Red Snow - Sean Ryan Stuart

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to our favorite ladies,” Jeremy answered, pouring both of them a healthy triple shot of Chivas on the rocks, and popping open a couple of beers.

      The conversation lasted all night. Both men reminisced about their lost loves and later drifted into war stories. Jeremy finally crawled to his room around sunrise; leaving Gilbert sound asleep on his sofa, a picture of his dead wife in one hand and the empty Chivas bottle in the other. At ten-thirty the next morning, Jeremy opened his left eye first. His head was pounding and his right eye refused to work. He finally forced it open and realized he couldn’t focus very well. Last night had been a total blank. Jeremy’s mind couldn’t concentrate on anything. He finally realized that he had consumed almost the entire bottle of Chivas himself and drank a majority of the beer as well.

      Gilbert was nowhere to be seen. He found a note on the chair saying, “Morning Jeremy, I’ve gone to the store for some groceries and I’ll be right back.”

      Jeremy, feeling relieved that Gilbert had survived the night, rushed out of the living room and walked unsteadily back to his own room. A hot shower, change of clothes, and a cup of hot coffee would do him good. Thirty minutes later, Jeremy was ready to check out of the motel. He walked downstairs and turned in his key.

      “Hey, young fellow, what’s the hurry? I’ve prepared breakfast for us, come and join me.” Jeremy, realizing it would be impolite to refuse, reluctantly accepted Gilbert’s invitation.

      “I am terribly sorry, Colonel, I guess I really needed to do that, but now I feel like shit! “Jeremy answered, slowly stroking his pounding head.

      Jeremy ate his breakfast in silence, purposely and politely evading Gilbert’s questions.

      “I think it’s time for me to go now, and I sincerely want to thank you for your hospitality and friendship,” Jeremy said, as he got up to leave.

      “Well, you are welcome, young man, and I hope that someday you’ll come back and spend another night here with your wife, uh, girlfriend, when she returns from Vietnam,” Gilbert stated as he was extending his hand across the counter. Jeremy shook it firmly and walked out into the bright California sunlight.

      Jeremy’s drive back to the Presidio seemed to take forever. Traffic wasn’t that bad, but his mind seemed to be in a coma and refused to work. It seemed like an eternity before he drove back through the main gate off Lombard Street. Nothing had changed, except that his Loretta was now en route to Vietnam and he was stuck here. He filled his time with endless trips to the “O” Club at night, and long walks along the seashore during the day. His feelings were in turmoil and he was happy for the solitude that the Presidio afforded him. On one such long stroll he bumped into an old friend whom he could barely recognized, CPT Justin Neal Brown, soon to be retired.

      “Excuse me, sir,” asked the ex-Air Force helicopter pilot.

      “Don’t I know you from somewhere? You are an awfully large individual to forget, and that streak of white hair. Bingo! I pulled your skinny ass out of the jungle! Right?” stammered Justin excitedly.

      “Well, I’ll be, it’s my savior, the greatest helicopter pilot in the world. Yeah, you sure did. What are you doing on this Army installation?” blurted out Jeremy, too excited to speak clearly.

      “Well, a few days after I rescued you, I was shot down and crashed near Da Nang. My left arm was severely injured, and some great Army specialist is supposed to make it better. The Air Force said there was this Army surgeon who could repair the damage. Anyway, I hope so! I am left handed, and it’s very difficult to wipe your ass with your right hand,” CPT Brown answered.

      “I expect it is, but I still owe you that drink, and I am sure going to show my gratitude. What are you doing tonight?” asked Jeremy.

      “Well hell, nothing but get drunk with you, buddy. It’s not very often I get to meet someone whose life I’ve saved. Okay, let’s meet at the “O” club at seventeen hundred. By the way, my name is Justin, but all my friends call me Neal, “answered CPT Brown with a grin on his face.”

      “Roger that, Neal. See you there,” answered Jeremy.

      Jeremy was surprised how eager he was to meet up with Neal again. It somehow brought back memories of Vietnam, and reconnected him to Loretta. He wondered how she was doing, and when he would receive the first letter from her.

      At seventeen hundred hours sharp, Jeremy walked in to the officers club, and saw that Neal was already there, and had a head start on him. His old friend Lt./Col Anthony “Glorious” Barnum was also there, and as usual he was showing his photo with John Wayne.

      “Oh, come on, “Glorious,” if John Wayne knew that you were freeloading off these disabled veterans, he would kick your ass. Besides, that good old boy there is the pilot who rescued my scrawny ass out of the jungle, and if anyone is going to buy drinks tonight it’s going to be me,” Jeremy stated with authority, so much so, that the whole bar turned and shouted a loud,” ‘Yes, sir.”

      Jeremy spent the next five hours with old friends. They told one lie bigger and more incredible than next. Jeremy and Neal spent a lot of time together over the next couple of weeks and it helped him get over his loss. Neal’s operation was successful, and he was transferred to the David S. Grant Hospital at Travis AFB. The last Jeremy heard of Neal, he had retired from the Air Force, and now worked for the United States Customs Service in San Francisco.

      A few weeks later, Jeremy received his long-awaited honorable discharge and medical separation, and he headed back East to see his parents. He was determined to start a new life, and leave all of this behind him for now.

      Back in Afghanistan, Jeremy stood up and told his friends that the story was over for now, and they should now leave his tent, as he wanted some private time. Khalil approached him and said, “Jeremy, it was a very honorable thing for you to do. We mujahidins would never have revealed so much personal information about ourselves.

      But you Americans are different, so open and free,” stated Khalil as he walked out of the tent.

      “Yes we are, and perhaps that’s what makes us such a great country,” answered Jeremy.

      Jeremy sat back down and wondered if it was a mistake to reveal to the mujahidin so much about himself. However, he knew his time was limited there, and he hoped that his transfer would come through in the next few months. He also hoped that this “confession” of sorts would allow him to sleep better at night. Although these dreams had awakened long buried and forgotten memories, Jeremy continued to think about his past, and decided he would not reveal anymore information to anyone else. His memories and thoughts were for him alone from now on.

      Flashbacks of a little red Mustang and a long trip home crowded his thoughts for the rest of the evening. His mind continued to focus on those long-lost events of twenty years earlier.

      He was hopeful that his decision to drive cross-country along the famous Route 66, now Interstate 80 in some parts, would probably free his spirit. Jeremy hoped he would once again become an almost civilized human being. Jeremy would take his time, and for the first time in his life, really appreciate the beauty of this land. He realized that he never could forget Loretta, but was bound and determined to resume his life again. Jeremy kept writing her every day, and was also resolved to send her outrageously funny postcards from the weirdest places he could find on his route home. Jeremy hoped that these diversions would help him forget the pain he was now feeling. Little in his current life would prepare him for the horrors he would encounter twenty years later in the highlands of Afghanistan.

      Loretta had lent him her beautiful little Mustang, and he was bound and determined to keep it in mint condition until her safe return. Early one morning, he got up and packed his duffel bag and checked out of the Presidio’s B.O.Q. Jeremy lazily walked down to the Mustang and threw his bags on the back seat. He carefully pulled out of the parking stall reserved for “General Officers

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