A Requiem for Me

I lead a local weekly writing group, and for this week, I gave them a series of paintings and told them to choose one and "write themselves into the painting." So the story below was my attempt to do the assignment with them this week. I started with the painting above, knew that I would be writing about old love letters, and let the story run from there. Like all good fiction, it contains some elements of reality, but I'm not telling you which ones are true! I wrote this in under an hour.

Enjoy.

A Requiem for Me
5-27-14

I sat in the semidarkness, the bed littered with the well-worn evidence of his love surrounding me. I picked up a handful of the pages and lifted them to my face, breathing in the scent of sandalwood that still lingered there, even after all this time. Tears streamed down my face as I marveled that ten years had passed since last I saw his slanted writing grace my mailbox. How could it be that long? Where had life gone? How had it passed me by without shaking me from my grief-riddled slumber?

With a gentle sniff, I choked back the tears, leaning back against the pillows tossed careless at the head of the bed. I sat, gazing sightlessly out of the sliding glass door that led to the sheltered deck outside, but it was images of him that danced before my eyes.

I remembered that day - god, was it 25 years ago? – that he found out that he had gotten approval to write his Requiem Mass for credit, instead of taking the Freshman interim class. He swooped into the room, feet barely touching the scuffed linoleum flooring, gathered me up in his arms, and swung me around in circles until I was dizzy. I had never seen him so ecstatic, before or after that moment. He was transformed.

It was a busy month for us, while he was writing and casting his requiem. He carefully selected his musicians and singers, turning to me and saying “And of course, you will sing, won’t you? I can’t do this if you won’t sing. I’m writing it for you.”

All I could do was nod my acquiescence, as the lump in my throat was as large as a grapefruit. How could I deny him this?

For weeks, we rehearsed, painstakingly repeating each measure, tweaking and changing, until it was exactly as he had envisioned it in his mind. As we stood the center of the cavernous chapel, before the mighty pipe organ, our voices echoed from the stone and glass that surrounded us. We were finally ready.

That month was the beginning of it all: the daily rehearsals, the late night sessions where he confessed his dreams by candlelight, listening to the music that was his inspiration. As his composition matured, so did our relationship.

The night of the performance, I was nervous. Our small band of performers huddled together in the vestry before the announcement of the program, saying a silent prayer to the muses of music that we would be at our best.

As we walked through the chapel door to the haunting prelude of the organ, I swept a glance through the crowded chapel pews, my gaze locked onto his, and I knew in that moment that everything was right.

The performance was flawless, and the audience rose to its feet with applause as the final notes died away behind us. Tom was on his feet, accepting the congratulations of everyone around as I sneaked a quick glance over my shoulder on the way back into the vestry.

This was Tom’s night to shine, and shine he did. The high he had lasted for months. We would sit in the dark, talking about the future, planning and dreaming, and knowing that it all just seemed right. I was madly in love.

Then one day, Tom came in with a rather serious look on his face, and told me he had some news. I didn’t like the sound of that. He sat me down on the bed and took my hands in his, without meeting my gaze.

I knew I was in trouble then.

“What is it, Tom?” I asked, with trepidation.

“I’ve made an important decision,” he replied. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then went on. “I’m going into the Navy in two weeks.”

“The Navy?” I couldn’t believe my ears. How could this talented musician let it all go to waste by enlisting in the military? What about all his grandiose plans?

“Yes, the Navy. It’s the only way. My money is gone, and I have to do something to support myself.”

The reflection of headlights outside the bedroom window brought me back to the present once more, and I fingered the yellowing pages on the bed beside me once more.

Those were hard years, the ones during his enlistment. The stack of yellowed letters, sent from ports around the globe, had been her only sustenance during that time. Oh, he loved her – at least he said he did – and he told her all the right things in the letters, but he was
physically absent for far too long.

She supposed that they both glamorized their relationship while they were apart. It’s an easy thing to do, highlighting the exciting and wonderful traits of a person while forgetting their flaws, while they are distant. She created a fairytale life to which she assumed he would return one day. For six years, they carried on this way, each knowing that reality was far from ideal, but neither willing to shatter the illusion they had carefully crafted between them.

