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- Oct 17, 2024
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Name: Carter 'Cart' Vice
Country of Origin: United States of America
Known Family:
Theodore Hinterland Vice - Father - DEAD
Francine Donnelly Vice - Mother - ???
Occupation:
-United States Army, Captain in REDACTED
-49 Lumber, Millworker
Age: 29 (Born May 5th, 1950)
Nationality: USA
Languages Spoken:
English (Native)
Vietnamese (Fluent)
There’s no clean way to sum up a man like Carter Vice. Some folks, you can draw a line through their life like it’s a straight road on a map. Cart’s more like a thunderstorm rolling through a canyon—unpredictable, unforgettable, and impossible to outrun. I’m not claiming to know every detail. No one does. But I can give you what I’ve pieced together from records, stories, and the kind of firsthand accounts you only get after a bottle and a long silence. This is Carter "Cart" Vice—before Chance, before the name meant legacy, when it was just a man doing his damned best not to fall apart.
He was born in 1950, somewhere on the edge of Montana and meaninglessness. His father died in a logging accident when Cart was four, and his mother—a schoolteacher with a backbone like reinforced concrete—moved him to Spokane. That’s where the foundation got poured. He wasn’t raised with softness. He was raised with rules. You say what you mean, you do what you say, and you never, ever stay down.
He enlisted the day he turned eighteen. Not because he believed in flags or freedom more than the next man, but because there was nothing left for him in Spokane except beer-stained bar counters and people with broken dreams. He joined the Army to get out—and stayed in because it made sense to him. The structure. The clarity. The brutality. War, he would later say, was the only place where the truth didn’t need to hide.
Vietnam carved the man. Three tours. Captain by the end of it. He was the guy they called when the situation was officially off the books. Recon, extraction, sabotage—Cart didn’t specialize in anything because he got good at everything. He spoke little, listened more, and when he gave an order, men followed without thinking. Not out of fear. Out of respect.
You won’t find much about his missions. Most of it’s still redacted or just plain erased. But if you talk to the ones who made it back, a few stories float to the surface. Like the time he led a unit through 27 miles of jungle without a single casualty, despite being hunted by two NVA platoons. Or the night he held a collapsing perimeter with only a 1911 and a broken radio, coordinating an evac that saved twenty-seven lives. These are the scraps we get—glimpses of something much larger.
But none of that followed him home. Not officially. He was honorably discharged in late '78. No parade. No fanfare. Just a signed document and a plane ticket back to a country that had moved on without him. He landed in Seattle, drifted for a bit, then settled in Hoquiam. He picked up work at a lumber mill. Said the smell of pine beat the stench of blood. Said a man needs something heavy to lift, or he starts lifting ghosts.
People in Hoquiam didn’t know what to make of him at first. Tall, built like a hammer, eyes that didn’t blink enough. But he kept to himself. Showed up on time. Worked harder than anyone. Never talked about the war, never asked about your business. He didn’t flirt, didn’t drink at the bar, didn’t get into fights—though Lord knows a few tried him, and none tried twice.
You saw it in how he carried himself. Straight spine, chin down, always watching. He was the kind of man who seemed like he could hear the wind’s opinion. And there was power in him. Not the loud kind. The kind that sits in silence and makes you nervous.
Once, during a winter storm, a logging truck jackknifed on the mountain road outside town. Nobody wanted to go after it—too dangerous, too late, too cold. Cart didn’t say anything. Just stood up, grabbed his coat, and drove out alone. Came back three hours later with the driver half-frozen in his arms and didn’t say a damn word about it. That’s the kind of man he was. No medals. No boasting. Just action.
Some say he was running from something. Maybe he was. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Cart wasn’t broken. He was tempered. He’d seen the worst, done what had to be done, and came out the other side with his own code.
He was born in 1950, somewhere on the edge of Montana and meaninglessness. His father died in a logging accident when Cart was four, and his mother—a schoolteacher with a backbone like reinforced concrete—moved him to Spokane. That’s where the foundation got poured. He wasn’t raised with softness. He was raised with rules. You say what you mean, you do what you say, and you never, ever stay down.
He enlisted the day he turned eighteen. Not because he believed in flags or freedom more than the next man, but because there was nothing left for him in Spokane except beer-stained bar counters and people with broken dreams. He joined the Army to get out—and stayed in because it made sense to him. The structure. The clarity. The brutality. War, he would later say, was the only place where the truth didn’t need to hide.
Vietnam carved the man. Three tours. Captain by the end of it. He was the guy they called when the situation was officially off the books. Recon, extraction, sabotage—Cart didn’t specialize in anything because he got good at everything. He spoke little, listened more, and when he gave an order, men followed without thinking. Not out of fear. Out of respect.
You won’t find much about his missions. Most of it’s still redacted or just plain erased. But if you talk to the ones who made it back, a few stories float to the surface. Like the time he led a unit through 27 miles of jungle without a single casualty, despite being hunted by two NVA platoons. Or the night he held a collapsing perimeter with only a 1911 and a broken radio, coordinating an evac that saved twenty-seven lives. These are the scraps we get—glimpses of something much larger.
But none of that followed him home. Not officially. He was honorably discharged in late '78. No parade. No fanfare. Just a signed document and a plane ticket back to a country that had moved on without him. He landed in Seattle, drifted for a bit, then settled in Hoquiam. He picked up work at a lumber mill. Said the smell of pine beat the stench of blood. Said a man needs something heavy to lift, or he starts lifting ghosts.
People in Hoquiam didn’t know what to make of him at first. Tall, built like a hammer, eyes that didn’t blink enough. But he kept to himself. Showed up on time. Worked harder than anyone. Never talked about the war, never asked about your business. He didn’t flirt, didn’t drink at the bar, didn’t get into fights—though Lord knows a few tried him, and none tried twice.
You saw it in how he carried himself. Straight spine, chin down, always watching. He was the kind of man who seemed like he could hear the wind’s opinion. And there was power in him. Not the loud kind. The kind that sits in silence and makes you nervous.
Once, during a winter storm, a logging truck jackknifed on the mountain road outside town. Nobody wanted to go after it—too dangerous, too late, too cold. Cart didn’t say anything. Just stood up, grabbed his coat, and drove out alone. Came back three hours later with the driver half-frozen in his arms and didn’t say a damn word about it. That’s the kind of man he was. No medals. No boasting. Just action.
Some say he was running from something. Maybe he was. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Cart wasn’t broken. He was tempered. He’d seen the worst, done what had to be done, and came out the other side with his own code.
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Loves|Appreciates|Trusts|Acquainted|Neutral|Dislikes|Hates|Deathwish
Fred Holly
A man knocked on my door, asking for gas. Found out he was in Saigon as well.
Loves|Appreciates|Trusts|Acquainted|Neutral|Dislikes|Hates|Deathwish
Fred Holly
A man knocked on my door, asking for gas. Found out he was in Saigon as well.
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