Authors: Jane Harvey-Berrick
I squinted out of the window,
rubbing grit from my eyes, trying to pick out Sebastian from among the small dots of men standing in the compound, but with all of them wearing the desert utility uniforms, I couldn’t tell which one was him.
My teeth rattled from the
helicopter’s vibration, and I had to grab onto my seat buckle to stop being thrown around as we banked sharply.
“
Excuse me, Miss Venzi.” A voice with an English accent reverberated through my earphones. “I’m Flight Lieutenant Reeves, and I’ll be escorting you back to Bastion.”
Oh. I
’d assumed I’d be going back to Leatherneck. I guessed it was just a case of who could give me a ride at short notice. In any case – the American and British sections were only a few miles apart.
Camp Bastion,
the British base in Helmand, was even larger than Leatherneck. It felt strange to be surrounded by English accents, and I kept expecting Liz’s voice to bellow in my ear.
I wasn
’t sure what they were going to do with me: I assumed they’d transport me over to Leatherneck and let the US decide how to ship me out.
But I was wrong about that. I was bundled into a Land Rover and
, instead, escorted to the Field Hospital.
I was greeted by a stocky man in the uniform of the Royal Army Medical Corps.
“Miss Venzi, I’m Major Gibson. I understand you’re here to claim the body of Elizabeth Ashton.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, and stared at him.
“No, I…”
He frowned. “I understand you were her next of kin?”
“She was my friend,” I said, quietly.
“I
’m sorry,” he said, shortly. “I understand this must be difficult for you. But her employers have given me her death-in-service contact list, and she’s named you as next of kin. She was quite specific about that.”
“I didn
’t know,” I whispered. “But I don’t mind. What did she… what did she want to happen if…?”
“Her body will be repatriated to the UK. I understand she
’s requested a cremation and a service at St Bride’s church, Fleet Street.”
That made sense. I remembered her telling me that the church
’s rebuilding after the Second World War had been paid for by journalists – it was their special place. I liked that.
“What do I need to do?”
“There’s some paperwork,” he said, kindly, “and her personal effects. Her newspaper is arranging for everything else.”
I nodded slowly. “Can I see her?”
He looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry, Miss Venzi, that won’t be possible.”
I could guess the reason.
I signed the forms he gave me, and was given a box with Liz’s name on it. Her camera was on top, with her laptop and notebooks at the bottom.
I pulled out her Nikon D4 – six-thousand dollars worth of camera. Liz was – had been – serious about her work; she
’d always had the best equipment.
“You can take anything y
ou want, Miss Venzi,” said the Major.
“Thank you. Did she leave any letters?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. She probably filed something with her paper before she flew out.”
“Ok
ay, thank you.”
We were interrupted by a young woman in scrubs.
“I’m sorry, Major, but we’ve got three Cat-A wounded coming in.”
He stood up, quickly. “I have to go. I
’m sorry, Miss Venzi. Your escort will be out front – you’re booked on the next flight out to Kabul.”
He left abruptly
. I didn’t mind: he couldn’t help Liz. Not anymore.
I sat for some minutes, staring at her box. Then I took her
camera, stuffed it into my daypack, and headed out.
For the next two hours I sat in a hangar at Camp Bastion, waiting for my flight back to Kabul. I emailed my editor to explain
that I needed a flight to the US, and sent the seven features that I’d already written with the photographs from the RPG attacks, as well as life at Leatherneck and from the compound. In other words, I did what Liz would have expected of me: I did my job. I would not let my paper be shortchanged – and I still had a lot to say.
Then, with my laptop balanced on my knee, I wrote Liz
’s obituary. I wrote about her love of life, her compassion, her curiosity, her fine journalistic sense, her decency and belief in the value of all human life. I remembered her tall stories, her hipflask – always full of the best Scottish whisky, her sympathy, her stoicism and, most of all, her humanity.
As I wrote, I wondered what would have been said about me, had I died. Would anyone have mentioned Sebastian? Other than Liz, who knew of our affair, our crazy love? Marc knew a little, and Nicole had an inkling, but other than that, would he even have been a footnote?
My insistence on secrecy seemed ridiculous now. Certainly, I wouldn’t have been allowed out to Nowzad had our engagement been known, but I could have been sent to another of the US military’s remote outposts.
