The reality of the desperate situation for the Korean people soon became painfully apparent to the men tasked with guarding ammo. Harlan found out early on that he and Greta weren’t necessarily protecting valuable equipment from an organized military recon-force. Korean civilian employees were notorious on post for making themselves valuable and trusted workers so that they might gain entrance to the higher value equipment.
Once while Harlan and Greta were guarding the ammo dump, they experienced one of the most terrifying nights of their lives. The bombed-out ammo factory was creaky and creepy, making both Harlan and Greta’s hair stand on end. This night they heard inexplicable rustling. Dog and man reverted to their training. Greta gave a hard alert to something under the floor. Harlan shouted a warning in English and Korean as Greta continued to bark and growl viciously. He debated releasing her, knowing that meant certain death for anybody under those floor boards. Holding her back, Harlan peeked under the floorboard and discovered an entire network of tunnels leading from the storm drainage system to the underbelly of the secured ammo storage site. Korean civilian contractors had mapped the site on their many visits, allowing them complete access to anything of value. “Papasan” would park the honey wagon outside the gate and await the pilfered treasure. Harlan was thankful there had not been a face on the other side of those boards; he and Greta had thwarted the barrage. They would encounter this same situation again and again for the rest of their days in Korea.
Harlan and the other men found it difficult to trust the Koreans, but at the same time they possessed great empathy for them. This was felt most keenly during the daily feeding of the dogs. The dogs received a daily ration of horse meat and Wheaties, which the Army supplied in plentiful amounts. The men were under orders to dispose of the many expired cans of leftover meat. The Koreans knew when the food was disposed of because civilian employees would spread the word to their families outside the gate. It wasn’t uncommon to see Korean men, women, and children rushing to the trash truck as it made its way outside. In desperation they would hang off the truck’s tailgate, hoping to get a scrap from the heap of discarded horse meat. For some of the soldiers, this was the first time they had seen starvation with their own eyes. For Harlan, it reminded him of the hunger he and his family had known back in Minnesota. It was a nearly insurmountable task to meet the needs of so many, and Harlan was never as pained by turning them away as some of his fellow soldiers were.
He wasn’t, however, lacking in compassion. In general, Harlan carried out his duties with a mutual understanding for the needy people of Korea. He tried to help whenever feasible, just like neighbors helped neighbors back home. Some ways of aiding the needy were more palatable to him than others. He loved playing Santa Clause for the local children at Christmastime. Although he wasn’t as portly as St. Nick, Harlan was tall and all-around big. This translated well to Korean children who had learned about Santa through missionaries and soldiers and had bought into the lore of an elf who was bigger than life. Giving gifts to the children gave Harlan joy when he was so far from home.
In another empathetic gesture, the men would often take a Korean child under their wing and try to help them, to the best of their ability. Harlan and his tent-mates took in a young Korean as a houseboy. The boy did light chores, laundry, and sweeping. In return, the men would give the boy food for himself and his family. Sometimes they offered money, or even items to be sold by the boy’s family, but these were of little importance to them. Their immediate need rose from hunger.
It wasn’t just the humans outside the camp who were desperate for nourishment. The scent of horse-meat being warmed on potbelly stoves for the K-9s also brought in the area’s starving dogs. These strays found respite there. American soldiers viewed dogs as pets or working animals, but never food. Both figuratively and literally, strays found sanctuary with the 8125th and often became part of their family. The male sentry dogs were rarely neutered and puppies were born from the union of strays and military working dogs. Those puppies, more often than not, found their way into the tents and hearts of American servicemen.
Harlan’s tent had taken in one such stray puppy, and their houseboy seemed to enjoy playing with it. The men could also be found offering shoelaces to chase and things for the puppy to chew. There was always more than enough horse meat for the working dogs, so at the end of their shifts they would bring some back to feed the puppy. It didn’t take long for the tent’s mascot to become roly-poly.
The houseboy, who was the puppy’s playmate while the men were working, one day asked if he could keep the puppy for himself. The men all agreed that it seemed like a natural fit, so they gave their mascot away. The next day when their houseboy returned for his regular duties, the men asked how the puppy had done his first night in a new home.
