He limped into the marsh. The boy followed, wading through the muck. The rotten-egg stink filled Stryker’s nostrils and the mud coated his legs and clung to his belly fur.
The boy grumbled and whined as the sun moved through the sky overhead. Poor humans. They were good at reaching things in high branches, but other than that they couldn’t manage much by themselves.
On the other side of the marsh, Stryker headed for higher, drier ground.
“Is this the way home?” the boy asked. “Home? We’re going home?”
Stryker sniffed the air, and a faint thread of scent caught his attention. It smelled like home to him, dry and safe. He started through the jungle, walking mostly on three legs and keeping the wounded fourth leg curled under as blood matted his fur. The sun was getting lower and it was time to find shelter.
Still, he made better time than the boy, who could barely even lift his two legs. He shuffled and stumbled, so Stryker kept waiting for him to catch up.
Then the boy stopped at a tree with fat, jagged leaves. “Hey! Wait up! This is breadfruit!”
Stryker didn’t bother pausing. He just glanced back for a moment.
“Come back!” The boy grabbed a heavy green pod from the ground. “Come back, you dumb dog!”
Stryker sniffed the breeze. Not far now. Soon they’d reach home.
When he heard the boy shuffling closer, he started off again. The boy muttered behind him, but Stryker didn’t let it bother him. Humans liked to make noises.
“Are we there? Just over that ridge? Is that home?”
Stryker wagged encouragingly at the word “home,” then followed the scent around a rocky rise between jungle trees.
He limped down the other side—and waited. He heard the boy’s uneven shuffle through the leaves. He smelled the boy’s fatigue.
Stryker didn’t feel much better. His hip and leg flared with pain, and he was only walking on three paws. They couldn’t go farther without rest. Luckily, they didn’t need to.
When the boy approached, Stryker hobbled into the dry patch beneath the boulders.
“Go home!” the boy said, staggering closer.
Stryker lowered himself to the ground, careful of his wound.
“This isn’t home, boy. Go home.”
Stryker wagged once, to show that he accepted the boy’s gratitude for finding them a dry den—a safe home for the evening. As safe as possible, with a war raging outside.
Chapter 19
Bo almost wept at the sight in front of him. This wasn’t home! This wasn’t the American military. This wasn’t anything that could help the thousands of scared, hungry Chamorros being held prisoner in that encampment.
Instead, a couple of mossy boulders loomed behind a ferny patch of hillside. And the dog waited inside the wide, protected space between the rocks. But it wasn’t that wide. Not even wide enough for Bo to stretch his arms. And only five or six feet high.
Still, the dog wriggled aside to give Bo room to enter.
“Dumb dog,” he repeated. “This isn’t home.”
The dog’s ears drooped, and for a second Bo felt bad for calling him dumb. Then the dog started licking at the slash across the top of one leg. Poor guy. That cut looked like it hurt.
Bo crouched and scooted out of the rain. The space between the boulders was deeper than it looked. Drier too. And carpeted with fallen leaves. It was actually a pretty cozy nook, though it stank of wet dog—and swampy boy.
Bo slumped against the rock wall. He couldn’t stop here, not for long. Still, he needed to rest for a few minutes or he’d collapse.
“Okay,” he told the dog. “We’ll stay here until we warm up.”
The dog stopped licking his cut and looked at Bo.
“What’s your name?” Bo asked, setting aside the breadfruit and the pack.
The dog eyed the breadfruit, his wet ears twitching.
“Oh, you want some lemmai?” Bo asked. “Maybe that’s your name? Is your name Lemmai?”
The dog’s tongue lolled from his very toothy mouth.
“Of course I’ll share, Lemmai. After all, you gave me those tropical bars.”
On his fourth try, Bo tore through the tough outer skin of the breadfruit. The fruit was soft and ripe—but nobody ate breadfruit raw. The inside looked gummy and gross. Bo’s mom always baked or roasted it. Still, he figured it was better than nothing.
He gave the dog half the fruit and took a bite of the other half. Yech. Well, maybe the dog had some more of those rations.
