War Dogs Trilogy: Wounded Warriors of the Apocalypse

by AJ Newman

  I’ve never been good at socializing, and was horrible at that dating thing. Women confused me and frankly, scared me. I got along okay until things got serious, and then I bailed. I wasn’t much better with kids. One lady told me I wasn’t emotionally available. Whatever the hell that meant. She added that I should have been born a dog. I took that as a compliment.

  One pod was still closed, and my heart raced as I thought about finding another living soldier. The nametag said Private Carl Vinson, so I moved over to it and saw the two outside latches were open. I lifted the clamshell top, only to see a soldier who had suffered a broken neck during the crash. I closed the pod.

  I moved on to the back of the tail section and saw the female medic still strapped in her jump seat. Her head had been slammed against the bulkhead behind her, and a jagged piece of the fuselage protruded from her stomach. I owed her my life, and couldn’t do a thing to help her. I would tell her family how she’d cared for her patients to the very end.

  I steeled myself against more carnage while I searched for food and clean drinking water. The cabin was a tangled mess, but there were clear signs that someone had survived the crash besides myself. I saw evidence that someone had opened a couple of MREs and eaten them. Darn, that made me hungry. I found two cases of bottled water and drank one sixteen-ounce bottle by squeezing the water between my teeth. I searched for a medical cabinet and found several plastic bottles of medicine. One had oxycodone acetaminophen 10-325 written on the label. I took one with a swig of water and stuck the container with another ten to fifteen pills in my pocket.

  Suddenly, it hit me that other military people had survived the crash and left me behind. “What the hell happened to no one left behind?” I mumbled out to no one in particular. The bastards left me. My mind wandered to why they would do this. Was I too much of a burden to carry, or were they just selfish assholes? I then thought, “I’ll kill the selfish pricks when I find them.”

  Then it came to me. “Maria wouldn’t leave me behind unless she thought I was dead. Maybe someone hurt Maria. I would rip the throat out of anyone who hurt Maria.”

  The nightmare from the flight sprang forth in my mind. I could taste the man’s blood and see him dead on the tarmac. It was too real.

  I dwelled on having been left behind for way too long, and finally decided to move on and survive.

  My search continued, and I found several bags of IV solution. I saw bottles marked NaCl 9 %, Lactated Ringers, and 5% Dextrose in Water. I opened the one marked 5% Dextrose first because even I knew dextrose was some kind of sugar. It didn’t taste too bad, and I drank half of the bag. I placed the five bags of Dextrose and three bags of Lactated Ringers in my duffel bag. I thought I remembered the Ringers was kind-of-like Gatorade for your blood, and would help replace lost salt and potassium. Okay, so I never claimed to be a doctor, and I didn’t die from drinking the stuff over the next several days.

  The first twenty-five percent of the U.S. Military Working Dog Training Handbook covers veterinary support for your dog. Every military dog handler takes basic veterinary training to care for his or her dog. Since battlefields don’t have vets, the dog handler, me, must care for his dog until they could get them to a veterinary hospital. I could stitch up a wound, insert an IV line, and perform a host of necessary first aid procedures on my dog. Most of the training translates very well to humans. This training would come in handy over the next few months.

  My pain subsided, but only to a level I could stand. I thought about taking another pill, but didn’t want to cloud my thinking. After two more hours of searching, I had found a full MRE meal, six candy bars, and a half bag of Peanut M&Ms. Not exactly a cornucopia of food, but enough for today. I also found a Leatherman knife, and took a pair of boots a size too large for me from one of the dead crewmen. I put the right boot on and placed the other in my bag along with the food.

  The boots made me think about how to handle my foot. I gathered several items from the medical cabinet and a chest I found on the floor. Now that the pill had dulled my pain, I examined my foot, which was in a plastic cast. I pulled at the Velcro straps and winced when it fell from my foot. Apparently, the boot was waterproof, since the bandage was still dry. I removed the bandage and saw my foot for the first time since the explosion. I was shocked to see that it looked like a foot, but had the little toe missing. There were three jagged wounds with the edges glued back together, and my foot was black, blue, and a little yellow in places. I didn’t see any pus or red areas, which made me feel good. I covered the wounds with antibiotic cream and took two pills from a bottle with a long name. The description underneath the name sounded like an antibiotic’s name. So what the heck? After the foot was wrapped, I placed the plastic cast back on my foot.

