Air Force Security Police Squadron K-9 sentry
dog handlers patrolled the perimeter of Đà Nàng Air Base from the early
days of the war. These War Dogs were posted at the bases' interior,
along runways, and the perimeter, along with the marines.
(Air Force Security Police
K-9, posting along Đà Nàng's runway of 1965-1966. Click to see large image.)
What's for dinner? Things
started to settle down and I began to fall into the routine: Check
the K-9 roster after coming off post to see what assignment Blackie
and I had the next evening, go to chow, hit the rack--or have a few
beers and then hit the rack. Try to get as much sleep as possible
before the heat and noise made it impossible to sleep, (usually around
11 AM).
Day after
day, the same thing. Blackie, my German Shepard sentry dog, and I were
getting to know each other better and work better as a team. One of
the first things I learned is that, HIM, meaning Blackie, had a reputation---a
K-9 attitude. As we'd be walking out to our post the marines along Đà Nàng's perimeter would call out to see what handlers were in their area
that evening. I'd answer "K-9, Blackie!", and receive back comments
like, "Keep that SOB out of here", "Blackie, that bad tempered SOB?"
I recall one evening that it seemed like everyone was calling Blackie
an SOB, so I nicknamed him that for the night:
"Hey you, SOB, want to bite some marine
fanny or some officer fanny?"
"SOB, you have a dog nose, dog face, and dog breath!"
"SOB, if we chase those marines out of the bunker, we can eat their
midnight rations. Want to, huh?"
Somehow I think he understood what I was
doing because he would just wag his tail and act like there was nothing
different going on and he was in on the joke. Another item I found out
about is that Blackie also had a reputation of eating almost anything
thrown or offered to him. Looks like food, smells like food---gone---hope
it was food. Everyone used to joke about what he'd eat. Such as, anything
at all, what so ever, that had ever been in, around, or near, a
C-Rations box (except ham and lima beans). But crackers, pound cake,
peanut butter, jelly, toilet paper (never tried this but it wouldn't
have surprised me), one or two bites and gone.
One evening, on Charlie CO's lines,
he ate almost the entire midnight ration for the whole line. It started
out that we were posted toward the start of Charlie CO's lines
that evening, right across from the ARVN camp on the other side of US1.
I was familiar with the driver who was running the midnight rations
around and he had stopped and we chatted for a few minutes. Before he
left a few other marines from Charlie CO had joined us and everyone
started joking about how Blackie always seemed hungry and would eat
almost anything offered. One thing leading to another and someone asked,
"How much will that SOB eat?" Being challenged, and in the interest
of keeping up the mystique about K-9, and being confident in my buddy
Blackie, I responded, "He'll eat every sandwich you have in the truck
with you tonight, and still be hungry afterward." This was soundly
disputed: There are 22 sandwiches left to deliver---no dog
could eat 22 sandwiches! Hesitant as I was, I bet that he could
do it
---Air Force honor was at stake. Figuring on the fact that at least
Blackie'd have the bliss of eating until he hurled.
Calls were made up and down the perimeter
line and the bets were on! I had $10.00 riding on Blackie's belly now.
Several handlers and marines had joined us to witness the event. Ever
see "Cool Hand Luke"? The first dozen eggs went down like the first
dozen sandwiches. Blackie was in glutton's heaven. Wagging his tail
and almost doing tricks for another sandwich. It was embarrassing
to watch. 12 down, and 10 to go. Next 5 went down slower, by now he
seemed to chew them more than just once. Of course I was telling everyone
that now that his initial sampling was over, Blackie had pronounced
marine food fit for a dog, and wanted to savor the flavor.
Several comments were made about the taste
buds and IQ of a dog wanting to savor midnight sandwiches. I always
thought the marines may have not been properly trained in the culinary
skills myself---Blackie just burped and looked at the next offering.
Yep... dog with an attitude. 5 more to go and we'd have the honorary
title: BIG PIG ON PERIMETER! usually reserved for a perimeter line
marine. Wouldn't that look nice over his kennel?
Blackie was at the point of not knowing if
he wanted to eat another sandwich, or barf.
The novelty was wearing thin now. When in a land of plenty, one satiates
one's self, and then contemplates his own gluttony (like at Thanksgiving
dinner!). Blackie was fast approaching that point.
3 more were coaxed down.
Only 2 to go.
The title---and Air Force honor---was
so near, and the champ was starting to waver, assuming a glazed cross-eyed
look. I took him for a comfort walk. "Hey fellas---he's got to pee sometimes
guys, give him a break! Besides... if I'd known he was going to have
a snack I wouldn't have fed him before patrol tonight (I hadn't, but
they didn't know that, heh-heh)." Blackie had that look on his face
of, "OH CRAP---what did you get me into???"
Back we came, the final 2 sandwiches were
on the ground and displayed like a prized meal and opened. I stopped,
lit a cigarette, patted Blackie and massaged his sides like a prize
fighter waiting for the bell. I reached down, picking up both sandwiches.
Crinkling the paper (hoping for a Pavlovian response here folks)... Blackie salivated and looked at me with mild interest. I tossed him
one... then the other. Nothing hit the ground: SNATCH, GULP ---
SNATCH GULP --- G O N E!!!
IT'S OURS, WE WON!!! Air Force honor
was reaffirmed in the eyes of the jarheads. "Hey Marines, got any more?"
Disbeliever's were dispelled that night. Blackie had reached a new level
of respect. One had to bow his head when reverently mentioning Blackie's
name---even in vain. But then someone remembered and reminded me, "Wait
a minute---the bet's not over yet!"
"Hey Zoomie... you said that SOB'd still
be hungry---afterwards---no way can he eat anything more
now!!!"
