While we waited for the chopper to land, I made use of the time by starting a letter to Mom, thanking her for the latest care package.”Wolf is really enjoying the dog biscuits and butterscotch pudding,” I scribbled with the nub of a pencil. “But don’t spend all the kitchen money on us. We’re doing fine.” I knew money was tight at home. I’d left behind five brothers and sisters. But Mom kept sending those boxes, regular as clockwork. “Love to all–Chuck,” I flourished on the bottom line, then set down the paper to rummage through my pack for an envelope.

“C’mon, now, stop goofing around.” Wolf was pacing back and forth in front of my face, pausing with each turn to jam his hot, wet nose into my ear and blow out loudly.

“Uh-oh, you’ve really done it this time.” Now there was a paw print on the letter. “You big goof,” I said, tussling one of those bat-like ears of his. Wolf was grinning too, and wagging his tail so widely it wacked his sides. He seemed very proud of what he’d done.

So into the mail the letter went, muddy signature and all.

- Charlie Cargo

WOLF AND CHARLIE CARGO met in Vietnam in 1970. A highly trained scout dog capable of locating enemy tripwires, traps and troops at up to a thousand yards, Wolf already had a long track record in the war by the time Charlie arrived at the 48th Scout Dog Platoon stationed in Chu Lai. Charlie was just another baby-faced draftee– a “f—ing new guy,” according to field vernacular. But under Wolf’s patient tutelage, he quickly became a top-notch dog handler, savvy to the grim realities of the bush.

We were nearing the summit of the barren slope when Wolf suddenly stopped and sat down.

“Come on, Wolfer, let’s go,” I said hoarsely between gulps of air. But he refused to move. He just sat there, his big pink tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth.

Now the slack man was breathing on the back of my neck. “Damn, Cargo, let’s go.” The grunts behind us were really starting to bunch up and we were still in the open.

“Then tell them to spread out and take what cover they can find.”I said, waving irritably behind my back with one hand for him to give me some space. I wasn’t about to take my eyes off of Wolf. “He’s alerting to something.”

I motioned for Wolf to return to me, then sent him out to do a second search. Personally, I didn’t really believe there was anything to worry about. Just a few dry clumps of weeds up here, pitiful cover for anybody or anything.

Now Wolf was back at the same spot on the hillside, sitting in the dirt just like before. In a low crouch, I moved up to his position and gave him a pat. “Whassup, boy?”

His head rolled lazily about on his shoulders as he cast me a casual glance. I splashed a little canteen water in a tin cup and held it under his chin. “You just thirsty, Wolfer?” He ignored it. “Well, you aren’t sniffing the air or listening to anything. Stop worrying and let’s go. Everything’s O.K.”

Meanwhile, the slack man was telling the troops to quit their whining and bitching. “Shut up,” he hissed through closed teeth. “The dog’s onto something.”

As the man spoke, I was in mid-stride and about to step around Wolf. Suddenly the dog wrenched his body sideways, blocking me. “Hey, it’s OK, I’m only looking,” I whispered. And that was when he bit me.

Those jaws of his were like a vice–a vice fitted with tiger teeth, which were now penetrating my right hand. It was such a shock it took a few seconds for the pain to sink in, and when it did, it was blinding. I was too surprised to scream. Flailing like a fish, I frantically tried to wrench my hand out of his mouth. Blood was starting to trickle down my wrist. . .time seemed to be standing still.

Finally, mercifully-blessedly–he let go.

Now I knew something was wrong. “Well for crying out loud, what is it?” I blurted, trying to push down the urge to vomit as waves of agony began rolling up my arm. And then I saw it.

A tripwire the thickness of a hair. Two feet in front of me. My knees began to shake as the realization of just how close I’d come to dying began to sink in–and how I would have taken Wolf with me.

-Charlie Cargo

 

OVER THE NEXT ELEVEN MONTHS, Charlie and Wolf safely led hundreds of troops through the jungles of Vietnam. They were a team both on and off-duty. “More than master and servant, more than brothers, we were of one heart and soul,” he says today. When Charlie realized he was about to be separated from Wolf because he’d been promoted to Sergeant, he deliberately mouthed off to a superior so he would be busted back down to Sp/4, the equivalent of a Corporal.

As his tour of duty drew to a close, Charlie’s family telephoned dozens of military higher-ups, pleading for Wolf to be discharged so he too could come home. Their request was rejected. In a desperate bid for more time to navigate the bureaucracy, Charlie applied to extend his tour, but he was turned away.

The worst day of Charlie Cargo’s life came on December 7, 1971, when he was ordered to deliver his best friend to the dog detachment center near Saigon. He had to put a muzzle on Wolfer–”this dog, who had nothing but love in his heart for his brothers-in-arms. I will never forget the confusion on his face when I walked away forever.”

Wolf’s fate was a mystery for thirty years, but recently discovered documents indicate that he was one of the few “lucky” dogs to get Stateside as the war wound down. In March 1972, he returned to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas and was diagnosed with testicular cancer. He was neutered and put back to work, until 1979, when he succumbed to lymphoma.

Why couldn’t the military have telephoned Charlie to at least tell him Wolf made it back to the U.S.? If Wolf did indeed have a terminal illness, why couldn’t he have been released to spend his last days with Charlie???