A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  It felt as if hours had passed. Anthony’s mind was numb. The sounds of battle shifted to the south as the crackle of weapons firing one burst after another became even louder. Shortly after, a different sound penetrated the air. The hiss of artillery rounds followed later by rockets from Huey Cobra helicopters was joined by thuds and reverberations of shells and bullets battering the ground and anything in their path, upheaving dirt, shrubs, and sod.

  As they carried the wounded and dead past Anthony to an open area, he recoiled at the sight of a soldier with a single bullet hole in his forehead, another with half a foot missing, and one with a wound so horrific his intestines were spilling through a loosened gauze bandage.

  He fumbled in his bag for his camera, cursing his trembling hands as a medevac helicopter plunged in to gather the severely wounded and then the dead.

  The volume of firing crescendoed again before tailing off to sporadic small arms fire. Wrenford approached with two of his men. “You okay?”

  Anthony exhaled. His hands hurt from gripping the weapon so hard. How long had he held his breath? “Yeah, Sarge.”

  “Good. You done good. They were trying to hit us from the rear. You helped stop ’em,” Wrenford said, patting Anthony’s shoulder before moving on.

  “The enemy’s been routed,” Maynard called in to headquarters. “First platoon pursued the remainder to an open area. The Cobras did the rest.”

  Maynard paused, listening. “I’m not aware, sir.” The lieutenant paused again, “Yes, sir. I will.”

  Wrenford and Maynard glanced at each other, then gave clean-up orders to their men.

  Anthony stood by the two men, waiting to hear more, but except for an occasional head shake by Maynard, Anthony could only guess their concern had something to do with Valentine missing in action.

  Chapter 8

  A

  nthony jumped from his bunk, startled by the rattling of the flimsy wood door to his hootch. He had just drifted into a restless sleep.

  “Yeah?” he croaked.

  “It’s me, man. Nielson. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Anthony responded, trying to clear his throat.

  “It’s close to 2000 hours. You need to get out. You need to eat.”

  Anthony rubbed his eyes. “Give me a few.”

  “I’ll meet you at the club. I’ll tell ’em to keep something warm for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Anthony sat back down and took a deep breath. Sighing, he struggled up and tried to shave with trembling hands before noticing the dried blood on his palms. He stopped, threw the razor in the sink, pummeled his hands with soap, and watched the reddened water wash down the drain.

  He pulled Carla’s picture out of the suitcase and looked at it for a few minutes, before taking a deep breath and stepping into the dark.

  “Wow, man,” Nielson stated with one hand on Anthony’s shoulder and the other holding a full glass of Jack Daniels. “I wish I could have been there.”

  Anthony glared at Nielson but said nothing. The numbness of combat had rendered him speechless.

  “You okay, though?” Nielson asked, looking at Anthony closely as Nielson wolfed down a sandwich of scrambled eggs and bacon.

  Anthony nodded.

  “Fifteen dead, eighteen wounded on a fuckin’ sweep for a squad of VC. Damn!” Nielson took a drink. “If what I hear from my source is correct, G-2s got some explaining to do.”

  “G-2?” Anthony asked.

  “Division Intelligence,” Nielson answered scowling. “Valentine’s company was supposed to be looking for the suspicious activity of twelve to fifteen Cong sighted in one of the villages. Instead, they run into a buzz saw—part of a North Vietnamese battalion. Everybody’s trying to figure out how they got there.” Nielson looked at Anthony’s plate. “You gonna eat that ham?”

  Bertram glanced at Anthony twice, then nodded as Anthony sat near Bertram’s desk. Anthony, lips pursed, nodded back.

  “I hear you did a little soldiering.”

  Anthony licked his lips and nodded again.

  Bertram moved beside Anthony and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry about that, Anthony. I didn’t plan on you bustin’ your cherry on your first outing, but this was a serious screw-up all the way around.”

  “How so, Major?”

