The Letter Archives - 1. From Baghdad With Love

February 23, 2004

APO AE 09316

British Royal Marines,

Hospital Barracks,

Baghdad Island, Iraq

To: Mathew P. Trotter

Dear Mathew,

We have finally settled in our encampment at Baghdad Island two weeks ago. Do you remember when I told you that my dad had me tagging along on one of his business trips? I had the opportunity to see the splendor of this country ten years ago.

Tigris River, and three other lakes that was stocked with colored fishes, the island’s flower gardens, restaurants, football pitches, tennis courts, wedding halls, observation tower, were once the magnificent locations that drove tourists to this spectacular place. It was a mecca of culture, as I discerned at a young age of twelve. I promised myself that I would someday visit this country with my loved one.

Now that I am here, my heart is torn to see the strife and suffering. Because most of the places that my memories hold dear of this country, have now been reimagined into something frightful. I would never expect that I would be one of the few who hoped not to be stationed at this place. Not because I am scared. But because I fear for those memories, those desires, that promise I made ten years ago, would be for naught, and would then be replaced by vivid images of horror, stagnation, and desertion.

It now seems that most of its residents have fled. I too would leave, if not for the purpose that I am here to serve our country, defend this nation and provide a temporary hearth for those in need.

The island’s vegetation has now turned to brown, and not the colorful array I remember that once entertained my innocence. Trees; withered. And lushness of its sprawling biodiversity has become a landfill of used gun shells, debris, and ammunition.

Looters have taken mostly everything that is of value. Furniture, wiring, plumbing, irrigation equipment, were but a few of the items that were stolen. I could never imagine our hometown being stripped away of its resources. It would further break my heart if the same horrors were to happen to Poulton.

I am happy that you are safe my love, safe in my heart and the town that I cherish, together with the wonderful memories of our beginnings.

I know I am not allowed to write of such, but I asked my commander if he could permit me to speak of what I am about to tell you. He approved of such; on the condition that this should not be address to my family or any immediate relatives.

I told him that I would be writing to a friend who is dear to my heart. And thus, he accepted my request.

Last week, one of the warehouses was hit by a missile strike during the fighting. I hid under the bushes along with my platoon. But one of my platoon members came charging to strike at one of the Iraqi troops. The only remnants of his life that day were but his left arm that survived from the direct missile hit.

I was caught up in the aftermath of the explosion and injured my leg by an escaped shrapnel. It lodged itself on my knee and hampered my walking. But all is well. The medic who came to assist me simply took out the foreign object and applied some antiseptic. I was told that I’ll be ready to walk normally again in two weeks time.

The reason why I informed you of this tragedy is not because my aim is to make you fret, but for my conscience to be appeased. I have just written an email and a letter concerning Col. Ronald’s untimely death in this war. My heart feels heavy for his family, his wife, and his kids, and I feel that I am partly to blame in his demise.

After I was promoted to a major, all the added responsibilities only occurred to me when I now have a platoon to cover, to protect and to guide. The brevity of life has struck me in this grave occasion. Only when one of my own was taken in front of me, and the only option was to protect the remainder of my lot, did I realize the importance of my position.

It grieves me to be weak hearted; my frailty has once again failed to instruct the betterment of my countenance. If only I screamed at Ronald of the incoming missile, he would be alive and I wouldn’t have to write that goddamn letter.

The only salvation I have with me right now is to hear your voice speak of such gentle kindness. ‘Everything will be all right.’ are the words I so wish to hear this very second – coming from the man who has given me his heart.

I yearn to hear your voice Mathew. I yearn to hear the voice that has consoled my inner demons – those demons that haunt me at night. Those images that everyday are fuelled by the madness of this cause – this war. I dream and have been dreaming that you are beside me every night speaking to me in whispers, while the light of the moon covers the howls of my taints.

