Finding Jack

by Gareth Crocker

  Where had he come from? Was he truly a Vietnam war dog?

  He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Jack was somehow lost, as if he had been headed elsewhere, but then for some reason strayed from his path.

  Trying to avoid the depressing sight of Craig’s inanimate frame, Fletcher stared out the cabin window. The jungle passed below in a familiar brown and green montage. A herd of water buffalo marched across a wide shallow river. Young boys rode on their backs, seemingly oblivious of the war or the sound of the helicopter above them. Fletcher imagined a comparison between them and boys of their age in America. They may as well have been a species from another planet, such was the gulf between them.

  From deep in his thoughts, he felt Jack move away from him. He watched with interest as Rogan fished out two biscuits from his pocket and offered them to Jack. Unsure of the lieutenant, the Labrador edged forward and gently accepted the treats from him. As soon as they left his hand, Rogan turned away and stared out the door as if the moment had never happened.

  Forty-two

  When they arrived back at base, there was little time to say good-bye to Craig Fallow. He was to be placed in a body bag, cataloged, and hastily scheduled for a series of flights out of Vietnam. Having corpses lying around wasn’t particularly good for base morale.

  However, before they would allow him to be taken away, the Fat Lady carried his body down to their church. It was little more than a tent featuring a crudely fashioned wooden cross, a spattering of candles, and half a dozen wooden benches, but it sufficed.

  This was the way they always bade farewell to one of their own.

  Army procedure wasn’t about to change that.

  Kingston was a deeply religious man and was always tasked with saying a few words and reciting a passage of choice from the Bible—a book he kept clutched firmly under his arm most days when on base. During the prayer, Fletcher glanced up at Rogan and could see the emotion cutting into his face.

  When Kingston was done, Fletcher stood up and took a long, slow breath. “Up until recently, I knew very little about Craig Fallow. He was the kind of young man who kept to himself. Which is a pity, because I was fortunate enough to get to know him a little over the past few days, and now I truly understand what we’ve lost. Craig came here believing that he needed to prove something to himself and to his family, and in the end, it cost him his life. The tragedy is that he didn’t need to prove anything. Who Craig Fallow was … was enough. I will never forget the courage he showed when we were defending that small village that Charlie was terrorizing. I’m sure we all remember how, during the firefight, he ran out from his position, putting himself deep in the line of fire, to protect a mother and her child as they ran for cover.”

  Fletcher paused and then wiped his eyes. “Our hearts go out to his family and, in particular, to Sarah Evans, his young fiancée. May we keep them all in our thoughts and in our prayers.”

  “Amen.” Kingston nodded.

  A few minutes later, they all went their separate ways. Rogan would have to report back on their assignment while the rest of the platoon would either drop by the field hospital for a few running repairs or retire to their bunks to be alone with their thoughts—and, of course, the guilt of being alive.

  As Fletcher returned to his tent, he was determined to write Craig Fallow’s loved ones an epitaph that would elevate his legacy above the apparent wretchedness of his adolescent life. Maybe then, Mr. Gray would be remembered.

  * * *

  The next two weeks drifted by without incident. As promised, the Fat Lady was rewarded with the entire period off. The majority of the men took the opportunity to pursue the rich palette of carnal pleasures on offer at any number of towns and villages in the southern reaches of Vietnam. Fletcher and Travis, however, remained behind to look after Jack. They spent most of their time training him and developing his skills. If he was to accompany them on more assignments, it was important he learn additional hand and voice commands.

  His progress was unreal. Within a few days, they had taught him twenty individual commands. This included an instruction to detach from the Fat Lady and track them down at a later time. The idea was that if they came under heavy fire, it would be safer for Jack to leave the area and return to them later. He had absorbed and learned each command with vigor, always eager to gain their approval.

  Jack became as much a feature of life on the Strip as the smell of diesel and cordite. Those who hadn’t been dog lovers before the war now enjoyed having Jack around. He brought a sense of family and lightheartedness to the base. Even the commander had become partial to him, ordering a special leather harness for his upcoming patrols.

