"Christmas in Afghanistan"

Mark Millican

Editor’s note: Staff writer Mark Millican, a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps, wrote this fictional story in advance of Christmas Day.



“Merry Christmas, Marine!” the gunnery sergeant barked as he spooned a heap of dressing on the enlisted man’s tray.

“Same to ya, Guns,” Pvt. Andy Clayton replied half-heartedly. He parked his desert-camouflaged body at a table where a few other Marines were wolfing down their Christmas Eve fare in the makeshift mess hall, and stared at his food.

How many young jarheads had the wizened gunny seen wearing that face during the holiday season, thousands of miles from home? Especially this time, and especially here. The non-com pushed back the thoughts of comrades-in-arms he’d lost on fields of battle through the years, but he couldn’t escape the present. With its savage, unexpected attacks and sudden death, Afghanistan’s barely tamed fiefdom of terror was the most lethal place he’d unrolled a sleeping bag since Vietnam. And he’d been in Lebanon, Gulf War I and Somalia, not exactly peaceable tours of duty.

The private toyed with the slice of turkey and re-hydrated green peas as his mind wandered. A fully activated weekend warrior, Clayton had never bargained for this. How had he gotten here? He traced the progression — or rather the digression, he thought sourly. At first he’d tried meth when a friend at work told him it helped you pull longer hours. Production had been going well, and they were always looking for employees who would work double shifts. Then it had gotten to be a party drug on the weekends, helping him to stay up longer and have more fun — or so he thought at the time. But what was he thinking when that same friend told him if he’d sell some, it would help pay for what he used?

He’d never forget the day he stood in front of a judge and was told the trafficking charge against him would be dropped if he would join the military and get out of town.

“That’s not much of a choice!” he blurted out. Glaring at him, his attorney whispered harshly, “It’s the only one you’ve got, and I strongly suggest you take it!” Parris Island had been tough, but with some soul-searching and digging down deep he’d proven he was one of the “few good men.” Yeah, right, and look where he’d ended up.

He looked around at the decorations the cooks had put up to make the huge tent seem like a stateside Christmas. They’d spared no effort in preparing the meal, plus some of the officers and senior NCOs had tried to lift spirits by manning the serving line. But it wasn’t working — at least on him.

Clayton emptied his tray and stepped outdoors. He looked up at what appeared to be zillions of stars, always bright here with the clear nights. He walked around the base, thinking darkly, and eventually ambled toward the Enlisted Men’s Club. The smell of the spilt beer that greeted him turned his stomach, and immediately he decided to order a Pepsi. He sat at the end of the bar, and as he sipped his soda he knew inside what was really bugging him. It was Vicky, and the words he’d said to her before leaving. She’d been his girlfriend since high school, but after five years of marriage the relationship turned rocky when he started messing with the meth. Unfortunately, their little girl Mackenzie had been caught in the middle.

“Hey, Grit, come on over and let’s chug a few!” a guy from his unit hollered at him, using the standard calling card for a southern Marine.

“No thanks, I gotta get outta here and get some fresh air,” he replied.

“Hey, Homeboy, everything all right?” one of his buddies from Georgia asked. “You’re lookin’ kinda blue.”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I’ll see ya’ later,” he said.

Drinking hadn’t done him any favors either. In fact, it had led to his telling Vicky he didn’t want to see her and Mackenzie any more just before he’d shipped out to Camp Lejeune en route to Afghanistan. He was ashamed of the way he’d acted that last night, and regretted what he’d said: “Me and my big mouth. Why do I always seem to hurt the people who love me the most?” He felt like sneaking under the wire and walking, defenseless, into an area where they knew the Taliban was holed up. He didn’t care what happened anymore.

The stars drew his gaze upward again, and one seemed to be shining especially brightly. In a flash of inspiration, he decided to call home. Maybe talking to Mom and Dad would lift his spirits, and he needed to tell them Merry Christmas anyway. Amazingly, he found just a few Marines in the expedient phone exchange. Cell phones hardly ever worked in these mountains and the satellite phone was always busy. The operator was able to patch him through to his home in Sugar Valley. This in itself was remarkable, since often it took much longer. Even though it was early in the morning, his mother was excited when she answered the phone.

“You won’t believe it, Andy, we’re having a white Christmas!” his mother gushed. “In fact, it started snowing so hard we had to let some visitors stay over. Here, talk to your Dad a minute.”

With his Marine Corps-retired father peppering questions like machine gun fire, he filled him in on the latest. “Keep your head down and you guys cover each other’s butts,” the older man advised. “Now stand by, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“How’s our Marine?” Vicky asked searchingly from the other side of the Earth. Clayton’s heart skipped a beat or two at the sound of her voice. After he apologized for that night and she accepted, saying she knew it wasn’t him doing the talking, they chatted away like the two old friends they were. Then Vicky said, “Well, look who’s here!”

“Daddy!” Mackenzie screamed into the telephone. “I heard Mommy talking to you. I woke up a while ago and couldn’t go back to sleep. I said a prayer for you, Daddy, because I felt like you were lonely.”

After trading “I love yous,” tears were rolling down Clayton’s cheek as he hung up the phone. He noticed someone had begun playing Christmas music over the tinny loudspeakers as he veered toward the chapel.

“Truly he taught us to love one another,

“His law is love, and his gospel is peace.

“Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother,

“And in his name all oppressions shall cease.”

He sat alone in the chapel tent with some benches and an altar, and wondered how his life had gotten so out of control. Could he ever get back what he’d lost? It wouldn’t be easy after the stunts he’d pulled. He had a lot to prove to Vicky — she’d intimated that much over the phone — and to a lot of other people. He looked at the Bible in the pew, and remembered how the Navy chaplain said reading it would build you up for the storms of life that were sure to come. He’d read some of the New Testament they gave all the recruits at the induction station, but so many of the passages caused him to see things he didn’t like in himself. Yet he remembered Luke 2 and the Christmas story, and especially the angel. Here, now, it felt as if one of the heavenly creatures was standing beside him, saying, “Come to me, all ye who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” 

The music outside wafted through the tent walls.

“Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus rise,

“Let all within us praise his holy name,

“Christ is our Lord,

“O hear the angels’ voices,

“O night divine,

“O night when Christ was born.”

He lowered his head. 

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