Finding Jack

by Gareth Crocker

  As Fletcher left the Tip and made his way past the munitions store, he began to truly comprehend just how reckless he had been. He shuddered at his selfish behavior and knew that in time he would have to find a way to make amends with the men whose lives he had jeopardized. But that time was not now. Running, he cut in front of a jeep and turned toward his tent. Mitchell was still guarding the entrance. “How’s he doing?” he asked, trying to keep his voice down.

  “Your timing’s perfect—they’ve just finished.”

  Bruno stepped out of the tent, wiping his bloody hands with a towel.

  “Bruno … how’d it go?”

  “We pulled out four slugs. Two of ours, and two AK-47 rounds. Our two were in the chest and front leg. Theirs were in the back leg and neck. I’m not going to lie to you, Fletcher, he’s lost a lot of blood—maybe a fifth of his body weight.”

  “What’re his chances?”

  “Two, maybe three out of ten at a push. Given the nature of the operation and our lack of proper disinfectants, dressings, and the right antibiotics, our biggest enemy now is infection. In this climate, it’s going to be a hell of a job to keep his wounds dry and healthy.”

  “How much damage did the bullets do?”

  “There’s significant muscle and tissue damage. He’s got three cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and his front right leg was partially dislocated. The bullet that punctured his lung also nicked his liver, which caused serious bleeding.”

  Bruno saw the disappointment in Fletcher’s face. “Look, the round in his neck was a ricochet. It’s only a soft tissue wound. I think his legs will recover. My real concern is his breathing and whether or not we’ve stopped the internal bleeding. If he makes it through the next two or three days, I’m going to have to open him up again. One of the problems with dogs is that they’re so eager to please us that they seldom give us a real indication of how they are healing. Often they’ll get hit by a car, run home, and act like nothing’s happened—only to drop dead an hour later. I’ll have to go back in and check for myself.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait. Gunther tells me the proper antibiotics will be here shortly. The sooner I can administer those, the better. We’ve got him on a drip, and his breathing is still ragged, but it has stabilized.”

  Edgar pushed through the flap guarding the entrance to the tent and shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight. “This man is a genius. He did a great job. He’s given our boy a fighting chance.”

  Fletcher, swallowing hard, thanked both men again and headed into the tent. Mitchell followed closely behind.

  The mosquito net, draped over the stretcher, gave the room a clinical feel. The smell of disinfectant was almost asphyxiating.

  “Let me,” Mitchell said, lifting up the damp netting.

  The Labrador’s coat, which had been caked in mud and dry blood, was now clean and golden, save for the white dressings on his legs, neck, and chest. The loose skin on his face folded up around his eyes in thick, silky wrinkles. His breathing was still labored, but it was better than before.

  “Bruno says we have to turn him once at night and twice during the day.”

  Fletcher knelt down next to the dog. He gently placed his hand on the side of his nose. A wave of affection swept through him. He had felt an almost otherworldly connection to him right from the start. Inexplicably, he felt as though he knew the dog—that somehow they had crossed paths before. That somehow this animal was no stranger to him.

  As he stroked the side of the Lab’s face, Mitchell spoke. “I can’t help but notice that you’re not in chains.”

  “Rogan’s not taking it any further. He had words with me, but that’s it.”

  “You’re off the hook?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What’d he say to you?”

  Fletcher briefly took him through their conversation. “I owe everyone an apology. I’ll speak to the men tonight. Rogan and I might not get along, but he was right about today.”

  Mitchell wiped a thin veneer of sweat from his forehead. “You were both right.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion outside. The tent flap parted, and in stepped Travis and Gunther, carrying boxes of medical supplies.

  “That must be a world record,” Fletcher said.

  Travis placed one of the boxes down and pulled out a letter. “This is for you.”

  Fletcher quickly unfolded the note and read it out loud:

  Dear Corporal Carson,

  Your man has told us about your predicament and what you are doing to try to save the life of what you believe is a U.S. scout dog.

