Jake and Whispers
Chapter One
The day I met Whispers, I was nineteen and he was one. From the day we met, we were not apart for a single day for almost fifteen years. I cannot imagine what my life would have been without Whispers, and frankly, I don’t even want to think about it. This is our story, my dog, Whispers’ and mine.
I am going to begin the story in 1967, when I was seventeen years old, even though I didn’t meet Whispers until I was nineteen. In a few minutes, you’ll know why I’m starting there.
My given name is Leonard Jacobsen and for the first nineteen years of my life everyone called me Leonard. In Vietnam, I became Jake, and I’ve been Jake since then.
********
In early January 1967, during a televised address, Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth President of the United States, said, “North Vietnam isn’t serious about peace. For that reason, the United States will continue to step up its defense of South Vietnam.” He said some other things that evening, but I wasn’t paying much attention to LBJ back then, and I can’t remember what they were.
One month later, U.S. troop strength in South Vietnam went over five hundred thousand for the first time. I knew there was a war going on in Southeast Asia, but I could not have found South Vietnam on a map without some difficulty.
On Monday morning, February 4, 1967, I was a senior at Harris Senior High School in Valdosta, Georgia, and I was on the way to the principal’s office, again. There was nothing unusual about that. Seldom had a school day passed that I didn’t hear a teacher say, “Leonard, why don’t you go to the office for a while?” It was a fact that I spent more time in the office than I did in class.
My frequent absences from class didn’t have any affect on my grades. Nothing affected my grades. The only time I ever made anything other than an ‘A’ was when I made an ‘A+.’ My grades, however, had nothing to do with hard work, long hours, or intense effort. They were simply a reflection of the way I am, which is not easy to describe, but I’ll take a shot at it. I pay attention to everything all the time. That’s not something I learned, it’s just the way I am. Until I was six years old, I thought everyone was that way. It’s as if you aren’t attached to any single thing, but you are attached to everything equally, and you know it.
At age six, I realized that not many people experience life that way. In fact, it was then that I began to wonder if anyone else paid attention to everything, all the time. For a while, I thought I was just crazy, and then I had an even more alarming thought. I wondered if I were a reject who had somehow slipped past the quality control department. In time, the idea that I was flawed gave way to an understanding that flawed or not, there is no other way that I would rather live than the way I live.
********
I didn’t mind spending time in the office or talking with Mr. Jones. It gave me the opportunity to learn jobs I’d have never learned in a classroom. In fact, I knew everything about the routine office tasks of the school. That’s why Mrs. Little, the school secretary, always put me to work answering the phone, checking and filing the class rosters, writing hall passes, and all the other little tasks that seemed necessary to run the school. I spent so much time in the office that many my classmates thought it was a part-time job.
That particular morning, I walked in the office fully expecting Mrs. Little to put me to work as usual. Instead she said, “Good morning, Leonard. Go on back, he’s waiting for you.”
I walked to Mr. Jone’s office, knocked lightly, and heard a soft, “Come in, Leonard.” Mr. Jones was sitting behind his big, government-issue, gray metal desk. He didn’t look up from shuffling through my records which had become a huge, untidy affair that always seemed on the point of exploding.
I didn’t interrupt him. I knew he wasn’t going to find anything new there, and I knew that he knew that. It was obvious to me that he was just stalling, thinking of what he was going to say. So I waited.
I wasn’t a smart-aleck, or a troublemaker, which Mr. Jones had confirmed often enough in previous meetings. After noting that, he would always add, “You’re just different, Leonard. That’s why you don’t fit here. You do everything your way without making a visible disturbance, but still it’s disturbing to the other students and the faculty. I know you aren’t aware of this, and maybe your classmates aren’t aware of it either, but Leonard, the truth is that no student at this school does anything they’re told until they first see what you’re doing. Leonard, that means you’re more influential here than I am.” At that point, the conversation would usually die away, leaving us staring at each other until Mr. Jones said, “Well, go on back to class, Leonard.”
I knew Mr. Jones was right. I did upset the school, and not just the school but every organization that I encountered. I didn’t do it intentionally or aggressively. I just didn’t fit, and I wouldn’t pretend to fit or try to fit. I just did what I knew was right for me to do and let the world do what it was doing without any judgment or interference from me.
Finally, Mr. Jones looked up from my file. He smiled a bit sheepishly and said, “Leonard, I’m going to miss you around here.”
“Miss me, Mr. Jones? Are you going somewhere?”
