 1973. The family couldn’t bring themselves to celebrate the holiday. The excitement in his note silently crushed Maria. She sealed the envelope and placed it back in the tin box, shutting it closed. The visitors began to file out one by one, and Jeff had retired to the guest bedroom. Instead of going straight to bed, she decided to go to James’s room. Sitting on his bed, she glared at his guitar in the corner. He had always wanted to be a rockstar, and he had spent months prior scraping together enough money to afford it.
The days turned into weeks, and his room remained desolate. She patiently waited until the funeral, trying to cope. The news was where she turned to. She began ignoring her husband, instead staring into the TV screen day by day. The war had to end soon. She would fall asleep with it on, drifting in and out of slumber. So many innocent people were dying overseas. What a waste of army dreamers, she thought.
The funeral was finally here. After this, they’d have to adjust to their new life. Around fifty people had shown up, most of them neighbors with the occasional family member. A few people spoke before it was Maria’s turn. She had requested that only her and her husband could see the body; she didn’t want her dead baby exposed to the world. They swiftly realized what the letter had meant by mutilated, as his body was severely disfigured. His face remained intact, however. She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, knowing she would never see him again.
“I want to thank you all for coming. James was an incredible person. His life was cut short and stolen . . .” Her next few words turned into unintelligible mush as the tears kept flowing. “Soon enough he’ll be in his hole, resting in peace. I vividly remember the day he was drafted. Even though he had to go across the world, we all thought that he’d come back. We buried ourselves in our pipe dreams, withholding the much-needed truths from our hearts. His death was unnecessary, this whole war is unnecessary.” She was trembling so badly that Jeff had to escort her from the podium. The rest of the funeral felt like forever, suffocating her in her grief. Before they lowered his casket into the ground, she whispered one last thing to him:
“Goodbye, my dear.”
Author’s Note:
I listened to the song Army Dreamers a lot while writing this. With the constant threats of fighting, I wrote this piece to push an antiwar sentiment that I hope will resonate with people.
John Therres | 13 | Charleston, SC
