Excerpt from “Betrayal: Will Stone in Vietnam”

Part One: A Soldier’s Call

Chapter 1 — Learning to Kill

Two Bullets Marked “Campbell”

Will muscled himself into the seat next to Campbell on a bus bound for Andrews Air Force Base. From there, they would take the cross-country flight to San Francisco. It was one year to the day since Will’s induction into the US Army in the summer of ’65 at the age of twenty. The days leading up to his induction had been all he thought about—until Campbell.

“Lighten up, buddy,” Campbell said. “I’m not going anywhere. Where am I going to run?”

* * * * *

The buzz around the platoon had been about Campbell’s capture. Will had been one of the first men back from leave as the unit formed up three hours earlier. Not that he was early. Will was barely on time. The Army did not much mind the infraction as long as the others were not too late, as long as they made the bus. The Army had bigger things to worry about that night, like shipping out a thousand troopers, including this flight risk Campbell.

“Campbell’s back,” Specialist Fifth Class Montana told Will, nodding to their right. “They brought him back yesterday.” Will spotted Campbell seated on a wood and concrete bench. He sat with his hands between his legs, obscuring the manacles holding him to the first slat of the bench. Campbell stared bleakly between his legs. Montana went on, “Somebody’s gonna have to guard him, once we get going.”

Will barely knew Campbell. Why did he do it? How could he face himself if he made it? And now the humiliation of a desertion charge. Takes balls to buck the Army like that. But you can’t hide from your conscience. Did he run with courage or out of fear?

“Gonna drop the charges against him, I hear, so long as he gets on that ship for Nam,” Montana drawled.

Will glanced back at Montana. Just like the Army. This guy’s been AWOL for two months, probably trying to beat it across the border, and he’s gonna get treated the same as the rest of us.

“Probably they’ll have to issue live ammo to whoever guards him,” continued Montana. “Bastard might run again.”

Will nodded. Don’t wish him harm. I guess where we’re headed is going to be bad enough. But how can there be discipline without reprisals? For a US like me or Campbell, the reward of rank is meaningless. There are only reprisals.

“Heard if you shoot one of our own, like if you’re guarding Campbell and you kill him, you get transferred to another unit,” whispered Montana. “Cause of the possible hard feelings, you know. Might not even go to Nam.”

Will searched Montana’s face for any hint of satisfaction from the situation. Montana had been busted from staff sergeant back to private for slugging an MP before working his way back up to E-5, the same pay grade as a buck sergeant. All that had so conditioned Montana’s animal cunning that he sensed what Will was looking for.

Montana carried fifteen pounds more lean muscle and was half a head taller than the five-foot-seven-inch, hundred-fifty-pound Will. Rarely did Montana confront bigger men, but he had a menacing way of slouching when he confronted smaller ones. Defying Will’s scrutiny with his own steely glare, Montana dipped his knees and hunched his upper back just enough to lower himself to Will’s eye level. Montana wants the job. He might even take pleasure in killing Campbell. He’d like boasting the first kill, even if it were one of us. He’d like it better if it got him out of this boat ride and into some cushy assignment in Europe. I had him pegged all along, and he knows it.

“Gotta go,” said Montana, clapping Will on the back and hanging on to his shoulder. Abandoning his drawl for a moment, Montana squinted at Will and grinned, “You’d want the job, wouldn’t you?” Then he moved on without waiting for a reply.

Will watched the returning soldiers in their civvies filing past the gate to the troop area, past the handcuffed Campbell. Many stopped next to Campbell’s bench long enough for a farewell embrace with their sweethearts or parents. Campbell largely went unnoticed. Despite all the talk, he was not so important to anyone—except to Will.

“You been drinking today, Stone?”

“No, sir,” Will said.

“Didn’t think you had,” said Lieutenant Brown, the How Battery Executive Officer. “See the armorer and draw out your M-14. Here are two live rounds. Stick them in a magazine. Lock, but don’t load. You’re guarding Campbell. Understand, Stone?”

“Yessir,” answered Will.

“Stick to him like glue. Don’t let him take a piss without you. We don’t want to lose him again. Is that clear, Stone?”

“Yessir.”

“If he runs, aim low!”

* * * * *

“I said where am I going to run?” Campbell asked. “We’re on a fuckin’ bus.”

Will glared back. “I have no quarrel with you,” he answered, “but I’m your guard, not your buddy.”

Campbell smirked and poked Will with his elbow.

“So don’t take off on me,” Will said, patting the M-14 between his legs.

Campbell’s face flushed, and he leaned toward Will until their faces were no more than a foot apart. The large pores on Campbell’s nose and the pockmarks on his cheeks momentarily distracted Will. He noticed the bead of sweat on Campbell’s upper lip and the throbbing vein on the top of his forehead where his hairline had receded. He wondered what Campbell noticed about him.

Campbell might have zeroed in on Will’s dark-haired cowlick if Will had not been wearing his regulation-issue, olive drab baseball cap. Campbell might have noticed the dimple that often appeared on Will’s left cheek when he smiled, but Will harbored no cheer now. Campbell, though, should have recognized from the set of Will’s square jaw and his stiff neck on broad shoulders, or from the penetrating, tight-lipped stare he now managed through those icy blue eyes, that Will meant business.

