A Long Way Back Page 11
Holland produced a plastic bag.
Stinson tossed it into the bushes.
As the men lined up to move out, Stinson couldn’t help but recall his last time with Holland’s father, Frankie. They had cased a house for a stick-up. If Frankie had done what he was supposed to, they could have taken down at least five thousand dollars in that poker game, and Stinson would still be in Cleveland, but stupidity evidently ran in the Holland family. Instead of waiting until the gamblers had sat down at the card table, Frankie Holland went barreling into the house before Stinson could get to the basement window to cover him. At forty-two, Frankie was supposed to be the pro.
Stupid! Knowing the players, drug dealers, gangsters, and pimps were all packing, they needed to have all been in the basement sitting at or around the table when Stinson and Frankie Holland hit them. Frankie was shot five times by a man called Slinky who came down the stairs behind him.
Frankie died running down the driveway.
Frankie’s friends were after Stinson because they thought he’d bailed on his partner, and now he ended up saving Frankie’s son’s ass?
Holland watched Stinson as he gave orders to the men. He lowered his head in thought, picked up his gear, and joined the column. “O-oh, well,” he murmured as he fell into line. How do you kill someone who’d just saved your life?
Chapter 34
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rung would have killed the tiger if it had come within another twenty yards, but it would have alerted the Americans she and her soldiers were nearby. She watched with relief as the gaunt beast stalked off and veered toward a large fig tree.
The grass obstructed her view, but she could tell by the movement of the blades the tiger had spotted prey. Was it man or animal? Could it be the soldiers? They were in its path.
Trung smiled. She felt a kinship with the animal, a fellow hunter. Maybe it would do her work for her.
She watched the grass sway again as the tiger stopped, moved slowly, stopped, then took off in a burst of speed toward the soldiers. One of her soldiers muttered something that made Trung laugh softly with the men around her. It was an old village saying: “The meat has been brought to the tiger.”
Trung sank lower on her haunches, waiting for the tormented screams of the victims. Seconds later, Trung’s head jerked at the unexpected crack of two rifles, a roar of pain, then complete silence.
After the black soldiers left, Trung and her men converged on the area. She stared at the dead animal, rubbed her jaw, and then spat. Two shots, two hits. These were the same group of soldiers where two of their men had run after one shot was fired?
She refused to acknowledge a thought lurking in the back of her mind, that the tiger lying at her feet might be an omen. Because as far as she was concerned, her destiny and the destiny of the men she tracked had already been written.
Chapter 35
B
y the middle of the second day, the men were more accustomed to the heat, humidity, and the minuscule inhabitants of the jungle. No one complained, and even Holland, who was given the name Lucky by the group, had been silent since the attack. After training that afternoon, Stinson walked among the men. Robinson, Turner, Warfield, and Glover slept. Sampson wrote, and Frankford laughed quietly with Casper and Holland. Fletcher sat by himself. Bankston and Ward cleaned their weapons.
A few still jumped at the smallest of noises, but not as high, Stinson thought, laughing to himself. It didn’t rain that day, and Stinson was grateful. The heat allowed the men to dry their clothes, especially their socks. A soldier could be rendered helpless with swollen and blistered feet.
Back on the march, the men trudged along silently, trying to conserve their energy under the burning sun. Casper brought up the rear and remained vigilant, watching for anyone who might be following. As the men entered an open field, Glover alerted Stinson to another village a half-mile away. Smoke rising from a few of the huts and the harvested fields indicated the village was occupied.
“What should we do, Sarge?” Glover asked.
“We’ll go around,” Stinson answered as he marked his map.
“Why?” Fletcher asked. “We can get water and food.”
“We are here to observe, not engage, Fletcher. Anyway, we have no idea whether they’re friendly or not.”
Fletcher snorted. “I guess I’m not as scared as you. I’d take the chance. We the ones with the guns.”
“You don’t know what they got. We go around,” Stinson said, glaring at Fletcher before motioning Glover in another direction.
While resting at the edge of a creek, Stinson summoned the men. “This is a good place to talk about ambushes again.”
“Why would we need to know that, Sarge, if we are not to engage?” Robinson asked.
“It’s a valid question, Robinson. Hopefully, you won’t need it, but just because we’re on recon doesn’t mean certain circumstances won’t call for it.
“Suppose you get in a situation where you have to engage because a fight is inevitable? If you can, you want to set the terms of engagement—how, where, and when the battle happens. An ambush is a way of taking control.”
Stinson walked among the men, silent for a while before he continued. “In spite of all I teach y’all, I want you to remember what’s most important. The outcome of any fight is more about will than skill. Regardless of your abilities, you have to want to win, want to live. You got to buy into that thought. It’s what’s going to get you through this shit. It’s what’s going to get you back home.”
Stinson stared at each of the men, making sure they understood and absorbed the message. He knew the few days of training wouldn’t prepare them for most confrontations, but if they believed, if they thought they could win, they would be more than halfway there. At least mentally, they would be where he wanted them to be.