And then, suddenly, he was home. For good. He stood before her, a changed man. Gone was the wild-eyed, carefree youth of their college days, whose eyes glimmered with hope and promise. Instead, she faced a shell of a man, who had seen far more in his tours of duty than any human should ever have to see. Her Tom, her glorious musician, was gone.

They played house for a few years together, trying to make things work. Tom jostled from one job to the next, without ever finding his groove, and always seemed to be just a little off kilter from the world. He had no spark in his eye, no joy in his heart, and I was devastated. Meanwhile, I was settled into my comfortable career as a high school teacher, slugging back and forth to school each day, grading papers, dealing with stubborn students and even more stubborn parents. It was an existence, but it certainly wasn’t a life.
One day, I took a chance and sent a recording of Tom’s Requiem Mass to a recording studio, without his knowledge. Patiently, I waited for some response, some sign that would tell us what we should do.

Finally, the letter came. The studio was thrilled with the composition and wanted to do a recording session in New York. This was Tom’s big break. I sat him down that evening and told him what I had done, saying “Music has always been your first and only true love, Tom. It’s time for you to acknowledge your love. You are going to New York, you are going to work with the studio, and you are going to BE the musician that you were born to be.”

Tom fell silent in contemplation. “But, what about us?” He finally asked.

“I need to stay here. This is your dream, not mine. This is what you need to do.”

We sat; quietly holding hands for what seemed like hours in the darkness that night, and in the morning Tom made the arrangements to begin his new life.

Once he left, we stayed in contact, of course. At first, it was daily phone calls and frequent letters, but as his muse grew, he needed me less and less. I was like a mother bird, watching her fledgling chicks find their wings. It was time for Tom to leave the nest.

Finally, the letters slowed to a monthly missal reporting on his latest musical achievements before stopping altogether ten years previously.

I gazed out the door again, into the ink-black night. I squinted, trying to discern stars in the dark sky, but saw none. I ran my hands softly over the sandalwood-scented scraps on the coverlet once more, before rising to put Tom’s Requiem Mass on the CD player. It marked the beginning and the end of their ill-fated relationship. I sighed, knowing that my loss was truly the world’s gain.

Chrysallization Part 2

The Bridge of No Return

Chrysallization, Part 2

...Once we were all aboard and everyone was settled and quiet, the Major barked out our itinerary, informing us that we would make a short stop on the way up to the DMZ at an overlook which had a memorial and historical marker and also provided an overlook to the “Bridge of No Return,” a famous piece of Korean history.

Located in the Joint Security Area, the so-called "Bridge of No Return,” also known as the Freedom Bridge, crosses the Military Demarcation Line between North Korea and South Korea. It was used for prisoner exchanges at the end of the Korean War in 1953. The name originates from the fact that prisoners were given the choice to remain in the country of their captivity or cross over to the other country. If they chose to cross the bridge, they would never be allowed to return. In 1983, it was also the single road connecting the two halves of Korea, and was closely monitored by military personnel.

Still traumatized by the bullet holes in our bus window, I had a hard time relaxing on the drive. The bus had no air conditioning, but we had all of the bus windows wide open, allowing for hot, dusty waves of air to pummel their way through the aisles. My throat was parched, so I reached into my tote bag for the bottle of water I always carried.

As the countryside rolled by outside my window, I rested my head against the seat back and thought about my family. I wondered what my mother would think if she knew what we were doing right at this moment. She would probably faint with fear. I was glad that she wouldn’t know until after we were safely home again.
After about 30 minutes, we pulled off into an innocuous looking parking lot, seated beside a park-like area. “Ok, everyone out here. We’ll have about 30 minutes here to take a look. Be sure to read the historical marker and look at the model. It’s very interesting stuff.” The Major directed before he hopped off the bus.

Rich and I gathered our things and filed out of the bus with our friends. Once on the ground, I stopped and looked around. It was actually quite a peaceful spot. There were flowering trees, and grass, and benches, and pebble-covered paths. One could almost forget that we were in a military zone.

