Trafford Publishing: The Torch

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The Torch

by James A. Oliveri

353 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1057; ISBN 1-4120-3230-X; US$28.00, C$32.95, EUR21.95, £16.00

Two young draftees survive the vicious war in Vietnam, only to return home where one drifts into a life of crime and murder, and the other meets personal tragedy.

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About the Book About the Author Excerpts Catalogue Information

About the Book

The Torch is the story of two young draftees who survive the vicious early war in Vietnam, only to return home where one drifts into a life of crime and murder, and the other meets personal tragedy. Jim Orletti and Lou Pizzatelli arrive in Southeast Asia during the spring of 1964, initially approaching their assignment as an adventure. That is their first mistake. Unknown to them, the war in their area of northern South Vietnam is about to undergo an explosive escalation. The two friends are assigned to the U.S. Army advisory team in the city of Hue, precisely where North Vietnamese Colonel Bui Xinh is planning a major attack.

Much of the story involves the experiences Orletti and Pizzatelli share with fellow Americans Captain Ed Welch and Colonel Bill Carlin as they attempt to prevent Colonel Xinh, assisted by his loyal Sergeant Hahn, from defeating the South Vietnamese Army. The scene ultimately shifts back to the United States, where Orletti and Pizzatelli struggle to fit into a society that feels only apathy and hostility toward them. They soon realize that the future may hold something quite different from what they expected.

"Thanks for the copy of The Torch. I read and really enjoyed the first chapter - brought back a lot of memories.
I do think you have a talent, based on what I've read, and I wish you much luck."
Nelson DeMille
Best-selling author.

About the Author

James A. Oliveri is a native Long Islander who graduated from Lawrence High School with a Regents scholarship. He attended New York University prior to entering service with the United States Army. Mr. Oliveri is a Vietnam combat veteran who earned eight decorations, including the Combat Infantry Badge, Army Commendation Medal, and Conspicuous Service Cross.

Following his separation from the service, James A. Oliveri embarked on a career as a financial professional, eventually becoming a Vice President with a major commercial bank. He served as editor and chief writer for the bank's internal publications. His background includes many years of marketing and business development experience.

Mr. Oliveri is very active in the community, having been a member of Kiwanis International since 1968 and serving two terms as local club president. He has won numerous awards as editor of the club's newsletter. He is also a Past Commander of an American Legion Post, and is a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

James A. Oliveri is married, and lives with his wife, Maureen, in Baldwin, New York. The couple has four children and two grandchildren.

The Torch is based in part on Mr. Oliveri's experiences with an advisory team in Vietnam, and is his first novel.

