A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  Anthony turned to Turner. “You haven’t said much of anything.”

  Holland looked at Turner, too. “He hardly ever says much.”

  Glover smiled. “Yeah, but when the professor does...”

  “How’d you get involved in the brawl?” Anthony asked.

  Turner removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. His tone darkened as he spoke. “Somebody hit me. I don’t like being hit.”

  “We were lucky to have Turner,” Casper said, draping his arm over Turner’s shoulders. “He saw things.”

  “Like what?” Anthony asked.

  “He made suggestions, like taking the high ground on the ridge when we would have been wiped out if we had stayed where we were. He was also the one who suggested we ambush the VC chasing us instead of running like Fletcher wanted us to do.”

  Anthony looked at Turner. “You had combat experience?”

  “No. Just lucky I guess.”

  Casper laughed. “It was more than luck.”

  “Intuition?” Anthony said.

  “Mostly my Basic Training,” Turner answered.

  Anthony looked at his notes. “So, this Fletcher—the one called Rabid—how was he involved?”

  Warfield cleared his throat. “He was second in command, but he got killed.”

  “That probably saved our lives,” Glover said.

  “How so?”

  “He wouldn’t listen to anybody. Thought he was still running his gang,” Glover answered.

  “When he died, Casper took over,” Robinson said, “and he led us the rest of the way.”

  “Right into two North Vietnamese Army companies,” Casper chuckled.

  Bankston smiled. “Wasn’t your fault, man. We were lucky to be moving at all.”

  “We were so close to home, but we came up on what we found out later was these NVA, who were getting ready to ambush our soldiers. But we got them first,” Holland said.

  “How?” Anthony asked.

  Glover leaned forward in his chair. “We ambushed them.”

  “I heard that from the colonel, but it seemed so bizarre to me. So you are saying that seven men took on two NVA companies.”

  “We had a height advantage, the ability to take cover, and we had the element of surprise,” Casper said.

  Warfield drummed his leg. “We had to if the troops walking into the ambush were going to survive.”

  “That took a lot of guts,” Anthony said.

  “Twice,” Warfield said. Warfield noticed his fingers had not stopped tapping his leg since he had sat down. He clenched both fists to stop before shuddering at the memory of hearing Charlie coming through the jungle and his hands trembling so badly he was afraid he would not be able to aim, much less shoot. Will more than skill, he told himself as sweat had poured into his eyes blurring his vision. He was afraid to take his hand off the trigger to wipe them, fearing the tremors would not allow him to grasp the weapon again.

  It wasn’t until the enemy began to fall that he felt confident he and his brothers would prevail. Only after the firefight did he dab at his eyes to see all of them still standing. It was the most beautiful sight of his life.

  The weirdest thought, though, crossed his mind as they walked away from the slain enemy. Trumpets blasted in his mind, and a game show emcee yelled, “Mr. Warfield, you have just won a new lease onnnnnnnnn life.”

  The second time, on the hill, it was easier. Warfield remembered watching three enemy soldiers fall from his bullets. His hands hadn’t shaken that time. And as he watched the men fall, he felt nothing—no fear, no remorse, no relief.

  Bankston spoke up. “It sounds like suicide for somebody like us, but we had to. And it worked. That’s when they picked us up and brought us home.”

  “Seems like you guys should get medals,” Anthony said.

  “Right,” Casper said, chuckling.

  “So what happened when you got back to base?”

  Robinson smiled. “When we set down, it seemed like everybody on base stood outside, waiting.”

  “I know,” Anthony said. “I stood with them.”

  The men looked at Anthony.

  “I watched you get off the chopper—seven black men looking like you were one step from the grave. But as tired as you looked, you began marching back to base. I wondered why.”

  “We were soldiers,” Casper responded.

  “The whole scene seemed strange, so I began investigating.”

  “I’m glad somebody cared enough to,” Robinson said. “Anyway, the MPs put us in their jeep when we got to base and took us to the empty barracks that had been mortared. We stayed there for two days with two MPs standing guard.”

  “How’d they treat you?”

  “They fed us, gave us clothes, sent a doctor to look at us. We could wash and everything, but weren’t able to leave the barracks,” Warfield replied.

  “Then this adjutant comes in and starts processing paperwork. Right after, Colonel Bolt comes in. He’s looking at us like we’re the enemy.”

  Warfield took a deep breath. “He tells us that because of the riot and because we were AWOL, we would get less than honorable discharges, but if we stayed clean for a few years and never mentioned Cambodia, it would be changed to honorable.”

  “Like we would believe anything he had to say,” Glover said. “In two years who knows where he would be?”

  “He asked us everything about Cambodia,” Robinson offered, “but you could tell he didn’t give a shit about us. If I had still had my weapon, I would have wasted his ass.”

  The men looked at Robinson again, smiling.

  “So a few days later, we were all discharged,” Bankston said, spreading his arms wide. “And here we are!”

  Anthony stood and distributed a piece of paper to each of the men. “I want to share something with you before I forget. It’s something my wife gave me and asked to share it with you.”

  Casper read it out loud: “It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. A Buddhist saying.”

