Blackie meets the Phantom & Gets A Bath 

Days and nights, one blending into another. So far I have far more days left in country than I've spent. Tonight I have the next thing to having a day off, standby. Standby is when your not assigned to a post for the evening, yet you can't get drunk either. You are the person who goes out if anything happens or if someone gets sick. Sort of the maid of honor at a wedding. All fluff and stuff, yet someone else is going to be getting all the real attention. Oh well, could be worse, you could have Kilo 15 and have to put up with Tiger Troop all night.

Hang around the kennels for a while playing with Blackie, then back to the hooch to see what's going on there. Can't join in on the drinking party with the others who are off, at least not the way you would like to. Play a few hands of poker here and there. Here you are, all geared up as if you were going out, and nothing to do. Boring. Hated being the standby person. Most evenings that I had this, I would take Blackie out and just walk the perimeter, or go over to the supply area and hang out. Unknown to me however, tonight was going to be different.

The radio sounds off, "K-9 standby to kennel area!!" Arriving I find a jeep waiting there. It seems like Tiger 2, Tiger flight's 2nd in command, thought he saw some movement around a small pond by the flight line. After his people not finding anything, he wants a Sentry Dog Unit to check it out. Now one has to know Tiger 2 to appreciate this situation fully. He calls in shadows across the moon, lights on the horizon, and has bats in the belfry. Ever see someone who has reached the Peter Principal? That is, been promoted up to their level of fullest incompetence. The nicest thing we can say about him is that the wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead. I look at the Sergeant and give him a, "Tiger 2"??, look. He nods and lets me know that it's being requested from higher up and to please play along with the seriousness of the situation. All right I say, lets go get Blackie. Blackie has spotted me coming and is eager to see me. "Oh boy, we get to go out, I get to go out, can I kill something tonight?? Put on my leash and muzzle, open the door, here we go! OUT, OUT, OUT!!!"

I put Blackie on the duce and a half and climb aboard. We're driving to who knows where following "Tigee 2" and his 2 tiger flight brown nose tag alongs. After about 10 minutes we stop and I look around. We are on the edge of a small pond surrounded by brush. There has to be 5 jeeps there, parked with their lights on, illuminating the area. Surrounding this is anywhere from 10 to 15 SP's. All of them armed and watching the brush and pond. I find out that "Tigee-2" thought he saw some movement in the brush and wants me to take Blackie down there and check things out. The pond is about a quarter of an acre in size, and the waist to shoulder high brush extends back from it 10 to 15 feet deep in spots. Standing on the bed of the duce and a half I survey the area and decide how I want to work this situation.

I had brought along a 20 foot training leash, not knowing what to expect, and I snap this onto Blackie's collar. I tell "Tiger-2" to move his troops back in that I may be letting out all 20 feet of leash. Of course by now, this situation is up to an hour old. They have had who knows how many people walking around down there, and the area is just swarming with their scents. Some old, some new. We're by this pond, which I find out later has had several hundred gallons of JP-4 poured over it, to keep the mosquito population down. Which has also, in the Vietnam summer sun, backed itself to a hard crust. So mixed with all the human scents, there is the overwhelming smell of JP-4. And we're supposed to find the needle in the haystack in this mess.

Putting Blackie on guard with a "Watch them!" We begin to cover the area in a clockwise manner. I doubt if Blackie can smell anything but JP-4 right now but he puts up a good show anyway. Problem is that he wants to go and eat SP's for his midnight snack more than this looking in the bushes nonsense. I keep him on the task at hand, remembering that the Sergeant said for us to play along, but I don't exactly discourage him either. Figured we might as well mess with someone other than the marines. Blackie feels that way also, after all the SP's seem to smell better than the marines, but act just as goofy when he charges them. After two sweeps around the pond however, it is becoming apparent that the old shadows across the moon were responsible for "Tigee 2's" seeing spooks in the bushes, and a few of the SP's were even starting to comment thusly. "Tigee 2" however is certain that the bogie man is in here and we're just missing him. He tells me to walk out on the crust covering the pond and search from there outwards.

I look at him as if he really doesn't realize that he is missing some vital parts in his head, like the normal ration of brain cells. Sarg's wish for me to play along with this clown is growing thinner by the minute. Yet after receiving assurances that the crust will support our weight, I reluctantly step out. It's like walking on a blanket that has been spread over the water. Firm on top, yet every step sends ripples undulating underneath you. I compare it to standing on a water bed. Blackie however is looking at me with the same look I gave "Tigee 2" when he told us to go do this. He's convinced I've lost it this time for sure. I'm starting to agree with him in that I can barely keep my footing as we move around the edge of the pond.

