Copyright January 2001

This story is rated PG-13 for language

TOUR OF DUTY: DANNY'S BOY (Part 1)

In March, 1965, Military working dogs were approved for service in Vietnam.

The smoke began to fade away long before the relentless ringing in their ears. The soldiers protecting Firebase Ladybird from yet another overnight raid had been hit hard by a handful of Viet Cong sappers who slipped in and out of the perimeter barriers like rats through a garbage bin. Even with Captain Wallace's order for tightened security, the VC had easily found a weakness and handed another blow to the company that was still reeling from the previous three nights' incursions.

Sergeant Anderson wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and cautiously made his way out from behind the pile of sandbags he had used for protection during the firefight. The Viet Cong soldier lay dead on the other side of the wall, his face splattered with brains and gore from the bullet fired into him at pointblank range. Anderson paused only a moment to take in the morbid sight before stepping over the cadaver and hastily making his way across the base in search of casualties.

The firefight seemed to be over, but with no idea of how many sappers had slipped through the perimeter, it was impossible to know if any were still lurking in the shadows. With his rifle raised in anxious anticipation, the sergeant moved across the firebase in a determined effort to account for each of his men. His heart skipped a beat when he came around a large tent and saw, off in the distance, the silhouette of a man sitting in the dirt and leaning against a back wall of the row of latrines. "LT! That you?" he hollered, squinting to get a better look through the smoke and dust that still drifted through the dark streets.

Lieutenant Goldman shot his head around and peered in Anderson's direction, instinctively pointing his weapon at the figure running toward him. Within a split second, Goldman recognized the staff sergeant, let out the breath he had not been aware he was holding and nodded. The platoon leader allowed his body to slump back, despite the putrid smell of the wood behind him. Anderson sprinted across the road as quickly as he could with his lungs objecting to every breath of the area's stale air. Slipping his rifle over his shoulder, Anderson crouched down on one knee next to the officer and examined the man for injury. "You okay, LT?" he asked, wincing against the odor. "Are you shot?"

"No, Sergeant," Goldman choked. "I'm not shot. But I am going to puke if you don't help me out of here."

Confused at why the lieutenant would need assistance moving away from the building, but not wanting to waste time, Anderson grabbed the officer's upper arm and yanked the man forward. Goldman scrambled to get his legs underneath himself, but before he could stand, something pulled his body back into the building. He hit with such force that both men could hear the liquid waste sloshing against the metal tub on the other side of the wooden wall.

"Ouch!" Goldman declared as his shoulder snapped against the wood. "I could've done that without your help, Sergeant."

Zeke Anderson furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "You stuck, Sir?" he asked, looking into the darkness of the shadows. "On what?"

"I don't know," the frustrated officer snapped. "The back of this thing was open when I got here. I didn't know that until I went to lean up against it and damned-near fell into the crap."

Anderson stifled a grin. Although he couldn't see the details of Goldman's features in the dark, the platoon sergeant knew by experience that the lieutenant was not at all amused by his predicament. "Well, LT," Zeke observed, "it's closed now."

"I know it's closed now, Sergeant. I closed it." Goldman shifted his weight and tugged his body against whatever was binding him to the wall. "Something got snagged when I closed it and now I'm stuck." The staff sergeant was no longer able to contain his laughter. He snickered, knowing full well it would be met with immediate reprimand from his platoon leader. "Knock it off, Anderson," the lieutenant spat, in fact struggling not to begin laughing himself. "Get me out of here. That's an order."

After composing himself, the sergeant moved closer to the officer and slid his hand between Goldman's back and the wall of the latrine. Ignoring the splinter of wood that sliced into the palm of his hand, Anderson fumbled blindly in search of the snag. Eventually, his hand crossed over the piece of cloth wedged inside the long crack of the closed covering to the waste compartment. "Looks like your shirt tail got caught when you closed the door, LT," Anderson explained as he reached over to lift the latch and open the door to the compartment. "Why didn't you just take it off?"

Immediately ill at ease by this bit of news, Goldman seized the first response that came to mind, despite its pathetic lack of logic. "Because I wasn't about to drop my weapon during a firefight for any reason," Goldman hissed, as if the sergeant should have known better than to ask such a ridiculous question.

As Goldman was pulling himself away from the trap, Anderson ventured further. "Sir? Just how did you get the back of your shirt stuck in there?"

Lieutenant Goldman glared at the staff sergeant, irritated by Anderson's need for rationalizations. "Never mind," he muttered, as he began unbuttoning the disgusting garment. Enough of the shirt had been pulled through the crack that when the liquid sloshed over the side of the nearly full tub, it had spattered, not only on the inside wall, but on the officer's fatigues as well. Goldman tossed the shirt into a nearby empty vat and pulled his rifle over his shoulder where it rested on his only slightly fresher T-shirt. "Get these things burned," he demanded as he stalked away.

"Now, Sir?" Anderson called to the officer's back. Lieutenant Goldman turned around and frowned at his platoon sergeant. "Roger that, LT," Anderson quickly responded to the unspoken clarification. "First thing in the morning."

**************************

"Sir, this is getting to be a real problem." Myron Goldman was telling Captain Wallace nothing the commanding officer didn't already know. The night raids by the VC had begun several weeks earlier, but until four nights ago, they had been sporadic and had only adversely affected a handful of men. Most soldiers were accustomed to a minimal amount of sleep under difficult circumstances, but with the raids now occurring every night, the men of Bravo Company were dangling on the edge.

When the raids first began, Sergeant Anderson had lost an argument with the captain about the danger of pushing the men past the point of exhaustion. The result had been disastrous when young Corporal Percell made an error in judgment that ended in the death of an innocent child. Several things factored into that tragedy, but there had been no doubt that Percell's fatigue played a large role in his mistake. Bringing Danny back had been difficult and dangerous, and had led Goldman to the fringe of insubordination, not to mention nearly earning him a broken hand. The platoon leader had no desire to go through it again any time soon. He was determined to make the captain listen to reason.

