Soldier Dogs #3

by Marcus Sutter

  “The map you found is important,” the commander told Dawson. “Good job, Marine.”

  “That wasn’t me, sir,” Dawson said. “It was Stryker.”

  “He’s the marine I was talking to.” A faint smile flashed on the older man’s craggy face. “Looks like the Japanese are planning to hit us from the peninsula and the jungle at the same time.”

  “Catching us in the middle,” Dawson said.

  “One massive charge.” The commander nodded. “Trying to knock us off the island. Trying to kill every marine on Guam. We don’t expect the Japanese to attack soon. But when this turns ugly, it’ll turn ugly fast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to send a message through enemy territory, to our men on the ridge. Their radios are down, and their lines are cut.”

  “A written message?”

  “That’s right, Dawson. But not in English.”

  Dawson tilted his head, so Stryker tilted his head too. “No?”

  “If the Japanese catch our messenger, they might be able to read English. That’s why we’re going with a backup plan. You’ve heard of code talkers?”

  Dawson shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “They’re Navajo marines who talk to each other in a code based on the Navajo language, giving secret information over the radio. Even if the enemy intercepts the message, they can’t understand a word.”

  “But there’s no radio on the ridge . . .”

  “Exactly. That’s why we’re sending a paper message. Still, we’ll use code.” The man gestured, and a new human stepped forward. “Dawson, this is Carmen Cruz.”

  The new human was short, with a lot of straight, glossy, black hair. Also, he didn’t reek like unwashed clothes and stale sweat. Stryker sniffed more deeply and realized that the new person was female! Stryker hadn’t met a female human in a long time.

  Neither had Dawson. He cleared his throat and said, “Miss.”

  “Miss Cruz is Chamorro,” the old man said.

  “Yes, sir.” After a pause, Dawson said, “Um, I’m not sure what that means.”

  “I’m from Guam,” the woman explained. “I live here. I was here when the Japanese came, and I’ll be here after they’re gone.”

  Her voice was soft—but it was strong. Stryker knew dogs like that; they didn’t bark and snarl, but only a fool took their quietness for weakness.

  So he wagged at her.

  Dawson said, “Stryker likes you. He doesn’t usually take to new people.”

  “He’s a beauty,” the woman said, holding her hand out for Stryker to sniff.

  Stryker already knew what she smelled like, but he was polite enough to sniff anyway.

  “There’s a radioman on the ridge,” the older man told Dawson. “His gear doesn’t work, but he’s Chamorro too. He’ll be able to read the message Miss Cruz writes.”

  “And none of the Japanese will,” the woman said. “If they catch your dog.”

  Dawson put a hand on Stryker’s head, his fingers firm at the base of one of Stryker’s ears. He didn’t say anything.

  “We’re sending two messenger dogs,” the commander said. “Yours and Ramirez’s. They both know Epstein—he’s the handler with the men on the ridge. They’ll track their way to him, with a little guidance from you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson said. “If Stryker and Boomer can’t do it, it can’t be done.”

  Chapter 11

  When the glow of the sentry’s cigarette shifted toward Bo, his nerve broke. All the horrors he’d heard about during the Japanese occupation rose in his memory. All the beatings he’d witnessed appeared again in front of his eyes, and he heard the crack of Two Ears’s rifle butt against Luis’s face.

  Keeping his head bowed, Bo scurried back toward the river. The sentry didn’t see him, but the fear remained.

  He’d failed. He’d tried to be brave—but he’d failed. He slouched back toward the lean-to, slipping past groups of shivering children.

  “Bo!” Teresita turned from a farmer she’d been talking to. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Bo swallowed. “What’re you doing?”

  “Trying to find my aunt. She’s probably in one of the other camps, though.”

  “Same with my family, I guess.”

  “There’s no food.” Teresita looked toward the main group of Japanese soldiers. “How long are they going to keep us here?”

  Bo shrugged. “I don’t know. Um, is Luis with your sisters?”

