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...
.
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.
