K9LTW-Ch13

K9LTW – a fiction by MKHurder

Chapter 13: After the Blast

Surviving the assault

The smoke from the fallen Huey had not yet cleared when the men of Bearcat began the work of being soldiers again. The perimeter held, but the shape of the day had changed; the bright, mechanical urgency of helicopters and radios had been replaced by a slow, heavy business of counting, carrying, and remembering.

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RTB & Triage

Their arrival back at Bearcat was neither comforting nor a relief. The moment a soldier crossed over the threshold it seemed the life drained from them. They would either fold up, bend over and wretch, or sit and cover their faces. Some even cried – openly and unabashedly. Those were their brothers, their hootchmates, their platoonmates whose lives were consumed out there. Many ended on their knees. All of them knew they’d be going back, perhaps even later that day or night. To those recently arriving in-country, this nightmare scenario ran on forever in their minds. To the short timer, it was the boldest print reminder possible of how fragile lives were here – their lives.

No one ate. The hot chow ready for their return was left in the tins. Men hung around the medical area waiting for word on their barely surviving friends. This day their stories filled with discouraging results, sad endings, heavy hearts, empty bunks, and an end to imagined invincibility.

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Men moved through the compound like people who had been given a new, smaller map of the world; they walked with empty eyes but ready to do harm. No one was weaponless. Stretchers were unloaded and stacked; the medic barked orders and then bent to work with hands that did not tremble. Men who had been laughing at dawn now spoke in clipped, practical sentences—ammo, water, watch rotations—and the jokes that had once bound them together were gone, replaced by a silence that felt like a wound. To be hammered so thoroughly overnight, then made to pay even more on what should have been payback, was too much for these boys. Bearcat’s shell of invincibility was cracking.

Donnie kept to the edges of the medical work, Bodie at his side like a living anchor. The dog’s harness was streaked with mud and blood; his eyes were steady but hollow in a way that made Donnie’s chest ache. When a stretcher passed, Donnie’s hand tightened on the strap until his knuckles whitened. He had warned them. He had watched Jet and Nesbitt fall. The memory sat in him like a stone.

We don’t crack!

McCready moved through the camp with the slow, efficient authority of a man who had learned how to hold a broken thing together. He issued orders in low, exact phrases, then checked on the men who had been closest to the blast. When he reached the spot where Jet and Nesbitt had been carried to the helicopter for transport to Graves and Registration, he paused long enough to touch the ground with a gloved hand, then straightened and walked on without a word.

His patrol took him past every manned position on the base. He greeted every man by name and left them with encouraging words that they had done their jobs well and that he was proud of them. Then he’d remind them to keep their heads on a swivel as he moved on to the next fighting position so he could pass a similar message of a job well done.

He never once said ‘It could’ve been worse.‘ To him, that was the most offensive and disrespectful statement anyone could make after a firefight that cost lives. What’s worse than dead GIs? McCready didn’t like people like that and avoided them or acting like them at all costs. In an officer, that spelled a callous lack of concern for the boots on the ground.

The lieutenant who had pushed them forward was gone. The men who had followed him were either dead or wounded, and the space he had wanted to fill with glory was now a hollow that no one wanted to name. Some of the younger soldiers stared at the tree line as if it might speak; others kept their heads down and their rifles close. The older men—McCready, Donnie, Reyes—moved with a different kind of attention, the kind that comes from having seen what happens when a single mistake is allowed to grow.

The Quiet Mocks us

They transported the American dead off Bearcat with the speed and respect the moment allowed. Memorials were private things among the men; names spoken, a few items left with the bodies, a handful of dirt. Nesbitt’s pack went with him; Jet’s harness was folded and placed on top. Donnie stood at the edge of the Line of body bags and felt the world tilt under him. Bodie pressed against his leg and would not be moved.

“What the fuck, over?” was his mumbled response to an uncaring universe. This existence was worse than he ever imagined. His mind never thought of anything but death and dying anymore unless he was engrossed in caring for Bodie, or working with Reyes & Rook, or just working. That was the cure. When he and Bodie were working there was nothing else. just the space between the K9’s ears. He started volunteering for everything outside the wire that required stealth.

