A Long Way Back Read online

  “Actually,” Nielson said more seriously, “it’s already hit the fan here.”

  “How so?” Anthony asked, watching as Nielson finished another shot.

  “So you don’t know about the riot.”

  “No.”

  Nielson looked at his watch. “I’ve got an interview with General Williamson and his staff in a few minutes. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Chapter 3

  T

  hat morning, Anthony wrote his first letter to his wife, Carla:

  July 2, 1969

  Hey Baby,

  I’m here. Arrived around 0400 hours (4 a.m.). Sorry I had to leave you and Mali so soon. Things have been moving so fast for us—first the move from Cleveland to D.C., learning to report the Washington Post way, and now this assignment. Believe me, when I get back, I will make it up to both of you. I already miss you two more than you can imagine. When I call to let you know I’ll be arriving, please pull out your black sheer lace negligee and give Mali a sleeping pill. (Just kidding about the sleeping pill.)

  This place is so different from what I expected—from the food to the air to the general atmosphere and attitude. It will take some getting used to. The heat is suffocating—it rains almost every day, and the Vietnamese food is…let’s say, different from anything I’ve ever eaten. I’ll be dining with the officers, so I should get something close to American food during the rest of my stay.

  My hootch is a wood hut with a tin roof set on a concrete floor. A good wind could blow this thing into the sea, but for now it’s home. One thing for sure, the price is right over here. Bought a case of RC Cola for $2.40.

  I’m at the headquarters of the 25th Infantry Division, and it’s already getting interesting. Hadn’t been here more than a few days when I see these seven black soldiers getting off a helicopter. They looked as if they’d seen the devil. What’s interesting is nobody will talk about it. You know me, though, I’ll find the story.

  Just heard “Keep On Pushing” by the Impressions coming out of one of the barracks. As a matter of fact, they’ve been playing it repeatedly. I imagine those seven men would consider the song appropriate.

  Got to go, babe. I promise to write as often as I can.

  Love you,

  Anthony

  About 2 a.m., Anthony lurched up, hearing the sirens and the shouts almost simultaneously: Incoming! He jumped from his bunk, fumbling for pants and shirt as the clamor of boots hitting the dirt outside his hootch was drowned out by the whistle then the whomp of the first mortar round.

  The ground shuddered from the impact as Anthony burst out of the door. But as soon as he crossed the road, he cursed, remembering he had left his flak jacket and helmet.

  The next round sounded closer. Anthony took off at a full sprint. Two more mortars fell even nearer as he dove headfirst into the concrete bunker, nearly hitting his forehead at the entrance.

  “You okay, man?”

  Anthony looked up to see a muscular black soldier smiling down at him. The man, wearing three elephant hair bracelets Anthony had noticed on a few of the other black soldiers, gave Anthony a hand and offered him a smoke as they leaned against the concrete wall.

  Anthony waved off the cigarette and laughed nervously, his heart pounding as loud as the mortar rounds. “Yeah. I guess,” he said above the whir of helicopters and the commotion of troops manning their posts.

  The soldier chuckled and stuck out his hand. “Terrence Means.”

  “Anthony Andrews.”

  “Welcome to Vietnam.”

  As he looked around at the other soldiers in varied attire, Anthony didn’t feel as stupid about forgetting his protective gear.

  “Anyone ever get a Purple Heart for banging their head on a bunker entrance?” he asked.

  The men chuckled quietly.

  The shells dropped for the next ten minutes, and then an all-clear siren wailed in the stillness of the night. Anthony walked the area looking for any damage, but seeing none, returned to his hootch and lay down, tensing at every sound until reveille, the bugle call to wake, sounded.

  “Three killed, two wounded,” Bertram told Anthony that morning.

  A shudder sliced through Anthony. “Where?” he asked as he gathered himself.

  Bertram grimaced. “Company B, 1st Battalion. The guerillas walked those rounds right toward headquarters. Missed HQ by thirty yards, but got a direct hit on the barracks.”

