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We had been chosen to deliver the news. The bad, bad news that could only crush the fragile sense of hope all families felt with their loved ones away in the war. We were coming to destroy that hope with the worst kind of news as I unlatched the rusty little gate. It still squeaked. Stiles had always said that sound would signal that he was finally home, finally safe. It occurred to me he would never hear that sound again. Never hear his children laugh. Never see the golden brown eyes of his wife. That was the longest walk of my life, only two days after Stiles's death.
I could see the sunlight flood into the house; see the face of his wife drop. She knew why we were here. Why did we still have to say the words? Protocol of course. "Beg pardon, ma'am. We have some bad news for you, I'm afraid – the worst…May we come in?"
After delivering the crushing news, I went home and cried. Not the gentle type of crying with tears sliding slowly down my face, but with sobs that erratically wracked my body and the tears falling into the crevices of my blotchy, scrunched up face. I hadn't cried when we were told he was missing in action. Why would I? He could've come back couldn't he? I didn't cry when he turned up, albeit as a corpse. I guess it hadn't sunk in and the grief had become bottled up, until now. I didn't know whether I was unable to accept his death because I didn't want to believe it could be true or because I couldn't accept that I had caused Stiles's death.
It was some time after midnight, the third day after Stiles's death, when the hideously loud banging began. I wanted to dull my senses until the light didn't burn my eyes, the delicate, fruity smell of his wife's perfume didn't saturate my nose and the rusty squeak of the gate weren't etched into my senses like a torturous nightmare that wouldn't end. I was in agony, the agony of a man responsible for the death of a living, breathing human. Harsh yelling started to accompany the banging and my only choice to silence the cacophony was to open the door. Every step towards the door only grew my sense of apprehension. My gut knew who would be on the other side. She would want answers, answers that I didn't know I could give her.
I opened the door and his wife barrelled through. Her hair was unkempt with bloodshot eyes that had no more tears to shed. "You didn't tell me everything." It wasn't a question, or an accusation, but a statement of fact. "I don't care if you couldn't bring yourself to do it, or you weren't allowed to, but I need to know. I have been left a widow, my children fatherless and I get nothing more than the basic courtesy extended to every family tainted by this sort of tragedy? I need to know!" Her voice had risen from woebegone and barely audible to a distraught and desperate shriek. It was my fault and I had to fix it, my conscious demanded it.
My body slumped disconsolately against the pristine white wall. We both desperately needed something from each other. She needed answers and closure. I needed forgiveness. I needed forgiveness like a farmer needs water in a drought. Would I receive it?
The words began to spill from my mouth. Slow, stilted and ineloquent, and then faster and faster until I came to the very words I had dreaded to say aloud. "I made the call. I made the call that got him killed. If I hadn't told him to fly lower…the plane…he…his plane wouldn't have gone missing. I killed him."
The silence deafened me as I waited for the response that would free me or condemn me to an eternal hell. Sweat made my palms clammy in the tepid, stagnant air. My chest started to tighten and my breaths became shallow, erratic. Still the silence continued.
"You didn't kill him. He knew the risks and he accepted it. He wouldn't want you punishing yourself over something you couldn't control." Her voice, so quiet, seemed to penetrate the hush.
Relief washed over me like a wave growing, crashing and breaking on the shore of my conscience. A heavy, heavy burden was lifted from my conscious. Those were the words I needed to hear.