Raeford’s MVP, a Novel about Love, War and Redemption
Friends, fans and fellow writers, my latest novel, Raeford’s MVP is now available both in paperback and Kindle editions on Amazon. Here’s the direct link: http://amzn.to/1RMml1c. If you would like asignedcopy you can contact me at rdestefanis@centurytel.net or if you live in the area, give me a call. The cost of the book is $16.95 and postage in the U.S. is around four bucks. The Kindle edition is $4.99. As always, your honest review posted on Goodreads at http://bit.ly/1n9oVRTand on Amazon will be very much appreciated. It also helps when you “share” this on your Facebook page along with your comments.
A novel about love, war and redemption.
Be forewarned: Raeford’s MVP is not a “thriller” like the first two novels. It’s actually classified as “literary.” I would characterize it more as mainstream general fiction, with elements of action and adventure. So,a book about a vet with post traumatic stress, that’s gotta be a real fun read, right? Well, I believe I made it work by giving the protagonist, Billy Coker, a sense of humor. He takes the reader back to his years in high school and his “misaligned” priorities with girls that landed his butt in Vietnam.
While entertaining readers, I hope Raeford’s MVP will open some eyes to the reality that has been characterized over the years as “shell shock,” “battle fatigue,” and a variety of other names. The “Post Traumatic Stress” terminology wasn’t actually coined until around 1980, and the syndrome itself was little recognized by the U.S. Military during the Vietnam War.
Lastly, I want to express my deepest appreciation to the “Tribe.” These are the Beta-Readers, Editors, Friends and Supporters who have given their precious time and efforts to help me spread the word about my novels and many who helped me get this particular novel into print. You know who you are, so I will not begin what would be a long list of names. Please send me your comments.
Below you will find a review of the Vietnam War Novel, The Gomorrah Principle, by the Vietnam Veterans of America.
Welcome to “Books in Review II,” an online feature that complements “Books in Review,” which runs in The VVA Veteran, the national magazine of Vietnam Veterans of America
FEATURED
Rick DeStefanis, a veteran of the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division, dedicates The Gomorrah Principle (CreateSpace, 432 pp., $17.95, paper; $5.99, Kindle) to all veterans, especially the paratroops of the 173rd Airborne Brigade and the 82nd Airborne and 101st Airborne Divisions. The book is described as a “non-stop literary thrill ride. Stand back, Bob Lee Swagger.” I’ve read all of the Swagger books, also about a legendary (fictional) Army sniper, so I was eager to find this thriller in the same league with the Swagger books.
The backwoods hero, Brady Nash, is notified that his boyhood friend, Duff Coleridge, has died in Vietnam under mysterious circumstances. Brady receives a letter that contains allegations that Duff was murdered and that a woman in South Vietnam, Lynn Dai Bouchet, knows how and why.
Brady Nash, who is characterized as “dumb as a brick,” “Country dumb,” and a “stupid hillbilly” by the villain, Jack Maxon, manages to join the Army and become a Ranger. He gets sent to Vietnam to serve as a sniper, which led me to think that Nash was smarter than he looked.
Nash becomes a part of a special operations study and observation group, whose purpose is to go after VC cadre. This program is also called Phung Hoang, aka the Phoenix Program. Traps are set for Nash by Jack Maxon, who complains that Nash, that “stupid hillbilly, stumbled out of every trap set for him.”
When Nash arrives in Vietnam he gets orders for Headquarters Company, 173rd Airborne Brigade. He ends up at a firebase south of Ben Het in the Central Highlands near the Cambodian border where he serves from December 15, 1967, to January 28, 1968. Given than time frame, I figured that the book would show us Nash’s involvement in the Tet Offensive. I was not disappointed.
Maxon tells Nash that if we don’t stop the VC in Vietnam, we’ll be fighting them in California—in Santa Monica, no doubt. I won’t give away the ending, but there is a possibility of a sequel.
This thriller is well written and well plotted. It contains no clinkers or boring spots and it moves right along from start to finish.
I recommend it to those who have not had enough of reading sniper thrillers or books dealing with the 1968 Tet Offensive.
Many years back my adult son and his girlfriend came out to the house with a young, black (mostly) Labrador Retriever they had found in a dump. They lived on an un-fenced property in the city and had no place to keep it. We lived in the country. Of course they wanted to know if I wanted it. My wife and I had already inherited several cats in this same manner, so I said, “No, no more pets. Absolutely, positively no way that I’m taking it.” “Two weeks,” my son said. “Let me leave it here just two weeks until I find him a home.” I said, “No!” My wife said, “Don’t be so stubborn. It’s only two weeks.”
