A Long Way Back Read online

  A Long Way Back

  J. Everett Prewitt

  Northland Publishing Company

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Quotes

  Cast of Characters

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 2

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Part 3

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Part 4

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

  and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

  locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Northland Publishing Company Book

  Copyright © 2015 by J. Everett Prewitt

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  * * *

  For information, address:

  Northland Publishing Company

  11811 Shaker Boulevard, #414

  Cleveland, Ohio 44120

  * * *

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907511

  ISBN-978-0-9761927-1-8

  ISBN-0-9761927-1-3

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  * * *

  my parents

  * * *

  Margaret Ann Prewitt

  * * *

  1914-2010

  * * *

  And

  * * *

  Selmer E. Prewitt

  * * *

  1908-2004

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the input of a number of people. I would especially like to thank my writer’s group: Sarah Wiseley Croley, John Kavouras, and Barbara Hacha, author, who were instrumental in helping me develop this story.

  I want to thank my muse, Sandra Upton-Houston. Vietnam combat veterans Norman Mays, Major, USA (ret), Ernie Jones, Captain, USA (ret) and Julius Nichols, Captain, USA (reserves)—my lifelong friends and fellow Glenville High School alumni who contributed significantly in helping this novel take shape.

  I also want to thank my good friends Richard Baker, Sergeant, USMC (ret) and James Copeland, Sergeant, USA (ret), also Vietnam combat veterans, who shared their experiences so I could tell this story.

  I want to give special acknowledgment to Wallace Terry, (deceased), journalist and author of Bloods, who shared many of his experiences when he visited with me during a portion of his time in Vietnam. And to my sister, my daughter, and my son, who have been my biggest fans and a continuous source of inspiration.

  Quotes

  Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature's inexorable imperative.

  —H. G. Wells

  I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.

  —Alexander the Great

  Cast of Characters

  Anthony Andrews: The reporter who doggedly pursues the story while forced to confront the shock of combat, a deteriorating family life, and a group of soldiers unwilling to relive the nightmares of war.

  Sergeant Willie Stinson: The reluctant leader who has spent his whole life swimming upstream. This venture is no different, having to combat the enemy with an inexperienced force and the war weariness that comes from fighting too many battles.

  Sanford “Rabid” Fletcher: Second-in-command. A former gang leader who rails against any authority and becomes a disruptive force while his fellow soldiers are trying to survive.

  Myron “Professor” Turner: Instrumental in saving his fellow soldier’s lives because of his ability to foresee events.

  Leroy “Tank” Casper: A leader and stabilizing force. Although third-in-command, he rallies the troops to keep pushing during the most dangerous times and when they are at their lowest.

  Raphael “Lucky” Holland: Joined the Army to become strong. Mission accomplished unless drugs become a burden his recently acquired manhood can’t overcome.

  Marcus Glover: His quick temper almost gets him killed, but he maintains strength under the worst of conditions.

  Xavier Warfield: A fastidious dresser who becomes a good friend, and a better warrior.

  Clarence “Country” Bankston: Playful but lethal when he has to employ his combat skills to save his fellow soldiers.

  Erving “Preacher” Robinson: Molded by religion; transformed by war.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  T

  he two words swept through the mess hall like a northeastern wind blowing across Southeast Asia: “They’re here!”

  It was mid-afternoon, July 1, 1969, in Cu Chi, Vietnam, and the sun was unrelenting. The swirl of dust from the Chinook helicopter created a surreal red and brown mist that coated sweating bodies like a new skin.

  As Anthony Andrews gathered with the hushed crowd to watch seven weary-looking soldiers disembark and collect their gear, his eyes narrowed. All seven were black.

  But what Anthony noticed more than their color, the torn and ripped uniforms, or the grime covering every inch of their bodies was their eyes: fluttering, darting, haunted. Most of the men looked thin and undernourished. One walked with a limp, one was carried in a poncho, and another, who helped the soldier in the poncho, cursed under his breath.

  Anthony pulled out his Yashica camera and took pictures.

  “Where are they coming from?” he asked a private first class who stood next to him, mesmerized, his hands poised as if to clap and his eyes tearing.

  “Somewhere around War Zone C.”

  Anthony, unsure where War Zone C was, looked at the sold
ier whose eyes remained fixated on the men. “What happened there?”