  “Here’s what I can tell you,” Bertram said, pacing beside his desk. “There weren’t supposed to be so many Charlies in the area, especially not regular forces.” Bertram paused, rubbing his chin. “And for some reason, the commanding officer…”

  “Valentine?”

  “…wasn’t anywhere to be found.” Bertram pounded his desk once. “Unless he has a damn good explanation…”

  Anthony hung his head. The first black officer he met, and he was in trouble. “I don’t suppose he would be available for an interview?” Anthony asked.

  Bertram shook his head.

  Chapter 9

  July 18, 1969

  Dear Carla,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written more. I’ve been busy trying to get information on the seven men I mentioned. Things have been hectic in other ways here, too, but I’m okay.

  I will see you soon, baby.

  “Your story “Bad Blood” was rejected, Anthony,” Marie Simmons, a Post editor, relayed on the headquarters’ phone.

  “But it’s one of the major stories over here.”

  “I’m sure, Anthony. We want the positive accounts, though. You went on a patrol, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weren’t there any hero stories?”

  “Shit, Marie. They were all heroes.”

  Marie laughed.

  “What?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard you curse.”

  “First time for everything,” Anthony muttered under his breath.

  “Write the hero stories then, Anthony.”

  Anthony had anticipated the Post’s response. It was a check to see how far they’d let him go. Now that he knew, he’d write the stories they wanted, and he’d write the stories he wanted for another time, another publication.

  The day would be another busy one. Anthony had tried to push aside memories of the battle by staying occupied. Hopefully, lining up a series of interviews would help.

  After showering, he returned to his hootch to find a folded piece of paper under his door.

  Anthony,

  I’ll be in the field with the 1st Cav. I found some interesting information for you. Should be back in a few days. We’ll talk then.

  Nielson

  Anthony smiled, refolded the paper, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  While Anthony continued to interview, he took every opportunity to gather more information on The Seven, the riot, and Captain Valentine.

  “Tell me about the riot,” Anthony asked Terrence Means, SP4 from Brooklyn—Anthony’s bunker mate during the mortar attack and his last interviewee that day.

  Means, a member of the Black Panthers, was a five-foot-eleven bodybuilder and one of the more militant soldiers at Cu Chi. His reputation preceded him since Anthony had learned of Means from others he’d interviewed. Because he was constantly challenging authority, Means was always one step removed from being thrown in the stockade. Means also had a following of like-minded soldiers who weren’t shy about confrontation.

  Means frowned. “June twelfth? I was in Vung Tau.” He scratched his jaw. “I’m sorry I missed it, but it wasn’t no riot; it was a brawl.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A riot is like a rebellion, a revolt. A riot makes it sound as if just the black soldiers were involved in violence when, in fact, they were only protecting themselves.”

  “How many?” Anthony asked.

  Means called over one of his friends, Private Ernie Daniels, a wiry, six-foot-tall soldier with a short afro, to corroborate his estimate. “Close to forty of us and maybe a hundred of them at the end?”

  Daniels nodded.

  “Forty
?” Anthony asked.

  Daniels snorted. “Yeah. Five of them jumped one of us, and it blew up. Before you knew it, it was on.”

  Anthony scribbled a few notes before stopping and staring at Means and Daniels. “June twelfth? When did those seven soldiers go on patrol?”

  Daniels frowned. “It had to be right after. Maybe seven to eight days later.”

  Anthony cocked his head as he wrote. “Any connection between the seven men sent out and the ri…brawl?”

  Means looked at Daniels, then at Anthony and sniffed. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Anthony waited.

  Means looked around, motioned Anthony into a vacant barrack, and asked Daniels to stand watch.

  “Instead of the stockade, Colonel Bolt came up with another form of punishment.”

  “Which was?”

  “Those guys, the seven soldiers, were not only in the fight. They were part of the so-called riot leaders.”

  “So how did they end up in the field?”

