War Dogs
Monument, March Field Museum, Riverside, California
February 14, 2000
I write to handlers of war dogs, past and
present....
The War Dogs monument stands open to the sky,
although it will soon be draped for President's Day dedication, at March
Field Museum in Riverside, California. I drive by the museum twice daily,
following the freeway herd of thousands, and have resisted the call to
stop and visit the handler and war dog. I pledged that I would wait and
see it for the first time with my brother handlers. But for the past two
days, since the monument's dark, rain-brushed, silhouette was raised, my
sworn pledge has weakened. I find myself passing the on-ramp and
continuing straight through the perimeter fence shared with March Air
Reserve Base, and in to the huge parking lot along I-215. The Valentine's
Day roses I have just bought for my wife of 33 years will keep a few more
minutes.
After-hours ... the museum is closed
and the lot empty. Through windshield wipers sweeping left and right, I
spot the lone handler and war dog. I walk the hundred yards toward the
dedication grounds of a quarter acre or so, and admire its adobe color
stone walls and manicured California green lawns. Along the way, I glance
at war machines that once sailed the skies in anger... a B-52 bomber, P-38
lightning, Japanese Zero
... but only a glance. I am drawn toward the War
Dog -- compelled, really -- as I was to The Wall in D.C., seeking
what I must.
A vertical black beam juts upward sixteen
feet, like a teflon steel girder, which literally dissects the handler's
right side. The metal beam is black as night and dark as the stone of The
Wall, yet dull of finish. First approach is from the handler's right side,
and I can only identify his shoulder and right arm and hand, which grasps
his M16. It is like on night patrol and coming suddenly upon a handler,
not seeing his leashed K-9 that would kill you to protect him.
I entered the memorial plaza and circle the
path around lawns and tiled plaques, bearing names of heroes remembered
and others mostly forgotten, and suddenly look up at the team. I had seen
the drawings of the monument, as no doubt have you, and easily recognized
its form. I knew of its size, but not its power, until now--and am totally
unprepared for the surge of emotions and recognition, being in the
presence of the War Dog and his battle weary Handler -- predators of war,
and without peers. I find that I am choked and breathing in gulps of air,
as I remember. It is as if they were transported into my homeland, from
thousands of miles and decades ago
... and they are here now. I will not
let go ... I will not shed more tears. I pause to let the moment pass,
and feel that once more I have won that distant-close battle. I wonder if
the emotions will always lay just beneath the surface, awaiting that spark
of memory to release again.
I draw a deep breath, determined to study the
team for a meaning
... the answer ... or whatever it is that draws
us to these honored places. The War Dog is at heel, sort of, just off the
mark they so like to test, that we demand -- usually demanded -- of
them. He is sitting, but has alerted and is fixed intently upon a distant
threat, awaiting patently the seconds until his partner and friend
notices. As a handler, I cannot check myself from searching out what the
K-9 has spotted--his gaze is so real!
A light rain is falling, spotting the K-9's
black coat. I touch his paws (as will you) and remember the power and size
of my German Shepherd, Blackie's paws. The handler has noticed the
War Dog's alert, and his face mirrors that instant as he first recognizes
the danger--a not-quite-grin, and pride his war dog has found the enemy. I
can almost hear the handler's thoughts: We have found you, before you
have attacked, and have radioed the alert! You will not get pass us ... but
if you do, others are waiting, and behind them the full weight of American
might will fall upon and break you."
I walk the courtyard, for a different
perspective, and marvel anew at the life-likeness of the War Dog
team. A steady rain falls, as it has off and on for two days now, but they
do not seek shelter from the heavy drops--nor did we. They face
west, overlooking Riverside National Cemetery and its 114,000 plus at
final rest. Behind the team, perhaps half a mile, is the three-miles long
runway and flight line of March Air Reserve Base, with taxiing and parked
giants -- perimeter secured.
It is time to go
... my valentine is waiting.
I feel a strong pride that finally--finally
--we
are remembered, Blackie, as a team
... handler, and war dog. My eyes cloud
with mist and I am again choked with emotions thought long buried. I walk
the warpath toward my car, and feel a presence as if Blackie is padding
familiarly along side for one last farewell patrol -- and sense that we
are home... home at last.
Thank you, sculptor A.
Thomas Schomberg, for capturing the Handler and War Dog, as no one else
has.
Don Poss
6252nd Air Police Squadron,
366th SPS, K-9
Đà Nàng Air Base, 1965-1966