He smiled, “No, Leonard. I’m not going anywhere. You are. I’ve talked with the school board, and I’ve talked with your parents; and everyone agrees the best course of action for you and for the school is for you to graduate a bit early, four months early to be exact. By rights, you are the Valedictorian of the class. However, if you will forgo that honor, I’ll give you your diploma right now.”
That should have been a major league surprise for me, but I’m not easily surprised. In fact, I’m never surprised. So I simply said, “That’s fine by me, Mr. Jones. I wasn’t looking forward to talking to all of those people anyway.”
Mr. Jones, obviously relieved, smiled and slipped a large manila envelope across the desk toward me, “Well, then, here’s your diploma.”
I took the envelope and we stood and shook hands. “There is one more thing I’d like to discuss with you, Leonard.”
He paused, looked at me, and I nodded. He continued, “You’re close to your eighteenth birthday. When you turn eighteen, you will have to register for the draft, and there is a war going on. Thousands of young men your age are being drafted every day. Don’t waste this time, Leonard. Find a school where you think you can fit in and enroll. If you don’t, you will be drafted before Christmas. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.
The last words Mr. Jones ever said to me were, “Do it quickly, Leonard.”
I didn’t enroll in college, but I did spend a lot of time in the library researching Vietnam and the selective service system. Then I reviewed all of my choices. Since school was not an acceptable alternative for me, I had with only three ways to avoid the Army and Vietnam. I could pretend I was gay; I could pretend I was a conscientious objector; or I could run away to Canada. None of those were right for me. Therefore, I didn’t choose any of them. I waited for Harris County Selective Service Commission to make the next move.
I spent my bonus months and the summer fishing, hiking in the national forest, reading, and, occasionally, writing a bit. When I needed spending money, I did chores for the neighbors or worked in my parent’s neighborhood supermarket.
********
My mother and daddy were engaged before World War II began. The day after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Daddy enlisted in the Navy. The night before he enlisted, he and mother spent the entire night considering whether to elope before he left. Finally, they decided that it would be best if they waited until he returned. Though they never said it, I think their primary consideration was the real possibility that he might not return.
Daddy never talked about the war. From bits of conversation I’d overheard when my parents didn’t know that I was around, I knew he was in many naval battles in the Pacific. Once bored and home alone, I found a small leather-covered box in Daddy’s chest of drawers. I opened it carefully and found five medals. I went to the encyclopedia and searched until I discovered a photo and description of them listed under Naval Decorations. Two of them were ordinary, the National Defense Service Medal and the Pacific Campaign Medal. The other three were anything but ordinary: The Navy Commendation Medal, a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star.
I tried even harder to get him to talk about the war, but he always said that was a long time ago, and it had nothing to do with his life today. Even then, I suspected that wasn’t true, but I didn’t push the point.
Because they decided not to marry until the war was over, my mother and daddy were twenty-six years old before they married. During the war years, they had both saved most of their pay. They used their savings to buy a small supermarket in Valdosta, a town in south Georgia, roughly two-hundred miles from Atlanta, Georgia, the only place they had ever lived.
They both wanted children, but they put that dream on hold until they got the store up and running. They were thirty years old when I was born. It was a difficult delivery for my mother. That, and their age, combined to convince them that one child was enough.
The store was doing well, and they were able to cut back on the number of hours they spent in it. They invested those saved hours in me. They listened to me; they talked to me as if I were an adult. They introduced me to the world outside Valdosta through books, day trips and magical summer vacations. They always supported me in everything that I did, even though I was obviously a bit different from the other kids in the neighborhood and later in school. No kid ever loved his parents more than I loved mine, and no kid was ever more loved by their parents than I was.
********
In 1967, the military was desperate for men. On September 9, 1967, I turned 18. On October 9, 1967, I received my letter from the Harris County Selective Service Commission. It began, “Greetings from your friends and neighbors….” The letter went on to direct me to report to the Greyhound Bus station in Valdosta, Georgia, on October 14th, for transport to the nearest military induction center.
On the appointed day, my parents took me to the Greyhound bus station. It took a while for me to convince them not to stay until the bus arrived, but I finally managed. Mother cried and hugged me. Daddy shook my hand, and I saw that he was crying too. I pretended to be sad, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy or sad. I was about to start a new adventure. Beyond that, I had no expectations or judgments. I waved as they drove away, and then I joined the group of young men clustered around the Coca-Cola machine.
