Soldier Dogs #3

by Marcus Sutter

  Crack! Crack! The worn wood shuddered and split.

  With a dull snap, a fence board broke. There was nothing between Dawson and the enemy bullets.

  Chapter 5

  Bo watched in horror as Two Ears spun his rifle and slugged Luis in the face with the butt. “No questions!” he barked.

  Luis stumbled a few steps, blood dripping from his mouth. Nobody else asked where they were going.

  The Chamorro men and boys just walked along, hunched and afraid, until the dirt path joined with a wider road. That’s when Bo heard the murmur of voices. Hundreds of voices. More Chamorros, packing the road. Men and women, young and old.

  They looked dusty and tired, wearing tattered clothes. And they were being forced to keep marching by more Japanese soldiers.

  With his heart in his throat, Bo joined the crowd stumbling along the road. He looked for his family—his parents or sister or even just his cousins—but he didn’t see any familiar faces.

  The group was heading southward. Most of them were walking—or limping—but some rode in carts pulled by carabao or water buffalo. Nobody knew where they were going except the Japanese soldiers riding in a military car called a Yonki.

  Then Bo spotted his mother.

  She was standing with her back turned, huddled close to a bunch of other Chamorros. Warmth spread in his chest as he ran to her.

  “Mom!” he said, grabbing her arm. “Mom!”

  But when the woman turned, she wasn’t Bo’s mother. She didn’t even look that much like her. Tears sprang to Bo’s eyes. He wanted to give up, right there. He wanted to fall to the ground and never take another step.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman pressed a small hard papaya into Bo’s hand. “Here. Your mom would want you to have this.”

  A Yonki horn blared, and a Japanese soldier yelled, “Keep moving! No talking!”

  The crowd scattered—it was rare that an Imperial Japanese soldier only gave a warning. Bo lost sight of the woman in the chaos but almost bumped into Luis.

  “Are you okay?” Bo asked.

  “Just banged up,” Luis said, his voice slurred from his bloody lip. “Did they say where they’re leading us?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Stick close to them and see if you can overhear anything.”

  Bo didn’t want to get too close to the Japanese soldiers. He wanted to be brave like Luis, though, so he said, “Okay.”

  As he inched closer, he could hear them talking, but he couldn’t make out most of the words. His Japanese was just schoolroom stuff.

  The Chamorros marched for hours, until the sun set through the trees. The old and the weak struggled, but they were too afraid of getting beaten to fall behind.

  Bo saw a girl about his age, carrying a baby on her hip and holding a toddler’s hand. She looked exhausted, with her hair plastered to her sweaty cheeks. Still, she tried to smile every time she looked down at the toddler.

  By that time, Bo’s feet were aching and his stomach throbbed with hunger. He felt like he was about to collapse, and he wasn’t even holding a baby! He didn’t know how the girl was still standing.

  He staggered forward until he caught up with her. “Do you want me to look after one of the little ones?”

  She eyed him warily. She didn’t answer for five or six steps. The baby’s head bobbed against her chest. “No. Thank you.”

  The toddler tugged her arm. “I’m hungry.”

  “I know, neni,” the girl said.

  Bo didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he gave the girl the papaya he’d tucked into his shirt. “Here, for your brother.”

  “My sister,” the girl said. “Thanks.”

  Bo nodded.

  “I’m Teresita,” the girl said.

  “Ramón,” he told her. “I’m from outside Agat. Everyone calls me Bo.”

  She told him where she was from, a little village that he’d barely heard of. She said that she’d been in the fields the previous day when the Japanese rounded up everyone in her village and started them marching.

  “I lost my parents,” she told him.

  Bo didn’t know if she meant that they’d died, and he was afraid to ask. Maybe she just couldn’t find them.

  After a few feet, the toddler took Bo’s hand. Bo squeezed back. He was still hungry and afraid, but at least he wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 6

  Another fence board snapped in half!

  Stryker leaped at Dawson. He knocked his human away from the bullets, putting himself in the line of fire.

