The end of the war would, once again, leave him adrift. The jungles of Vietnam had neither claimed him nor provided him with renewed purpose. All the war had done was darken the nightmares that plagued his nights and wore away at what remained of his sanity. If by chance he made it out, what would he do with the rest of his life? Return to Chicago? Not likely. He doubted he would be able to face anything that resembled his earlier life. He would have to relocate. Change jobs. Meet new people. Try to outrun his past. If he couldn’t, there was always a comforting balcony he could revisit. Sometimes he could feel it calling out to him. Like something from a sinister fairy tale, it seemed to possess a kind of supernatural attraction. It was the gnarled hand of a hooded stranger offering candy to a child.
Increasingly, he was tempted by its pull.
* * *
Fletcher woke up to the sound of rain pelting down on the leaves overhead. The drops were sporadic at first, but soon chorused into a torrential downpour.
“Just a week without getting wet, that’s all I ask,” Travis said, his eyes still closed. “Tell me I’m dreaming the rain.”
Their hooch was covering their bodies well enough, but water was pouring down the sides of the pit.
“You’re dreaming the rain.”
“Tell me the Cubs won the World Series.”
“Sorry, but even dreams have a toehold in reality.”
Travis sat up and wiped his face, which was partially spattered with mud. “What’s the time?”
“Almost 0430.”
“Shit. It feels like I just closed my eyes.”
“It’ll be light soon.”
“Then what? We all drive to a bar and have a few beers? Maybe a couple of steaks?”
“Something like that. Instead of going to a bar, though, we’ll hike for another ten hours through the inside of a furnace, trying gamely not to get our asses blown off, and instead of steak, we’ll have a couple of the shittiest biscuits known to mankind,” Fletcher replied. “Speaking of which, want one?”
Travis was not yet prepared to surrender the fantasy. “Make my steak rare, very rare. In fact, just swat the cow over the head with a newspaper.”
“And to drink?”
“Bourbon. You can leave the bottle.”
A gust of wind shifted the rain, slanting it against their backs. “Jesus. If we’re not dying of heat, we’re being lined up for pneumonia.”
“It could be worse,” Fletcher observed, gagging on the first half of his biscuit. “The Cubs could actually have won the Series.”
Travis smiled and rubbed his eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”
“About an hour, if you count all the blinking.”
“That’s pretty good for you.”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking of giving it up altogether. Every time I fall asleep, I keep waking up in Vietnam.”
“I know what you mean. I have the same dream.”
Fletcher paused, then adopted a serious tone. “What are you going to do with your life when you get out of here?”
“Don’t you mean if?”
“Humor me, Trav.”
“I’m not sure. No long-term plans, really, apart from maybe bombing Washington. But I do know the first thing I’m going to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Fly to Miami. Book into a hotel with clean, crisp white sheets and a view of the beach. I’ll spend my mornings swimming in the ocean and my afternoons watching it from my balcony. At night, I’ll let the tides lull me to sleep.”
“And the seagulls will wake you in the morning?”
“Absolutely.”
“Sounds like a postcard.”
“It’s not too much to ask, is it? A piece of happiness.”
Fletcher smiled warmly. He could imagine Travis sitting on a balcony with a drink in his hand, gazing out over an azure ocean. The image seemed to fit like an old wristwatch.
“What about you?”
For a while, he was quiet. “Go visit my girls. Tell them about this place. Remind them how much I miss them.”
“And after that?”
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll fly out to Miami. Spend some time with a friend.”
“I do need someone to mix my drinks.”
Given their situation, the very thought of wading out into the Atlantic seemed surreal to Fletcher.
“It keeps me going, you know,” Travis said, watching muddy water pool at their feet. “When this place gets to me, it’s all I think about. Come with me, Fletch. We’ll stay a couple of weeks, then figure out the rest of our lives.”
Outside their foxhole, the jungle was now a solid gray sheet of rain. “What? And give up all this?”
Eleven
Four days later, the Fat Lady was finally on its way to the extraction point. Drained both physically and mentally, they had gathered all the information they required and plotted the coordinates of numerous enemy bunkers, hooches concealing munitions and food supplies, at least half a dozen field bases, and a bridge that, once taken out, would seriously hamper the NVA’s supply line. Fletcher was startled at just how quickly Charlie was advancing and how strong he had become. He was on the ascendancy, dramatically so, and they all knew it. Despite his thousands of dead, the war was his to win. All they could do now was try to slow him down.
They had narrowly missed being intercepted by NVA patrols and had twice been forced to separate. In the end, they had conducted most of their forays in two squads: one headed by Rogan and the other by Wayville, who, before being assigned to the Fat Lady, was a fully fledged operational squad leader.
With only two kilometers left to hike, the men were quiet. Having survived a week in the enemy’s basement, they were anxious for fresh air. Mitchell, still at point, was completely wired and absolutely focused. He appeared determined not to let his guard down. He seemed to regard Charlie’s traps not so much as weapons of war, but more as personal affronts. He would shuffle forward a few steps, then stop, breathe deeply, scan the area in front of him, and then dart forward again. Sometimes he would rub his hands on the ground and lick the tips of his fingers. Fletcher wondered, with genuine concern, how he would ever adapt back to normal life.
