I’m trying something new, guys. I’ve been asked to write a true story about a wartime romance in Afghanistan. I have a secondhand connection to the story. Writing anything even close to romance is new to me, and I really don’t know the “right” way to do it.

So I’m making a humble request: please read this and tell me if it’s interesting, mediocre, or absolute crap. In a rather unusual twist, I actually have an attorney waiting on this story; he’s worked in the publishing industry before and if he likes this story he’ll act as my agent. So there’s a lot riding on my ability to get this right.

Please take a look guys, and be brutally honest about it. If it sucks, I need to know now. Thanks and I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts.

Chris

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CHAPTER 1

A scared young woman stood in the dark, taking in the sight. Wounded civilian contractors being bandaged by frantic friends. A smoking plywood hut, the smell of blown explosives, sirens broadcasting “Incoming Incoming Incoming!” The frenzied aftermath of a rocket attack. This was not a rare event, but the young woman, Joan, had just arrived days before. This was her first deployment. She had never experienced anything like this.

Joan moved closer to the smashed hut. Blood was splattered on exposed walls. And something else. Something dull grayish, barely visible in the dim light, scattered in tiny clumps around a fallen contractor’s small, sparse room.

Brain matter. She stepped away in horror; this was a new, shocking experience for her. As a child in L.A., she had almost been hit by stray bullets from a drive-by shooting. However, gangsters’ bullets aren’t the same thing as rockets randomly falling from the sky. When Marines imagine themselves at war, they see themselves on foot heroically standing their ground against a brutal, determined enemy. This rocket attack was nothing like that fantasy. Realization set in: this year was not going to be what she had expected. But that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Not much about her service in the Marines had been what she expected.

Joan was not what most people pictured when they heard the word “Marine”. Petite, pretty, light-skinned with dark hair and eyes, feminine and toned but not “buff”, she looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a warrior. Growing up in a working-class home in California, she never considered joining the military.

Her father and grandmother raised her and her brother after Joan’s mother abandoned the family. Her grandmother was an old-fashioned disciplinarian who took them to Mexico every summer so they would respect their roots. Her father, a Mexican immigrant who spoke only Spanish, worked menial jobs while going to school and struggling to learn English. He even went so far as to read an entire English dictionary, cover to cover. Eventually he became a successful business owner.

Joan’s father didn’t want his children to struggle like he had. He made them study two hours every day and assigned extra homework. When Joan got older, her father decided she would graduate from high school, go to college and then move straight into a lucrative job. Over the years, Joan moved with her family from California to New York to Texas, and her sights were on college after high school. The Marines never crossed her mind.

She graduated and went to college. Then a Marine recruiter called. She told him she wasn’t interested, and hung up. And she truly wasn’t interested, until she saw a Marine recruiting commercial shortly afterward. Marines were jumping out of helicopters into the ocean, firing weapons, charging up a beach, doing all the cool things young men and women imagine Marines doing.

Joan got to thinking. She knew she had been sheltered. She sometimes felt like her life was being planned out without her input or consent. She also had an urge to serve her country. So she decided to make a major decision, something that would make her life her own.

She went to the recruiting officer and started the process. Days later she was sworn in. Her father didn’t talk to her for a week.

At 20 years old, she headed from college to boot camp. And she liked it. She discovered a hard-headedness she didn’t know she possessed, even going so far as to ignore a broken leg and endure a minor operation without anesthetic so she could graduate with her platoon. After initial training she went back home, got back in school, worked several civilian jobs, and even worked as a juvenile corrections officer for a time (which, to her surprise she loved). She excelled at living the half civilian, half military life of a reservist.

In early 2009 she was notified she would deploy to Afghanistan. She was excited; If you’re a Marine and don’t go to war, what’s the point?

In mid 2009 she arrived at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. It wasn’t what anyone imagined when they thought of being “at war”. Bagram was a huge, sprawling base, occupied by roughly 30,000 Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, Airmen, foreign troops and civilian contractors. Bullets never flew at Bagram; there were so many rules, the bullets didn’t have room. In time, those rules would exasperate her to numbness.

