A Long Way Back

by J. Everett Prewitt

  A week later, Stinson’s fear became a reality. He got sick. He couldn’t keep any food down. He perspired constantly but felt no real pain, just a nagging cramp in his stomach. As thin as he had become, he figured he’d lost another ten pounds because of his illness, which caused him to defecate continuously. He looked at the emaciated bodies of the other prisoners and couldn’t help but wonder if that would be his fate.

  After close to a month of drinking as much water as his captors would allow and avoiding the chunks of rancid meat in the soup, Stinson’s health improved and his strength slowly returned.

  Six weeks later, the VC carried Private Armand’s body away, the third of the soldiers in the worst of health, after two days of throwing up blood. After Armand’s death, the guards argued among themselves. Stinson guessed their squabble concerned who was to blame. Dead captives didn’t make as strong a statement as live ones.

  One benefit came from the deaths. Stinson’s leg had almost healed. He’d become healthier because of the upgrade in food. Instead of the usual foul-smelling soup, their captors had begun to feed them the same soup they ate.

  The officer in charge had not returned, to Stinson’s relief, and he had not been mistreated, probably because of the deaths.

  The prisoners who could work were still sent out with a guard to obtain edible roots. Since they had dug up most of the roots near the compound, they had to go farther to find any. And when Stinson was placed back on detail, he made sure not to show his captors he had improved as much as he felt.

  It was two months into his capture when Stinson was taken out during a light rain to dig for roots on his own. None of the other prisoners were in any shape to travel that far. As usual, Stinson dragged his leg and pretended to fall twice as they proceeded to an area about a half-mile from the compound.

  The rain had subsided, leaving a light mist hovering over the trees. Except for the occasional chirp of a bird, the sounds in the surrounding jungle were muted. Stinson stretched his leg as he did every time after a long walk and began to dig.

  The tool the prisoners were given was a trowel with a wooden handle and a scoop-shaped metal blade. Stinson balanced the trowel in his hand then gripped it tightly, testing his strength.

  As he dug, he positioned his body so he could watch his guard who rested against a tree five yards away. The sun rays piercing through the mist caused Stinson to sweat profusely. His escort had leaned his weapon against a tree and barely looked his way.

  After Stinson filled his basket, he picked it up and walked toward the guard who was sitting and picking his teeth. He looked up, motioning Stinson to head back toward camp. As the guard stood and turned to pick up his rifle, Stinson jumped him, shoving the trowel into his throat. The Viet Cong's eyes widened as he feebly reached for his weapon. Stinson kicked it away.

  The trowel had pierced the guard’s vocal cords allowing him to make only gurgling sounds as he tried to crawl toward the rifle. Stinson grabbed it, flipped out the bayonet, and stabbed him in the back. Looking to see if anyone had heard the struggle, Stinson dragged the body into a small ravine, covered it with leaves, and took off.

  He had debated going back and killing the other guards, which would have given him more time to escape, but it would have been chancy. If they weren’t all in one place, it would turn into a firefight he would probably lose. Plus, in his condition, he would need all the time and strength at his disposal. Even then the outcome would be a toss-up.

  Chapter 68

  O

  ctober 2, 1969

  “Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” the man whispered.

  “Then you probably don’t remember how you got here.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he tried to focus, looking around before turning back to the doctor. “No.”

  “You are at the 6th Convalescent Center in Cam Ranh Bay.”

  The man’s forehead wrinkled as he looked around again, slowly. An orderly dropped a metal tray at the end of the hall, and the mam jumped at the noise.

  The doctor frowned at the dropper, who hastily retrieved the tray and exited the large room.

  “You are very lucky. You lost a lot of blood from three bullet holes in your back and shoulder. You also had some head trauma from a blunt object. Yet, here you are healing well. I expect if you continue to improve, you might be able to go home in a month or two.”

  The man lowered, and then raised his head slightly as the doctor checked his vitals again.

