My Father is my Hero

It was a cold December night. The night before Christmas to be precise. Most children, or should I say, teenagers of my age would be in bed, warm and cozy right now - dreaming of the gifts they would receive in the morning. If they couldn’t sleep, they would be listening to music or watching old Christmas movies. For me though, things were very different.

I was standing in a small airport near London; it was eleven thirty at night and I was saying goodbye to my father for what could be the last time.

Why? Because my dad was about to go on a tour to Afghanistan for six months. Christmas Eve seemed a particularly cruel time to send soldiers abroad. My mom was in floods of tears; they streamed down her face. I wanted to join her and cry - pour my heart out with her. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to remain strong. Show her everything was going to be okay, that there was nothing to worry about. Not just for her but for my dad too. I just couldn’t make it any harder for him to go than it already was. It would be selfish. I gave him a final hug and said goodbye. He turned to my mom and whispered something in her ear; then he kissed her on her forehead, told her he loved her and would always, no matter what happens. He boarded the plane. Mom and I waved until he was out of sight and then walked to the car. We got in without speaking. Mom turned on the engine and started to drive. I watched the windscreen wipers rotate back and forth, lost in my thoughts until I drifted into sleep.

I woke up the next morning to find myself covered in a blanket and lying on the couch. I caught a glimpse of our tree which we’d decorated it a couple of weeks before with Dad, and remembered it was Christmas. Christmas, a time which is usually happy and joyful; a time for celebrating and spending time with family. For me, it had turned to despair and sadness. I no longer wanted presents. I just wanted one thing back - my dad. Mom was trying her best to be cheerful, she’d even put some Christmas tunes on the stereo, but I knew it was an act.

Later on, after we’d been through the ritual of presents and Christmas lunch, the phone rang. It was an ‘out of area’ number. Confused, I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Warrant Officer Graham…” before his sentence was complete I yelled, “It’s dad!” Mom dropped the tea towel she’d been holding and came running. I’d never been so happy to hear my father’s voice. It was better than any Christmas present. He’d phoned just to tell us he was safe. He said he would be able to call once a week. He wasn’t sure what day or time, but he reassured us that he’d also send letters as often as possible.

During the week that followed, I sat down and wrote my first letter to Dad. I knew the more I wrote, the more he would have to respond to and I was looking forward to hearing back from him. It was important to reassure him with news from home and I was careful to focus on the positive. I posted it immediately and eagerly awaited a reply.

About a week later, I received a letter from Dad. He explained what he was doing, what it was like to be on the front line. He said how he missed us and couldn’t wait for my next letter. My dad loved my artwork but resisted whenever it came to military pictures - aircraft, weapons, bombs. I would dedicate all my time to working on drawings and paintings to send to him for his area in Afghanistan. He always got compliments about my drawings and I wanted him to be proud when he thought about me. True to his word, he called once every week.

Suddenly though, as spring arrived, the letters and calls stopped. The frosts and cold weather was thawing but I felt frozen inside. It’d been ten days and nothing. My heart was constantly in the pit of my stomach. I kept telling myself not to worry; he’s very busy…probably. Really, though, I feared the worst.

I was back at school now, working hard for my exams. My final art project was a collection of pastel pieces based on military objects - I’d had a lot of practice. The trouble was this made me think about Dad even more. Although I tried to keep them to myself, my fears grew.

After a long day at school, I came home to find Mom grey-faced with tear tracks and black smudge marks obvious on her face. She had been crying. My heart pounded uncontrollably out of my chest. I prepared myself quickly, ready for the worst. She sat me down at the table and, holding back her tears, looked me in the eye. “Your father’s… your father’s been killed in action.” Her voice wobbled and the tears came again. I felt physically sick.

“No. No, he can’t be… He just can’t be!” I shouted.

“He was shot, love. Killed in action. They told me he risked his life. No… he gave his life to save all his men.” Mom said.

“He’s a hero, my father. A hero.” I whispered to her. We sat in silence.

“Do you remember when we took him to the airport?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“He whispered something in your ear, didn’t he? What did he say?”

She knew immediately what I was talking about. “He said that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to tell you that he loves you. No matter how old you are or how old you become, you mean the world to him. He wanted me to tell you that if died, he would be watching over you every day. Like a guardian angel.” A tear of joy and sadness rolled down my face. I started to cry. Not because I was weak, but because I’d been strong too long. Not only is my father a hero, but he is my hero. My father. My hero.

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