As was typical toward the end of an assignment, Rogan dropped to the back of the platoon to shepherd his men from the rear. Within a matter of hours, their entire area of operations would be the subject of an intense bombing campaign. Most of the men they had stolen past, laughing and drinking cheap alcohol outside huts and bunkers, would soon either be dead or wishing they were. The thing about war is that you could be on the winning side before breakfast, but still be dead by nightfall.
The thought brought no joy to Fletcher.
“Halt!”
“What is it?” Kingston asked.
Mitchell shook his head as if his eyes were deceiving him. “A dog.”
Fletcher turned to his right. In the distance, a yellow Labrador with its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth emerged from between the trees. The animal was moving badly, favoring its left side. What appeared to be a large cut ran from the top of its back down its front leg. Flies, like a black mist, hung over the wound. More disturbing, though, was a swollen mass of what looked like dried blood caked under its neck. “What the hell is a dog doing out here? Christ, look at him.”
Rogan briefly studied the animal, then gestured to Fletcher. “Take him out.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Carson.”
Fletcher was taken aback by the order. He watched as the dog slipped on the wet undergrowth and then struggled to get back up. He looked weak and hungry. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you deaf? Kill the fucking dog, that’s an order. There’s something around its neck, probably a mine.”
Fletcher raised his rifle and looked through the scope. “It’s just blood and dirt.”
“This isn’t a debate. Take the shot.”
Fletcher followed the animal in his sights as it approached them. In his first day
s in Vietnam, he’d spent some time at a base that had a dog unit attached to it. All the animals there had been German shepherds, but he had heard that there were many Labradors working as scout dogs throughout Vietnam, trained to provide early warning of enemy patrols, ambushes, mines, and traps. “I’m not doing it. There’s no danger.”
Rogan placed his palm over the top of his sidearm, but kept it holstered. “Take the shot.”
“You first,” Fletcher said, glancing down at the lieutenant’s hand.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s just a goddamn dog!”
“He’s one of ours. The only Labradors in Vietnam belong to us. He must’ve got separated from his handler. He’s a soldier, for Christ’s sake! Besides,” he bargained, “if I shoot, we’ll reveal our position—”
“I’m warning you. This is your last chance.”
“I’m not doing it.”
The Labrador was less than a hundred yards away and closing.
“Keens … take the shot,” Rogan instructed.
Arnold Keens, who’d been watching their exchange in disbelief, recoiled at the sound of his name.
“Your rifle, Keens! That metal thing strapped around your skinny neck. Use it! Take out the dog.”
“C’mon, lieutenant you can’t expect Arnold—”
“Shut up, Tucker.”
“But, lieutenant, I … I can’t. Wh-what—”
“Fire your weapon, son!”
Reluctantly, Arnold raised his gun and took aim.
“Don’t do it, Arnold. Let him come to us. He’s hurt. He recognizes our uniforms. He’s one of us. There’s no danger—”
“Shut your mouth, Carson.”
Fletcher turned to face the teenager. “Arnold, look at me. Please, don’t shoot him.”
“Discharge your weapon, or I’ll have you thrown in prison!”
Fletcher locked eyes with the young man and immediately realized he’d lost him. Arnold was scared to death and did not have the resolve to defy a direct order. Sorry, Fletcher, he mouthed.
The Labrador, sensing that something was wrong, stopped walking.
“Forgive me,” Arnold whispered, and squeezed off two rounds.
The first shot punched into the dog’s chest, and the second into the top of his front leg.
He collapsed onto his side and immediately tried to stand up, but his legs buckled under him. The wound in his chest, just below his head, was oozing thick black blood. Confused, he looked down and began to lick at the holes that were hurting him.
Something unraveled in Fletcher’s mind. He threw off his pack and launched himself at Rogan.
“Fletcher, no!” Travis yelled, scrambling toward them.
A look of surprise lit up Rogan’s face. Before anyone could intervene, Fletcher lowered his shoulder and hit him in the stomach. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet and sent him hurtling into a tree. Fletcher charged after him and started swinging his fists wildly, connecting with his face and chest. “You fuck!”
Wayville and Kingston quickly pulled Fletcher away. A thin rivulet of blood flowed from Rogan’s nose. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Carson?”
Fletcher didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His mind was teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He had rarely felt such anger, such hatred. He turned away and ran toward the dog.
“No,” Gunther warned. “There could be traps.”
But his words were lost to the jungle. Fletcher could think only of getting to the animal’s side. As he passed Arnold, the young man held up his arm. “I’m sorry, Fletcher. Please … I’m so sorry.”
Fletcher struck out at his hand as if it was poisonous to the touch. “Fuck off.”
By the time he reached the dog, it was clear he was dying. His chest was heaving in an irregular motion. Blood from his wounds had formed a half moon around his body. There was blood, along with other fluids, draining from his nose. Kneeling down, Fletcher carefully placed his hand on the Labrador’s side to try to comfort him. As he touched his coat, the dog lifted his head and looked at him. Instead of fear, his eyes conveyed a look of sadness, a glimmer of betrayal. Fletcher felt his stomach tighten. “You were coming to us for help, weren’t you?”
