PRIVATE MAILMAN

by hiro-0911

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Hard pressed on my right…

My center is yielding…

Impossible to maneuver…

Situation excellent…

I am attacking.

- Ferdinand Foch

I immediately placed down the toy rifle I feigned using for some few seconds until that time, pretending as if I were some big time field marshal or GI Joe. The incoming red-haired man surely witnessed my eccentric behavior as I unintentionally aimed the fake rifle right towards his forehead, swinging around the item in the middle of my affect. He must be thinking I am a psycho now.

“Here’s the new bulk, buddy,” the red-haired man, Charles, said as he handed to me a thick bundle of letters waiting to be delivered to their destinations. He gave me a ‘what-the-heck-was-he-doing-just-now’ look as I took the parcels from his rickety grasp and shoved them inside my gray, weathered, ant-perforated mail bag.

“Thanks man,” I answered politely, not minding the same look that persisted on his wrinkly face. In fact, Charles’ face has become more and more flaccid compared to the time I first met him when I applied for this job six months ago. But then, when I took a step towards the door and saw my own reflection on the cracked mirror that was hung just next to it, I realized that I’ve become quite grown for what seemed to be a short span of time. Six months ago, I looked like a 17-year old. Now, I looked 27. It has been six months since I last had a hair cut, hence the disheveled crown. My face has cultivated more acne now, seemingly nourished by the ‘underlying lipid layer’ a.k.a. oily skin. My lips were dry and my skin was soiled. Just like Charles, I, too, have transformed a lot – physically.

Okay. You could say the same for my cerebral side too.

And perhaps, you could say that maturity has enveloped me as well - -

Enveloped, just like the letters I was about to transport to the addressees.

Before I exited my run-down workplace, I took one last glimpse of the toy rifle I previously placed down on the adjacent table. I watched in awe as Charles’ 4-year-old kid picked it up to play with it. The rifle was even taller than Alisa, yet she held it up with such vigor and pride. She placed her tiny fingers on the trigger and clicked it like mad!

“What is happening to the world?” I asked myself. Here I was, watching a 4-year-old girl apparently knowledgeable of a gun’s basic operation.

I couldn’t blame her though, for this was a familiar scenario here in this part of Iraq now. Guns, grenades, and soldiers were like billboards and ice cream. You can see them everywhere. You can get them everywhere.

I was on my way to the camp, riding a rusty, dilapidated bike, which wobbled each time I braked as I approached almost-successive checkpoints. I looked more like a poor merchant rather than a mailman, so more often than not, these soldiers would just let me pass – may it be Iraqi or American.

After a couple more stops, I finally reached my destination – The US Cavalry Troop – Sigma Headquarters.

I descended from my bike and studied the structure in front of me. Despite the burning heat courtesy of the intense sunlight, the place seemed quite lackluster and gloomy. It was a little too silent that day compared to how it was the last time I came there. The base used to be a school, by the way – a school for the young like Alisa. But now, it had none of those little chairs, no blackboard, not even a single crayon strewn on the ground. Instead, there were boots lined up outside, soiled and weathered. There were tactic maps and chain-of-command trees hung on the walls. As I walked further inside, I finally saw them – the soldiers, lying and curled up on the floor, with which they have learned to call ‘bed’. The school was turned into a barrack by the militia, and now, this dwelling was home to almost three hundred soldiers miles and miles away from their families.

“New letters?”

I turned around to where the voice came from. A man in military gear walked towards me, rubbing his rather funny mustache while he approached. He was wearing a distinct badge on his uniform.

I read the name on his clothes – ‘Lieutenant Colonel Hawthorne’, it says.

“Yes sir!” I answered with enthusiasm, mimicking the way soldiers usually answer to their superiors. I reached for my bag and took out the bundle of letters from my bag.

“Let me have that, thank you,” LC said as he took the bulk from me.