  Look inside either of his ears, and there should be a letter and number marking his unit. Once you find it, radio the information back to me, and I’ll trace where the dog comes from. If he recovers, we can arrange to get him sent back to his handlers.

  No doubt, there will be serious repercussions for your actions, but as squad leader for our dog unit, I must thank you for what you are doing to save the life of one of our own. Our dogs are saving hundreds of soldiers’ lives and are helping to keep us in this war, but they’re not getting the credit they deserve.

  Within these boxes, you will find all the medicine we own and some the army doesn’t even know about. It comes with our thoughts and prayers.

  We hope it makes the difference.

  Let us know if there is anything else we can do to help you.

  Sincerely,

  W. Wallace

  Squad Leader, Wolf Pack

  Alongside his name was a stamp of a German shepherd sitting at its handler’s feet. The words IN DOG WE TRUST underlined the image.

  Nineteen

  That night, while Travis and Mitchell slept, Fletcher shifted his stretcher up alongside the dog. He listened intently as the animal drew one strained breath after another. He was worried that if he fell asleep, he would wake up to find the Labrador dead. So, despite his exhaustion, he remained awake, reaching under the net to stroke the dog’s chest every few minutes. His touch seemed to have a soothing effect, or so he liked to believe. Two drips, both half-empty, hung from the top of the tent. The life-giving fluids were fighting infection and keeping him hydrated.

  “How’s our patient?” Bruno asked, entering the tent holding a small plastic box.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep, worried about our boy. I see I’m not alone on that score.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  “Change of dressings, disinfectant, and a thermometer. I want to see if his temperature has come down at all.”

  “He’s doing all right, but he’s battling to breathe again.”

  Using Fletcher’s torch, they quietly changed his dressings and were surprised to discover that his temperature had dropped by almost two degrees.

  “That’s encouraging; it means the treatment’s working,” Bruno remarked. He dropped to his haunches and gently lifted the animal’s jowls to inspect the color of his gums. Satisfied, he then pulled down one of his eyelids to look at the tissue lining.

  Fletcher took a deep breath. “How’re things really looking?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t think he’d survive the operation. The fact that his blood pressure is strong and his temperature is coming down are all very good signs. It’s better than we could’ve hoped for.”

  “But?”

  “Listening to his chest, it’s not good. If he makes it through the night, I’m going to have to open him up sooner than I thought.”

  Fletcher nodded slowly. “Have you ever seen a dog make it through worse?”

  “Dogs are amazing creatures, especially Labradors. You’ll be amazed at what they can endure. He’s got the spirit for a fight—I can feel it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Bruno looked up at Fletcher and removed his glasses. “If I may ask, why are you so attached to this dog?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question, but I’m still no closer to
an answer,” Fletcher replied. “He can’t die, Bruno.”

  “Then we won’t let him,” he said solemnly. “Now get some rest.”

  Twenty

  Travis wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, yawning. “Tell me you got some rest last night?”

  “Slept like a baby,” Fletcher replied.

  “Liar,” Mitchell whispered, sitting up. “How’s he doing?”

  “Same as yesterday. Just holding on.”

  Both men stood up and walked over to the dog.

  “Bruno was here early this morning to check on him. Apparently his circulation has improved and his temperature has come down, but…”

  “It’s his breathing,” Mitchell said softly. “I can hear it.”

  “Bruno wants to operate again today. Doesn’t think he’ll make it otherwise.”

  Mitchell bent over and lifted the net. He knelt down and brought his face level to the dog’s head. Taking great care, he parted the Labrador’s eyelids.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of dead eyes in my time. In the heads of the dead and the dying. You can tell when someone’s about to go. The light … it fades,” he said, as if he were privy to a more profound understanding of mortality. “Our friend isn’t ready to go. Not for a while.”

  “Morning all,” Bruno said, cradling supplies in his arms. “I take it our boy made it through the early morning?”

