As I walked up to the mailbox, I was reflecting on the past year.

My son had gone off to war. I missed him terribly and so did his Mom.

There had not been any correspondence from him in several months and I was worried.

Usually he wrote to us every week.

Upon opening the mailbox, I saw a large envelope with his name on the return address and I yelled, "Mamita, it is a letter from Junior"

"Oh, my Baby. He finally remembered to write to us" she said with that disapproving tone she uses when we've done or said something bad, but the tone was mixed with happiness.

"Let me see it" she said snatching it away from my hands.

As we sat down to read it together we went from elation, to concern, to horror and then to happiness at the story my son told.

"Dear Mom and Dad,

I write this letter to you from a hospital bed in a military base in Germany after being unconscious for about 4 days because of loss of blood and after taking part of a great battle and being wounded several times. I 'm OK, just a little shaken up by my experience and by the horrors that I saw and the friends lost. I'm happy to be alive and on my way home.

We were stationed in a military hospital in the desert in what I thought was the rear of the battle front and away from danger. I would drive my ambulance to pick up wounded in small field hospitals throughout the area with my good buddy from Illinois, Spc. Ferguson. He was a fun, happy-go-lucky guy and was always good to have around in a fight.

There were a lot of people from Puerto Rico or of Puerto Rican descent stationed there with us and we had a greeting that went something like:

Greeting "Boricua"

Reply "Wepaaa"

Even Ferguson was saying it, even though he was the most unpuertorican of all of us there. But he was my buddy and part of the group.

The day had started with many casualties, due to a big enemy push on the previous night. Our superiors had told us to expect more on the coming days.

Then the enemy began shelling on our position. We where surprised, as we where a big major field hospital in the rear and they where not supposed to fire upon us.

"I guess they never heard of the Geneva Convention" said Sgt. Vazquez, our communications NCO. He was from Bayamon, Puerto Rico, just like you Dad. He was about 6' 4" and the biggest one of us. He was loyal, friendly and had a wacky sense of humor. He was also very good with a machete and a .45. I was glad he was on our team.

"Well, maybe if we wrote it in Arabic, they would respect it more" said Cpl. Boudreau, our gunner. He was quiet, tall, slim, and handy in fixing things and he manned one of our .50 Cal. machine gun bunkers, used to protect our perimeter. He was also very good with a machete.

"Yeah, they will probably use it to wipe their ass" snarled SSG Fernandez, a wounded Marine getting ready to go back to the front lines.

He looked like a real Jarhead Marine, with his crew cut hairstyle, physical toughness and gruff demeanor. He was from somewhere in Virginia. We had to extract some shrapnel from him caused from a roadside IED (Improvised Explosive Devise) that had hit his HUMVEE and killed 2 of his crew. He had been hit in the right arm and his legs. After a few day of recuperating, he was ready to go back into the fight.

"Yes, but I think we better get ready for the incoming casualties." Said Dr. Laurent, a surgeon on loan to us from the French Army. He was originally from Paris, France, but now lived in the country and owned a vineyard. He had brought with him some cases of wine from his vineyard, which made him a big hit amongst us all. He was very gallant and French looking and the nurses adored his accent. He was also a very good surgeon.

"Attention all personnel, report to battle stations and man your post." Came over the loudspeaker "We are under attack."

I could hear the screams of the shells as they came overhead and the explosions where deafening. I ran towards my ambulance to get my weapon, with Ferguson fast on my heels.

"Do you see them" he asked.

"Yes, just over the ridge" I replied.

Off in the distance, I could see the dust cloud of many men and vehicles approaching at a fast pace. And above the noise of tracked and motorized vehicles, I could hear them chanting something.

We were getting shelled with mortars and field artillery and I started to see the tracer bullets flying by, as the enemy soldiers started firing upon us.

"We have to treat these patients, or they will die" said Capt. Agullana, a young, tiny, very pretty, Hawaiian nurse, assigned to our field hospital.

"We will all die if everyone doesn't grab a weapon and get INTO THE FREAKING FIGHT NOW" answered SSG Fernandez.

After that, he started barking orders and got us organized.

"Everyone grab a weapon and start shooting back. Don't waste ammo. One shot, one kill." ordered SSG Fernandez.

