DOG DAYS

(The following story was told to me by a forty year veteran military/ civilian policeman named Sergeant W. and I will write it as if he were speaking).

Did you ever wonder how effective police dogs really are? Is the service they perform really necessary? How are they bonded to their instructors? Dog handlers are the only ones who feed and water their dogs. When a handler is transferred to another assignment, a different handler attempts to feed and water the animal but at first the handler is barked and growled at if he/she attempts to do so. Eventually the dog realizes it must let the new instructor feed and water it or it will die of thirst and starve. Finally, the new handler takes over and wins the confidence of that dog and they become a team.

I was stationed a Cam Ranh Bay in 1970 and one night we got a call that a fight had broken out at the NCO Club. I had no idea how many were involved in the fight. A group of soldiers from different units, watching a floor show and drinking heavily may spark morale but it is also a recipe for serious contention. I was the ranking sergeant in charge, so I called for three two man squads and we drove over and brought our shotguns with us. We seldom ever really used our guns but they often were intimidating and could get a crowd’s attention, unfortunately they could also be taken and used against us. When we arrived, the building was full of everyone inside, about 350 men,brawling with each other, like something out of a movie scene. Six cops with shotguns, for show, could not handle it, besides rules of engagement demanded that every step be taken to avoid loss of life.

I called dispatch and told them that we were not going into that group until they sent over ten patrol dogs with their handlers. Dobermans tend to be unstable so we used German Shepherd dogs. They were trained only to attack on command and would bite and hold legs or arms. It is surprising how a crowd of drunken rioters will curse and battle cops with nightsticks but those same rioters are terrified of attacking dogs. We came in, the six of us and the dogs and handlers, from separate entrances.

One rioter was up on a landing and challenging anyone to pull him down but when he saw the dog snarling, baring his teeth and coming his way, he got down on his own and begged the handler to pull the dog back on his leash. Once the crowd saw the dogs, they began to give up by the dozens. We arrested all 350 people and brought them over to the base hospital where their wounds were dressed under guard. We then processed them through and confined them to separate group lock up rooms, with patrol dogs at the ready.

Several of the rioters were pretty beat up but nobody died. Patrol dogs have saved many lives and we used them often for crowd control, enemy recon, drug sniffing and sentry duty.

A FISH STORY

Fishing never held any great excitement for me. I’ve probably gone fishing less than ten times in my life, but there is one trip I shall never forget that colored all my plans of ever looking forward to such outings. My father and grandfather went fishing as often as they could and they did their best to instill some sort of fondness of the sport into me. It was supposed to be a chance to relax and have “quality time” with my Dad, away from the stress of homework and jobs. On one such occasion, while living in San Antonio, Texas, my Dad took me on a fishing trip with some of his friends to catch carp. As far as I can remember, there were no other kids there.

They called it a “fishing trip” and I was supposed to learn how to fish, but as far as I could see it had little to do with fish and whole lot to do with beer and mosquitoes. There were no females on the trip and yet plenty of references to them were mentioned. They would tell stories and drink beer and the more they drank, the rougher were the stories. They’d slap each other on the back and get louder and louder. After a while, some of them were having problems trying to find the pond. The only reason they would get up off the logs in front of the fire was to stagger out to “water the flowers” as they put it. My main job was to swat mosquitoes and “get some more firewood,” especially when the stories got to be a little more than a ten year old should hear.

The “stream” where we were “fishing” was more like a swamp. It smelled bad, the water was very muddy and the bugs were large and plentiful. It looked like something out of a horror movie to me, especially since we arrived at about the time it was getting dark. About twenty squadrons of mosquitoes were assigned to my body but seemed to leave everybody else alone. Maybe they didn’t like the smell of beer. I never saw anybody fishing and when I asked, “why not?” I was told that a fishing line with baited hooks had been laid across the pond and that left them free to talk. (And drink beer).

It also seemed strange to me that there were no tents or sleeping bags. I later learned that this was an “all night” fishing trip. After a while, their words began to slur and we all fell asleep where ever we happened to be laying, sweating and dirty. This was supposed to be fun? Sometime, in the middle of the night, someone screamed, “The fish are taking our bait!” I thought to myself, “Oh really?” I’m no fisherman, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that our baited fishhooks have been in the water for a long time. There shouldn’t be any bait left, as of hours ago.

Nevertheless, we all got up with our flashlights and examined the fish line and every hook was bare except a middle hook. Someone screamed again, “Careful, that’s a huge Texas snapping turtle!” On closer examination it instead proved to be a huge Texas rock. By then we were all awake enough to see the dawn breaking and we had not even one fish among us, although some of us had very large hangovers. We gathered up our things, which were much lighter, without the beer and headed home. I was bone tired, covered with mosquito bites, itching and filthy. When I got home, I cleaned up and went to bed, glad that it was Saturday. Hours later, Mom came in my bedroom and said, “How was your special fishing trip with your Dad, Billy?” I didn’t have the guts to tell her how I really felt so I said, “Great Mom, just great.”

Vietnam Rescue

It was August of 1967, in Vietnam and it was a horrible way to live. The heat, the humidity, and the stench, all took their toll on troops living on various bases in country, but some of the worst circumstances ever, were reserved for the American prisoners of war. They were starved, tortured and beaten, living in filth and fortunate if they got to bathe. Their pathetic living conditions caused many to die and some to hang on against all odds for years. But this story is not about their pains in captivity but their rescue to freedom. It is a story that you will never find by searching through official channels.

Our elite unit was aware of an undisclosed site that held many American prisoners and we settled on a plan to rescue those prisoners with a minimal loss of life. Prison camps were frequently nomadic, never staying in one place very long, making rescue difficult, so we knew we had to act quickly. The prison was in a deep jungle area, near a water source and we surrounded the camp. When the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) saw that we were in the borders, near their camp, they sent out Recon to discover the number and strength of our army.

When they saw that we were not strong and fearing that we should cut them off from their support, except they should come out to battle and kill us, and also supposing that they could easily destroy us with their larger force, they began to make preparations to come out against us. At that point, we divided our unit into three parts and hid two thirds of our group in the jungle. When the enemy approached, we retreated from them deeper into the bush. They chased after us in a rush, wanting to quickly annihilate us.

They passed by the two thirds of our unit that was hidden and when they had done so, that two-thirds got rid of their spies so that they could not return to the prison camp. Following that, they ran to the prison and fell on the guards who were left, and did take possession of the camp. This had happened because the enemy sent their entire force, except for a few guards, to be led away into the jungle.

When the NVA realized that we were chasing us toward our main base camp, they gave up, fearing a trap. By then it was nightfall and they rested for the night. We, instead, did not sleep but returned to the prison camp another way and when the enemy returned they were shocked that we had rescued the prisoners and headed back to another U.S. installation during their absence.

Thus, we were able to free our prisoners without one man from our unit dying. (Based on a story from Alma 58).