  “I didn’t think he would a few hours ago, but he’s still with us.”

  Bruno fished out his stethoscope and placed it on the Labrador’s chest. He immediately frowned. “Fletcher, what’re your duties this morning?”

  “Nothing, we’re off for another two days. Why?”

  “I need an assistant.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. We have to operate immediately. He’s drowning in his own blood.”

  “What about Edgar?” Travis asked, preempting Fletcher’s question.

  “He’s assisting in an amputation.”

  “Are you sure I can help?”

  “I am. Besides, he’s your dog now, and if he’s going to leave us, you should be here with him.”

  “All right,” Fletcher said, clearing his throat. “What do I do?”

  * * *

  “How long has it been?” Wayville asked, sitting on a patch of grass outside the tent.

  “Almost an hour and a half,” Travis replied.

  “Should it be taking this long?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Arnold, you had extensive medical training, didn’t you?”

  “Just the basic shit. CPR, how to apply tourniquets, stitching … crap like that, but I have no idea how long an operation of this kind should take.”

  Kingston stood up and stretched. “Let’s take a look-see at what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, why not?” Wayville agreed, and quietly lifted the tent’s flap.

  They all adjusted their positions to get a better look inside. The smell of ammonia wafted out to them. It was so powerful, they had to close their eyes for a second to allow the outside air to dilute it. Beyond the mosquito net, Bruno was hunched over the dog. Fletcher, standing alongside him, was holding a clamp that disappeared deep into the dog’s abdomen. They were both concentrating intensely.

  “Can we get you guys anything?” Gunther asked, breaking the silence.

  Neither man replied; they seemed oblivious of the question.

  “Let’s leave them be,” Mitchell said, closing the flap. “If they need our help, they’ll ask for it.” He turned away and was about to sit back down … when the first mortar hit.

  Twenty-one

  “Incoming!” a panicked voice issued from the base’s northern watchtower.

  “No shit!” Gunther yelled, feeling his face for shrapnel.

  Wayville instinctively reached for his gun. “Anyone hurt?”

  Travis’s glasses had shielded his eyes from the dust, and he was able to scan the area. “I don’t think so.”

  “How the fuck did Charlie get so close? It’s broad daylight, for Christ’s sake!”

  Soldiers, half-dressed, some busy shaving, spilled out of their tents.

  Officers barked orders. Jeeps roared to life. Pilots ran for their choppers.

  Another mortar whined toward them.

  “Get down!” Kingston shouted.

  The missile hit less than fifty yards away from them, taking out a small prefab supply hold. Running with their hands over their heads, three uniformed soldiers charged toward an unmanned gun battery.

  Another mortar hit, farther away this time.

  Then another.

  The base took close to a dozen hits before it answered with heavy artillery fire. Giant howitzer rounds mowed through the jungle beyond the clearing, felling large trees as if they were hollow beneath their bark. Two Phantom helicopters swooped overhead, immediately laying down rocket fire in the cover beyond the base.

  Another mortar hit, flipping an unmanned jeep onto its side.

  Mitchell, seemingly unaffected by the chaos, stood up and stared out into the jungle.

  “What are you doing? Get down, Mitch!” Wayville said, covering his ears.

  Mitchell breathed in the caustic smell of cordite. His eyes focused on a distant hillside some four hundred yards away. “Show yourself, ghost,” he whispered. His eye caught a flash of steel and a puff of smoke. “I see you…”

  He immediately ran toward the nearest gun battery. The soldier manning it was firing wildly into the air. “Move,” he commanded.

  The soldier was visibly relieved to relinquish control. Mitchell spun the field gun around and opened fire. The ground shook as the giant rounds tore into a concentrated area on the hillside.

  Travis crawled up to the tent and threw up the flap. “Fletcher … Bruno, you’ve got to get to a bunker.”

  “We can’t. If we leave now, he’s dead.”