  The rounds tracked closer. One smashed into a broken board two strides from Stryker. Three more dug holes in the ground right in front of his paws and—

  The enemy fire stopped at the blast of grenades on the other side of the field. The rest of the marine pack had reached the Japanese!

  “Stupid dog,” Dawson said, pulling Stryker to safety. “Don’t do that.”

  Stryker wagged, enjoying the praise—then listened carefully. It sounded like his pack had won the fight.

  By the time he and Dawson joined the other marines, the enemy soldiers were all gone.

  “If they’d caught us in the open,” the deep-voiced marine said, “it would’ve been curtains.”

  The scruffy-cheeked marine slapped the leader on the back. “You still think the mutt’s a waste of rations?”

  “He can eat my dinner any day,” the leader said. “Good boy, Stryker. Good boy!”

  Stryker ignored him. He had work to do. At Dawson’s command, he scouted deeper into the jungle. Ears pricked and nostrils flaring, he prowled toward the top of the hill Dawson and the rest of the pack needed to claim.

  The jungle muffled the sound of battle. A warm breeze brought a scent that reminded Stryker of fresh-cut grass, of a lawnmower growling in front of a tidy house, of wrestling in the yard with his boy. Stryker remembered his first home, the family that raised him as a puppy before he’d joined the military.

  But he wasn’t a puppy anymore. He tilted his head toward a faint scent coming from a tangled thicket. It smelled like the traces that remained after the enemy left—except why was it coming from a thicket?

  “What’s wrong?” the scruffy-cheeked marine whispered to Dawson.

  “I don’t know. He usually sits for a land mine and points for enemy soldiers.”

  “Send him in.”

  “He’s not trained to flush out the enemy.”

  “Saving our butts is his job,” the pack leader said.

  Dawson took a breath. “Yeah.”

  Stryker didn’t understand the words, but he guessed Dawson was trying to protect him. Which was silly. In a fight, you don’t protect your strongest pack member.

  You use him.

  And that’s what Dawson did. He gestured, telling Stryker to enter the thicket.

  Stryker didn’t hesitate—even when pointy leaves and sharp twigs snagged his coat and scratched his nose. He crouched low and pushed forward, toward the scent.

  After a minute, he found a sheet of paper caught on a thorny bush that smelled like the enemy. Stryker didn’t know exactly what Dawson wanted, so he decided to fetch. He grabbed the paper in his mouth and crawled back to his pack.

  “It’s a map!” Dawson said.

  “Looks recent,” the pack leader said. “Too bad I don’t read Japanese.”

  “You barely read English,” the scruffy-cheeked marine said.

  When the men laughed, Stryker heard their relief. They had taken the hill without losing anyone—yet.

  Chapter 7

  Bo stumbled along the road with Teresita. His arms ached from holding the sleeping toddler to his shoulder. His eyes felt gritty from exhaustion.

  Still, he kept walking until a bright light washed across him from up ahead.

  Headlights.

  Japanese soldiers shouted, and a jolt of fear roused Bo from his daze. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “They say we’re here,” Teresita said.

  “Where?
”

  “Just . . . here.”

  As Bo passed the line of Yonkis, he heard the murmur of voices. When his eyes adjusted to the moonlit jungle, he couldn’t believe the sight in front of him.

  Thousands of Chamorros packed the area. They’d been forced to gather in this jungle valley, and some of them looked like they’d been there for days, or even weeks.

  Families huddled miserably together. Some slept beneath carts or in makeshift tents made from tangantangan branches and coconut leaves.

  The whole place was teeming with people. It reminded Bo of the ants he’d find beneath a damp log. And around them all, Japanese soldiers patrolled, keeping everyone in place.

  Bo felt suddenly sick. “Why? Why take us all here?”

  “You saw the American planes last month,” a voice said behind him.

  Bo spun. “Luis!”

  “And you heard the American navy pounding the Japanese defenses,” Luis continued. “The Japanese are rounding us up because they’re afraid we’ll rise up and join the Americans.”

  “They’re right to be afraid,” Teresita said.

