K-9 Korea

by J. Rachel Reed

  “That’s a powerful dog you’ve got there,” the lieutenant muttered, almost in tears.

  Chan replied, “You have no idea how true that is.” After the officer left, Chan praised his dog and even rewarded him with an extra piece of meat. Prinz, feeling loved, lay down with a sigh of satisfaction and was happy.

  THE DIFFICULT GOOD-BYE

  A few months out from their departure date, the men had started dismantling what they could. When they asked about preparing the kennels for departure, though, they were told to stand down for the moment. A couple weeks before their scheduled return, they started packing their individual belongings, buying souvenirs for loved ones back home, and doing necessary paperwork for leaving the country. When they inquired about final vet checks for the dogs, though, they were told those would be handled later.

  The men had been talking among themselves about all the events of the past months, the success of the patrols in thwarting thievery, the effective riot control, and the kudos received on dog demonstrations. Many became suspicious, especially Paulus and Simpson, who had witnessed the private conversations between U.S. Army officials and ROK authorities firsthand.

  The Army had led them to believe, from the beginning, that the dogs would return to Camp Carson after their time was served in Korea. There were no handlers or dogs in training back home—surely that meant the same thing?1

  The day finally came. The handlers received official orders back to Camp Carson, and they were given three hours to report to the ship for departure. Now it was no longer speculation. The dogs were being left behind. The only decision left for the men of the 8125th was whether or not they would spend those final moments saying good-bye to their dogs. It was a wrenching choice for each of them.

  Stewart chose not to go to Duchess or Spooks. He believed his emotion would only affect the entire kennel in a negative way. His choice didn’t change the gratitude he had in his heart for the dogs.

  Falge elected not to go see Stagmar. He felt it was already hard enough, leaving under those circumstances, to reconcile his feelings. He privately thanked his dog and vowed to remember her sacrifices to the country for the rest of his life.

  Fickes sat on his cot stroking the velvety ears of his battle buddy, Katie. Ben, her puppy, was curled in a tight ball, snoozing nearby. He cried, but not so much for Katie and Ben. He had known all along that there was no way they would be returning with him to the states. But he wept for Duke. Duke had given him everything, and now Duke was being betrayed by the country he had served. Fickes thought briefly that if he went to Duke, the dog might think he chose to betray him. He erased that from his mind as soon as it appeared, knowing that Duke had always been able to read his thoughts. He decided to go to him and tell him that he never wanted to leave him. He had no choice.

  Simpson went to say good-bye to Grey. He hadn’t been surprised by the news, but it still hit him very hard. This day, which he had figured would be the happiest day of his life, had suddenly turned into the saddest. He needed the comfort that only Grey could provide, and he figured that Grey needed him just as much. Simpson sobbed bitter tears into Grey’s fur until he could pull himself away.

  Hatch went immediately to Willy. He hugged him and kissed him. “I love you so much,” he told the dog. “Words can’t even begin to say how much.” He walked away from Willy and went straight to the bar. Hatch spent his last $50 on booze and got drunk to kill the pain.

  Jellison went to the kennel to see Tex, but couldn’t bring himself to touch or talk to him. He stood there for a very long time taking in the sight, sound, and smells of the kennel area. He had been forever changed by his dog and couldn’t grasp the idea of never seeing him again. He committed on the spot to carrying Tex’s portrait, painted by the Korean artisan, everywhere he went. Tex would hang on the walls of any place he called home from that day forward.

  Melochik refused to believe that the Army would completely abandon the dogs who had saved countless lives. He worried about who was going to take over Warrior’s handling in his absence. He went to tell his friend good-bye but tried not to let him know how he was struggling inside. Instead he chose to walk away from Warrior with a hopeful heart.

  Fowler had already endured the pain of separation from his dog, Smokey, many years before as a scout. He could sympathize with what the men were going through, but he could not empathize. He knew Smokey was well loved and cared for after his departure. He had known going to Korea that the dogs wouldn’t be coming home. He believed that other handlers would come in to take their spots. Now, who those handler would be, and what qualifications they might have, was ambiguous. He refused to believe the dogs would be abandoned to the local population. That thought was too painful to consider. Not having a dedicated dog of his own, Fowler chose to spend those last moments walking the kennels and giving each dog a word of gratitude for its incredible service. He thought of Smokey, his self-described “pride and joy,” and knew that his fellow handlers must be heartbroken.

  Broadway went to Rex. He wanted, above all else, to thank him for the protection he had given him on the night of the attack. In spite of Rex’s unpredictable ferocity, Broadway took him into his hands, looked him in the eye, and told him, “I don’t care what you think, you grumpy old bastard. I’m gonna hug you like you’re a beautiful lady.” Then he squeezed his dog, caressing his fur, and trying to burn that moment into his memory. Rex took the hug and even seemed, Broadway thought, to return it.

  In the end Chan opted not to go to King or Prinz. “It won’t change anything,” he repeated to himself over and over. Some of the men who had gone to say good-bye to their dogs reported back about Prinz. While all the other dogs were energetic and anxious, Prinz remained calm and collected. He would look up as a new man filed in, but he never offered to get up. The unit’s last memories of Prinz would be of him curled up on top of his dog house, back to the breeze, sleeping peacefully. It was as if Prinz was awaiting his next adventure without fear.

