“You will be the one who will be written up. I’m going to tell them how you left the rest of us against direct orders,” Casper said, his head moving up and down as he walked toward Fletcher. “And I’m going to tell about you shooting at our soldiers back there. I’m about tired of you, Fletcher. You ain’t no leader. Ever since we’ve been out here, all you’ve done is complain, disobey orders, and look out for yourself. Now you want to lead us? Forget it. We’re going the rest of the way by committee. We’ll let the captain deal with you when we return.”
Fletcher scowled at Casper, then glanced at his weapon leaning against a tree.
Casper’s head began to bob again. “I wish you would.” He turned to Turner. “What’d you have in mind?”
Rifles raised as Da came from behind the tree.
“You got to be more careful, Da. We can’t lose you, too,” Warfield said, glancing at the mountains again.
Leaving Glover hidden in a thick clump of hedges, the men went back on the trail, deliberately leaving footprints as they moved southeast. After they’d traveled about a kilometer, they doubled back through the jungle.
“This ain’t gonna work,” Fletcher said.
Nobody paid him any attention.
“Ain’t gonna work. We need to di di mau—get our asses out of here,” Fletcher muttered.
“You going to shut up, or am I going to shut you up?” Casper whispered, standing face to face with Fletcher.
Fletcher’s eyes bulged, and a vein throbbed in his throat. His face darkened as he clenched his rifle. “Don’t nobody talk to me like that. Nobody!”
Robinson stepped between the two. “We’re all going to die if we don’t take care of business.”
Casper and Fletcher continued to glare at each other before the rest of the men joined Robinson.
“Come on Casper, Fletcher,” Bankston said, pulling Casper to him. Casper glared at Fletcher, then turned with Bankston and the rest.
“Where’s Glover?” Warfield asked, poking the bushes where they’d left him.
“Glover!” the men whispered, spreading out to search for him.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Fletcher said.
“Over here,” Holland said, pointing to torn foliage and fresh drag marks on the ground. “Another tiger?”
“Man,” Turner said, pointing at the footprints on each side of the furrows in the ground, partially hidden by the two-foot-high bushes.
“This ain’t good,” Warfield said, looking around.
The men held their rifle at ready and formed a circle, trying to see into the areas darkened by the gigantic trees.
“We need to get to him before they kill him,” Casper said.
“If he ain’t already dead,” Fletcher grumbled to himself.
Led by Casper, the soldiers crept single file following the drag marks.
Holland stopped and looked around at the ground “They’re gone.”
“They picked him up,” Casper said. “The footprints are deeper here.” He pointed farther ahead. “We need to split up, forty yards apart and parallel.”
“What we need to do is di di mau,” Fletcher repeated. “They could be waiting for us knowing we’d come looking.”
“I doubt it,” Casper said. “They probably think we abandoned him because he was sick. They wouldn’t believe we would come back after all the running we’ve been doing.”
The men nodded in agreement and split into two groups.
Warfield’s team heard it first: a muffled scream that could have been human or animal, sending chills through Warfield’s body. They stopped. Another scream, not as loud, but just as unnerving, echoed through the jungle. Robinson charged toward it, but Warfield grabbed his arm, put his finger to his mouth, and led as they moved stealthily toward the cries.
Warfield recoiled at the sight as he peeked through the foliage. Glover hung above the ground, his hands tied to a tree limb. The VC had covered his mouth with a soiled yellow cloth. He was bleeding from the chest. Bankston and Holland came up beside Warfield as one of the four Viet Cong raised his knife to Glover’s chest.
Glover’s muted scream and the crack of a rifle coincided as the guerilla fell to the ground. The other three VC ran for weapons lying against a tree. Bankston, Holland, and Warfield shot two before they reached them. The remaining captor made it to the edge of the tree line before Bankston’s bullet found his back.
