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| 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 in this “Valley of the Dead.”
A quick look at his buddies’ faces mirrored the foreboding of evil that lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce without warning. They made their bivouac for the night on the outer fringes of the grove, setting up the usual defense perimeter. Two man foxholes, with a dog and trainer team per platoon was the set-up, as ordered by Captain Crawford, the company commander. Boston and his foxhole buddy, Stark, were the “lucky” recipients of the Doberman team, since Boston was a BAR man and his position was very important to the overall defense of the company.
Was it only twenty days earlier that they had landed with the first assault wave? Forty-five dead, and more than twice that many wounded later—it seemed more like several months since the company had hit the beach at Guam.
Boston, so named by his buddies for obvious reasons, came from a very different background than the rest of the outfit.
“What made you join the Gyrenes?” Stark once asked. “You could have finished college at Northeastern and then gone to Officer Candidate School. Instead, you joined up right after Pearl Harbor, like most of the rest of us.”
“If you Southern crackers don’t like having a Yank from Boston in your outfit, it’s just tough!”
Actually, once the initial shock had passed and Boston proved to be as much a Marine as the rest of them, he was accepted with no reservations.
“Marine, you die!” came from the depths of the grove, wafted on the foul breeze emanating from the “Valley of Death” that served as the company front. Their rear was more or less protected by cliffs that abruptly ended in the sea; the island’s northern coast being only a quarter mile from their position.
Scattered probing shots cracked, intermittent with further threats of impending death made in maniacal, blood curdling voices, fueled with Saki and hate.
“I told you to keep that dog quiet!” snarled Boston.
“Either shut him up, or kill the son of a bitch,” added Stark. The Nips are just waiting for some stupid bastard like you to give them a target.”
More shots, screams and commotion coming from the grove, served to further unnerve the Doberman, who lunged, straining at the leash held by his trainer, barking and cursing in Doberman at the hated enemy. Finally, he overpowered the frantic efforts to retain a grip on the leash and, in a frenzy, leaped the parapet, charging into the grove.
With this welcome beacon, the Japanese concentrated their fire on the foxhole just vacated by its canine tenant.
“Banzai!” they screamed. “Banzai—kill the Marines!”
Boston began firing the BAR in sweeping bursts, methodically covering the terrain through which the enemy was advancing. The position was commanding, chosen for its dominating field of fire.
“Keep firing and don’t aim so low!” shouted Stark, trying to be heard over the deafening explosions coming from in front as well as from their own foxhole.
“To hell with that! I’m getting the bastards that are crawling, as well as running. They have to have wings to get over it and they can’t for sure get under it.”
“What the hell’s happening? Why aren’t you firing? For Christ sake, keep that BAR going!” screamed Stark.
“It’s jammed, damn it. Start throwing grenades and keep throwing them until I can clear this stoppage.” Boston worked frantically, doing things to the bolt and magazine; praying, sweating and swearing. The roaring blasts of the BAR resumed; a sound sweeter by far to their ears than that of the most beautiful music ever composed.
KA-BOOM. The explosion rocked the three Marines, filling their eyes, noses and lungs with acrid, searing fumes. The blinding muzzle glare coming from Nambus and assorted other Japanese weapons stabbing the blackness of the tropic night, was momentarily hidden by the enveloping blanket of dust raised by the blast.
“Jesus, it’s a grenade,” choked Boston. “Did it get you guys?”
“Keep firing, Christ, just keep firing!”
Magazine after magazine was emptied at the unceasing efforts of the maniacal automatons to obliterate the occupants of the focal point of resistance. The occasional supporting fire emanating from adjacent foxholes, slowly served to ease the pressure and shift attention to other targets.
As the firefight spread to the entire company front, Boston, Stark and the dogless trainer were able to assess their hurts.
“Oh God, half my ass is gone!” Stark sobbed.
“Both my legs feel like hamburger. That grenade got all of us, but at least, we can still fire,” moaned Boston.
“Didn’t touch me. You guys got it all,” the trainer answered, with obvious relief.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the assault was broken. Except for desultory shots, quiet, broken by groans and muffled cries for “Corpsman, Corpsman,” replaced the uproar of combat.
“Good work, men.” Captain Crawford’s quiet praise was delivered after the dawn’s light revealed the horrors of the night’s inferno. He stood above their foxhole, surveying the scene of bloody limbs, wrapped with mud-stained field dressings.
“For your information,” he continued. “there are fourteen good Nips in front of your hole. I think you’ll be interested to know that we found the dog. He was lying next to a Jap officer without a throat. The poor dog was almost cut in half. The sword that did the job was still in the Samurai’s hand. If animals could get medals, this one should be up for a Silver Star at least. The officer that he tangled with was apparently the battalion commander. When he got his, the spirit of the attack was broken and his troops suddenly lost their wish to die for their Emperor.”
The meat wagons departed with their inert cargo containing both living and dead. “Mount up, Gyrenes,” the Gunny growled. “Let’s go. Lock your pieces, but keep your eyes open.”
Company K slowly moved out, toward the island’s end; one day away from the securement of Guam.
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| The timeless intimidation factor of the sentry dog. Often, an aggressive dog can inspire more fear than a trained soldier with a firearm. (U.S. National Archives) |
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| A Marine handler and his Doberman Pinscher transfer to a landing craft on the way to combat on Peleliu. (U.S. National Archives) |
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| U.S. Marine scout dogs and their handlers on Bougainville during World War II. (U.S. National Archives) |
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| USMC War Dog “Rex” on Iwo Jima. The Leatherneck on the left carries a Trench Gun 12-gauge shotgun. (U.S. National Archives) |