  Back at his hootch, Anthony lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the mortar attack with the dead and wounded men. He wondered how Bertram had fared the previous night. Anthony understood how mortars could have evoked Bertram’s previous reaction and hoped he wouldn’t suffer a similar fate.

  Chapter 4

  L

  isten, a couple of days ago I saw seven black men in filthy uniforms getting off a chopper, looking wasted. Do you guys know anything? I couldn’t interview them, and Bertram gave me nothing,” Anthony asked as he sat with Nielson, Alrek Olson from the Swedish newspaper Aftonbladet, and Vince Molinari of ABC News.

  The three shook their heads.

  “It sounds strange they didn’t let you talk to them,” Molinari said.

  “That is strange. They say why?” Olson asked.

  “They had to be debriefed, is all Bertram would say,” Anthony responded. “And he was evasive about when they’d be available.”

  “We’ll do some digging and let you know what we find,” Olson volunteered.

  “Cool. Thanks. So tell me about the riot.”

  Anthony wanted to get it from Nielson and the other two before confronting the major. If Bertram’s response to the uprising was anything like his response concerning the seven men, Anthony doubted he’d get the full story.

  Nielson dropped two cubes of ice in his glass before taking a sip. “It appears one of the black soldiers at headquarters took a truck to town, unauthorized. A white soldier reported him, and the black soldier jumped the white soldier for telling.

  “Colonel Moreland A. Bolt, the battalion commander, had the MPs arrest the black soldier and put him in lockup for taking the truck and for the assault. The other black soldiers in his company found out and confronted Captain Fitzgerald, the company commander, since the arrest was based solely on the white soldier’s testimony. They demanded his release within four hours, or they would storm the jail. Black soldiers from other support companies sent representatives saying they’d go, too.”

  Anthony remembered catching a glimpse of Colonel Bolt when he first met with Major Bertram. The colonel was a large man with a flat, red face. With the addition of a beard and a pillow, mothers would place their children in his lap.

  Vince Molinari crossed his arms. “Picture one-hundred-fifty mad black soldiers storming a stockade; then picture the Army’s response.”

  “So what happened?” Anthony asked as he stood to pace, expecting the worst.

  “The colonel let the soldier go,” Nielson answered.

  Anthony turned toward him. “Just like that?”

  “Not quite. They still planned on trying him, but they wanted to avoid any unnecessary confrontation. Anyway, the white soldiers got mad because this guy is free, and…” Nielson said, raising his hands, “there was an altercation between a few of the black and white soldiers the next day, with their primary weapons being fists and metal bunk adapters. Soldiers from both sides joined, and it escalated.”

  “And…?”

  “The MPs finally broke it up. They arrested who they thought were the instigators and sent them to the Long Binh Jail.”

  “When did this happen?” Anthony asked Nielson.

  “June twelfth?”

  Olson and Molinari nodded.

  Anthony thanked the three reporters as they departed, wondering if the full story of the riot would be as elusive as the story of “The Seven,” a name he decided to give the men from the Chinook.

  Anthony finished his first story for the Post based on interviews he’d conducted
with a few of the soldiers, including a black master sergeant. They confirmed Nielson’s assessment about the differences between the old and the new soldiers. The title of the article, “Bad Blood,” was named after the militant black soldiers who named themselves Bloods.

  Having been in Vietnam for a little more than a week, Anthony had only the black soldiers’ point of view on why they rebelled against military authority. The master sergeant labeled the men undisciplined. But was it that the older soldiers accepted the mistreatment? And why would army culture be any different from what was happening back home? It wasn’t plausible so many soldiers were mad at nothing.

  “You need to go on a patrol,” Nielson advised Anthony at lunch.

  “Why?” Anthony asked.

  “A few reasons: One, you can’t write in depth about a war if you haven’t experienced it. I’m talking about being there in the mix. Two, it gives you more credibility with the soldiers you are trying to identify with. Three, there’s a different feeling in the jungle. There’s genuine camaraderie. You’ll get a better sense of this war after you’ve been out there.”

