In the Line of Fire

by Collins, Ace;

  In a civilian setting, a few rounds of gunfire would set off alarms, but on this air base, hearing light gunfire was as common as noting the sounds of aircraft. With the dogs silenced and the brief noise of battle mild and distant, it seemed just like another night and for the moment thousands slept with no idea that the enemy was a stone’s throw away.

  Assignments in hand, the small unit of Vietcong commandos divided into several groups and fanned out across the base. As they quietly moved forward, their confidence grew, but then a lone sentry dog noted movement and began barking. In the night it was difficult for the dog’s handler to know if the men in front of him were friendly or an invading force. As he sized up the situation, shots rang out and he had his answer. As the dog and airman dove for cover, a bullet found the handler. With his partner growling, the man reached down to feel warm blood soaking his uniform. If he was going to live he had to find cover. Yet even as he crawled deeper into the shadows, his canine companion picked up on something and demanded the wounded airman look back toward the action. The Vietcong commandos, satisfied they had knocked the airman out of commission, were all going in the same direction. Grabbing his walkie-talkie, the badly wounded airman passed his dog’s observations along to CSC. That warning would save millions of dollars in equipment and scores of lives. With the alert sounded, two security policemen, now operating on the information provided by the canine team, charged to a machine-gun nest and waited. When the confident enemy appeared, the Americans went to work. Thirteen attackers died within seconds. As additional security forces massed and spread out across the base, the remaining enemy quickly retreated beyond the perimeter and into the night. With only minimal damage to a few planes, the base remained secure, but the victory had come at a cost: three airmen and three dogs had been killed in the assault.

  As the news spread of the attack, a sense of sadness settled over the base. This time those who had died were stationed with them. The trio and their dogs were seen every day, and it was one of those dogs that had kept the base from suffering much more damage and loss of life. Therefore Nemo, who had not been on duty that night, was treated with even more love and respect as many airmen took time out of their day to go visit the kennels. As his head was patted a few even whispered, “We’re depending on you boy.”

  Thorneburg reported for duty three hours before scheduled on December 4. In the glow of the late afternoon sun, he first studied the empty beds of the dogs that had given their lives for the base. He then soberly removed Nemo from the kennel and began a careful inspection. Thorneburg’s hands lovingly touched the dog from head to tail, looking for cuts, bruises, or any signs of illness. He also checked the German shepherd’s eyes, nose, and ears. Satisfied there was nothing wrong, he then grabbed a brush and spent the next hour grooming Nemo. Finally, when there was nothing more to do, the two sat together and waited for darkness.

  As the final ray of the sunlight faded, an apprehension settled over the base. Thorneburg and a now-anxious Nemo silently rose as the truck pulled up to take the dogs and handlers to their duty stations. As the various teams hopped into the back of the truck, there was no banter. The loss each had experienced when three teams had given their lives the night before had stolen the airmen’s voices and once more alerted them to the fragility of life. As the truck roared toward the base’s perimeter, death seemed closer than it ever had been before.

  While the men’s hearts ached, Nemo and his four-footed companions were alert but no more apprehensive than usual. As he petted the big dog’s broad head Thorneburg reminded Nemo he was depending on him. On this evening his sincere words were more a prayer than an observation.

  As per the assignment sent down by command, the teams would split up and follow the path of retreat the Vietcong had used the night before. The base commanders had to know if the enemy had been driven out or were amassing for another assault.

  Jumping from the truck, the teams fanned out and swept the area. In the first sweep, the dogs picked up human scents but found nothing. The second sweep was greeted with enemy fire. With no idea how large a force they were facing, the patrol called for help and dug in. In the short firefight that followed, four Vietcong were killed.

  Now fully on guard, the men and dogs moved past the fallen enemy and deeper along the escape route. When a German shepherd pointed his muzzle forward and froze, the airmen knew something was up. After once more calling command, they let the dogs go and followed the animals’ lead to a series of small tunnels. They were obviously hand dug, and a quick inspection of the first showed it had been recently used. As the dogs led them to the next one, shots rang out. A short but heated exchange followed. Several hundred rounds later things grew quiet. Moving forward, the Americans shined a light into the tunnel. Four more enemy fighters were dead.