Excerpts

INTRODUCTION
When I got the news about Lou, I drove up to Elmira that same weekend. The imposing red brick walls and lofty watch towers of the prison were depressing enough, but the hospital there was about the dreariest place I'd ever seen. A guard buzzed me through a chipped porcelain-coated steel door that clanged shut behind me. A gray-haired sergeant pointed toward the back of the ward. I followed his direction and found Lou in a small cubicle on the left. He looked like hell.
I swung a small metal chair around to the side of the bed and sat down. Lou's eyes were closed, and he appeared to be in a deep sleep. A clear IV solution trickled steadily into his left arm. I looked around. The walls had probably once been white, but were now a nondescript shade of gray. The were no windows to let in the late spring sunshine that might have brightened my somber mood. I glanced down at the sheets on the bed. They were a little threadbare, but at least appeared clean. Sitting there, I was struck by the irony of the situation. With all that Lou had probably done wrong in his life, it was a relatively minor weapons charge that had landed him here. And weapons were something we both knew much about.
I was beginning to wonder how long I might have to wait when Lou's eyelids suddenly fluttered and opened. For a moment he stared vacantly at the ceiling. Then with a grimace he turned his head just to the right and noticed me. "Orly," he croaked, "Is that you? What the hell are you doing here?"
I forced a smile, hoping to hide my concern. "What the hell do you think I'm doing here, you asshole? I came to see you. Maybe you could show a little gratitude?"
Lou's face brightened, although he seemed to be in considerable pain. "It's good to see you. Really."
"Well you don't look so hot, that's for sure." I knew how bad his brain cancer was, but I waited for him to bring it up. It didn't take long.
"I guess I'm not doing too good.The doc says the cancer's probably related to Agent Orange exposure." He furrowed his brow, licked his cracked lips, and then smiled weakly. "Looks like the 'Nam finally got me after all."
I nodded but didn't reply. There was nothing to say.
My name is Jim Orletti, and Lou Pizzitelli is the best friend I've ever had. Having written that and seen it now on paper, I'm struck by the peculiarity of that statement. Lou and I were almost polar opposites. He was a tough street kid from Staten Island. On the other hand, I was a laid-back college dropout from Long Island. Although we'd shared some very dramatic experiences together, Lou and I sometimes went a year or more without seeing or talking to one another. I can't really explain why, and that is perhaps the most peculiar element of our entire friendship. But then again, maybe the way our relationship played out over time might be considered even stranger.
We were virtually the same age, having been born just weeks apart in 1942. Our adolescent years were spent in the '50s, but it was the turbulent decade of the 60s that really defined our lives. We both graduated high school in 1960. Lou was the personification of a "greaser" then, with slicked back hair and a cigarette pack rolled into the sleeve of his tee shirt. In contrast, I usually wore my sandy hair in a crew cut. I guess I was kind of a self-imposed misfit. I hardly ever wore sneakers like most of the guys. In fact, I really didn't fit any of the stereotypes of the day. That's still one of my problems.
Lou was the product of a highly dysfunctional family. His dad was a low-level "wiseguy" who disappeared mysteriously when Lou was just a child. His mom was never the same after that, virtually withdrawing from life and leaving her only child to make his own way in the world. She finally passed away shortly after Lou graduated from high school. All things considered, it's amazing that he even got that far. Lou may have been a street kid, but he was actually quite intelligent. He drifted through a succession of menial jobs after high school, mostly near his home in Stapleton. I navigated through one miserable semester at NYU on a regents scholarship before getting kicked out. This confirmed what I already knew: I simply wasn't the Joe College type. I then spent some time doing construction work during the day, and trying to figure out at night where I was going to fit into the world. Mercifully, "Uncle Sam" made the decision for me, and for Lou as well.
The envelope arrived in July of 1963. My high school chums and I had often kidded about getting the "greetings" letter from the military. Now holding it in my hand, I was mildly surprised to find that it actually read "Greeting". Funny how something insignificant like a missing "s" can stick in your mind. To this day I remember that "Greeting" as though I had received the letter this morning. Reading further, I found that I was supposed to report to Whitehall Street in lower Manhattan for a pre-induction physical in September. I was twenty-two, and my world was suddenly careening in a totally different direction. Had I known how different, I would have been shocked.
My family has a brief but impressive history of sending its young men off to fight Uncle Sam's battles. During World War II, my father volunteered for duty with the Army Air Corps, although he wound up spending his entire enlistment stateside. One of my uncles was a B-17 tail gunner who flew fifty missions out of North Africa and Italy. Another on my mother's side was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. Other relatives fought in the Pacific and in Korea.
Somewhere in our past the tradition of going off to war became known as "Passing the Torch", or just simply, "The Torch". And we haven't always been good warriors, either. My father's brother was a prime example. The Navy slapped him into a ball and chain for desertion during World War I. Well, maybe he deserved it for going to sea instead of pounding the ground like the rest of the family. But however well we did or didn't do our duty, the tradition had been established. It was a strong one.
As an adolescent I was fascinated by the military. My friends and I all had our collections of toy guns and lead soldiers. We played war games in our back yards. Our favorite movie stars were John Wayne, Errol Flynn, and Gary Cooper. War seemed glorious then. In retrospect, I guess we still had much to learn.
In the early-sixties Vietnam began to make its first serious inroads into the national consciousness. When my time came to serve, The Torch passed to me, and I accepted it somewhat reluctantly. Trust me when I say that I wasn't looking to march off to the sound of the guns, but neither was I capable of avoiding it. A trip to Canada was not an option for me. Idealism like that can bring you a lot of grief, as I would find out. When that letter arrived, I still had a benign innocence. But not for long.
CARLIN

Colonel William Carlin peered intently into the gathering gloom as he made his way westward through the thick underbrush outside the city. He could sense rather than see the individual members of his patchwork command maneuvering on either side of him. In a few moments, the entire force would be in place- badly outnumbered, perhaps, but ready to fight. With the element of surprise and a great deal of luck, Carlin was convinced that they just might pull this off.

The Senior Advisor had sent Major Croninger to the Citadel at the head of a small command and control unit that would coordinate the battle. With him were Lieutenant Wilkerson, the new commo officer, Sergeant Sanborn, Ralph Rodriguez, and one of the new radio operators. It would be their job to provide the necessary communication. Lou and I were at the Colonel's side, each of us carrying a Prick-10 radio as we stumbled along in the near-darkness.

Carlin came up beside a large tree and halted. He held out a hand to stop Sergeant Pearson on his left. This looked like as good a place as any. He whispered some instructions to the non-com, who immediately began moving laterally along the line, setting soldiers into position. I could hear the soft rustle of cloth against vegetation on both sides as nervous men sank to the ground. For many of them, this would be their first action, and you could feel the tension. The muffled chink of entrenching tools biting into the moist earth reached my ears as some of the more experienced troops set to work improving their positions.