  “There were fifteen total—all black.”

  “Out of forty?”

  “Yeah. Bolt told them, ‘Since you guys love to fight, I’m going to give you the opportunity.’ ”

  “Who were they with?”

  “What company?” Means asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, they came from all over, but most from headquarters.”

  “Headquarters?”

  “Yeah. Non-combat troops.”

  “Seven came back. What happened to the other eight?”

  “Nobody knows. From what I understand, nobody expected any of them to come back. Maybe the eight bought it like the other seven were supposed to.”

  Means pushed Anthony out of the door when Daniels signaled someone was coming. “We’ll talk later,” Means whispered as they exited.

  “You got names?” Anthony whispered back.

  “Later,” Means answered as he walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  July 26, 1969

  Dear Anthony,

  What’s wrong? I know something is. Your letters have never been so brief. Are you really okay? You didn’t mention the picture I sent you. You haven’t mentioned Mali. You haven’t told me you missed me—none of that.

  Your dad said to say hi, and your mother worries whether you have the right clothes and are eating enough.

  Let me know you are okay.

  Please be okay, honey.

  I LOVE YOU!

  Carla

  Chapter 10

  A

  s Anthony headed toward headquarters to pry additional information from Bertram, he overheard a captain tell a lieutenant, “A journalist caught one last night,” as they walked the wooden plank path ahead of him.

  Anthony stopped the two officers. “I’m sorry for intruding. Do you know who it was?”

  “I’m not sure. Just that he was on patrol yesterday.”

  “Damn!” Anthony said under his breath as he half walked, half ran to Bertram’s office. He found the major behind a hut talking to two other officers.

  “Major?”

  “Anthony. You heard?”

  “Not the whole story. Was it…”

  Bertram nodded.

  Anthony’s stomach churned. He bent over as he felt his breakfast rise. “What happened?”

  “There was a firefight. Nielson disobeyed orders and got in the middle of it, taking pictures. Took one in the chest.”

  “Jesus.”

  “They medevaced him out immediately, but he died en route. I’m sorry. I know you guys were friends.”

  Anthony ran his hands over his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “If you want to write his family after the official notification, I’ll get you the information.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bertram tapped Anthony’s arm. “Look, Anthony. You’ve been through a lot since you got here. Why don’t you take a few days off, go to Saigon, and relax? It’ll do you good. I’ll get someone in the adjutant’s office to arrange transportation.”

  Major Bertram was wrong. Saigon did Anthony no good. The Caravelle Hotel with its Italian marble, bulletproof glass, state-of-the-art air-conditioning system, and a Berliet private generator did nothing to calm his nerves.

  The Caravelle was the center of the universe for the international media covering the war. It was in the middle of Saigon, in Lam Son Square, offering an oasis in an otherwise chaotic city.

  From Anthony’s window, he could see the spires of the Saigon Cathedral, the U.S. Embassy, and the Opera House. The Saigon River was a few blocks away. On the street, residents, looking like a swarm of Japanese beetles, glided around on rickshaws or buzzed around on motor scooters.

  Even the popular Saigon Bar on top of the hotel didn’t help. Early evening of the first day, Anthony and fellow foreign correspondents stood on the roof, having drinks and watching the air strikes across the river. The planes were so close a decent telephoto lens could pick up their markings.

  He wondered if any of these correspondents had been in a firefight or on patrol. He doubted it, judging from the boisterous laughter and cheers at the rockets and bombs as if they were at a Fourth of July picnic.

  “Having fun?” Adele Mason, the cute, flirty correspondent from the San Francisco Chronicle, asked.

  “Not really,” Anthony answered, preparing to leave the bar, never to return.

  “Ohhhh. Why not?”

  “Not my kind of party.”

  “No?” she purred, running her hand along Anthony’s arm. “What is your kind of party?”

  “A slumber party.”

  Adele smiled coyly and moved closer. “I’m game, Anthony.”