"I know, Lieutenant," Wallace conceded with mounting annoyance. He was pacing the dirt floor of the large tent, impatiently waiting for the arrival of Sergeant Anderson with the results of a body count. "How many men did you lose?" he asked the lieutenant, not expecting an answer but hoping to divert the other man's attention from this useless debate.

"No casualties in Second Platoon, Sir," Sergeant Anderson declared in answer to the captain's question as he entered the TOC. "But the chow hall was fragged." He regarded the senior officer with a salute and turned to Goldman. "By the looks of things, I do believe they were aiming for the latrines, too, Sir." Goldman let out a convulsive shudder that the CO didn't understand, while Anderson turned his attention back to the captain. "Sir, we got two gooks. One's alive, but not for long. And, Sirs," he stepped back a pace so he could look at both men, "We found a break in the perimeter."

Lieutenant Goldman's eyes widened in surprise, but it was Wallace who spoke. "What kind of break, Sergeant?" He was reaching back to grab his rifle from where it rested against the canvas wall and headed toward the tent's opening, not waiting for Anderson's reply. The staff sergeant and his platoon leader were quick to follow, jogging forward to keep pace with the captain. When the men reached the road, Captain Wallace automatically turned to the direction in which the firefights always seemed to originate, but Anderson tapped a finger on the senior officer's arm and pointed in the opposite direction.

"Sir, it's on the November border," the sergeant informed the two officers and headed toward a jeep parked nearby. The three men jumped in and Anderson sped away through a cloud of dust toward the northern boundary of the firebase. The platoon sergeant stopped the jeep in front of a squad of soldiers who were inspecting a tangle of barbed wire and perimeter posts. "We're not sure if this is where they're coming in," Anderson explained, "but it looks like they're sliding through here and then working their way around to make it look like they came in on our Sierra. I reckon if they wanted to throw us off guard, it worked." He paused a moment and focused on the captain. "And, Sir, they've turned the claymores around. If they go off, they go off in our face."

Dawn was already beginning to break and the officers had no trouble seeing the breech from where they stood. The wire had been repositioned in such a way that a man could easily slip through it, if he were willing to put up with some cuts and scrapes from the metal spikes. A trip flare was in place, but with the VC's agility, they were able to weave in and out of the wire without setting off the signal to the sentries. The area was isolated and, although it was to be guarded along with the rest of the perimeter, the concentration of security had been kept to the southern section where the firefights had been concentrated. Captain Wallace was immediately disgusted with the entire company for allowing such a breech in security to occur.

"Dammit!" he snapped, turning back toward the jeep. "That's it! Goldman, get this rewired. I'm through playing games. This has got to stop. Now. See me at Zero-900 for your orders."

Anderson and Goldman exchanged a troubled look before the platoon leader complied with the order, not bothering to salute. "Wilco, Sir."

**************************

Sergeant Anderson looked at the lieutenant, unable to hide his concern. "LT, we can't...."

"What do you want me to do, Sergeant?" Goldman cut him off sharply, knowing exactly what the other man was going to say. "Tell the Old Man we're not going to follow orders because we're too tired?" The lieutenant ran his fingers through his dirty hair before absently slipping his rifle off his shoulder to check the spent magazine. He hadn't really wanted an answer to his question, but was not surprised when the sergeant offered one anyway.

"No, Sir. I don't reckon I do," Anderson returned. "But we can't go on a patrol after four practically sleepless nights without figuring out a way to get these men some rest." The sergeant's face was grim, conveying his message loud and clear to the weary officer. "LT, what happened with Percell was nothing compared to what could happen if this gets out of hand now. Victor-Charlie knows what he's doing. If they don't frag us with these raids, they'll just keep us from sleeping and sooner or later, we'll frag ourselves."

Lieutenant Goldman agreed with Anderson's reasoning, but he had no idea how he could factor in enough sleep for his platoon and still keep the base from being overrun.

His was not the only platoon in the company, but a heavy NVA push in the sector had pressured Brigade to order the others out to protect friendly bombers from a heavily armed anti-aircraft battalion. With Ladybird right in the middle of the enemy area of operations, the sappers job was apparently to harass the base while the AAA battalion passed through. Sappers were hell on Earth, and they were doing a damned good job at keeping Goldman's platoon busy.

"All right, all right, Sergeant," the platoon leader finally blurted. "Get these guys here to start working on the wire, and have them reset those claymores. By the time they're done, I'll have our orders and we'll take it from there."

"Roger that, Sir," Anderson agreed, still with some trepidation.

Goldman grimaced at his platoon sergeant. He could see the fatigue beginning to show in the older man's eyes and worried that if Zeke Anderson was demonstrating signs of wear, what affect were these nighttime battles having on the other guys? Damn, he wished he had more men.

The officer forced himself to concentrate on his immediate worry, since he knew how much his platoon depended on the sergeant. "Zeke," he offered with genuine concern, "Percell can handle overseeing the rewiring. I won't have our orders until Zero-900. You've got three hours to get some sleep."

"Sir, I told you," Anderson reminded the lieutenant with a halfhearted grin, "I don't sleep."

"You do today, Sergeant." Goldman locked eyes with the NCO, determination melding with his compassion. "You can consider that an order."

Sergeant Anderson gave the officer a defeated frown but did not attempt to argue. He knew he would be lying if he didn't admit that the thought of three hours of uninterrupted sleep sounded awfully good. "Wilco, Sir," he complied with more relief seeping into his voice than he had intended.

The lieutenant was thankful that he would be spared a hassle over the order.

Turning to head back to inspect the damage to the chow tent, Goldman instructed the platoon sergeant to remind the assigned squad leader of his responsibilities. "Make sure Percell knows he will be held accountable if a single sapper gets through this perimeter, whether it's now or in the middle of the night. No foul ups. Is that clear?"

"Sir," Anderson assured the officer, "Danny's about as good as they come. He'll get this thing done right."

