A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  “Considering the circumstances, you seem kind of cool.”

  Anthony pursed his lips but said nothing.

  “Maybe they meant to torch it, maybe not. Was the rag burnt?”

  Anthony thought a moment. “No.”

  “Then it was just a message.” Means grunted. “Sound as if you might need a little help.”

  “No. I should be okay,” Anthony replied.

  “Let me know. I shipped enough stuff from ’Nam to start a small war.”

  “Isn’t that against the l… I appreciate it Means, but the police should be able to handle it.”

  “You live in a black neighborhood?”

  “Mixed.”

  “Then they might.”

  Chapter 21

  T

  he police came later that day, asked a few questions, took pictures, and took the bottle fragments and rag as evidence. They performed the tasks so perfunctorily, Anthony didn’t expect to hear from them again.

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah?” Anthony responded to the window installer as he turned from going up the stairs to the second floor.

  “I don’t know if this is important, but we found this piece of paper when we were sweeping up under that chair,” the installer said pointing to a leather high-back chair.

  “Thanks.” Anthony sniffed as he unfolded the paper. It smelled like gasoline, too. There were three words. FORGET ABOUT IT.

  It was Hanson; Anthony was sure of it. Anthony wished he could talk to him, tell him nothing had happened with his ex and nothing was going to happen. He held the piece of paper by a corner in case there were fingerprints.

  The next morning was Anthony’s first day back to work. The staff greeted him with pats on the back and “Way to go, Anthony.” “Good job, man.” Even Shanklar shook his hand.

  In his search for The Seven, Hanson, and Means, Anthony had pushed the Worth Bingham nomination to the back of his mind. “Awww,” Anthony remarked as he noticed the flowers and card on his desk. The gestures relieved the anxiety he felt about coming back to work.

  Expecting more congratulatory words, he opened the card and laughed. “Welcome back. Now get your ass to work. Bill.”

  The card refocused Anthony. He would put The Seven on hold for a while. Considering the job, Hanson, and, hopefully, the return of Carla and Mali, there was more than enough to keep him busy.

  In addition, he needed to step away from Vietnam, period. The dreams were less frequent, but he hoped if he could concentrate on the tasks at hand, he’d be the better for it.

  As he scanned through the mail upon returning home that evening, Anthony’s hands trembled when he saw the envelope from Eden Prairie, Minnesota. His reaction confused him. Who did he know in Minnesota? Anthony opened the envelope slowly, and then it hit him like a left hook to the temple. Arne Nielson, the reporter for Newsweek, was from Minnesota.

  Inside the envelope was another envelope with a letter addressed to Anthony.

  October 18, 1969

  Dear Mr. Andrews,

  We are forwarding this to you since it had your name on it. Arne spoke fondly of you and mentioned you were working on finding someone. We hope whatever’s in the envelope will help you with your search.

  Sincerely,

  Erik and Aniki Nielson

  P.S. Thank you so much for the kind words you wrote us about our son.

  * * *

  Anthony hesitated before opening the enclosed letter. Would it hold the secret to The Seven or was it a Pandora’s Box of bad memories that’d pull him back into the folds of the nightmares he was trying to escape?

  Anthony steeled himself, took Arnie’s envelope to his favorite chair in the living room, and slit it open.

  * * *

  Hey, man. It’s hot as hell out here. Hope you are staying cool.

  * * *

  Anthony smiled, relieved at the greeting.

  But his relief lasted as long as the first sentence.

  * * *

  Anthony, I know you might have heard those fifteen men were lost. They weren’t lost. Be careful. Watch your back. There was a screw-up. Officers’ careers are on the line. More info later.

  * * *

  Questions flew around Anthony’s head like ricocheting bullets. He sat trying to sort out what those few sentences meant.

  “It was odd, Mr. Andrews. There were no prints on any of the evidence we collected, including the note you brought in. We usually can find something, but whoever threw the bottle was careful, very careful.”

  Anthony thanked the officer. He was surprised they had called and even more surprised they had tried to solve the case. He’d already planned his next move. He would go to the bar where he had fought with Marvin Hanson to straighten things out. Anthony figured if Hanson knew he had no designs on his ex, he might back off.

  Anthony had no intention of telling the police it was Hanson. That’d be a punk move on his part.

  The Shanty was quiet for a Thursday night when the place served short ribs, baked potato, and coleslaw as a special. Anthony looked around, then walked over to the bar. “Has Marvin Hanson been in today?”

  Joe the bartender turned. His eyes widened, and the grin on his face was so broad, Anthony could have fit a beer bottle in it sideways. He pointed at Anthony. “You the…”

  “Yeah,” Anthony replied, blushing.

  The bartender shook his hand. “Why you lookin’ for him? You wanna go another round?”

  “No. I just want to talk to him. Has he been in?”

  Joe giggled. “Man, he ain’t been in since you decked him. I’m guessin’ he a tad embarrassed.”

  “Well,” Anthony said as he pulled out a pen and wrote his name and number on a napkin. “Tell him to call me if you see him.”

