Holiday Watch

Holiday Watch

         The irony of being stationed in the Middle East during the holidays was not lost on me. Sometimes I would strain my eyes toward the horizon and know that just over there, beyond the endless sands, is the birthplace of Jesus Christ, the event for which the holiday is celebrated. But, nowhere else could the celebration itself be so utilitarian. The families, meaning those who awaited my detachment's return, had sent reminders of the holiday, decorations and such. Sergeant Thomas’s wife had even sent a small, plastic tree with tiny, gaudy-colored lights. As ugly and artificial as it was, the soldiers had treated it with reverent care, giving it a place of respect and even a skirt made of a borrowed camouflage poncho, which were useless in this region.

         I know that my mother would be passing around cookies and red punch to the children back home. Those same children would be hovering around the tree, counting brightly wrapped packages, trying not to spill the punch and hoping as only children can. The men would be talking about business or investing, and the women most likely were doting over the newest member of the family, an addition presented by my wife just a month before. This was yet another event I had missed, one of the more important ones, for the defense of our country.

         I rolled the weapon over in my hand to insure that the breach door was still opened, which it was, and then made sure that sand had not clogged the rear sights. The breach was still free of a round. These were habits I had convinced myself were good; I had to be ready after all. Who knew what might happen? This was just a depot for foodstuffs and none volatile supplies, but you never knew. Other less important targets had already been hit, and if this one was to be, I was certain I would go down with a clean weapon, firing every shot I could. Someone somewhere would explain to my mother how I had died--she would be proud to know I had emptied my weapon, maybe even reloaded once or twice--Not a blaze of glory, but a diligence to duty; this is where the pride would come.

         A cool breeze lifted from the sands and broke my thoughts of heroism and death. I should not be thinking of these things on Christmas, but thoughts play when the mind is left idling. I resolved to concentrate on home, the tree, and the numerous decorations my mother brings out every year: bright and silvery lights, mostly white, would be flashing in almost every corner of the house and small snow covered villages set on horizontal ledges that most often kept magazines, keys, and pocket change. My mother was Christmas, and it was to her credit that most of the family knew that and provided no competition, coming to her home every year--Not me of course, at least not this year.

         A faint sound came to me, a swishing sound a distance away. I knew they were footsteps in the sands. They had come from beyond the light of the gate. I pulled back the breach, finally feeding it a single round. I thumbed the switch to full auto, and took my position in the center of the gate, waiting for the noise to come close enough to challenge. The approach was not from the lightly sanded road, but from the dunes to the right. I was pretty sure it was the watch captain coming to check on my readiness, and he would find me commendable. He did not take long, and I shouted my challenge.

          “Captain Frank Roberts!” the figure shouted back.

          “Come forward and be recognized!”

         The man, tall and proud in his utility uniform approached, and I immediately knew it was Roberts, the watch captain. I snapped to attention and presented a formidable salute. He returned it in kind.

          “How goes it, Marine?”

         “All clear, Captain.”

          “Keeping your eyes open?”

          “Yes, sir.”

          “That’s good Marine, very good. You celebrate Christmas?”

          “Yes, sir.”

         The captain took a position to my right and faced toward the road, as a watch second would. His position made me feel safer, less vulnerable. No greater comfort can be found than under the eyes of a fellow Marine. Who-ah.

          “Does your family really get into it? The large Christmas dinner, the tree, gifts and what-not?”

          “Every year, sir.”

         He looked down at me, and I knew that he could see where my mind was, where my heart was.

          “You know, Marine… every year my father would read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' to us children. Every year, without fail, he would read it from this small red book. And when he finished, my brothers and I would race to the window, and stare out at the moon. Eventually one of us would swear we saw Santa Claus himself crossing the moonlight, just like in the book.”

         I had no response, unsure what to say to a man I barely knew and who had just given me a glimpse into his family life. We had done almost the same thing in my family, the children would wait for the moon to rise, and watch it intently, waiting for an imagined shadow. One of us always saw it, even if the others had not. This year, there would be five children, and one newborn held by a woman who was so recently a child herself. They would search for that shadow, their excitement breathless in the air.

          “Keep crispy, Marine.”

          “Who-ah, captain.”

          “Merry Christmas, son.”

          “Merry Christmas, sir.”

         He moved off toward the next poor soul cursed with the same mid-watch as we had. I continued my military-like stance for a few more moments. When I was sure he was gone I relaxed once more, and relieved the breach of its load, assigning it back to the magazine from which it had come. As I reseated it in my weapon, a pale light caught my eye, a pale glow revealing the intricacies of my weapon. I turned to look, and was surprised with a full moon, bright and impossibly large, just beginning to rise. It brought my thoughts to a sharp focus and at that instant I knew, somewhere thousands of miles away, my mother stood behind my wife, behind five other breathless children, staring at this same moon, searching for a passing shadow.

         I knew that in my mother’s heart, she was sure that I was looking into the face of the same moon. Over thousands of miles, my Mother and I shared a moment, and for a small treasure of time, I was home. I whispered to the moon, “Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you.”

                                                 ~Jonathan Fore - Happy Holidays!