Slippery, treacherous, and bad smelling is how I would describe it. Just as I'm thinking that this isn't so bad, the inevitable happens. The firm crust I was standing on lets go, and I am now armpit deep in black and smelly muck. Blackie turns to look back at me and is stopped in mid stride. I'm getting this look like, "What happened to the lower part of your body?" from him. I tell him to "STAY!" but it's too late. He has started back towards me and now the area under him lets go also. We manage to wrest out way out, but him and I are both covered with an oily slime from the neck down. "Tigee 2" wisely does not argue with us when I state that there is no one in the bushes, and if tiger flight doesn't believe me, they can go and walk the *()&*%^*)&* pond till hell freezes over for themselves.

Blackie meanwhile has this look on his face like he wants to kill something, and he does not care who at this point. I have some suggestions to give him in that respect. I reach back to get his muzzle for the ride back to the kennels, only to discover that there is a big clump of oily guck hanging in it. Saying screw it, I put him on the back of the duce and a half and we ride back the way we are. Neither one of us in the best of moods. All of our gear, from my underwear to his leash is ruined. And he looks like he received a bad paint job. "Tiger 2" stays behind, still convinced that the bogeyman is amuck and he's angry that no one wants to co-operate with his delusions. Back at the kennels there is a further surprise in store for me. I can't put Blackie away covered in oil like that. He'll do a dog thing and in trying to lick it off, will ingest it and get sick, or worse. So here I am, stripped down to my shorts, with the hose and a bucket of hot soapy water, giving him a bath. If looks could kill, I'd be very dead now. He's becoming less amused by the situation as this goes on. But he looks so funny, covered with this black yuck, soap bubbles all over him, and me squirting him down with the hose. I'm lucky he let me live through it all.

Getting him finally cleaned up I call up tiger flight and have them send a jeep over to run me back to the hooch so I can clean up. They start to balk at this and I remind them that I was the person who went out for "Tiger 2" and if they want any of us to do these little games for them again, they'd better get that *(^^%#$^& jeep over here for me. Took them the better part of a half hour but now here I am, back at the hooch and guess what? There is no hot water to be had in the entire complex. Used the better part of an entire bar of soap getting that guck off me using cold water, not an experience I want to repeat.

The following day I went over to supply to replace my gear. The guy there started to chisel me for everything. When we got to the gas mask, I told him to stick his face in it and inhale. Now most of these items I had hosed out and left out to dry overnight, so they didn't look too bad. He made one sniff and that settled everything. The only nice thing positive to say of the adventure is that Blackie and I made out getting all new stuff because of it. None of us went out for another "Tiger 2" adventure again however.

This was truly a unique animal. He affected everyone that he touched or came into contact with through his presence. There are 6 handlers, whom we know of, that were deeply touched by him. There are others, who just circled around him, and knew him, who remember him. What makes a dog so unusual? Shortly after I got there, I was told that he liked to carry things around in his mouth. One night, coming off post I stumbled and my helmet fell off. He grabbed it and from then on, he carried it wherever we went. A helmet weighed 2 or 3 pounds. Not heavy one would say, however imaging that your carrying it around in your mouth, most times with your head held high.

This is my helmet, I get to carry it and when I have it, it belongs to me.

"YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT???"

When you came out of the kennels, your dog had to be muzzled. This was for safety reasons, they couldn't bite another handler, or another dog when they were muzzled. Remember that normally only the more aggressive animals went into this program, Cinder included, and they would attack each other as well as another person if they felt like it. I believe that with Blackie however, if I had just given him the helmet to carry, I would never have had to muzzle him. When he had it, he was manageable. Just leave him, and especially his helmet alone, and he's content. Anyone, however trying to get the helmet out of his mouth, is in for a whole boatload of trouble.

There was one time when all of Alpha Company was laughing at me because of him. We were walking out of the old kennels and had stopped in front of Alpha Company HQ out on the perimeter. While we were BS-ing with the marines, Đà Nàng AB got another dose of what it was named for. "Rocket City."