  “That soldier has a strong constitution. He must have been an athlete in the past,” the doctor said to the head nurse as they walked the hallway.

  “I never got the full story on him,” the nurse responded.

  “According to a Sergeant Farrell, there was gunfire just outside their perimeter. He led a squad out to check and found our Sergeant Stinson lying in a pool of blood, gaunt, with no boots, wearing torn and dirty clothes as if he’d been living in the jungle most of his life.

  “He looked more like a Montagnard peasant than a soldier. His appearance probably helped him make it back.

  “He told Farrell he had escaped a POW camp. The sergeant drew a map of the camp on the ground and said ‘You have to get them’ before he passed out.

  “It’s good Farrell found him so quickly; otherwise, he’d be dead.”

  The nurse sighed. “He’s one of the lucky ones, and I’m so glad. I’m tired of losing so many of these young soldiers.”

  The doctor turned to visit another patient, then stopped. “Oh. Something else. There were two dead VC twenty yards away. When Farrell checked the sergeant’s weapon, it was empty. The sergeant had killed them with his last two bullets. If he had missed, he probably wouldn’t be here.”

  The nurse shook her head. “I’d sure like to hear the rest of his story.”

  “You will if his memory returns, and I expect it will.”

  Chapter 69

  N

  ovember 15, 1969

  Stinson’s elbow bumped against the restroom stall door at the Seattle airport as he tried to change into his civilian clothes. Neither the faint stench of urine nor the tile floor speckled with spots where previous visitors had missed the toilet bothered him after the sights and smells he’d been subjected to. Even the grunts from two stalls over—probably due to constipation—were a welcome sound. They were the sounds of life in the United States.

  With a Houdini-like effort, he made the switch. It was the first step in his self-imposed journey to remove the stench of war from his body then his mind. He felt a lot different about Vietnam when he departed than he did when he first arrived in that beautiful, dank land, and he wanted to remove any vestiges of that nightmare of an experience.

  So many dead, and for what? He glanced in the mirror before he sat back in the wheelchair and flinched. He barely recognized the thin, wearied face staring back.

  Even after changing clothes, the angst of war still seemed to hover over him like his personal rain cloud. There was no satisfaction in knowing he wasn’t the only one affected. He remembered looking at the war-weary soldiers as he was wheeled to his seat on the first leg of the plane trip from Tan Son Nhut to Seattle, Washington. Even in their sleep they displayed a bone-tired fatigue. Some sat staring straight ahead, a few talked, but only another sergeant, his seat mate, babbled as if he would be shipped back if he ever stopped. So Stinson slept, or at least tried to, through the entire flight.

  Stinson sat at the half-filled airport restaurant in a corner, his back to the wall, slowly sipping a Coke, envying the people who walked past the restaurant entrance. Some bounced along, a few engaged in animated conversation, and others walked quietly but confidently to their destinations, all of them looked…comfortable.

  Stinson rapped a beat on the table with his fingers as he hummed a song whose title escaped him. It had been the only melody he remembered during his ordeal. He continued to hum to alleviate the anxiety of returning home. It wasn’t that he didn’
t look forward to seeing Darlene and his son, Jerome; it was just that he wasn’t ready.

  What he really wanted to do was to go somewhere and continue his sleep—hopefully, a dreamless one. The Army had informed Darlene he was coming. He hoped she didn’t want to celebrate, but he couldn’t deprive her if she did. Yet he wondered how she would feel about him when she finally saw him. They were going to take him to the VA hospital first. Stinson looked at the clock. He’d call her once he got settled.

  “You’re ready to board, sir. I’ll wheel you over to the boarding area, and they’ll take it from there,” an older, dignified attendant said.

  Time already? A slender thread of apprehension weaved its way into the weariness that had become his constant companion. He paid his bill and grabbed the carry-on he had bought to replace the Army-issued duffle bag, now the resident of an airport waste receptacle.

