After picking up an old, worn rucksack, Fletcher loaded their supplies. He wondered what their chances of survival were. Apart from the sheer physical demands of the trip, they would have to negotiate traps and pass undetected for weeks. His navigating would also have to be extremely accurate. Laos may not have seen as much fighting as Vietnam, but it was still decidedly hostile territory. It was also home to Charlie’s largest supply route to the South—the infamous Ho Chi Minh trail—which he would have to traverse in the days that followed. Passing by unnoticed was going to be a major undertaking.
As he loaded some of the biscuits into a pocket on the side of the rucksack, he felt a small bulge near the bottom. He reached down and withdrew the object. It was a small first aid kit. Inside were scissors, bandages, a needle, a length of surgeon’s thread, and three small vials of penicillin. It was an important find. Jack pushed his nose into the plastic tub and sniffed its contents.
“Let’s hope we don’t need this.”
* * *
That night, like most nights, Fletcher battled to fall asleep. The Strip, which had been their sanctuary for so long, was now a dangerous place to be. It felt like an open wound exposed to infection. There was no question that Charlie would be coming soon—sweeping through the deserted camps like scavengers picking at the wet bones of a rotting corpse. Just not tonight, Fletcher hoped.
He had chosen a small tent close to a bank of trees so that if Charlie did arrive during the course of the night, they might still be able to slip away unnoticed. Fortunately, the soldiers wouldn’t be expecting anyone to be left on base and would likely make a fair bit of noise as they approached. After settling down, they quickly shared half a loaf of bread and two of the soups, but Fletcher was still hungry.
Earlier, he had found a six-pack of beer and was tempted to have one, but knew that he would pay for it later. Alcohol would dehydrate him, and that was something he could ill afford. To survive, they would have to think very carefully about every single decision they made: The slightest mistake, he knew, could be fatal.
Eventually, after focusing his mind on the sound of Jack’s steady breathing, Fletcher fell into a deep sleep.
Thankfully, his nightmares stayed away.
Fifty-four
“Who’s there?” Fletcher mumbled, startled. He had no idea what had woken him, only that something felt wrong. The front flap of the tent swayed gently in the breeze. As he leaned forward to push it open, a shadow appeared on the canvas wall beside him. He snatched at his gun. The figure was stooped over, but the pose seemed exaggerated.
“Jesus, Jack,” he said as the Labrador poked his head inside the tent. “Where’ve you been?”
Jack wagged his tail and flopped down with half his body still left outside.
“Don’t get too comfortable.” He yawned, noticing the darkness beginning to lift on the horizon. “It’s almost time for us to go.”
Setting the gun back down, he ran his fingers over the stubble that now covered his head. He had gotten up in the middle of the night and, partly inspired by a dream he was having, decided to shave his head in an attempt to pass for one of the few Buddhists in the area. The thought, he knew, first germinated when he had stumbled onto an old brown robe while collecting their supplies. It was remarkably similar to those worn by the Buddhists. He hoped that the clothing, combined with his subtle Asian features, would be convincing enough. It couldn’t hurt to try. After all, there was no logical reason for a U.S. soldier to be disguising himself as a Buddhist monk, not at this point of the war, anyway. If anything would give him away, however, it would be his height. In America, he was only slightly above average height; in Vietnam, he was a virtual giant.
As the sky continued to lighten, Fletcher’s anxiety grew. The farthest he had ever hiked was seventy miles over six days. Their journey ahead was five times that. Trying to ready himself, he scanned the abandoned base and was suddenly unnerved at how quiet it was. There were no jeeps. No Hueys. No voices. There was nothing.
Just them, alone in the enemy’s garden. Forsaken.
Fifty-five
The first four days were mercifully uneventful. With the war over, there were very few active patrols left in the area. They encountered Charlie only once, and even then, he appeared more concerned about being snared in one of his own traps than anything else—a concern Fletcher shared. Twice Jack had sniffed out trip wires that he had missed. On both occasions, it had been late in the day. Fletcher found that his concentration began to waver after about nine hours. Jack’s mind, however, seemed never to tire, as if attuned to the marathon demands of their journey.
They had been walking most of the afternoon when Fletcher noticed an old wooden sign lying facedown in the mud ahead of them. After inspecting it to make sure it wasn’t wired to a grenade, he carefully pried it up with his knife.
A large part of its message had long since been scrubbed away by the wind and the rain, but a portion survived.
LAOS.
It confirmed what he had been hoping. Sometime during the day, they had crossed over the border. By his calculations, they had already covered more than sixty miles. He was overjoyed at how quickly they had progressed, but was also wary of their pace. During the last few hours, Jack had developed a slight limp. It was barely noticeable, but it was definitely there. He had been walking behind Jack long enough to tell when something was wrong. After checking the paw to ensure he hadn’t picked up a thorn, he thought the injury related back to the shooting and worried what condition the Labrador would be in a week from now, a month from now.
Stopping for a moment, Fletcher laid Jack down and stretched out his back legs. He pressed his hand down gently on the scar above his hip, and Jack yipped in pain.