If you ask me now, Mathew, if I am lonely. . . I am. And not only, is loneliness, the only word that describes all these emotions that wish to rupture through me; regret is what truly drives me to live and return in your arms as I hope to ask for your forgiveness.

Do you forgive me if I was a coward? Do you forgive me if I could not say the words you wish to hear? That four lettered word that seemed like a bullet through my head, as soon as you uttered it. You’re the only one who knew that I could be better. And yet at the face of your clement demeanor and my harsh subjections of disdain, I rejected you.

I betrayed myself Mathew. Trust me that my heart only belongs to you. Trust me that every blood that spills from my body is nothing compared to the hurt that I have cause you, fed you, and made you feel.

It is not within the conventions of my mind to showcase my true emotions. However, let this letter be my guide to express to you of how my much my heart adores you.

This may come as a surprise, for you have never heard me speak of these words that my fingers who so elaborately express, are the truest of my truths. I am but a man of few words Mathew, but my heart does not confine my speech to the restrictions of my mind and what I feel.

This undeserving heart that you have so conquered; this heart that you have sheltered in all the miseries of my own discontent; this heart that roars of my passions that not even my lust for you could express; this heart that celebrates every minute of your shared existence – to this poor and wretched soul. This heart that begs forgiving…Mathew, my darling, my beloved, this heart is yours.

Love,

Greg

From: Gen. Gregory A. Charlston

Royal British Marines

_____________________________________

March 8, 2004

# 8 Meadowcroft, Beech Drive,

Poulton Le Fylde, UK

To: Gen. Gregory A. Charlston

Dear Greg,

Your letter arrived yesterday. I had to catch the postman and get it personally from him. I just arrived from work when I saw his truck parked in front of the house, when I leapt from my seat and ran as fast as I could, as he was about to ring the doorbell.

I was surprised that you didn’t email me instead. It would have taken a split-second in the World Wide Web for your email to arrive.

If only I knew you were a poet, I would have asked you to write me letters everyday. I am still smiling right now as I browse through the words of what you wrote me. It seems you were born in the wrong decade. And now I know that God truly exists, for him to bring me to you out of all the centuries you could have been conceived . . . You just had to arrive in my timeline.

I’m writing this letter, while I’m outside sitting on your favorite spot at the porch, where you listen to me play the piano as you read one of your books, afterwards in which, I’d make you your coffee and make my tea, and then join you for a nightcap as we talk about random things. I miss it Greg.

Therese is doing fine. She misses you but I tell her that her dad is fighting in the war for us. I love the way she smiles, as she tells me that her father doesn’t need to be a hero. For her father’s already a hero to her, she says.

You’re daughter’s full of shit just like you, and yet I love her as much as you do. It seems that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

She’s a spitting image of you, and I love her dearly for that uncanny resemblance. I feel like you never really left.

After she does her homework, and have dinner, I would read to her a bedtime story. And then she tells me afterwards, ‘It’s not real! That’s a made up story.’ She cracks me up every time she says it. She doesn’t like any bullshit coming from me, especially if my imagination runs out of stories to tell her and then I’d mess it up eventually.

That reminds me, I need to buy her children’s books in town. She’s read every book we’ve bought her. Therese is probably going to be an astronaut or a physicist someday if she keeps up ravaging science fiction books.

I asked her on one weekend while we were at the mall, as to why she wanted me to buy her a book called Little Prince. And she said, “Cause I want to know how that kid got into the moon?” She only saw the cover page online and she was hooked – she still is.

Oh Greg…Spring is almost here. I could see the cacophony of colors and smell that parade its wonders a few meters from where we live. I’m glad to inform you that my veggie patch has started to sprout some real vegetables.

We’re currently in the works of witnessing: tomatoes, cucumbers, lemons, oranges, bell peppers, and other veggies, to grow in the garden. Even my rose and tulip bush have started to blossom. Whoever said that I don’t have a green thumb needs a run for their money.