  Bo didn’t want to say that he was afraid, too. Instead, he sat with the kids while Teresita and Luis stripped leaves from a tree. He helped them make a small, unsteady lean-to, then they all crowded inside. At least they were out of the drizzle.

  “I’m hungry,” the little one said. “And the baby needs a banana.”

  “We all need bananas,” Teresita said, taking the sleeping infant from Bo.

  When the rain slacked, Bo heard voices all around the lean-to speaking in Chamorro. The sound soothed him—until two rifle shots echoed across the encampment.

  A terrified silence fell.

  Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, waiting for more shots.

  Bo felt his empty stomach clench . . . but nothing happened.

  Eventually, Luis crawled outside to gather more leaves for their shelter. The baby woke and cried from hunger. Teresita rocked her while she told the toddler a story.

  Bo went to look for his family. He liked Teresita and Luis, but he needed his mom and dad—or even just his sister.

  He wandered through the camp, amazed by the size of the crowd—young and old, weak and strong, sick and healthy. All without food, without shelter, surrounded by armed guards in the jungle.

  He didn’t find his parents.

  He saw two of his sister’s friends, though. His sister was shy, but her friends were loud and bold. Except now they were shaking and crying. That scared Bo so much that he scurried away without speaking to them.

  Bo searched for his family for an hour before he gave up.

  Sniffling a little, he retraced his steps through the dark camp to the lean-to with Luis and Teresita. They made room for him and didn’t ask if he’d found his parents. They already knew the answer.

  Chapter 8

  After the pack finished securing the hilltop, Dawson and Stryker backtracked to their base with the map they’d found. They carefully made their way down the hill and across the jungle to the beach again with Stryker in the lead.

  “You’re some dog,” Dawson said. “Hunting down enemy documents.”

  Stryker twitched one ear, recognizing the tone as warm but not urgent.

  “Unless it’s actually a shopping list.”

  Stryker glanced at Dawson. Humans did so much pointless yapping!

  “Or a takeout menu,” Dawson continued, scratching Stryker’s head.

  Stryker licked Dawson’s wrist, and he smelled everywhere Dawson had been since waking up that morning.

  “Those D-rations aren’t quite cutting it,” Dawson said.

  Stryker led his yapping person along a track that stank of gasoline and tanks. In a few minutes they had reached the bustling base where marines shouted and jogged, slept and ate.

  Dawson left Stryker in a stuffy tent with Boomer and Ramirez and went to report about the map.

  Stryker gave the air a quick sniff. Ramirez smelled of stale sweat and singed hair. Lying beside him, Boomer smelled satisfied. He gave his stumpy tail a few smug wags when Stryker approached. He must’ve delivered the message and kept his people safe.

  Stryker plopped down beside Boomer and panted loudly, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth. He’d spotted an ambush, fetched a map, and kept his people safe.

  Boomer rolled onto his side and pressed a paw against Stryker’s leg.

  Stryker nudged Boomer and gave him a friendly nuzzle hello. Even in the sweat-and-mud-scented tent, Boomer’s scent changed to one of warm friendship and unquestioned trust.

  Stryker knew that his own scent carried the same message, and when Ramirez offered food, he and Boomer ate together, shoulder to shoulder.

  When Dawson returned from delivering the map, he checked Stryker’s paws for cuts or scratches, then ran his hands over Stryker’s coat. Dawson’s tongue was so stubby that he needed to use his fingers to groom his packmates.

  Silly human.

  Finally, Dawson crawled into his fabric den to sleep while Stryker lay outside, his muzzle on his forepaw, alert for any danger.

  The stink of gunpowder in the air didn’t alarm him. The shells exploding in the south and the machine gun firing on the other side of the ridge didn’t bother him either.

  They were dangers, but not immediate ones.

  His people were safe behind him in case the enemy mounted a surprise attack.

  They knew he’d hear anything long before they would. He’d smell the enemy before the humans even heard them. Then he’d warn them.

  His people slept easy, knowing Stryker was on the job.