  Nielson gave Anthony a half-smile. “When you’re in your foxhole trying to stay alive and you have to rely on your fellow soldier to make it happen, you two are married. Not like the racial problems back on base where soldiers have too much time on their hands.”

  Anthony leaned forward. “So has every correspondent gone out?”

  “Everyone I know. I’ve been on three.”

  Even though Anthony had enough to write about on base, he agreed with Nielson that going into the field would give him a broader perspective, more stories, and open more doors. “I’m game. I’ll ask Bertram today.”

  “You’ll be a different person when you return. I guarantee.”

  Chapter 5

  A

  nthony hadn’t had time to read Carla’s letter the previous night. He unfolded it, having twenty minutes before he was to see Captain Bertram.

  * * *

  July 10, 1969

  Honey,

  I’m glad you made it there safely. Mali and I miss you so much. I won’t give her a sleeping pill, but she will be at someone’s sleepover the first night you are back. And regarding the negligee, I’ve sent you a picture. DO NOT SHOW THIS TO ANYONE, NOT EVEN WHATEVER BEST FRIEND YOU MIGHT HAVE MADE OVER THERE.

  Anthony, please be careful. I’ve read where journalists have been killed in Vietnam. Do not get adventurous or think you need to test your manhood. You can do that when you get home.

  Be safe.

  I love you.

  Carla

  P.S. I know what 0400 means. You don’t have to interpret for me.

  * * *

  He gazed at the half-naked lady in the picture, looking unlike any university professor he’d ever met: hazel eyed with a slim but shapely build. Her closely cropped hair framed a burnt-brown face that had the blunt but striking features of Eartha Kitt, and the attitude to match.

  Anthony kissed the picture and carefully slid it into a pocket in his suitcase.

  Chapter 6

  T

  hat’s an order, Captain,” Bertram bellowed, slamming the phone down.

  Anthony listened as Bertram and whomever he was talking with engaged in an intense argument.

  “Look, I don’t want to cause any problems,” Anthony said.

  “There will be none,” Bertram responded stiffly. “Report to the landing strip near the 12th Evac at 0600 hours tomorrow. You know where it is?”

  “I’ve got a base map. I’ll find it.”

  The captain, whom Anthony assumed Bertram had been talking to, approached Anthony briskly, ignoring any formality. “You the war correspondent?”

  “Yes. Captain Valentine?” Anthony asked, holding out his hand, brightening at the sight of a black officer.

  The captain turned abruptly and motioned Anthony to follow. A stocky, red-haired sergeant approached them. Valentine mentioned something to the sergeant then disappeared among his men.

  “Anthony,” the sergeant said, holding out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Harry Wrenford. I’m your mother on this mission.

  “We’re going to an area near War Zone C, northwest of Tay Ninh province. Enemy movement was spotted near a village. We’re to check it out.”

  Anthony’s eyebrows rose when he heard the destination. “Oh?”

  “Stick by me when we get off,” Wrenford hollered over the heavy hammering of the Huey troop-transport helicopter taking off. “You might have to scramble depending on the circumstances. Follow me and do what I do, okay?” the sergeant asked, checking Anthony’s gear.

  “Sure. No problem there,” Anthony replied, licking his lips.

  Two door gunners in flak jackets never glanced at the men boarding as they prepared their mounted guns pointing out of each side of the Huey. As the helicopter gained speed, it skirted the top of the trees so close Anthony feared one of the skids might catch a branch. He took a deep breath, wondering if he would regret this decision. An image flashed through his mind of Carla, glaring, with her hands on her hips, before he willed it out of his head.

  Anthony managed a half grimace as he thought back to the near-death incident he’d experienced in a confrontation with the Klan in Arkansas. The encounter had taught him a valuable lesson, though: The greatest danger often births the greatest story.

  When the first Huey helicopter swept into the landing zone, Anthony watched from above as the men hit the ground running south.