Blackie was standing there with my helmet in his mouth, minding his own business as far as he was concerned. The radio went nutso with the alert for incoming rockets and the first mistake I did was to make a grab at the helmet in his mouth. Imagine yourself, lying on the ground, watching this idiot dog handler fighting and arguing with his dog.

"GIVE ME THE DAMN HELMET, YOU SOB!!!!"

He carried this out with him every night now, and had developed muscles in his jaws that could crush cannonballs. I had as much a chance of taking it away from him as I did of flying to the moon. Of course, this was not something he was going to take lightly, my trying to take his helmet away from him.

"KISS OFF A--HOLE, THIS HELMET IS MINE AND YOU'RE NOT GETTING IT!!!!"

Meanwhile rockets are landing on the base, (a mile or so away from us but close enough as far as I was concerned), the sirens are going off, the radio is going full tilt, "ROCKETS, ROCKETS, ROCKETS, GET DOWN, GET DOWN!!!!" Desk sergeants always imagined the worst. And this damn dog and I are arguing and fighting over whom gets the helmet. On top of all this, Alpha Co and the other K-9 handlers are laying there on the ground, watching and laughing at us.

"GIVE ME THE DAMN THING!!!"

"SCREW YOU!!!"

"I HAVE TO WEAR IT!!!"

"WEAR IT ON YOUR OWN TIME, NOT MINE!!!"

Occasionally I'd comment to the audience, "Dammit you guys, this isn't funny!!"

The chorus would come back, "Yes it is."

By now I'm just lying on the ground, him beside me, my helmet still clenched tightly in his jaws. And if I didn't know better, I'd say he's laughing at me also. We all know that dogs can't laugh, right? Finally I gather enough of my senses to realize that the only way I'm going to get him to let go of it, is to tell him to drop it. I'd have to do this all the time to get it back. At the time, I was reacting to the situation, not using my common sense. Once you asked him to put it down, he'd do it, but you had to ask first. I guess he figured that you gave it to him, and you had to ask for it back. Believe me, he'd never give it up otherwise. Sometimes I'd try to take it away from him just to see what he'd do. He let me know in no uncertain terms that I was in for a fight if I kept it up.

We were the talk of the perimeter however. The marines, after calling him SOB, would comment about him either carrying the helmet everywhere we went or how much he could eat. "Hey Dunlap, you're wearing a bucket of dog slobber!" Such a thing to be known for...

This attitude extended to his kennels also. He sometimes would take his chow pan into the back of his kennels and dare anyone to try to get it out. The day workers knew that all he wanted was for them to show him some attention, so they would make a big show out of begging and pleading for him to give it back so they could wash it. Most times he'd give it back. Occasionally, however, no amount of persuasion or begging could tempt him into releasing it and then the broom handle would be used to retrieve it. Now this works fine if he's just trying to mess with your mind a little. There were a few times however, when he WANTED TO KEEP THE PAN. I'd come to take him out and there would be a broom handle hanging from his door. Chewed, broken, completely disfigured. It would be the way that the day workers would tell me that he was in one of his moods again. Sometimes the pan would still be in the kennel with him; he'd have a look of total contentment on his face, as if he had won that round. They'd gripe to me about his attitude and I'd always respond that he was that way with me also, and that we could trade jobs for a while. "Tell you what, you take him out on post and I'll stay here and sleep all night in your bunk, OK?" For some reason they never took me up on my offer…

The other thing he would do in his kennels is something I trained him to do. Whenever you got your dog out, you would dump the water bucket and leave it upright so the day workers could come by and fill it with fresh water. One day I told him to pick up the water bucket. Took me about 5 minutes to show him what I wanted him to do, but from that day on, I never had to bend down and dump his bucket. I'd walk in his kennel and say "Bucket." He would give it a paw swipe to knock it over. Then he'd pick it up in his mouth and walk around with it till I got him to put it down. Then we'd put on the leash and muzzle and be off. Monty says that he got to knocking his water bucket over so much that they had to end up clipping it inside his kennel. Like I said, all he wanted is a little attention. Give him that and he'd be happy.

Blackie was identity challenged. Now why do I say that? Well, he fashioned himself to be a boxer. Most dogs, when you would play with them, they would grab your hand or arm and growling the whole time, and tug at it. Correct? An occasional few would go for the feet and play with them. Some just wanted to have a tug of war with you and would shred whatever towel or whatever was brought out for that purpose. Blackie wanted to fight, to box and wrestle actually.