  The private never took his eyes off the men as he replied in the softest of voices, “From what I hear, hell happened there.”

  A military police jeep came to carry the two wounded soldiers. The others, with no one giving a command, gathered themselves, straightened, moved their obviously bone-tired, filthy bodies into formation, and began to march into camp when three more jeeps with MPs came and picked them up, too.

  “The 25th Infantry Division in Cu Chi provides the reactionary units combating the Viet Cong insurgency,” Anthony had read in a briefing manual when he first arrived.

  Those men must have returned from one of those missions, Anthony thought as he turned to locate Major Leonard Rainey Bertram, headquarter battalion’s executive officer. As a black reporter assigned to write about the black soldier in Vietnam, he was sure there had to be a story behind the return of those seven men. It was certainly the type the Washington Post was looking for, and without a doubt, something Anthony wanted to be the first to tell.

  Major Bertram, Anthony’s liaison, was standing beside his desk when Anthony found him. Anthony found it odd that in the few days he’d been in Cu Chi, he’d never seen Bertram sit at the desk.

  Cu Chi was Bertram’s second tour, having commanded a rifle company in the 25th in 1966. At six feet, two inches, the major was a few inches taller than Anthony. With a square jaw that appeared to be permanently clenched, he projected a commanding presence. But as Anthony approached, he watched Bertram’s eyes widen as he ducked at the sound of a mortar falling some half-mile away before regaining his composure to greet Anthony.

  Anthony ignored Bertram’s reaction and his reddened face as he shook the major’s hand. “Major. The men who just arrived? Who are they? Where did they come from?”

  Bertram glanced down then beyond Anthony. “I’m not sure. We just received word of their return. I’ll let you know more when I find out.”

  “I’d appreciate it, because I’d like to interview them.”

  Bertram nodded as if he had anticipated the request. “I do know they will have to be debriefed before they can talk.”

  “How long will that take?” Anthony asked.

  Bertram shrugged. “Who knows? Could be days, could be weeks.”

  Anthony looked at the major a few seconds, head tilted to the side. “Really, Major? Is that standard procedure?” Anthony asked, then hesitated. Although this was the first time he’d been denied immediate access to any soldier, he didn’t want to anger his primary source after only a few days in country. Yet, he had a job to do.

  “It is in this case.” The major pulled papers from a pile on his desk and bent over to sign them.

  Anthony straightened up. “Okay.” He pulled out a pad, his pen poised to write. “Can I at least get their names?”

  “Not yet.”

  Anthony looked up quizzically, then turned to leave. “Major?” Anthony said as he stopped at the Quonset hut door.

  “Yes?”

  “The sooner the better for me, okay?”

  Bertram nodded.

  Anthony wondered if the reason the major never looked him in the eye during their conversation was because of Bertram’s embarrassment from his reaction to the mortar round—or because he knew more than he was telling.

  It became apparent after a week had passed, it was the latter. Anthony never got the interview, nor did any of the other correspondents, including the Army’s Stars and Stripes reporter. And he still had no names.

  Upset and curious at being closed out, Anthony tried to piece the men’s story together from whispers and mutters in the mess hall and barracks.

  “Only ones left…”

  “Two weeks in the field…”

  “Ambush…”

  “Lost…”

  “Reported MIA…”

  “Reported KIA…”

  But no one would talk to him directly.

  “Sorry, Mr. Andrews—orders.”

  “It’s classified, Mr. Andrews.”

  “Word from the top,” one sergeant related in a whisper, “is anyone caught giving out information on those men will face an immediate court martial.”

  “Can they do that?” Anthony asked.

  The sergeant shrugged. “Who wants to be the first to find out?”

  Chapter 2

  A

  nthony Andrews had arrived in Saigon on June 25, 1969. The acrid sewer smell and the stifling blast-furnace heat assaulted his nose and body as soon as he stepped off the plane. But the anxiety of visiting a country at war trumped all his senses.

  Duong Thu Huong, a man whose head barely reached the height of the omnipresent motorbikes zipping along the uneven streets throughout the city, met Anthony at the airport. In a jeep that rattled and shook even in neutral, Thu Huong drove Anthony to a storefront office off Tu Do Street, where Anthony filled out forms to obtain his South Vietnamese and American press ID cards.

