Finding Jack

by Gareth Crocker

  “Because I’ve been trying to save animals since I was four years old. Of course I’ll help.”

  Fletcher felt his throat tighten. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. Once the operation’s over, no one will know that you were ever involved. You have my word on that.”

  “If the army is going to make an example out of us for trying to save a defenseless animal’s life—possibly one of its own scout dogs, no less—then forgive my manners, but the army can go fuck itself. As it is, I’m not too pleased with the institution. Most of my friends are in the habit of not returning from their little picnics in the jungle.”

  Fletcher was buoyed by Bruno’s attitude. “Okay, when do you want to operate? Tonight?”

  “No. Edgar was right. Our friend has punctured a lung, and there’s a lot of internal bleeding. We need to drain the chest cavity and do what we can to repair the damage.”

  “Now?”

  Bruno shook his head. “As in half an hour ago.”

  Fourteen

  Bruno quickly compiled a list of medical supplies he needed and handed it to Edgar to source. He then instructed Fletcher and Travis to boil two large pots of water and find a new mosquito net under which he would perform the operation. To make the environment as sterile as possible, the net would be doused in disinfectant.

  “I’ve got a net I’ve never used,” a voice said, drifting into the room. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  It was Mitchell, and he wasn’t alone. Wayville, Kingston, Gunther, and Craig Fallow were standing alongside him. “What can we do to help?”

  Fletcher raised his hands. “Thanks, guys, but there’re enough people in the firing line as it is.”

  “Fuck that. What can we do?” Wayville insisted.

  “I appreciate the offer, really, but there’s nothing else for you to do. Bruno has agreed to perform the operation, and Edgar’s organizing the supplies. But I will take you up on that mosquito net, Mitch.”

  “Done.”

  “How’s he doing?” Kingston asked, moving over to the stretcher.

  “He’s holding on, but not by much.”

  “If he survives, we’ll make him our mascot.”

  Fletcher nodded, but knew that if the dog somehow did recover, he would soon be reunited with his unit. After all, he was probably carrying lice and other germs that the base commander would not take kindly to.

  “How long do you think you’ve got before they haul you down to HQ?” Wayville asked.

  “Hopefully long enough to get the tent set up for the operation.”

  “Do you think it’s wise having it in your tent? This is the first place they’ll come looking for you.”

  “No, you’re probably right, but I can’t get anyone else involved now. It has to be here. That is—” He paused, realizing he hadn’t consulted the tent’s remaining occupant. “—if you don’t mind, Mitch?”

  “My castle is your castle.”

  “Why don’t you use our tent?” Kingston offered. “We have a spare bunk as it is.”

  “Thank you, but as I said, there are already enough people at risk.”

  “What’re they going do to us? Send us to war?”

  “They could lock you up.”

  “Clean sheets … three meals a day … no gooks … yeah, that’s a real nightmare,” Gunther replied.

  “Look … if you’re all that bent on helping, I suppose there are a few things you could do.”

  After a brief discussion, the men quickly set about their various tasks. Mitchell and Wayville would station themselves outside the tent and turn away anyone who came looking for Fletcher, while Gunther and Kingston got on the radio to try to find out where the closest dog unit was. If the Labrador made it through the operation, they would need the unit’s help with food and medicine.

  Fletcher and Travis were about to douse the mosquito net with disinfectant, when they noticed Arnold Keens sitting on his own. He had the look of a man at conflict with himself.

  “I’ve got this,” Travis whispered. “Go talk to him.”

  Fifteen

  “Arnold, are you all right?”

  The infantryman, transfixed in another world, flinched as Fletcher’s shadow was cast over him. “Fletcher … I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” he blurted out, his eyes red and swollen.

  “No. It’s me who owes you an apology. You have nothing to be sorry for. You were given a direct order, and you obeyed it. You were right to do what you did. I’m an asshole for trying to make you disobey your commanding officer.”

  A sob, the kind often produced by young children or men at war, racked through Arnold’s body.

  “Arnold, listen to me: I’m the one to blame here. What I did placed the entire platoon at risk. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Why did the lieutenant order the shot?”

  “He thought the dog was a threat to us.”

  “But there wasn’t any danger.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. He must’ve had his reasons.”

  “What’s going to happen to you?”

  “I’m not sure, but they’ll be coming for me.”

  “Why don’t we go speak to the lieutenant, we could—”

  Fletcher held up his hand. “Thank you, but no. I’ll face up to whatever’s coming my way.”

  They were quiet for a while as Arnold tried to collect himself. “How’s he doing? Is he going to make it?”

  “I don’t know, but a few good people are pulling for him. That’s got to make a difference, don’t you think?”

  “I hope so,” he replied, dry-washing his hands. “Why’d you make a stand, Fletcher? Why risk yourself?”

  “I don’t know, really. I can’t explain it. I just felt a connection to him. I imagined he’d been lost in the jungle for days—wounded, starving, trying to find his handlers, and there we were … his salvation. He recognized our uniforms. He was coming to us for help, and we were going to kill him. I just couldn’t allow it.”