  There were people everywhere, more people than he was ready to handle. Stinson lowered his head as the attendant wheeled Stinson toward them, joining the milling throng, lost in a swirl of thoughts. Somewhere during his tour, he had come to hate crowds. Unlike the jungle, the jumble of people lurching toward their destination felt confining.

  Right before he reached his gate, he watched as three men bumped an army sergeant E-6 wearing his Class A uniform, simultaneously. The sergeant cursed before his arm shot out to grab the man on his left.

  The lean, long-haired man wearing sunglasses tried to jerk back, but the sergeant’s grip on the front of his loose-fitting yellow-and-green silk shirt immobilized him. His two friends turned to rush the soldier, but hesitated.

  Stinson understood. He’d seen the look on the sergeant’s face and sensed his need to lash out. The men paused, seeing something in the soldier’s lean, muscular body that signaled almost an eagerness to take them on. The crowd shifted, and the noise swelled as those closest looked on.

  The long-haired man tried to jerk away once more before his eyes met the segeant's. There was a flicker of resignation as a wallet magically appeared in the thief’s hands. The sergeant took it without releasing the man, flipped it open with his right hand to inventory the contents, slid it back into his pocket, and pushed the man away.

  The sergeant didn’t even turn at the noise of shoe leather slipping on the tile and the dull thump of a body hitting the ground. “Civilians. They’ll never understand,” the soldier muttered.

  “Roger that,” Stinson said to himself, smiling.

  The noise level lowered, and the people in the crowd continued moving toward their respective destinations.

  It seemed like everyone who was in the concourse was lining up to board Stinson’s plane. Disappointed the airplane would be crowded, Stinson hoped whomever he sat next to wouldn’t be a talker. If he could grab a few hours’ sleep, maybe he would feel better by the time he arrived in Cleveland.

  “War is hell, ain’t it, troop?” the lean, dark-faced passenger with a scar along the right side of his face said as he sank into the seat next to Stinson.

  “How’d you know I served?”

  “No one gets their hair cut like yours on purpose. Colonel Roger McPherson. Welcome home.”

  For some reason, Stinson felt relieved. “Sergeant Willie Stinson. Thank you, sir.”

  The colonel glanced at Stinson and smiled. “Sergeants, the backbone of the Army.”

  Stinson remained silent.

  “Stationed?” the colonel asked.

  “Cu Chi, 25th Infantry Division, was with the Wolfhounds for a while, sir.”

  “General Ellis W. Williamson.” The colonel paused. “I lost a lot of men saving one of his battalion’s asses at Parrot’s Beak.”

  Stinson stared out of the window. “You think it was worth it, Colonel?”

  “What, saving their asses?”

  “No,” Stinson responded, “the war. Was the war worth it?”

  Colonel McPherson sighed wearily. “Only time will tell, son.”

  Both, lost in their own thoughts, eventually dozed off without saying another word until the plane landed. The colonel turned to Stinson as he stood to depart. “You gonna be okay, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McPherson looked at Stinson as a father would a child. “Son, each of us carries a heavy weight from combat.”

  Stinson looked down and nodded.

  “Remember one thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are not alone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Stinson looked up to watch the colonel, erect and proud, stride toward the plane’s exit, he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe because the colonel’s bearing belied the obvious, but it was evident now. Colonel McPherson’s left arm was missing. Stinson sat and watched as all the anguish he’d felt temporarily lifted like a fog being blown away by a gentle wind.

  Chapter 70

  S

  tinson gazed out the plane’s window and watched as a black lady ran across the tarmac. His first thought was a question. How did she get there? His second thought was that he hoped she caught whatever she was chasing. But as she got closer, Stinson’s eyes widened. It was his wife.

  The hydraulic lift lowered Stinson as Darlene stood waiting, tears pouring. As soon as his wheelchair hit the ground, she rushed him, smothering him with kisses and hugs.

