SCHOSSI
In 1951, Leo Coe was a seventeen-year-old private attached to the First Cavalry Division, Seventh Regiment in Korea. He had been trained as a rifleman and as such had seen his share of action on the front lines. His unit had held their ground and then was based at a village south of Seoul called Yong Dong Po. In the summer of 1951, Leo was serving as a driver for officers at regiment headquarters. The Second Infantry Division had pulled back from their position north of Seoul and had come to Yong Dong Po to be re-equipped. This was the same summer that the U.S. Army decided to bring a small contingent of scout dogs into the fight. Top military officials knew that scout dogs had a way of penetrating lines that were otherwise impenetrable, thus alerting and protecting the lives of thousands of U.S. soldiers in one movement. When the Twenty-Sixth Scout Dog Platoon joined the Second Infantry Division in Korea in June 1951, they were a welcome sight to many.
Leo hadn’t paid much attention to the various troop movements going on at Yong Dong Po, but he had noticed the scout dogs right away. They came in like celebrities, pursued by eager and adoring fans. Every time a handler walked down the road with a dog, or went into the mess with his dog, GIs swarmed the canine team for a closer look. Unable to break military discipline, many times the handler would have to deny a request to pet the dog. But if there was an opportunity, in a relaxed atmosphere away from the structured work life of a scout dog, the handler, knowing the redemptive power of his dog, would gladly allow it.
Leo had adopted a Korean mutt, Schossi, and he worried about his little dog breaking ranks and inviting the scout dogs to break the rules. Schossi was a clever dog. He had learned that attaching himself to an American post meant not only survival, but a pretty comfortable life as well. All that was ever required of him was to lie on soldiers’ bunks and go for the occasional ride in a Jeep. In return he was kept safe and well-fed. In reality, he was just as much a lifesaver to the men as they had been for him. The men adored Schossi, and many said their lives were vastly improved just by being near him.
The Korean people were a starving and impoverished nation, and during the war years they were willing to eat just about anything—including dogs. Not that dog would have been offensive to them before. In fact, it was perfectly acceptable in Korean culture to eat dogs, but the millions of people living in famine throughout Asia during the war added an element of desperation. No living creature was off-limits to a hungry people, and dogs were some of the most plentiful meat available. In spite of that evolving threat, however, many dogs adapted in those difficult years and reverted back to a time when their ancestors could be both predator and prey. Dogs like Schossi found their survival in the hands of the Americans.
One day, not long after the Twenty-Sixth arrived at Yong Dong Po, Leo and Schossi had the unplanned opportunity to meet the scouts’ OIC while the six dogs and handlers were out training. Seeing all the excitement of other dogs jumping barrels, sniffing the ground, and running out and back, Schossi had run into the scout dogs’ training yard for a closer look. The scout dogs were intrigued but impeccably trained never to alert with excessive barking. Schossi, however, loved barking and he wanted to show the other dogs how it was done. He barked, danced, and wagged in delight.
Curious about the ruckus, the young lieutenant came out of the tent and eyeballed the little dog causing chaos in the ranks. Private Leo Coe feared severe disciplinary action for his dog’s interference with government exercises. Coe yelled for Schossi to come back, but to no avail. The little dog was having the time of his life.
So Coe decided to make his apologies and plead for mercy instead. But as he walked toward the officer, the man knelt down and, with an opening motion of his arms, called the rambunctious little dog to his side. To Coe’s relief, the young officer appeared almost jovial. Coe couldn’t believe his luck.
Private and lieutenant exchanged military customs, the subordinate showing respect to the superior, but then they spoke about their love of dogs. It was a uniting moment for the two that allowed them to breech the conversation of home and family and the things they missed most. In the year that followed, Coe became the lieutenant’s driver and the two became good friends. Schossi and the scout dogs became friends, too—or at least they had an understanding, dog to dog.