“He was very good,” the boy reported matter-of-factly. “My family ate him right away. They are very grateful.” Many of the men were sickened and to the boy’s chagrin, visibly disturbed.
Harlan, who understood hunger in an intimate way, shrugged. “You can’t fault the boy for taking care of his family.”
Throughout the sixteen months that this first wave of the 8125th were in Korea, the job remained constant—and the pressures remained as well. The men would do just about anything to blow off steam. With plenty of money on hand and lots of free time, they drank away the hours playing cards and carousing with the local girls. Once, the guys thought it would be funny to invite the straight-laced officers to one of their raucous parties. The doctor, the local missionary, and the chaplain all made the guest list. The men giggled at the thought of making these puritans blush—that is, if they had the audacity to show up. But when the night came around and all three attended, the party fell into an awkward lull. Then the chaplain ordered a round of drinks for their little group of good guys.
“Well, hell,” Harlan told the others. “Looks like we’re not the only ones who need to forget this place for a while.” The evening then went off without a hitch as the guys shared in their misery and celebration.
Harlan had an obligation to send money home and always tried to keep an eye on what he was spending. He had set up an allotment of almost half his pay to go home, or so he thought, but because of a clerical error, what he believed was $40 per month was actually $80. This left him with about $10 to burn (not counting the extra money earned from selling cigarettes) on poker. He relied heavily on his buddy Hiller, one of six fellow Minnesota boys who had come to Ascom City with Harlan, to be his banker. Sometimes, Harlan and Hiller would clean up and Hiller would keep him in check. Most times it was a wash.
Booze was the only escape for many of the guys, and sometimes a GI would get out of control. At least once a month, someone would inevitably pass out drunk while on duty. In this situation, being a dog handler had its advantages. The guys had learned how to use their dogs to protect them in all situations. Steark from Washington was notorious for passing out drunk with his dog lashed to his arm for protection. Once on second shift he stopped by the club for a few beers and promptly passed out in the street. The Sergeant of the Guard walked by and tried to grab Steark’s carbine—the protocol for proving dereliction of duty. His dog, trained to protect his handler from any threat, lashed out at this would-be assailant. There was no getting around the keen attention of the military working dog. In the end, Steark was left to sleep it off while his dog rested by his side, confident that he had fulfilled his duties.
LEAVING
Harlan had never been particularly fond of dogs. Ironically, he had only joined the Doggies as a way of avoiding duty in Korea. Yet now he had such an abiding respect and admiration for Greta. Her strength, power, and devotion were unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And above all else, Greta was loyal.
One time there was a dog loose in the kennel. Harlan had stumbled in not knowing the dog was free. When he figured it out, panic set in. He was familiar with the loose dog, but he was not that dog’s person—it had no loya
lty to him whatsoever. He had played agitator so many times that in this instance that instinct had kicked in, and he froze in place. The snarl and icy stare of the loose dog remained. The only one who could protect him was bound up in her own kennel, unable to come to his side. Reacting from his gut, he called to Greta in her kennel. Greta, living to please him, returned with a familiar yip. Something in Greta’s recognition—a kind of primal recognition in the dog’s language—distracted the loose dog. His hackles went down and he unlocked his attention from Harlan. Harlan went to Greta and thanked her. She had been his lifeline all along. As Harlan’s time drew to a close, he was surprised to feel, in some ways, melancholy. For eighteen months they had talked about nothing else but getting home. They missed the food, their families, their beds. Many had girlfriends and wives waiting. Harlan had joined the Army hoping to stay out of Korea, and in predictable military fashion, Korea was exactly where he ended up. But for the men of the 8125th, going home proved bittersweet. Half of the division would remain in Korea, awaiting new handlers. The men had bonded with their dogs and formed relationships, enjoying a closeness that even their human interactions lacked.