And then I wondered about the two thousand US troops killed in Afghanistan. Who wrote their obituaries? Were their stories carried in small-town papers across the country? Or the 500 British troops; 158 from Canada; 88 from France; 56 from Germany; Italy, Denmark, Australia, Poland, Turkey, Latvia, Finland, Jordan – even Lithuania.
And 37 journalists: now, 38. So many deaths, so much loss.
I took Sebastian
’s ring off the chain around my neck, and slipped it back onto the third finger of my left hand, where, God willing, it would stay forever.
Back in Kabul, I checked into the Mustafa Hotel again. The manager was surprised to see me, but welcomed me and gave me my old room back.
I wished he hadn
’t. He’d meant to be kind, but staring at the twin bed where Liz had slept – and snored through half the night – I just felt sad.
I worked all night,
writing a rough draft, then polishing the remainder of the features that I owed the newspaper. All the time I wondered what Sebastian was doing; I hoped he’d finally get some sleep without me being there to distract him.
I emailed him to let him know I was back in Kabul and awaiting a flight
home. I didn’t know when he’d get it, but it was still important that I sent it. I also hand wrote a letter, telling him how much I loved him and missed him, and then spoke about all the things we could do when he was home with me in Long Beach. It seemed a long way away.
I was ready to pack up and try to sleep,
when I received an email from my editor. He was doing his best, but warned me it could be three or four days before he managed to get a flight. And he wanted to speak to me.
Just as I was about to call him, the signal on my cell disappeared again. I trailed down to reception to call him
from the hotel’s landline, which was only slightly more reliable. When I finally got through, I gave him more information about Liz’s death – the things I hadn’t been able to put in her obituary. Sounding shocked, he promised he’d get me out as soon as possible.
After that, I didn
’t feel like sleeping, so, instead, I spent the day wandering the echoing halls of the Afghanistan National Museum. Seventy percent of the artifacts had disappeared during looting over the past three decades, but the museum was slowly coming back to life. I took the opportunity to interview several of the enthusiastic, but poorly-paid, curators. They were hopeful that the long, cultural history had a future in their country.
I hoped they were right, and
I was glad that someone felt optimistic about Afghanistan’s future.
Wearily, I returned to my hotel room and wrote another letter to Sebastian. This time I told him about th
e surf spots at Long Beach, up to the Hamptons and as far as Montauk. I tried hard to make my letter upbeat and cheerful, but it was difficult when I knew I wouldn’t see him for at least another five months.
When I
’d finished, I kicked off my boots and lay down.
I hadn
’t eaten and I wasn’t hungry. At least I was tired: I curled up under the sheets, in the unbelievable comfort of the narrow bed, and wished that Sebastian’s warm body was next to me, with his breath on my neck, and his arms around my waist.
A loud knock on the door woke me from a light sleep. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. I squinted at my wristwatch: 2.45
am
.
“Who is it?” I said, loudly and clearly.
“Phone call.”
It was a voice I didn
’t recognize.
“Who
’s calling me?”
“
Phone call.”
I couldn
’t tell if it was simply that the person outside my door didn’t speak English, or whether I was in danger. I didn’t like it at all, and my anxiety levels shot up to Defcon 1.
Without
speaking again, I slipped on my boots, and picked up my evac-grab bag, with my finger one button away from dialing the emergency contact number on my cell.
I looked through the
peephole in my door but couldn’t see anyone; I listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything. I was well aware that someone could easily be waiting for me out of my sightline.
I took a deep
breath and yanked the door open: the corridor was empty. Which meant the phone call could very well be genuine and not a ruse. I hurried down the stairs, avoiding the elevator, and made my way to the reception area.
A young man in
a heavily embroidered vest over a loose, white shirt was sitting at the desk, half asleep. As I approached, he jerked awake.
“
Venzi?”
“
Ao,” I replied.
Yes.
“
Phone call,” he said, pointing at the telephone on his desk.
I picked it up tentatively.
“As-salaamu’ alaykum. This is Lee Venzi.”
“Caroline. At last! It
’s David.”
“David?
”
What the hell was my ex-husband doing calling me in the middle of the night? Was he drunk?
“
What’s the matter? How did you find me, David? Are you alright?”
“Caroline, listen, I don
’t have much time. I’m at the field hospital at Camp Bastion. It’s Hunter.”
“Sebastian?”
Oh no, please God, no.