  Star shells burst overhead, turning the dark night to daylight. Stryker kept his gaze down. He didn’t need light. He dozed, though he knew he’d wake at the sound of danger, even one too soft for humans to hear.

  And sure enough, a few hours before dawn, Stryker heard the jingle of gear—weapons and a canteen. Footsteps ran closer, quick and intent.

  Then a stranger burst into sight—heading straight for Dawson’s tent.

  Chapter 9

  Unfamiliar faces loomed around Bo in the predawn gloom of the encampment. A cold mist drifted between the leafless coconut trees and the ramshackle lean-tos. The gurgle of the river sounded like sobbing.

  Bo rubbed his neck as he passed an exhausted-looking father rocking a child in his arms. Just past him, two women crouched around the embers of a forbidden fire, trying to cook something. They glanced at Bo nervously; there wasn’t enough food for their own family, and they were afraid he’d ask them to share.

  He didn’t.

  He stumbled past, yawning. He’d woken a few minutes earlier, damp and tired and achy. Then he’d disentangled himself from Teresita’s sister and headed outside. He needed to pee.

  He crossed the camp, stunned by the sheer number of people the Japanese had crammed into the river valley. There were thousands of them, without food, without shelter, surrounded by armed guards.

  Bo slipped between lean-tos and carts, creeping around the slumped forms sleeping in the open. Snores and weeping rose around him.

  At the edge of the camp, he spotted two sentries leaning against a tree. Just standing there, watching the Chamorros. Making sure that nobody tried to escape the camp. Even though they weren’t doing anything, Bo scurried onward until they couldn’t see him.

  There were more sentries in the jungle, though. He could smell their cigarette smoke. If they caught him too far from the camp, they’d beat him bloody.

  All he wanted was to go to the bathroom! He sidled around a tree, but the voices in the camp still sounded close.

  Bo felt self-conscious, so he took another step into the jungle, then one more. He stepped into the shelter of a high boulder, took care of business—and that’s when he saw it.

  A banana tree.

  A skinny, sickly-looking banana tree, twenty feet uphill from him. Still, three or four of the bananas in the sad-looking bunch looked edible.

  B
o risked one step toward the tree, then stopped. If the sentries spotted him, they’d think he was trying to escape. They’d kill him for sure.

  Except Teresita needed food for her sisters.

  Standing in the shadows, Bo took a shaky breath. He tried to gather his courage, even if there wasn’t much there to gather.

  Okay. He could do this. He needed to do this. With the chatter of the camp behind him, he took a step forward. Then another step, and—

  Bo froze.

  A dull red dot floated in the darkness higher on the hillside! It was the burning tip of a cigarette. Which meant a Japanese sentry was standing only twenty feet away, ready to attack any Chamorro who tried to escape.

  The glowing ember of cigarette didn’t move, though: the sentry hadn’t spotted him.

  Fear deadened Bo’s legs and numbed his fingers. He needed to get the bananas, but the sentry was too close.

  Though maybe if he moved slow as a snail, the sentry wouldn’t spot him.

  Bo held his breath and shifted his weight in the darkness. He felt the soft ground give under his foot. He inhaled slowly, shakily, and—

  The red ember in the darkness swayed toward him!

  Chapter 10

  Stryker raised his hackles warily, but he didn’t attack the stranger rushing at Dawson’s tent. The stranger was a fellow marine, a skinny human who smelled of canned meat.

  Still, Stryker watched carefully just in case.

  The marine woke Dawson, then said, “Your dog is staring at me.”

  “Don’t worry about him.” Dawson pulled on his boots. “He’s just hungry.”

  The marine stepped back. “What?”

  “I’m kidding! I promise Stryker won’t go for your throat.” Dawson yawned. “He prefers leg meat.”

  “Very funny,” the marine said. “C’mon, the colonel wants you. Bring the dog.”

  Dawson attached the patrol collar to Stryker: time to work. The two of them crossed the camp, past foxholes and tents and gun emplacements.

  In a big tent, Dawson talked to one of the commanders, older and slower humans who mostly stayed away from the fight. Stryker stood by his side.