  At this point Thorneburg and Nemo were ordered to split from the main group and check an ancient cemetery about a quarter mile beyond one of the runways. The markers were all but hidden by five-foot-tall elephant grass. Alone, under a star-filled sky, with seemingly only the ghosts of those who had died around them, the pair made their way through the tombstones. The area appeared clear, so the trainer stopped for a moment, offering silent words of thankfulness. Thorneburg then looked at Nemo. The dog was as still as a statue, the hair on the back of his neck was raised and his ears pricked. He had picked something up. Was the dog now sensing the enemy had passed through this place the night before or was there someone out there now? Thorneburg couldn’t report to CSC until he knew the answer to that question.

  Crouching and taking a step forward, his gun ready for action, Thorneburg wanted to push on, but Nemo was anchored in place. The big German shepherd refused to move.

  “What is it?”

  The dog’s quick response was signaled by a couple of short steps to position himself in front of the man before pointing his muzzle forward. Following Nemo’s gaze, a tense Thorneburg tried to spot what the dog seemed to know was there. At first he saw nothing, then there was a flash of light and a loud bang. A second later a bullet dug into Thorneburg’s shoulder and drove him backward. As the man fell to the ground, the unseen enemy fired a second round. This one hit Nemo in the face. The dog staggered backward, but did not fall.

  From out of the darkness four Vietcong guerrillas hurried to finish the job they had just started. Confident they had the jump on American forces, they had no idea they were about to march to their deaths. Though bleeding profusely from his eye and mouth, Nemo charged the invaders. He knocked the first one to the ground before biting the second in the leg. As the man screamed in pain, the two remaining Vietcong tried to squeeze off shots. But because of the wrestling match between man and dog they couldn’t lock onto the target. Releasing his bite, Nemo charged at the remaining two men and took both of them to the ground. As Nemo fought against overwhelming odds, Thorneburg radioed for help. Two minutes later, when American forces arrived, the dog was still releasing his terror on the four commandos.

  When the rescue team engaged the enemy, an exhausted Nemo hurried back to Thorneburg. Sensing the man needed cover, the dog laid on top of the injured airman’s body and licked his face. Nemo refused to move even after the patrol had taken care of the Vietcong and the shooting had stopped. It took an order from the handler before Nemo stood. The dog slowly wobbled for a few seconds, watching his master being examined, before collapsing.

  It was quickly determined that while Thorneburg obviously needed surgery for his wound, the bleeding had subsided and he was not in any immediate danger. Nemo was another story. Using a flashlight, the airman cleaned away enough blood to determine a bullet had entered just below the dog’s right eye and exited through his mouth. With a wound this severe the men were surprised the dog was still alive.

  Within fifteen minutes of being hit, Thorneburg and Nemo were loaded into a truck and hurried back to the hospital. As Thorneburg went into surgery, Lt. Raymond Hutson, the base veterinarian, was called. By the time he got to Nemo, the dog wa
s barely breathing. When dealing with injuries this severe and a dog that was having issues breathing, logic and training dictated it would be prudent to put the animal out of its misery. But rather than give up, Hutson went against the book and dug in. Once he had dealt with the massive amount of bleeding, he performed a tracheotomy and stitched up the gaping holes. For the moment this saved Nemo’s life, but it hardly dealt with the damage that had been done. The next step was removing the useless eye dangling outside the socket. With that done and the eye socket stitched shut, Hutson was confident the dog would live until morning. Beyond that time frame he had no guess.

