A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  Raymond laughed. “I heard those were up close and personal.”

  “And for a good reason.”

  “I figured it wouldn’t be long before something jumped off,” Raymond responded.

  The two men turned off 105th Street onto Morrison Avenue. They hadn’t taken but a few steps when someone yelled from across the street.

  “Lieutenant Williams?”

  Raymond and Anthony turned.

  “Arthur Warfield, sir,” he said, saluting.

  Raymond grinned. “Warfield.” He ignored the salute and hugged the man. “I’m out of the army, so no saluting necessary.”

  “You will always be my lieutenant, sir.”

  Raymond tilted his head toward Anthony. “This is Anthony Andrews, a reporter.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Andrews. You are walking with the best officer I ever served under—a straight-up guy.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield.” Anthony cocked his head as he looked at Warfield. “So you served?”

  “Two and done.”

  “You have any relatives in the army?”

  “My first cousin.”

  Anthony grabbed Warfield’s arm. “Named Xavier?”

  Warfield’s eyes narrowed as he withdrew his arm from Anthony’s grasp. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve been trying to meet him,” Anthony responded.

  “For what?” Arthur Warfield asked.

  Raymond patted Warfield’s shoulder. “Anthony is cool. He’s trying to run down a story about fifteen support soldiers sent on a mission where just seven returned.”

  Warfield looked at Raymond. “Xav mentioned it, but he didn’t go into detail. I do know he didn’t come out of it too well.”

  “I can imagine,” Anthony said.

  “Can you?”

  “He’s been in some shit himself,” Raymond said.

  “I thought you said he was a reporter, sir.”

  “A reporter who got caught up in an ambush, killed some VC, and saved a company from being attacked from the rear,” Raymond answered.

  Arthur Warfield stared into Anthony’s eyes for a while then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Where?” Warfield asked, a little more conciliatory.

  “Outside Tay Ninh.”

  “You tell Xav that?”

  “No. Our conversation was about thirty seconds long.”

  Arthur Warfield shook Anthony’s hand. “All right. Well, it’s nice meeting you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Warfield, and if Xavier ever wants to talk, would you take my number?” Anthony asked giving Warfield his card.

  Warfield nodded, took it, and then turned to Raymond. “Lieutenant, you live around here?”

  “Yeah. On Parkwood.”

  “We got to get together.”

  “Any time, Warfield. Let me get your number and I’ll give you mine.”

  Anthony slammed his fist into his palm as he watched Arthur Warfield walk away. “I’m feeling hopeful, man.”

  Raymond smiled. “It’s one small step, but I’m feeling like you, Anthony. This might be the break you’ve been looking for.”

  Chapter 52

  R

  aymond rang the bell and knocked on the door a few times. “Aunt Cordelia must have stepped out.” Raymond knocked once more. “I wanted to find out about my great-uncle Willie Crenshaw, who’s still in Mississippi. He’ll be ninety-four this year and still lives on his own.”

  “Wow. Good for him,” Anthony said as the two left to return to Thompson’s house. “One of the soldiers who didn’t return was named Willie.”

  “It’s a common name.”

  “Willie Stinson. He was their sergeant.”

  Raymond stopped. “Willie Stinson? Was he from Cleveland, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s what the roster said.”

  “Damn! How come his name wasn’t on the list?”

  “He never came back. Do you know him?” Anthony asked.

  “If it’s my Willie Stinson, we lived on the same street for a while.”

  “What? You’ve got to tell me about him.”

  “I lost track of him some time ago, but let me get this straight. Willie was in Vietnam?”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  Raymond pulled out the piece of paper with Arthur Warfield’s telephone number. “We need to talk to this Xavier cat and find out what he knows about Willie.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “We were just kids, but he was a great friend. Actually, he was more than that. I’m writing an essay about him as an assignment for my English Composition class.”

  “I’d like to read it.”

  “As soon as I’m finished. And if it’s the Willie I know, you’ll have an even better story than mine.”

  Anthony and Raymond sat in the kitchen of Raymond’s apartment as Raymond dialed Arthur Warfield’s number. “Warfield, this is Raymond. I realize we just talked this morning, but I’ve got something important to ask you. I found out a good friend of mine might have been with Xavier on that mission. His name is Sergeant Willie Stinson. Run it by your cousin and give him my telephone number.”

  The phone at Raymond’s apartment rang fifteen minutes later. “Hello?” Raymond answered. He motioned Anthony to go to his bedroom and pick up the other line.

  “Uh. This is Xavier Warfield. You Lieutenant Williams?”

  “Yes. How are you doing?”

  “All right, sir. Making it.”

  “I appreciate you returning my call. So you knew Willie Stinson?”

  Anthony almost felt the urgency in Raymond’s voice.

  “Sarge? Yes, I did.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like a body builder. Dark skinned. About five feet, eleven inches.”

  “Did he say where he went to high school?”

  “Yeah. East High and Tech.”

  “It’s him. Any idea what happened to him?”