We walked to the overlook to gaze down on the Bridge of No Return. From this height, it seemed just a country bridge, quite unimposing or spectacular. I thought about the history we had learned, about how the Koreans had to choose which side of the border they wanted to be on when they were finally closed at the end of the war. How could one choose? What if you had family on both sides of the line? What if your family were on one side, but your political convictions drew you to the other? It was all so complicated. I was happy that I had not had to make such a choice.

I snapped a number of photos with my 35mm camera (no digital cameras in 1983!), wandering around and taking in the atmosphere. We had been instructed that we could not take pictures from the bus while we were in motion, but that we could take all we wanted at this spot. I was taking advantage of the opportunity. I was in a very thoughtful mood.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the overlook. The Sergeant who had accompanied us was pointing excitedly down at the bridge and yelling at the Major. The Major took one look down the hill, and turned to start barking orders at us.

“NOW. Back on the bus. Hurry!”

We looked around amazed for a moment. Was this the same man who told us there was nothing to worry about a few hours earlier? I couldn’t tell what the problem was.

“I said NOW, PEOPLE! Let’s move!” He barked again.

Startled out of my thoughts, I started hustling towards the bus. Once aboard and back in my seat, I hunched down, trying to stay below the window line. I didn’t want to make myself a target. I whispered a fervent prayer that we would be able to escape whatever threat was out there, and be returned safely to our families back home. I thought about my mother and father, who had put me on the plane with tears in their eyes, and my brother, who had cheerfully slapped me on the shoulder and said “have fun!” I screwed my eyes shut and hoped that I would see them again.

Our group threw themselves aboard the bus in record time, and the driver had the door closed and was tearing off down the road even before everyone was in their seat. The Major seemed to relax once we were far enough down the road to be out of sight of the Bridge beneath us. He sighed, and turned to face the group, bellowing at us.

“Sorry for the scare there, folks. It was probably nothing at all, but my Sergeant spotted an unidentified vehicle coming down the Freedom Bridge from the Northern side at a high rate of speed. We can’t take any chances with civilians, you understand.”

I just looked at Rich, and grabbed his hand tightly. I wondered if the Major was telling us the truth, or if there had actually been any danger for us. I was starting to wonder if I should have stayed behind.

As the bus moved further from the Bridge of No Return, I forced my breathing to return to normal. Watching the landscape as it slid past the open bus window, I let my mind roam. I thought about the whole concept of war and its consequences for society. I wondered if war was ever worth it in the end.

About thirty minutes later, Rich poked me in the ribs to get my attention. “Hey, Chris. Are you sleeping? I think we’re almost there. Look!” He said, pointing out the front window of the bus. Ahead, I saw military gates, fencing, and the tip of a tall stone monument with a key hole opening in it.

The Major stood up and addressed the group. “If I could have your attention, please, folks. We are approaching the DMZ and Panmunjom. We will have about an hour here, but please stay with the Sergeant and me. We need to be sure that you stay in the authorized areas within the DMZ. No wandering off.”

The group murmured a little in response, I’m sure wondering the same thing I was – what threats might be lurking here, especially after our scare at the Freedom Bridge. As the bus pulled up to the gates, we began to gather our belongings and move towards the front of the bus.

Stepping down onto the concrete, I stopped and looked around. It was obviously a military installation, with gates, fencing, and lots and lots of concrete. And there was an eerie sensation in the air, one that I could not quite identify, that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I took a deep breath and grabbed Rich’s hand for support, wishing my family were here instead.

“This way, folks,” the Sergeant directed, leading us through a set of barricades and a guard house and into the installation itself. As we walked, he explained where we were. He lectured, “Panmunjom is actually an abandoned village on the de facto border between North and South Korea. In 1953, the Armistice Agreement was signed in Panmunjom. The building where the armistice was signed still stands, on the north side of the Military Demarcation Line, and the North Koreans have since renamed the building the Peace Museum.”

“Although the village itself was abandoned and disappeared, the name is now used to refer to the Joint Security Area, where discussions between North and South still are held in the blue buildings that straddle the Military Demarcation Line. You can see the line of buildings off to your left, over there,” he said, pointing ahead of us.