  I now had taken care of my immediate survival for the next three days, and tried to figure out if I should leave the plane, or wait for a search party to find me, or walk to a nearby home or farm. I knew I had to solve the issue of how to walk and to eat. I also knew that I had to find MMax. But first, I had to take care of myself.

  The peanut M&Ms were too big to get past my teeth, so I had to suck on them until the candy coating and chocolate were gone. Don’t puke, but I saved the peanuts in my shirt pocket for later. I know, I know gross. However, I had no clue where I was or where my next meal was coming from. Those pre-eaten peanuts might have to sustain me for a while. Hell, by that time, I’d been blown up and been in a frigging plane crash. I wasn’t worried about the darn peanuts. My mind wandered to how long to let my jaw heal before attempting to remove the wire from my jaw.

  I sat down on one of the closed pods, tried to regroup, and gather my thoughts. I knew at least one day had passed, and probably three. Where was the rescue party? When an airplane crashed, it was the top item on all newscasts. There should have been helicopters and ATVs all over the darn place. Yet no one had appeared. I shouldn’t be worried about food or getting to a town. They should be searching for me.

  My mind was still a bit foggy from the pain meds, but I was finally piecing the situation together. No one had arrived after at least a day. The lights went out, and the electronics had sparked and flashed. There had been a brilliant flash, as if the sun went all nova and then dark again. The medic said the flash wasn’t from lightning. Son of a bitch! We’ve had a significant solar flare, or we’ve been nuked, and it was an air blast that killed the plane and probably fried the electronics all over the area. It finally sunk in that no one was coming because they had their own problems.

  Tears came to my eyes when it dawned on me that the shit had hit the fan, and my mom and dad might be in the middle of an apocalypse. I liked science fiction and read several post-apocalyptic series about TEOTWAWKI, or the end of the world, as we know it. I didn’t even want to think about what could be coming next, if this was true.

  Mom and Dad lived in a country subdivision close to Walterhill, Tennessee. Mom had been a nurse at the old VA hospital between Walterhill and Murfreesboro until they’d closed it ten years ago. They had built a new-state-of-the-art VA hospital north of Nashville, but it had been too far for Mom to drive. She’d taken a job at the hospital in Smyrna.

  My Mom and Dad met at the old VA hospital when Dad was taken there as a young soldier, to recuperate from a leg wound he’d received in Iraq. Mom was his nurse, and the next thing you know, they had a trailer in Walterhill, two boys, and a girl. We moved into a nice home in 2024, and I left to join the Army a few years later. I wondered what was happening around Walterhill, if the grid was down and WWIII had begun. Would there be food shortages and riots, or would FEMA and the National Guard take care of the people? I prayed for the latter.

  After resting for an hour, I searched this piece of the plane inch by inch, and even searched the bodies for anything useful. The pickings were slim, but I found a 9-mm M17 SIG Sauer service pistol, pistol belt, and two more magazines on one of the crewmen. I personally liked the old Berretta service pistol over the SIG, but no one asked my op
inion. I strapped the pistol on and felt a little more secure. There was a box full of MREs at the bottom of a locker, along with a first aid kit. I had hoped I would find a crutch or cane to help me walk. No such luck, darn it. I began to worry that if MMax had been on the plane, he had left with the other survivors.

  The rain had stopped, and I looked around on the ground for footprints. There were dozens of rain-filled prints, and to my surprise, there were over a dozen 9-mm shell casings and a few 12 gauge shotgun shell casings on the ground. I turned my view back to the wreckage, and sure enough, there were bullet holes in the fuselage. There had been a gunfight, which might explain why I had been abandoned. The question that circled around in my little brain was – who would shoot at a bunch of wounded soldiers?