The Senior Advisor crouched beside the huge tree he had chosen for his command post and squinted into the growing darkness. The undergrowth appeared to thin out just ahead, leaving a barely discernable clearing roughly fifty meters in width to our front. That's good, he thought. At least we've got one thing going for us. Carlin knew that there were three "Starlight Scopes", or night vision devices, among his men. Useless in the deep jungle, these electronic wonders would provide advance warning of any movement in the clearing if he could just get them out a little further into the open. The Colonel instructed Pearson to set up several listening posts outside the tree line, making sure that a scope was included in each position.

Carlin glanced at Lou and I lying beside him, and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. He had specifically requested that the two of us accompany him, knowing full well that we were the most experienced radio operators in the detachment. Now he said, "Son, tell Major Croninger we're in position."

I had been holding the tip of the flexible whip antenna in my left hand, doubling it over so that it wouldn't catch in the undergrowth while we were moving. I released it, and the metal ribbon sprang back to its full length. I began speaking softly into the black plastic handset.

Carlin turned back to the front, his mind recounting the events of the last few hours. The capture of Lieutenant Khanh had been absolutely pivotal to his developing strategy. While he disapproved of the brutal tactics ARVN interrogators had used on the injured man, he had to admit that the information was priceless. In a very short time, they had Colonel Xinh's entire plan, or at least as much of it as Khanh knew. Consequently, Carlin had been able to divert most of Fisher's Marines from their mission to Quang Tri. Now the gyrenes flanked the fifty or so combat-experienced advisors he had selected to take part in this action. In addition, he had convinced Colonel Ky to detach a battalion of tough ARVN rangers to his command. All told, this gave him roughly two battalions with which to counter Xinh's onrushing forces. Not enough, but it was all he had. Ky, on the other hand, was massing elements of the Second Regiment of the ARVN First Division at the Citadel to counter the anticipated attack by the VC companies.

The listening posts began to work their way out toward the clearing, moving quickly and quietly. Carlin watched until they disappeared into the shadows. He felt a brief burst of pride. If all went well, those men would give Xinh a stunning tactical surprise when he finally closed on Hue. And they would probably be the first to die when the shooting started. Bill Carlin knew that they were ready to do their jobs, but it didn't make him feel any less responsible for their lives.

I tugged on the Colonel's sleeve. "Sir, Major Croninger rogers your message. Everything is quiet at the Citadel."

Carlin nodded. Lou and I settled behind a slight hump in the ground and laid our carbines in front of us. I checked my pistol belt to be sure that extra ammo pouches were within easy reach. Satisfied, I peered at Lou in the darkness. He seemed about as unhappy as I was to be here. Lou didn't say anything, but I could almost hear him thinking, "Ain't this a bitch?" Hell, we had both been through so much already. Why should we now have to risk our necks in another battle when we were so close to going home? Then I thought about Welch, Waldman, Rodriguez and my other friends who were putting their lives on the line, and I knew the answer.

I reached into my pocket, withdrew a stick of gum and offered it to Lou. He peeled off the wrapper and tossed it aside. Then he popped the gum into his mouth and began chewing vigorously. I felt a drop of nervous perspiration trickle from my underarm. I wished I felt as calm as I had sounded giving my report to the Colonel. I looked around. Most of our force was hidden in the darkness, but I knew it wasn't enough to take on at least a regiment. Maybe Carlin had some trump card he had yet to play. Hoping so made me feel a little better. I wriggled into a more comfortable position. At least we had contact with Croninger. That was some consolation.

Sergeant Pearson slid in beside Carlin. "The listening posts are all in place, Colonel."

Carlin nodded again. Despite the gloom, he had noticed that Pearson was wide-eyed with apprehension. The Senior Advisor chuckled with a light-heartedness he didn't truly feel. "Been a while since you got your rear end muddy, huh, Sarge?"

Pearson bristled. "I was with a line company in Korea, Sir."
Carlin smiled. "I know. You're not wearing that CIB for nothing." He paused. "After tonight, you'll probably be eligible for a second one."
Pearson scowled. "Somehow, Sir, that's not much of a comfort."

Carlin chuckled again. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I can't remember the last time I fired a shot in anger. But don't worry. It's just like riding a bicycle. Comes right back to you."

"I sure hope you're right, Colonel."

"I know I am. And don't forget... we've got surprise going for us. Xinh isn't expecting to run into anything out here."

Pearson grunted and looked away, wishing he shared his Colonel's confidence. Something scuttled across his forearm, and he flicked at it in disgust. Far to the west, lightning stabbed briefly at the darkened sky. A rumble of thunder rolled over us a few seconds later. It was going to be a long night, he sighed. Master Sergeant Pearson hoped it wouldn't be his last. Before he could complete the thought, a frightful din of small arms fire broke out to his right rear in the direction of the Citadel. It was starting.

Catalogue Information