*************
Basic Training normally takes eight weeks. I spent 16 weeks in Basic Training. I wasn’t sick; in fact, I never missed a day of training. I wasn’t stupid; my test scores easily qualified me for OCS (Officer Candidate School). Even though the possibility of being an officer held no appeal for me, my test scores mandated that I listen to the OCS recruiting talk, not once, but many times.
I wasn’t a disciplinary problem, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. In fact, in four years in the Army I didn’t receive so much as a single Article 15, which is the most minor official disciplinary action.
Despite that, I completed an extra eight weeks of basic training to “receive further military training.” In fact, I was “recycled.” Finally, at the end of sixteen weeks, the First Sergeant summonsed me.
I entered the orderly room, marched smartly to his desk, came to attention, and began to report in military fashion.
The First Sergeant waved his hand and said, “At ease, Jacobson. Listen up. In the past sixteen weeks, you’ve completed two full cycles of Basic Training, and you have failed to graduate with either of them. That’s a record, Jacobson, but not one you should be proud of. During the sixteen weeks that you’ve been part of this command, you have not created a single disciplinary problem…you’ve created every one of them. We’ve tried every way that we know to bring you in line and nothing has worked. So, we’re giving up.”
“Do you mean I can go home, First Sergeant?”
“No, Jacobson, that isn’t what I mean at all. You are done with Basic Training, or maybe it would be more accurate to say, Basic Training is done with you. You’re going to move over to the Harmony Church area this afternoon and begin Advanced Infantry Training. When you finish there, if you ever do, you’ll be going straight to Vietnam, and Jacobson, you’ll probably die there.”
He looked at me for a minute, shook his head, and handed me a large brown envelope. “Here are your records and your orders. Pack your gear, call a base taxi, and give a copy of your orders to the driver. He will take you to your new training company. That’s all, Jacobson.”
*********
One hour later, I reported to my new training company, Company C, 85th Advanced Infantry Training Battalion. I arrived with my military-issue, duffel bag, filled with my U.S. Army issue clothing and a few approved personal items. I also had the large envelope that contained my 201 Military Personnel File that had grown to the rough size of the personnel file of a twenty-year combat veteran.
My new First Sergeant looked at me and then at my file. He knew there was a story there, though I had an idea it wasn’t one that he wanted to hear. He didn’t ask about the file. Instead, he said, “Private Jacobson, you are the first to arrive. Do you think you’re special?”
“No, First Sergeant.”
“Jacobson, if you think you are special this would be a good time to get over that idea.”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“Okay, Jacobson, you get the afternoon off. You also get your choice of bunks. Corporal Hankins will take you to the barracks. First formation will be at 0530 hours tomorrow. That’s all.”
Corporal Hankins took me to the barracks where I picked a lower bunk three away from the entrance door. He told me what time the mess hall opened, and he left. I unpacked my gear, made my bunk, and lay down to read Siddhartha, a book by Hermann Hesse that I’d found at the PX. I hadn’t been reading long when I heard someone enter the barracks and call out, “Jacobson, are you here?”
“Come on in, I’m here.”
A man appeared at the foot of my bunk. I looked over-the-top of the book and saw that he was a Captain. In sixteen weeks of Basic Training, I’d never spoken to my Company Commander. Now, fifteen minutes into Advanced Infantry Training, the Company Commander had come to see me. I jumped out of the bunk and began to come to attention, thinking I was supposed to say something, something that failed to come to mind.
He stopped me with an upraised hand, “That’s not necessary, Leonard. This isn’t official business.” He sat down on my footlocker, and I sat on the edge of the bunk.
He glanced at the book and commented, “Good book. Have you read it before?”
“No, Sir. I just found it at the PX.”
With a puzzled look on his face he said, “At the PX?”
“Yes, Sir. The clerk said he had no idea how it got there.”
The Captain laughed, “I can believe that,” he said, then added, “You’ll like it. I’m sure of it. Let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Leonard, I’m Captain Kennedy, Richard Kennedy, and for this afternoon you can call me, Richard, if you like.”
“If it’s all right with you, Captain, I’d just as soon not form any habits that will cause me grief down the road.”
He laughed, “I understand. Well, I’m going to call you Leonard, anyway, and you call me whatever feels right for you. Get your cap; I’m going to take you on a little trip. You’ll be back in plenty of time for supper.”
“That’s fine by me, Sir. Just give me a minute to secure the area.”