  A vision of Maria lying dead after being shot seared my mind. I would kill anyone who hurt her.

  I could see another large section of the plane and several large containers east of my position. That section was larger than the part I was in and might have something I needed. But first, I needed a crutch. I couldn’t find anything suitable inside the plane, so I stood in the opening, looking out into the woods for something. The plane had cut a swath through the woods and knocked hundreds of trees and saplings to the ground when it plowed into the ground and slid. I saw several small trees that might work as a crutch.

  I took the Leatherman from my pocket, selected the saw blade, and then wondered how long it would take to cut through a two-inch-thick limb. I found the armor that I’d made from the pod lining, and covered myself from my chest down. Crawling was the only way I could make it to the small tree without falling down a dozen times.

  Looking around the wreckage and surrounding forest reminded me that I was lost. There was nothing to indicate where the hell I was on the face of the Earth. The trees were high enough that a mountain could be close by, and I wouldn’t see it. My mind wandered back to my Army escape and evasion training, but nothing jumped out and told me where I was presently located. I saw oak, maple, redbud, and dogwood trees. That gave me some hope that I was close to home. All of those trees were indigenous to Middle Tennessee. Then I thought, “Which way will I head when I try to walk out of here? The wrong direction could have me lost for weeks. I need to give this some thought.”

  I took another hydrocodone and lowered myself to the bottom of the fuselage. I’ll never be able to forget the pain, but I kept thinking about finding MMax. I prayed he was in the other piece of the plane. I also thought a lot about seeing my fellow soldiers who’d survived the blast. As I crawled along through the wet grass and mud, I wondered if any of them had been on the plane. I kept my mind off my pain and kept pulling and pushing myself along, in the direction of the sapling. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the downed tree.

  I chose a section with a branch sticking out for a handhold and a V made by another branch that was the right distance away to fit under my arm. Then I made a wild-ass guess as to how long to make my crutch below the handhold. I spied a spot on the trunk of the sapling and pulled it to me as I sat up. Sawing on the two-inch thick section of the tree was easier than I’d thought. Placing it under my left thigh and over my right thigh allowed me to clamp down on it with my left leg. I sawed one side, then rolled it a quarter turn, and sawed again. I did this twice more, and the thicker trunk fell away. I thought, “This survival stuff is a piece of cake.”

  Using the new crutch, I was able to get to my knees, then pulled myself up to my one good foot. I tucked the V under my arm and quickly learned why crutches have padding on the top. Carefully using my crutch under my right arm, I made my way back to my piece of the wreckage. After resting, I took the armor from my body and used the rolled up padding to pad the top of the crutch. It might have looked crappy, but it fits under my arm and kept the edges from rubbing my arm raw. Every time I felt the pain and began to feel sorry for myself, I thought about Maria and the others. Had they been shot or captured? Then I wondered by who and why?

  Hunger came over me, so I used the blade from the Leatherman to shave off slivers of freeze-dried pork and stick them in my cheek. I was able to get several pieces past my back wisdom teeth. I nearly choked on them until my tongue moved them from my throat. I chopped up the next part until it was almost powder and mixed it into a paste by adding some water. By continuing to make the paste mixture, I was able to eat the entire MRE in forty-five minutes.

  The whole time I tried to eat, I thought about how I was going to remove the wire holding my lower jaw closed, and how long to wait before removing it. I pulled out the bottle of Hydrocodone from my pocket and thought. “I don’t know when or how, but I do know I’ll need a handful of these pills when I remove the wire.”

  I realized I would have to find another person to take the wires from my jaw because the painkillers will make me dizzy and my hands unsteady. Who would want a man spaced out on pills to cut and pull the wire from your gums? It dawned on me that I didn’t know what I was talking about, and hadn’t even seen the wires. I grabbed one of the shaving kits and found a mirror. I was afraid to look for a few seconds, then peeked. I looked like I had braces. There were metal things glued to my teeth, and rubber bands were laced up and down around them. The wire wasn’t pushed through my gums, as I’d feared. Well, hell, what did you expect? I’m not a doctor, just a mud grunt in the Army. Now I knew I could remove the rubber bands from my teeth any time I wanted.