Bo dug through the pack and found medical stuff. Safety pins, gauze bandages, scissors, tape, ointment. Iodine swabs. Hmm. He read the directions on the ointment, then looked at the dog’s wounded leg.
“If I clean your cut, are you going to bite me?”
The dog tore into the fruit with wolflike fangs.
“Oh, good,” Bo said. “That’s reassuring.”
Still, he took a breath and scooted closer. The wet-dog stink almost made his eyes water. He touched the dog’s unhurt side, then carefully parted the dog’s fur around the injury.
The dog stopped eating and watched him with alert eyes.
“I’m trying to help you, Lemmai. Okay?” The cut looked more like a burn than a stab, and Bo guessed that a bullet had grazed the dog. “Whoa. You got shot and you kept swimming?”
The dog lowered his head again and chomped on the raw breadfruit.
“Here goes,” Bo said, and applied the ointment to the wound.
The dog flinched, then tensed his muscles. Bo spoke softly to him, trying to keep him calm and coat the entire wound. But he was tired and shaky; his hand slipped and he jabbed the cut with his thumbnail.
The dog yelped and whipped around toward him.
“Sorry!” Bo said.
The dog thrust his muzzle at Bo’s throat—then licked his face.
Bo laughed. “You know I’m helping, don’t you, Lemmai?”
The dog licked him again.
“Gah. You smell like a wet carabao.”
Bo finished smearing on the ointment. He looked at the bandages but couldn’t figure how to apply them to a dog. He checked another pocket of the pack and found scissors, a compass, and a lighter.
A lighter!
Bo couldn’t remember the last time he’d been warm and dry. While the dog chomped on breadfruit, he peeled away the bark from some branches to get at the drier wood beneath. Then he stacked the branches inside a small circle of stones, but even the driest kindling he could find was too damp to build a fire. The most he could do was create a thin pillar of smoke that rose above Bo and the dog, into a natural chimney between the boulders.
Bo reached for his breadfruit, and it was gone.
The dog had eaten both halves.
“Lemmai! You jerk!”
The dog wagged his tiny tail and snuggled closer.
Bo stroked the dog’s head and flopped his ears. “Greedy carabao. Well, I’ll grab more fruit when we leave. And we are leaving. Any minute now.”
The dog put his muzzle on Bo’s leg and seemed to smile up at him. Bo scratched the wet fur on the dog’s neck. The dog closed his eyes sleepily, enjoying the attention.
Bo smiled. As he huddled closer to the dog for warmth, he found himself telling the dog everything. He told him about life on the island for the past few years, living with the constant fear of the Japanese. Then about last week, being separated from his family and forced to clear trails in the jungle. Then about the march to the encampment and his escape from Two Ears.
Talking about it helped, for some reason. Bo wasn’t alone anymore. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t even awake anymore.
He drifted into sleep, dreaming of a world without bombs, without guns. Without an angry soldier hunting him through the jungle . . .
Chapter 20
Bo awoke with a jerk.
Hazy dawn light seeped into the little cave. He didn’t feel rested, but he must’ve slept for a few hours.
Lemmai was snuggle
d beside him, fast asleep. Poor dog. Bo couldn’t imagine how tired he was. He patted the dog softly and noticed that his filthy collar was weird. Thick and oversized.
It was another pouch.
Maybe there were more tropical bars inside!
Bo kept patting Lemmai as he opened the collar pouch. He didn’t find food, though. Instead, he found a tube. And inside that tube, there was a rolled-up note.
Weird.
Bo couldn’t read the message in the dim light, so he crawled from the cave.
The rain had stopped, and sunlight glimmered through the cloudy sky. Bo stretched and started toward the breadfruit tree.
He scanned the jungle for tastier food—bananas or coconuts—as the sunlight brightened through the clouds. He walked a little farther into a patch of sunshine, then stopped to read the note.
It wasn’t in English.
It was in Chamorro!