The two guerillas moaned. One tried to crawl into the bushes, but could only move inches at a time. The other lay against a tree watching with widened eyes. “They can’t be more than sixteen years old,” Bankston said to the others.
Holland shot them. “Don’t matter.”
Warfield laid Glover on the ground and looked carefully at the cuts. “They’re just flesh wounds,” Warfield said to the men.
They all jerked around at the noise of someone approaching. Casper and his men burst into the clearing firing at another guerilla who’d almost run into them trying to escape Warfield’s team.
“Man!” Casper said, lowering his rifle.
“How is he?” Turner asked.
“Don’t seem too bad. Looks as if they wanted to play with him first,” Warfield answered.
“Then he’s lucky. I saw one of ours staked to the ground with his skin peeled off and left for the animals to eat. That’s what they were going to do to him. We need to get out of here,” Fletcher said, peering into the trees.
Holland cleaned and bandaged the wounds where the guerilla had made three parallel marks from the breast to the lower stomach.
“What happened?” Robinson asked Glover.
“My fault,” Glover whispered. “I saw three of them along the trail, and all I thought of was our guys they’d killed. I tried to change position to take them out, but they heard me and my weapon jammed.”
“I told you about your temper,” Warfield said.
Glover grunted.
“Can you walk?” Holland asked.
“Help me up,” Glover said weakly. “Where’s my weapon?” He tried to maintain his balance while looking around.
Bankston picked up three Viet Cong weapons and inspected them before giving Glover one. “You don’t want it if it jammed. Take this one.”
Glover took a step. “Let’s move out,” he said. Casper and Warfield caught him as he stumbled.
“We got you, brother. We got you.”
“Whoa,” Robinson exclaimed as he peered at the mound near the edge of the clearing.
“What?” Casper asked as he approached Robinson.
Robinson pulled at the wood slats beneath the dirt. “I thought this was an anthill until I saw something shining through.”
“Whoa is right!” Warfield said. The others gathered around the two as Robinson uncovered four large camouflaged earthen pots filled with weapons.
“Look at this,” Casper marveled. “RPGs, Bangalore torpedoes, grenades, pistols, mortar tubes, rifles, knives, hundreds of cases of ammo, and a surgical kit.”
“If this is a rallying point, they’ll be back,” Fletcher said. “And we shouldn’t—”
“Shhh!” Warfield pointed into the jungle. “Listen.”
Casper motioned the men into position at the edge of the jungle facing the clearing and the noise, disregarding Fletcher, who faded into the bush. The sound of foliage breaking, which sounded about two hundred meters away, grew closer.
The men scrambled to hide in the tree line, waiting.
Glover slumped over a piece of dead wood, wounded, exhausted, and resigned, but with his weapon ready. Turner took deep breaths, one after another. Warfield’s hands trembled so badly, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to aim. Holland shivered as a cold chill sliced through his body, but he was ready, he told himself. It was them or us—couldn’t be both.
Minutes later, they came. They surprised Casper moving so quickly through the foliage, possibly lured by the sound of shots fired and the tracks the American soldiers had left on the trail.
There were about twenty of them. Twelve fell in the first barrage of bullets and grenades. The remaining VC fired back before retreating. Bankston killed two more as they ran through the jungle. Afterward, the only noise breaking the dark silence was the breathing of the men and the moaning of wounded enemy.
Warfield’s eyes widened as he stared in disbelief. He’d seen it but couldn’t believe it. Turner had shot Fletcher—one bullet to the chest. Warfield looked around, checking to see if anyone else had witnessed it. Turner looked at Warfield, the only one of the seven within eyesight. Their eyes locked before Warfield nodded. Turner nodded back.
Warfield understood. Just before Turner shot Fletcher, he’d seen Fletcher raise his rifle and point it at Casper’s back. Warfield had yelled, but Casper couldn’t hear above the din of gunfire. He was relieved someone had intervened. But Turner?
