A Letter to Mrs. Donovan
Joseph locked himself inside his rambler home at the edge of Nebo, North Carolina, a rural town northwest of Charlotte. He slumped in his old recliner with one liver-spotted arm resting against a cracked leather armrest. The other arm shifted a padded lap desk. He hung his head over its faux marble top. With a thumb, he traced the edge of his thinning white sideburns to the back of his cauliflower ears, fighting to find the belated words.
The incident occurred thirty years ago. Joseph was in his late seventies now, and his health was failing him. He had given his caregiver the night off after due insistence and persuasion. She never gave in without a diplomatic battle.
He was given three months to live over a year ago. His time was long overdue. He couldn’t die without revealing the truth to someone. Who better than the Sergeant’s widow?
A stack of paper mocked him from a stand to his right. He brought the top sheet in front of him with a shaking hand holding a black ballpoint pen. Joseph started slow, careful strokes in cursive increasing with grace as he wrote:
Dear Mrs. Donovan,
I regret to inform you that your husband, Sergeant Stuart E. Donovan, was killed in action…
Joseph stopped, shook his head in disgust, crinkled up the paper, and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on the wood floor behind him, rolling to a stop among the half-dozen others.
He knew the crime committed by the U.S. military, and he knew they would never tell Stuart’s widow why her husband died. He steeled himself and began again, starting with the same salutation before diving in:
…The official report you received likely contained shallow condolences, lies about training accidents, and sacrificial acts against threats to the United States. I understand that this may come as a shock to you, but you should know the truth…
“Does it ever end?” Stuart shouted to his left, his voice loud against the sound of hammering rain falling on the canvas field tent.
The camp was embedded in a mountainous Colombian jungle five miles west of El Pasaje. A rocky landscape hid under blankets of moss and the Ceiba tree canopy strangled by endless liana vines. Decayed foliage mixed with the sea of rain each year creating mud where dirt lay along narrow paths spidering through the scattered compound.
Stuart shifted his weight from one foot to another, standing with a round-shouldered slouch next to his Captain.
Captain Malgus stood with large, bulky arms folded across his barrel chest. His wrinkled forehead seemed to push his face into a long frown. Narrowed green eyes burrowed into the streams of water falling from the open tent flap as if daring the rain to continue.
He had been assigned his own shelter from the rain but chose to be with the new arrival. Making an early appearance had proven beneficial in the past. He had quickly memorized the routine: they would complain about the rain and promptly find homesickness.
He glowered at Stuart, recognizing the evident despair etched into his slender, sunken face. Malgus brought a meaty hand to the young man’s scrawny shoulder. “Get used to it. Grit is a marine’s life.” The natural boom of his voice made it easy to hear over the raucous downpour.
Stuart shook his head before replying, “Minnesota gets cold, but at least it doesn’t rain like this.”
Malgus watched as Stuart turned from the entrance. He plopped onto the edge of his cot. A wrinkled gray blanket muffled the whine and groan of taut fabric against an aluminum frame. He combed a hand through his short brown hair while staring through the wet dirt under his feet.
“I’ve fought in snow,” Malgus said, then pointed upward. “Rain is better.”
“My wife loves the rain,” Stuart said.
Malgus prompted him to continue with a nod.
“She gets angry when nearby storms miss our town.” The corners of Stuart’s lips curled into a smile.
A loud voice pierced the tent before they could continue. “Atten-Hut!”
Stuart shot up from his cot and stood at attention across from Captain Malgus.
General Yarborough graced their presence with his contingent of aids and officers. He took a single step into the tent and halted. His pristine uniform emphasized a posture as straight as a railroad tie. His nasal voice demanded, “Get your officers together, Captain. Briefing at oh-nine-hundred.” Then he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he came.
Malgus complied immediately, bounding through the rain to gather his platoon officers. Whatever the briefing was about, Malgus knew it was important. Otherwise, the General would have sent one of his aids in his stead. The morning’s briefing must be critical to operations.
“The situation teeters on a razor’s edge.” General Yarborough’s voice demanded attention. He paced in front of a large sheet of corkboard while addressing the group of officers. Malgus stood near the front corner, arms folded. He stared at the rows of stern faces as the General continued, “We have the threat of all-out war on one side, and a brutal guerilla organization on the other.”
The General pinned an image to the board behind him and said, “President Rojas Pinilla is the only man keeping the terrorist forces of M-19, National Front, and the various corporate-sponsored paramilitary death squads from overturning a decade of peace talks.”