Some of it didn’t make sense. The Chamorro words seemed to have unusual meanings. But Bo thought it said: “Scouts found a map. Enemy gathering. Planning a timed attack from the peninsula and eastern front.” Then a bunch of numbers. “Prepare to repel from both sides.”
That was pretty close, at least. All Bo knew for sure was that the message contained military orders in Chamorro. Which was weird. Why write an American message in Chamorro?
“Oh!” Bo said.
Lemmai was a military dog, sent through enemy lines. They must have written in Chamorro as a code! Lemmai must have been delivering this message when he’d been shot!
Then Bo realized there was something even odder about the writing.
He recognized it.
The handwriting was familiar. Very familiar.
It was his sister’s. He was sure of it. His sister had written this code. But that didn’t make any sense. What was she doing with the US military?
He grinned. Who cares? She’s alive!
And Bo only needed to follow Lemmai to find her! Plus, she’d know exactly which American to warn about the machine guns surrounding the camp.
Bo squared his shoulders.
Nothing could stop him now.
Nothing could—
“You!” Two Ears spat, grabbing Bo’s arm.
The jungle spun.
The sunlight dimmed.
Bo felt like he’d been swallowed up in a nightmare.
How had Two Ears found him? This couldn’t be happening!
Mud streaked the Japanese soldier’s face and pants. His uniform was torn and tattered and blood seeped through his pant leg.
Two Ears clamped his hand hard around Bo’s neck. “Stupid runt.”
“I’m not the one who wrestled a pig.”
Two Ears slapped him twice. When Bo fell to his knees, Two Ears tore the message from his hand.
“What’s this? This isn’t English. Are you writing notes to your mommy?”
“Yeah,” Bo said, cupping his bloody nose.
Two Ears ripped the note into tiny pieces that fluttered when he threw them. “You’re not going to see her again.”
He took a handful of Bo’s shirt in his hand and lifted him to his feet.
Instead of begging for his life, Bo struggled. He tried to kick Two Ears, he tried to bite—but the Japanese soldier was too strong. He’d lost his rifle and his hat, but not his strength.
Not his rage.
He slammed Bo to the ground and pulled his arm sideways. “This is what happens to runts.”
A cold pit opened in Bo’s stomach. As Two Ears started dragging him into the jungle, Bo could only think to do one thing. He took a deep breath and screamed for Lemmai.
Chapter 21
When Stryker woke in the cave, the boy was gone. He flattened his ears unhappily. He’d slept as deeply as a newborn puppy! Being injured and exhausted was no excuse. He’d slept deeper than was safe.
Not even the boy’s departure had awoken him.
Stryker pointed his snout toward the fresh air. He smelled nothing except the stench of wet wood smoke. He raised his ears. Leaves shivered in the jungle outside, trickles of water dropped, and distant gunfire sounded.
But he didn’t sense the boy.
He sniffed at his wounded hip. He curled his lip at the disgusting medicinal stench. Humans didn’t lick with their tongues, they licked with their fingers. And the boy had coated his cut with a special spit that was bitter and goopy.
Stryker didn’t like the smell, but he’d been trained to accept it.
When he stood, his leg felt better. The pain still stabbed into him, but his muscles felt stronger. Maybe just from sleeping off his exhaustion for a few hours.
He shook himself, then smelled a smear of fruit on the floor. Much better than the bitter mineral stink of the medicine! He licked the ground, and—
There! A noise from outside.
A deep, angry voice.
Before he even realized what he’d heard, Stryker burst from the cave. His wounded leg burned, but he didn’t let it slow him down. He flashed through the undergrowth, a dark blur in the shadows.
Fast. Focused. Hunting his prey.
Protecting his boy.
Stryker burst from the trees.
In a single heartbeat, he saw the enemy soldier dragging the boy into the jungle.
The boy screamed.
Without hesitation, Stryker launched himself at the man’s arm, his teeth clamping tight before either human realized he was there. Dobermans like Stryker had strong jaws, and he’d been trained to never let go.
The man howled and spun, whirling Stryker in a circle, trying to dislodge him.