After he did, I reached to my bag once more and took out a receiving form and a pen, “If you may sign here please, sir…”

LC took hold of the pen and signed on the lower right corner of the paper I held. When he was done, I placed them back into my bag.

“Sir, I would just be outside.”

“Thank you,” he said as he looked at me from head to toe. “You are…”

“Michael, sir.”

“Michael?”

“Michael Polaris, sir!” I answered fervently.

LC nodded. After a few seconds, however, he asked - -

“Say Polaris, would you want to become a soldier?”

I was not prepared for that question. Surely, I enjoyed my ‘fake-rifle-feigning-act’ back in the post office. However, to be honest, I knew very little about soldiers. All I know was that they were a bunch of people who shot guns, threw grenades, and fired bombs. They were also those people who could crawl with such stealth and snipe the target meters away from them.

“I…I…” I stuttered as the enthusiasm I showed previously was wiped out by my startled expression. Being at loss of words to say, I bowed down to LC and said - -

“I’ll just be outside sir… I’ll…”

“I’ll have the soldiers’ letters collected then,” LC answered. I gazed up to him and saw LC looking at the soldiers asleep on the camp.

“Cease fire, sir?”

“Yes,” LC nodded. “I’m glad that these young people were still endowed with the opportunity to rest even just for a few hours. God must have sensed their sufferings.”

LC placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “They say that the youth is the first victim of war. It takes 20 years or more of peace to make a man, yet it takes only 20 seconds of war to destroy him. The soldiers - they're fighting for people they have never met, never known, and may never get to speak to, but nevertheless, they’re all here – risking their lives for the sake of freedom.”

“Why wouldn’t the war simply stop then, sir?”

“Because war is not an apple that falls when it is ripe,” LC answered.

“You have to make it fall.”

(Quotes from: King Baudouin I & Ernesto Guevara de la Serna)

I pondered upon these sayings as I sat down on a rock outside the camp, waiting for the letters that the soldiers, in turn, would like to send back to America.

“I’m sending these.”

I was certain I heard a woman’s voice. As I turned around, I found out that I wasn’t mistaken. To my surprise, however, the voice came from a girl about the same age as I was. She was wearing a military uniform – a female soldier.

My eyes fell upon the item she handed to me.

“I’ve finished reading the book. There’s a letter for my mom inserted too,” she said with a smile.

“The Three Musketeers, eh?” I chuckled as I read the book’s title. “You’re sending it back to America?”

“Yeah. My mom… loves classics,” she answered with a smile once more. However, I saw the edges of her pale lips falter in the end. Noticing that I was now looking at her as if sympathizing after streams of thoughts flooded my mind as I witnessed her sad expression, she plopped down next to me and flashed a forced smile.

“What?”

“N-Nothing!” I turned around, feeling awkward. I did not know why, but suddenly, I felt a certain feeling in my heart the moment I saw sorrow right through her green eyes. However, it was too embarrassing to show that soft-sided part of me. And so, I chose to revert to the topic, “I have read this book too.”

“My name’s Annie by the way,” she said gesturing a salute. “Private First Class - Annie Martin.”

“Michael,” I answered as I saluted in return, in the end chuckling upon realizing how foolish I looked with my wrong way of doing it. I retorted with another joke, “Private Mailman - Michael Polaris!”

“Hahaha… It’s okay,” Annie laughed. “It took me a while to learn how to salute properly too.”

When our short giggling interval has ended, Annie folded her arms on her chest and said, “Say Michael, how long have you been staying here in Iraq?”

“Six months… going seven,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t know whether I’m going to last till eight though…”

“Why not?”

I paused for a while. She gazed at me with those patient eyes as if demanding my reply. When I felt that the silence has turned awkward for the both of us, I finally answered - -

“I…” I sighed before continuing. “I miss home.”

“Home…” she whispered. I watched as her shoulders fall upon hearing the word. Her previously cheerful attitude was now replaced by melancholy.