Casper waited another three minutes before standing and walking into the clearing, weapon up, eyes darting from the wounded men to the area where the VC had retreated.
One by one, like black ghosts, the other men moved to the clearing. Robinson, his eyes cold and face frozen except for the constant twitch on the right side of his mouth, shot the wounded VC. “Sarge, Frankford, Ward, Sampson…” Robinson said softly after each shot. A frowning Casper stared at Robinson before shaking his head and taking another head count.
“Fletcher?” Casper asked, looking around.
“He’s dead,” Turner replied glancing at Warfield.
No one asked how.
Warfield, Robinson, and Holland lay waiting at the edge of the trees in case any of the Viet Cong returned.
After stripping Fletcher of his tags, they dug a hole next to his body and rolled him into it.
Casper motioned at the stockpile. “Grab what you need, including the surgical kit for Holland. Strip the others of their stuff. Throw what you don’t want on the weapons cache, then let’s get two of the Bangalores and blow this shit.”
The men ducked even though they were behind trees. The explosion followed by an even larger one, then one greater than the last, darkened the sky with dust, dirt, and debris.
“There must have been more hidden nearby,” Casper said to Warfield as they listened to the continued explosions. “Maybe underground.”
“Cool,” Warfield responded hoping that blowing up the weapons symbolized an end to all the death he had witnessed. He was hopeful, but not too.
Chapter 47
I
’m okay with what happened,” Warfield whispered to Turner as they walked together along a narrow trail.
“What happened?” Casper asked.
Warfield, surprised Casper walking behind them had overheard, just shook his head.
Casper joined Warfield and Turner. “Hey. Whatever happened, I’m okay with it.”
Warfield looked at Turner, who walked a little farther before nodding in consent.
Warfield took a deep breath. “May his soul rest in peace.”
Casper waited, looking back and forth between Turner and Warfield.
“That lowlife tried to kill you,” Warfield said.
Casper stopped to hear Warfield better. “What?”
“Fletcher tried to kill you,” Turner repeated.
“How?”
“He circled behind you during the ambush,” Turner said.
“How’d you…” Casper tilted his head.
“I saw him raise his weapon,” Turner said, looking straight ahead.
Warfield looked at the ground.
“Then who got Fletcher?”
Warfield and Turner looked down.
“I did,” they said in unison.
Turner glanced at Warfield.
Warfield glanced back. “We both did.”
Casper looked at both of the men. “Ain’t no need in covering it up. I’m grateful for whoever did it.”
“It was me,” Turner said. “That dude had the devil in him, man. If he had gotten to you, it would have been over, Da helping us or not. I knew that. I felt it. I wasn’t going to let it happen.”
The three walked in silence for a few minutes. “Do you think I should tell the others?” Turner asked.
Casper looked at the ground before answering. “Negative, man. We already got enough to deal with. Keep it to yourself.”
“What the…?” Warfield gasped, ducking and backing out of the cave.
“What’s wrong?” Casper asked as he climbed the last twenty feet to the cave entrance.
Warfield stared into the darkened entrance, his rifle raised. “Something’s in there.”
Da laughed. “No problem.”
Casper raised his rifle, too, as he slowly moved forward. “No problem? Then what’s in there?”
Da made a flying motion with his hands.
“Birds?”
Da went deep inside the cave and brought out a dead bat.
Casper stopped. “Bats?”
The word filtered to the other men. “Bats!”
Casper walked with Da into the cavern, slightly unnerved by the fluttering, squeaking, and chirping overhead as they went deeper. He stood for a minute, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark, then turned to walk back to the men clustered around the entrance.
“It’s okay if we stay near the front of the cave,” Casper told the men.
“Don’t they bite?” Bankston asked.
“If you mess with them,” Turner said.
“How do you know?” Bankston asked.
Casper smiled at Bankston. “You questioning the professor?”
“I just know. Plus Da wouldn’t have brought us here if it wasn’t safe,” Turner replied.