Remember when you’d go outside and spend hours mocking me, as you read your books? And you say to me, ‘Honey, you’re drowning the seeds. You’re not watering a tree. You’re watering plants.’

The smell of rosemary, thyme, oregano, basil, mint, dill are just a few of what fills up the kitchen every morning. It seems like I’m in a supermarket aisle, except that it’s fresher, greener, and alive…all thanks to you I suppose.

I know you’ve been sneaking behind my back every night. You’ve been touching my veggie patch haven’t you? ‘I’m going out to go for a walk, honey.’ – What a load of crap! (You could imagine me laughing hysterically now.) I can see your shadow from outside the window you know. I’m not blind.

When you left that morning, and we didn’t talk, I was hoping to find the courage to say to you, for you to please take care of yourself. It didn’t bother me so much that we had a fight. But what bothered me was that I was too stubborn to wish you well and for you to have a safe trip – in going to Iraq, and coming back home.

Now that I think of it, I think I was hurt. Hurt that you withdrew yourself when I said to you, I love you, that night before you left. You could say that I was expecting that you were the one who’d tell me that you love me. Maybe I rushed it or it was too soon. But I couldn’t hold any longer what I really felt.

It’s only been six months since we purchased this house, and we’ve only been together for a year. And Sarah’s passing was just two years ago. Did I rush you Greg? Did you felt rushed?

I understand your reaction because it’s you. You tend to shy away from things you don’t want to discuss, and with me being the provocateur, could only expect such a reply when one pushes one’s buttons.

When I opened your letter, I really don’t know what to think except book a flight and go there or enlist myself in the army just to be with you.

I cried so hard last night. No – I wept Greg, I wept. I wept for the things that you wrote in that letter. I wept further when I could hear you saying those things to my ear, as if you’re here. And when you said that you were in an accident, my heart was crushed to assume that you might never come back.

Please come back to me Greg. I am begging that you return to your family: us, to me and Therese, as the man who closed that door that day, and smiled to me like he was just going for a walk.

I don’t want to be those partners or boyfriends (I think we’re too old be called boyfriends) who doesn’t get informed of what happened to their loved ones, just because there are protocols that should be followed.

Can you just imagine me, going to your parent’s house, just to be informed that they had received a letter telling them that you died? I know . . . It’s too morbid to think that way.

But I just love you so much Greg. No words could ever express that. And I’m not saying that you stop informing me of what’s happening to you or what’s happening there, just because I got sissy and scared when you told of some of the details to what’s going there in Iraq. Please, tell me everything, okay.

You should know that in the casualties of war, everyone’s a victim. You cannot blame yourself for an action that you have no control of. You don’t want to put the blame on yourself when you know you could do better.

I may not be in the position to say these things since I am not there and I am not the one holding a gun and pointing it to one’s enemy. But I will say to you Greg that you cannot falter when you think you’ve made a mistake. War is merely the succession of life, except that it’s bloodier and gruesome. And being in this relationship knowing what everyone thinks of us, are a battle and a blessing.

You’re not a coward Greg. The fact that you’ve told me everything that I needed to hear, even some of the things that has already made me a man full of happiness and joy, are what makes me love you even greater.

I don’t care if the world condemns us. I don’t care if I have to fight your family just to claim what is deserving of this love that we have. And I don’t care if your father doesn’t like me, or your mother hates me, or your brothers refuse to talk to me. All I care is that you’re safe and you’re willing to come back to me like you never left at all.

What I do care is that you love me, as much as I love you. And that’s all that matters.

I have to go now Greg. I have to tuck Therese in bed, and you know how she gets annoyed when she doesn’t get her bedtime story.

Oh Greg! I just miss you so much. I know you’ll be worried sick about my concerns. But I’ll be inconsiderate and tell you that I miss you and love you for the last time. You make me happy Greg. I want you to know that.

Oh, and one last thing, “Everything is going to be all right. You can count on that, my darling.”

Your other half,

Mathew

From: Mathew P. Trotter