Finding Jack

by Gareth Crocker

  Rogan turned. “Carson … what are you doing out here?”

  “The beer tasted off. How about you?”

  “As you said. Getting some air.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Sure.”

  Fletcher and Jack sat down a few yards away from the lieutenant, and for a while, both men were quiet.

  “I’ve been out here for almost an hour. So far, I’ve counted over five hundred stars. I wonder how long it took to lose our first five hundred men in this place.”

  “Forget it, lieutenant. It’ll drive you mad just thinking about it.”

  “So many lives lost for a failed cause.”

  “I understand how you feel—”

  “With respect, Fletcher, I’m not sure you do. I really believed in what we’ve been trying to achieve here. Maybe it’s why I’ve lasted this long,” he said, then slowly began to shake his head. “We’re sending the South to their deaths. You know that, don’t you?”

  Fletcher shifted onto his haunches and, instead of answering the question, decided to change gears. “Are you going to stay in the service?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see myself getting a normal job like selling fucking cars, can you?”

  Fletcher smiled at the thought. “Look, for what it’s worth, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Keeping us alive.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “I’m not. Without you and Mitchell, none of us would’ve survived.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it. For the most part, we were just lucky. Hell, if it wasn’t for Jack, here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  The Labrador had curled up between the two men and was already fast asleep.

  “If he hadn’t stopped me before that wire—”

  “That’s one time. How many other times have you saved us?”

  Rogan looked back up into the night. “I wasn’t able to save Travis.”

  “You did everything you could. What you did today was probably the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen. How you didn’t get yourself killed, I’ll never know.”

  “If I recall, you were running behind me.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “You were drawing their fire.”

  “Bullshit. Besides, I’m not the one with the death wish.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “You think I don’t know why you came out to Vietnam? I know what happened to you … and to your family. But as much as it might burn you, the world hasn’t had enough of you yet,” Rogan countered. “So what’re you going to do with your life now? Try to find another war? Put a gun in your mouth?”

  “I couldn’t. Who’d look after Jack?”

  “Is that what it comes down to?”

  Fletcher didn’t respond.

  “Is the line that thin for you?”

  “Isn’t it for everyone?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Travis was half an hour away from surviving this place. I’d say that’s a thin line.”

  “I’ll give you that, but the difference is, he wanted to live.”

  Fletcher shrugged, but again did not respond.

  Rogan reached across and rubbed the side of Jack’s face. “You know … this damn animal really grows on you.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad he made it. He’s going to love America.”

  “I think so, too.” Fletcher nodded. “Do you know when we’re scheduled to pull out?”

  “There’ll be a full briefing tomorrow morning, but the men aren’t going to like it. Because of our advanced position, we’re one of the last bases to leave.”

  Forty-six

  By the time Fletcher reached his tent, he could barely keep his eyes open. The emotion of the day had taken its toll on him. He tried to ignore Travis’s empty bunk, but his eyes were drawn to it. Some of Travis’s personal effects—photographs and books, mostly—were stacked together on a small bedside table. The sight of them depressed Fletcher even further. He knew he would have to sort through them and have them packaged and sent home, just not tonight. He was about to collapse onto his bed, when he noticed a large brown envelope on his pillow with a short note attached to it. Intrigued, he sat down and removed the note.

  Carson,

  This came for you a few weeks ago. It was found at the bottom of one of the mailbags this afternoon. Sorry.

  Lifting the envelope, he immediately recognized the handwriting on its cover. It was the same scrawl that had often blotted his articles. It was from Marvin Samuels, his old friend and former editor. Judging by the size of the package, he imagined it contained a few back issues of The Mirror. As he tore it open and removed its contents, he realized he was only half right. There were three back issues of the paper inside, complete with highlighted articles about Vietnam, but there was also a second, smaller envelope.

  For no particular reason, he felt his pulse quicken.

  The envelope contained a one-page letter attached to a further document.

  Dear Fletcher,

  I hope these words find you, and find you well.

  You should know that your efforts are greatly appreciated by scores back here, but equally many are against our nation’s ongoing presence in Vietnam. It saddens me to tell you that some soldiers returning home are being ostracized and treated like criminals. I would like to inform you otherwise. I would like to tell you that you and your fellow officers can expect ticker tape parades when you get back. I would like to tell you that the American people have appreciated the blood that’s been spilled to protect their way of life.

  But I would be lying.

  I hope it’s enough for you to know that cowards like myself are very grateful for what you are doing and are indebted to your sacrifice.

  I feel sick about the way things ended between us at the cemetery, and I’m truly sorry for my part. Having said that, I fear I have placed an even greater risk on our friendship by what I am about to reveal.

  Attached to this letter are thirty-nine pages of a diary your wife kept.