  “Uh-huh. The baby is crying, and I . . .” Teresita chewed on her lower lip. “I can’t listen to her. She’s so hungry and there’s nothing to give her. I don’t know what to do. I can’t—”

  “There’s a banana tree!” Bo blurted. “I saw a banana tree.”

  Teresita’s face brightened. “Where?”

  “Just outside the edge of camp. Past the sentries.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Show me.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Bo didn’t want to admit he was afraid. “There’s a guard in the jungle.”

  “Just show me!” she said, rising to her full height, which was about an inch shorter than his.

  As Bo led her back toward the edge of the camp, he saw a young woman comforting a handful of crying kids.

  Teresita squeezed his arm. “Don’t look. We need to focus on one thing, okay?”

  “O-okay,” he said, looking away.

  “We’ll find the banana tree. One thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll grab the bananas. One thing. Then we’ll bring them to the kids.”

  He smiled shakily. “That’s three things.”

  “Ha.” She squeezed his arm again. “But only one at a time.”

  When they reached the edge of the camp, Bo nodded in the direction of the banana tree. “It’s in there. How about . . . you stay here and keep watch?”

  She snorted. “They’re my sisters. You stay here. Cough if you see anything.”

  “Okay,” he said, hating the relief that washed over him.

  Teresita crept into the woods. A moment before the shadows swallowed her, she looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she gave a little smile and wave.

  Then she vanished into the darkness.

  Bo scanned for the red glow of a cigarette. He strained his ears for the sound of sentries. Only a few seconds passed, but each one felt like an hour. He exhaled carefully and tried to relax and—there!

  He saw motion between the trees. Oh no! Was it soldiers? Was it sentries?

  No. It was Teresita! And she had a smile on her face and a handful of bananas in her hands!

  He almost called to her. Heck, he almost laughed—then he heard boots crunching across the jungle floor, and the jingle of military gear.

  Bo’s heart stopped beating. He spun toward the soldiers—and saw that one of them was Two Ears.

  Behind the soldiers, Teresita froze. The light of dawn illuminated the fear and horror on her face.

  Two Ears and the other soldier turned in her direction. If Bo didn’t do something, they’d spot her for sure!

  So Bo coughed, as loud as he could.

  Except his throat was so dry, that instead of a loud cough, it sounded more like a sigh: hwoooo.

  And the soldiers didn’t hear him! They moved closer to Teresita’s hiding place.

  “Hey!” Bo heard himself shout in Japanese. “Hey, Two Ears!”

  “Who’s that?” Two Ears barked, spinning toward him.

  “Why do they call you that?” Bo asked, his pulse pounding. “Everyone’s got two ears.”

  Two Ears’s face contorted with hatred as he and the other sentry shoved through the jungle. They overlooked Teresita completely . . . and headed right for Bo.

  Chapter 12

  Dawson attached a pack to Stryker’s harness containing medical equipment and ammunition. “Just in case they’re running low on supplies.”

  Stryker twitched
his coat, getting used to the weight.

  “Run quick, boy,” Dawson told Stryker. “Run smart.”

  Stryker knew his handler was worried about him. He put a paw on Dawson’s arm.

  Dawson pressed his forehead to Stryker’s. “Just come back.”

  Then he inserted a note into the pouch of the messenger collar, which he strapped around Stryker’s neck. Once in this uniform, Stryker ignored everything but Dawson. He’d focus on the message until it was delivered.

  He took his place beside Boomer and Ramirez. A quick glance and a deep sniff told Stryker everything he needed to know: Boomer was strong, loyal, and ready.

  He was fast too—but not as fast as Stryker.

  He let his tongue loll from his mouth, teasing his friend a little, and he heard Boomer shift beside him. He was carrying his own message and getting ready to run—to try to beat Stryker.

  The humans led them along the paths that ran closer to the battlefront. A grenade exploded in the jungle far ahead, and a scream ripped through the dawn. Rifle fire cracked and cracked again. There was a gasp and a boom.

  Stryker felt his hackles rise as they moved closer to the battle. Closer to the sharp jaws of war.