  Nemo beat the odds. He fought off infection, and when the tracheotomy was reversed, he breathed on his own. For the next few weeks he not only clung to life, he grew stronger. Once the wounds healed well enough for the dog to stand and walk, Hutson realized that unless further work was done Nemo would likely never fully recover. The dog needed skin grafts. If this had been just another dog, it’s likely the Air Force would have ordered him euthanized rather than invest in such experimental and expensive surgery. But over the past few weeks, Nemo’s story had been picked up by the press. The dog’s heroic actions in saving Thorneburg had run in newspapers all over the United States. Nemo was even getting fan letters from little children. In a time when there was very little good publicity coming out of the war, Nemo was a star loved by all and thus worth saving. The surgeries were therefore approved with the Air Force closely following the procedures and issuing reports on the dog’s recovery.

  By the end of the winter Nemo had healed to the point where he was matched with a new handler and put back on sentry duty. Yet after just a few weeks an infection caused the dog’s return to the hospital. For several months he received additional treatment but the infections continued. Essentially Nemo was in another fight for his life against an enemy the dog could not sniff out or see.

  In Vietnam, dogs were considered equipment. Once they lost their ability to serve they were euthanized rather than returned home. Nemo would have surely suffered this fate if not for the amount of press and fan mail he had generated. Thus, on June 23, 1967, the Air Force ordered the dog back to Lackland in San Antonio for additional medical treatment and deployed his original trainer to accompany Nemo on his return to American soil. With thousands following his story, the dog and Bryant were welcomed as heroes in Japan, Hawaii, and California. At each stop, a vet was called in to examine the dog and the media was given the opportunity to greet and “interview” the canine hero.

  A month after the order was issued to return Nemo home, the dog finally made it to Kelly Air Force Base on a C-124 Globemaster. The head of the dog sentry program at Lackland, Captain Robert M. Sullivan, was there and saluted Nemo as he hopped down onto the tarmac. After more surgeries and the base vet giving Nemo a clean bill of health, Sullivan would take the German shepherd across the United States to share the dog’s heroic story and emphasize the need for more military funding to train sentry and patrol dogs. At each stop Nemo was treated like the hero he was. The press coverage was immense, the adoration of fans overwhelming, and the salutes of veterans from several wars stirring. In fact, in a time of great division, the hero dog seemed to be one of the few things that completely united the nation.

  When the tours ended, Nemo was retired to Lackland where he was given his own kennel. The Air Force put up a sign outside the dog’s home providing the details of his life and the honors that he had been awarded. For the rest of his years airmen training to be dog handlers were ordered to meet and spend time with Nemo. Though not required, he was also formally saluted by most of the war veterans who walked by his kennel.

  In December 1972, on the anniversary of the engagement that made him a hero and cost him his eye, Nemo died. For the next few months the Air Force debated how best to honor their heroic canine. Many wanted him mounted and exhibited like a museum piece, but that was deemed unworthy of a hero. Thus, on March 15, 1973, with an honor guard present, his remains were buried at the Department of Defense’s Dog Center in San Antonio. Two weeks later, on March 29, the last American troops were withdrawn from Vietnam.

  It took more than a generation for the wounds created by Vietnam to heal. Finally veterans who had been ignored or even vilified were honored for their service. Except for Nemo and a very few others, the dogs that served in that war were not brought home. When America pulled its troops out of Southeast Asia the military either euthanized or simply abandoned their canine partners. Thankfully this practice has ended, perhaps in part due to Nemo’s story becoming so well known.

  ELEVEN

  FRIENDSHIP

  Things are never quite as scary when you’ve got a best friend.

  —Bill Watterson

  It was March 1967 when Colorado native John Burnam, then twenty, stepped off a plane and placed his boots on Vietnamese soil for the second time. In his first tour of duty, one that had seen him badly wounded and evacuated to Japan for surgery and rehabilitation, he had been regular Army. Now he had volunteered to team up with a far different kind of soldier.

  On that late winter afternoon, as the strong, dark-haired Burnam walked across the base at Dau Tieng, he fully understood that the odds were stacked against him. He’d seen men shot, he’d been with them when they died, he’d watched their bodies being collected and shipped back home. He had personally felt each of those losses and had therefore come to fully grasp the fragility of life. Thanks to this previous war experience, Burnam was also well aware that the enemy—those whose goal was to push Americans out of Southeast Asia—was not strung along well-defined lines of defense but rather everywhere. The sobering reality was that the Vietcong could attack at any moment and from any angle. So you always had to be on your toes and you also had to have complete trust in those around you.