He was a knife fighter in that he liked close-in-stick-it-in-your-face combat. He'd ram me with his head till he knocked me down. Then he'd come up on his hind legs and deliver a one-two punch to my upper body and head with his front paws. And I'd better be prepared because he would not pull his punches. One day I was sporting a small black eye where he nailed me. I'd allow him a few attacks, parrying as well as I could. Whenever he left me an opening, I'd smack him back. A free for all would eventually ensue. He'd ram that head into my midsection and I'd grab him. We would go rolling off on the ground, me on top, him on top, etc., him growling and barking, me yelling "HELP, HELP, MY DOG'S TURNED ON ME!!!" The marines would always offer to shoot the two of us, wonder why?? After a while we'd end up lying on the ground, laughing and catching our breath. Occasionally we'd go another round, but most times he just wanted the one go around. Of course all this foolishness did nothing but enhance his reputation. Damn SOB attacks his handler as much as he does us, the marines would be thinking.

He did know when to pick his times, however. During the summer, the dogs would have an influx of fleas and ticks. Some of the handlers would also. Besides using spray and powder, we'd take everyone to China Beach and make all of us swim in the salt water to get the parasites off. We'd arrive and take over a whole section of the beach. The idea would be that we'd just go out far enough to submerse most of our bodies, the bugs would release and float away. I don't know how effective it was but it was a break in the daily routine so we went for it. Also it presented us with the opportunity for a beach party!! We'd load up on the duce and a half like we were going out on post, guns, flack vests, helmets, the whole nine yards. However every extra spot on the truck would be taken up with cases of beer. When we arrived at the beach we'd stake out a section for ourselves, strip down and take the dogs swimming.

Summertime in Vietnam, the temperature is in the high 90's to 100's and who the hell cares? The water temperature is 80 or above, not refreshing but just wet. After a while of just walking around in the surf and letting Blackie soak in the salt water, I get the idea to have him start swimming and pull me around. So I pull him out deeper until he has to swim to stay afloat. As he goes past me I roll over on my back and think I've got it made. Here I am floating on my back, being pulled through the water, and drinking beer. How could things get better? What I didn't realize is that Blackie was swimming in a slow circle, and as soon as his feet touched the sand, he had a surprise in store for me. I feel the pressure on the leash change and looking up, catch a quick glimpse of him. He had raised up on his hind legs, and turning around, was coming down on top of me. Here I am, on my back, floating in the water, and he pushes me under, and tries to hold me there!! The first time he did this he caught me totally off guard. I thought I was going to drown. Came up sputtering and coughing, and while trying to catch my breath, he head butts me, knocking me over, and attacks again. So now the two of us are going at it and everyone else is scattering. Something about blood attracting sharks they later said. Some of our more enjoyable play periods happened at the beach. But my body would take a beating from his toenails. Fresh scratches in salt water. Good thing we brought the beer to act as an anesthetic.

Other things that were unique only to him. He would never lay down on post unless you told him to, NEVER. What does this mean you ask? Well the dog that lays down, goes to sleep. Occasionally he and I would catch a few winks out there however. I would bring a timer out and set it for 1/2 hour or so. I'd then tell him that I was going to catch some shut eye and put him on alert. I knew that I could safely snooze and that he'd stay up watching for me. We had an arrangement. I'd wake up, stretch and all, then tell him to lay down. He watched for me, I'd watch for him. Should have heard him snore. We never got caught and he understood the arrangement. The last evening I spent on post with him, I slept an hour. That's how comfortable I felt. He watched while I slept, I did the same for him.

AND NOTHING GOT PAST EITHER OF US!!

HE ABSOLUTELY HATED, DESPISED, ABHORRED, LOATHED, CURSED, AND BORE A GRUDGE, AGAINST RAIN,

Rainy nights were the worst thing in the world for us. He'd be in a foul mood thick enough to cut. I've watched him get so nasty about the rain coming down, that he'd stick his head straight up in the air, and bark, growl, and bite at the raindrops. And it didn't seem to matter if we were under cover or not. He DETESTED rainy nights. We'd sit out on post, trying to get comfortable and he would have a murderous look on his face. I'd sit out there making fun of him, the rain dripping off his nose and all. You could see the thoughts going through his head,

"I HATE IT HERE, I HATE THE RAIN, AND I'M STARTING TO LIKE YOU LESS. I'M GOING TO BITE HIM IF HE KEEPS THIS UP. I WANT TO FEEL HIS LIFE OOZE OUT OF HIM SLOWLY AS MY JAWS COME TOGETHER."

