Letters To My Soldier.

...War is...

      A month since the rescue mission here in Afghanistan. Things had died down a bit— at least as far as a war zone could. There were a few shenanigans here and there; nothing too difficult. We mostly moved around checking for signs of ambushes and the likes. No one was fooled, though. With the way things were, this war was going to last for a few more years.

     A few other soldiers had gone to help in the war against Boko Haram, in order to rescue the Chibok girls, in Nigeria. I wondered what sort of terrorist groups took to mass kidnap.
    It made my blood boil, the thought of the terror that the girls were going through and their families.

       There was never any thing good about war. War is bad.

                             ~|~

     Of the rescued civilians from our last rescue mission, only three persons — two nurses and a doctor— stayed behind. And it was only because they were of use to the soldiers. They were of medical professions.

      Of the two nurses, was Nurse Melanie, who had pointed out my injured arm after the rescue mission.
   Petite, redhead, blue eyed, beautiful lady, she attracted the attention of a few of the men around here. Perhaps, maybe, even me.

        She was nice to everyone. She was the Florence Nightingale of the soldiers here, hence her nickname Florin. I have to say, I was amazed at her social skills and even more surprised that she chose to spend her free time with me— or rather, what little time we had managed to create.

        She told of how she'd actually wanted to come to this country to help. I thought her brave. And even during her time bring held hostage, she had challenged the gunmen at one time. I found that foolish of her. Unbelievably foolish.

         As the months wore on, as the war continued to worsen, we found both ourselves in a relationship of sorts. Six months after the rescue mission, we started to date.

   Risky and foolish and unprofessional of me, but I craved family, partnership that only a woman could give. Celibacy, we'd both agreed waa a crucial part of our relationship in a time of war; I wasn't looking to bring a baby into such situations seeing as she had decided to stay with me.

       I continued to receive support from Anjie, but no letters. Something I found I craved like a cocaine addict did cocaine. I had to stop the letters, and I had no idea why. Maybe because something was beginning to form.

     And because of this one detail, I found myself longing to talk to someone akin to family, who was away from the war ground.

      Melanie knew about the letters that went back and forth between Anjie and I, and she wasn't too happy about them. She said to throw them away, and it took a bit of convincing, that there was nothing and would never be anything between Anjie and I before she finally calmed down.

     It was the eighth month of our relationship, and I decided to resume letter writing to Anjie. I really wanted to hear from her.

    I sent the first letter in eight months.