  Warfield paused. “No. I’m sorry. Nothing. We’ve been trying to find out, but…”

  Raymond sighed. “Okay. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Will do.”

  “Look. I’ve got Anthony Andrews, the reporter with me. Do you mind talking to him?”

  There was a long pause. “My cousin told me he met him. He knew Sarge, too?”

  “No. But he’s trying to find out what happened to you guys and what happened to your sergeant. Can you help him?”

  Warfield paused again.

  “Warfield,” Raymond said, “we’ve all been to war, including Mr. Andrews. We understand, man. He’s trying to get to the bottom of the shit they put you through, and you need to help us, so he can help you, your boys, and Sergeant Stinson. Understand?”

  “Yeah, LT, I understand.”

  “Good. Can we meet?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  Chapter 53

  A

  nthony watched as Xavier Warfield entered, wearing perfectly creased black wool slacks, an open-collar blue cotton shirt, and black leather shoes that almost gleamed in the dimly lit kitchen of Raymond’s apartment. The men shook hands and sat.

  Xavier Warfield stared at Raymond for a while. “Aren’t you the pool shark?”

  Raymond laughed. “Used to be.”

  “Whoa. I remember you. When I was coming up, I wanted to be like you. You beat me out of fifteen dollars one time when I thought I had game.”

  “You still shoot?” Raymond asked.

  “Yes. You?”

  “No. It requires time I don’t have right now.”

  The three sat at the kitchen table talking about 105th Street while Warfield tapped out a rhythm with his fingers.

  “Thanks for coming,” Raymond said.

  “My cousin mentioned you were an outstanding officer. I respect that,” Warfield replied. “There weren’t a lot of those.”

  “I appreciate that.” Raymond dipped his head toward Anthony. “Mr. Andrews
here is a good friend of mine. When I found out what he was trying to do—set things right for you guys who got screwed over—I thought I’d try to help him.”

  Warfield placed his folded hands on the table. “Okay.”

  “There’s no way you should have been sent on a field mission like that, much less receive an OTH for your service. If Mr. Andrews here can help you guys, would you work with him?”

  Warfield shrugged, his fingers started drumming on the table again. He pursed his lips before looking at Raymond. “The whole thing was crazy.”

  “I understand,” Raymond answered, “but it doesn’t mean you have to live with it and get punished, too.”

  “Yeah,” Warfield said.

  Raymond leaned toward Warfield. “And I know no better person than someone who’s been subjected to something similarly crazy to make it right.”

  Warfield glanced at Anthony and nodded.

  “So can you help?” Raymond asked.

  Warfield paused a few seconds before answering. “Yes.”

  Raymond put his hands on Warfield’s and Anthony’s shoulders. “Let’s make this right.”

  “Tell me about yourself first, Warfield. Some history— how you got drafted and how you became one of the fifteen men sent on this mission,” Anthony said.

  Warfield gazed out the window. “I grew up not too far from here on Lakeview Avenue. Went to Patrick Henry Junior High and the ’Ville.”

  “The ’Ville?” Anthony asked.

  “Glenville High.”

  “Right.”

  “I got a job at Ford Motor Company and was doing okay before this dude tried to rob me. I ended up shooting him, and they gave me a choice: the army or jail.”

  “So how’d you get sent out on patrol?”

  “There was a fight. Some of the Cleveland guys got involved. I joined in, became one of the fifteen.”

  “You want to talk about what happened to you and the other fourteen?”

  Warfield glanced at Raymond. “Not now, if you don’t mind. Maybe later?”

  “Sure.” Anthony was happy to have gotten as far as he did. “Did you know any of the other seven before you were drafted?”

  “Glover. He was the reason I got caught up in that mess.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was in HQ when Glover called me out. He said we were going to fight. Glover was a hothead, and any little thing would tick him off, so I thought this was one of those times.

  “All through junior and senior high, Glover would get into fights and call me for backup. I was always there for him because he was my friend, but when I saw what was happening on base, I backed off. He ran and grabbed me and almost threw me into the fight, so I had no choice but to scrap.”

  “Anybody else you knew before the fight?” Anthony asked.

  “Robinson and Casper. The others? Not well.”

  Anthony looked at the list. “Okay. What about Robinson?”

  “The preacher? He was okay. Pissed people off with his constant praying, but he changed. Came around to becoming a good soldier.”

  “Are you in touch with Robinson?” Anthony continued.

  “No. He kind of faded out when he got back. I guess we all did to some extent.”

  “Casper?”

  “A good dude. I’ve seen him at a few parties since we got back. He ain’t as quiet as he used to be.”

  “Bankston?”

  “Sniper. Did what he was told and killed a lot of VC.”

  “Holland?”

  “Holland. I remember him doing a lot of drugs on base. That’s about it.”

  “Turner?”

  “The professor. A righteous dude. He saw things.”

  “What do you mean?” Anthony asked.

  “He predicted some things before they happened. He helped a lot in us returning from Cambodia.”

  “Cambodia?” Raymond and Anthony asked together.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Cambodia was off limits,” Raymond said.