“The actual building in which the armistice was signed was constructed by both sides over a 48-hour period. North Korea provided labor and some supplies, while the United Nations Command provided supplies, generators, and lighting to allow the work to continue overnight.” As the Sergeant droned on about the history of the place, the group was struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. Those at the rear, I’m sure, were unable to hear his commentary.

He continued, “In September 1953, after the Armistice Agreement was signed, construction began on a new site located approximately one kilometer east of the village; this is the Joint Security Area we told you about earlier, and all meetings between North Korea and the United Nations Command or South Korea have taken place here since its completion. People now use the name Panmunjom to refer to the JSA.”
“There are 24 buildings in the 800- meter diameter area, where representatives of the United Nations and North Korea meet to confer about a variety of contentious issues,” he continued, pointing around him at the surrounding structures.

“We are currently only about 25 miles from Seoul, the capital of South Korea. That means that it is only a 60 second flight by jet. There’s a map up here that shows you exactly where we are in relation to Seoul, and shows you just how close we are to North Korean territory. Again, I must caution you not to stray from the group as we move about the JSA.”

Rich and I exchanged a nervous glance, and I grasped his hand tighter as we moved forward. This was the closest I had ever been to a military conflict. It was not a comfortable feeling.

The Sergeant then explained that the roads upon we had travelled from Seoul were named the Unification Road and the Freedom Road. Freedom Road ultimately connected with the Freedom Bridge, or Bridge of No Return, that we had seen from the overlook. He explained that the “Freedom Bridge,” would immediately be destroyed in the event of military aggression by North Korea. That bit of information made me think about the truck we saw on the bridge not long before. How likely would Northern aggression be?
“Let’s stop here for a minute,” he said, stopping in front of a large, two-story white building with a pagoda in front of it. “This is “Freedom House,” and you will have a few minutes here to take photos, if you wish. We will move on in 10 minutes. Please do not wander.”

I thought it was ironic how the word “freedom” seemed to be bandied about in this region. I figured it was a ploy by the United Nations forces to demonstrate their victory over the villainous Northern Forces – a gentle slap in the face of the Communists, if you will.
From this observation platform we could see across the line that divides North and South Korea. As I gazed across, I saw a North Korean observation tower, a North Korean visitor center, and “Conference Row,” which are the blue buildings where UN and North Korean officials meet to administer and enforce the armistice agreement of 1953. I also spotted a number of US and South Korean military personnel, lining the walk outside one of the conference buildings.

And as I surveyed the area, picking out landmarks and snapping some photographs, I also spotted a number of North Korean guards, positioned on their side of the JSA. I pointed them out to Rich. “Do you see them? Those are NORTH Koreans over there, Rich,” I whispered nervously, as if they might hear me if I spoke too loudly.

“Yeah, they are. But they’re on THEIR side of the line, so we’re good,” he joked.

Rich’s jokes weren’t making me any less nervous. I looked around at all of the military personnel I could see on both sides of the Demarcation Line, and I realized that they were all fully armed. I swallowed hard again, thinking back to our adventure at the Bridge of No Return, and prayed fervently that we would have no such encounter here.

Chrysallization, Part 1

Panmunjom, Demilitarized Zone, Korean Peninsula.

When I was 16, I traveled to the Far East for 5 weeks, visiting China, Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and South Korea. The following short story recounts the experience we had when we had the opportunity to visit the Demilitarized Zone. I will break the story up into several successive posts here on the blog.

Chrysallization, Part 1

I remember the day I truly became an adult.

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t lose my virginity, or take my first drink, or move out on my own: those events actually all seem trivial in comparison to the transformation that occurred that day.

It was 1983, and I was only sixteen. It was a bright, hot, July day, with temperatures in the high eighties and even higher humidity, so I was dressed in a brightly colored sundress and a light white sweater. And we were about to enter the Demilitarized Zone on
the Korean Peninsula.