  Medics passed them from farther along the path, carrying injured marines on stretchers toward the distant hospital. Stryker followed Dawson off the path, through filthy, muddy trenches that stank of blood and worse.

  After a short time, they reached what the humans called “the front.” It was a ragged boundary that ran through the jungle at the base of a hill, dotted with trenches and foxholes. As they got closer, the noise turned thunderous, deafening. Men shouted, and Dawson almost had to crawl to avoid getting shot.

  Staying low, Dawson led Stryker toward the leafy crown of a fallen tree.

  “Report!” Dawson told Stryker. “Report to Epstein.”

  Stryker knew Epstein. He knew his scent. They’d trained together, Epstein and Dawson and Ramirez, alongside Boomer and Stryker. Those three humans were the most important landmarks in Stryker’s mind. He’d learned to race from one to another, bringing supplies or messages. Now when the marines needed a quick, strong warrior to travel through dangerous territory, they sent a war dog from one trainer to another.

  Ramirez told the same to Boomer, and the dogs started running.

  Stryker zigged one direction, Boomer zagged the other.

  Keeping low.

  Running fast.

  A sniper’s bullet whined past Stryker’s ear. He heard the chunk of impact behind him.

  He was afraid for Dawson, but he kept running. Keeping to the underbrush. Trying to stay covered, trying to stay ahead of the enemy, though he sensed them all around.

  The Japanese were charging. Dozens of soldiers, maybe hundreds, poured out of trenches and jungle barricades. They fired wildly and swarmed toward the American foxholes on the front.

  Answering fire dropped them—but not quickly enough. The Japanese attackers kept screaming, they kept advancing!

  Stryker zigged and zagged until he was out of range of the gunfire.

  He was about to spin around—to return to his mission—when he heard something. Two men were fighting in a foxhole nearby. One carried the familiar smells of Stryker’s marine camp. The other didn’t.

  Stryker zigged again, pricking his ears to track the sound. A bullet nicked the bag strapped to his shoulder, tugging him sideways, but he didn’t slow.

  A member of his pack was in trouble!

  He launched himself into a foxhole and landed on the back of a Japanese soldier. The enemy had been standing over a marine with a bleeding arm, about to stab him with a bayonet like a long fang.

  The Japanese soldier stumbled when Stryker hit him, shouting in surprise.

  Stryker slammed into the wall of the foxhole, panting and dizzy. He tumbled to the muddy ground. Before he could scramble to his paws, the enemy soldier loomed over him.

  Chapter 13

  Two Ears’s bayonet glinted in the dim dawn light as he stomped toward Bo. His boots crushed twigs and splashed in mud.

  The murder in his eyes terrified Bo. He was about to die. He was going to die right here in this muddy patch of jungle.

  Then a quick cough cut through the patter of rain. It was Teresita!

  The soldiers paused for a heartbeat. They glanced over their shoulders before refocusing on Bo.

  But that tiny pause was enough to save Bo’s life.

  He took off running. Leaves slapped his face, and branches snagged his arms. His feet splashed in mud as he tripped over roots and rocks.

  He heard Two Ears close behind him, swearing and slashing with his bayonet.

  Bo slipped on a slimy patch of leaves. He hit the ground hard, rolled onto his hands and feet—then stopped.

  He could hear Two Ears shouldering through a thicket a few feet away. Frozen in terror, Bo waited for the shout—or the bayonet—but nothing happened.

  Two Ears couldn’t see him in the dark shadows. Instead, the soldier lifted his head and scanned the jungle.

  A voice from lower on the hill shouted in Japanese, “Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet,” Two Ears answered. “But I will.”

  Bo shivered at the words, then crawled slowly away. His pulse spiked at the sound of every crinkling leaf and snapping twig. The fear made him dizzy, but he kept going until he reached a clearing overlooking the overcrowded Chamorro camp.

  He blinked at the sight in front of him. A half-dozen Japanese soldiers stood around a tall object covered in waterproof canvas. They hadn’t noticed him. They weren’t even looking in his direction.