I replied, "Mumble grumble, @!%&#-ratten
fracker... well, yes I did---and I suppose you really want
to see him do it?"
"Yep, we really want to see it---makes
the bet right." Renewed hope swept the marines as shouts in agreement
snatched victory from me.
"Well... there's no more sandwiches", the
look on Blackie's face seemed to say, "Thank you GOD."
"Wait---I have it!" I said, remembering that
I had some chocolate in my shirt pocket. I looked down at Blackie---his
eyes were rolling back in his head and crossing now. "CRAP, I ate the
whole thing!!" seemed to be flowing through his doggie-brain instead
of being full of used kitty litter, but still a semblance of a working
dog's brain, nevertheless. Slowly I opened my shirt pocket, looking
at him the whole time and making sure he was paying attention. He watched
me. He hadn't moved an inch in five minutes. His belly was dragging
the ground. His usually frantically wagging tail was like rigor mortis.
Could he do it? I wondered.
Taking out the chocolate bar, I tore off
the paper slowly, making as much noise as possible. Crackle, crackle,
wrinkle---ripppppp. Blackie's eyes snapped toward me. Yummy coming
out!! You could see his mixed emotions and indecision happening
at the same time. Luckily, the marines didn't know what to look for.
I took a large bite out of the chocolate bar and chewed it with much
fanfare, making ummm ummm UMMMmmmmmmmmmm sounds. Blackie's tail
wagged--once... twice... three times in a row... his ears perked straight
up as if alerted on a battalion of VC. I looked down at him---the moment
of truth at hand. "Ummmmm... sure is good, Blackie---want some desert?"
Wrinkle, wrinkle, wrinkle rip rip ripppppp went the paper. Really big
indecision was apparent on him: Food... or burst stomach? But
food first, right? Do I want some---who are you kidding? Wait, even
if I did want some, I couldn't force another bite down!"
The moment of truth was at hand. No one breathed.
An entire regiment of VC could have been sneaking across the perimeter
and no one would have noticed. More importantly, my $10.00 was on the
line. Peeling open the remainder of the chocolate bar, making more noise
with the paper, I again asked him, "Want some, Blackie?" It wasn't fair,
lots of primeval instincts, and physical discomfort versus a chocolate
bar. The huge German Shepard wagged his tail ---once---actually, it
brushed from the right over to the left and stopped, as if too much
effort and pain. His face went into that dog-face look of "They never
feed me anything around here, can you spare a small morsel?"
I tossed a piece of chocolate into the air.
It tumbled.
All eyes watched its slow-motion like decent.
Blackie watched its decent like a starved
predator.
Blackie suddenly leapt forward and snatched
it in mid-tumble and swallowed it in a single gulp!
BIG PIG ON THE PERIMETER was ours!
My heart swelled in pride at victory over the United States Marine Corps!
Blackie assumed a "don't touch my belly" look as if knowing I was fixing
to pet him like crazy!
Grunts of disbelief moaned up and down the
perimeter as if having just lost a sure-thing Super Bowl game! I don't
know how Blackie was keeping everything down, but I knew it would be
foolish to try to get him to eat any more. The marines however felt
they had witnessed something unique---a true miracle--- something to
be reverently whispered about, to tell their grand children about.
Never again would Blackie's ability to eat anything in any
amount be questioned.
The Word passed up and down the lines and
finally, the obvious sunk in: Sounds of "What! You fed my mid-rats
to that SOB---on a bet?" could be heard. Echoes of that "Son
of a BITCH!" could also occasionally be heard. Collecting our
$10.00 we waddled off now, my thinking being if he did loose his lunch,
we'd do it out of sight of the marines---even a dog deserves some dignity.
Blackie was done for the night however. Normally
full of pep and active, now he was content to just sit and gurgle and
digest, not yet able to lay down. Sounds from doing just that emanated
from his belly for the remainder of the night. Even when I went to eat
my C-Rations, he wasn't tempted to ask for any. It's probably a good
thing that it was quiet the rest of the evening because any activity
and he'd probably just lose everything if he had to do anything.
The next day the kennel people asked me if
I noticed anything wrong with Blackie because he didn't eat his chow
when they fed him that morning. "Really? Didn't eat!!? Blackie?? No
... didn't notice anything, I'll watch him closely tonight and
let you know if I suspect anything though."
Đà Nàng Air Base's S/E Perimeter, tree line at 500 yards, c. September
1965. Air Police Squadron
posts and bunkers, foreground; Marine posts and bunkers outside fence.
A few days later we got posted back in Charlie CO's area and when
we arrived it was like coming on with a celebrity. When I announced
"K-9, Blackie", sounds of "hide the food!!" and an occasional
"that SOB", could be heard in the area. And when the driver who
was running the midnight rations came around he stopped and we chatted
for a few minutes. I asked, "How many sandwiches you got tonight?... only 40? Well, I'll bet that Blackie can...."
Blackie's ability to consume any amount of
food was never again questioned
or challenged!
ARF... ARF
Blackie, 129X, USAF Air/Security Police K-9 handlers:
1965-: Al Watts
(brought Blackie to Đà Nàng), 6252nd Air Police
Squadron
;
1965-1966: Don Poss, 6252nd APS,
1966-1967: Hoagland, 366th APS (Redesignated) 366th SPS,
1967-1968: Gregory Dunlap, 366th SPS;
1968-Nov: Monty Moore, 366th SPS;
1969-1970: Clarence Dedecker III, 366th SPS;
377th SPS Tan Son Nhut.
1970, Sep 9th, Blackie was put down at age eight.
366th SPS, 