A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  At first she thought the black soldiers were one of the assault patrols, but their reaction to Quan Doc’s one shot caused her to reconsider. She snorted as she watched three of the men run in fear. It was contrary to anything she had ever known or heard about the black soldiers, and it confused her.

  Were they lost? No. Not this far in. Plus, she had heard the máy bay chuồn that had flown them in. No one came to this area without a purpose.

  Quan raised his Soviet Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifle for another shot, but Trac stopped him. There were fifteen of them, lightly armed and poorly trained. It would be easy to wipe them out with the forty-three men under her command.

  Trung squatted, scratched her underarm, and spat. She was intrigued. As long as she had been in battle, she had never encountered a group like this. It was a puzzle to her, but once she solved it, they would die like the rest of the invaders.

  Chapter 30

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  wo of the men turned and raised their rifles at a noise to the rear.

  “It’s Casper,” one of the soldiers whispered, “with the two runners.”

  Stinson turned to see Leroy Casper with two rifles strapped to his back herding Clarence Bankston and Darius Ward at gunpoint. During the brawl at Cu Chi, Casper had reminded Stinson of a larger version of himself. Casper had fought through five attackers to get to his buddies. Bodies fell so fast, it seemed as if a runaway truck had plowed through the crowd.

  “What you want to do with ’em, Sarge?”

  Stinson glared at the men. “Nothing, right now. Give ’em back their weapons. I’m feeling like we’re going to need everybody we can get—and soon.” Stinson remembered the two cousins from Mississippi from the mess hall. They were loud, boisterous, and irritating—and from their action today, gutless. “If they run again,” Stinson proclaimed, “any of you have my permission to shoot their asses.”

  “Sar—” Ward tried to say.

  Stinson raised his hand. “You’ve got nothing to say to me, and I got only one thing to say to you. You pull that shit again, you are dead.”

  One by one, Stinson made the men pull back to continue. He pointed to Bankston and Ward. “Make a stretcher to carry him.”

  “How, Sarge?” Ward asked.

  “Two large branches, a poncho…Show them, Fletcher,” Stinson said, exasperated he even needed to explain.

  Stinson handed Casper his field glasses. “Stay behind for a few minutes and see if anyone is following us.”

  He could feel their stares. The men looked to see how Stinson was handling the wounded soldier’s continuous moaning interspersed with low gurgling sounds that could wear on a priest. But there was nothing he could do about it. They would have to get used to it, as he was trying to.

  Why him? Stinson thought. Stinson couldn’t remember his name, but had seen him a few times. He was one of the more popular soldiers on base—quiet, thoughtful, and observant.

  But this was war, and death was random. All you could do was your best. Fate decided the rest.

  One of them being shot meant somebody out there was intent on taking them out. Even if it was a lone sniper, unless his men eliminated him first, the odds no one else would be wounded or killed were low.

  Stinson sighed to himself. Even though surrounded by the men, he felt as lonely as a boater with no paddle drifting farther and farther away from the safety of the shore. It wasn’t until they had covered a few more kilometers and Casper had reported no movement that Stinson exhaled, yet an uneasiness lingered.

  In retrospect, enlisting in the army had been a terrible move. As unhealthy as it had been in Cleveland, almost being killed for a misunderstanding, at least he was at home instead of some foreign country. Stinson shuddered as the memory of Ho Bo Woods, Dau Tieng, and LZ Abbey battles surfaced again.

  During the Dau Tieng battle, when it looked the worst, Sergeant Appling had asked him, “If you ain’t ever in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?” Appling was a man of few words, but when he spoke, generals listened. He was one of the few with rank Stinson admired and the only reason he hadn’t gone AWOL.

  Stinson grunted and pushed his shoulders forward. His life had been nothing but challenges. His response to Appling had been two words: “Tall enough.”

  But now with all the death he had caused and witnessed, and all the suffering he had seen, he wondered whether he truly was tall enough.