  One morning, a few of the men took it upon themselves to build Jack a special eight-foot-wide steel bath that he could wade around in to cool off. To get him to use it, Fletcher and Travis climbed into the tub and, while trying to coax him into the waist-high water, found it a most agreeable place to see out the afternoon. So they stayed. The next day, they brought beers with them and remained until well after sunset. They spent their hours sitting on either side of Jack, reminiscing over happier times back home. Their conversations ranged from sport and films—a passion they both shared—to travel and food. Their exchanges remained light and whimsical, circling away from the darker areas of their pasts. Jack, like all dogs, was just content to be in the company of his owners.

  For a while, life in Vietnam was bearable. The problem, however, remained that one could have twenty-three good hours in a day and then one that left you with a bullet in your spine and a column of air where a limb used to be.

  As they approached the end of their R & R, Fletcher and Jack were virtually inseparable. Wherever Fletcher went, Jack followed. Whether it was to the ablutions block, the munitions store, or the Soup, the Labrador was always in tow.

  When they finally returned to duty, the Fat Lady was sent on two short assignments, both fairly minor incursions of a day each. Jack accompanied them on each occasion and twice sniffed out traps that might otherwise have proved fatal.

  Jack was no longer simply a dog they had found or even the base’s mascot.

  He was a soldier.

  Theirs.

  Forty-three

  Gunfire ripped through the jungle.

  Fletcher grabbed Jack by his harness and scrambled toward a bank of nearby trees. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Rogan lying on his back, his M16 bucking against his chest as he returned fire. “Cover … cover!” he shouted, urging his men to safety.

  As Fletcher rounded the trees and reached for his rifle, he realized too late that he was at the top of a steep embankment. There was nothing he could do to prevent himself from falling down the back of it. The mud and slick grass made it impossible for him to halt his slide. He clawed desperately at the ground, his hands and feet slipping in the mire. As the sickening sound of automatic gunfire continued to punctuate the air, he realized that Jack hadn’t fallen with him. His heart sank as he imagined the Labrador lying dead at the foot of the trees. In a wild frenzy, he punched and kicked his way back up to the top of the slope, desperate to get back to the dog.

  The first thing he saw was a soldier lying on his side about fifty yards down the trail. Jack was standing over him. His hackles were raised, and he was growling and snapping in the direction of the onslaught. Snarling, he exposed his teeth, trying to ward off the attackers. The rest of the Fat Lady had managed to find cover and were returning fire.

  All except Rogan.

  He was running toward Jack and the downed soldier.

  Fletcher immediately joined in the chase. Bullets exploded into the ground around Jack and the soldier, but even when two rounds tore into the man’s back, Jack stood firm, refusing to relent. Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat when he realized who the soldier was.

  “No…”

  Another volley tore into Travis’s legs, and blood splattered up Jack’s flank. Suddenly Jack bit into the side of Travis’s shirtsleeve and tr
ied to drag him away.

  Fletcher’s heart lurched at the sight. He held out his rifle in one hand and, without looking, opened fire into the hill. Part of him was aware that he was screaming, desperate to make up the ground. “Fuck you … fuck you!” he cried, throwing his gun down as the clip ran out.

  A bullet tore through a fold in his pants, grazing his leg.

  Another pinged off the back of his helmet.

  He was a natural athlete and was right behind Rogan the moment he reached Travis. In one fluid movement, the lieutenant swooped down and grabbed the front of Travis’s shirt and lifted him up as if he weighed no more than a few pounds. Fletcher scooped up Jack, and together they scrambled for cover. They had no sooner collapsed to the ground than the firing stopped.

  Mitchell called out to them from the hill. He had flanked their attackers and taken them out. “Hold your fire! All Charlie down.”

  “Edgar!” Rogan screamed. “Get here!”

  Fletcher crawled next to Travis and cradled his friend’s head in his hands while Edgar checked his wrist for a pulse.