  “How’d you know when I was arriving?” he asked.

  “The Army called me, but nobody could tell me a time, so I called all the airlines until I found your flight. “I was a mess. They had you listed as missing in action, then killed in action, and then when they told me they’d found you, I lost it. I guess I scared our child to death.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.”

  “They told me not to worry when I saw you in a wheelchair because it was temporary,” Darlene said, making a statement and asking a question at the same time.

  “I can walk now.”

  “No! I know you, Willie. They said to make sure you stay confined to this chair until the doctors have evaluated you.”

  “Where’s Jerome?”

  “Aunt Francine is bringing him to the hospital. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I was after I got to the hospital. I was hoping I’d be standing when you came.”

  “You don’t stand until they say you can, Willie, and that’s an order,” she said sternly.

  Stinson grinned as he looked at Darlene. Seeing her had fulfilled all his wishes. While recovering in Cam Ranh Bay, he had received an unofficial visit from a Cornell Latimore, an adjutant general clerk in Cu Chi.

  “I’m two weeks short,” Latimore confided, “and I see this name come across my desk. There were rumors about you and the others, but until I saw your name, I didn’t put much stock in them. So now I see it’s true. Y’all survived that mission. I wanted to come meet you before I got out of here, Sarge.”

  “Do you mind?” Latimore asked, pointing to a chair near the bed.

  “No. Have a seat.”

  “Where were you exactly, Sarge?”

  “Somewhere in Cambodia, I understand.”

  “So that’s true, too.”

  “What did you mean by y’all?”

  Latimore handed Stinson a piece of paper. “I figured you’d ask. As far as I can tell from an MP friend, here’s who I know made it.”

  Stinson read the handwritten note: Casper, Glover, Robinson, Warfield, Turner, Bankston, and Holland. He frowned as he leaned back in his bed. “Just seven?”

  Latimore raised his hands.

  But considering the circumstances, Stinson was grateful any had made it. “Seven.” He took a deep breath before exhaling.

  Darlene didn’t know how to tell her husband tactfully, so she blurted it out, “They had your funeral last week.”

  “They must have found the body.”

  “What body?”

  “When I was in the jungle, I saw a black soldier’s body. It was pretty messed up. He was air force, according to his uniform. I buried his clothes, dress
ed him in my shirt, and put my dog tags on him. I hoped that if the VC found him, they would think they’d found me.”

  “Wow.”

  “It seemed to work until I ran into two VC scouts a few hundred yards from a firebase.” Stinson placed his hands on hers. “I’m sorry to have put you through that.”

  “It’s okay now; you’re here.” Darlene rubbed his shoulder. “Reverend Jemison gave the eulogy.”

  “Little Eddie Jemison?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d he ever become a preacher?”

  “Like most, I guess. He was called.”

  Stinson sniffed.

  “He was all I could afford, honey.”

  Stinson patted her hand. “It’s fine, Darlene. It didn’t count anyway.” Stinson was silent for a moment, then chuckled. “I wish I could have been there.”

  “Oh, Willie. No you don’t. You would have scared those people to death.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Johnny Mack, the Carsons, Phillip Johnson and his lady, Maurice. Gladys is bringing the guest book over later. Then, there were eight men s in the back. They made a commotion about something before settling down.”

  Stinson raised his head. “What did they look like?”

  “I remember one real big guy. One of the short guys looked like Sammy Davis, Jr., one…

  “Do me a favor, baby,” Stinson said, fingering the paper Latimore had given him. “I need a phone book.”

  Chapter 71

  A

  ny story on the Colonel Bertram case?” Bill Walden asked Anthony as they both sat in Walden’s office reviewing a story Anthony was working on.

  “Yeah, Bill, but it goes beyond Bertram. The story I want to write begins and ends with Bertram, but it’s actually about fifteen black soldiers sent on a mission they weren’t expected to survive.”