Fletcher picked his teeth with a stick, ignoring Stinson and the others.
Casper glared at Fletcher, trying to understand his resistance to Stinson. He had figured early on Fletcher had probably been a bully when he was younger. Bullies hated authority; and Casper hated bullies. He had always been big and strong for his age, but he never felt he had to bully. And every time one of them raised their evil head, Casper was there to knock it down.
Sarge didn’t have to worry about him. He had his back even if Fletcher didn’t.
Besides challenging Sarge at every turn, there was something else he didn’t like about Fletcher. Maybe it was his look, which resembled a beady-eyed rat.
He’d learned from watching guys like Sarge. Whatever the situation, there was little that could stop their progress. It was almost as if they were destined to be okay. Casper felt Sarge was one of those. How come Fletcher couldn’t see it?
As the squad moved out and Casper ducked under a limb, Fletcher tackled him. Casper raised his fist to punch Fletcher as Somner swung his machete at a twenty-two-inch snake with a green head and yellowish body.
Casper rolled out from under Fletcher and stared at it.
“Looked poisonous,” Fletcher said, picking up his rifle and turning the decapitated snake over.
“Uh, thanks.”
“No problem. But you owe me.”
“Owe you?” Casper asked. “We are going to owe each other before this is over, so don’t look for any favors.”
Chapter 36
T
he morning of the third day, a wave of exhilaration swept over Stinson as he looked at the map, then his compass. The cloud of dark thoughts that had shadowed him the first two days had dissipated. And even though they had not reached their objective, Stinson felt more confident. The ridge where they would rendezvous would be visible soon, and barring any surprises, their mission would be accomplished.
The men were shaping up; he had two sharpshooters, and they were only hours from contact and the trip back to base. He wasn’t so elated, though, that he didn’t continue to look behind him. What had Sergeant Appling told him? Be optimistic, but be careful.
He hated leaving his wife, Darlene, and their child, Jerome, but his stint in the army would allow things to blow over. Then he’d return and hopefully lead a normal life.
Stinson smiled. Gains should see him now.
The mood at lunch was a little more relaxed.
Casper told the sad story of a new second lieutenant who had set up an ambush at night, declared the area a free-fire zone, then walked in front to see if everybody was situated. It was the lieutenant’s first and last ambush.
“A free-fire zone?” Turner asked.
“You supposed to know everything, Professor.” Fletcher laughed, walking toward the group and pointing at Turner with his hand cocked like a pistol.
“Once you establish a free-fire zone, anything that moves into the area gets blasted,” Casper explained.
“Yeah, well we don’t have to worry about stupid moves from Sarge. He’s been right on since we left base camp,” Frankford asserted.
The men murmured in agreement.
“Yeah, Sarge. I’m glad you got caught up in the fight,” Casper chimed in.
“What?” Stinson asked scowling at Casper.
“Well. You know what I mean.”
Stinson grunted and looked at his watch. “Okay. You had your fifteen minutes. Back to training. It ain’t over yet.”
Chapter 37
T
rung’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she listened to the runner who had brought her the news. The Americans she had originally been ordered to pursue were three kilometers from her. They had killed four more of her comrades the previous night in an ambush along the trail she was assigned to protect. Trung had been so captivated by the black soldiers she had lost sight of her primary mission.
If she’d stayed focused, the invaders would be dead by now. At the pace they were moving, they would make contact with the other enemy force by early evening. She couldn’t wait. There were twenty of them, heavily armed and dangerous, but she owned the element of surprise, and with ten more comrades meeting her in the afternoon, the numbers were on her side.
As Stinson and his men emerged from the jungle, the ridge rose out of the ground like some majestic temple. It almost glowed with a reddish and golden hue as the sun’s rays hit its vertical creases at varied angles. It appeared to be about 5,000 feet at its peak, with one ledge about 3,000 feet from the ground.
The lower portion of the ridge was thick with vines, brush, and trees. As they got closer, it appeared climbing the side would allow them to ascend to the leveled area cutting across its front. However, access was deceptive, because at about forty feet from the ledge lip, which jutted out slightly one-third of the way up, the slope became almost vertical.
Across from their objective was a broad hill, approximately five hundred feet high at its apex, which was easily accessible.
Stinson looked at the map. The ridge and the hill were marked.
“See anything, Frankford?” Stinson asked as Frankford reappeared from scouting the area for the 1st Cav soldiers they were to meet.
“Nothing, Sarge.”
Stinson looked around. “We should see something soon.”
After another half hour of circling the area, Stinson announced, “This is the place.” He looked at the map, then looked around. “I guess we set up a perimeter and wait.”
“It would be nice to have a radio now,” Ward mused.
Robinson looked guilty, although Stinson and Casper had tried every conceivable method of getting it to work. “Yeah, that would be very helpful,” Stinson answered.
“No wonder they call it a Prick-25,” Casper said, using the name RTOs fondly called their AN/PRC-25 radios.