  “No, Bruno, Travis is right! Get out of here.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving.”

  “Bruno, you—”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Shit! Shit! Fletcher, what about you?”

  Fletcher looked up and shook his head. By the expression on his face, Travis knew that a mortar itself would have trouble extricating him.

  Suddenly three small holes punched through the side of the tent. Then another two.

  “Jesus!” Travis yelled, diving down.

  Both Bruno and Fletcher stood their ground.

  “C’mon, Fletcher, this is fucking crazy!”

  “If I let go of this clamp, he’ll bleed out. I’m not moving. Now, get out of here.”

  Gunther, lying behind Travis, tugged at his pants. “I’ve got an idea.” He pointed to an armored vehicle parked opposite them. “It’ll shield them.”

  Travis’s eyes widened in agreement.

  Together, they ran to the vehicle as puffs of dust exploded at their feet. Please let the keys be in the ignition, Travis thought as Gunther leapt into the cabin and reached under the steering wheel. The distinctive jangle of metal sent a wave of relief pulsing through him. Gunther twisted the key and slammed the truck into gear. Moments later, the vehicle skidded to a halt in front of the tent.

  “Are you guys all right in there?” Travis yelled.

  For a moment, there was no reply; then Bruno swore. “Damn it … we’re losing him.”

  Twenty-two

  Within minutes, the attack was over. By the time the helicopters had emptied the last of their cannons, it was clear Charlie was gone. A sweep revealed shells and blood at half a dozen sites, suggesting the offensive might have involved as many as fifty soldiers, but they found only two bodies. Once again, the ghost had managed to carry most of his dead and maimed away with him.

  All told, the Strip lost four jeeps, two Hueys, an entire gun battery on the eastern perimeter, a supply compound, and, the worst of it, twelve men. A further six were seriously injured. Despite everything, Brun
o and Fletcher had managed to complete the operation. At the height of the mayhem, the Labrador’s blood pressure had dropped alarmingly, but they managed to stabilize it.

  Of the dozen dead, only one was really known to Fletcher. James Kent was a friendly and likable soldier who was part of a logistics company that played a low-key though vital role in the war. His nickname was Teddy Bear because of his chubby face and disarming smile. Fletcher imagined his passing would sadden scores of people both on the base and back in his hometown. To the American government, however, he was just another cataloged casualty, a number in a body bag. Another letter to be posted.

  Sitting outside their tent as the sun dipped over the trees, Fletcher, Bruno, and Travis were nursing a few cold beers. They had spent the afternoon towing away debris, leveling areas where the mortars had hit, and even helping to find and bag body parts.

  “How’d they get so damn close?” Travis asked.

  “I think the real question is why,” Fletcher countered. “They had no real hope of taking out the base. As soon as the first mortar hit, they would’ve known they’d come under heavy fire. Why do it?”

  “To fuck with us. To send us a message,” Bruno said. “That they can hurt us whenever they want.”

  “Just a quick twist of the knife and then gone … into the fucking ether,” Travis added, running his hands through his thinning hair.

  “You have to give it to Charlie, though—he is one gutsy, conniving bastard,” Fletcher remarked, knowing that in the wrong company, his comment would spark outrage.

  “In the end, it all comes down to motivation,” Bruno replied. “Most of us are here because we have to be. Our boys don’t believe in the bureaucracy. All they want to do is get back home, preferably with most of their limbs still attached. Charlie is fighting for his way of life, for his survival. He would much rather die than have to march to our tune.”

  “Can you blame him?” Fletcher asked. “How would you feel if this was your backyard?”

  “I don’t know, but speaking of backyards … I sure as hell miss mine.”

  Travis drained the last of his drink. “What really bothers me is that, just like Wayville said, we’re in this void at the moment where everything we do is meaningless. It’s one thing risking your neck when there’s a purpose to it, but it’s something else when you know that no matter what you do, the outcome has already been decided. The men who were killed today … died for nothing.”