  “It could have been. They never told us, but that’s where they dropped us.”

  Raymond looked down and then at Warfield. “It’s lucky any of you got back.”

  “True.”

  “How long were you in the field?” Raymond asked.

  “Eleven days. It was supposed to be three.”

  Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “Wow. Somebody’s got some explaining to do. Tell me more.”

  Warfield glanced at his watch. “I apologize, but I’ve got a date tonight. I have to clean my apartment and prepare the food.”

  Anthony stood and shook Warfield’s hand. “Okay. I appreciate you sharing this with us. Can we talk again?”

  Warfield shrugged as he walked toward the door.

  “Would you do me one big favor, Warfield?” Anthony asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you see any of the others, would you tell them we talked, and I would like to speak to them, too?”

  Warfield stopped at the door and spoke without turning. “Eight of us didn’t make it. The rest of us are lucky to be alive. Most of us are just trying to settle into life in the United States and forget this whole thing. I can’t promise you anything.”

  “Remember one thing, though, Warfield. You were wronged. I want to make it right.”

  Warfield tapped his fingers on the doorframe a couple of times, then closed the door behind him.

  “What do you think?” Raymond asked.

  “Cambodia? No wonder everyone was closemouthed.” Anthony looked at Raymond. “You think they were supposed to come back?”

  “Good question.”

  Anthony shook his head and then he looked at his notes. “Well, I’m as close as I’ve been, thanks to you. I don’t see it getting any easier, but we are advancing.”

  Raymond smiled. “Advancing. That’s an appropriate term.”

  Chapter 54

  T

  he phone rang five times before Xavier Warfield picked it up.

  “Warfield?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Glover, man.”

  “Hey, brother. You still in the big city?”

  “Nope. I’m back in Cleveland looking for a place to lay for a minute.”

  “No problem. I got a couch,” Xavier offered.

  “That’s cool.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “Not my kind of place, man. New York is noisy; everybody seems to be stressed out, and it’s expensive. I don’t need none of that,” Glover replied.

  “I hear you. Where are you?”

  “At the Greyhound bus station.”

  “You need a ride?”

  “I’m good. What’s your address?”

  “It’s 1838 East 90th.”

  “Off Chester Avenue, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “Cool. See you in a few.”

  Warfield smiled at the knock, as if Glover was tapping some secret code for admittance. He swung open the door and hugged his friend. “How long a ride you have?”

  “About sixteen hours, man. The bus stopped in every little-ass city on the way.”

  “You get any sleep?”

  “Some.”

  “You want to crash now?”

  “Naw, man. Too wired. You got beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s up with you?” Glover asked.

  “Cool as can be under the circumstances. Glad to get out of the house, though, with Mom’s trailing me everywhere except the bathroom asking if I’m okay.”

  “I heard that.”

  Warfield popped open a Budweiser for himself. “I had an interesting day yesterday, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  Warfield took a sip. “Yeah. This reporter…”

  “Andrews?”

  Warfield stopped sipping and held the beer can two inches from his lips. “You know him?”

  “Yeah. I talked with him when I was hanging with Means.”

  “What did you talk about
?”

  “I didn’t,” Glover responded.

  “Well, my cousin, Arthur, ran into his former lieutenant named Williams, who lives not too far from him. This reporter guy was with Williams. My cousin loved his LT. Said he was the coolest officer under fire he’d ever met. But get this, the lieutenant knows Sarge.”

  Glover bounced up, almost knocking his table lamp over. “What? How?”

  “They lived on the same street growing up.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. After I described him, he said it was his man.”

  Glover sat back down. “Wow.”

  “And the reporter was in a firefight. Can you believe it? He killed some VC and saved the company from being surrounded.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. You could tell he had been in it. All you had to do was look in his eyes.”

  “What’d you guys talk about?” Glover asked.

  “Ahh, just about some of the guys. He wanted a profile on us.”

  “What’d you say about me?”

  “The truth: hotheaded; always getting me in trouble.”

  Glover chuckled. “If I had that day to do over, though, I wouldn’t have fought.”

  “Quit lying. Yes you would have.”

  “Not if I could have seen the future.”

  “You’d be speaking for all of us on that,” Warfield said.

  The two remained silent for a few minutes, sipping their beers.

  “You okay?” Warfield asked.

  “Chest itches a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m good.”

  “If you aren’t, they say you’re supposed to talk about it to somebody who understands.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” Glover asked.

  “Some older vets I talked to at a rally against the war.”

  “You went to a rally?”

  Warfield stood. “Hell yeah. The war was bullshit, man.”

  “At least it was to us.”

  “They say they have a group who get together. They invited me to join.”

  Glover chuckled. “It probably just took one look to tell you needed help.”

  Warfield shrugged. “We got our own group, though.”

  “The Wolverines,” Glover said.

  “The Wolverines,” Warfield repeated.

  The two sat quietly for another few minutes before Glover looked at Warfield, “That might not be a bad idea.”