  It was another hour on the trail before Ward tapped Stinson. “He’s gone,” he informed Stinson as Ward wiped the sweat pouring from his forehead.

  The men turned to look at Stinson. Wrenford sniffed, trying to hold back tears. It became contagious. Holland cried outright. Soon the whole squad was either sniffing or bawling. Stinson scowled at the men but said nothing as he knelt to check for a pulse. He then put the lens of his field glasses under the soldier’s nose to confirm. He rubbed his jaw before turning. “We need to bury his body where nobody but us can find it,” Stinson commented, marking their location on the map.

  Something tugged at Stinson as he scanned the troops. They were like lost children. Stinson retrieved the soldier’s dog tags. Rest in peace, Chancellor James. He stuffed the dog tags in his pocket. Bankston and Glover dug a hole while the rest gathered next to a six-foot-high, concrete-hard anthill. “Aren’t we going to pray before we bury him?” Robinson asked.

  “If you want.”

  Mitchell Sampson laughed. “Pray?”

  “Yes. Pray,” Robinson replied, turning to Sampson. “You don’t believe in prayer, in God?”

  “If there is one, he ain’t in Vietnam,” Sampson retorted.

  “God is everywhere.”

  “Yeah. How come so many people dying over here? How come he dead?” Sampson blurted, pointing to James.

  “It’s God’s will.”

  “Bullshit! That was Charlie’s will.”

  “Give the man some respect, Sampson,” Frankford interjected.

  “Respect? Well, then he should respect I’m a…a Buddhist.”

  Warfield snorted. “You ain’t no Buddhist.”

  “How you know?” Sampson replied.

  “I ain’t seen you meditate, chant, or ring bells.”

  “Maybe not. But as far as he’s concerned, I am,” Sampson countered, pointing to Robinson.

  “Could care less,” Sampson muttered as he turned away.

  “Couldn’t,” Turner responded.

  “What?” Sampson asked.

  “Couldn’t care less,” Turner responded.

  “You say it your way. I’ll say it mine,” Sampson snapped back.

  To Stinson, the argument was accomplishing the opposite of what he needed to achieve. They would not last past the first firefight if they didn’t understand the importance of unity. So what would Sergeant Appling say? Stinson wondered as the men stood silently after the exchange between the two.

  “Look, this may not be the worst of it. Understand that. What happened to James could happen to any one of us. But if we focus, if we work together, we can deal with whatever’s thrown at us.

  “There’s an enemy out there. They know more about us than we do about them. But we have some control over this situation if each one of us thinks of ourselves as a family, as a unit, as brothers, as one,” he huffed, glancing at the two runaways. “Each to protect and each to be protected. We are all connected. What one of us does affects the others. If we have to fight, we have to learn to fight together, as men, and for ourselves. We are not fighting for the 25th, the Army, or the United States of America. We are fighting for each other. We can accomplish this mission and get back to base safely, but only if we stick together and work together. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” some mumbled as others looked down.

  Stinson had surprised himself. It was no Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speech, and it was the most he had ever said to anyone in his life. But hopefully, it served its purpose.

  “Call base and tell them we have one KIA from an enemy sniper,” S
tinson said to Robinson, who was also Stinson’s radio telephone operator.

  “Not working, Sarge,” Robinson reported after a few minutes working the dials.

  “What do you mean not working? Try again.”

  “I get nothing.”

  Stinson slid next to the soldier to whisper, “Did you maintenance check it at the base?”

  “They gave it to me right before we boarded, Sarge. They told me it was fine and that it was preset.”

  Stinson tapped one finger against his lip. “You got more than one battery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Change it.”

  Holland listened to the exchange, and a fear welled up in him that caused his knees to shake. Some thought he was tough because he came from “down the way,” like Fletcher. But people didn’t realize just because somebody was from the ghetto didn’t mean he was a bad dude.