  “Christ,” Gunther uttered as the men got sight of their friend’s injuries. Travis’s chest had taken at least five rounds. It was impossible to make out how many hits the lower half of his body had sustained. A thick pool of black blood arced around his legs and waist.

  Edgar wiped away some of the blood and began to tear off his clothes.

  “Travis … can you hear me?” Fletcher asked, rubbing the side of his face.

  His eyes stirred, but remained closed.

  “C’mon, man … please.”

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. “Fletch…”

  “Yeah, Trav … it’s me. It’s all over.”

  The whites of Travis’s eyes were outlined in blood. “Did you see Jack?” he asked quietly, his teeth coated red. “Did you see what he did?”

  “I saw.”

  “He tried to save me. Can you believe that?”

  Fletcher nodded, unable to reply.

  Edgar was trying to stem the blood flow, but it was useless.

  Travis choked, then looked up peacefully at the sky. “It’s true what they say, you know.”

  “What is?” Fletcher managed, feeling his friend’s blood spread under his knees.

  “How calm everything becomes before you die.”

  Fletcher wanted to tell him he was going to make it, but couldn’t bring himself to lie. “Please, Trav … don’t.”

  “It’s all right, Fletch, it’s okay. Especially for guys like you and me.”

  The comment was lost on most of the men, but Fletcher nodded as fresh tears cut a trail through the grime on his cheeks.

  “Look after Jack. He deserves to get out of this place. Take him to Miami. Let him run on the beach.”

  Fletcher’s chin trembled. “I will. You have my word.”

  “Make sure you have a view of the ocean…”

  “… and crisp, fresh sheets.” Fletcher smiled but there was no humor in his expression.

  “If I see your girls, I’ll tell them how much you miss them.”

  As Travis took his final breath, Fletcher bent over and spoke into his ear. “Go to your wife … she’s waiting for you.”

  He squeezed Fletcher’s hand, and although his eyes remained open, the vital light that Mitchell had once spoken of was gone.

  Forty-four

  The weight of Travis’s death pressed heavily on each of the men as they flew back to base. His body was wrapped and bound in sleeping bags, but blood still seeped through. Jack was sitting alongside Fletcher with his head perched on his knee, staring at Travis’s body. Although Fletcher couldn’t be certain, particularly above the sound of the rotors, he was convinced he could hear Jack whining. He leaned forward and gently rubbed the side of his neck. The Labrador’s expression projected a deep and primal sadness; he understood the language of death.

  “It wasn’t our fault, Jack,” Mitchell called out, recognizing the look in the dog’s eyes. “They were downwind of us almost two hundred yards. There’s nothing we could’ve done. We never had a chance.”

  Kingston, who had not uttered a single word since the ambush, began to sing “Amazing Grace.” He closed his eyes and let his baritone fill the cabin. His faith, which had never wavered despite all the atrocities he had witnessed, gave him an inner strength that Fletcher envied. Sometimes, though, he wondered how Kingston could believe so single-mindedly in a god that allowed the nightmare of Vietnam to persist. His own faith, which at its most resolute had not held much conviction, had been eroded over the past two years. Every death was another wave overwhelming it. He knew that real faith should be able to weather any storm. But his defenses, however frail, were all but overcome.

  He knew he was on the verge of a final, decisive breakdown. There were just too many dead faces to contend with. Too much loss. While he thought of this and other nightmares, he allowed Kingston’s song into his heart. It was a whisper against the screams of the dead.

  * * *

  Before the helicopter even touched down, it was clear something important had happened on base. As they came in to land, they could see men running, hugging, and punching the air. One soldier was on his knees, holding his head in his hands.

  As the Fat Lady disembarked, Fletcher remained behind.

  He already knew why they were celebrating. There could be only one explanation for their behavior.

  As the pilot cut the engine and the rotors lost their will, Fletcher watched one of the soldiers run up to Wayville and Gunther. He was so excited, he couldn’t help himself from leaping into the air, despite the vague threat of decapitation.