Recalling Percell's recent Dear John letter and the incident in the ville, Goldman wondered if Zeke was right about that. "Let's hope so, Zeke," he sighed. "Let's just hope so."

**************************

"Damn!" Marcus Taylor swore, as the concertina sliced a hole through the sleeve of his fatigues. He yanked his arm away from the tangle of barbed wire with such force that his elbow slammed into the steel picket, knocking it loose from the dirt. More concerned with surveying his flesh for injury than fixing the break he had just produced, the private stepped back several paces, allowing the spiraled fence to collapse in his wake. A furious outcry echoed through the squad as the other soldiers working on the project scrambled to keep the entire perimeter from falling apart.

"What the hell are you doing, Taylor," Corporal Danny Percell cried, diving forward to grab another pole before the domino effect could rip it from the ground. The two men were working outside the wired perimeter of the firebase while Johnson, Ruiz and Baker worked the inside. Private Horn had stepped away to use the latrine and Doc Matsuda was busy passing around fresh canteens and salt tablets to everyone on base.

The sudden movement caused the pebbles to rattle violently inside the c-rat cans that were strung along the wire like Christmas lights on a picket fence. The clatter sparked a reflexive defensive posture from the squad, even though they were aware that it had been set off by the buckling concertina wire and not by an enemy soldier. Relaxing against his nerves, if not his burdon, Percell shot a look at Marcus Taylor. "Geez, Taylor, get your ass over here and stop horsin' around!" the squad leader squawked as he struggled with the picket.

Private Taylor glared into the newbie's pale blue eyes. "Who died and made you LT, Percell?" he spat as he rubbed at the tear in his shirt. Taylor had been in-country a lot longer than the man issuing him orders, and was, as usual, reluctant to comply without a challenge.

Danny Percell grimaced with strain and frustration. As a corporal, he had been assigned to acting as squad leader on several occasions, but Sergeant Anderson or Lieutenant Goldman were usually nearby, should things get out of hand. Percell knew that rewiring the perimeter required neither of his superiors, but the corporal would have preferred not to have to deal with the ornery Private Taylor on his own. "Just shut up and get over here, Taylor. This thing's gonna cave in and I don't wanna have to start all over again." Percell turned around and shoved as hard as he could to force the steel picket back into place.

Specialist Marvin Johnson stopped working and peered over the wire that defined the border of Firebase Ladybird. He and Private Alberto Ruiz had been carefully tightening the coils of the barbed wire, hoping to make it impenetrable to the relentless Viet Cong sappers. Marcus Taylor was his best friend, but between the heat and the lack of sleep, even Johnson was growing impatient with Taylor's attitude. "Come on, man. Who cares about your shirt. It's not like you never ripped one before." Johnson shook his head in disgust and returned his attention to his task.

"I care about my shirt, Johnson," the private retorted with exaggerated indignity. "This brother wants to look good when Charlie stops by for a visit." A wide, toothy grin crossed Taylor's mouth as he sauntered back over to the wire.

"You wanna hurry it up?" Percell shouted as his muscles gave in to the pressure of the heavy steel post that was opposing all efforts to be straightened. The corporal had no choice but to let go and allow the post to topple forward, instantly undoing much of the work the squad had struggled to complete during the past two hours. The top layer of coil on the concertina pyramid crumbled between the two lower rows, and the soldiers spontaneously jumped back to avoid being cut by the collapsing barbed wire.

"Dammit, Percell," Taylor taunted with a smirk, "Look what you did! Didn't no one ever show you how to set a fence post back in Montana?"

"Hell, I'm a grunt! I ain't no engineer!" Danny Percell glared at Taylor, clearly not sharing in the private's growing amusement. The corporal squared his shoulders and tossed his helmet to the ground, taking a threatening step toward the cocky soldier. "Listen up, Taylor," he shot, "when Goldman asks why this perimeter isn't rewired, I'm gonna sick him on your butt and we'll see who's laughing then." His words had little effect on Private Taylor, whose smile only broadened.

"Let it go, Danny," Private Ruiz called from the other side of the fence. "It don't mean nothin'."

"Not a thing," Danny muttered, finishing the mantra and allowing his anger to moderate. "Okay, Taylor, unless you need a medic for your sleeve, let's get this thing fixed before Anderson, or worse, Goldman, comes and finds out we're worse off now than when we started." The two men approached the fencing as if nothing had happened between them, and together, began lifting the pole back into place. As they moved the steel post, the wire that was coiled around it began to roll back toward the soldiers working inside the perimeter. Johnson, Ruiz and Baker took a few steps back and waited for Percell and Taylor to finish.

Just as they were about to secure the post, Private Baker's eye caught movement in the brush behind Percell. His mouth dropped open as he tried to find his voice. "What the hell is that?" he choked, peering beyond his comrades.

"What?" Taylor and Percell blurted in unison, spinning around to look in the same direction as the big Californian, hunching down as close to the ground as possible.

"You see anything, Percell?" Taylor asked, drawing his rifle forward off his shoulder. "What is it, man? Is it VC?"

"I dunno," Percell responded as he reached forward to retrieve his helmet out of the dirt. "Look over there." He pointed to a spot near the treeline where the motion of the grass did not seem to be in sync with the breeze. As the other members of the squad followed the direction of his finger, a hint of black flashed through the lush, green vegetation in the distance. "Look! There!" Danny said, his voice quivering with excitement. Still pointing in the direction of the movement, he exclaimed, "Do y'all see it? It's coming this way!"

The five soldiers drew their weapons forward, readying themselves for an unwelcome confrontation with the enemy. The movement in the grass stopped, but the men could clearly see the typical black coloring of a Viet Cong uniform through the swaying grass. "Hold your fire," Percell directed, not at all comfortable issuing combat orders, but receiving no dispute from the others. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as the still fresh memory of shooting an unarmed child rattled through the corporal's mind. He was intent on not firing until he was absolutely certain of the identity of the intruder.