“Well at least it ain’t a tiger,” Holland said.
Turner’s response seemed to satisfy the men, but they sat around near the front of the cave with ponchos over their heads.
It was June 28, ten days since they’d been dropped off, and the fourth day in the cave. Casper looked around. The heat, hunger, and the jungle had taken their toll. The men were emaciated, having eaten only palm shoots, berries, and the little rice cakes they’d taken off the dead Vietnamese. They’d spent the last few days in the cave trying to recuperate, but the lack of food worsened the problem.
They would be lucky to make it a half-mile, much less the miles necessary to find a safe haven with American troops.
“Where’s Da?” Warfield asked.
Robinson went to the rear of the cave. “Da?”
Robinson returned and raised his hands. “Maybe he went looking for more food.”
“I hope so,” Glover said weakly.
Hours passed as the sun began to set and the heat became bearable. The men waited.
The next morning, Bankston and Casper looked at each other blankly. Da hadn’t returned.
“He ain’t coming back,” Holland said. “I saw him looking east and saying, ‘Beaucoup VC. Number 10.’ We’re on our own.”
“Can’t blame him,” Robinson said resignedly. “As much shit as we’ve been in.”
Casper stood and looked at the six men. “Well. This is our fifth day here. We can’t stay in this cave forever. We need to get out of here. We can’t depend on anybody leading us out. We’ve got to find the way ourselves. And we can’t depend on anybody finding us. We have to find them.”
He could tell by the men’s faces they agreed, but no one moved, and no one looked directly at him.
Robinson gazed out over the trees. “Glover can barely walk, Casper. Warfield’s got foot sores. Holland’s wounded.”
“What if we lay something on the ground so a plane or helicopter could see it,” Holland asked.
Casper pointed to the sky. “You hear any planes or helicopters flying around here?”
“What if one of us went out to get help?” Robinson asked.
Warfield looked at his friend. “And the VC take him out? We’d be in here another three or four days waiting. We need to stay together and keep on pushin’.”
“Warf
ield is right,” Casper said. “We’ve all got to move out or remain in the cave and die of infection and starvation.”
No one spoke.
Casper looked in the direction the men had come, then turned. “You know what we did back there? We defied all odds. You guys defeated a superior force. At the end, they were the runners. We were like…”
“Wolverines,” Turner offered.
“Wolverines?” Warfield asked.
“An animal that can defeat other animals twice its size,” Turner replied.
Casper put his hand on Turner’s shoulder. “You know, it’s been my privilege to serve with you guys. It’s been my privilege to know each one of you, to know your heart. At first I had my doubts. I mean, look where you came from.” Casper hesitated and looked around the cave. “And look who you are now. You are warriors, man, true warriors. We’ve been through hell, but we are here today because we overcame. We became one,” Casper said opening his hand and closing it into a fist. “We looked after each other. We fought for each other and I love you guys for that.”
After another moment of silence, Warfield clenched his fist, “Wolverines.”
“Wolverines fight to the finish. They don’t give up,” Turner said.
Robinson and Holland dapped each other.
“Yeah,” Bankston added, “Warfield’s right. We need to keep on pushin’.”
“Wolverines,” Glover said in a gravelly voice.
“So then, we’re Wolverines?” Casper asked.
After a few more minutes, Holland rose slowly, wincing, looking at Warfield. Robinson gradually rose and helped Warfield to his feet. Bankston and Turner picked up Glover.
Each step was excruciating for the men, either from experiencing pain or watching the painful movement of their comrades. They barely covered three miles that day, resting every hour, and, in spite of the danger, taking any trail they could find. Resting at another creek bed, Casper walked among the men, giving encouragement. “We can’t be far.”
“How would we know?” a stone-faced Robinson asked.
A faint boom of a howitzer interrupted their conversation, causing the men to look up. Warfield looked at Holland. “That’s ours.”
A Long Way Back Page 14