The image was a headshot of a man in his late sixties. His balding scalp seemed to enlarge his forehead twofold; the wrinkles encircling his eyes made it appear as if he wore tiny, rounded spectacles. The man’s features were not why Malgus scoffed silently. It was the title of “President” applied to him. Rojas Pinilla was a dictator. Everyone in that briefing knew it.
“This mission boils down to dissolving the glue holding together the terrorist forces: the Torres family.” The General pinned another image to the board. It showed four men sitting at a table in front of a flag that stretched from one edge of the picture to the other. The flag was divided into three horizontal sections of blue, white, and red with “M-19” woven in the middle with large black letters.
The General continued, “They aid the enemy, organize guerilla operations, and more importantly, they are the central point of failure. Taking out the Torres family will scatter the guerilla forces. With the intel we expect to obtain from the stronghold, our marine forces can easily crush what remains.”
He stopped pacing and leaned on his knuckles atop the table in front of him. He took the time to look into the eyes of each officer. In a quiet voice the General said, “Don’t mistake the importance of this mission. If we fail, Pinilla will be assassinated, and the entire western hemisphere will erupt in war.”
…The mission was critical, Mrs. Donovan, but the Torres family were civilians consisting of aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, young sons and daughters. No one in power seemed to consider that the primary mission would be regarded as a war crime.
It was an impossible situation. A real “damned if we do, damned if we don’t” scenario. But Stuart knew different. Your husband found a route to peace that no one else considered. I never uncovered his entire plan. I know that it birthed from his strength to question orders and his determination to do what was right…
The compound stirred with activity the following afternoon. Malgus wasn’t sure whether it was due to the excitement for the upcoming mission or the respite of rain. He made the usual rounds visiting the many units under his command. The practice helped him keep a pulse on morale.
Malgus was nearly past the chow hall and its glamorous setup of a large kettle atop a wobbly folding table, when he heard hushed voices from a huddled group of soldiers playing cards. Seeing Lieutenant Samuels with them, he assumed they belonged in Stuart’s squad.
“It’s true. I heard him myself,” said Lieutenant Samuels.
“No way.” A man across from the Lieutenant waved a handful of cards dismissively. “There’s no way he could get away with that.”
“Where is he anyway?” another voice asked.
Malgus realized who was missing.
He tore through the entrance of Stuart’s field tent, where he found the lone soldier lying on his cot. Stuart’s eyes were squeezed shut. He clutched a blanket to his chest with clenched fists. Beads of sweat glistened from his forehead.
Malgus knew what the man must have been thinking. He had witnessed Stuart’s reaction to the aftermath of the latest mission in the Puerto Gaitan region three days before. Stuart had been found standing outside a small hut turned swiss cheese from the barrage of bullets sent by him and his squad. Rays of sunlight contrasted with the dark interior scattering yellow dots across the floor. In the far corner, a tiny foot peeked out from an old shredded blanket with blood pooling around a child lying deathly still. Stuart had to be ushered from the scene.
Stuart snapped open his eyes and quickly sat up.
Malgus towered over Stuart. With hands against hips, Malgus asked, “Why aren’t you with the others?”
Silence filled the gap between the two men before Stuart finally asked, “What are we doing here, Captain?”
Malgus had heard whispers of Stuart’s negative opinions about their mission in Colombia, his traumatic Puerto Gaitan experience, and the young man’s desire to save the Torres family.
A simple redirection to duty usually resolved these discipline issues.
“Following orders.” Malgus didn’t try to hide the accusation in his voice. “Get your act together, Sergeant.”
Stuart stood at attention. With a hollow voice, he said, “Yes, sir.”
Captain Malgus studied Stuart’s shallow reply before deciding it was enough. Stuart received his Captain’s message. Malgus stomped out of the field tent.
Joseph rubbed aching eyes, fighting off frayed nerves. Despite his efforts to hold them back, tears came. They streaked a line down his wrinkled cheeks, gathered under his chin, and fell to the paper creating blots of blurred ink and discolored rings.
The decades that followed the haunting operation had increased the weight upon his soul. It didn’t have to end the way it did.
He pushed on, writing through the tears, and ignored the stabbing pain in the swollen joints of his fingers. His quivering hand and distorted vision degraded his neat cursive.