Where were the soldiers they were to meet? After two hours of waiting, Stinson had sent four men on another half-mile wide circumference to search for their counterparts. There was no evidence the 1st Cav soldiers or anyone else had been within the area they covered.
Turner took his glasses off and wiped them. “We should be on high ground if we have to wait,” he murmured to himself, but loud enough for those closest to hear him.
Stinson, angry for not thinking of it himself, gave Turner the same look he had given him after Turner had cautioned them about the tiger. Stinson looked around at the ridge on one side and the hill on the other and said, “Frankford, Warfield. See if there’s a way to get to the ledge on the ridge.”
“For what?” Fletcher asked.
“We’ll be safer there,” Stinson answered.
Fletcher frowned. “But we might miss our contact.”
“If we can see the ridge from here, we can see this location from there.”
Fletcher shook his head. “So you listening to the space cadet now?”
Turner’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
“I’m listening to common sense. We are defenseless down here. Up there, we can see better and we are safer.”
“I just want to get out of here, man. We ain’t got no means of contact, so our only way out is hooking up with the other unit. We miss them and we’ll be jammed. This map don’t show how to get home,” Fletcher stated, jabbing at the plastic and paper. “I’m for staying put.”
Stinson’s eyes narrowed as he glowered at Fletcher. “Who put you in charge?”
“All I’m sayin’…”
“If there’s a way to get to the ridge, it’s where we go. This ain’t no democracy.”
“Yeah? Well, you don’t know every damned thing. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here,” Fletcher argued, jabbing Stinson in his chest.
Although something about Fletcher had pissed off Stinson ever since they’d met, the jabbing finger was the trigger. The dormant anger that had built up over the last two days spilled out. Before he could stop himself, Stinson swung at Fletcher. It surprised Fletcher the blusterer would even throw a punch, but he still managed to duck as the blow glanced off the side of his head. He charged Stinson and both fell to the ground. Stinson twisted his body at the last moment throwing Fletcher beneath him. As he raised his hand to throw another punch, Casper caught it.
“Sarge,” was all Casper said as he pulled Stinson off Fletcher.
The two snorted like Toro Bravo bulls as they glared at each other; then Stinson turned and commanded, “Frankford, Warfield, move out.”
The low growl and scuffling feet caused Stinson to turn to see Fletcher charging at him with a bayonet knife. Stinson bent low to take the onslaught before Casper knocked Fletcher down with the butt of his M-16.
“This ain’t over,” a groggy Fletcher hollered as two other soldiers held him down. “This ain’t even over.”
“Keep it up, Fletcher, and one of us will die out here. You better believe, though, it ain’t going to be me,” Stinson said as he took Fletcher’s knife and rifle. “You can bet on that.”
“We found it, Sarge. About five hundred yards back, there’s a trail leading up,” Warfield reported.
“How far did you go up?”
“Almost all the way. There’s some flat ground halfway up, then it gets a little steeper with some vines and brush, but it’s, ah, negotiable.”
“Okay, then. That’s where we’re going. Let’s move.”
“Not me,” Fletcher said, arms folded.
“Me either,” Matthews and Somner added.
“You disobeying a direct order?” Stinson asked.
“We’ll take our chances right here and wait for the Cavs to come where they know where we are,” Fletcher said.
A flushed Stinson stomped over to Fletcher.
“What you gonna do, hit me again, or you gonna shoot me this time?” Fletcher asked as he raised his fists.
Stinson had always been the insubordinate, so Fletcher’s disobedience flustered him. His first thought was to finish kicking Fletcher’s ass, but although it would be gratifying, it would serve no purpose.
“No, I’ll deal with you when we get back to Cu Chi.” Stinson looked at the sun beginning its descent. “I don’t have time now.”
“Let’s go,” Stinson commanded as he turned his back on the three, leaving Fletcher’s rifle and knife at the bottom of the trail.
Chapter 38
S
tinson stepped to the front of his men. Foliage on the rising trail indicated it hadn’t been used in a while, if ever, which meant there would be no surprises. And except near the top where the men had to chop through some vine overgrowth, the ascent was relatively easy.
They made good enough time to survey the ground from their new position before the sun set. The three-hundred-foot wide, eighty-foot long ledge was fairly flat but sloped slightly downward toward the rear wall. To look over, a person would have to move within ten feet of the edge. The only vegetation there was two- to three-foot bushes. Stinson looked around and nodded at Turner. “I think this will work.”
“Yes, sir,” Turner responded, gratified somebody had finally listened to him, but disappointed Fletcher wasn’t there to hear it.
Within seconds, a crushing, foreboding thought seared Turner’s brain. He shuddered and glanced at Stinson. It was a dark thought, but with a herculean effort, he pushed it out of his mind.
“We can see miles away from over here,” Stinson observed as he and Casper looked down to their left from the lip.
“And we can see Fletcher, Matthews, and Somner, too,” Casper responded, looking down to his right at the shrunken figures.