  “Will do, champ.”

  Anthony gave a half-hearted wave as he walked out the door.

  Boy, Anthony thought, he was having no luck finding anyone. However, he had found Means. No. Means had found him. But he had found Ernie Daniels. Not much good came of it. But he did have the name of the seven soldiers.

  The phone rang, jarring him back into the present.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Virginia Ector. I’m Ernie’s sister. I understand you wanted to talk.”

  Chapter 22

  I

  ’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It was nice of you to come to the funeral. So how did you know Ernie?” Virginia Ector asked.

  “I was writing a story about black soldiers. Ernie was one of the men I interviewed.”

  Virginia was silent for a moment. “Do you know how he died?”

  “No. I wondered…”

  “Suicide.”

  “Sui…Why?”

  “I can only guess.” She paused again. “My brother was successful in everything he did—sports, school…But when he got a Dishonorable Discharge, it depressed him.”

  “Dishonorable? You sure it wasn’t an Other-Than-Honorable?”

  “No. He made it very clear he received the worst of the discharges.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He never said, but he had a job waiting for him at an engineering firm, Schlacter and Associates. He was to be the first minority hired until they found out he was dishonorably discharged. No one else would hire him either.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I wish I knew what happened in the Army for them to treat him like that.”

  Without knowing Virginia Ector, Anthony admired that although sad, there was no bitterness in her voice. “I’ll do my best to find out for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Daniels committed suicide,” Anthony related to Means over the phone.

  “What?” Means asked.

  “That’s what his sister said.”

  “Wow.”

  “Evidently he was to get this great job when he returned home but was turned down because of his discharge status.”

  “That’s it?”

/>   “Far as I can tell.”

  “There’s got to be more to it. He didn’t seem that weak.”

  “You never know what’s going on in somebody’s mind,” Anthony offered.

  “Yeah. You got that right. But with his background he had more options.”

  The phone rang as soon as Anthony hung up. Two days with no calls, then two in a row. Maybe…

  “Hello?”

  “What you want?”

  Disheartened it wasn’t Carla, Anthony took a deep breath. “Mr. Hanson. Look. I want to set things straight between you and me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well. I just wanted you to know I have no interest in your ex-wife.”

  Hanson laughed. “Five hundred other people do, why not you?”

  “I–I have somebody.”

  “Why are you tellin’ me this? I ain’t interested in your love life, fool!”

  “Somebody is. I got a Molotov cocktail thrown through my window and a note saying ‘forget about it.’ I figured…”

  “What? You think it was me?” Hanson asked. “You some kind a cat. That’s another woman’s man tryin’ to get to you, player.”

  “So. You didn’t—”

  “If I want to take you out, I’ll be in your chest, not throwing bottles at your house. That’s a sissy move.”

  Anthony sat back after hanging up, relieved, but confused and frustrated. Instead of making sense of the puzzle, it had just become more complex.

  Chapter 23

  F

  or some reason, the dreams had come back with a vengeance. The screams were the kind that pierced his brain, then tore through his body, causing him to shiver for minutes after.

  It made Anthony reconsider Chucky’s suggestion of getting help. It might even get Carla back—but not yet. Things needed to be more settled.

  Virginia Ector gave Anthony new resolve and one more reason to find out what happened to the fifteen men and the location of those who had survived. Leave no man behind.

  He pulled out the sheet with the names and his notations and read them aloud as if a spirit would hear and reveal the information he needed.

  Anthony started to take a sip of Jack Daniels to salute the men. Instead, he took the bottle and the names into the backyard and poured a few drops on the ground to honor each of them for their service.

  “Means?”

  “Yeah, Anthony.”

  “I got a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any reason most of these guys came from Cleveland?”

  Means laughed. “Man, Cleveland guys stuck together like the Mafia. That’s why they’re on your list. When the fight broke out, Ernie said they did the most damage.”

  “You named Rabid, Preacher, and the Professor. Do you know any more about them?”

  “They were from Cleveland.”

  “Anything else?”

  Means paused. “Naw.”

  “If you asked around, you think you could find out their real names?”

  “Maybe. I know Rabid was a gang banger. I didn’t know Preacher or Professor that well, but I’ll check and get back to you.”

  Anthony noted Means’s comments. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 24

  M

  rs.—or is it Ms.—Ector?” Anthony asked over the phone.

  “Mrs. How can I help you?”

  “This is Anthony Andrews. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Did Ernie talk to you about Vietnam?”

  “No. When he came back, he was the quietest I’d ever seen him.”

  “He mentioned nothing about people he might have served with?”

  “Um, no. Not that I remember, but my memory is not the greatest.” Virginia Ector hesitated. “He wrote, though. He wrote a lot.”

  Anthony’s need to know was heightened by the possibility that Ernie’s letters might further divulge answers to The Seven. “Would it be possible to read those letters?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Andrews. Our mother would have a fit if she knew I’d given them to anyone.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Ector, and I respect that. However, something terrible happened to black soldiers over there, and it was covered up as far as I can determine. I can’t tell you if any of it relates to Ernie, but I know Ernie knew of the situation that got them into that mess, and anything I can find to uncover what happened to them might help another mother in her grief.”