“All right, Jack, all right. We’ll slow down tomorrow. Take things a little easier for a while.”
He had planned for them to do at least another mile before sundown, but thought better of it. Jack needed to rest. Checking the area, he found a well-covered spot near the base of a large tree, where they could spend the night. As always, he climbed the tree to get a better look at their surroundings. Most times, the dense vegetation prevented him from seeing farther than a hundred yards or so, but it made him feel better to try.
Satisfied, he opened the rucksack and took out their food for the evening. Three dog biscuits each and a packet of soup to share. They hadn’t had soup since their first night.
“Tonight we eat like kings, Jack,” he announced, carefully tearing open the packet. He unscrewed one of the canteens and splashed some water into a small plastic container. He mixed the powder with his knife, then took three generous sips. He put the rest down for Jack. The soup would have tasted a good deal more appetizing had they been able to heat it, but they couldn’t afford the attention a fire would bring.
They chased down the soup with the biscuits and a few mouthfuls of fresh water.
Dinner took all of three minutes to prepare and consume.
“I’ll never take any food for granted again, that’s for sure.”
Jack moved alongside Fletcher and, as always, rested his head on his thigh.
“Get some sleep, Jack. We’ve got a long way to go. We’re barely down the driveway.”
If the Vietnam day was a full song, its dusk was a single note.
In a beat, it was gone.
Fifty-six
Day 7
Jack’s limp was now becoming a serious issue. It had deteriorated from a slight hobble to the point where his back right paw would touch down on the ground only every third or fourth stride. As troubling as it was, it didn’t slow him much—not yet, at least. They were still able to maintain the kind of pace that, one week into their journey, was surprisingly efficient.
Over the past two days, however, Fletcher’s legs had started to cramp from the mileage. His calves, in particular, were locking up every few hours. Each attack would force them to stop so that Fletcher could massage out the spasm. The whole process delayed them
for around ten minutes at a time. A worrying sign was that the intervals between the cramps were getting smaller, and their grip lasting longer. The physical exertion was only part of the reason for the cramping. The rest was down to their diet.
Fletcher had stowed away a large packet of salt under a board in the munitions depot, which would have dealt with much of the cramping, but he had forgotten to retrieve it before leaving. It was an oversight, he knew, that could have serious consequences for them—particularly as they entered the second half of their journey.
On the positive side, they had managed to safely cross over the infamous Ho Chi Minh trail, which was more like a superhighway cutting through the jungle than the quaint walking path its name implied. It stretched for hundreds of kilometers from the north of Vietnam, down the Chaine Annamitique mountains in Laos, and back into the south of Vietnam. It included a massive pipeline that supplied Charlie with all the fuel he needed and was a key channel for small trucks, bicycles, and elephants ferrying tons of equipment and supplies. The trail had been Charlie’s lifeblood. During the height of the war, a constant flow of traffic traversed its spine. Without it, the Vietnam conflict might well have been a different proposition altogether.
Fletcher wished the trail led to Thailand. That way, they might have been able to stow away on the back of a truck. But they were heading west while the trail was winding south. Bisecting the path meant that they had covered something in the region of a hundred miles. It was an important milestone for them, but still two thirds of their journey lay ahead of them. He had expected to face heavy traffic on the trail, but in the few minutes while they waited in the surrounding brush, they encountered only a solitary truck and a convoy of three motorbikes.
So far, so good.
* * *
Nightfall brought with it welcome rain. After days of clear skies, Fletcher celebrated its arrival. Following the natural path of the water as it flowed through the trees and funneled down leaves, he carefully positioned their water canisters until they were full to the brim.
Making the most of the situation, they both drank until their stomachs were bloated.
The water was soft and delicious; every sip was savored.
Fletcher filled and refilled their plastic container three times for Jack. Despite an almost insatiable thirst, Fletcher was mindful of overhydration—a condition he knew could be fatal. Of all the things that could kill them, it would be almost a parody to succumb to too much fresh water; he had to fight his instincts to drink more.
Using a thin ground sheet to shelter them from the downpour, Fletcher watched as the rain pooled at their feet. He had been truly grateful for the shower, as fresh water had been more difficult to source than he had expected, but now his thoughts turned to where they would hole up for the night. The prospect of sleeping in the mud was becoming more and more likely by the minute.
The wet jungle was a bouquet of smells, dominated by a rich blend of minerals and irons that rose up from the soil. Whether it was the driving rain or just a simple lapse in concentration, Fletcher didn’t see the animal until it was right on top of them.
He stared straight into its eyes, less than ten feet away, but still couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The animal was stalking them. Hunting them.
It seemed impossible. Am I hallucinating? he wondered.
The predator’s orange stripes, like licks of flame, lit up the gloom.
Fifty-seven
Fletcher slowly withdrew his sidearm, mindful of making any sudden, threatening movements. The tiger crouched down, the muscles in its shoulders writhing and contorting like snakes coiling under a silk sheet. Its variegated coat appeared almost fluorescent in the pouring rain. The last thing Fletcher wanted to do was shoot it. He sensed the animal was desperate and hadn’t eaten in some time. They were not known to hunt humans, but it was clearly hungry. Jack let out a low, threatening growl, and Fletcher quickly grabbed his collar to stop him from committing what would have amounted to canine suicide.