Coe had to leave Schossi behind when he left Korea. There was no way the military would allow for Schossi to travel with the unit. In a way it was painful to think of saying goodbye to this dog who had truly become his best friend. He feared that the good-natured Schossi might wander away from camp and into the wrong hands, but leaving him behind for the others wasn’t a difficult choice at all. He knew that Schossi would be loved and cared for by his fellow soldiers. Leo also felt a sense of peace in knowing Schossi would be a lifeline to the many human brothers he left behind.
SENTRY DOGS IN KOREA
In spite of a lack of foresight on the part of U.S. military officials, the U.S. Army’s scout dog program flourished throughout the Korean conflict. Due to the success of the Twenty-Sixth Infantry Scout Dog Platoon in battle, the Army felt it was necessary to continue training scout dogs for war. In December 1951, Army scout dog training moved again from Fort Riley, home of the first six scout dogs sent into Korea, to Camp Carson, Colorado. There they joined a contingent of Army sentry dogs which had recently been procured by the Army for another shot at making a war dog program. At the time, Camp Carson was training roughly eighty sentry dog handlers and nearly 400 dogs (sentry and scout dog prospects) in an eight-week training cycle.
The sentry dogs had endured through the military drawdown because of their effectiveness in protecting equipment and their ability to save money during World War II.16 It was undeniable that sentry dogs were good for the bottom line. Moreover, sentry dogs, like scout dogs, could use their senses to protect lives. This mostly meant the lives of their handlers, but by stopping the enemy from infiltrating post perimeters, sentries undoubtedly thwarted many attacks and saved the lives of others as well.
Sentries had a reputation for being cold-blooded killers in war because of their attack training, and this is the main distinction between scouts and sentries. It was a by-product of the sentries’ aggressive displays that they were also trained to do bite work. Where a scout dog needed to be stealthy, a sentry had to be showy. Yet there are very few cases of sentry dogs actually killing the enemy. Most often, it was the threat of a sentry’s aggression—bearing fangs and raising hackles—which stopped would-be assailants.
The Army understood that both types of dog work were needed in Korea. For the first time in U.S. history, they had purchased dogs from private owners, thereby making them military equipment. The money and time invested in the dog and its training meant that dogs would no longer be returned if they didn’t perform. Instead, the dogs that had come to Camp Carson for training would be utilized in one way or another. For instance, when a scout dog was an excessive barker, or showed a fear response with snapping and lunging, the kennel master would pass the dog on to the sentries. (It didn’t work the other way around. Sentries could not become scouts, even when they couldn’t show the level of aggression the military desired.) Seemingly, this one-size-fits-all policy came about because of a narrow military mindset which believed that so-called aggressive dogs were unable to be stealthy or amicable even to their handlers. Of course, this made the training of scouts and sentries in the same location a convenience for the Army, but it failed to take into consideration the suitability of the dogs for the jobs they were given.
Showing signs of aggression didn’t always signify that a dog possessed a truly aggressive nature. Dogs that had been purchased from the public for sentry work, based on breed and conformation, weren’t necessarily the vicious dogs they were supposed to be. The trainers at Camp Carson learned to teach the dogs aggressive behaviors, but they could never be sure if a dog behaved aggressively out of natural tendencies or to please its handler. The only sure way was to take a dog into the warzone and see how he perf
ormed. Once again, the U.S. military failed to address the obvious problem of using a living, breathing being as equipment, asking trainers to treat their dogs like machines. This was a recipe for disaster which would be fully realized in the years to come.
ADWIN
The story of Airman Robert O’Gara and his military working dog, Adwin, illustrates the disastrous results of categorizing an animal as equipment and man as a machine. O’Gara’s heartbreak would continue to be military working dog handlers’ tragic tale throughout the Korean conflict, and even in Vietnam.
In 1952, Robert O’Gara joined the Air Force with dreams of being a gunner on B-29s. Instead, after enlistment he was shuffled into Security Forces. He had hoped security would be a simple assignment, but it proved quite complicated and turned into an extended deployment to war.