The day Harlan was to board his ship bound back to the states, he debated going to say good-bye to Greta. Not having her at his side in that moment felt so strange—she had been with him almost every minute for the past eighteen months. He decided not to go to her kennel. It would only be confusing, not only for him but for Greta. He knew that she would sense the good-bye from his posture and his emotion; even his smell would even betray what he felt. He thought about Greta’s next handler, knowing that whoever he was, he would never share the same bond with Greta. He hoped he was a tough son-of-a-bitch, because Greta could be a handful.
Greta.
Harlan.
“That’s one mean dog,” Harlan laughed to himself.
He knew that her new handler had been trained to the same rigor. He took comfort in that. He said a silent farewell to Greta in his heart, grabbed his rucksack, and headed toward home, looking forward to the comforts that awaited him.
On returning home, Harlan found a world less welcoming than he had imagined. Signs in bar windows were foreboding. “No military in uniform allowed.” The folks back home didn’t want to talk about Korea. People were through with war.
Sometimes it felt like his time in Korea had all been a dream. If only he had Greta by his side, he would have known for sure it had been real. She had been his comfort and protection from a hostile world. Back in the states, he felt certain she would have been his shield from this apathetic one. Over time the reality set in that he would be better off forgetting his eighteen months in Korea. Greta, however, would never leave him. She remained a ghost, heeling at his side, from then on.
3
PRINZ
By the time Prinz arrived in the world, people had already formed ideas and had great expectations for him. He was not born to a run-of-the-mill backyard breeder but had been given all advantages from the beginning. He was born in a kennel of quality German Shepherds owned by prominent couple Howard and Doris Grafftee of Skowhegan, Maine. His sire had been one of twenty-two puppies from the direct line of notable AKC champion “Nox of Ruthland.” Prinz and all his litter-mates had the finest pedigree and were from their whelping spoken for, anticipated, and loved.
The popularity of German Shepherds in the 1950s had grown exponentially from the decade before. Their reputation for strength, endurance, and loyalty, earned during their brave service in World War II, had forever endeared them to the American public. The show Rin Tin Tin—only one of the many incarnations of the famous military companion dog born on the battlefield in France during World War I—first aired in 1954 and was the pinnacle of popularity for the breed.1
By 1954 the German Shepherd had, by most accounts, become America’s favorite dog breed. Breeders across the country, under AKC guidelines, produced quality stock. But German Shepherds were more than show dogs. Their multi-faceted character appealed to the military and police alike, so many backyard breeders cropped up to fill the demand. It was the German Shepherd’s application as sentry, sentinel, sniffer, and security guard which created its most enduring purpose. No longer were Shepherds relegated to guarding livestock. Now they were recognized as guardians and fierce defenders of men. However, pairing soldiers and Shepherds had just as much to do with the dogs’ companionship as their ferocity. Simply put, German Shepherds love their people. The hallmark of the breed is complete devotion, and they have earned the reputation of being “one-man dogs.”2
In his first days, Prinz rooted in the darkness for the warmth of his mother’s coat and the nourishment of her milk. His place in the pack was secure early on. He was sociable with his litter mates. The lovely black and tan markings across his muzzle made his newly opened eyes stand out. He was attentive and alert. The breeders admired his countenance and disposition, too, making him a favorite litter member.
As Prinz grew he remained one of the most beautiful pups in the bunch. Although he was not the very top pick in a litter full of fabulous specimens, he was very close. It would be hard to stand out in a group of dogs sired by a champion, but the minute details which may have been lacking in his physical appearance were made up for in his demeanor. As he began to get his wobbly puppy legs under control, the pack also began spending more time in the cold Maine woods. They ventured out to pee on things, of course, but they also were being exposed to a whole new world of sounds, sights, and smells. Prinz’s people watched him closely, knowing he had a home awaiting him where some dreams had already been built around the kind of dog he would become. They watched to see the way the little pup would react to new surroundings, and they were consistently pleased. Prinz was adventurous and bold. He had an incredible knack for scenting and was alert to his surroundings. Most of all, though, Prinz was lovingly attentive to people.
