The eight years of war since 9/11 had meant several Christmases

Host: The snow fell softly over the airfield, each flake melting against the warm metal of helicopter blades and diesel engines. The night was cold, infinite, and strangely quiet — the kind of quiet that only war knows, where even silence carries the weight of waiting.

A makeshift Christmas tree stood near the sandbags — a handful of green netting, a few empty shell casings, and a string of lights powered by a rattling generator. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was theirs.

Jack sat on a crate near the landing zone, his helmet at his feet, his hands wrapped around a dented tin mug. The coffee inside was lukewarm, but it was the only thing warm in the desert night. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged, her scarf tucked under her flak jacket, a small photo of her family in her hand.

The air buzzed faintly with static from the radio — Christmas songs bleeding into comms chatter. “Silent Night” mixed with coordinates. Comfort wrapped in code.

Jeeny: (quietly) “General Stanley McChrystal once said, ‘The eight years of war since 9/11 had meant several Christmases away from home for most of these men. For soldiers at war, there’s comforting continuity in the traditions and inevitability of Christmas.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. The calendar doesn’t care where you are — the date still comes, whether it’s peace or sand or gunfire.”

Host: His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion and memory. He looked out over the dark horizon, where the mountains were only shadows against shadows. The sound of distant gunfire — brief, muted — punctuated the stillness like punctuation in an unfinished sentence.

Jeeny: “I used to think Christmas was about home. You know, the tree, the warmth, the noise. But here… it’s something else. Something quieter.”

Jack: “It’s not about where you are. It’s about what you still remember.”

Host: The wind swept across the base, carrying the smell of oil, dust, and faint traces of pine from a small candle someone had burned earlier in the mess tent. It mingled with nostalgia — the scent of everything temporary.

Jeeny held her family photo closer, her fingers trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “I read that quote once, before I deployed. I didn’t get it then — the ‘comforting continuity’ part. But now I think it’s about pretending the world’s still normal, even when it’s not.”

Jack: “Yeah. The war keeps moving, but Christmas — it just shows up like it’s immune to chaos. It’s stubborn that way.”

Jeeny: “Stubborn, or sacred?”

Jack: “Maybe both. Maybe that’s what keeps us human — the illusion that some things don’t change.”

Host: He glanced toward the tree again — the shell casings glittering faintly in the half-light. Somewhere behind them, laughter broke out, small and unguarded, as a group of soldiers opened care packages: socks, jerky, homemade cookies wrapped in tinfoil and love.

For a brief moment, the base sounded like home.

Jeeny: “You think people back home ever understand what this feels like?”

Jack: “No. And I don’t want them to. Their not knowing — that’s part of what we’re fighting for. So they can argue over presents instead of positions.”

Jeeny: “That’s noble of you.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “No, it’s practical. The world needs people who believe it’s still innocent.”

Host: Her eyes softened, reflecting the dim glow of the Christmas lights. For a second, the lines on Jack’s face seemed to ease — the hardness that comes from carrying too much softening into something human again.

Jeeny: “Do you miss home?”

Jack: “Every day. But I don’t let myself feel it. Missing home gets people killed.”

Jeeny: “And remembering it?”

Jack: (after a pause) “That keeps me alive.”

Host: The radio crackled again — a new voice, somewhere in the command post, announcing the time. “2300 hours. Christmas Eve.”

Jeeny pulled something from her pocket — a small piece of paper, creased and yellowed. She unfolded it carefully.

Jeeny: “My mom wrote this before I left. She said, ‘Even in war, there’s room for wonder.’ I didn’t know what she meant.”

Jack: “You do now?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Wonder’s not about beauty. It’s about survival — finding something still worth believing in.”

Host: The wind died down. Somewhere beyond the perimeter, the desert exhaled — vast, empty, eternal. The stars came out slowly, one by one, like careful confessions.

Jack: “You know, McChrystal was right. There’s comfort in the routine. Even here. Especially here. It’s like we build our own Christmas — not with lights and trees, but with memories. With whatever’s left of our humanity.”

Jeeny: “And each year, we prove we still have it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Even if it’s just in the way someone shares their last pack of cigarettes, or sings off-key in the mess hall.”

Jeeny: “Or lights a tree made of scrap metal.”

Jack: (smiling) “Or saves one cookie for a friend who’s not coming back.”

Host: The silence stretched, heavy but holy. The snow — or maybe it was sand — drifted gently around them, blurring the edges of everything but the present moment.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what Christmas looks like from heaven?”

Jack: (quietly) “I think it looks like forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “You think God sees this? The mess, the war, the waiting?”

Jack: “Yeah. And I think He cries. But maybe He smiles, too. Because even here, in the middle of hell, we still stop to sing.”

Jeeny: “You believe that?”

Jack: “I have to.”

Host: A faint sound rose from the mess tent — a handful of voices singing off-key but earnest: “Silent night, holy night…”

Jeeny turned toward it, tears glinting in her eyes, her lips forming the words silently. Jack sat still, listening.

For once, the war didn’t feel endless.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what faith is. Not believing everything will be fine. Just believing something still matters.”

Jeeny: “Even when everything else falls apart.”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The camera panned slowly outward — past the two of them, past the crooked little tree glowing faintly in the cold, past the sea of tents and the desert stretching forever beyond.

Above them, the stars burned with quiet defiance, and the faint song of soldiers carried into the vast night: tired, imperfect, human.

And somewhere, faint but true, the echo of McChrystal’s words lingered — not as strategy, but as prayer:
that even in war, tradition holds,
and even in the ruins,
Christmas still comes.

Fade to white — like snowfall in silence.