An occasional snarl would tell me that I had better find something else to amuse myself with because he wasn't enjoying any of what I was dishing out.

One rainy night I made the mistake of correcting him for something trivial. I should have known better. He had let me know earlier that he was in a terrible mood and I ignored it. He nailed my left hand and my ring finger has a long scar on it visible to this day. At the time he left the bone exposed, and upper and lower teeth marks were on the palm and backside. We separated and I clutched my wrist with my other hand to slow down the blood flow.

Now imagine, it's dark. I come up to the first bunker, in Charlie Company, holding my injured hand up, my other hand around my wrist. It's raining, the rain mixing with the blood, diluting it, spreading it. I yell up to the bunker to call the medic, that my dog had bitten me.

The marine looks out of his bunker and asks, "Which dog?"

I reply, "Blackie!!" There is a scramble as he grabs his flashlight and shines it down at us. I am holding both arms upwards, as I described. The rain, by now, has caused the blood to wash over my arms and it's dripping off my elbows. From the amount of blood, it looks like I had cut off both of my hands at the wrist. The marine goes pail in the face and dives out of the bunker to get the medic. As they're wrapping my hand up, I'm calling in for the truck so I can get to the hospital and have this looked at. The marines are however passing the word around that Blackie and I got into it, and both of us are still alive. There were several volunteering to take Blackie out if I wanted them to, a few offering to do both of us for the price of one. When I get to the kennels, there is Doc, the Vet, waiting for me.

The first Vet we had was a wonderful human being. There wasn't enough he could do for you and your partners. He was the only one, besides myself, that could take off Blackie's muzzle and open his mouth to check his teeth. Blackie knew that he was there to help him, so he never gave him any trouble. Imagine someone else just taking off his muzzle and opening his mouth. They'd end up being his lunch. Whenever things got rough, the Vet would even be out there on the line, M16, helmet, flack vest and all, backing us up. Now here he is waiting for me to come in so he can bandage me up. Afterwards he sent me to the hospital because he said that he couldn't give me a shot legally. Besides the needles he used would leave quite a hole in my hide. I get to the hospital and the first thing they do is comment on how well bandaged I am. Now the fun begins. They asked who did the bandage job. I replied, "The Vet."

I get this look like I just got here from another planet. "You mean you let the Vet treat you???" I get asked.

"Sure, why not?"

They just couldn't understand why I would let the Vet treat me. The humorous part about the entire evening was that they soaked my hand in the same solution the Vet had used. Put the same salve on the wound. Gave me a shot, big deal. But did not do as good a job of wrapping the wound afterwards. When I got back to the kennels, the Vet was still waiting for me.

"Thought they would do a bad job on that bandaging", I get told. "Now just sit still and let me fix that." I was as docile as the dogs were whenever we brought them in to see him. Something about that man.

All of us were very responsive to what the Vet wanted. He not only took care of our partners, he watched after us. He was the Base Sanitation Officer. This meant that he inspected the Mess Halls. If we wanted to have a party, the Vet took it personal that we got the better steaks for the party. If they didn't meet up to what he considered to be good enough, and he came to the parties, then that Mess Hall would have strike marks on their next inspection. Our parties always had the better steaks when Doc was around. Another thing he would do is give us his shopping list. We had a post in the supply yard. Whatever Doc, or any of us wanted, it was easier for us to get it outright, than to request it through regular channels. Doc rotated out around July or August and we got in his replacement. He was the opposite of everything the other Vet had been.

"First off, I've never been a base Vet, I've been in research all my life. I need this combat posting in order to qualify for promotion. And I believe that you should never, NEVER, NEVER, have to use force on an animal. Just talk to them and they will respond to your voice. And anyone I see using force will be in trouble.

We used to work the dogs up and then take them in to see him. Every time they'd twist their head and try to bite him, even though they were still muzzled, he'd jump.

The replacement vet was a Major. In mid 1969, Blackie was assigned to Clarence Dedecker,.. Dedecker had the right size, experience and disposition for Blackie. 

This veterinarian was prone to antagonize any dog brought in for exams. After the dog agitated he would complain about the handler's inability to control the dog. Allegedly, Dedecker solved the problem for us during one of Blackie's vet appointments. Blackie was muzzled and led into the clinic. The vet teased the dog, and the leash "slipped" out of Dedecker's hand and away went Blackie.