Slowly, the movement in the grass began again and the squad leader knew it was his responsibility to take action. "Dung lai!" he shouted into the brush. When the movement continued steadily forward, the young corporal repeated the command to halt more forcefully, working to keep his voice steady. "Dung lai, dammit! Dung lai!"

The form in the grass failed to stop, compelling Percell to raise his rifle. Snapping the bolt back and locking the bullet into the chamber, he moved his shaking finger to rest on the trigger of the weapon and prepared to open fire. Knowing very little more of the native language, Corporal Percell yelled as loudly as he could, praying that whoever was creeping through the grass understood English, "Get your ass up now and show yourself or we will fire!" His finger wrapped more tightly around the trigger, but just as he was about to shoot into the weeds, a head popped out of the grass and Percell nearly dropped his rifle in surprise.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, glancing around at his comrades before returning his attention to the creature staring back at him from the thicket. "It's a dog!" The corporal could see the tail barely wagging between the hind legs of the huge, black German Shepherd. The animal's tongue dangled from its mouth and its gold-brown eyes blazed in the sunshine. When Danny's face broke out into a grin from ear to ear, the dog barked twice, its mouth almost seeming to smile back at the beeming soldier. "Well, I'll be damned. How'd you get out here? Come here, Boy!"

Marcus Taylor was not as pleased at the sight of the ferocious-looking animal. Unwilling to lower his weapon, Taylor could feel the sweat accumulating on his forehead and he stayed low in the grass, maintaining his defensive posture. He was prepared to fire if the canine so much as blinked too suddenly. "Damn, I hate dogs." he muttered to himself. Raising his voice, he called over to the squad leader who was already approaching the animal, "Percell! Stay back! Nobody's got no dogs like that out here. Could be rabid or something!"

"He ain't rabid, Taylor," Percell corrected, as if he had any idea of what a rabid dog might look like. "He's a purebred. Look at him. He's a beauty."

Taylor regarded the corporal with a peevish glare. "Oh, I get it," the private commented, feigning agreement. "Beautiful dogs don't get rabies. Is that what you're sayin'? Percell, you are so full of sh..."

The dog barked again, stopping Taylor's rant in mid-sentence. The animal's muscles quivered as it lowered its body onto its haunches, its keen eyes locking with Percell's. Not feeling at all threatened, the squad leader continued moving toward the curious sight, but for each of the corporal's one step forward, the big black German Shepherd crept back a pace. "What's wrong with him?" Percell asked, looking to Taylor for answers. "He was fine a minute ago. What's he backing up for?"

The private frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "He probably doesn't like your ugly face, Percell," he teased with a smirk. "Anyway, who cares. We got work to do," Taylor reminded the squad leader, suddenly wishing he had been working on the other side of the concertina. Ignoring the comment, Corporal Percell continued to move toward the dog, holding up his hands, palms faced outward. "Percell, what are you doing?" Marcus Taylor huffed. Being the only other soldier outside the wire, the private knew it was up to him to watch Danny's back. "Damn, I hate dogs," Taylor again grumbled, raising himself off the ground and pacing forward to join Percell.

As soon as Taylor came up alongside his comrade, the animal jumped up off the ground and barked excitedly at the two men. He turned around and began running for the treeline that was still fifty meters from their current position. Percell glanced at Taylor for only a moment before following the dog further from the Firebase.

"Percell!" Taylor called after him. "Have you lost your freakin' mind? Sarge is gonna have your ass if we don't get this perimeter rewired." Losing sight of Percell as the squad leader disappeared behind a patch of elephant grass, Taylor picked up his pace, along with his rebuke. "Goddammit, Danny! You're gonna get us both court-martialed!"

The agitated private came around the patch of grass and stopped short alongside his squad leader, taking in the grusome sight that Danny Percell had already discovered. A short distance away, the charred remains of a man lay in the dirt, the head of the big black German Shepherd resting across his stomach. The man's flesh was severly burned, making it impossible for the soldiers to discern his race, let alone his identity. His clothes were as equally burned, but there appeared to be dog tags around his neck. The fire that burned the man beyond recognition had been hot enough to melt the tags, and they seemed to be imbedded into his flesh. There would be no quick answers to learning who he was other than the probability that he was a member of the United States military. All they could know for sure was that he was someone for whom this dog very much cared.

It only took a minute for the two soldiers to make their way across the field to where the dog lay. Percell swung his rifle over his shoulder and knelt down next to the large animal. He was amazed at the size of the dog and marveled at the way its eyes contrasted with the solid black coat. Percell reached out his hand with great care so as not to alarm the animal and tentatively stroked its head.

"It's okay, Boy," Danny soothed. The dog's ears pricked back at the sound of the man's voice and Percell immediately noticed the long row of faded blue numbers tattooed on the inside of the animal's right ear. "Hey, look, Taylor," he called excitedly, still gently running his fingers through the thick black fur. "Looks like he's got a serial number. And he's wearing a harness. It's got something written on it!" The corporal strained his neck to get a better angle on the large black lettering that was handwritten with marker across the brown leather. "Trudifer."

"Trudifer?" Taylor sneered. "What the hell does that mean?"

Danny Percell gave the private a disapproving glare. "It's probably his name, Taylor," he explained as if he were speaking to a child.

Taylor ignored the condensending tone of the corporal's voice. "Hey, is the mutt wearing tags?"

Percell ran his fingers along the metal chain around the dog's neck, searching for any kind of identification. "I don't see anything," he reported. "But he's got to belong to this guy." Percell and Taylor both glanced at the grisly remains and grimaced. "Man, he sure was fragged but good, huh?"

All at once, the squad leader was reminded that he was neglecting his duties.

"Corporal Percell!" The sound of Sergeant Anderson's voice booming across the brush startled the two semi-AWOL soldiers. Taylor, who was standing and could see above the tall grass, made out the platoon sergeant through the concertina, not looking at all happy with his squad leader. Danny looked up to see Taylor shaking his head with a you're-in-for-it-now-Percell look on his face. The corporal took a deep breath and braced himself for the sergeant's wrath.