  “I wish I had your courage.”

  “Don’t confuse what I did with courage.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  A jeep roared past them, spewing up a cloud of dust and grass in its wake.

  “Do you know if he’s one of ours?”

  “I haven’t noticed any markings to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure he is. I can’t think of any other explanation for him roaming around the jungle.”

  “He’s lucky to have had you in his corner. If I haven’t killed him, the bombs would’ve done the job in the morning.”

  “You haven’t killed him. He’s got a fighting chance now that Bruno’s agreed to operate.”

  “Let me do something, please, Fletcher. Let me help.”

  “Well … there’s so many people involved now, what’s another name on my conscience?”

  Arnold smiled appreciatively. “Sometimes I think there’s just too much to take out here. Too much shit to get your head around.”

  “You think that only sometimes? This is hell on earth, Arnold.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “The people back home … they’ll never understand what happened here.”

  “True. But the good news is that it will all be over soon. You’ve just got to hang in there. You’ll be back with your family before you know it.”

  “Thanks, Fletcher. Christ, I can’t wait to go home. See my brother, my parents … my girl. I’m sure you must be missing your family?”

  Fletcher nodded, the light fading from his eyes. “You could say that.”

  Sixteen

  “I’m ready,” Bruno announced, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He was standing in front of the tent that was now a makeshift surgery.

  “All right,” Fletcher sighed, scanning the area for any signs of his imminent arrest. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about you, Edgar? You don’t mind assisting?”

  “You couldn’t drag me away.”

  “E
nough chat, gentlemen,” Bruno cut in, stepping backward into the tent. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Good luck,” Fletcher offered, walking away.

  “Where’re you going?” Mitchell asked, shaving the side of his arm with his hunting knife.

  “To the Soup.”

  “Why?”

  “To hide out for a while, buy some time. I’ll lose my mind if I wait around here.”

  “Want some company?” Wayville asked.

  Fletcher thought about it for a moment, then looked at Mitchell. “All right with you, my Lord?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if someone comes looking for me and insists on checking the tent?”

  “Well,” Mitchell replied, and held up his knife. “I can be quite persuasive.”

  * * *

  “Still not incarcerated, I see,” Kingston joked, entering the Soup. He was followed by Gunther and the diminutive figure of Craig Fallow.

  Fletcher was sitting at a table with Wayville and Travis. “Not yet, but it shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Well, they sure are taking their sweet time.”

  “I’m trying not to think about it. Have either of you been past the tent? Are they still operating?”

  “Yeah, they’re still working on the slug in his chest. They haven’t even got to the one in his leg yet.”

  “Christ, it’s taking forever.”

  “Relax, Fletch,” Gunther said. “Maybe this’ll cheer you up: I got hold of a dog unit in Dak To. Their squad leader is willing to help and has set aside medicine, food, and dips for our patient. They’ve promised to keep it quiet.”

  Fletcher’s expression brightened. “That’s great, but how’re we going to get it here?”

  “Remember our pilot friend we rescued?” Craig asked. “The good Will Peterson? Well, as Lady Karma would have it, he’s now based in Dak To and has changed shifts with one of his buddies to run the stuff over to us this afternoon. They’re loading up the supplies as we speak.”

  Fletcher was visibly moved by the news. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Hey, this isn’t your personal crusade.” Wayville held up his arms, his immense frame casting a wide shadow as he stood up. His eyes, set deep within his skull, glowed like two small lanterns left under a large outcrop of rock. “None of us wanted to see the dog shot in the first place. You just showed more balls than the rest of us.”

  Kingston, himself only a shade smaller than Wayville, but several years his senior, removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. “That was some gutsy shit you pulled out there.”

  “Nothing gutsy about it. I just saw the dog coming toward us, needing help, and we were going to shoot him. It just didn’t seem right to me.”

  “At one point, I thought Rogan was going to tear your arms off.”

  “If you guys hadn’t separated us, he probably would’ve.”

  “You didn’t do too badly. We were all quite surprised at how well you fared.”

  “Not bad for a pretty boy,” Wayville added.

  Fletcher allowed himself a wry smile. “The lieutenant’s not the bad guy in this. He was just trying to protect us.”

  Gunther clapped loudly. “That’s very charitable of you. I doubt Rogan’s returning the favor right now.”

  “What’s your argument going to be when they eventually come and get you?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll just say that I was wrong. Out of line. That I endangered the safety of the platoon.”

  “Jesus Christ, do you want to get yourself thrown in prison?”

  “I don’t really care to be honest.”

  “How’s Arnold doing?” Kingston asked.

  “I had a chat with him. He feels really bad about his part in all of this. In fact, he’s shattered by it.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “I think he’ll be all right, though. I explained that he was right to follow orders, and I apologized for what I did. Craig … the two of you are good friends,” he said, looking up. “Will you watch him for me?”

  “Sure. Will do.”