Our group of 57 high school singers and 6 chaperones was lively as we entered the auditorium where we were to have our next orientation session. Already in the third week of touring the Far East, travelling through Japan, China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and now South Korea, we were pros at being “oriented.” There was laughter and boisterous conversation as we casually took our seats, anxious for the program to be over so we could be on our way to the “real stuff.” We had arrived at the UN Security Forces forward base named Camp Bonifas.

The room darkened, as the slide projector warmed up in the background. Two U.S. military personnel appeared in the beam of light at the front of the room, commanding our attention and ushering us into silence without a single word. The first, a U.S. Army Major, stepped forward and said “Welcome to the DMZ. I’m Major Willis, and this is Sergeant Carter. Before we board the bus and actually take you up to the zone itself, we have some information to share with you, and there are waivers that will need to be signed by each of you.”

“Waivers?” I thought. “hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about?” I shrugged my shoulders and leaned back in my chair, feeling tired and clammy in the air conditioned darkness after the hot humid air outside.

I looked around at our group, and noticed that most of my companions were also exhibiting this same mild curiosity about the Major’s words.

Soon, images began to flash on the screen. The presentation began with a brief history of the Korean Conflict, fought between 1950 and 1953, which ended essentially in a stalemate. The Korean War was the first test of the new United Nations, created at the end of World War II, and it would also be the first armed conflict of the Cold War era. The battle between communism and capitalism, the free and slave worlds, was about to commence, and would rage for over forty years across the globe, fought in political, economic, social, and ideological arenas.

Most of this was not news to me. I had taken a particularly good history course that year, and covered the 20th century well. I loved history. The rest of the group was restless, however, exhibiting signs of disinterest in this history lesson, events that seemed like ancient happenings to the group of teenagers. A low murmur spread through the room as side conversations began.

“Can we focus, please?” our group leader and director, Dr. Morris Hayes demanded, spreading an evil eye over the room. “Settle down and listen up!” Properly chastened, the choir members were silenced once again, and attention returned to the Major and his slide show.

Major Willis then continued his presentation, explaining that the American participation was crucial to the Korean conflict, and ultimately, the U.S., UN, and South Korean forces would remain a steady, peacekeeping force in the neutral boundary that was established along the de facto border between the two warring nations of North and South Korea. Somewhat incongruously named the “Demilitarized Zone,” it is one of the world’s most highly defended borders.

The zone is 160 miles long, and approximately 2.5 miles wide, and runs along the 38th parallel, cutting the Korean peninsula roughly in half, crossing the 38th parallel at an angle, with the west end of the DMZ lying south of the parallel and the east end lying to its north. It was established by the Korean Armistice Agreement signed in 1953 in Panmunjom by North Korea, the People’s Republic of China, and the United Nations Command. This neutral zone was named the “Demilitarized Zone,” and it sat on either side of the dividing line between the two states. According to the Armistice, each side agreed to move their troops back 2,200 yards from the front line. The Military Demarcation Line goes down the center of the DMZ and indicates exactly where the front was when the agreement was signed.
I noticed that my companions seemed to be paying more attention to the Major’s presentation now. He had captured their interest.
With the next slide, Major Willis explained that as a result of the genuine hostility between the North and South, despite the theoretical peace that was signed at Panmunjom, large numbers of troops are still stationed along both sides of the line, each side guarding against potential aggression from the other side. In 1983, the United States still had 40,000 troops stationed in South Korea.
The armistice agreement explains exactly how many military personnel and what kind of weapons are allowed in the DMZ. Soldiers from both sides may patrol inside the DMZ, but they may not cross the MDL. Between 1953 and 1999, sporadic outbreaks of violence due to North Korean hostilities killed over 500 South Korean soldiers and 50 U.S. soldiers along the DMZ.

Although the Korean Conflict officially ended in 1953, to this day neither side has granted diplomatic recognition of the other, and tensions have remained high. In the 1980s, as the Cold War was sputtering its last gasps in Europe, tensions were even higher in the Pacific. Our merry little band of singers was about to enter into one of the most contentious arenas in the world, and we had no idea.