…I once believed your husband to be just another naive, young brat, too undisciplined to follow orders, and more inclined to sluff off his duties than be a competent marine. Mrs. Donovan, I was wrong. Stuart was a good man. His doubts were evidence of his bravery and moral acuity. I failed to recognize that until it was too late…
Mud squelched beneath his boots as Captain Malgus reached Stuart’s field tent. Malgus tugged open the canvas flap and came face-to-face with Lieutenant Samuels.
The Lieutenant stumbled back a step before straightening himself. His concern was palpable as he stammered. “Captain, s-sir. I… He’s not here. He left. Stuart left. H-He did it. H-He went to save — “
Before the stuttering fool could complete his sentence, Malgus snarled and stomped off, his heavy boots pounding deep holes into the mud.
Furious, Malgus interrupted General Yarborough during the usual pre-mission address to the troops. “General.” Malgus gave his superior a half-hearted salute. He continued softly, “Stuart is off mission. He went to save the Torres family. Requesting permission to stop him.”
The General’s eyebrows sunk into a deep scowl. Loud enough for the group to hear, he said, “We are moments from our primary mission and cannot allow anyone to interfere.” The General stepped closer to Malgus and looked up at him. “Find him, Captain. Stop him by any means. Lieutenant Samuels will help with whatever you need.”
The Captain snapped a salute, turned, and began running off to gather his equipment.
The General’s voice came from behind him. “And stay away from the Torres lot if you don’t want to be sent home in a box.”
Malgus yelled over his shoulder, “Yes, sir.” He raced to get ready before Stuart, that treacherous bastard, caused the entire operation to collapse.
Malgus twisted and contorted his body around vines and branches clawing at his head and shoulders. He continued cautiously northward a couple hundred yards east of the Torres family home. Looking to his right, he saw a peculiar structure a few dozen feet further to the east hidden behind the leafy blind of the jungle.
A cacophony of gunfire and shouts rang from behind him. He ignored the sounds of men barking orders and the wails that followed. Malgus altered course toward the structure.
A collection of scrap boards fastened vertically together formed a tall, rectangular shape atop the uneven jungle floor. Similar boards made a single-slopped roof. Dark gray blotches from decades of rain and sun peeked through the green moss, enveloping what he determined to be a storage shed.
He cautiously made his way to one side and raised the top of his head level with the bottom of the shed’s single window. From there, he could see Stuart hunched over, clutching a green duffle while rummaging through something hidden from view in a dusty rocking chair.
Malgus ducked under the window and crept slowly to a withering door. He silently planted his feet. He raised his HK33 rifle, reached up and turned the door handle, and charged inside.
Light and wind poured into the shed, disrupting suspended dust, once blissfully floating in assumed safety of black, now fleeing, frantic after being discovered.
The pound and rattle of the brittle door led to the bustle inside. Captain Malgus saw Stuart abruptly let go of the duffle bag and reach for his rifle, pulling up short after registering the Captain’s words through the open door.
“Don’t move.”
Stuart froze — all blood drained from his face. Malgus saw the eyes of the young man widen as he loomed over him with a gun barrel pointed center-mass.
“Back away slowly.”
Stuart complied immediately, taking a few steps back from his own rifle and the rifle threatening to put a void in his chest.
Malgus took two quick steps to the rocking chair and secured Stuart’s gun. Resting upon the wooden seat of the chair, he saw a trauma kit, a small collection of unopened MREs, and two clear gallon jugs of water atop some stained civilian clothing.
Holding Stuart’s rifle, Malgus lowered the muzzle of his own.
“What are you doing here, Sergeant?” Malgus demanded.
Stuart stepped forward and picked up the bag. He started shoving the trauma kit inside as he replied, “There’s another way, Captain.”
“You are AWOL, marine.”
Stuart ignored the comment and stuffed a handful of MREs into the duffle. “This entire operation is wrong. It’s illegal. A war crime!”
Malgus raised his rifle toward Stuart. Twisting his face into a sneer, he said, “You are a disgrace to the Corps.”
Stuart’s eyes floated from the rifle barrel to burrow into his Captain. “I’m done killing civilians for the U.S. Marine Corps.”
“I suppose you are,” Malgus said, then tapped the trigger delivering a 5.56 millimeter round directly through Stuart’s heart.
…You may not care about the details, but you deserve the truth, Mrs. Donovan. After what I have come to know, I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine.
Regretfully,
Major Joseph Malgus of the Marine Corps, Retired