  Glover slipped the paper into his wallet. “You got that right. Sampson would have agreed, too.”

  Chapter 63

  W

  arfield looked around the room. “You know what? We need a drink.”

  Casper smiled. “Yeah, we do. But we can’t do it here.”

  Holland pointed at Robinson. “The church must have been his idea.”

  Before Robinson could speak, Anthony interrupted. “No. It was mine. I know someone who’s a member.”

  Casper stood. “No problem, Anthony. But when we find that bar, you got to buy the first round.”

  “I’ll buy, but I’m not drinking,” Anthony replied.

  “Understood,” Casper said.

  Inside the Café Tia Juana, the men sat quietly for a while before Casper raised his glass. “Here’s to Sarge, the baddest ass on this planet.”

  “Hear, hear,” the men responded.

  Warfield raised his glass. “Here’s to Sarge, the main reason we’re still alive.”

  Holland raised his glass. “Amen to that.”

  Robinson glared at Holland and then laughed. “That’s my phrase.”

  “To Sarge,” Glover said.

  Bankston sighed. “What hurts most is that we weren’t able to say goodbye to him, to thank him.

  The men fell into another silence before Casper spoke, “There’s another major regret, too.”

  “What’s that?” Anthony asked.

  “We weren’t able to retrieve our buddies’ bodies.”

  The men sat quietly again before Robinson spoke in the softest of voices. “Here’s to Frankford, Somner, James, Matthews, Sampson, and Ward.”

  The men all raised their glasses.

  “What about Fletcher?” Anthony asked.

  “Yeah,” Glover said. “He taught us something, too.” He snorted. “He’s gone. Might as well.” He raised his glass a quarter inch from the table.

  “He never understood us,” Bankst
on added. “He never understood Sarge.”

  “His world was too small,” Turner responded.

  The men all turned to Turner, and one by one nodded slowly as they absorbed his words.

  “And Da,” Bankston said after a long pause. “We can’t forget about Da!”

  Warfield raised his glass again. “And we almost killed him.”

  Casper chuckled. “Yeah. That’s the luck part.”

  “Remember what Sarge said? ‘Use what’s available,’” Holland said.

  “And take what’s necessary,” Robinson added.

  “Is that why we ended up with all those AK-47s?” Glover asked.

  “They didn’t need them anymore,” Casper said.

  “Sarge never liked the M-16s anyway.”

  Their hushed voices in the loud bar indicated to Anthony they were still contending with the circumstances that brought them together. But in spite of the unanswered questions each of the men probably had, Anthony reveled in their company, glad to know they were fighting their way back again, except this time it was to sanity.

  “This isn’t over, you know,” Anthony said to the men during one of their silent moments. “I’m writing your story, and I’m sending it to the president, politicians, and top brass in the army.”

  “Want to take bets on how far that’ll go?” Warfield asked.

  A few of the men snorted.

  Glover folded his arms. “Who cares about seven black soldiers being punished for fighting back? Who gives a damn?”

  Turner looked down before speaking. “It’s not over.”

  The men looked at Turner, waiting for more, but as usual, Turner was through.

  “I’m also sending the story to the press,” Anthony said. “Look, I’m not giving up on you guys. I want your story told. I want the people who sent you to Cambodia to be punished, and I want you to receive honorable discharges.”

  Warfield looked at Anthony. “That’s asking a lot.”

  “No more than you deserve,” Anthony responded resolutely.

  Casper draped his arm over Anthony’s shoulder. “I think everyone here would agree that any time you’re in Cleveland and you want to get together with us, let us know, Anthony. You just acquired a third family.”

  “Can we make him an associate member of the Wolverines?” Warfield asked.

  “Good idea. Show of hands?” Casper asked.

  All seven raised theirs.

  Anthony felt a rush of warmth flow through him. “Thanks, guys.”

  Chapter 64

  T

  he eight men filed into Boyd’s Funeral Home and sat in the rear. There weren’t many people in attendance, maybe thirty-five. It surprised Anthony. The casket, draped with an American flag, was closed, but a picture of Sergeant Willie Stinson sat on top. It appeared to be a recent photo of him in a short-sleeved shirt standing next to a jeep.

  Anthony noticed Raymond Williams near the front row and waved.

  The funeral program’s obituary was as short as the eulogy. Excited after reading it, though, Warfield pointed out one sentence to the others: Sergeant Stinson served honorably, receiving the Silver Star for gallantry in action.

  A few of the men whispered shouts of “yes” as they dapped and hugged, causing others in the room to turn around at the commotion. Anthony held up his hand in apology.

  Casper hugged Warfield, who had his hand draped over Glover’s shoulder.

  Raymond approached the men.

  Warfield extended his hand. “Lieutenant?”

  “Warfield.”

  Anthony introduced Raymond to the rest of the men.

  “Anthony told me your story. I’m so glad he was there. If you guys need to know anything about Anthony, it’s that he’s got your back.”

  “We believe it, Lieutenant,” Casper said.

  “I’ve got to pick up my uncle from the airport. It’s a pleasure meeting all of you. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  “Can you believe it?” Bankston said, playfully punching Holland in the chest after leaving the building. “A silver star and an honorable discharge.”

