In the Bunker by Jan Ackerson
Matt crouched low in the makeshift bunker that he had shared, for several hours now, with his buddy Harley. Both of them were Lance Corporals in the Marines, and had been in Iraq with their platoon for many weeks. There is a saying in the Marines: The Marines liberate and the Army occupies. This is what had recently occupied much of Matt's time here-trying to keep the civilian population of Iraq's villages and towns safe from the gunfire of rebels and insurgents. Lying in a bunker, for Matt and Harley, was a study in contradictions-there were long hours of boredom, punctuated occasionally by moments of heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping terror.
The young men passed the time in earnest conversation. They spoke of their families back home, and of the two pretty girls who waited anxiously for word of their safety. They shared how their common faith was sustaining them through these stressful months. They plotted practical jokes against their comrades, and practiced comical imitations of the pronounced southern accent of their sergeant. They complained about the heat and the lack of personal hygiene. Matt noted to Harley that he'd worn one pair of socks so long that they were crunchy, and that by his own reckoning, it had been 54 days since his last shower.
"Yeah...I noticed," said Harley, wincing.
"Dude...you're no bed of petunias yourself," retorted Matt.
Ordinarily, this exchange would have led to a round of mock combat, but this day was eerily hot and still-too hot almost for conversation, let alone anything requiring exertion. The canteen at Matt's shoulder, filled this morning with tepid water, had baked so long in the desert sun that it was now the temperature of a cup of morning coffee.
Despite the relative relaxation of the conversation, Matt's and Harley's Marine instincts were finely tuned. In one instant, a slight noise or movement in the distance captured their attention, and they looked out to see, about 100 yards away, a lone Iraqi soldier with weapon in hand, making his way toward them through the desert.
"I don't think he sees us," whispered Matt. The next several seconds were spent urgently planning a course of action. They had each others' backs, they vowed, and if they were spotted they would rush from the bunker together, and either subdue their enemy or die trying.
Even as this decision was made, they looked out again to assess the Iraqi's progress. To their astonishment, between him and them there now was blowing a swirling wind, kicking up clouds of yellow sand and obscuring visibility in all directions. Matt and Harley had no idea if the soldier was now upon them, or if he'd wandered off in another direction. They waited...and prayed.
Several minutes later, the sandstorm quieted. Matt peered out into the desert. The Iraqi soldier had disappeared. With gratitude, Matt thought for a moment of the words written on the outside of his helmet: Jehovah-Jirah-God provides!
(Based on true events told to me by Marine Lance Corporal Matt D.)
About the Author
Jan Ackerson is a Christian who has traveled though sorrow and depression, and has found victory and grace. She dedicates all writings to her Heavenly Father.