During this time, the Air Force was experimenting with using a handful of sentry dogs (which some believed had been bred from dogs confiscated in Japan during World War II) to guard the wreckage of downed aircraft.17 The parts left behind in wreckage were invaluable to both the Chinese and the Koreans: U.S. aviation secrets could be uncovered in those broken pieces, giving the desperate Koreans something of conceivable value to sell to Cold War communists on the black market.
Sentry dogs had proven they could guard in remote places, in extreme heat or cold, against the type of treachery and thievery the military was facing in Korea. The Air Force decided sentry dogs were their best chance at protecting invaluable assets, so they paired them with a very select contingent of security forces for this work. Airman O’Gara, seemingly by the luck of the draw, was one of the few men chosen to do the job. Not long after getting orders to Korea, O’Gara learned he would be meeting a new partner—a German Shepherd from Japan named Adwin.
During his first Korean winter in 1953, O’Gara became convinced that Korea was the coldest place on earth. The wind and blowing snow were almost unbearable for any living creature and, based on his earliest interactions with Adwin, O’Gara was sure he would receive no comfort from his dog, either: Adwin was one mean dog. The rumor floating around base was that Adwin had been a sentry dog for elite Japanese guards during World War II and was confiscated by the Americans during occupation. Regardless of where or how he learned to be mean, O’Gara had a terrible time “getting in on” Adwin, and it took a long time to convince him that they were going to be stuck together for the duration. Worse still, the other security police put O’Gara in a separate Kwanza Hut because, as they said, “Dog handlers have a constant stink.” In every way, the young airman was truly out in the cold.
Luckily, Adwin had to have his can of frozen horsemeat thawed before he could eat. This meant that O’Gara had a pot belly stove for the task. Feeding time became their bonding time, a comforting ritual. Adwin would wait out in his kennel for his meal, and Bob would soak up the warmth of the stove while preparing it. Man and dog, over time, came to rely on their partnership for survival and, maybe more importantly, for companionship. Ultimately Bob came to see the dog as more than a weapon; Adwin was a trusted partner and, in spite of his testy temperament, became his closest friend.
The long nights in frightful darkness and solitude tested the team’s mettle. The night was full of danger, and Adwin was keenly aware of it all. He lived to protect O’Gara, who knew all too well what Adwin’s alerts could be signaling. They fed off each other’s energy, and often adrenaline would take over. Often they were called to crash sites where danger perpetually lurked in the shadows. O’Gara didn’t want to release his dog on someone, but he was ready if necessary. He knew Adwin would do anything to protect him—even if it meant killing someone. Yet even more unbearable than the thought of having to kill someone (someone who might simply be trying to feed a family) were the actual crash sites themselves. The carnage and twisted bodies, the smell of burning fuel and flesh, the desolation, were often too much for man and dog to endure. O’Gara could only stroke his dog and speak reassuring words while Adwin whimpered softly in shared sadness.
The partners met every challenge together. But when O’Gara received orders home, he also received orders for Adwin to return to Japan. He realized that Adwin would never come back to the United States. The dog was too aggressive for most people, and even though O’Gara had learned to care for this military working dog, he wouldn’t be given the option to take him home, either: the Air Force had invested a great deal of time and money in Adwin. He was a valuable asset, and they would not let him retire, even to the home of the man who understood him better than anyone else. Adwin would be passed on to a new handler to continue working. O’Gara was somewhat comforted by that thought but knew that no one could ever know Adwin the way he had.
After leaving Adwin, O’Gara’s heart grew heavy. He missed his friend, the only other living soul who had witnessed the same visions of war and felt the same fear and despair. In spite of a nagging feeling that he should never look back, he asked the unit in Japan about Adwin. The reply came: Adwin had been euthanized by electrocution because he was too aggressive to be handled.
Bob O’Gara grieved for Adwin for the rest of his life. He wished he could have at least put the dog down himself, sparing his friend that cruel death. He would have shot him quickly, and with the greatest love and respect. O’Gara only hoped the world would remember the dog’s incredible sacrifice; he was never able to forget.
