A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

“Cleveland.”

  “Yeah, but what part?”

  “Off Fifty-fifth.”

  “East Tech?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You play ball?” Robinson asked.

  “Didn’t like coaches.” Stinson looked around. “How many we got from Cleveland?” he asked.

  Nine raised their hands. “Any other East Tech Scarabs?”

  “I went to Tech for a year,” Casper answered.

  “Play ball?”

  “Football. Boxed, too.”

  Stinson laughed. “I figured that the way you were knocking heads during the fight.”

  “I-I’m Tech,” Holland answered.

  Stinson cursed under his breath. “Where’d you live, Holland?”

  “H–Haltnorth, Sarge. What about you?”

  A sinking sensation hit Stinson as he stared past Holland into the jungle. “Outhwaite.”

  “W–wow. R–right around the corner,” Holland said as he stared at Stinson. “M–maybe we know some of the same people.”

  Damn. He knows, Stinson thought. “Maybe,” he answered.

  Holland? What were the odds?

  Holland stared at Stinson’s back all afternoon. His mother had written that his father had died in a blown robbery attempt two and a half years ago. His partner was Willie Stinson. She related what some of his friends had said and concluded Stinson hadn’t done his part, thus causing his father’s death.

  It wasn’t as if Holland and his father were tight. He only saw him a few times a year, and he was usually high on something. But now he was dead, and the man responsible was within twenty yards. He could easily put a bullet in Stinson’s back as his mother would have wanted, but he would wait. There would be other opportunities.

  “Sarge, we were having this discussion earlier,” Casper said. “If you were given twenty-five thousand dollars, what would you buy first? Sampson would have the biggest party anyone had ever seen. Franklin would buy a decked-out Cadillac or a nice foreign car. Robinson would donate to the church. Holland would purchase a large house in a quiet neighborhood for him and his mom.”

  “What about Casper?” Stinson asked.

  “He hadn’t decided yet,” Robinson responded.

  “Turner?”

  “Me neither.”

  “Fletcher?”

  Somner glanced at Fletcher gazing into the jungle and dipped his head in Fletcher’s direction. “Dope, so he could sell it and quadruple his money.”

  “Seems to me, with that type of money, you’d start a legitimate business and sleep at night,” Stinson said.

  “You would think,” Casper added.

  “What about you, Sarge?” Robinson asked.

  “Me? I would buy peace of mind.”

  “What store sells that?” Warfield asked sarcastically.

  “None I know of,” Stinson replied. “But if any of you hear where, please let me know, and I’ll buy a little for each of you, too.” Because you will probably need it before this is all over, Stinson thought. “Try to get some sleep. We’re up at 0600.”

  It was easy posting sentries the rest of the night because nobody slept. Whoever the sniper was had gotten their complete attention. He hoped the only enemy going forward would be the jungle, but in the back of his mind, he doubted it.

  Xavier Warfield had sniffed at the conversation that night and had offered nothing. He had been one step from being locked up but was given an alternative: jail or the army. He never thought he’d have to shoot somebody, but it was self-defense. Only the judge didn’t think so.

  When somebody tries to rob you, shoots at you and splits, what’s wrong with finding them and putting them away instead?

  Warfield had gotten a job at Ford Motors and was getting ready to move into an apartment with his boy Glover when Corvell Rollins tried to rob him. Corvell didn’t know Warfield recognized him, but they had played ball against each other when he attended Glenville and Corvell attended East High.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to the party alone. Maybe he shouldn’t have rolled dice with strangers. Maybe he should have left after he hit them up for a buck twenty-five, but he didn’t.

  He could still feel the cold metal against his neck when someone demanded, “Give it up.”

  Warfield sniffed again. Give it up? He had turned and grabbed the gun, kicking the robber in his knee, but the gun fell and Warfield took off running. There were three shots fired before he turned the corner on Forty-second and Central Avenue. It took one glance for Warfield to recognize the green suede jacket and matching cap. And it took two days to find the owner.

