Journal of PVT Abigail Johnson – OEF, Afghanistan

  By AP

  12 March 2011

  The TOC is quiet tonight—quiet in the way generators hum and radios crackle, the way a place can be alive with noise but still feel still.

  Sgt. Stokes sits across from me, boots up on an ammo can, pen tapping a rhythm I can’t place. He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but I catch the flick of his eyes every so often.

  I shouldn’t notice. He’s my sergeant, I’m his radio operator. Rules are rules. But I catalogue the small things anyway: the gold-dust shimmer on his cheekbones under the lamplight, the way his voice dips when he says my name over comms.

  Out here, the small things are everything.

  18 March 2011

  Day shift. The air smells like burnt coffee and dust—same as every day. My headset padding’s shot, and it kept sliding down my ear until Sgt. Stokes noticed.

  He handed me a roll of duct tape. “Field fix,” he said.

  “Copy that,” I answered, like it was nothing.

  Some moments here are louder than any radio traffic. The CO barking orders, the hum of the servers, and the silence between us—thick, deliberate, almost warm.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  23 March 2011

  Night shift again. Six hours side by side, tracking a convoy on the Blue Force Tracker. My coffee went cold three times; his never does.

  We talked about home. His New Mexico sounds like forever—long roads, wide skies. I told him about my little sister’s letters, always stuffed with bad jokes. He laughed—real, unguarded.

  When the radio squawked, we both froze. False alarm. But in that heartbeat, I realized how much I never want to hear his voice break.

  4 April 2011

  I caught myself staring today. He was bent over the map table, tracing a route with his finger. I looked away too late.

  We live in the same space, breathe the same recycled air, drink the same bitter coffee. And between us, a glass wall we never cross. We’re soldiers first. But sometimes I think he wants to break it as much as I do.

  10 April 2011

  He leaves tomorrow on patrol. He checked frequencies, double-checked the loadouts, then left with his hands in his pockets.

  I wanted to tell him to be careful. I wanted to touch his sleeve. But the rules are the cage, and we keep it locked.

  12 April 2011

  The TOC feels too big tonight. The mission rolled out early; I’ve been logging check-ins on the board. His voice came through at 0930—steady, clipped, professional.

  At 1415: static. Then nothing.

  14 April 2011

  They told me this morning.

  IED. No survivors.

  I stood at the comms desk until my hands ached from gripping the edge. Didn’t cry. Not then.

  His mug is still on the shelf. There’s duct tape in the supply bin. If I close my eyes, I can still hear him laugh.

  We never broke the rules. We never touched. But he still had all of me.