  He wasn’t a fighter. Being picked on so much was the main reason he joined the army. He thought it would toughen him up and teach him skills. But when he was assigned to headquarters as a cook and heard the horror stories of those serving on the front line, he was grateful to peel potatoes and make stew. Now this, he thought as he stuck his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips. The VC would be worse than anybody messing with him back home.

  He should have ignored Glover when he yelled, “Come on!” when the fight started. Responding to those two words could mean his life.

  Chapter 31

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  rung smiled as the large American soldier stared into the jungle, trying to detect movement. She would give them a half-hour start. She could wait. They wouldn’t be hard to trail. Her men and the Americans seemed to be going in the same direction anyway. It was possible these men would lead them to the soldiers the colonel had ordered her to attack.

  It was Bac Ho—Uncle Ho—who had lectured her on the virtues of patience, and she’d been an avid student.

  “If you sharpen an iron rod long enough, in the end you get a needle, my daughter,” he’d said in a voice barely louder than a whisper before she departed to wage war on the aggressors.

  Stinson pulled Robinson aside when they took a break. “How’s that radio?” he whispered.

  “Nothing.”

  “No radio,” Fletcher muttered having overheard the conversation. “What happens if we hit a shit storm? We got no support. Nothing.”

  Stinson clenched his teeth, trying to ignore Fletcher as he deliberated. No radio, and not sure who was out there and what awaited them once they reached their destination. The situation was getting worse instead of better.

  Taking off on his own crossed his mind briefly. He didn’t need this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The guys under his so-called command were dead weight. Stinson laughed at himself, shaking his head slightly. So how tall was he thinking like that? It was just another challenge in a torrent of difficulties he’d had in his life. What the hell was new?

  Staying meant being in charge, so he needed to be at least one step ahead of the situation. A misstep could get him killed. He had little to go on except the map, the captain’s instructions, his prior experience, and Sergeant Appling’s wisdom. Stinson sighed. That would have to do.

  “I don’t get a good feeling about Fletcher, Sarge,” Warfield said to Stinson as they crossed a shallow stream.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s questioning your every move. Blames you for James’s death. Said if you had been paying attention, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  Stinson bristled. “What do you think, Warfield?”

  “Unavoidable as far as I can determine, Sarge. I’m with you.”

  “Fight, Sarge,” Bankston reported.

  “What?” Stinson rushed to the rear to find Casper holding Somner and Robinson holding Matthews. “What’s going on?”

  “A family thing,” Casper explained. “Somner was bragging about banging this chick. She turned out to be Matthew’s half-sister.”

  Stinson glared at the two men. “Didn’t you guys just fight together at the base?” Stinson waited. “Didn’t you?”

  Neither man answered.

  “Did you see how we overcame when we stood together?” Stinson pounded his fist into his hand. “Didn’t you just see a bullet rip through James’s chest?” Stinson turned and took one step before pivoting and grabbing each of the men by their shirts. “Didn’t anything I said earlier get through to you?” Stinson pushed them away. Somner fell and started to get up, but Stinson pointed at him to stay down.

  “Here’s what’s important out here: survival. I will not repeat myself, gentlemen. How we conduct ourselves could be a matter of life or death. Nothing else matters. Understand?” Stinson hissed as he glared briefly at Fletcher.

  “Yeah, Sarge,” each of the men mumbled.

  Besides the fact Stinson was in charge, there was something else Fletcher didn’t like about him. Fletcher had always sensed weakness in others. And as strong and in charge as Stinson tried to appear, there was something fragile about him—something that might break if pushed hard enough.

  When Fletcher had taken out Ray Ray, the former leader of the Skulls, it was because he had found his weakness. The gang, under Fletcher’s leadership, had grown like the weeds around the vacant houses in his territory. They sustained themselves from the protection money they got from the pimps, drug dealers, and numbers runners.