As the Major clicked through his slide presentation, filling our heads with statistics, images, and details about the history of the region, I stole a glance around the room. The whispers and snickers had disappeared, and in their wake I saw intense concentration appearing on the faces of my companions.

“What the heck are we doing here?” I wondered. “Is this even SAFE?”

Major Willis wrapped up his history lesson, and clicked on one final slide, which was an image of a waiver form. “You will each find a copy of a waiver on the desk in front of you. Please read it carefully, and then sign and date it at the bottom.” At this point, Sergeant Carter moved forward as well.

“A waiver? A waiver for what?” I mused.

A few hands tentatively rose in the air around the room. The major pointed to Rudy, an outgoing senior, seated in the front row. “Yes? You have a question?” Major Willis asked.

Rudy boomed out, “Excuse me, Major, but could you please explain why we need to sign a waiver?”

The Major cleared his throat, swiped a gaze around the room, sighed, and explained. “Because this is technically a military installation, and there are active military personnel on duty, and since the region has been the site of violence in the past, we need you to sign this waiver, saying that the U.S. government, the Korean government, and the United Nations may not be held accountable for any injuries that might befall you on your trip to the DMZ. It’s merely a formality.”

“A formality?” Rudy interrupted. “Then why must we sign? Is there a real danger to any of us?”

“We haven’t had any active conflict here for years, only a skirmish or two. You will be fine,” Major Willis assured us, nodding his head encouragingly. The Sergeant next to him matched his bob with his own.

The mood in the room had turned somber: no more giggling or carrying on. Now the Major had everyone’s full attention.

“And what if we don’t sign,” Rudy persisted.

“Then you will have to wait here while the rest of the group tours the DMZ.” Major Willis explained. “It’s that simple. Sign or stay here.”

We all looked to our chaperones for guidance, searching their faces for some inkling of what we should do. The six of them exchanged looks, then picked up their pens and signed their own forms with a flourish, signaling that we should all do the same.

I took a deep breath, re-read the form in front of me, and picked up my pen. I read:

During the period from October 1966 to 28 August 1967, 160 hostile acts were committed south of the Military Demarcation Line by the North Koreans. In addition to direct attacks against UNC military positions, these acts of violence included mining of roads, destruction of sleeping quarters, and blowing up of civilian passenger trains. One of the most vicious attacks was the machine gunning of the Military Armistice Commission Advance Camp on 28 August 1967. During this attack, three were killed and twenty-six were wounded including three Korean civilians. Your requested visit to the conference site at Panmunjom, located in the Joint Security Area (JSA) entails travel over the same route where this attack occurred. As recently as 18 August 1976, an overwhelming force of club and ax wielding North Korean guards assaulted UNC Security personnel in the JSA while they monitored a civilian tree trimming work party. In this attack, two UNC officers were beaten to death, the first to have occurred in this ‘neutral’ area. As a result of the incident, the Military Demarcation Line (MDL) has been drawn through the JSA diving it into two distinct areas.

I exhaled loudly. “Wow. This doesn’t sound good…” I continued reading.

Under mutual agreement with the Korean People’s Army/Chinese People’s Volunteers (KPA/CPV Communist Side), no military personnel are permitted entry to the side of the JSA controlled by the other side. Therefore, UNC guards cannot provide security to visitors in the JSA that are not on the UNC side of the MDL. In addition, though travel restrictions for United States citizens were lifted in April 1977, the JSA is not an authorized crossing point to enter North Korea.

At no time have any mines been detected or used in the road you must travel from Freedom Bridge to Panmunjom. It must be pointed out, however, that you will be travelling into and through a hostile area; and, although no hostile acts or incidents are anticipated, the possibility of their occurrence must be recognized.

With this in mind, the following certificate must be read and signed….

Now I felt sweat dripping down the small of my back, and my palms felt clammy. “Possibility of hostile attacks? Mines on the road? What the HECK were we doing here?”

Taking a deep breath, I continued reading the waiver itself.

