A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  Fletcher bristled. “How you know?”

  “Because we saw everything from the ridge, the ridge you were supposed to be on.”

  Fletcher spit on the ground but said nothing.

  “You hit anybody?”

  Fletcher remained silent.

  Warfield scraped the ground with his boot. “They were probably our contact. I doubt if any made it, even if you all missed.”

  “We’d better go, then,” Fletcher said.

  “Yeah,” Casper agreed as the men began jogging again, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the enemy.

  So many thoughts jumbled around in Turner’s head as he ran. But the strongest of them was the one that lingered from the ridge—the one he’d tried to ignore. The one that said he would not see Sergeant Stinson again.

  Chapter 44

  F

  rustrated they couldn’t find the wounded soldier who’d allowed the others to escape, Trung waved her men to track the ones who’d run, then stopped. It would be dark soon, and she’d become more cautious about her new quarry. The tracks would be as fresh in the morning. She would chase them down then.

  That night it poured rain. Trung folded her arms and glared at the sky, wondering how much more luck those soldiers would receive. Without tracks, she could only guess where they were and where they would be picked up.

  An old proverb, “Do not praise the day before sunset,” passed through her mind, as did a sliver of doubt before Trung grunted dismissively. There would be just two outcomes: Either luck would run out for the soldiers, or they would win out. Only exceptionally good fortune would allow them to do the latter.

  The men glanced at each other when Fletcher directed them to move out. They complied, because as a Spec 4 with the most time in service and time in grade, he had the higher rank. They continued to move quickly, glancing back every other second. Just before the sun descended behind the trees, Robinson spotted an abandoned pagoda.

  The building had been destroyed except for its stone floor, moss-covered columns, and stone roof over the entranceway. A rear wall and one side wall had collapsed. The remaining wall leaned precariously inward. Stone debris and winding vines covered the stone floor. A tree had taken root in one of the rear rooms. The spire, previously on the roof, now lay at the side of the building.

  Robinson thought about Sampson as he walked through the disarray with Warfield as they secured the area. If Sampson had been a Buddhist, he would have been upset at all the destruction. “It’s cool,” Robinson reported.

  The rain came as soon as the men settled.

  “We got lucky,” Glover observed, looking around.

  “Yeah. It’s all we need. Rain soaked and lost,” Warfield responded.

  “There should be a village nearby,” Fletcher said.

  “Sarge said to avoid the villages,” Warfield replied.

  “But Sarge ain’t here. We’ll bed here tonight and strike out first thing in the morning,” Fletcher said, sneering at the men, “and if we see an occupied village, we enter it. Any questions?”

  It was another sleepless night for all but a few. The men who kept watch were assured of the company of their fellow soldiers because none accepted the fact they’d escaped completely.

  By morning the rain had stopped. “If we keep going east, we’re bound to run into more of our soldiers,” Casper said to Fletcher.

  Fletcher frowned. “It’s strange, though. We’ve heard nothing. No artillery, no planes, no helicopters.”

  A few of the men glanced at Turner, who’d been quiet since Fletcher took over.

  Around noon, Turner removed his glasses and wiped his brow as the sun bore down, trying to conjure some revelation but was unsuccessful. He’d not experienced any since the ridge. Nothing to tell him whether Sarge was dead or alive, and nothing to tell him what would happen next.

  “There’s the abandoned village we passed coming in,” Glover stated, pointing through the vines at the edge of a rice paddy bed. “Looks as if it’s still empty.”

  The men approached cautiously as Sarge would have instructed, checking to make sure the huts were in fact still empty. As Warfield checked the second-to-the-last hut, a scurry of feet in the darkened room startled him so badly he almost dropped his weapon. As someone small tried to run past him, he grabbed an arm, pulling the person back.

  The men, hearing the scuffle, ran to Warfield’s aid as he dragged the young boy out of the hut. It was evident by his torn and dirty clothes he was on his own. Warfield held the boy by his collar, watching him squirm, his smallish forehead furrowed with fear and his mouth screwed into a scowl. At about four-feet-seven and maybe seventy pounds, he couldn’t have been but nine or ten; with Asians, though, looks were deceiving.