The tiger, as big as a small car, took a half step forward, as if testing the waters ahead of it. It was now within striking range.
Fletcher cocked his gun.
He had heard of wild tigers roaming through Southeast Asia, but had never seen one. “Find something else, friend,” he said in a deep, steady voice.
The animal glanced down at the gun as if it had only just noticed the weapon, and took a step back. Clearly it had been burned by a hot barrel before. Exploiting its fear, Fletcher waved the pistol around in a slow arc. “That’s it … move away.”
The tiger stood its ground at first, but then slowly backtracked through the trees. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished.
“Did that really just happen?” Fletcher asked, easing his grip on Jack’s collar. The Labrador’s hackles were raised like quills.
“I think it’s gone. Jesus, I hope so.”
But for how long? he wondered. Would it return later while they slept? As unlikely as that might have been, he wasn’t taking any chances. They would have to find somewhere relatively safe to rest. And safety, in this context, meant up a tree.
* * *
Most of the trees in the area were patently unsuitable. They were either too thin or their branches weren’t conducive to sleeping on. To add to their woes, the driving rain had brought about an early dusk. Soon it would be too dark to continue their search, and they would be forced to spend the night awake.
“Come on, give us a break,” Fletcher pleaded, scanning the trees in the distance. “We need the goddamn rest.”
Dejected, he took a deep breath, and as he did, something flickered in the bottom of his vision. He cupped his hands over his eyes and leaned forward.
Was it metal? Glass?
At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, but as he moved closer, his doubts evaporated. The shell of a small truck, stripped bare of its wheels and engine, was wedged in between two tall trees.
“How the hell did that get here?” He laughed, striding out toward it. He stepped up to the driver’s door and was about to open it, when he realized it might be booby-trapped. After satisfying himself that it wasn’t rigged to anything that might violently liberate his limbs from his torso, he carefully clicked it open.
He felt like crying.
All the windows were intact, and the front seat bench—a worn-down beige mattress, really—was big enough for both of them to stretch out on. “It’s like the goddamn Ritz!” he cheered. “C’mon, Jack … get in.”
Once inside, Fletcher stripped off his wet clothes and used a small towel to dry Jack’s coat. Within minutes, all the windows had misted up. The harder it rained, the less likely it was that they would be found. They were dry and warm, and Fletcher couldn’t help but feel that they were safe, enveloped in a protected cocoon.
Real or not, it was a wonderful feeling.
Overcome, he suddenly felt like singing, but the impulse soon passed. The only song worthy of the moment did not belong exclusively to him. It was Kingston’s first and the Fat Lady’s second. He was just a member of that choir—a group that had long since disbanded. Alone, the song would have no soul.
Fifty-eight
Day 15
After the cramp had eased, Fletcher removed his socks and wrung out the sweat, which was now tinged red with blood. The coppery stench made him feel nauseated. He wished he could at least wash his hands, scrub them, to get rid of the dried blood that was caked under his fingernails, but it was a luxury they could ill afford. He looked down in dismay at his feet. Although not quite raw, they were covered in thin cuts and blisters. He had already lost two toenails, and two more were threatening to peel away. His right heel was cracked, and a similar chasm was beginning to open on his left foot.
Jack wasn’t faring any better. His troublesome back right leg was now a useless appendage. He was reduced to dragging it behind him, no longer able to hold it up. As a result, the hair on top of his paw had be
en worn away and replaced by a thin wet scab.
Infection had already set in; Fletcher could smell it. Following much deliberation, he decided to administer two vials of their precious penicillin to Jack. He couldn’t afford to allow the infection to persist.
After he was done, he strapped up the paw with a torn section of his shirt. “There, Jack, that should help you along.”
They were both in some pain, but of more immediate concern was their food reserves, which had dwindled far quicker than Fletcher originally calculated. They were down to just three soups and fifty-seven biscuits.
Not nearly enough to sustain them, given the energy they were expending.
A less worrisome, but remarkably odd thing was happening to Fletcher. His hair was falling out. When he rubbed the top of his head, his hand would be covered in hundreds of short hairs. It was more damning evidence of their lack of proper nutrition.
He forced his shoes back on and winced as he tightened the laces. Standing up was always the worst. He had to put his hands on his knees to steady himself. The pain brought on another powerful wave of nausea, which he had to contain at all costs. If he vomited, he would lose the little food he had just eaten and, with it, what remained of his strength.
Another afternoon of agony lay ahead of them, and there was no time to waste. Jack waited until Fletcher started moving again before trotting up to point. As ever, he was searching and sniffing for danger. Since entering Laos, there had been a noticeable decline in traps; while the country had been active in the war, it had not been on the same scale as Vietnam. Complacency, more than anything, was their biggest enemy now.
Surprisingly, the more they walked, the better Fletcher felt. Each step was half a yard closer to Thailand.
Finding Jack Page 14