Gerry Ballanger was a teacher at a local community college and wasn’t a wealthy man. He had loved dogs from childhood, and this love had led to aspirations of showing dogs on the AKC circuit. Showing at that level of prestige would be costly, but he believed the right dog would be a worthwhile investment. There were several breeds he had shown as an amateur, but German Shepherds intrigued him. He had never shown the breed before, but its beautiful lines, impeccable conformation, strength, and reputation for bravery appealed to him.
A friend of Gerry’s, an ophthalmologist named Doctor Osler of Bangor, Maine, had connections to Prinz’s kennel in Skowhegan and connected Gerry to the Grafftees. Doctor Osler had built up a reputable little kennel of his own. He involved his kids in the kennel operations, and they had spent plenty of family weekends at AKC dog shows. His son Jay enjoyed showing, especially the ribbons and trophies. Daughter Mary Jay was just a kid and didn’t care much for that part of the kennel business, but she spent countless hours with the dogs handling and playing with the puppies. The puppies were her favorites. She gave them invaluable socialization, and Doctor Osler encouraged it. He would certainly rather his daughter chase puppies instead of boys.
Gerry let the Grafftees know he was looking for the best of the litter, but he couldn’t necessarily afford the price tag associated with the top pick. The Grafftees had had their eye on Prinz from the beginning, knowing he could be a great dog in his own right, though he wasn’t the pick of the litter. They came off the price a bit for Gerry and asked for $50. That was still an exorbitant amount for Gerry to pay for a dog. The first time he saw Prinz, however, he felt sure the regal pup could be the seed of something really good. His kennel would be born through Prinz.
During the eight-week waiting period after Prinz’s birth, Gerry wondered about the puppy’s personality. He wondered if he had made the right choice and if he could ever see a return in his $50 investment. Meanwhile, he picked a name for his kennels and the new pup: Ball-Moore Kennels would be the future home of Prinz Lamie von Shepwold. He thought the name sounded right. It was another step toward a thriving kennel operati
on.
Although Gerry and Doctor Osler had no shared financial interest in the kennel, Gerry valued the doctor’s opinion and experience with the German Shepherd breed. The doctor offered his advice on making a champion whenever he could, and Gerry willingly took any suggestions. So when Mary Jay Osler found out that Gerry had a new puppy coming home, she promised her dad that she would do her part in making Prinz, “a great dog.” Doctor Osler felt good about that arrangement.
On the day Gerry went to pick up Prinz, he was eager and excited. He hoped Prinz would be the dog he had imagined, but he also looked forward to the companionship a dog consistently gives. He felt a warm contentment at the thought of having Prinz by his side for the next ten to fifteen years—hopefully to the end of the dog’s life expectancy.
Meanwhile, waiting in his kennel, Prinz sensed it was a different kind of day. He anxiously paced and hopped, tongue lolling out of his mouth, knowing instinctively that his person was coming. As dogs do, Prinz was living in the moment. The moment was good and worthy of his eager anticipation—enough for him.
The meeting was quick. Gerry came in, picked up Prinz’s certification paperwork, slipped a new collar around his fluffy throat, and gave a curt, “Let’s go boy!” He couldn’t wait to get Prinz home and start getting to know him. Prinz jumped obediently into the back seat of the car knowing an adventure was afoot. “My person,” was written all over his exuberant face. His eyes were fixed constantly on the man he already knew as his best friend.
In the days and weeks and months that followed, Prinz came to realize there were many people he could call “his.” Of course, Gerry was his main person, but he came to know many more who offered treats, pats, and play. There was the girl, “Mary Jay,” who rolled on the floor with him and scratched his belly. Prinz thought she was very nice, and he looked forward to her regular visits. Then there were all the little people at the place Gerry called “the school.”3 They were great fun for Prinz, and he counted his days with them as some of his very favorites. The little ones played and jumped over things and ran really fast, always with Prinz at their sides. Sometimes he would jump things, or go into tunnels, or just walk on a leash in a circle, and he would be rewarded for it all. They had two wheel devices that made the most curious noises as they whizzed around him. The kids offered him pats and treats, and they smelled great—all of a dog’s favorite smells rolled into one fragrant bouquet.
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