  “Waste his ass,” Fletcher ordered, raising his weapon.

  “No,” Casper said, pushing Fletcher’s rifle down. “He doesn’t even have a weapon.”

  “Don’t matter. He’s VC,” Fletcher said, raising his rifle again.

  The boy shouted, “Me no VC. VC number ten.” And he spit in the dirt. The boy pointed to the huts. “No family. VC kill.”

  He pulled down one of the wall hangings with the three pyramids they’d seen earlier. The boy pointed at it, and then at himself, saying, “Khmer, Khmer.”

  Everybody looked at Turner.

  Turner looked at the boy’s facial characteristics, noting the darker skin, the flat nose, and the thicker lips that reinforced his first notion. “We aren’t in Vietnam,” he said.

  “It’s the second time you’ve said that,” Casper said.

  Fletcher snorted. “You gonna believe this lame?” he asked, looking at Turner as if he was about to hit him.

  “Khmer are Cambodian,” Wrenford said. He turned to the kid and pointed to the ground. “Cambodia?”

  The kid nodded. “Khmer, Cambodia.”

  “W-what the hell?” Holland asked as he collapsed on a broken wooden bench.

  “Nah,” Robinson said. “Can’t be.”

  Warfield said. “If it’s true, we’re screwed.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Robinson declared, glaring at the boy. “He could be VC.”

  “If he’s VC, where’s his weapon?” Wrenford asked.

  “Somebody check the huts for a weapon,” Casper said.

  “Nothing,” Glover and Bankston reported after going through each hut, turning over anything that might conceal one.

  “What’s your name?” Casper asked.

  “Me Da.”

  Wrenford stared at the flag. “You know, I heard my major talking about the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia.”

  Fletcher glared at Da. “That don’t mean we in Cambodia even if he is Cambodian, which I doubt.”

  “Why would anybody send us to Cambodia?” Glover asked.

  “They would if they wanted to get rid of our asses,” Bankston concluded.

  “Where Vietnam?” Robinson asked the kid.

  “You kill beaucoup VC?”

  Bankston scanned the jungle beyond the village. “Yeah, if they don’t kill us first.”

  Da pointed east. “I show you Vietnam.”

  “It could be a trap,” Fletcher said.

  Casper grunted. “I’ll take my chances. We don’t know this area. We don’t know where we are or how long it will take to get back. I’m for going with the boy.”

  The others nodded, except for Fletcher, who scowled at Casper.

  Turner looked at Casper and Fletcher, then at the ground. No Sarge, no unity, and only a Cambodian kid to lead the way. It would be extremely fortunate if any of them made it back alive.

  Chapter 45

  D

  espite orders to return to camp for new instructions and a new mission, Trung continued to search for the black soldiers. It was personal. Until they appeared, she’d been successful in every previous encounter. There’d be no rest until their story had ended.

  It took one day to find their trail and half a day to close in.
Trung took her men on a route that would intersect with the soldiers by midafternoon if she’d read the signs correctly.

  Da led the eleven soldiers through jungles of eight-feet-tall elephant grass, that made them bunch up so they could see each other. Casper didn’t like it. They needed to be at least five meters apart. One grenade or booby trap and half of them would be dead.

  Hours passed as the soldiers proceeded around two terraced hills before wading across a chest-high, mud-filled stream. The men held their weapons above their heads as they crossed, bobbing against the current.

  After reaching the other side, they rested and removed the leeches that had attached themselves while they were in the water.

  “Phew,” Robinson said as he pushed a fingernail down next to the oral sucker on Casper’s neck and pushed it away as Casper had taught him.

  “You act as if you never seen a leech before,” Casper said.

  “Yeah, but once I get stateside, I don’t plan on seeing another in this or my next lifetime.”

