The 38th Parallel

December 1950, near P'yongyang, North Korea.

Andrew heaved, blinked, struggled to focus. What he saw first was the red. Viscous and dazzling. He watched the scarlet ribbon unspool over the snow and remembered wet brushstrokes on a fresh canvas.

Days after arriving, he had passed through a muddy field trampled with blood and imagined his paints back home, red and brown melting into an indefinite maroon.

He gazed now at an unyielding red, etched in brilliant purity on the white flag of winter.

Harsh wind sliced through his haze. Andrew pushed himself upright and searched around anxiously.

Panting, he staggered to a slim soldier whose hands convulsed over the bubbling gash in his abdomen. Andrew gently removed the man's helmet, smoothed half-frozen sweat from his forehead, wiped bloody froth off his lips. With one shivering finger he touched the man’s golden hair, leaving a smear of red.

“Tom,” he whispered, then louder, “Tom!” Andrew took Tom's blood-drenched hand in his.

"Andy ..."

Tom was looking straight at him. And then, beyond him.

"Let's go, private!" The sergeant beckoned to Andrew, who suddenly realized he was weeping. He slid Tom's eyes closed, painting his pallid face with scarlet streaks. Then he stumbled after his troop.

As they crested the hill, Andrew could not resist one final look. Turning, he caught the sergeant eyeing him with a canny glint. He lowered his head and followed the line of tracks in the snow.