USMC Devil Dog delivered to its combat unit, serving on Guam. (U.S. National Archives) by Irving J. Labes “Shut the bastard up!” hissed Boston to the Doberman’s handler. “He’s supposed to alert us to the Nips if they’re out there, not tell them where we are.” In spite of his efforts, the beast would not be silenced. “Easy boy, calm down.” The handler’s soothing voice was barely audible against the racket of the supposedly trained attack dog. Only a few hours ago, they had advanced through a coconut grove full of dead Japanese, eerily silent except for the buzzing of flies, swarming over the stinking, maggot-infested corpses. Not that the sight and stench of dead was out of the ordinary for Boston and his buddies of Company K, 3rd Platoon, 9th Marines. They were quite inured, if not immune, to the normally devastating effect that this would have had on ordinary humans. Nevertheless, there was a weird, eerie feeling, almost physical in its subtle intensity that was felt by all ...