  What I didn’t know was how to get the metal pieces from my teeth. Crap. I’ll cross that bridge later. I didn’t know where I was. However, I was pretty darned sure I was somewhere on the eastern side of the USA. I just felt I had to be west of the Appalachian Mountains. The plane was flying southeast toward Nashville, and I remember one of the crew mentioning it wouldn’t be long until we landed. Reflecting back, I realize at that time, I had no facts supporting where I thought I was, and only had hope. If I was correct, my home and my mom weren’t far away. My mom was a nurse, and she should know what to do about my broken jaw.

  As I ate, I kept eyeing the three containers between the two large chunks of wreckage. I planned to check them out on my way to the other part of the fuselage. I finished the last of what might have been dried apricots and steeled myself for the walk. The crutch was handy to help me stand up and having accomplished that, I picked up an empty duffel bag and headed to the first container. It was only twenty-three steps away, but my body felt every step. The medicine dulled the pain enough to endure the walk, but not by much. I bent over enough to pull the latch open and was dismayed to see a bunch of medical supplies. I found more pain medicine, bandages, and antibiotics, so it wasn’t all bad.

  The next one made me happy. Anyway, it gave me hope because it contained my friend Murph or Private William A Murphy. This gave me hope he was still alive. I saw footprints going away from the pod, but also saw more empty shell casings.

  I desperately wanted to find MMax. “Mauks, Mauks,” I yelled in my muffled and screwed-up voice. I kept yelling for MMax while I kept looking.

  ***

  MMax was very groggy and didn’t feel any pain when he tried to open his eyes. He whimpered and fell back asleep several times until he heard a noise coming from outside his pod. His ears perked up when he heard something bump against the pod, and then heard a human voice say, “Mucks, Mucks.” It wasn’t his name, but he listened to the voice. It almost sounded like Jason, but wasn’t him.

  MMax opened his eyes and only saw the blackness of the inside of the pod. MMax was scared for one of the few times in his life. The first was when he had woken up after surgery and couldn’t hear or smell his man, Jason. The pod smelled like the operating room with pungent odors, not at all like the odors from his sweaty human or from the place where he protected Jason and the other humans. That place smelled a lot like dog poop mixed with dirt.

  MMax suddenly remembered the explosion and pain. He wondered if his man was gone. The woman who had raised him was gone after she had handed him to Jason. He still missed being
a puppy and playing on her farm. He wondered if all humans just went away.

  MMax heard something move again and gave a warning bark that said, “Get away or I’ll bite your silly ass.” Then MMax growled. “Grrrrrrr.”

  ***

  The third container was empty. It was evident to me that someone had opened it and taken the contents. I was pissed, but had to remember the ones who left me behind probably thought I was dead. The walk to the fourth container was over seventy-five steps and wore me out. I sat down on the top of the container when suddenly, I felt something bumping the top from the inside. I jumped to my feet and promptly fell to my ass when my left foot gave way. I used my crutch to tap on the side of the container and could hear something tapping back, and then something that almost sounded like a growl.

  I thought, “Damn, it looks like a pod, but can’t be. The Army doesn’t have midgets or kids.”

  Then like the dumbass I was, it took a minute to sink in, and I rushed to open the pod. I popped the two latches, and the top sprung up and away. There in front of me was my MMax. The pod was a K9 pod.

  I tried to say, “MMax” several times, but it sounded more like, “Muunaak or MeeaanK.” I finally said, “Gooood Boyeee.”

  I said, “Good Boy,” again, bent down to my knees, and hugged MMax. He was a bit groggy, but his ears perked up at the sound of my voice. He was very excited, but was held down by webbing. His face had the typical MMax expression for – ‘What the heck is going on?’ He licked my face and tried to get up. I stroked his fur and rubbed his ears while I checked out his wounds. His legs and paws were okay, but his torso was wrapped with bandages.