  Fletcher couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the shape of his words was unmistakable.

  “It’s over! It’s over!” he cried. “We’re going home!”

  Fletcher closed his eyes and shook his head. He felt sick.

  In the dying embers of the war, Travis might well have been Vietnam’s final casualty.

  At least among the dead.

  Forty-five

  They had all known it was coming, but the wheels of bureaucracy often took so long to turn that an official conclusion to the war could have been years away. Few expected the end to arrive as suddenly as it did.

  As they disembarked from the helicopter, they learned that a cease-fire had been signed by the United States, South Vietnam, North Vietnam, and the Vietcong. The agreement stipulated that U.S. and allied forces be withdrawn from Vietnam’s borders and that all prisoners—on both sides—be released within sixty days. The pact also permitted North Vietnam to leave 150,000 troops in the south and called for internationally supervised elections to decide the course of the country’s political future.

  In short, the war was over.

  But before they could properly process the news, the Fat Lady had to tend to their own. Just as they had done with Craig Fallow, they carried Travis down to their church to pay their final respects. Entering the tent, they gently placed his body underneath the cross and all lowered down onto one knee. Without needing to refer to his Bible, Kingston recited a few psalms as well as a passage Fletcher recognized from Revelations. After a long prayer, Kingston began to sing “Abide with Me,” but for once his emotions got the better of him and he could not complete the hymn. Despite the sounds of revelry outside, each of the men remained behind for a long while, taking their time to say good-bye. Eventually, one by one, they lifted to their feet and drifted out of the tent until only Fletcher and Mitchell were left behind.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Fletcher remarked, his voice barely registering.

  By his very nature, Mitchell was a man of few words. He spoke sparingly, as if dialogue were vital ammunition that needed to be conserved. Thus, his reply surprised Fletcher. “I know how close you were. You were a very good friend to him.” He paused. “And in this place, that really means something.”

  Fletcher smiled, tears stinging his eyes. “He was a good man. A good man. He sh
ould never have been here.”

  Mitchell nodded, but said nothing in return.

  “At least,” Fletcher offered, his voice wavering, “he’s back with his wife now.”

  Mitchell reached across and placed his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder, but did not speak again. He had no more words left in his arsenal.

  * * *

  That night, almost every man, woman, and dog got drunk. Most indulged not only to celebrate surviving the darkness of Vietnam and the prospect of returning home to their families, but also to remember those who had been lost.

  As Fletcher nursed his beer, he imagined similar scenes of joyousness at bases throughout Vietnam. Never had a defeat been so welcomed. The real jubilation, of course, was happening north of them. As he looked around the Soup, the soldiers’ excitement was plain to see. For so long, the horror of Vietnam had been their lives, and now—within weeks—they would all be back home. He imagined wives running into the arms of their husbands, children into the arms of their fathers. The genuine sense of warmth and happiness he felt for them was tempered by the thought of the thousands of families who would never again be reunited and by the fate that awaited the people of South Vietnam. Fletcher knew the cease-fire would ultimately break down, and without American support, the South would soon be overpowered. The U.S. and allied effort, despite its enormous firepower, had been brought to its knees. Against such determined and resourceful opposition, the South stood no chance on its own.

  “To Travis,” Gunther said, raising his beer.

  “And to every other mother’s son who died in this hellhole,” Wayville added.

  “Hear, hear,” the room chorused.

  Although Fletcher rarely contributed, the conversation roamed from some of the lighter moments on base to what they were all planning to do when they got home.

  The drinking never slowed.

  But the more Fletcher drank, the more sober he felt. He’d hoped the alcohol might numb him to the effects of the day, but it seemed only to fuel his depression. After struggling through his third beer, he decided he’d had enough. As he and Jack left the Soup and headed toward their tent, he noticed a man sitting on a rock in the open field. Although it was very dark, there was no mistaking his frame. He had seen it often enough under the cover of night to know who it was. “Getting some air?” he called out.