  There was some resistance until a few of them turned up missing. The message had spread quickly. Pay or take a trip. Fletcher felt he could read a person within a few minutes of conversation. It never took him long to find out who would give it up and who would have to be dealt with, who was weak and who thought they were strong enough to defy him.

  The blusterers—the ones who pretended they were stronger than they were—got stomped on. Stinson was a blusterer.

  The rain began again. Stinson cursed under his breath. He hated rain, but only since Vietnam. The monsoon season was the worst. On the last patrol, it felt like the sky had sought him out to pee on him, constantly, steadily, for days on end, drenching him, rotting clothes, rotting everything.

  “This is crap,” Sampson complained as they trudged through the downpour.

  “Could care less, Sampson,” Somner mimicked.

  The men looked miserable. Stinson understood. Most of them were hardly prepared to set up camp in a public park, much less negotiate an unforgiving jungle that continuously tested their will.

  Because of the sniper, Stinson anticipated a battle. He prayed there would be none. But what he wished most was that these troops wouldn’t have to experience another death or the horror of taking a life and the darkness that comes with it—a darkness that seeps into a person’s body and slowly poisons the spirit.

  It had started outside Tay Ninh: his first firefight, his first kill, then Ho Bo Woods, LZ Abbey, and Dau Tieng. It began moving, oozing through him slowly, like a snake, slithering through his gut as it would have slid through the exposed tree roots surrounding them, finding warmth in his breast, then wrapping around his soul, squeezing, sapping his strength, sapping his spirit, sapping his will.

  He had tried to ignore it, but as death and destruction mounted, it took over. And now, as he prepared to begin another journey, he was resigned that the snake would be his constant companion.

  Stinson sighed as he looked around. Who could he trust to stand strong if they had to fight? He went over what he knew of the men: three clerks, a cook, a colonel’s driver, the two runners, the two fighters and a next-in-command who was a hot-headed, anti-authority, pain in the ass.

  “Damn.”

  Chapter 32

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  hey’d humped ten more kilometers through the jungle without incident before Franklin, acting like he was a performing mime, threw down his weapon and gear, slapping, dancing, and jiggling before stripping off his shirt, pants, and boots.

  “Red ants,” Stinson chuckled as he slapped the tiny, fierce creatures off Franklin. The others came to his
aid, shaking out his clothes and boots. Stinson smiled at Franklin. All during his ordeal, he never uttered a sound.

  Stinson pointed to a green football-shaped group of leaves. “That’s their nest for future reference.”

  The men proceeded another kilometer before dark began to descend. Stinson was tired to the core, but cautiously relieved. They were one-third the way there.

  Stinson walked the perimeter, stopping at a foxhole. “It’s not deep enough, Glover.”

  “How deep, Sarge?”

  “Up to your armpits.”

  Stinson shook his head as he watched the men settle in. So much to teach.

  Somner approached Stinson carrying a machete. “Look. Sarge. Found it behind that tree.”

  “It’s rusted, but it may come in handy.” Stinson replied. “Keep it.”

  Except for Casper and Fletcher, the soldiers jumped at every sound. Their eyes darted back and forth at any motion, and they huddled together whenever they could, like cattle sensing wolves nearby.

  Holland played with his knife. Glover sat against a log, frowning. Bankston and Ward cleaned their weapons and then offered to clean the others’. Warfield cleaned his boots. There was no need to remind them of noise discipline. Each of the men spoke in whispers.

  After downing a can of cold ham and lima beans soaked in hot sauce, Stinson began training, hoping to take their attention away from a fear of the unknown. Teaching the men basic combat and ambush drills was essential. He felt it.

  “Prepare, prepare, prepare,” his sergeant had advised him when he was given a squad. “There is never enough preparation when you might have to fight for your life.”

  To Stinson’s surprise, the men were avid listeners. Maybe his speech was working—or maybe it was James’s death.

  After training, the men huddled again.

  “So where you from, Sarge?” Casper asked.