Orange is a vivid color.
It is strong and energetic, and offers strength during emotional crises. I remember this the most because of the bouquet of orange flowers I gave to my girlfriend before I shipped out. They were supposed to say something along the lines of passion and desire – or at least that's what the florist told me.
That day we had sat at an orange table at a café. She didn't know that it would be our last date for a while, or possibly forever. God, she looked beautiful that day. Well, she looked beautiful every time I saw her, but there was something about that dress of hers that just made her glow. It sucked that she chose to wear that dress on this particular day, but then again, it was great; I still remember the way her hair shone, and how her eyes brightened when I gave her flowers.
And I remember how those eyes immediately welled up with tears after I told her the news. I'd never seen her cry so hard before, and it felt terrible knowing that I caused her that much pain. We ended up cuddling in the backseat of my car, and all of her worries soaked through my shirt. I tried my best to reassure her – Yes, babe, I'll be careful and I won't ever leave you. Neither of us had mentioned the possibility that I wouldn't come back; it was easier that way.
I am reminded of her whenever I look down from the helicopter and feel the searing heat of bombs billowing through the jungles, the explosions rippling upward just like her dress caught in the wind. At night, when the darkness is littered with bright orange flashes here and there, poking holes through the blankets of heat, I could pretend I'm at a theater with her, and that the flashes are candles from those corny romance movies she loved so much.
And in the rare times someone dares to light a lantern in the field and the light coats everyone with its warmth, I think about the day at the café. Though her picture is worn and faded, my heart swells each time I gaze at her. How lucky am I? I always think. How lucky am I to have such an amazing person by my side?
Of course, the other guys like to tease me about that. They make lewd comments about her, tell stories of how their wives and girlfriends left them. They like to tell me that she won't wait, and that I'd better get off with a Vietnamese girl right now rather than go home and find myself alone. We know better, kid. I tied mine down with a diamond, and she still left. What's holding you together? And don't say it's your love, because you know women ain't happy enough with just that.
I'd like to say that their stories don't worry me, but they do.
She's on my mind every day, and I wonder what she's doing. On the other side of the world, at the same time I'm firing at trees and buildings, is she out with her friends? While I'm crawling through mud and pissing on myself, is she studying for a final, biting her lip in that cute way of hers while she works through a problem?
The click of a magazine sliding into the chamber of a rifle always brings me out of my thoughts.
This time, instead of firing at invisible enemies and empty foxholes, we prepare to conduct a nighttime raid on a village suspected of aiding the enemy.
The heat is heavy, the darkness a delicious topping over the small fires they have near their huts. For a while, I don't truly understand what we're doing. We surprise the village, and the world is condensed to three colors: orange, red, and black. I help secure the area and I gather the children, and in the background I hear men sobbing, their wives screaming.
Oddly enough, the children are silent, but their eyes are wide. Some soldiers interrogate the men, tie their hands roughly behind their backs and pull down canvas bags over their heads. They continue this process until all the men have been rounded up, and they are forced on their knees. The men insist that they are innocent, and each denial is met with violence.
We know the enemy is near here, tell us what you know, NOW!
I-I-I don't know, we have never talked to them!
And the dust swirls up as blood spatters on the ground.
This goes on and on for hours, until the radio starts sputtering nonsense. The comms guy listens to the squawks, and then turns to the officer: We're at the wrong village.
Everyone is still, and silence falls upon us as we realize what we've done, how we've ruined the lives of these people in just one night. The officer either knows how to hide his emotions, or was too shocked to give any sign of remorse or humiliation. He waves a finger in the air – move out – and then pulls out, of all things, a wallet.
On behalf of the U.S. government, we extend our sincerest apologies. We offer these consolation gifts in place of any inconveniences or other unintentional offenses we may have caused you. He hands one of the villagers a few bills, and looks back at us expectantly; we do the same.
We release the men, kick dirt over the blood, and stalk silently back into the jungle. That's when the children begin crying, and the villagers have no choice but to shrug off the events and resume their lives.
As we file into the jungle, I look back at the village. The fires seem to pulse slightly, but are smaller and dimmer than when we came in; they beat together, and that's when the night's events register in my mind. I finally realize what I helped carry out, how I helped ruin those people, and my heart wrenches painfully in my chest. I want to run back to the village and apologize over and over for what we did – for what I did. I want to erase the whole night and cuss out the officer for bringing us to the wrong place.
Orange is truly a vivid color; it provides strength and security through times of strife, physical and emotional.
Orange is also a dangerous color. Its strength can be so immense that it has the potential to dim and snuff out everything around it.