  As his Huey bumped to a landing, Anthony jumped and followed Sergeant Wrenford as he and Lieutenant Dillard Maynard jogged to the area where the first soldiers had gathered.

  Maynard, the commander of 3rd Platoon, seemed to be in charge, giving orders to the officers of the 1st and 2nd Platoons. Anthony looked for Captain Valentine, but he and the remaining helicopters never set down.

  Anthony wanted to question Wrenford on Valentine’s whereabouts, but the sergeant was busy preparing the troops to move out. Who was he to question a maneuver? Valentine and the rest of the battalion would probably meet with them further on.

  Wrenford motioned to Anthony to follow him near the front of 3rd Platoon, the lead platoon, as the troops moved out through a patch of what Private Norman Whitaker described to Anthony as “wait a minute” vines. Even though Anthony had become used to the heat, the vines tugging at him every step of the way, the red ants, and the swarming mosquitoes were enough to make him second guess himself again.

  They had traveled northwest for close to twenty minutes and had crossed a narrow stream when Wrenford stopped abruptly and peered into the denseness to their left. The look on Wrenford’s face caused the hairs on Anthony’s neck to stand up.

  Wrenford extended his arm at a forty-five-degree angle then lowered it to his side. As the troops hit the ground, looking for cover, Anthony crouched behind a tree surrounded by knee-high brush. Wrenford slid into a depression in the ground and raised his rifle slowly—a second before all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 7

  A

  smattering of rifle shots turned into an all-out battle in seconds. The shocking uproar of small arms, machine guns, rockets, and mortars was deafening; it started toward the front of the column, then quickly surrounded the platoon as men dropped from the onslaught. “Down!” Wrenford yelled as he pushed Anthony farther to the ground. “And stay down!”

  Anthony winced as he slid to a prone position. The butterflies he’d felt on the helicopter had turned into dragons that tore away at his inside.

  Even more horrific than the dreadful roar of the weapons were the soul-wrenching screams of men who were hit. Wrenford had left him, but he could hear the sergeant and lieutenant yelling orders. Anthony peeked around the tree in time to see Private Whitaker fall back against the tree before slipping to the ground, blood gushing from a hole in his neck. Anthony rolled over and pulled Whitaker out of the line of fire to save him from further injury, but one glance told him the effort was futile.

>   The whistle of mortar rounds made Anthony recoil as shards of metal gouged the surrounding trees fifty feet away. When he glanced toward the location of the shell’s impact, the dissipating smoke revealed an enemy soldier in a green uniform, rifle in hand, running through the dense brush, parallel to the rear of the platoon, forty yards away.

  Anthony cringed as several more joined the Vietnamese soldier. He looked around to warn someone, but no one was within hearing distance. Anthony turned back, horrified to see them make an abrupt turn toward him.

  Could they see him? Anthony looked back for help again before grabbing Whitaker’s weapon. Partially hidden by the brush and vines, he crawled to the other side of the tree and raised the weapon in his quivering hands.

  The men were within thirty yards when Anthony rose and fired the first burst. The rounds were low, kicking up brush and dirt in front of them. The attackers stopped and simultaneously returned fire. Anthony ducked as bullets flew past him or hit the thick Banyan tree with a thunking sound.

  He peeked from behind the tree trunk, watching as the men turned to run to their left, and fired another burst. One of the Viet Cong grabbed his throat, his mouth spraying blood. A second VC ran into the stricken fighter as blood appeared on the back of that enemy soldier’s shirt. The two crumbled to the ground together; the rest disappeared into the high brush.

  Three American soldiers raced to Anthony’s side as he pointed in the direction of the fleeing enemy. Four more soldiers approached, and they gave chase.

  “Second Platoon is flanked!” Anthony heard the private scream into the radio telephone. Bullets, sounding like a swarm of mad wasps, kicked up red dirt around the operator as he dashed to better cover.

  As he held Whitaker’s weapon, ready to fire again, Anthony watched a medic scurry past him toward screams of “Medic!”