  Anthony held his breath, waiting, hoping he had been considerate enough.

  “Well, if you put it like that, Mr. Andrews. I guess I could share them with you, but I don’t want what he wrote to be publicized. Can I trust you not to?”

  Anthony exhaled quietly. “Mrs. Ector, I promise you I won’t. It’s important to provide answers to the families whose sons died and resolution to those still alive, nothing else.”

  As Anthony hung up the phone, he sat back trying not to be too optimistic. They were just letters and might disclose nothing. But Ernie was the closest without being in it. He had to have written about a situation as bizarre as The Seven. Anthony would bet on it.

  Two days after his phone conversation with Means, the mail carrier delivered a medium-size envelope. The return name was Ector.

  Anthony ripped it open and pulled out sheets of paper wrapped in a neat bundle with a cover letter.

  Mr. Andrews. I’m sharing these letters with you and have the utmost confidence they will remain private. I hope there’s something in them that will help you in your search.

  There were close to twenty letters. Anthony unwrapped them and began skimming, looking for names, references to the brawl, anything. Most of the letters were mundane, describing the food, the base, and reassuring his sister he was not in harm’s way. One letter saddened Anthony. Daniels described his relationship with Colonel Bolt, whom he’d clerked for.

  He doesn’t like me for some reason, so I guess I don’t like him either. One thing for sure, whatever his problem is with me won’t affect what I do after the army.

  Anthony bowed his head. He wished Daniels had been right.

  Anthony was on the fifteenth letter when he read:

  Something’s wrong. Two of my good friends, Casper and Warfield, are missing. Probably has to do with the fight, but I never processed any paperwork on them, and nobody’s answering any questions.

  The next letter was another reassuring response to his sister. But the seventeenth letter, dated June 25 read:

  Casper, Warfield, and now Sampson, Turner, James, and Glover are still missing. It’s been seven days. Even if they were on some kind of mission, like somebody said, that would be crazy, because based on their military occupational specialties, most of them shouldn’t be in the field at all. And if they are, it shouldn’t have taken so long. I hope they aren’t lost or dead. But if so, there should be a search team. I haven’t heard anything like that happening. I’m really worried. These are my friends.

  Part II

  Chapter 25

  June 18, 1969A

  t 0700 hours, under a gray overcast sky, the Chinook dropped fifteen men at the bottom of a flattened hill. To Sergeant Willie Stinson, the bunkers lined with sandbags seemed haphazardly placed; he assumed there was a purpose to their positions. A thirty-foot observation tower loomed over two larger bunkers with fifty-caliber machine guns mounted and pointed toward the north and west.

  “They look like zombies,” Stinson observed as he and Casper glanced at the hill’s occupants. The soldiers sat around playing cards or lounging in their underwear near their bunkers, talking slowly and moving even slower. Most were unshaven and their hair unkempt. It didn’t take but a few seconds to understand their listlessness as cannabis smoke wafted around the fifteen soldiers trudging up the dirt path.

  A sergeant met them at the base of the hill and led them up a rock strewn path. Not one of the resident soldiers gave the visitors more than a glance, much less a greeting. The place stank of un
attended open latrines and garbage. No discipline, Stinson surmised as he looked around. If we are meeting officers who condone this, we are in serious trouble.

  Barbed wire and concertina coils covered the hillside. Three tents dotted the hill. Stinson figured the command post was the larger tent with sandbags stacked five feet high around it and topped by three long whip antennas.

  On a wooden sign in front of the command post, Fire Base Serenity had been meticulously carved into a strip of wood and nailed to a wooden stake. Another sign, just as artfully done on an arrow-shaped piece of wood pointing west said Complete Serenity 13,813 KMs.

  Two somber-looking sergeants stood in the back of the tent as the fifteen men crowded in. With no formal introductions, a Captain Ramsey began speaking. “There’s been ramped-up activity by the Cong in the area. We think they’re gathering for another assault on our bases near Tay Ninh. We need to know where. You are to find evidence of NVA activity and report back to us,” Ramsey said, rolling and unrolling a sheaf of papers.

  “Your mission is to be our eyes and ears. You will be dropped southeast of your objective. You are then to proceed northwest to a ridge indicated on a map Sergeant Stinson will be given. Report any and all activity, but you are not to engage. Any questions?”

  The men looked at each other with blank faces. After a pause, Ramsey continued, “If after reaching your destination, you have seen no Cong activity, you will meet with soldiers from the 1st Cav, who will give you further instructions on getting back to base.”

  Without any fanfare, the men were herded aboard a Chinook, and ten minutes later, dropped into a valley. Stinson quickly led the men out of the clearing to a tangle of trees, bushes, and vines.

  A sinking feeling flashed through Myron “Professor” Turner, a clerk in the adjutant general’s office as he wiped his glasses and watched the helicopter lift and fade into the distance. Even though he was with fourteen other soldiers, it was the loneliest he’d ever felt in his life.