  Even Turner smiled. “Great.”

  Casper draped his arm over Turner’s shoulder. “If it is to you, you know it is to us.”

  Robinson couldn’t stop giggling as he looked to the sky.

  Anthony, feeling uplifted himself, grinned as the men celebrated. It seemed each of them had shed a little of the anguish they had carried for so long. Whether the relief was permanent or not, and Anthony thought it would be, Sergeant Stinson was still showing his men the way back.

  “I’ll miss you guys,” Anthony said as they walked to their cars, “but I’ll press on to get you guys cleared.”

  “If nothing else happens, at least you know our story,” Warfield said.

  “And if nothing else happens, I hope you do write it,” Turner added.

  “Consider that part done, Turner,” Anthony responded. “It’s a story everyone needs to hear.”

  Chapter 65

  I

  t was 9:00 p.m. when Anthony arrived home. Carla met him at the door.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Great,” Anthony responded. “Each of those guys deserves a medal.”

  “I’m guessing you’re tired from the drive.”

  Anthony looked up with a half-leer, half-grin on his face. “Why? What did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, Anthony. You have a one-track mind. I was checking to see if you were hungry and if you wanted to wait until tomorrow to tell me about the trip.”

  “Yeah. I’m a little bushed,” he said, going through the mail addressed to him. One of the envelopes was nine-by-twelve inches and immediately piqued his curiosity. He opened it first.

  There was a letter inside, along with additional pages.

  * * *

  Anthony,

  Here’s the essay I wrote for my class about Willie Stinson. I’d appreciate your feedback.

  Raymond

  * * *

  The next morning, Anthony made coffee and pulled out Raymond’s essay.

  Wow. Anthony thought after reading it. I’m sorry I never got to meet Sergeant Stinson. He smiled as he picked up the phone to dial. “Raymond?”

  “Anthony. Did you get it?”

  “Yes, I did. This is an excellent essay. He must have meant a lot to you.”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure he realized how much. When he left, I tried to find him but was unsuccessful. He never attempted to find me, though, which was disappointing. My family stayed on that same street for the next fifteen years. He could have visited at least once.”

  “It's a shame, because you two seemed to make each other better.”

  “That’s true on my part,” Raymond responded. “He definitely made me a better person. And now I’ll never see him to thank him.”

  “Well, if you ever want a job as a reporter, look me up,” Anthony said.

  “Any writing suggestions?”

  “Just one. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  Part IV

  Chapter 66

  J

  une 21, 1969

  If the tug on his pant leg had been any harder, Stinson would have turned and shot. Instead, he rolled on his stomach, aiming his .45 at the tugger. The slight, dark-skinned man bowed quickly and put a finger to his lips, motioning Stinson toward him. The man had no visible weapon, which allayed some of Stinson’s fear, but he was still wary. Who was this guy and where’d he come from?

  Stinson had managed to roll sideways for about ten yards along the bank before sliding down a slope another ten yards to avoid the bombardment directed toward his former position. He’d thrown his last grenade and left a rifle pointing toward the enemy to gain a few more seconds.

  When the man beckoned him, Stinson tried crawling backward, but was unable to move in that direction too well after having taken another round in his buttocks. Luckily it was just a flesh wound. For some reason, he trusted the little man, though,
and continued inching toward him. Suddenly, two other unarmed men with a litter came and laid it next to Stinson. A cautious Stinson rolled onto his new transportation, watching their every move as the men scurried farther into the jungle with their load.

  After about twenty minutes, they stopped. Stinson grunted in pain as the one carrier dumped Stinson unceremoniously into the arms of another, who had crawled into a hole in the ground. The man laid Stinson on the dirt floor, placed Stinson’s weapons and gear next to him, jumped out, and slammed the opening shut. Stinson could hear the faint scuffle of feet as they moved off.

  They must be South Vietnamese trying to help a soldier, he thought as he assured himself that if they were enemies, they would have taken him out by now. And if he was a prisoner, they wouldn’t have left him with his weapons.

  There was no telling who or what awaited him if he tried to escape, but in his condition, it was a moot point.

  As Stinson crawled through the dark, attempting to familiarize himself with his surroundings, he was able to measure his new home. The hole was about ten-by-ten feet, but only five feet high. The height was okay because he couldn’t stand for any length of time anyway. He pushed at the makeshift door to check if it was locked. It moved upward. Feeling relieved he would be able to leave at any time, Stinson lay down.

  Hours passed. The patter of rain drops was the only sound as Stinson rested against the wall. What seemed like days went by before someone opened the top and dropped in rice cakes filled with fish, a spicy green vegetable, water, a clay pot, a poncho, and a blanket. More time passed before someone dropped leaves and bandages. He assumed the leaves were medicinal, so he placed them over his wounds, wondering how much damage the bullet shards had caused.

  Stinson busied himself playing mind games, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as he mapped out how he would get back to base once he healed and what his first real meal would be.

  He alternately cursed the weakness his wounds had caused and praised the fact he was still alive. More time passed before someone removed the cover and a person was lowered into the hole. He reached for his .45, but from the brief glimpse of light, his visitor appeared to be a woman holding a bag.