  On this tour the young soldier realized that his job with the 44th Infantry Scout Platoon would make him the first and easiest target in any combat situation. His duty station would be in the open and, when properly used, his canine partner would be the best tool the US forces had in sniffing out the enemy. And because of that simple fact there would always be a price on his and his dog’s heads. He was therefore a wanted man, but that was a responsibility he embraced.

  Because of the huge weight placed on his shoulders, Burnam needed the best weapon and partner possible—a dog that could sense out everything from enemy positions to trip wires. Therefore the canine had to be smart and alert, observant and composed, energetic but also controlled. If any of these traits was lacking, Burnam and the men who trusted him might die.

  The first dog assigned to partner with Burnam was a high-spirited, strong, and vocal German shepherd. The black-and-silver animal was also intelligent and eager to learn. Burnam quickly grew attached to his four-footed friend, and, after extensive training, their first few times out in war zones proved that Timber had the potential to be just the kind of dog in whom a man could place great trust. But Burnam had seen men crack under the pressure of combat, so he knew the dog’s real value could only be proved in an intense situation. And on a hot, humid day, Timber was finally placed in that position.

  Unlike almost all other military personnel, scout dog teams were constantly shifted from one group to another. So they rarely worked with the same units. Therefore Burnam was endlessly introducing himself and Timber to officers. Sadly, many of those who asked for the scout dog team had no idea how to properly use the man or his canine partner. Those without this experience also had little faith or trust in canine warriors.

  With little warning and no time to specifically prepare for the assignment, Burnam and Timber were ordered to jump into an Armored Personnel Carrier (APC)—a noisy, gun-laden, combination tank and truck that rode on tracks rather than wheels—and head out into the Vietnamese jungle. The dog had never seen such a vehicle, much less ridden in one, and Burnam spent most of the trip trying to calm Timber down. Worse yet, when they arrived at their objective, several miles west of Dau Tieng, the han
dler discovered that the 22nd Mechanized Division had never worked with a dog. They had no idea how to use the scout team. Some in the group even seemed to expect Timber to be able to spot the enemy from the APC. When the four vehicles pulled up to a clearing, the door clanked open, and an unnerved Timber raced out with Burnam holding hard on the harness. As foot patrols formed, the scout team was told to find the enemy that was hiding in the jungle.

  Initial reports concerning the Vietcong’s location had likely been wrong as the team spotted nothing. A couple of hours later, after a break for water and a meal, Burnam and Timber were on the trail again, this time with men following twenty yards behind. As had been the case since the ride in the APC, Timber was agitated and unable to maintain full focus. Even while knowing there could be snipers in the trees and each step might be his last, Burnam stayed calm as he pushed the dog to work.

  In war there are two opposing emotions that fight inside a soldier’s head. The first is hoping nothing happens. The second is wishing whatever was going to happen would just happen so that the anxious waiting would stop. The worst moment is when these two emotions collide. On this day it was quiet and a second later the landscape was awash in gunfire. As Burnam hit the ground, pulling Timber with him, the trees were peppered with lead. In response, the APC’s machine guns also let loose, their bullets flying just a few feet over Burnam’s head.

  Grabbing his weapon, Burnam tried to spot the enemy’s location but he quickly realized the jungle made that impossible. Meanwhile Timber’s barking continued to make them an easy target. Unable to move forward or keep Timber quiet, the man and dog backtracked. Reversing course seemed to be the tonic needed to calm Timber down until the dog stumbled over a dead American soldier. A second later Timber went crazy. To keep his canine partner from running, Burnam grabbed his collar and pinned him down on the ground. A few seconds later there was more gunfire and a still-agitated Timber was hit. A second round clipped Burnam. Now they were both bleeding and had no idea where the Vietcong were hiding.