  Stahlke looked at the document in his hands with wild bewilderment. His eyes scanned page after page, again and again, hoping he had overlooked something. Perhaps headquarters had made a mistake? How could they be returning without the dogs they had been issued at Camp Carson? Surely this was a misunderstanding. The papers fell to the floor as he began wringing his hands. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest. The orders proved what the knot in his stomach had long implied—the dogs were being left behind.

  A silence fell over the barracks as one man after another absorbed the words. Stahlke looked at Bakken, then Rath, searching their faces for some recognition of the truth.

  “Orion! Are you going to see Bullet?” he pleaded.

  Bakken continued to shove clothes into his duffle, face expressionless. Still looking at his pile of belongings, he finally formed a reply. “Damn it, Larry, I don’t have time! We have three hours to report. I can’t get all this stuff together and still get to the kennels!”

  Stahlke swung over to the cot where Rath sat packing.

  “You too?” He was enraged.

  “You know nothing has ever meant more to me in my life than that dog, but nothing’s gonna change the fact that I have to leave him.” Rath looked tearful.

  “Screw you guys! Those damn dogs gave us everything and you’re gonna sit here, leaving them to wonder what the hell happened?! Screw you!” Stahlke raced out the door, filled with rage, slamming it so hard that it sounded like an explosion. His head ached.

  The dogs, keenly aware of every human emotion and alert to every expression and gesture that their handlers made, knew that this day was different. There was an anxious buzz hovering over the dog yard, very different from the normal frenetic energy they usually displayed. Their yips had turned to sharp cries of separation. Their barks had become mournful howls.

  Stahlke slowed down, realizing his run could spook one of the more aggressive dogs and cause him to turn and attack. He went to Junker like he had done a million times be
fore. He knew that Junker would be looking for him as he always did: perched on top of his house, tail wagging, spinning in excited circles. Stahlke wondered how he would explain all of this to his greatest friend and partner.

  Junker was at once toddler child and killer beast. He could fall into a puddle of pure love and admiration at the sight of his best friend and handler, then turn and rip out another man’s throat at the flick of a wrist. But Junker was so keenly aware of Stahlke’s emotions that no words were needed. Today, as Junker saw his best friend, he was quiet. He came to lie at Stahlke’s feet, exposing his vulnerable underbelly for a rub. Stahlke grabbed the scruff of Junker’s neck and, bringing his face down to meet him, looked deeply into his black eyes.

  “You’re a good boy, Junker. There will never be a boy as good as you.”

  He took his time stroking the length of Junker’s body, separating his fingers to feel the sensation of his soft black and tan coat one last time.

  “I can’t stay, boy.”

  Junker whimpered.

  “I love you, boy. There will never be another dog like you.” Standing in a single crisp movement, the way a soldier will, Stahlke faced Junker and gave him the “Sit” command. Junker obediently sat. Looking into Junker’s eyes, he gave his loyal friend the hardest command he would ever have to speak. “Stay.”

  Stahlke struggled for air over the lump in his throat. He turned and walked away, gasping and feeling Junker’s eyes on him, until he was out of sight.

  It would be a year before Stahlke would learn what ultimately happened to Junker that day, the day of their final goodbye. Back home in South Dakota, he would receive a letter from the vet-tech responsible for the transition of the dogs to the Republic of Korea Army. The letter stated simply:

  Junker, once you were out of sight, began jumping as high as the chain would allow. We tried to soothe him but he would not be calmed. He jumped until he collapsed, not from exhaustion but all of a sudden. Without the benefit of an autopsy we cannot say for sure what killed him. It seems however that his heart just gave out, and he stopped breathing.

  13

  THE GREAT ESCAPE

  A few weeks before the actual orders came down to the 8125th, Broadway had clearly seen the writing on the wall. The knowledge that the dogs weren’t returning to Camp Carson had felt like a sucker punch to the gut. How could the Army turn its back on any of the dogs, especially Rex, who had done exactly what they had trained him to do? He couldn’t prove that the Army had made a secret deal with the ROK Army for transfer of the dogs, but he had seen enough to draw the conclusion in his own mind. As a vet-tech, he had kept up with all the necessary health certificates and vaccinations for the dogs, and he had witnessed a keen interest from ROK officials in that paperwork over the past several weeks. He also noticed that the U.S. Army showed no similar interest, which was odd considering the dogs were supposed to be re-entering the country. Surely the Army should want proof of health?

  Broadway had understood, too, through the multiple requests he received, that the ROK Army was only interested in the healthiest and most desirable dogs. He thought of Blind Sam and burned with righteous indignation. He wondered if the dogs not used by the ROK Army would end up as meals for the hungry Koreans waiting just outside the gate. At least the dogs like Rex, who would surely make the transition to the ROK, had a chance. If for no other reason, they wouldn’t be carved up because of the money invested in getting them. But Sam was a different story.