  Warfield could have left it alone; after all, he still had the money. But it was the principle. One shot and Corvell was down on his front porch. Seven minutes and the police had him cuffed. It was probably the fastest response time in the history of the Cleveland police. And because of his principles Warfield ended up in purgatory.

  At least Corvell survived. If he hadn’t, there would have been no choice between jail and the army.

  Warfield looked around at his fellow soldiers. Even after the Corvell incident, he hadn’t learned. When the fight broke out, it was almost out of instinct that he jumped in as soon as Glover hollered, “Let’s go.” Besides having always responded to Glover’s appeal, when he saw some guys he knew like Robinson and Casper, in the fray, he had to. Those were his brothers.

  Warfield sighed. He should be spray painting car doors right now instead of wondering whether he would survive. But he would. If nothing else, he was a survivor.

  Marcus Glover didn’t engage in the conversations either. He was still pissed about being drafted and about being in the jungle instead of filing papers. When he received the draft notice, he had done something really stupid: he’d gotten into a fight—a horrible, unnecessary fight over a girl—and then in Cu Chi, another fight, not as horrible, but just as unnecessary.

  He wasn’t even dating Sandra, a former cheerleader for Glenville High, but he fought over her anyway.

  For some reason, Oscar Adams, a fellow Glenvillite, had a way of getting on his nerves. Glover couldn’t explain it and never understood why others didn’t feel the same way. That made it even more personal.

  Maybe he did want Sandra, but Oscar getting under his skin outweighed any hidden feelings he might have had for her. He hadn’t thought about it much –since he was already going with somebody— but that day at Riley’s pool room, Oscar made a snide remark to his friend Larry.

  “I got to watch Glover,” Oscar said loud enough for Glover to hear.

  “Why?” Larry asked.

  “He’s after my woman.”

  “Aw…” Larry started to counter.

  Maybe it was an accumulation of things past, maybe it was Glover’s irritation at a punk’s insecurities, or maybe it was the draft notice sitting on his dresser at home that made him respond as he did.

  “How you know I haven’t had her?” Glover asked, putting his pool stick in the rack.

  Regardless of the circumstances, the place, or the two individuals involved, a fight was not only inevitable, it was necessary to cleanse the air that had become polluted with that one sentence. Just like the fight on base—one dirty word, defiling the air that had to be disinfected.

  Oscar swung, reluctantly, and Glover countered with all the evilness, spite, and hatred that filled his soul. It was a nasty, one-sided fight Glover immediately regretted.

  “Your temper is going to get you in trouble,” Warfield had said matter-of-factly when he heard about the fight.

  Glover couldn’t disagree.

  Even today, in this stink hole of a country where he might lose his life, the regret of the fight in Cleveland endured.

  That morning, Stinson turned his boots upside down and banged them against a tree.

  “Why’d you do that, Sarge?”

  “In case something snuck in them at night. All of you should do the same.”

  The sound of boots hitting the trunk of a tree sounded like a
distorted recording of the “Anvil Chorus.”

  “Whoa!” Ward cried as a rat fell out of one of his boots and scampered through the men into the bush.

  As they trudged through a field of saw grass that tore at their pants, Turner adjusted his glasses and tugged at Stinson’s shirt. “We’re not in Vietnam.”

  “What?” Fletcher asked, having overheard.

  “This isn’t Vietnam,” Turner repeated.

  “Dumbass.” Fletcher punched Turner in the back of the head with his palm, almost knocking Turner’s glasses off. The others laughed.

  The punch was hard enough to make Turner stumble. He narrowed his eyes as he adjusted his glasses while he tightened his right hand around his weapon, but he said nothing.

  “Where the hell are we if not Vietnam?” Stinson asked Turner, not noticing Fletcher had hit him.

  Turner didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Turner didn’t know how he knew. He just knew. It was a voice that came from nowhere. He called them epiphanies. And as fast as they came, they left, leaving Turner with a thought, but no reference, no explanation.

