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The Story of Combat Dog, the Last American Hero

The Story of Combat Dog, the Last American Hero

A story by writer and sailor Christopher Maleney about a combat dog carrying out his service.

Feb 23, 2024
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The Story of Combat Dog, the Last American Hero
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Credit: Stephanie Cuepo Wobby, Assistant Fiction Editor

Well, Combat Dog made it through the war all right. Came out with three Purple Hearts on account of some shrapnel in his hindquarters, but they also gave him a Bronze Star with citations of excellence and achievement. And how he smiled when they pinned the medals to his harness, big rolling tongue flopping out of his mouth. I think you’ve all seen the pictures. The band played real loud for him, and they even called up a parade in his hometown for his Grand Return. Those were the days.

Combat Dog never told anyone what he got the medals for. Didn’t really talk about the war at all. It’s understandable. They made him a hero, and a hero is never wrong. His family was so proud of their little boy. They patted him and said nice things to him, and he got to sleep in his favorite corner again. The roast tips of lamb he’d dreamed of while trekking miles alone over strange Kurdish hills, he had them again. But somehow they still tasted faintly of MRE chicken. And of worse things.

He was a hero at a time when we needed heroes. Audie Murphy’d been dead for forty years before Combat Dog was born. We had more dead heroes rotting in Normandy and Arlington than live ones in the squalid foxholes of reality. The public, damn the public, they’re tired of war. They’re always tired of war. Well, what do they know of it? They pay their taxes, they watch the news, but the closest they get to the end result is maybe the voting machines. 

Combat Dog went over there. He didn’t have to. 

He came back too. Not many do that.

But it wasn’t even that he returned which captured the public’s imagination. He was handsome, the darling son of every slipper-fetching family hound. His coat was black, flecked with spots of caramel and white. His eyes—there was something in those eyes, something burning with will.

We fitted the packs with dynamite. That was never the main goal, but it was a necessity. A practical necessity. The Hound Town project was top secret, and the brass knew that if any of the agents were co-opted, it would be an international nightmare.

We never lied to our dogs; the team knew what they were getting into. They knew the stakes. It was only supposed to be a last resort.

And now he’s gone. I think about him a lot. I wonder if his spirit is still out there somewhere, trotting the hills in an endless quest for security, safety, and the American Way.

#

He wasn’t the type of dog that’s supposed to go to war. The rest of the first “litter” were largely bred and raised for war. Combat Dog was older than any of them, and not even as big as a few, but he quickly asserted himself. Swimming, tracking, agility, stealth, EOD: he prepped and studied and passed with flying colors. I wish I could take some credit for his success, most trainers can, but Combat Dog was his own warrior. 

I remember one time where I tried to talk to him during his normal exercise regime. He was doing lifts and curls for two hours on the treadmill. I don’t recall what I wanted to ask him about, but he just gave me this look. It was cold, it was hot, it was all the rage and dedication that he needed just to stay top dog.

When he came back—this was near the end—the look had changed. He no longer hated. There wasn’t anything left to hate. He’d lived in almost blissful serenity, at one with the desert’s ways, at one with the war. I debriefed him myself. Do I regret clearing him then? Not then. Later, yes. But not then.

We all decided it was best that he retire a hero. He was a hero. The brass didn’t want to see the program go to shit, so they rigged up a little event . . . 

The media ate it up. I still have some printouts on my office wall. “Combat Dog Survives Impossible Odds.” “Dog Declared HERO.” Such shit, but he deserved it. He deserved more.

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