The camp tried to make itself useful. Men who could still move were sent on patrols to check the wire and the approaches; others reinforced revetments and patched the torn canvas. The vet tech moved among the dogs, checking paws and harnesses, speaking in the low voice of someone who had to keep functioning despite the grief. The animals, for their part, did what animals do: they waited, they watched, they offered a steady presence that was not consolation but was something like it.

Donnie and Reyes, both found themselves spending every waking moment with their partners. When Bodie was laying outside the shitter, well, you could guess where Donnie was. The same with the shower, the armory, the PX, the mess hall. Bodie was allowed in the mess hall once. That was enough for the mess sergeant. Bodie had one of everything and then crapped all over the chow line floor going to help himself to seconds.

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Weep, Recover, Repair

In reflection, Donnie began to see the therapeutic value their four-legged buddies possessed. He saw that himself and Reyes bounced back faster than the rest, Except McCready. McCready never changed. But he and Reyes were right back at it after a short break to recover their senses and establish some priorities. Food was one. Forcing themselves to eat a few of the cold rubbery flapjacks with fake maple syrup, provided the kick to get them off their asses again, plus a few cups of GI coffee.

As midday slid toward afternoon, the mood shifted from immediate shock to a brittle, determined focus. McCready called a roll and then a short, sharp briefing. They would hold Bearcat; they would send out scouts at dawn; they would bury what needed burying, there were a lot of NVA bodies to clear, and tend what could be tended. The orders were simple and necessary, and they gave the men something to do with their hands and their minds.

Nightfall’s Dread

Night came with a thin, uneasy quiet. The jungle seemed to press closer, as if curious about the small human world that had been so violently rearranged. Fires burned low in the pits; men huddled in small groups, trading stories that were more about survival than memory. Donnie sat with Bodie at his feet, the dog’s head on his boot, and let the tears come at last—quick, hot, and private.

Before sleep took them, McCready walked the line one more time. He stopped in Donnie’s sector, acknowledged the K9 team, but did not speak; he only stood there, a silent witness to the cost. Then he moved on, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders. The men of Bearcat slept in fits and starts, each dream a fragment of the day’s violence, each waking a reminder that the jungle had not finished with them.

Donnie couldn’t sleep anyway, so instead of waking his relief, he let Reyes and Rook enjoy the extra downtime. Reyes though hadn’t slept either and reported on his own. They agreed to split the compound and walked the night’s morbid hangover off. They listened on their rounds while a dozen different boys called out to their moms in their sleep. This boogeyman wouldn’t be swayed by mom though. This one would require more blood.

Reinforcements & resupply came in wave after wave of Helicopter lifts throughout the night. Bearcat needed bodies and bullets in a bad way, and no one thought Charlie was taking a break. In fact, he wasn’t, but the Army would have a few surprises for them next time. Surprises if the locals kept their mouths shut. Fat chance! Donnie thought.

When dawn came, it would bring new orders and new dangers. For now, they held what they had: a battered perimeter, a handful of survivors, and the memory of those who would not rise again. The jungle kept its secrets; Bearcat kept its dead.

At dawn Donnie would meet the Top Sergeant to be sure his name was front and center on the Patrol list. McCready was pushing back, so Donnie went over his head. No more waiting for it to get me. Fuck that! This new resolve would shape the rest of his tour and the way he performed his duties. The jungle wouldn’t weep at his refusal to conform to righteousness. The jungle would welcome it.

The Lord and this Dog are my shepherds, and we shall not fail to kill as many of these motherfuckers as we can or die trying. This was Donnie’s new mantra.

(to be continued: Chapter#14 – The Quiet Between)

To start from the beginning: K9LTW-ch#1

to read another of my fictions in progress: DohReyMe&theKitties3-Ch1 or the Prequel – Doh – Rey – Me

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Related Links:

• Four-legged-fighters
• Vietnam Dog Handlers Association
• Military Working Dog Heritage Museum
• Top Dog – Lucca

From Popi’s Tales & The Book of Wonders

More from Popi’s Collection of Facts & Fiction

• Burtt the Blade – fiction
• Doh – Rey – Me – fiction – book – written here
• Mystery of Willow Woods – fiction – short Story – written here
• The Last Signal – part one – fiction – book – written here
• Rift Guardians – chapter#1 – fiction – book – written here
• DohReyMe&theKitties3-ch1 – fiction – book – written here – in progress
• Shorty’s Path – non-fiction auto biography book

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