"Sarge, there's a dog out here," Percell yelled across the field, futilely pointing into the grass where Anderson could not possibly see.

Sergeant Anderson did nothing to hide his annoyance. After assuring the lieutenant that there would be no foul ups, the platoon sergeant was disgusted to see the squad standing around while the perimeter remained in shambles. "Corporal, there are dogs all over 'Nam," he barked, his temper flaring. "That don't mean you can walk away from your post. Now, get your butt over here! Move it!"

Percell stood up and exchanged a nervous look with Taylor. The private shook his head again before making double-time back to the squad. The corporal glanced back down at the dog, feeling a deep compassion for the distraught animal. "Sarge, it's not just any old gook mutt," he pleaded back to the NCO. "It's one of ours."

Anderson frowned and looked to Private Taylor, who was just approaching the concertina, for some clarification. Taylor shrugged his shoulders. "You got me, Sarge. Looks like a friendly, I guess."

The staff sergeant smiled broadly. "Well, then. This I got to see for my own self." Anderson started towards the jeep he had driven to the perimeter to check on the squad's progress.

As he was climbing in, he heard Percell call out, "Hey, Sarge! We got a KIA here, too." Anderson nodded his acknowledgment, called for Private Baker to hop in, turned the ignition and within seconds, was speeding along the barbed wire to where he could exit Firebase Ladybird.

**************************

Lieutenant Goldman was pissed off. There was no denying it. The firebase was a mess and The Old Man was holding him accountable. To say Captain Wallace had a bug up his ass over the breech in security was a mammoth understatement. The platoon leader had just had his butt chewed so badly he felt ten pounds lighter in the back end. Goldman knew without a doubt that this load of shit was going to be rolling downhill.

To make matters worse, as he walked past the ruins of the chow hall he realized that he, along with the rest of the company, would be stuck with eating c-rations until fresh supplies could be brought in. His hot meal had just been shot to hell. "Dammit!" Goldman growled as he violently kicked the last standing pole, sending what remained of the tattered tent to come crashing down. As he stalked away, he saw two privates across the road who were staring their disapproval at him. "Well," the officer demanded through clenched teeth, "don't just stand there. Get a shovel and get this mess cleaned up."

**************************

Anderson and Baker hopped out of the jeep and jogged across the field to where Danny Percell was standing behind a tall patch of elephant grass. Baker, who was just ahead of the sergeant, stopped abruptly, causing Anderson to nearly bowl the private over. The NCO grabbed Baker's shoulders, forcing the big man to take another giant step forward to prevent an ugly collision. "Oomph!" Anderson blurted. "Why'd you stop so..." His voice trailed off as Private Baker stepped to one side, allowing the platoon sergeant to see the menacing animal standing protectively between the approaching soldiers and the KIA.

There was very little in this world that could so quickly unnerve Staff Sergeant Zeke Anderson. Although he was not particularly fond of being shot at by gooks, he had learned a long time ago that fear could be well hidden behind an angry battle cry. When confronting the enemy, it was not unusual for him to be so pumped on adrenaline that he barely thought of what might happen should he find himself in the path of a bullet. His strength went far beyond his muscular build; it lay deep within his will.

Staring into the golden eyes of the canine was another matter. Anderson was unable to prevent his compulsive step backward or his sudden urge to hold his breath. His heart began to race as he choked on his surprise. "Jeez-Looeeze, Percell!" he gasped, not daring to break eye contact with the creature. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"Got me, Sarge," Danny replied, amused by Anderson's reaction. "He's a beaut' though, ain't he?"

The German Shepherd was easily over a hundred pounds--probably closer to a hundred and thirty--and the sleek rolls in its fur confirmed that it was all muscle. The animal stood motionless, never taking its eyes off of the NCO, the only movement coming from the constant turning of its sizeable ears as they twitched from front to side to back at a furious pace. It was obvious that the dog was scanning the area, listening for whatever it was a dog like this might be trained to listen. Its mouth remained open only enough to let air pass, the tips of its fangs tucked inside the taut jowls. Its nostrils flared as it drew in Anderson's scent, and when the sergeant spoke, the dog's right eyebrow cocked up.

Zeke was certain the animal understood every word being spoken and decided it would be prudent to keep his voice even.

"Yeah, a real beaut'," he agreed with a hint of sarcasm bleeding into his voice. Much less concerned with the animal's appearance than he was with its temperament, Anderson added, "Does he bite?" Still reluctant to take his eyes off the dog, the platoon sergeant afforded Percell only the briefest regard, keeping his focus on the mysterious creature.

Danny recognized the sergeant's agitation, but had little to offer regarding the dog's disposition. "Gee, Sarge. I dunno. Not so far." Percell moved up alongside the dog and reached down to stroke the soft fur behind those big black ears. "He seems all right, I guess. But I don't think he likes Taylor too much."

"Who the hell does?" Anderson retorted evenly. Realizing that the day was growing old and Lieutenant Goldman would want to know why the perimeter was not yet restored, the sergeant decided this matter was one for the officers. "All right, you guys, let's get back on base. We'll let LT sort this out."

The platoon sargeant started to turn toward the jeep, but stopped before his eyes broke contact with the dog. "Corporal, hold on to that thing and I'll throw you a rope." Percell knelt down and wrapped his hand around the leather harness. "Until the lieutenant decides what to do, you're in charge of him." Anderson walked over to the vehicle, reached into the back and pulled out a long, coiled rope. Tossing it to Percell, the sergeant ordered Baker to retrieve the KIA and shot the young squad leader a quick reprimand., "Now let's see if you can handle a dog a little better than you handled your squad, Corporal."

"Roger, Sarge," Danny sighed, dropping his eyes in shame. The platoon sargeant hopped into the jeep and sped away, leaving Baker and Percell to return to Firebase Ladybird on foot.