  Your mother found it in a box during the sale of your home and came to me nearly beside herself. She didn’t know what to do with it. God knows, neither did I. She felt that if she sent it to you, it might just make what you are going through all that much more difficult to endure. Or it might—please let me be right—raise your spirits.

  I’ve kept these pages in my drawer for months under lock and key. Every day, I’ve debated sending them to you—and every day, I’ve found a reason not to.

  But they’re beginning to burn a hole through my desk, through my heart. Neither your mother nor I have read beyond the first page, its content was never intended for us. In the end, I would rather regret the things that I’ve done than those I never had the courage to do. Whatever the outcome.

  I pray that these pages go some way to mending the hurt that you live with. Selfishly, I hope they bring me to a day when I can again be in the company of my friend and tell him how proud I am of him. And how much I’ve missed him.

  May God keep you until that day.

  Your friend,

  Marvin

  Despite the heat, Fletcher felt his hands go cold. He had no idea Abby kept a diary. With his heart racing, he unfolded the pages. He managed to read the first few words before he was overcome. Abigail had addressed the diary to Kelly, who at the time of writing, had not yet been conceived. It was a mother writing a diary of her life, which she one day intended to give to her daughter.

  It began: Kelly, my angel, today I met the man I know I’m going to marry. Today, I met your father.

  Forty-seven

  The weeks that followed were all about packing up supplies and loading them onto helicopters. The sound of choppers taking off and landing became a constant background noise, like great mechanical bees cross-pollinating through an industrial meadow. Late afternoons were spent mainly at leisure,
with many of the men whiling away their time playing baseball or touch football. Their games were largely uninterrupted, as the afternoon rains had all but dried up. Even the morbid heat, that for so long had clung to them like a second skin, lifted now. The nights, whatever the weather, were for drinking.

  While under the spell of alcohol, the men often became emotional. They shared photographs of loved ones. They got into shallow and meaningless arguments. They told stories of home. They reread old letters. They cried over their children. They planned proposals.

  They were all slowly coming to terms with surviving Vietnam and the prospect of life beyond it. Senior officers kept order, but allowed the men more than their fair share of freedom. As the days ebbed closer to their departure, laughter returned to many of them. The dark cloud that had hung over the Strip for so long was finally beginning to lift.

  With just under two weeks to go until their withdrawal, Fletcher was on his way to the medical tent to set up one final dip for Jack when a man called out to him.

  “Fletcher,” the voice said, jogging up behind him. “Wait up. This came for you.”

  It was Wayne Bradley. He was responsible for the base’s mail. He was carrying a crumpled brown envelope.

  “Thanks, Wayne.”

  The soldier flashed him a thumbs-up and jogged off.

  With so few days left, Fletcher couldn’t imagine whom the letter was from. For a moment, he wondered if Marvin had somehow come across another part of Abby’s diary.

  He savored every word of the thirty-nine pages he had been sent before. Her entries were all about their courtship, and although they told him very little that he didn’t already know about his wife, it afforded him a precious glimpse back into their early life together, a portal through time. The emotion of her writing was difficult to bear, but he welcomed her words much in the same way a man without hope welcomes an oncoming train. But the meager weight of this new letter suggested no further connection to Abby.

  He tore open the fold at the top of the envelope. Inside was a single-page letter.

  He unfolded it and instantly recognized the name at the bottom of the page.

  Dear Fletcher,

  Letters are strange things. Although we have never met, the correspondence we have exchanged over the last few months has led me to believe that, at least on some level, we’ve grown to know each other.

  My squad and I have greatly enjoyed helping you get Jack rehabilitated and have taken much pleasure in hearing of his many successes out in the field.

  However, as much as I wish this wasn’t the case, I am the bearer of extremely bad news.

  If you don’t already know what I’m referring to, I suggest you sit down and brace yourself.

  It appears as though the price of withdrawing troops and equipment from Vietnam is proving too costly for our government.

  I’m afraid there is no easy way to say this. Fletcher, our dogs have been officially declared “surplus military equipment” and are not being allowed to return home with us.

  We’ve been ordered to hand them over to the South Vietnamese. Those that aren’t are being euthanized or just left to die.

  It’s a nightmare for all us dog handlers. Some four thousand dogs have been fighting in this war and giving their lives to save American soldiers, and they are now being abandoned by our government.

  I’m fighting this with everything I have, but in truth, I don’t hold out much hope. I’ve been in contact with other dog units, and they’ve been forced to leave their dogs behind, on some occasions at gunpoint. Other handlers have been arrested for showing resistance.

  If I somehow manage to organize safe passage for our dogs, I’ll send for Jack. But it’s not looking good. We’re due to leave in a few days. If you haven’t received word from me by March 13, then I have failed. In which case, I pray you have better luck.

  I’ll be thinking of you and Jack.

  Your friend,

  W. Wallace

  Fletcher’s mind was reeling. How could the government be doing this? he thought. How can they just abandon the dogs? This couldn’t be happening. Surely the American public would be up in arms about it.