  Gunther pulled out a chair and sat down. His short blond hair and reddish beard glistened in the morning light. “I think the only reason Rogan was so determined to have the dog taken out was because of how hard-assed you were being. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone stand up to him. Was probably a fucking first for him, as well.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Carson,” a voice suddenly called out. Three armed soldiers were standing outside the entrance to the Soup.

  “Just on cue, gentlemen,” Fletcher replied cynically. “I don’t suppose you want a beer?”

  Seventeen

  Fletcher was escorted not to base headquarters as he had expected, but to the officers’ pub known as the Tip. Inside, the prefab was deserted save for a single patron occupying the table next to the bar. Having delivered Fletcher, the three officers turned around and quickly strode away. Rogan was nursing what looked like a glass of water, his index finger circling the lip of the tumbler. As Fletcher approached him, he tried to study his face, to get a sense of where the lieutenant’s mind was. There was definitely still some anger in his eyes, but there was now something else there, as well. Something he couldn’t read.

  “Do you know why they call this place the Tip?” Rogan asked, keeping his head bowed.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve heard one of the men say it’s because officers arrogantly think they’re more important than the men who serve under them. The old ‘tip of the spear’ bravado bit—that without the edge of the blade, the rest of the spear is useless.”

  Fletcher nodded, but said nothing.

  “It’s called the Tip because you can pick up valuable advice in here that might save you and your men out there,” he said abruptly, shifting his stare to the prefab’s solitary window.

  Realizing that whatever was about to come was not part of a formal procedure, Fletcher pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been in Vietnam? This is my third tour. It’s been almost three years. Two of that as lieutenant. Seen a lot of death on both sides. I’ve witnessed great acts of bravery, but mostly just scared young men doing whatever they can to stay alive. Most of them couldn’t give a flying fuck about the politics that keep us here. Most came because they had no choice, or wanted to prove a point to their fathers. I read that in World War Two, only one in four soldiers fired his gun during combat; in fact, in the First World War, the majority of soldiers died of flu. The point is that most of our men out here are terrified and will do whatever they can to get back home in one piece.”

  The Tip’s barman appeared over Fletcher’s shoulder and placed a beer down in front of him. Things were not progressing as Fletcher had anticipated.

  “But the Fat Lady is different. To a man, I have witnessed exceptional courage. We might have our ups and downs, but everyone genuinely looks out for one another. The Fat Lady is something special. Something rare.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then explain something to me: Why did you choose to threaten what we have today? What made you decide to jeopardize all that we are?”

  “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t let the dog die.”

  “Do you think I wanted to give the order? Do you even understand why I did it?”

  “Yes, because Charlie has been known to booby-trap animals with grenades and mines,” Fletcher replied. “But there was nothing tied around his neck, I told you—”

  “Not around his neck, Carson!” Rogan shouted. “Inside it! They stitch handmade bombs no bigger than your fist into the loose skin under their necks. The bombs blow the animal to pieces and send a cloud of napalm fifty feet into the air. I know! I’ve watched it happen.”

  Fletcher sat upright in his chair, sweat now prickling through the skin on his arms and neck. He thought back to how the dog’s neck was caked in blood. “Christ, lieutenant, I didn’t know. I’m
sorry—”

  “Fuck sorry. Fuck it!” he yelled, grabbing his glass and hurling it across the room. “You could’ve killed us. Besides that, the dog looked fucking rabid. I should’ve shot you today. What you did was selfish, stupid, and put everyone’s lives in danger. Do you really think I wanted to have the dog shot? Jesus!”

  Fletcher closed his eyes. He was at a loss for words.

  “I know why you’re here, Carson. I know what happened to your family, and I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. But that doesn’t give you the right to impose your death wish on the men you serve with. I’ve watched you in combat. You display the kind of fearlessness that only a man who has nothing to lose can show. Up until now, it’s made you a highly effective soldier, but today it could’ve cost us our lives. I can’t have you on board unless you get your head on straight.”

  “You’re right,” Fletcher replied, holding up his hands. “Please believe me; I never meant to endanger the men.”

  Rogan looked up at the ceiling, but did not reply.

  For a while they sat in silence.

  “What happens now? When is the hearing?”

  “There isn’t going to be one. The Fat Lady shovels her own shit.”

  “Are you telling me I’m not going to be formally charged?”

  “Not officially, but I want you to apologize to the men. Especially Keens. God knows why, but that boy looks up to you, and you put him in a very difficult position today.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him. I feel terrible about it.”

  “What I have to know right now is,” Rogan carried on, leaning forward, “are you a liability to us? Can I expect any more bullshit from you?”

  “No, sir. You have my word. I won’t go against your orders again.”

  Rogan took a deep breath. “All right, that’s it. This is over. Get out of here.”

  Fletcher hesitated for a moment before lifting to his feet and heading toward the door.

  “Carson, wait. How’s the dog doing?”

  “They’re still operating.”

  “Operating? Who is—?” he replied, and then shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Eighteen