**************************

Myron Goldman pulled a dog-eared copy of James Agee's A Death in the Family out from under his pillow. It was one of the few possessions he had brought from home when he shipped out to 'Nam, and with each reading, the book became more worn that its copyright could justify. His mind wandered to an alernate world where he might have been a teacher instead of a soldier, but Myron quickly squelched the thought and instead began thumbing through the volume looking for something tucked between the pages. With his finger holding his place, he freed the crumpled photograph from the binding.

God, Nikki Raines was beautiful. In the picture, she was flat and lifeless, but Myron prickled with delight as the image triggered his memory of their recent encounter. He laid down on the cot, turned the open book upside down across his chest, slid his free arm under his neck, and, still studying every detail of the picture, frowned. "Percell better keep that promise and keep me alive," he mused, closing his eyes to allow his imagination to go to work.

Within minutes, the officer was somewhere in the twilight zone. Although he was still awake, his body was relaxing and his mind was shutting down. Goldman didn't struggle against the sleep that threatened to overtake him. He knew he had a few hours before he had to lead a squad on patrol, and if he knew Sergeant Anderson at all, the man was already finished with his own nap and out keeping things under control. Hell, Captain Wallace had even warned Goldman to get some rest, since it would no doubt be another long night. Who was he to argue with The Old Man?

Just as Goldman's arm went limp and he released a heavy sigh of surrender, a commotion on the other side of his tent wall jolted him back to reality. His body convulsed in a spastic jerk, his heart pounding with instant anxiety. He heard someone--was it Percell?--screaming "Get back here, dammit! Come here!" Pounding footsteps seemed to be racing in the direction of the officer's own hootch.

Goldman threw his body onto his side, pitching the book and the photograph, and grabbed for his pistol that rested within reach on the wooden crate next to the cot. His right leg tumbled over his hip where it missed the side of the narrow cot and came crashing down to the floor. His knee caught the corner of the makeshift table sending a burning shot of pain through his nervous system. He dropped the pistol and grabbed his knee, a flood of expletives coursing through the tent.

Aware that the disturbance outside the tent was drawing closer, Goldman released his throbbing knee and again reached for the Colt .45. His fingers scraped across the plywood floor as they wrapped around the weapon's grip. He pulled his arm up--locked at the elbow, muscles quivering--and tried to take aim at the opening of the hootch. Before he could complete the motion, what appeared to be a large black shadow whipped through the flimpsy tent-flap and pounced across the room, steamrolling the officer into the canvas wall on the other side of the cot. The force of the blow caused Goldman to lose his handle on the pistol and it went sailing across the tent where it fired on impact.

Lieutenant Goldman was wedged between his cot and the tent wall, and a monster was on top of him, pinning his arms to his side and his back to the floor. A long, sticky tongue swiped his nose. Goldman tried to pry his hands under the beast's powerful body, but the more he struggled, the more rapidly the tongue danced across his face. "Percell!" he finally screamed, risking the chance that the monstrosity would invade his open mouth.

Corporal Percell had made his way inside the officer's tent in time to see the attack. Danny had almost been hit by the flying pistol, but ducked in time to allow it to sail past. When he was certain that no one had become a victim to the discharge, he dashed across the tent to assist his platoon leader.

"Come here, Trudifer," Percell pleaded. "Get off the lieutenant!" The corporal grabbed the silver chain around the animal's neck and yanked. The German Shepherd looked at Danny for only a second before continuing its friendly assault on Goldman's face.

"Get this animal off of me, now, Corporal!" Goldman demanded, thrashing his face from side to side in a vain attempt to evade the slobbering tongue. When Percell's tugging at the collar failed to yield the animal's stranglehold, the lieutenant found himself losing control.

Like a two-year-old with a new puppy, Myron Goldman realized that he could not help but laugh as the tongue lapped at his face, darting over his eye sockets and around his cheekbones into his ears. The sensation tickled him, despite his indignation and he began to giggle wildly.

Percell grinned, regardless of the fact that Goldman's laughter would no doubt be short-lived. Danny had never heard the LT laugh so heartily and it warmed him to see that the platoon leader was human after all.

"Corporal Percell!"

It was Sergeant Anderson. The platoon sergeant hesitated in the doorway of the hootch for a split second while he assessed the situation inside the officer's tent. He could not see the lieutenant, but he heard what could be crying from the area between the cot and the tent. He saw the back of Percell's dog, its tail wagging profusely, but its head was lowered and hidden by the bed. Concluding that the officer was under attack, Anderson raced across the tent and pushed Percell aside. It was then that he realized Goldman cries were from a fit of laughter.

"LT?" Anderson called, peering over the cot, trying to get a better look at the officer. The dog stopped licking Goldman's face and instead began licking its own chops as it regarded Sergeant Anderson. A curious mixture of humor and annoyance spread across the lieutenant's dripping face as he noticed the staff sergeant standing over him. Goldman didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

Anderson shot Percell a look that warned the corporal to remove the animal from the officer's tent on the double. Again, Danny yanked on the dog's collar, this time successful in his attempt to dislodge the creature from Goldman's stomach.

"Wait for me outside, Corporal," Anderson ordered without humor. "And tie that thing up somewhere."

Another look of shame crossed Danny's brow. "I'm sorry, Sir," Danny directed to the lieutenant. "I just took his harness off and he got all playful and took off."

"Corporal..." Sergeant Anderson interrupted. He wanted Danny out of the hootch. Now.

"Roger, Sergeant," Percell obeyed. Pulling the dog after him, the soldier left the tent, leaving Anderson to try to explain this bizarre situation to the lieutenant.

"Sergeant Anderson?" Goldman huffed, pulling himself out of the hole he was in. His knee was still throbbing, but it was certainly the least of his concerns at the moment. When he was standing, he took a giant step to cross over the cot, coming dangerously close to bashing his knee on the table for a second time. "What in the hell was that?" he demanded as he bent over to pick up the book and the photograph off of the floor. Damn, now I lost my page.