  “. . . the Americans are still advancing,” one said in a low voice.

  Another grunted. “We’ll stop them on the coast.”

  “As long as they don’t get any help from the natives.” A third soldier rested a hand on the tall object. “And they won’t. We’ve got them surrounded by these . . .”

  Careful not to move too fast, Bo wiped mud and water from his eyes. He looked more closely at the object, and his blood chilled.

  It was a machine gun.

  The Chamorros in the valley camp were surrounded by machine guns because the Japanese were worried that they’d join forces with the Americans.

  Which meant the Japanese would massacre the Chamorros to keep them from fighting. They’d kill them all, from the oldest grandmother to the youngest baby.

  Crouched there in the darkness, Bo felt cold, hungry, and terrified. But despite his fear, for once he knew exactly what he needed to do. And he knew he wouldn’t hesitate, no matter how scared he got.

  He needed to sneak through the jungle toward the battle. Toward the sound of the guns and shells.

  He needed to tell the Americans what was happening.

  Chapter 14

  Stryker struggled to his paws. He bared his teeth and snarled—but the Japanese soldier in the foxhole swung his rifle like a club.

  An instant before the blow landed, the marine with the bleeding arm jabbed the enemy from behind with a shovel.

  Then he slammed the soldier’s knee with the metal blade.

  With an angry snarl, the Japanese soldier tried to point his rifle at the marine, but his knee buckled. The marine pulled him into a scuffle on the muddy ground. The fight was ugly, breathless, and desperate.

  And it was over in a moment.

  The marine winced at his wounded arm. He’d lost his helmet during the fight, and his light hair surprised Stryker. A strange color for a coat.

  “You okay?” the man asked, looking at Stryker.

  Stryker shook himself. His legs felt strong and his ears sharp.

  “Of course you are. You’re a marine.”

  Stryker licked the man’s bleeding arm. You need to lick wounds so they heal. Everyone knew that—except humans.

  “Get off me, pup,” the light-haired marine said, pushing Stryker away—and giving him a pat at the same time. “This is no time for kissing.”

  Stryker licke
d him again.

  The man snorted and pushed himself to his feet. “Okay, pup. We’re not done yet.”

  The battle wasn’t over. Stryker waited for a break in the gunfire. He needed to deliver his message. He climbed to the edge of the foxhole, digging his claws into the sloping earth. He could hear the crunch of debris beneath enemy boots.

  They were stalking closer to the foxhole.

  Stryker pointed his snout in the direction of the threat, going perfectly still.

  The light-haired marine glanced at him. “You sure about that, pup?”

  Stryker didn’t move a muscle.

  The man took a breath—then in one motion he straightened and fired. The crack of the shot stung Stryker’s ears, but he still heard the enemy soldier fall.

  The marine grunted in satisfaction. “We have to get out of this foxhole. We’re out here on our lonesome. I don’t know what your excuse is. I got separated from my—”

  Stryker ignored him and listened to the sounds of the enemy gathering. He needed to find Epstein and complete his mission. He scrambled onto the battlefield, zigzagging through clouds of smoke. The smell pricked at his nose.

  Behind him, he heard the light-haired man climb from the foxhole and start running just before a grenade exploded, throwing dirt and rocks everywhere.

  The light-haired marine raced for cover. Stryker ran in the other direction. He needed to keep moving until he smelled Epstein.

  He flashed through the jungle and burst into a clearing. Not the safest place to be. He needed to—

  The earth spat at him! Machine gun fire was tracking toward him!

  Stryker leaped and turned in the air. He landed and launched himself forward, faster than any human. Faster than any of the other war dogs—speeding closer and closer to the safety of the underbrush.

  He couldn’t outrun a machine gun. The bullets tore into the earth behind him. He knew that the next ones would strike him before he reached cover.

  Still, he was a marine. He never gave up. He just ran faster: loyal to his mission, to his handler, to his pack.

  Enemy rounds burned through the air directly at Stryker.