2
HARLAN
In the spring of 1933, Harlan Hoffbeck was born to one of three Danish immigrant families inhabiting a small slice of the Three Lakes Township of Morgan, Minnesota. The Great Depression had hit their farming community hard. Their only hope of a continued existence was their little piece of land and the animals inhabiting it. The members of Harlan’s family were intimately intertwined with the cycle of life, and they understood, in a way only farming folk can, what animals mean for survival.
The livestock on the Hoffbeck farm received the best care before being taken to market, and all other animals were there to support that end. The Hoffbecks had a horse team to pull a wagon or a plow, and there were dogs to protect the more valuable animals. Harlan learned early on to appreciate the valuable job dogs performed on a farm. Only occasionally in his boyhood did he enjoy the companionship a dog can offer.
When Harlan was a baby the family lived in the granary on his paternal grandfather’s farm. His grandfather had built the entire farm with his hands, including buildings, fences, and home. There were no luxuries there—no plumbing, no electricity, no proximity to other people—but there was the definite possibility of scratching out a life in that place. Yet the Depression worked against them, and the family lost the farm at auction in 1938.
Young Harlan, his older sister, his older brother (mentally disabled and blind from birth), and his parents moved on from their ancestral farm, but not far. For a year they lived on the modest Madson Farm, not more than ten miles away—but for Harlan it seemed like a million. There was no decent heat there capable of thwarting Minnesota winters, and Harlan and his brother often went to the neighboring Ulencamp Farm to gather the corn cobs out of their pigpen for burning in their little fireplace. One of Harlan’s few memories of their temporary home also came from the poverty that plagued the family. His dad had bought two new tires on credit from Montgomery Ward, and like many others in that time and place, he could not repay the debt. When two strange men came down the farm road one day, Harlan and his sister were each given a tire and told to hide in the cornfield until the men left.
In 1939, the Hoffbeck family moved again to another home with accommodations that were possibly the poorest of all. The Miller Farm sat on a small, windy hill, and its buildings were no match for the bitter cold. There was no electricity, no plumbing, and no phone. The kitchen did have a pitcher pump, and they were forced to let the prime go in winter, in order to keep it from freezing. Years of neglect had left gaping holes in the walls and windows, which offered no resistance to the howling winds and blowing northern snows. The th
ree Hoffbeck kids shared an upstairs bed to keep warm. Their mother would nightly heat up irons, wrap them in towels, and put them at the foot of the bed to at least warm their frigid feet. Once the kids woke up to two inches of blown snow accumulated on their bedcovers.
In spite of its flaws, the Miller Farm was a home when many others had none. Harlan liked that the house was close to his school, only half a mile away. That little schoolhouse, Harlan’s oasis, was one simple room, but built with sturdy walls. It had a great stove that adequately warmed eight students: three Larsons, two Druschs, three Hoffbecks, and their teacher, Ms. Ruth Hanson. Harlan always got to school before his teacher and would stare out the window, looking for the signal of her arrival: her Model-A Ford kicking up dust on the road. This meant the wood stove would soon be lit and the thought of that excited Harlan. First thing, Ms. Hanson would fling open the schoolhouse windows, telling the awaiting Hoffbeck kids, “Fresh air lights faster than stale.” Harlan didn’t mind being cold for a little longer. In the long run it was definitely warmer than home.
Just before World War II, the family moved to a better situation, a modest but comfortable two story house and barn on Judge Warren’s farm. The judge paid Harlan and his sister fifty cents a day to pull mustard plants out of the oats, giving the children a way to help support the family. It was here that the family had their first telephone. And it was in this place that Harlan first became aware of the harsh reality of the value of animals on a farm. His father had always shielded him and his siblings from seeing the animals killed or butchered. But one day his father’s march to the chicken coop sparked Harlan’s natural boyish curiosity, and he peeked around the judge’s barn door to find his dad ringing a chicken’s neck. He was horrified—but wiser. Now he truly understood that animals were part of the family’s survival.
K-9 Korea Page 3