I recognize that my impending visit to the Joint Security Area at Panmunjom entails entry into a hostile area and that I am subjecting myself (and my family) to the possibility of injury or death as a direct result of enemy action. I understand that the Joins Security Area is a neutral but DIVIDED area guarded by UNC military personnel on the one side (South), and Korean People’s Army personnel on the other (NORTH). I understand, therefore, that I am NOT permitted to cross the Military Demarcation Line into the area of the Joint Security Area under control of the (NORTH) Korean People’s Army. Although incidents are not anticipated, the United Nations’ Command, the United States of America, and the Republic of Korea cannot guarantee my (our) personal safety and may not be held accountable in the event of a hostile enemy act.

I gasped audibly, looking around the room. “Wait a minute – possibility of injury or DEATH?” I started trembling; telling myself it was from the air conditioning on my sweaty skin.

Silently, one of our chaperones, Miss Hartzell, slid into the chair beside me. “Are you ok, Chris?” she asked gently.

“Are you sure this is safe? Do you really think we should be doing this?” I whispered.

“This is just a formality, really. If there is any chance of danger, our military guides will not let us go any further. We will be perfectly safe. You can sign.” She responded, nodding her head.

With one last deep breath, I grasped the pen tightly in my right hand and managed to scrawl my signature at the bottom. I thrust the signed page at Miss Hartzell, anxious to put evidence of our potential threat out of my sight.

Major Willis and Sergeant Carter moved through the auditorium, collecting the completed waiver forms. The room was unusually quiet. Everyone seemed a bit shell-shocked by the experience. The lights came on, and I could finally see my companions clearly once again. I met my friend Rich’s eyes from across the room, silently telegraphing a question through the air. “Are we ok?” He nodded slowly, but also shrugged his shoulders slightly, raising his hands questioningly.
“We will now have to break the group in half, so that you will fit on our busses. Please form two equal groups in the lobby. The chaperones, too, should divide themselves, with half of you accompanying each group.” The Major directed.

As we filed into the lobby, I skipped ahead to stand next to Rich. I definitely wanted to be with him for this experience. “Let’s try to get on Miss Hartzell’s bus,” I prompted. Miss Hartzell was my home choir director, so I felt quite close to her.
Twenty minutes later, my half of the choir group was following the Major across the parking lot to an old school bus painted in camouflage green, which was to be our transportation to the DMZ. Apparently, our two busses would be staggering their departure times, so we would not all be at the same place at the same time.

“Watch your step, everyone, as we board the bus. Sorry about the lack of luxury, but it’s the best we have for you!” The Major warned as we approached.

When I was about two feet from the bus, I stopped abruptly. I stared at the door of the bus, which still stood closed, waiting for the driver to open it and welcome us aboard. There were three bullet holes in the glass panes of the door.
“Bullet holes… in the door….” I whispered under my breath, unable to move forward. “I thought this was safe….”
Rich noticed me stop, and turned back to see what was wrong. “Chris? Why did you stop? Come on, so we can get good seats on the bus.” He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me forward, but I was frozen in place with fear.
“Rich, look at the door of the bus.”

“What are you talking about, Chris? Come on…” Rich trailed off as he turned back to the bus and finally noticed the bullet holes. “Oh, wow. Are those what I think they are?”

“Um, Major? Excuse me, Major?” I managed to blurt out, hoping to catch our leader’s attention.
The Major turned around with a quizzical glance. “Yes, what is it? We’re on a tight schedule here. Come on…”

“Major, I’m sorry, but are those BULLET HOLES on the bus?”

The Major gave a short laugh. “Oh, those. Yeah, don’t mind those. We often have used vehicles up here that have seen action. Don’t let it bother you….” He turned, gave a wave to the driver, and waited for the door to pop open. Then he hopped aboard the bus with a flourish, waving his hand for us to follow.

I looked Rich in the eye and grabbed his hand for security. “I’m glad you’re with me, Rich. I hope nothing happens.” I swallowed hard and followed Rich onto the bus, plopping down two seats behind the Major. I swung around to scan the bus behind me. I saw Miss Hartzell seated several rows back, chatting casually with Miss Knudsen, one of our other chaperones. She seemed unconcerned. I sighed and tried to relax.