“I came here because they pay me two times more than what I earn back in America. It’s a risky job though… The mailman I replaced – they said he was killed in crossfire,” I narrated. “How about you? How come you decided to become a soldier?”

She heaved a sigh upon hearing my inquiry. I wanted to tell her that she did not have to answer such personal question; but when I was about to do so, she opened her lips and began to speak - -

“My father was a soldier too. His life’s passion was to fight for freedom and protect the harmed,” Annie replied. “He was granted by the heavens with the noblest death possible to man – a death that takes place in a battlefield.”

“Annie…”

“Normal people would wake up in the morning – do some jogging, drink some good old coffee, go to school, meet some boys, cut classes…” Annie said. “But you know what? They get to do all these stuff because they’re free. And do you know to whom they owe this ‘freedom’ to?”

The answer instantly came to my head, “Soldiers, huh?”

“I wanted to be that person who grants this freedom to people - a freedom fighter! That’s why I decided to become a soldier myself,” Annie answered. “Even if it means getting hurt… Even if it means blood being shed… Even if it means having to attend hundreds of funerals, having colleagues die on your arms, saying millions of prayers, and crying rivers till your eyes couldn’t bear it anymore. These things - I’ve experienced as a soldier, Michael. I’ve experienced reality along with all its cruelty and consequent sorrows not every human being is given the opportunity to go through in this life. But then, as a soldier, I’ve also experienced the happiest victories and miracles. Although they may not the best events life could offer, these things made me even more determined to strive hard - in the process, making me a stronger person.”

“Even if it means not seeing the people dear to you?” I asked. “The family you left back in the US?”

She looked at me face to face and smiled. Slowly, she reached for the book I held firmly in my grasp. I watched her as she ran her fingertips through the cover of the book as she replied - -

“Remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth.”

I recalled reading that verse from Dumas’ book, which Annie handed back to me once more. I did not really comprehend what it was trying to say. However, seeing a certain ‘spark’ of hope emanating from this young woman’s eyes was enough to explain to me its meaning.

“As long as I know they’re doing fine… As long as I get to read their letters saying that they miss me… and as long as I know that my father is proud of me right now - - That’s all that matters … because after all these, no matter how far away they may be, I believe that one day, we’ll all meet again – my mom, my younger brother, and yes – my dad too...”

“But being a soldier…,” I asked straightforwardly, “you can die anytime right?!”

Annie bent forward towards her boots to tie the lace tighter. I waited for her response, but after she did her shoes, she stood up and walked back to the entrance of the headquarters.

“Hey!” I called her back.

“Michael,” she said as she surprisingly stopped on her track. She turned around to face me. At first, I thought she was infuriated with what I just said. But then, in front of me was that optimistic smile once again – a smile so sincere that could boost up anyone’s morale.

What she said next were words I would never forget - - the same words that changed my life forever.

“Do you want to know one more thing about soldiers?” Annie said. “Soldiers leave marks. The battles they’ve won, the bravery they’ve shown, and the marks they’ve etched to history are timeless. So I’ll ask you now…”

“Can you call something timeless ‘dead’, Michael?”

Two years later, Charles picked up a bundle of letters from a box that stood on the farthest corner of his office. He turned around, walked towards the counter, and handed the bundle of letters to a young man.

“New bulk, buddy,” the red-haired man said. He watched as the young man shoved the letters into his gray bag and spun, ready to leave the post office.

“Wait a sec! You missed this one!” Charles suddenly called him back. He bent down and picked up an envelope that the man accidentally dropped to the floor.

When he read the name of the addressee, however, a smile formed on Charles’ face. He recalled what happened two years ago, when a ‘certain employee’ of his filed a resignation letter on his seventh month of service.

He could not bear to say no to the sincerity and determination he showed.

On the envelope, it says - -

To: PRIVATE MICHAEL POLARIS
US Cavalry Troop – Sigma Headquarters
Baghdad, Iraq