Loss of Innocence

                                                        Loss of Innocence



        “Hey Dren, can you go pick up mail?” quipped Sergeant First Class Gibson, a jovial man weathered by years in the military. “I’m on it,” I happily replied. Often, Gibson’s orders were in form of a request but to disregard any bidding by him would often end in discipline. I walked out of the ICU and made my way towards the S1 shop - personnel in civilian terms - while the sound of artillery blasted away at an insurgent location mixed with the crunching of rocks under my well beaten boots. Quickly, I removed a set of earplugs earlier acquired to protect my ears from the piercing and quite painful sound of the cannon’s charges exploding in a twelve foot barrel slamming it’s bullet up to fourteen kilometers.

         When I arrived at S1, I asked the ever so annoying and persistent question, “We have mail?” The specialist at the front desk seemed annoyed and made it known he was pestered with this question daily. “Yep, same place as always,” vexingly remarked the E-4. His attention then immediately moved to a task more pressing than mine. The previous shipment of letters, Playboy’s and Skoal cans had been destroyed in a convoy by an insurgent’s RPG and each soldier on Forward Operating Base Bostick was curious if his or her correspondence would ever arrive. For myself, I was out of chew and lusted for the buzz of nicotine to fix my addiction. The guilty pleasures of life are crucial to a man in war and I am bold enough to say each man has one he cherishes. I walked into a small garage to remove what was so wholly mine and bring back the pleasure of the day. Five boxes, some magazines, and a few hand written messages littered a wooden rack that had the title “Forward Surgical Team.” Our families produced a good harvest and the pickings were ripe.

         As I stumbled back with all mail in hand, Specialist Arvayo, another medic in our unit asked, “Anything for me?” only concerned with her own gain and not the misfortune of myself attempting to keep the heavy boxes from falling on the rocky ground. I chuckled and said, “Nope,” knowing her box was the heaviest of them all. Serves her right anyway.

         When I returned to the hospital I placed each piece of mail in the appropriate owner’s hand. The items that moved from truck to plane to helicopter were finally home after their month long journey from America.

         After completing the duties ordered to me, I grabbed a box labeled “any soldier.” Mail sent to anybody who didn’t receive much from home. Considering I did not get anything this time, I figured it was my turn to open the any soldier box. These were a box of chocolates often containing clothing, girl scout cookies and notes from elementary students who did not quite grasp the idea of war. As I began to read one of the letters, I couldn’t help but to smile at the words of a young boy. Written in crayon and typical kindergarten handwriting the note stated,

         “Dear soldier, I have a dog named Hershey and he is a good dog. He hurts the bad people just like you. I hope you don’t die soon. I love you soldier, Zak.”

         The letter contained such innocence, a perfection of heart and youthfulness.

         What began as a search to find a can of snuff instead revealed a hidden jewel from a previous life. A time I had long forgotten, where no meant no and yes meant yes, war meant playing cowboys and Indians with the local children and sadness was the product of a skinned knee.

         When did I become the lustful self-centered man I am today? I, the product of many a success and failure, now searched through my life to pinpoint a moment that changed the young boy I once was into the man I am today. Any specific instance baffled me because it wasn’t any single moment but many that formed my naiveté into perception.

          His words reverberated in my mind and I wondered where my innocence dissipated, that 5 year old boy, whom I long forgot.