  “Alone,” Anthony countered as he pulled his arm away, finished the last of his drink, and took the stairs to his floor. He stopped at the first landing and looked up, before shaking his head and continuing to his room.

  Early that night was the first dream: One, two, ten, twenty, and then so many soldiers in green he couldn’t count, rushing toward him, shooting, screaming…

  The next day, Anthony walked the streets to get his head straight. He returned to his room late morning, ordered room service, and drank and slept the remainder of his R&R away.

  Chapter 11

  B

  ack on base, Anthony trudged on, continuing his search for answers, but he was thwarted at every turn. If no one was talking before, soldiers were tight-lipped even among themselves concerning The Seven and the fight. The seven soldiers, plus Captain Valentine, seemed to have disappeared.

  “Means is in the stockade,” Daniels whispered while passing Anthony on the way to his post.

  “What happened?”

  “You.”

  “What?” Anthony sighed. So it was true. Anyone talking about the seven men was subject to punishment. Why would the Army go to that extreme? Anthony felt guilty getting Means in trouble, and it was clearer than ever, if he was to find what happened, it wouldn’t be in Cu Chi.

  The Post loved his stories of men like Sergeant Ronald Mansfield, a sniper from Dayton, Ohio, who took out two Viet Cong snipers plus a North Vietnamese major in one outing, or Sergeant Fredrick Sommerville from Brooklyn, New York, who rallied 2nd Platoon after his lieutenant was wounded to help turn back the recent battle outside Tay Ninh. Then there was Spec 4 Milan Richardson from Elba, Alabama, who after his M-60 jammed, engaged in hand-to-hand combat after the Viet Cong had breached the wire in one area of the Dau Tieng base camp perimeter, killing two and wounding two others with a .45 and a trenching tool before being wounded himself.

  Since it was nearing the end of August and Bertram had provided no further insight into Anthony’s queries, he prepared to return to D.C., having almost completed his two-month stint. In the remaining days, he hung out with the enlisted men, drank Jack Daniels, and slept.

  Anthony received another letter from Carla in the afternoon.

  August 30, 1969

  Anthony,

  Now I’m reall
y worried. Your last letter said you were okay, again, like you were still trying to convince me you were. That letter was not you, Anthony. What’s going on over there? At least I know you are alive. Were you hurt? What happened? And when will you be home?

  Love you,

  Carla

  When Anthony awoke the next day, hung over, in an empty bunk in the enlisted men’s barracks, he knew it was time to leave. Was the liquor how Nielson had coped?

  Anthony’s last days on base were uneventful, except for the send-off the black soldiers gave him for telling their stories. The soldiers surrounding him gave him the black power salute as he boarded a jeep taking him to the airstrip.

  “Be safe, man. We’ll try to stay in touch,” Daniels said.

  Even though his articles were well received by the newspaper, Anthony felt his mission was incomplete. On the plane back to the States, the events that transpired during his stay ran over and over in his mind. He thought of those soldiers who fell to enemy fire trying to do the best job they could. He thought about the dragons of dread and fear a soldier carries to the field of combat, harnessed by dedication, discipline, and resolve.

  Because of their example, Anthony knew he wasn’t finished. As much as he wanted to put Vietnam behind him, his experience was etched in his soul as he imagined it was for each soldier. And that was why there was still work to be done, even if it meant dredging up the horrible memories.

  Anthony would answer the questions left at Cu Chi. He’d seen hell, and he had witnessed it in the eyes of The Seven. And because of that, he felt a bond he imagined connected everyone who experienced war—a shared horror of lost lives, torn souls, and uncertain futures. It was his duty, his obligation to find those men and tell their stories.

  Chapter 12

  A

  nthony didn’t understand his nervousness as the plane landed at Dulles International Airport. But when his wife and daughter met him as he passed through the door to the concourse— greeting him like some war hero— they hugged and kissed Anthony’s anxieties away.