Stryker bit down harder, and the man slammed him against a tree trunk.
The wound in his side flared.
Agony washed through him.
The man hit him against the tree again.
Stryker felt himself weakening, and the boy—that skinny, hairless puppy—dove closer and grabbed the man’s calves in a tight hug.
The enemy fell to the ground, smashing down hard among the leaves and rocks.
Stryker fell too—but not for long.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he regained his feet. The boy stood beside him, holding a small rock in one of his trembling, clawless fists.
The enemy rose high above them. He smelled shaken but enraged. He was a big animal—bigger than Stryker and the boy combined.
He took a step toward them.
Stryker growled deep in his throat and showed his teeth.
The enemy raised his hand, threatening the boy.
The boy didn’t flinch. He remained strong, standing beside Stryker. Stryker heard the boy’s heart pounding furiously . . . but his furless feet stayed planted and his rock stayed ready.
The boy stank of mud and fear—but beneath the fear, Stryker sensed determination. He sensed a bond. His boy would stay beside him. They’d fight together, win or lose.
The enemy took another step forward.
The boy told the man, “Y-you better get out of here.”
Stryker didn’t understand the words, but he knew a threat when he heard one. The boy’s voice shook, yet his hand remained steady.
Stryker stalked forward a single step, and the boy matched him.
The enemy didn’t look away from Stryker. He watched his snarling muzzle and his tensed shoulders. Stryker bared his teeth wider and growled. Another threat, a deadly one.
Not even a Doberman could beat a gun, but this man didn’t have a gun. He didn’t have fur or claws or teeth. He didn’t even have a pack. He was big and strong, but weaponless and alone.
Stryker took another step forward.
Again, the boy matched him.
Stryker smelled the sweat on the man’s forehead. He heard the man’s pulse beating. Fat raindrops trickled off the trees overhead and speckled the leaves.
Stryker heard them fall and stared at the man’s throat.
“I’ll get my gun,” the man snarled at the boy. “I’ll kill you both.”
The rage in the man
’s voice made Stryker’s hackles rise.
The boy must’ve heard the same thing. Stryker smelled his fear turn to anger and his anger turn to determination. Good. Determination mattered more than courage.
“First I’ll shoot your dog,” the man ranted. “And then—”
“No, you won’t,” the boy said, and hurled his rock at the man’s chest.
Stryker was already in motion, springing forward.
The rock struck the enemy. The man staggered, and Stryker clamped onto his arm with his jaws . . . and this time he didn’t hold back.
The man howled in agony. Stryker released his arm, and the man fled into the jungle, stumbling over rocks.
“I’m smiling now!” the boy shouted after him, his voice hoarse. “I’m smiling at you!”
When the sound of the man faded, Stryker looked at the boy, so he’d know they were safe.
The boy dropped to his knees and gave Stryker a very unmilitary hug. He wept and squeezed Stryker. He even kissed his snout once or twice or ten times. Stryker wagged enthusiastically—to help pack morale. A good war dog supported his humans.
But Stryker needed to get on with the mission.
“Let’s get moving,” the boy finally said, wiping tears from his face. “We’ve got to deliver your message.”
Stryker sniffed out a half-rotten fruit on the ground and started eating.
“We’ll find my sister, and I’ll tell her about the machine guns. She’ll know what to do.”
Stryker kept eating.
“Except . . .” The boy frowned at the ground. “The message is gone.”
He rummaged among the leaves. When he picked up a tiny scrap of damp paper, Stryker sniffed it helpfully. It wasn’t edible, though. Silly human.
“I can’t even read the bits that are left. I guess I remember the words, though. And all those numbers. I’ll just tell them. Except . . . do you even know where the Americans are?”
Stryker finished the fruit and peed on a tree. That way, if the wounded enemy soldier came back, he’d know he was crossing the line.
“Oh, thanks,” the boy said. “That’s helpful. If I tell you to go home, you’ll just lead me to another cave. Um. What’s the right command? Deliver! Deliver, boy?”
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