"You, Vazquez, get on top of that tower and give me some covering fire with that .60 Cal"

"Boudreau, get your ass over here and start passing out this ammunition to your buddies and then go man you machine gun"

"Rivera and Ferguson, get in that foxhole and start firing back."

"Dr.Laurent collect medical supplies, move to the rear and get ready for some casualties."

"Agullana, you go help him load it and then go and get the nurses organized in providing water and ammunition to everyone.You will also carry away the wounded and put them in that rear building." he said pointing to the rear Hospital building.

There where explosions everywhere and I could see some of the wounded patients trying to hobble away to safety.

"Every able body better grab a weapon and start fighting or I will shoot you myself" threatened SSG Fernandez and then the enemy was upon us.

"Ok boys, let's give them hell"

It seemed like thousands of enemy soldiers where coming towards us, with blood lust in their eyes and murder in their hearts. I could now hear and understand what they all chanted and where fanatically screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Allah Akbar" they yelled. "God is great"

They had broken through the minefield, taking many casualties and I saw men getting blown to pieces and body parts seemed to be raining from the sky. 

There was blood everywhere.

My buddy Ferguson was shot through the chest but he kept shooting with a mad snarl in his face.

"Allah Akbar" they screamed.

"Allah Akbar" they yelled.

And then I heard Ferguson yelling and while shooting he hollered at them "Take that, you sons of bitches. We're the BORICUAAAAAAASSSSS!!!!!"

We then took up the cry and roared in unison.

They challenged us and we answered back.

The scene was out of hell itself. I jumped out of my foxhole and ran towards the enemy in unison with my other comrades, screaming at the top of our lungs.

We were bent on death and destruction. As we dealt out death, we never felt more alive. There was smoke, fire, and explosions everywhere and the cries of the wounded and dying men could be heard all around us.

Two soldiers where coming towards me and I shot one of them in the stomach. 

The other one, an officer, swung his scimitar sword at me and I parried with the machete that Grandpa Joe had given me. "Just in case" had said to me upon my leaving and now I was thankful for it.

We continued to thrust and parry, but the training that I had received from Vasquez was starting to take its toll on my enemy and he was losing badly. I gave a final quick thrust that caught him in the center of his chest and he fell dead in front of me. I was shocked and appalled at what had happened.

I had killed a man.

Not from afar with a rifle, but up close, personally and by my own hand.

At that moment all reason left me and I was filled with battle lust and a desire to kill. The battle continued for a long time and we fought like madmen. Even the female nurses got into the fight and took out a couple of the enemy. We where fighting for our lives.

The battle cries continued.

At that moment, and in the nick of time, the helicopter gunships arrived and the battle started turning in our favor.

There were many enemy soldiers fighting against us that day, but they were undisciplined and lacked our firepower. We, on the other hand, had few soldiers, but we had discipline and great firepower. And they were no match for us.

Of all of us, only Dr Laurent was unhurt, but he was kept very busy for the remainder of that day and night, treating the wounded and giving comfort to the dying.

Ferguson was hit in the chest, but the bullet passed straight through and he would be alright and would live to fight another day.

SSG Fernandez fought very bravely and ferociously, but was shot dead towards the end of the battle. The will always, in my eyes, epitomize the true American Fighting Man.

Vazquez was shot in the stomach, his right hand had been crushed and he took some shrapnel in the leg. But even in great pain, he was the one who saved us by calling in the helicopter gunships. I believe we owe him our lives and I shall forever be grateful.

Capt. Agullana organized the nurses into a great support team, providing ammunition, water and medical supplies to our soldiers. We also owe her and her nurses our lives. She won't confirm or deny, but we believe it was her who took out and killed some enemy soldiers who, because of her size and gender, thought her easy prey. You go girl.

Boudreau was shot in his left leg and a bullet had grazed his head. He grinned at me at the end of the battle and gave me a thumbs up. I returned his grin and looked at the carnage around me. Whoever said that war is glorious is out of his freaking mind.

War is destruction, pain, fear, and death. There is nothing glorious about it.

As for me, I'm just glad to be alive and on my way home. I will never forget this experience and I hope to never again have to go through this again.

In closing let me wish you both a Merry Christmas, and for you Dad, Happy Birthday.

I'm coming home.

Bendicion.

Your loving son,

Alexander Rivera

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And on that day and in that moment in time, was the happiest day of my life.

My Son, would be home soon…………………..

Fictional Story by Jose G Rivera