The year before I had laid to rest my last aged English Setter, one of the finest bird dogs that ever lived. It was a pretty rough time for me. So, I was in no mood for another dog, especially a duck dog, since I didn’t duck hunt. But it was agreed—only two weeks. Five weeks passed, before I told my son I was waiting no longer, the dog had to go. It was chewing everything it could get its teeth on, including shrubs, lawn furniture, even the propane tank for the fish fryer. Reluctantly my son agreed.
Now, I want to make it clear that I deplore people who simply dump animals on the side of the road, but after a couple more weeks of chewed garden hoses, chewed welcome mats (I could go on), and having unsuccessfully begged dozens of people to take what was potentially a good duck hunting retriever, I gave up. That’s when I thought of a community on a nearby lake with a duck boat parked in every yard. Yes, shamefully, I must admit I did it. I went to the lake one morning with the black lab, let him out at the ramp and launched my boat.
The plan was that I would get in a little fishing while the dog did a “meet and greet” with the local duck hunters. Speeding away across the lake (several miles wide) I looked back after a minute or so only to see something strange—a distant black speck behind me in the water. I realized then that it was the young lab steadily swimming my way, now several hundred yards off-shore. I shut the throttle down and turned the boat. There was no way I would let this poor animal drown. Going back, I pulled the sopping wet dog over into the boat, and he promptly thanked me by drenching me further when he shook from nose to tail. We returned to the bank, and went for “Plan B.” This time, after setting him free on dry land, I turned the boat and sped up the side of the lake. He crashed through the brush, attempting to keep up, but finally gave up the chase.
Late that afternoon, I returned to the boat ramp. No dog in sight. Great, I thought to myself. I tied up the boat and walked up to the pickup truck, looking about in hopes that he wasn’t still around. No dog. This is good, I thought. Probably found himself a good home with a duck hunter by now. That at least was my hope. The young lab with a new home and me with one that wasn’t being chewed out from under me, would leave us both happy. But, as I approached the pickup, he raised his head from the bed of the truck and wagged his tail. There were several deep scratches on the tailgate where he had apparently struggled to climb into the truck. After patting him on the head, I was beginning to resign myself to ownership of a new dog. I hooked up the boat and we returned home.
A few days later a phone call came from a friend who I had called about the dog a couple weeks prior. He said he had a change of heart and would take him. Happily, I drove the ten miles or so down to his place on the river, and when I departed, he waved goodbye while holding the dog by its collar. There was about a mile of gravel road to drive before I reached the highway, so I thought the dog would have plenty of land to roam without the danger of reaching the highway. Satisfied I had given him a good place to live, I was feeling relieved as I walked in the door only to be greeted by the wife wearing a scowl on her face.
“Your buddy,” she said, (which is always an indication of her desire to distance herself from an unsavory situation) “just called. That poor dog went crazy after you drove away. He said it spun and jumped until it got away from him, and the last time he saw it, it was heading up the road toward the highway.”
“I’m sure it will go back to him when it gets hungry,” I said.
“You need to go see and make sure that dog doesn’t get to the highway and get run over.”
“Of course I do,” I said, with unmasked sarcasm. Obediently I drove back down the highway, figuring the dog was probably somewhere along the gravel road, but I had barely driven over half of the ten miles or so to my buddy’s place when I spotted the dog. He was trotting along on the shoulder of the highway. I was incredulous. The mutt had already covered better than four miles, and was steadily making his way back “home.” After turning around, I had only to open the tailgate. He did the rest, taking his rightful place in the back of my truck.
When we got back home, the wife said I needed to name the dog, and stop trying to get rid of it. I named him “Boomerang.”
That was over eleven years ago. Boomer has since lived in our carport. Recently, he began showing his age. Arthritic and barely able to get up and around, he began losing weight. He wouldn’t eat. I carried him to the vet, who tested him for worms and a few other things. He could find nothing and suggested a high protein diet of warm foods. A week ago, I went outside to find Boomer gone. He was not in his house, in the carport, nor on his favorite cedar pillow. I searched far and wide, leaving flyers in mailboxes and walking the surrounding woods for several days. By the weekend I had given up, and after several more days had passed, I was resigned that old Boomer had gone somewhere and died alone.
BOOMER AKA Boomerang
This last Tuesday morning as I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, I heard a low moan outside in the carport. No way, I thought. He was already too far gone when he disappeared. Couldn’t be. I opened the door and there he was! Old Boomerang had done it again. He had returned. Pretty much a skeleton of a dog, dusty and rheumy-eyed, Boomer wagged his tail pathetically as I held his head. He’s eating a little better, and now stays on the back deck inside the fenced back yard where he seems to be doing okay, especially since his new buddy “Blondie” a yellow lab puppy keeps him entertained. It’s funny. I was determined to never own another dog after my last setter died, but Boomer proved more determined.
A post script: Boomer, the Boomerang Dog of many returns, passed away this spring. He was a good dog.