The platoon sergeant smirked a little when he caught a glimpse of the officer's picture. So the LT's got a girlfriend, huh? Zeke didn't realize he was ignoring Goldman's inquiry until it was more sternly repeated.

"Sergeant, I asked you a question. What was that and where did it come from?"

"Oh, um, sorry, Sir," Anderson stammered as the officer hid the picture inside the pages of his book. "It's a dog, Sir, and I don't exactly know where it came from."

"What do you mean you don't know where it came from? It came from somewhere." Goldman licked his lips and scowled as he was reminded that his face was covered in dog spit. He tossed the book onto the table and grabbed a towel to wipe his mouth.

"Percell found him, Sir," the sergeant tried to explain. "Just outside the November concertina. He was with a KIA, Sir. And American KIA."

Goldman stopped dabbing his tongue and eyed the sergeant warily. "Army?"

"Don't know, Sir," Anderson replied. "It's hard to tell. He's burned up pretty bad. All we got to go by is the dog."

The lieutenant tossed the towel to the floor and crossed the tent to retrieve his pistol. Tucking it into his belt, he grabbed his rifle and his helmet and headed for the doorway. "Come on, Zeke. This is The Old Man's problem."

Anderson grinned. It was always a treat when the shit rolled uphill. "Roger that, LT."

**************************

Corporal Percell stood just outside Lieutenant Goldman's quarters with the German Shepherd tethered to his wrist. Danny was more than just a little nervous about how the officer was going to react to the dog's attack, friendly as it may have been. Percell had managed to get the animal back into the leather harness, which seemed to signal to the canine that it was time to settle down. Even before Danny got the rope attached to the collar, the dog sat quietly at the soldier's heel, its ears again scanning the area in that rapid, methodical way.

"What is with you, Trudifer?" Danny asked the animal as if he expected an answer. "You just got me in a whole heap of trouble and you're not even sorry." The animal looked into the corporal's eyes and Percell was sure it winked at him. "Fine. Be that way," Danny said, trying to sound indignant but not at all believing it himself.

"And just what makes you think its name is 'Trudifer', Corporal?" Lieutenant Goldman asked.

Corporal Percell jumped at the sound of the officer's voice. He had not seen the two men exit Goldman's hootch and was startled that they had approached without his knowledge. "Uh, that's what his harness says, Sir," Danny guessed, struggling to control his racing heart. "I figured we needed to call him something, and that's what's written here." He pointed to the harness.

"Corporal, his name could be 'Bob' for all you know," Goldman chided as he tilted his head to examine the scrawl on the leather.

"Bob the Dog?" Percell puzzled. "I don't think so, Sir. That's a weird name for a dog."

"So's 'Trudifer,' Percell." Goldman locked eyes with the enlisted man for a moment. "Let's go, Corporal. We have a date with the Captain." The officer headed toward the TOC.

Danny exchanged looks with the unsympathetic platoon sergeant. "Now, Percell," Anderson reiterated.

Corporal Percell gave the rope a slight tug and the dog stood. Until Danny started walking, the animal held its place at the man's side. It was an elegant creature, its stance majestic and its lines powerful. "Come on, Boy," Percell urged and the two started in the same direction as Lieutenant Goldman.

"Move it, Percell," the sergeant ordered, prompting the corporal to pick up his pace to a jog. Trudifer kept pace right along with him.

**************************

Percell and his ward reached the TOC before Lieutenant Goldman and the sergeant, who apparently did not see the need to hurry. Danny stood at attention outside the large tent and waited for the others to catch up. The corporal had not had many face-to-face meetings with the commanding officer, and the longer LT made him wait, the more anxious he became.

In the few minutes it took his superiors to cross the base, Percell discovered he had a sudden need to relieve himself. He held his position, trying to push the urge aside. Come on. Come on, he silently pleaded, worried that he might find himself doing a little dance to help distract his bladder. Just as Goldman arrived at the TOC, the dog, who was obviously suffering a similar need, emptied its bowels in the street where it stood.

"Oh, shit, Dog," Percell frowned, hoping no one had noticed.

"Oh, shit is right, Corporal," Goldman agreed. "When we're done here, you can clean that up."

Goldman entered the large tactical operations center tent and allowed the flap to fall in place behind him. Sergeant Anderson passed Percell and reached for the same flap, moving it aside so he could step through the opening. "Wait here, Percell," he said, an unpleasant roughness in his voice. "I'll get you in a minute."

**************************

"A dog, Goldman?"

"That's right, Sir. A dog." Lieutenant Goldman shrugged. Captain Wallace frowned.

The commanding officer tossed his pen on top of the scatter of maps and papers and came around the table. "What kind of dog? Where is it?"

Sergeant Anderson, who was standing just inside the doorway, lifted the closed flap and allowed the CO to see for himself. The captain's eyes widened and a grin took the place of the puzzled scowl that had masked his face since Lieutenant Goldman arrived at the TOC. "Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," Wallace exclaimed as he headed for the exit. "That's a goddam war dog!"

"A what, Sir?" Goldman asked, following the captain outside.

"A war dog. I've heard about them but I've never seen one before." Wallace approached the animal without trepidation and ran his hand over the soft, black fur. "These things are specially trained to spot booby traps and gooks and just about anything else that'll get us killed." He looked around at the three baffled soldiers. "He's a weapon, gentlemen. Government Issue. Property of the United States Military." Rusty Wallace smiled widely. "And he just might be the answer to our problems."

Sergeant Anderson, who remained closer to the TOC than he did to Percell's new friend, inserted a finger behind his green headband and scratched the spot just above his eyebrow. "Excuse me, Sir," he addressed the captain. "So far this thing has been nothing but trouble. I don't see that it's a good idea to keep it around the base."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong, Anderson," Wallace corrected. "It's a very good idea to keep him around the base. Some of these dogs make damned good sentries and are capable of guarding an entire firebase all by themselves. Haven't you ever had a watchdog?" Zeke shook his head. The captain continued. " My biggest worry is that someone's going to want to take him back." The CO patted the dog on the head again before heading back to the tent. "I'll make some calls and find out who's looking for him and see if we can identify the KIA. In the meantime, Lieutenant, make sure the dog gets some food and water."