  “Where?” Fletcher teased. “Where are we, Professor?”

  The men chuckled steadily, as his friends back home had. No one believed him then. No one would believe him now. So he trudged on, still gripping his weapon firmly, praying Fletcher wouldn’t hit him again. This group would have enough trouble without him causing more by icing Fletcher.

  Sampson, the point man, raised his hand. Sergeant Stinson came to the front and surveyed the open field of unharvested rice. “Keep moving, but stay alert,” Stinson ordered.

  After a minute, Sampson held his hand up again. Stinson motioned the men to halt.

  “A village at two hundred yards,” Sampson whispered, pointing ahead.

  “Any activity?” Stinson asked.

  “Can’t see any.”

  Stinson moved the men along a treeline within fifty yards of the huts and observed for close to fifteen minutes. “Fletcher, Glover, Warfield, circle the area, close in, and see if anybody lives there.”

  “They don’t. Otherwise, we would have seen something by now,” Fletcher countered dryly.

  “We wouldn’t see an ambush, though, would we? Stay alert.”

  “Nothing. The place is empty, like I said,” Fletcher quipped, twenty minutes later.

  Stinson ignored the dig. “Good. Let’s take a closer look. See when anyone was last there. Single line. Watch for booby traps.”

  Stinson went through each of the huts. They were the typical bamboo frame interlaced with palm fronds with a layer of rice straw thatch on top. The floors were earthen. Everything was covered with dust. There were clusters of bamboo, metal, and wood, rusted cooking utensils, filthy blankets, dirty clothes, and a stench from decaying cooked food. Whoever had lived there had been gone for a while and seemed to have left in a hurry.

  There was no evidence of a battle, so why would they leave a village that looked to be fairly old and established? Why would they leave a place where their ancestors were probably buried?

  “What’s with this flag, Sarge?” Ward asked. “I thought the Vietnamese flag was red with a yellow star?” The flag, hanging in the front room of the hut, was blue with a red stripe and a temple with three pyramid-like towers. “I saw one in a couple of the other huts, too,” Ward added

  “How the hell do I know, Ward. Could just be wall decoration. There’s nothing here,” Stinson answered, marking his map, relieved a flag was the only question he had to deal with, because more important questions were looming. He could only hope he would have the answers when their time came.

  Chapter 33

  I

  see something, Sarge.”

  Casper had climbed halfway up a large banyan tree to check their surroundings when he spotted movement.

  “What?”

  Casper pointed to the dense, seven-foot-tall elephant grass to the left of them. Stinson halted the men and looked in that direction. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell, but there’s something or somebody out there.”

  Stinson took Casper’s place and pulled out his field glasses. “Yeah. There,” Stinson pointed as the grass shifted slightly.

  Stinson motioned his men to get down. If it was what he thought, the nightmare was about to begin. Stinson scratched his neck. Maybe it was the wind? He looked at the tree leaves. They were still. Could it be locals? But if so, they would have shown themselves instead of running the risk of being shot.

  Turner adjusted his glasses. “It’s not what we think it is,” he whispered.

  No one paid him any attention.

  “What you think, Sarge?” Casper asked quietly.

  Stinson shrugged. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll assume the worst. Let’s move out and see if they follow. If they do, we got to pick a better place to fight.”

  “Take these,” Stinson instructed Casper as he tossed him the field glasses. “Keep tracking them.”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  Stinson motioned the men to gather their gear. “Frankford, take point.”

  “They gainin’ fast, Sarge,” Casper whispered urgently as Frankford moved to the front of the troops.

  Stinson ran his hand over his mouth. Something wasn’t right. After hiding from him for more than a day, they show themselves like this? They had to know he could see them coming. Maybe they didn’t know or didn’t care, seeing how some of his soldiers had panicked from one sniper shot.

  Stinson climbed back up the tree to watch the grass sway, then stop, then sway again, as whomever it was edged closer. Maybe it was a trap, he thought as he glanced around.