  Afterward, the men crossed through rice fields punctuated with palm trees. Da pulled shoots from the palm tree, and berries and weeds for the men to eat.

  Glover looked at Da when he first offered the food. “What are we supposed to do with this?”

  “Eat, man. Unless you got a steak hidden in your shirt,” Frankford said.

  “How far?” Warfield asked Da.

  Not understanding, but sensing the question, Da pointed to a mountain range.

  If we can get there fast enough, Warfield thought, we might stay alive for another day.

  It started slowly with Glover. First he experienced a slight cramp. He tried walking it off, and it worked for a while.

  “You okay, Glover?” Warfield asked, watching him walking bent over.

  Glover nodded. “It’s nothing. Probably from eating cold C’s.”

  “All right. Just checking.”

  Glover walked on, watching as the men in front fought their way through more vines and bushes. The urge came so quickly, he almost vomited on himself before heaving the contents of his stomach at the foot of a tree, leaning on it for support.

  Warfield and Robinson caught up with Glover just as he stumbled sideways, pulled his pants down and finished what his vomiting hadn’t.

  “You been using your tabs?” Robinson asked.

  “Ran out,” a weakened Glover said.

  Robinson reached for his to share when the barrage of bullets began. The first burst of gunfire caught Matthews at the front of the column. Blood spurted from his neck as he fell gurgling, grabbing at it before another shot pierced his cheek, silencing him. Frankford screamed as bullets took out his legs. He tried to crawl to cover, but another four shots punctured his back, with a final shot entering his ear.

  While the American soldiers buried themselves in the ground, returning fire, Ward had taken a position in a tree, firing a cadenced burst and downing three VC when it seemed every enemy rifle returned fire at him. Four bullets hit Ward instantaneously. The cracking sound was his neck breaking as he fell backward.

  “Retreat!” Fletcher hollered.

  “No! Charge! Charge!” Casper shouted.

  “Like Sarge trained us,” Turner yelled.

  Without hesitation, the American soldiers rose and moved forward, unleashing a hail of bullets in short bursts. For no apparent reason, the black clad attackers retreated. Three Viet Cong gathered around one of their wounded and dragged their comrade to the rear. The remaining VC faded into the jungle as silently as they’d appeared.

  The men looked at each other, perplexed, as they backed up, waiting for another attack. Da called from across an open area behind the fighting; he was waving, motioning them to follow. “Let’s go,” Casper whispered, grabbing a weapon from a dead Vietnamese. The men double-timed, stumbling and falling as Bankston watched their rear. They took a defensive position behind a hedgerow waiting for the attackers to follow, but they didn’t.

  Warfield looked wistfully at the mountain range Da had pointed to earlier. He shuddered as he tried to shake the flood of grief that swept over him, making him stop to gather his strength. He glanced back in the direction of the ambush and exhaled. Would any of them make it to the mountains or would those mountains be the last any of them would ever see?

  Chapter 46

  T

  rung was hit twice. It was the sound of the same weapon that had killed the tiger and had cut down her men. She tried to move forward but fell. Three of her men dragged her farther into the bush with the others running parallel to them. “Leave me. Keep fighting,” she commanded. “Kill them!” she yelled before she fainted.

  More concerned about their leader, the attackers retreated to protect her from further harm. If their esteemed leader died, it was very likely they would, too, at the hands of their own.

  “You’re bleeding,” Casper said, looking at Holland’s leg.

  “Flesh wound,” Holland said, expressionless. “Anybody got something to clean this with?”

  Casper looked at Holland as if he were a stranger and smiled. Holland hadn’t cried out, whined, or even fallen after he’d been shot—and he hadn’t stuttered.

  “We got to get the bodies,” Robinson said as they moved toward a grouping of trees and a shallow stream.

  “We should,” Casper said, looking around counting heads. “But they’ll probably be waiting for us. Who got hit?”

  “Ward caught it,” Warfield said.

  “So did Matthews,” Robinson said. “And Frankford.”