“Back off,” Will said. “It could be a long night. You better get some sleep.”

“You better not,” Campbell said. “I have friends on this bus, you know.” He laughed and turned away from Will.

Will studied Campbell for several moments before leaning his own head back against the seat. Once more, Will brooded over the events of a year ago, the events that led to his induction.

Josh’s Choice

“What exactly is going on here?” a voice called from the foot of the porch stairs. The glare of two flashlight beams spotlighted Will with Jen in his arms on the porch. They eased themselves apart, squinting to make out the two men in uniform climbing the stairs behind the rising light beams. Josh, Will’s roommate and long-time mentor, was sidestepping away from them.

Will had arrived at his rooming house only minutes earlier. Baffled by the commotion, Will had waved for Josh, who was a World War II vet to come to the porch. Josh told him that Mr. Lyons, Jen’s father and their landlord, was banging on the stair-side of the basement door and in other ways creating an awful racket. Then, Jen had burst forth in tears and, before Will knew it, run into his arms.

The sheriff tracked Josh’s movements with his light beam, while his deputy kept his light on Will and Jen. “Well, what we got here, boy?” asked the sheriff. “Where you think you going? You on the wrong side of the tracks for this time of night, ain’t yeh, boy?” The sheriff stood at the top of the stairs one foot in front of the other, leaning forward like he was looking into a dark hole rather than at a man’s face. His leg muscles bulged his trousers and his sinewy fingers and forearms tightened around his flashlight and his nightstick. The moonlight glistened on his sweaty scalp through his crew cut.

“Well, sir, you see—” Josh said as the sheriff’s deputy stationed himself at the top of the stairs behind the sheriff.

“You, quiet over there, boy,” the sheriff drawled, straightening himself erect and relaxing some. “When I want to hear from you, I’ll let you know. Don’t you worry ’bout that.”

Josh looked the sheriff in the eye and nodded.

Will recognized the sheriff’s deputy as having graduated from his high school two years ahead of him, although he did not know him. Played right tackle the year the football team was undefeated. A real bruiser, goes along with the group more than he should, gets carried away.

“Now you pay attention, little lady,” the sheriff continued, shining his flashlight in Jen’s face, “you may learn something valuable here tonight that may save you from learning something the hard way when you’re older.”

“How about we turn the porch light on, sir?” Will said.

The sheriff redirected his beam at Will’s face. “When I want the porch light on, I’ll see that it’s on. I don’t need any help from the likes of you to do my thinking for me.” Turning to Jen, he added, “Go ahead and turn on the overhead light out here, young lady.”

Jen complied, looking first to the sheriff before easing her way back to Will’s side.

“That’s better,” the sheriff continued, taking a careful look at each before his scrutiny returned to Jen. “How old are you, miss?”

“Sixteen next month.”

“That’s nice,” the sheriff said, turning to Will, “and are you fifteen, too, mister?”

Will shook his head.

“For the record, how old are you?” the sheriff asked.

“Twenty,” Will said.

“Interesting, twenty and fifteen,” the sheriff said. “That could be something, you know. Let me tell you something, mister. You been protected. You been protected in this town for years. I know you know why—your father’s partners are big here. What you may not know is all that’s over now, as of tonight. You understand? From now on, you gonna be treated just like any other wise-ass in this town. You got that straight, mister?”

The deputy was looking over Jenny until the banging in the basement resumed. The light above the side porch next door came on. The sheriff looked over as the neighbors came out on the porch and waved to him. The sheriff smiled at Will. “They’re the ones who called about all the ruckus here. I was ready to turn in for the night till they called. You can bet that call pleased my missus. Now what the hell is that banging, Stone?”

“Old Man Lyons, I guess, must be locked in the basement,” Will said.

“You guess, huh,” the sheriff said, staring at Will before turning to Jen. “Is that your pap in the basement?”

Jen nodded.

“Well, why don’t you go open the door for him, little lady, and bring him here?”

While she did that, the chief eyed Josh’s face once more and then gazed at Will. “I know you just had some sort of confrontation with your old man down in the center of town—at this time of night. Are you now telling me this young lady’s pap locked hisself in the basement by some kind of accident? Think good before you answer, mister. This is your chance to get off on the right foot with me.”

“Hey, Sheriff,” Josh said, “isn’t it me you really want? There’s no point in badgering the kid.”

The chief winced, turned slowly to Josh and once more sized him up. A smirk crossed his face as he said, “You was being so nice and polite I almost forgot about you.” Then he glanced back at the deputy and said, “Hey, rookie—oops, sorry—Denton, go down to the squad car and fetch from the trunk that black hood with the drawstring around the opening—the one we use for moving prisoners still uncooperative after they’s cuffed.”

“I hope we won’t need it,” he continued, grinning at Josh, “but we better be ready. It’s in a cardboard box.”

“What does the box say, Sheriff?” Denton asked. “Hood?”

“Hood? Nah, too easy, something like ‘Head Restraint.’ Best you tote that shotgun in the trunk back here, too.”