Thursday, July 5, 2018

The Warrior


Along with millions of Americans last night, my family and I celebrated the 4th of July. We watched the local parade, waved our flags, barbequed, and enjoyed the day with our family. As my kids were setting off their sparklers, fountains, and pop-its, I turned to my dad and said, “Doesn’t really compare to the real thing, does it?” He had already explained to me that being in combat did not make him fear weapons, it just took the joy out of using them. He paused, introspective, and replied, “No, they don’t. It actually reminds me of the story I wrote while in the desert.”

My father is a retired Marine Corps Lt. Colonel. Over his nearly 30-year career, in which he served as both enlisted and as a commissioned officer, he saw three tours of combat. The first was to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait in 1990, followed by two tours to Iraq after 2004. It was in the desert of Saudi Arabia that he wrote the following first-hand account from the safety of his foxhole. Whether it’s from the viewpoint of a Revolutionary battlefield or from modern-day combat, the “rocket’s red glare” is a solemn reminder of sacrifices made.

Steven Christensen in Iraq circa 2004

Steven Christensen in Saudi Arabia circa 1991



The Warrior


The desert was beautiful.

Spring rains had fallen, and with desperate haste the grasses had come forth to cover the sand.  Within days the first olive hues were dotting the gentle hillsides; another week, and the transformation was complete.  The desert, once a harsh, barren ecru, was verdant, proclaiming life and hope.
 
The green slopes were marred only by the crossing tracks of war, where the trucks and tanks of the warriors had ripped its fragile cover.

Now, as the light of day faded, the marks of war grew faint and slowly disappeared.  The hills were covered in forgiving velvet; soft and gentle healing for the warrior's soul.  The breeze that touched him held neither the life-sapping heat of summer nor the icy death of winter; it was a caress, almost a lover's touch...
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The warrior lingered, feasting upon the desert's gift as the evening deepened into night.  The surrounding hills disappeared, leaving but a distant horizon.  A horizon where, the warrior knew, other warriors waited; men with parents and wives and children, with fears, and with dreams of their own.  Men who had been ordered to another land to serve their country; a country at war with ours.

Stars filled the sky, myriad, brilliant, diverse; displaying the colors of distant suns as never seen from the warrior's home.  Breathtaking beauty filled the heavens, the universe proclaiming God's awesome glory.

Several stars, pulsing, grew closer and revealed themselves to be aircraft navigation beacons.  Almost directly overhead the beacons went out, but the courses of the aircraft could still be charted as they passed between the warrior and the heavens.  Changing course once, they continued toward the horizon and were lost to view; but their destination became clear as the distant sky lit with repeating flashes.  Thousands of pounds of explosives detonate, detonate, detonate...  defending one warrior, killing another...

The distant explosions could not even be heard as the warrior wept. 



---Written by Steven Christensen, circa 1991. 



2 comments:

  1. Wow, what an amazing person and writer! Thank you for sharing.

    ReplyDelete