  Casper waited for the crying, but there was only a look of numbness among the men. It was as if a film had developed over their eyes, screening any emotional display. They’d become the zombies they’d seen at Fire Base Serenity.

  Casper understood. He’d reached that point months ago. Sampson’s utterance wasn’t the first time he’d heard the term “Could care less.” It had been a mantra the troops he’d fought with had adopted on his last mission. His only apprehension now was a question he felt sure was on everybody’s mind: Would any of them ever see Cu Chi again?

  “Where’s Fletcher?” Robinson asked, jerking Casper’s mind back from his thoughts.

  A sound to their right caused all the men to raise their rifles.

  “Hold your fire,” a hoarse voice said, as Fletcher exited from a thatch of trees.

  “Where were you?” Casper asked.

  “I was chasin’ one of ’em, but they got away,” Fletcher said, puffing as he caught up.

  Casper and the seven other men frowned as they looked skeptically at Fletcher.

  “We’ve got to bury them,” Robinson said.

  The men agreed.

  Casper tapped Bankston and Wrenford. “We’ll get them. Cover us.”

  The three men approached the dead soldiers cautiously while the others pointed their weapons into the jungle where the VC had retreated. Bankston and Wrenford carried the men back to the hedgerow and removed their dog tags. Robinson said a quick prayer before burying them in a makeshift grave. The grim-faced soldiers glanced at the graves a few times before following Da toward the mountains.

  Da led them to a worn trail. They’d started along the path when Turner blurted, “We should stay off trails.”

  Warfield, helping a weakened Glover as they half walked, half ran, said, “Turner’s right.”

  The others looked at Turner as he looked back.

  “They’ll be following us. It’s easy to follow us on the trail.”

  “We stay on the trail,” Fletcher said. “I’m tired of you trying to take charge. We’ll move faster, plus they retreated. Ain’t nobody after us now.”

  “They’re picking us off one by one,” Robinson said. “We got to do something different.”

  “Like what?” Fletcher said, glaring at Robinson.

  “We got to do something. No matter how fast we move and no matter in what direction, they find us,” Warfield added.

  “We keep running,” Fletcher said. “
You got a short memory. Remember how many were on the hill?”

  “Not as many as before,” Robinson answered. “We got some. Sarge probably took out more of ’em, but not all of ‘em.”

  “Sarge? Fuck Sarge. He’s dead now. Ain’t shit Sarge can do for you now,” Fletcher blurted, shoving Robinson against a tree.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to do but run, and that’s what we gonna do. If you slow, tired, or just a weepy-assed bitch, you die.”

  Turner was silent for a moment after Fletcher spoke, then said one word: “Ambush.”

  The men turned to Turner.

  “What?” Bankston asked. “How?”

  “Why?” Robinson asked.

  “Like Sarge taught us,” Turner responded as he adjusted his glasses. “They think we’re runners. They believe we're scared. They wouldn’t expect it. We take control.”

  Fletcher spun toward Turner. “How would you, a damn clerk, know anything? You been suckin’ at Sarge’s tit the whole time we been out here. I ought to kick your ass for even thinking you know what you talking about,” Fletcher said, raising his hand to swing at Turner.

  Turner didn’t move. Casper stepped in as Turner stared at Fletcher.

  “Yeah. You bad now? You think you a man now? Starin’ at me like you gonna do somethin’.”

  “We should vote,” Turner said, still staring at Fletcher.

  Fletcher’s face darkened, and spittle appeared on his bottom lip as he hissed, stepping toward Turner, but glancing at Casper, “Didn’t you understand what Sarge said before? This ain’t no democracy. I’m in charge now.”

  “What you have in mind, Turner?” Casper asked.

  “What? You listenin’ to him over me?” Fletcher asked as he turned to look at Casper.

  “I want to hear what he has to say, too,” Warfield said.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “Well fuck me. We got a mutiny here. I’m going to write all y’all’s asses up when we get back,” Fletcher said, jabbing his fingers at the group which gathered around Turner.