Three minutes later we were blasting out of the Company parking lot in Captain Kennedy’s Jeep. We drove for a while before he began talking. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear above the sound of the wind around the open Jeep, but not loud. “Leonard, you’re eighteen years old, and I’m twenty-three. The difference between us is four years of college and one year in Vietnam. I looked at your 201 File after you signed in, and I got the idea that just maybe you’d listen to some advice. Since you don’t know yet what it is, I’m not going to ask you if you will follow it or not. On the other hand, since you’re a Private and I’m your Company Commander, you will at least listen to me.” He laughed, and I did too.
“Leonard, I have a B.A. in Education. All I’ve ever wanted to do is teach. I grew up on a farm, the youngest of four kids. There is less than a year’s age difference between each of the four of us. That meant, when I graduated from high school, my two brothers and my sister were in college. Even though they were each working one or two jobs, and they had a couple of partial scholarships among them, it wasn’t enough to pay all of their costs. All the extra money the farm made went to them. There was no money left for me, and, yet, I wanted to go to college in the worst way. The Army offers full, four-year scholarships to those who qualify scholastically and are willing to make a six-year commitment to the service. That commitment, by the way, begins after graduation from college. Five years ago no one had heard of Vietnam, so the Army seemed like a perfect way for me to go to college.”
I nodded in agreement, and we rode in silence for a while before he continued. Finally, he said, “I heard the word ‘Vietnam’ for the first time in my junior year. When I graduated, I knew I was going to go there. I chose the Transportation Branch with the idea that I would be safe, or at least safer, as a Transportation Officer. I guess I was safer than I would have been in the Infantry, but the truth is, there are no safe tours in Vietnam.”
I nodded and he continued, “My Company was part of the 25th Infantry Division, based in Chu Chi, about twenty miles from Saigon. While I was there, I came to know the Company Commander of the Scout Dog Detachment. That’s why we are talking now. I’m taking you to the U.S. Army Scout Dog Training Center. You’ll meet some of the personnel, but my intent is for you to meet some of the dogs. Then I’m going to tell you about Scout Dogs and the Army, and I’m going to give you some advice. What you do with it is up to you.”
He paused, glanced at me, and continued, “You see, Leonard, you have some choices in front of you, and, you can trust me on this, not going to Vietnam isn’t one of them. You are going to Vietnam. Your choices are about how you go. Do you understand what I’ve said so far?”
“Yes, Sir, I do, but why dogs?”
Captain Kennedy smiled and asked, “Do you like dogs, Leonard?”
“Yes, Sir, I love dogs. In fact, if I had to pick between a dog and most people I know, I’d take the dog every time.”
“Well, Leonard, that ought to make it obvious why I’m talking to you about dogs.”
“I understand, Sir. But, how did you know that I liked dogs?”
Captain Kennedy didn’t say anything for a moment. He considered his words carefully, and then he said, “There’s nothing in your records that says you like dogs. However, as I looked through your file, I realized that it could almost have been my file.” He paused, glanced at me, and then added, “Except for the sixteen weeks of Basic Training.” We both laughed.
Then he said, “Leonard, I love dogs, and I just knew that you did too. I can’t tell you how I knew you liked dogs, any more than you can tell me how you know everything that you know. In fact, I think that we probably agree on many things, and I think we are alike in more ways than we’re not alike, but talking about them isn’t what this afternoon is all about.”
As he turned off the main road onto a narrow two-lane strip of asphalt, he said, “For the next couple of hours, I want you to pretend that I’m your older brother. You’ll have to work at that since you’re an only child, but you can do it.”
We laughed again, and then he continued. “Leonard, I know you’re not bucking the Army, at least, not in the usual ways that people buck it. And, somewhere at the heartless core of itself, the Army knows that too, or else it would have spit you out by now. Instead, it has allowed you to disrupt the normal flow of events, something it almost never allows to happen. The Amy has tolerated you for a reason, and that reason is you have something it values above all else…you are a natural leader.”
He paused to let his words sink in. After a few seconds he continued, “I know something about you though, something the Army doesn’t know. You’re never going to lead men, at least not directly, the way the Army would like for you to. You might be an officer, but I doubt it. More than likely you will be an NCO, a Sergeant or a Corporal, and even then, you’ll not have a squad or a platoon for which you are accountable. I know that most of this doesn’t make sense to you right now. Just trust me, and listen to everything I have to say. In time, you’ll understand.”
I knew that I was hearing straight talk, straighter than any I had ever heard. That’s why I listened to everything Captain Kennedy told me that afternoon, and, in time, I understood it all and a whole lot more.