  Broadway was never one to turn a blind eye to a living creature in need. His Texas upbringing had taught him that all life was valuable, and it was the highest calling to protect the innocent whenever possible. He struggled with the guilt of having taken a life, even by proxy, and placed a penance on himself as a result. Never again would he refuse to help someone in need. And Sam was more than “someone” to him; he was Broadway’s friend. He wanted to save all the dogs, but rationality prevailed. Broadway accepted that he could only do what he could do. He thought of Sam’s buddy Prinz with sadness, but Prinz with his good nature and good health would certainly survive. Without hesitation, Broadway devised a plan and committed to put it into action the next day.

  It would be easy to get Sam away from the kennels without notice. He had, after all, tagged along with Broadway unfettered for many months. If anyone asked about the dog’s whereabouts that day, Broadway was going to tell them that he had been very sick and was being treated inside the tent. He had managed to secure a truck and a large canvas tarp for the journey. He knew that he could trust Sam to keep quiet going out of the gate. All he had to do was put Sam in a “stay” in the back and throw the tarp over him. Anyway, if he got caught carrying Sam off the property he would say that he was taking him to the only vet around, in Seoul, and that would coincide with the ruse he concocted about Sam’s illness. Broadway then falsified a death certificate with Sam’s name and date of death.

  It was late in the day when Broadway and Sam finally hit the road. Broadway had waited until business died down on post, and he could usher Sam into the truck with little or no notice. When the moment arrived, he was nervous and a little giddy. He looked at Sam and told him, “I don’t give a damn what I’ve got to do, you’re going home today!” Sam wagged his tail.

  Maybe it was the excitement that clouded his awareness, but the two were not, as Broadway had thought, unnoticed. Simpson had come to the vet tent in need of something for Grey. He watched Sam jump onto the truck, witnessed the loving exchange between Broadway and his beloved dog, and continued inside to get the supplies he needed for himself. Inside, he noticed it: Broadway had left the fake death certificate out in plain view. Simpson smiled and vowed to keep this wonderful secret all to himself.

  The truck rumbled down the road for a while, until Broadway felt certain that they were out of sight. At that point he got out and invited Sam into the cab so the two friends could spend their last hour together, sitting side by side. As they drove, Broadway told Sam how happy his new life was going to be and how much he was going to miss him. Sam rested his head on Broadway’s lap.

  As they drove up to the orphanage, Sam’s excitement began to build. He loved this place, the missionary, the children. His smell memory had activated at least a mile out, and the anticipation was building. Every time they had visited in the past, he had been lavished with love and treats, and it had created a good and lasting memory. Broadway’s heart felt like it would explode as he saw Sam become more and more joyful. Before he could throw the truck into park, the kids were bursting through the door, running at the vehicle, laughing, and calling Sam’s name.

  The missionary met the pair in the driveway, and the two men embraced while Sam ran playful circles around everyone. Broadway had brought enough horse meat and dog food to last Sam for a long time. He had even managed to sneak out enough to give the children a few good meals as well. The missionary assured Broadway that Sam had a safe and lasting home at the orphanage. Sam would live the rest of his days in complete freedom. He would be granted total access, never on a chain again, allowed to roam the grounds or stay in the classroom as he liked. Most importantly, the missionary promised Broadway that Sam would be loved until the end of his days.

  Broadway knew that he had done the very best thing for Sam and the orphans. He called the dog to him one last time before leaving. “Old Blind Sam, get over here!” Sam trotted over, tongue lolling out of his mouth from delightful exertion. Broadway made eye contact with Sam for the last time, “You be a good boy, okay, buddy?” Sam licked at Broadway’s face, an affirmation that he would always try to be just that.

  Broadway returned to post with a smile from ear to ear. He wondered if perhaps he should try to hide his happiness, since he technically just “put down” his old friend. And then there was the matter of stealing government property and falsifying government documents, which could bring harsh and lifelong consequences if he were caught. “I don’t give a damn,” Broadway decided. “Let them question me all they
want. I’m not sorry and I’d do it again.”

  The next morning he filed the death certificate and went on about his day.

  14

  CALLING THE PACK

  The men boarded the ship bound for home in November 1955, torn between two worlds. For almost two years they had been intimately linked with their dogs, spending nearly all their time together. Over time they had learned every nuance of one another. The dogs had become more than just their right hands. They were connected on a wavelength that was incomprehensible. Although the men still had one another, each man felt alone and incomplete.

  Still, they were excited to return to the comforts of home. They missed their families. They had longed to escape the destitution of Korea and be, once again, in a loving place sheltered from the cold and the misery. The men didn’t regret the bonds they had formed with each other and with their cherished K-9s, even if it meant heartbreak in the end, but they did look forward to home and what they believed would be a safe haven from the pain.

  The voyage home took about twenty days. They had to get through typhoons, sea-sickness, and—of course—chores. (Broadway and Chan got the garbage detail instead of KP this time.) On this voyage, though, unlike their journey to Korea, there were no dogs to tend. This left a serious void, and boredom set in quickly. The only break in the monotony was a brief stop to resupply in Adak Island, Alaska. Before they got there, Fickes asked one of the ship’s crew if there were any girls in Adak.

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “There’s one behind every tree.”