  Already wary, Anthony recoiled from a Vietnamese man rushing from a store he and Thu Huong passed. He scolded himself for overreacting as the man hurried in the opposite direction. As he looked around, though, it seemed tension shrouded everyone like an article of clothing.

  Before being driven to the air base, Thu Huong had recommended a restaurant where Anthony ate Bún riêu, a soup made of thin rice noodles topped with crab and shrimp paste. Appreciation for the food and the country, Anthony mused as they bumped along a dirt road, would be an acquired taste.

  The aged, gray, dented prop plane that was to be Anthony’s transport to Cu Chi was similar to the crop dusters he’d seen in rural Arkansas, except larger. The door was so small, though, he bumped his head when entering. Three soldiers boarded with Anthony, but their presence provided no comfort.

  It was the second time that day Anthony had worried about his safety, and with valid reason. Besides the constant grinding noise after it took off, the plane shuddered from crosswinds and bounced in the air like a paper glider.

  None of the passengers talked during the choppy ride as they looked down on the geometric designs created by the rice paddies and the strange, round, moving objects Anthony later learned were straw hats the Vietnamese wore while planting.

  The landing was as shaky as the take-off. Once off the plane, Anthony vowed to look for alternative transportation if he had to fly again.

  It was after settling into his hootch, a metal hut-like structure with a screened door and concrete floor, that Anthony was first introduced to Major Bertram, who briefed him on the base and the 25th Infantry Division’s mission. Following the meeting, Anthony walked the base, familiarizing himself with his new home and refining how he’d approach his assignment.

  The 25th Infantry base camp was comparable to a small city with red dirt roads, wood boardwalks, metal and wood Quonset huts, barracks, and hootches. Helicopters seemed to be in constant motion. On the ground, Frank Sinatra’s “On a Clear Day” played through the loudspeakers.

  Deep in deliberation, Anthony almost bumped into Arne Nielson, a blond-haired, slightly overweight veteran war correspondent from Eden Prairie, Minnesota, who worked for Newsweek magazine.

  “I remember you,” Nielson said, smiling. “The ethics seminar.”

  “I’m surprised, seeing as how you drank Chicago dry that night,” Anthony responded.

  Nielson laughed. “But for some reason, my drinking never interferes with my memory. I also remember more than one woman at the seminar being smitten by your Nat King Cole looks.”

  Although he’d heard it before, it was times like these Anthony was most grateful his dark skin hid his blushing. But what kept him humbled was his father’s admonition when Anthony was admiring himself in the mirror at sixteen. You ain’t going nowhere in this world just because you think you’re pretty.

  “Can I buy you one, Anthony?” Nielson asked, patting Anthony on the shoulder.

  “How long have you been here?” Anthony inquired as the two settled i
nto an empty table at the officer’s club.

  “Two months now. Newsweek wanted me back to compare what’s going on now with what happened in ’65.”

  “Two tours. Wow. Where were you before this?”

  Nielson pointed east. “Next door. Prince Sihanouk is experiencing unrest in Cambodia partially because of his stance against communism, which pissed off Hanoi. Just when the shit is going to hit the fan, they pull me out. But, hey,” Nielson raised his hands, “I’m just a reporter. What about you, Anthony? What’s your angle?”

  “The Post asked me to write about the positive experiences of the black soldier.”

  “Your executive editor,” Nielson said, nodding.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “No guess, man. Ben Bradlee’s been a supporter of the war from the beginning. Anyway, those would make good stories.” Nielson swirled his glass before taking a sip of Jack Daniels, then downed a Miller beer chaser. “I suggest you look at the new versus the old recruits as a side story.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “When I was here in ’65,” Nielson answered, “the black soldiers were just…soldiering. There’s been an attitude change with these new troops. The first black soldiers were career professionals and took care of the Army’s business without question. A lot of these new recruits are draftees who were involved in the Civil Rights Movement. They challenge anything they consider racist over here when it comes to assignments, decorations, promotions, you name it.” Nielson laughed. “A few have created black-only barracks and won’t let any white guys in.”

  “Really?” Anthony said, remembering seeing two black soldiers raise their fisted right hands in a black power salute when returning to his hootch the previous day.