Troops had to wear reflective belts as soon as the sun began to set. The reflective belts had to be the same color, worn the same way. Speed limits were painfully low. Troops driving utility four-wheelers had to wear a reflective belt, eye protection and a helmet (and take a four-wheeler safety course, lest they die in a 15 mile per hour accident). Alcohol wasn’t allowed. Troops couldn’t wear civilian clothes. Anyone walking along the main road had to use the only sidewalk, which was packed with thousands of troops. Enlisted soldiers had to salute officers. And on Bagram, it seemed like there were millions of officers.

But Bagram had, so to speak, good points. Other than the occasional rocket attack, it was safe. It had a well-stocked PX, coffee shop, pizza joint, and other fast food. The fast food places made deliveries. Some troops lived in plywood huts, but others were in air-conditioned prefabricated units that resembled dorm rooms. Wireless internet was available. There were weekly Salsa and Country dancing nights. Some service members had time and privacy for on-base romances, although adultery between service members was illegal and sex between unmarried service members was highly discouraged, though tolerated.

Like many support troops at Bagram, Joan worked long shifts with no days off and few means of relieving stress. Far from being grateful at being relatively safe, she ached to get outside the wire and actually be part of the war. With few exceptions, people don’t join the military because they want to be safe and protected; most of the Soldiers, and probably all of the Marines, would have traded wireless internet and Salsa Night for one good engagement, for the experience of being under fire just once. But the vast majority of the troops at Bagram never left the wire, never heard a shot fired or saw a casualty.

Eventually, Joan saw more of the war than most Bagramites. She was officially a supply clerk; however, in addition to her supply duties, she sometimes helped at the base hospital when Marine casualties arrived. Occasionally she even assisted with enemy casualties. She was in the hospital when the casualties from the battle of Ganjigal, the fight where three Marines, a Soldier and a Navy Corpsman were killed and two Americans earned the Medal of Honor, were brought in. Helping casualties, in any way, was important and rewarding (although depressing) work. Her supply job, though deathly boring, was crucial to the war effort.

But Joan hated being stuck at Bagram. She tried to get out in the field with the Female Engagement Teams, handpicked groups of female Marines who went on missions with the infantry. No luck. She volunteered to fill in on convoys when a driver or gunner was needed. Her leadership refused to let her go. During her entire deployment she only went off post twice, and both times in a helicopter. She never set foot on Afghan soil outside the security of a Forward Operating Base.

Like all Marines, Joan loved the Corps while chafing at its constant aggravations. At times she thought Bagram and the Marine Corps would drive her nuts. And she was constantly annoyed by the Army’s and Air Force’s lack of discipline. But there was no escape; no bar to visit after work for a few beers, no loving husband waiting to pamper her when she got to the shack she called home. There was just dull, monotonous supply work, or the heart-rending sights of horribly wounded Marines, Afghan Soldiers, Taliban and civilians at the hospital. Stress piled upon stress.

Sergeants Major liked to say stupid things like, “If you need stress relief, work out! Or sign up for an online college course. Do something productive!” As they spoke the words they must have known just how ridiculous that advice was. Working out could help a bit. It certainly couldn’t erase the tension brought on by the crush of military rules, or pain of feeling helpless in the presence of brave, wounded men and women.

But all that numbness, pain, stress and helplessness would come later. The most important event of Joan’s life actually happened within the first two weeks at Bagram.

Like all newbies at Bagram, Joan quickly discovered the PX complex. It had a surprisingly comfortable deck area where off-duty troops and contractors could hang out. The Green Bean Coffee Shop was open 24 hours. Service members, foreign troops and civilians would sit at tables all night, just talking and relaxing a bit. Afghan-American interpreters sometimes had dance nights at the PX area, which was a bit odd; usually only the men danced, close together, sometimes very suggestively. Beautiful female Afghan translators either sat on the sidelines or danced at the periphery, but were ignored by the men. For the troops it was, to say the least, unusual.

Joan wasn’t interested in dancing. She just wanted to be away from her work, to escape the already-overwhelming sense that she was going to be trapped in a hell of boredom for almost a year. She didn’t want to be hit on by lonely Soldiers and Marines either, but it happened. Right away.

One of the first nights she hung out at the PX, a persistent Soldier kept trying to engage her in conversation. She plainly expressed her disinterest. He kept at it. She turned away. He wouldn’t stop. She thought about leaving.

And then she spotted, not far away, a handsome, dark haired, muscular young French Marine. He had already seen her. And was walking toward her, dark eyes focused on hers.

From that moment, Joan’s life was completely changed.

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Your thoughts, guys?