  With trembling hands, he reread his friend’s letter.

  … If I somehow manage to organize safe passage for our dogs, I’ll send for Jack. But it’s not looking good. We’re due to leave in a few days. If you haven’t received word from me by March 13, then I have failed.…

  The letter slipped from Fletcher’s grasp and, despite the gravity of its message, floated gracefully to the ground.

  It was March 15.

  Forty-eight

  “This is bullshit!” Fletcher shouted. “How can you abide by this?”

  “What would you have me do, Fletcher? I’ve been given orders right from the top.”

  “So what? This is wrong! Everyone knows it!”

  “You think I like this? I know it’s cruel. Damn it, man, I was right behind you in getting Jack on his feet again. But—”

  “But what? Please tell me. These dogs are soldiers. How can we just leave them behind, for Christ’s sake?”

  Hearing their raised voices, a soldier opened the door just wide enough to look in.

  “It’s all right,” Frank said. “Leave us.”

  Fletcher began to pace across the room.

  “I know this is hard for you. It’s difficult for all of us: Jack is like part of the family.”

  “Really?” Fletcher announced, his voice thick with sarcasm. “If Jack were your son, would you leave him behind? Would you leave him here to die?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Neither is this! Look, this is the way I see it: Jack is the only dog on base. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier to smuggle him off than it would be if we had a dog unit. In fact, the heartless bastards on Capitol Hill don’t even know he exists.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t go against senior orders. I’m not jeopardizing a thirty-year career in the military for this. It’s ludicrous.”

  “Nothing will happen to you! You won’t be implicated! I’ll get him on one of the choppers, and I’ll deal with whatever consequences there are. C’mon, Frank, this is just a cost-saving exercise.”

  The commander closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. “I’ve done all that I can. I’ve contacted everyone I know who might’ve been able to help us with this. Besides, even if we got Jack off base, what good would it do? There are at least three flights between here and America. There’s no way you would get it done.”

  “He deserves a chance, Frank. Please … let me try.”

  “No, Fletcher, it’s over. The government’s taking a hard line on this. There’s nothing more either of us can do now. Why don’t you focus on the positives here? You’re going home in a few days. You have the rest of your life to look forward to. Start putting your energies into that.”

  Fletcher snatched his hat off the table and headed for the door. “How can you be so goddamn weak?”

  Frank’s expression hardened. “I’ve had about enough of your attitude. Do I need to remind you who you’re talking to?”

  “Don’t worry. I know exactly who I’m talking to.’

  “If you think—”

  “The really sad thing is that up until today, I had nothing but the utmost respect for you.”

  “We’re not finished, this—”

  “Oh, we’re finished,” Fletcher insisted, pushing through the door, “and for what it’s worth … fuck you.”

  Forty-nine

  Fletcher spent his final days in Vietnam desperately trying to devise a plan to smuggle Jack back to America. Although there were enough people willing to help him, there were too many controls and logistical hurdles to overcome. He discovered that the trip home actually involved four flights and several transfers, and he simply didn’t have the contacts down the line to sustain the effort. There were also too many intangibles, too many things that could go wrong. The obviou
s temptation was to hide Jack in a crate, but the risk of him freezing to death in the various cargo holds forced Fletcher to abandon the idea. He wrote letters, set up meetings, spoke to other dog units, even called old press contacts back home, but one way or another, each avenue soon reached a dead end. He even tried appealing to senior politicians, but they would not be swayed. Most of them couldn’t care less what happened to the dogs. To them, it was hardly an issue. The animals were just equipment—like rifles and tents—now surplus to requirements.

  With less than a week left, the days quickly bled out.

  Despite all their initial support, even the Fat Lady had abandoned hope. Their conversations now focused almost exclusively on their lives back home and their future plans. Some of them hardly even looked at Jack anymore. To most of them, he was already dead, another ghost from the nightmare of Vietnam. Fletcher felt betrayed by the ease with which they had resigned themselves to Jack’s fate. As a result, he stopped talking to them altogether. Instead, he spent his hours alone with Jack, savoring their time together. He kept trying to imagine what it would feel like, having to leave him behind.

  He imagined the look of confusion in the Labrador’s eyes, the sense of abandonment.

  How long would he survive on his own? he wondered.

  A few days? A month?

  What would claim him in the end? Starvation, heat stroke, disease? Or would his life finally draw to a close on the tip of Charlie’s knife? A soldier had suggested that Jack be shot now to save him from the undoubted suffering that lay ahead.

  Not since that day out on the hospital balcony back in Chicago had Fletcher felt more alone. With only a day left before their withdrawal, he found a secluded place near the base’s perimeter, where he and Jack could spend the afternoon together. Sitting quietly, just content to be in each other’s company, they watched as the sun slowly slid across the sky and then finally dipped behind a bank of dark clouds.