"Yes, Sir," Goldman agreed, glancing down, only to realize he had stepped in the dog's calling card.

Before disappearing behind the flap, Wallace added to his orders. "Oh, and Goldman...take him out on patrol with you. He's probably a scout."

The lieutenant nodded to Wallace's back as the senior officer disappeared into the TOC. Myron pursed his lips and exchanged a look with Anderson, who frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

"All right, Percell," Goldman said with a sigh. "You heard the man. Feed that thing and go take a nap. Looks like you're going on patrol."

**************************

Still tethered to the German Shepherd, Corporal Percell wandered across the base to the chow hall. Having not been back to the area since before the raid, he was surprised to see the tent blown to pieces. He was even more surprised to see the crowd of soldiers standing around a small stack of supply crates in front of the debris. "What's going on?" he asked, sidling up to Taylor.

The private turned to look at Percell, spotted the German Shepherd and jumped back a step. "Get that dog outa here, Percell!" he demanded, continuing to edge away from the boy and his dog. "There ain't no Dog Chow here."

Percell looked wounded. "Well, he's gotta eat something. Where's the chow?"

Specialist Johnson, who was standing on Taylor's opposite side, took a step back to allow his friend to pass and Marcus Taylor disappeared into the crowd. Johnson smiled warmly at the corporal and offered an answer to the question. "Fragged everything last night, man. We get c-rations for lunch."

"C-rats?" Percell grimaced. "Yuck!"

"You got that right, Danny," Johnson agreed. "Whatcha gonna do, though, y'know?" The specialist reached down and scratched the dog's ears. "So what's up with this guy, anyway? What'd Captain Wallace say?"

"He says to get him some chow, so I reckon that's what I'm gonna do."

No sooner had the words left his mouth when an onslaught of bodies crashed forward. Shouts of, "Give me those crackers, man" and "I ain't eatin' no 'chokers today!" welled through the crowd. The soldier manning the crates started throwing cans of combat rations into the mob. Johnson's interest in anything the corporal had to say vanished as the specialist lunged for a can of split peas and ham.

Percell dropped the leash and jumped into the air to retrieve a spiraling green can of something. The dog continued to sit quietly, scanning the mayhem with obvious interest but with no apparent desire to participate. By the time Percell made his catch and returned to his ward, the crowd was beginning to disperse. Soldiers scattered with their booty, anxious to see what they had been lucky enough to come away with from the siege on the c-rats.

After examing his can, Percell let out a whoop, his teeth brightly displayed in an excited grin. "Looky here, Trudifer! I got me some beans and weenies!" With lightening speed, Percell produced a P-38 and opened the can. As a rule, field rations left a lot to be desired. They provided nourishment and filled an empty stomach, but more often than not, they tasted like crap. Percell was no different from the other guys in his preference for the canned beans with the chopped up franks. It was as close to a delicacy as he would ever get with a c-ration. Danny was delighted by this unexpected stroke of good luck.

Without bothering to search for a utensil, Percell put the can to his mouth with the intention of inhaling the contents like he would a glass of water. A small whimper from his companion reminded Danny of the animal's need for something to eat. Percell jogged up to the crates and grabbed one of the few remaining cans left on the pile. "Here ya go, Boy. Some good ol' corn beef hash. You'll love this stuff."

Tucking his can of beans under his arm, the soldier opened the hash and set it on the ground in front of the dog. The animal took a tentative taste, but it's snout was too large to allow it to easily scrape the contents from the densely packed can. Percell watched the dog's struggle with its meal, and tried to think of a solution to the problem.

"I got an idea," he announced. "Here, Trudifer. Hang on a minute." The corporal placed his can of beans and weenies on the ground, taking an extra moment to be sure that it would not tip over. When he was certain his precious meal was safe, he removed his helmet and laid it on the ground, open side up, like a bowl. He took the can of corned beef hash and, using his fingers, scooped the contents into the upturned headgear.

The dog stormed the bowl and gobbled the contents in one, noisy gulp. Determining that such a large animal would need more food than the single can of c-rats provided, Percell went back to the stack of crates and began rifling through them, searching for more hash. To his disgust, the only thing left, not surprisingly, were a few cans of ham-n-chokers. He groaned, but grabbed two cans, deciding they were good enough for the dog, even if they weren't fit for human consumption.

"Noooo!!" the corporal screamed as he turned around to discover the beans spilled in the dirt, the beast lapping them up at breakneck speed. "Get away from there!" Percell dropped the cans of lima beans as he scrambled to salvage his lunch. The dog lifted its head and caressed its chops with its thick, pink tongue. "Aw, dammit," the soldier whined. "You ate my weenies."

Percell plopped down next to his empty helmet, his face flushed from anger and frustration. Sitting crosslegged in front of the demolished chow tent, he rested an elbow on his knee and lifted his arm, allowing his head to rest on his balled fist. "Thanks a lot, Dog," he said, his voice defeated. "You got me into trouble all morning long and now you went and ate my weenies."

The German Shepherd, seemingly contrite, lowered itself to the ground and belly-crawled closer to the pouting soldier. It nudged its nose between Danny's raised arm and chest and rested its head on the man's lap. When Percell failed to respond to the animal's presence, the dog continued to push it's body through the narrow space until the arm was dislodged and the dog was all but laying across Corporal Percell's lap.

Danny couldn't resist a smile and his fist loosened as his fingers worked their way into the soft fur of the animal's neck. "Dammit, Trudifer," he sighed. "You are just more trouble than you're worth. You know that?" The dog emitted a small squeak, making Percell laugh. "All right. I forgive ya. Come on. Let's go get some sleep." He started to his feet. "Hell, sounds better than weenies right now, anyway."

*************Continued Part 2*************