He chased the vet around the table and pinned him in the corner. Blackie was trying to rub his muzzle off on the vet's chest, so he could return the "teasing". Dedecker was just a little slow in recovering Blackie, and apologized for the leash "slipping". No damage occurred, but the vet never teased another dog. When Dedecker was asked about the incident he would only smile. He never would admit or deny it. I guess that he felt that Blackie did all the "work" so there was no reason to say anything.

NEXT

There was a saying we had, "I'm next!" One said it with pride, a little boasting, and a whole lot of conviction.

Next!

Such a lovely word, next. Not next to get on the truck, or next in line for a haircut, or next for R & R. No, you were Next. You were special. You were NEXT!!!!!

You walked with a little jaunt in your step. Your head was held a little higher. Your mind was filled with thoughts of the land of the big BX, round eyed women, clean clothes and nice smells. The freedom bird was arriving and it had your name on it!!!!

YOU WERE GOING HOME, AND YOU WERE THE NEXT TO LEAVE!!!

NEXT!!!!!!!!!!!

Yell it out, shout it from the roof tops, "I'm going home!!!!!!"

You were a short-timer and you rubbed it in. Your year in hell was almost over, and it was ending soon. You had less time left in country than most of the guys would spend in the bathrooms there.

"You've got how much left to go??? Hell even Uncle Ho isn't planning on spending that much time in this god forsaken place." "I'm so short, I walk under doors, and they're not open."

One had to really know how to make others enjoy the quality of life to savor the experience properly. And when one said it, "NEXT", everyone else knew what was meant by it. The only other element of our society that could probably relate to this feeling is convicts facing release. That's what it felt like. You had spent your time, paid your debt, and now you were being released back into the real world. The one you had occupied for the past 12 months was not the real world, it was your perjury for the sins you had committed, be they real or otherwise.

You had volunteered to do a duty for your country because you felt that this was something you owed to the nation that had fostered you. You didn't shirk that sense of obligation; in fact you felt pride in having done what you considered to be your responsibility. You had performed that duty to the best of your ability, and now, the end of your indenture was approaching. Nights on post were now spent with bragging rights. And, occasionally, with quiet times, talking to your best friend.

At the end of that 6-foot leash was another individual, and they weren't going home with you. As far as they were concerned, they were home. And you being there with them, that was all they ever asked for. You were leaving, and they were staying behind. How could you explain that to them??? You had told them every story about your life you could remember, and not just once. All your dark secrets, regrets, triumphs, and embarrassments. Everything!! And through it all, they had just sat or stood there, and acted like it was the first time they had heard it. And they had enjoyed every word out of your mouth, and had thanked you afterwards for the tale.

They watched your back, acted as your muscle, and your counsel. You poured out your heart to them, and they gave back all their love, devotion, and respect. Now you were leaving, and they were staying behind. How do you explain that and feel good afterwards???

Every one of us acted the same on that last day. We'd joke around the hut with everyone. "Hey last day huh? Want to trade places?" "How long you got left, how does 11 hours sound?" the usual banter. There was the changing of the sign, generally involving some alcohol and joking. Then you realize the full impact of the day. You were leaving, and they were staying behind.

Every one of us ended up back at the kennels for most of the day. I took Blackie out and just spent time with him, for the last time. Most of the day actually but whose keeping score? I remember some of the newer guys walking by during this period and saying something to the effect of me spending time with him for the last time.

He was groomed, fed, canned food, what a treat!! Played with and showed attention to. What more could a dog ask for? Being treated like this with your best friend, only he does not know that tomorrow you won't be there. . You were leaving, and they were staying behind. And try as you might, you couldn't explain that to them. We had shared a bond, a trust, and it was ending. In one respect you felt such joy at leaving. Yet in another, such sadness as leaving behind.

You were leaving, and they were staying behind.

Goodbye Blackie, believe me, I'll never forget you.

Greg Dunlap on right receiving the next sign.

Đà Nàng AB Air Base   Dogs of Đà Nàng AB    Handlers of Đà Nàng AB

Attack on Đà Nàng AB    Blackie #129X    K-9 Posts of Đà Nàng AB

Stories by Greg Dunlap    Stories by Greg Dunlap #2

Stories of Đà Nàng    Trip: China Beach   Sick Call 

The Section   Photos # 1    Photos # 2   Photos # 3   Photos # 4 

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