William Forstchen - The Final Day

“So far, so good,” John whispered as if to himself.

He looked around at his friends Danny, Maury, Forrest, and Lee, who stood to either side, all watching intently and waiting for the slightest suspicious act.

A hell of a world we have become, John thought. There was a time when we never would have doubted the sight of a helicopter with that star on its side. But now?

The chopper continued to settle, kicking up a near whiteout of swirling snow, the pilot edging it toward where John had ordered that Forrest’s 4×6 should be parked as an indicator of their presence.

“If this goes bad,” Forrest complained, “you own me a new vehicle and the gas that took it here.”

John said nothing, the chopper all but invisible as snow swirled about, a glimpse of it then touching down, turbine engines throttling back, and as the snow began to settle, he saw the side door swing open.

Even from this distance, he could see that it was indeed him. It was Bob.

John stepped out of the concealment of the hangar, ignoring the protests of his friends, Lee cursing and then stepping out behind him and protectively moving in by his side. The rotors continued to wind down, and he started to lift a hand to cover his face from the stinging blast but thought better; he wanted Bob to see that it was indeed him and not some sort of setup.

Bob leaped down from the doorway, nearly fell, and came up slowly, and John could see that his friend had indeed aged, remembering long ago how in so many training exercises, inspection tours, and their brief hours of combat together in Iraq, Bob would always be the first one out with a leaping bound and confident stride, radiating self-assurance and leadership. The snow from the three storms that had rolled in within as many weeks was nearly two feet deep at the level, even down in the piedmont region of Marion. The chopper’s rotors had blown most of the ground cover back as Bob moved slowly toward him. Perhaps, John realized, it was to make sure he did not slip and fall, and it be misinterpreted by his crew and what John could now see was a security team inside the chopper, that he had been shot.

Bob pulled back the hood of his parka, John doing the same, and with this mutual gesture, the two old friends could now see each other’s grinning features. Bob had indeed aged, his thick short-cut thatch of gray having gone completely white, features ruddy, heavy bushy brows squinting nearly shut from the morning glare and blowing snow.

They stopped half a dozen feet apart, and old instincts kicked in, John coming to attention and raising his right hand in a near-reverent salute.

“General, sir.”

Bob, coming to attention as well, silently returned the salute, the two gazing at each other, and then Bob made the final steps forward and threw his arms around John.

“My God, John! It really is you! Thank God you made it after all.”

“Sir, I thought you were…” John was overcome by emotion, and he fell silent.

“I wish,” Bob began. “I wish I could have seen Jennifer again, just one more time.”

Those words nearly broke John completely. Bob had stood as godfather for both of his girls. Childless himself, he had formed a special bond, especially with Jennifer, who used to call him “Uncle Bob.” A most memorable moment, at a formal review that was just wrapping up, Jennifer had shaken free of her mother’s hand and raced up to Bob, who was standing in the middle of the platform where he was at rigid attention, reviewing the troops marching by. She threw her arms around his legs and loudly asked what Beanie Baby he had brought for her that day. And in spite of all the formality of the moment, Bob had motioned to the ever-present aide that hovered by a general’s side. The young captain with grave features had reached into Bob’s attaché case to produce a stuffed golden retriever puppy for “my girl.”

And with that, the memory flooded to completion. The aide that day was Quentin Reynolds.

There was a squeal of delight as she clutched the latest addition to her collection, Bob picking her up and showing her how to salute the last company of troops marching by as he held her. There was not a soldier in the ranks of that company able to conceal a grin as they marched by. It was the exact kind of gesture that rather than creating smirking laughter later endeared him even more to his troops and their families who had witnessed the moment.

It defined the man that John was now hugging with open warmth.

John finally broke the embrace and stepped back, but Bob reached up, for John towered over him by a half foot or more, and put his hands on John’s shoulders.

“Son, it is so good to know that at least you survived.”

“And you too, sir.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and the two reverted back a bit to remembrance of command, that at such a moment so many were watching them for the slightest signal or gesture, friendly or hostile.

John looked back at the chopper. There were at least half dozen heavily armed men in the crew compartment, while Bob’s eyes darted past John to take in the old airport, obviously evaluating.

“Yes, sir, I’ve got a lot of people concealed around here,” John said softly, “so let’s defuse them. Okay?”

Bob nodded as John turned away from him for a moment and raised his arms high, waving them over his head to indicate that all was well.

“We’ve got a woodstove ready to light in the airport clubhouse and packed along some MREs. Let’s get your team in and get mine out of the woods,” John announced. “This damn cold makes me long for the desert again.”

Bob motioned for his security team to get out, gesturing as well for them to sling their weapons, while John stepped away from the chopper so those in the wood line could clearly see him, waving his arms and shouting for them to stand down.

The six-man detail in the chopper got out, weapons slung over their shoulders but still obviously wary as they spread out into a loose circle around Bob, watching as Forrest stepped out of the hangar, M4 held casually in his one hand, followed by Maury, Danny, and Lee, who had yet to shoulder their weapons.

“Your friends?” Bob asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“The one-armed character with the eye patch?”

“Airborne. Sergeant in Afghanistan, Silver Star and obviously a Purple Heart.”

Even though he was moving slowly, Bob was still in his usual form as he walked up to Forrest and without going through the formality of a salute just extended his hand.

“Trooper, I’m honored to meet you.”

The gesture forced Forrest to sling his weapon, catching him off guard, and John breathed a sigh of relief when Forrest actually forced a bit of a smile and extended his hand.

“First time a damn general ever offered to shake my hand, sir,” Forrest announced. “Maybe you’re okay like John said.”

“I hope I am. If we get time, I want to hear your view on some things.”

Bob’s comment had a casual air to it, the type of line many in high command used as a friendly gesture but still a brush-off, but from Bob it was indeed genuine. When in command of John’s battalion, Bob was the type of commander who would swoop in on a unit before dawn, ignore any officers who might be fumbling around, head straight to where breakfast was being dished out, get a cup of coffee, and then start peppering the cooks and dishwashers as to how they saw the unit. Dishing out his own meal, he’d then sit with a table of enlisted men and ask questions.

At the end of more than one such inspection swoop, an officer might very well be on his way out to reposting in some godforsaken place. Chances were that regardless of their friendship, Forrest might be asked a few pointed questions as to how he felt about John’s leadership.