  The waving grass now indicated they were less than three hundred yards away. Stinson sighed as he thought to himself. Only one thing to do. He motioned his soldiers to take cover and prepare for battle.

  Stinson tried to calm the tenseness by making sure his men focused on position and preparation. But in the back of his mind, one word kept surfacing: split. This would be the perfect time. If there was going to be a massacre, why stay? But he brushed the thought aside as he looked at the men. Without him, they would die for sure.

  “Where’s Holland?” he asked, after taking a count.

  “Holland went to pee a while ago, Sarge.”

  “What? Where?” Stinson kicked himself for his neglect. He’d ordered the men to move out without taking a head count.

  Wrenford pointed to a huge fig tree to the left of their position.

  “They are within two hundred yards, Sarge,” Casper reported a few seconds later. “And they are turning toward the fig tree.”

  “Hold your fire until I tell you,” he instructed.

  Stinson could hardly see from the sweat drenching his face and burning his eyes as he dashed through the elephant grass and brush. “Holland? Holland?” he whispered as he approached. When Stinson broke into a small clearing around the tree and spotted Holland leaning against it, smoking a joint. He became so infuriated, Stinson snatched the back of Holland’s collar without uttering a word.

  Holland started to scream before Stinson slammed his hand over his mouth. Someone who probably heard Holland’s muffled scream crashed through the high grass a few yards away. Stinson braced, knowing there was no time to retreat. The sound of boots pounding the ground behind him caused his stomach to drop. He and Holland were surrounded.

  Stinson turned toward the clamor in the grass, weapon raised, as the grass tore open, accompanied by an earth shattering roar. Stinson fell backward as the crack of two rifles firing almost simultaneously caused the attacker to scream in agony and crash to the ground.

  “J-Jesus!” was all a wide-eyed Holland could shriek as he scrambled backward on his knees.

  The heavy thumping sound of men running resumed as Stinson’s men emerged from the jungle behind him.

  “It had to be starving. You can see all its ribs,” Frankford marveled as the soldiers gathered around.

  “It’s still big,” Casper added.
<
br />   “It would’ve been bigger if it could’ve gotten hold of dumbass.” Fletcher laughed, glancing at a trembling Holland.

  “Who fired the shots?” a relieved Stinson asked, staring in awe at the two holes in the tiger’s forehead.

  “We did,” Bankston answered, standing with Ward.

  Stinson, hands on hips, turned toward the two men.

  “We weren’t running yesterday, Sarge,” Ward explained, anticipating Stinson’s question. “We were looking for higher ground to take out the sniper.”

  Stinson remained speechless.

  “Me and Clarence won the marksmanship award at Fort Benning, so first sergeant taught us a little about sniping.”

  The laugh, a mixture of relief and wonder, came somewhere deep inside Stinson. The men laughed with him as he patted the two on the back.

  As quickly as his laughter began, it stopped. Stinson turned away clenching and unclenching his fists, knowing if they hadn’t fired, he and Holland would be dead, because he had frozen. He gathered himself and turned back toward Ward and Bankston. “I guess I owe you an apology, then. Even though you didn’t follow orders,” Stinson said glaring at the two.

  “Sarge?” Bankston and Ward asked together.

  “I said don’t shoot until I give the order.”

  “Uh…” Bankston said.

  Stinson looked around. “But I’m glad you did. And the rest of you, coming to the rescue? Y’all gonna be soldiers yet.”

  Casper nodded. “Wanted to make sure you were going be okay, Sarge.”

  Even though a mixture of emotions battered Stinson, he smiled inwardly, looking at the tiger again before turning to Turner. “Did you know?”

  “I knew what it wasn’t.”

  “How?”

  Turner shrugged.

  Stinson shook his head slowly and looked at Turner for a while longer before gathering the men to move on.

  “You okay?” Stinson asked Holland. “Y-yeah. Thanks.”

  “I assume that’s the last time you run off for a smoke.”

  “Y-yeah.”

  “Where’s the rest of it?”