Trudging over the hills and through the swamps, I am accompanied by the baggage that I left behind. The look of loss and despair on my parents’ faces weighs heavily in my pack. I left them my original dog tag. Lieutenant Cross believes that I lost the first one, but I only pretended to lose it. The “lost” dog tag I gave to my parents, in hopes that when they rest their eyes upon my name, they will know that I am still alive, with the other dog tag around my neck. There was an air of betrayal between us as we said our goodbyes, knowing that I might not return.
With each step of my weighty combat boots, I can sense the locket my wife gave me, moving around in my pack. Each step seems heavier and harder than the last, knowing that I am moving farther and farther away from her and the promise she made with the locket. Right before I kissed her goodbye, she said, “This is not goodbye. A piece of me and your child are inside this locket, and as long as you have it, you will have us.” This is all I have learned of our unborn child, and this weight is carried at my core.
These memories I carry also carry me. The recollections of the days before the war are more pressing than the jungle humidity, but they are a reminder of why I press on each day. All of this is bearable, except for one load: the bars and stars on my arm. To the unknowing eye, they represent courage and progress. But to me, each piece is the poundage of a body: the bodies of the lives I have taken, that will never return to their families.
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