The dog tried to lick his hand, but was slipping away.
Fletcher gently stroked the side of his face. “I’m so sorry, boy.”
Then, steeling himself, he withdrew his sidearm. With his hand shaking and his vision blurred with emotion, he took aim. “Close your eyes.”
The Labrador looked first at the gun and then back at him. Slowly, his tail swept across the ground.
“No,” Fletcher pleaded, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Please.” He was about to pull the trigger when he heard a voice over his shoulder.
“Don’t do it,” Travis said softly, pushing the top of the gun down with his hand. “He deserves a chance to live.”
Twelve
Fletcher carried the critically wounded Labrador all the way to the pickup point. He should have weighed around sixty or even seventy pounds, but in his malnourished state was little more than half that. Edgar, their medic, had applied tourniquets to both wounds, but he continued to lose blood and was drifting in and out of consciousness. As they waited for the chopper to arrive, Fletcher tried to funnel water into his mouth, but the dog could barely swallow. Long strings of saliva hung from his jowls. “C’mon, friend … just a few sips.”
The dog looked at him, blinked, then closed his eyes. For a moment, Fletcher thought he was gone, but his chest continued to rise and fall in an uneven rhythm.
He was hanging on, but only just.
Sitting opposite Fletcher, Travis gently patted the side of the dog’s face. “He’s going to make it. I just know it. There’s something about him.”
Fletcher nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to reply. Something deep within him had given way, and he couldn’t clearly understand it. Watching the dog being shot had triggered an all-consuming, almost pathological rage. He knew his actions would have severe repercussions when they returned to base: There would be a hearing, and he would most likely be court-martialed and imprisoned. But none of that mattered now. All that concerned him was trying to save the dog.
Edgar knelt down beside the Labrador and listened to his chest. “Look I can’t be sure, but I think one of his lungs is punctured.”
“Will he make it back to base?” Fletcher whispered.
“His wounds are very serious.”
“Will he make it back?”
“We have no idea how much internal bleeding there is or which organs have been damaged.”
“You aren’t answering my question.”
Edgar continued to examine the dog. “No, I’m not.”
* * *
The next few minutes limped by. They were about to be extracted from the most demanding assignment they had ever been on, but the scent of death still hung over them. Partly out of concern and partly to run down the wait, the men all spent some time at Fletcher’s side. However, wary of their actions being interpreted as support for his insubordination, most of them did not stay long. Only Travis and Edgar remained with him.
“Bruno Ship,” Fletcher announced.
“Who?” Travis asked.
“Bruno Ship. He’s a chef in the Officers’ Mess.”
“Yeah … bald guy. Friendly. What about him?”
“A few weeks ago, we got to talking. It turns out he ran out of money and had to drop out of vet school in his final year.”
“Vet school? You sure?”
“Yeah. He’ll help us. He’ll operate on the dog.”
“Fletcher,” Edgar said. “I don’t think I need to state the obvious here, but you’re up to your neck in shit. The army’s going to come down hard on you for what you’ve done. I’m not sure Bruno is going to want to have anything to do with this.”
“He’ll help, I know it. I’ve heard him talk about his dogs back home. But I need you to do something for me.”
“We need to get the dog into the hospital as quickly as possible.”
“No way. There’s far too much activity there, trust me. Your best bet is to set something up in one of the tents.”
Fletcher thought for a moment. “Okay, but what about supplies?”
“That I can help you with.”
“All right, then. As soon as we get back, you’re going to have to source whatever you think we might need.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem. I have a key to the supply room. No one keeps a real inventory, anyway.”
“I’ll help you,” Travis offered.
“Thanks, but if someone sees you, they’ll suspect something’s up. It’ll be safer if I do it on my own.”
Fletcher looked down at the Labrador and gently traced his fingers down the length of his nose. Each ragged breath seemed certain to be his last. “Hold on, boy, hold on.”
In the distance, the sound of rotor blades whooped toward them.
Thirteen
“Shit!” Bruno Ship deliberated, scratching the stubble under his chin. He was standing at the entrance to Fletcher’s tent, where the dog lay sprawled out on a stretcher. “I’ve got only six weeks of this fuckfest left.”
Fletcher nodded. “You’re right. It’s unfair of me to ask. If we get caught, it’ll mean trouble for you.”
“You’re not making much of a case.”
“I’m not trying to force this on you. There’s a lot at stake, and I don’t want to talk you into doing something you’ll regret.”
“It gets worse. I hope you weren’t a salesman before the war.”
“Look, I’ll understand either way.”
Bruno massaged his temples as if trying to ward off sleep. “In high school, I got one of the highest grade-point averages in the whole of Detroit. I had six universities offer me full scholarships. I could’ve studied to become a neurosurgeon if I wanted to, but I chose veterinary science. Do you know why?”
Fletcher shook his head.
Finding Jack Page 4