Bruno's Old Bud

I saw a guy recently, in my recent travels, who I recognized with a jolt. He was my SF ad hoc handler in Nam. This SF guy, a young SSG, traded for me at Danang and took me back to Budop. He was a dog guy. I could tell right away. And he figured, rightly so, that a dog could help with night perimeter security. He was a great kid and good guy. A bit wild. But most SF guys are, especially back then.

I was in Nam way too long, jumping back and forth between human and dog forms. That war just got into my blood, like no other I had known. The war was everywhere. There was no rear area, no behind the lines, no safe zone.

Steve, this guy I saw a couple weeks ago, was one of the best men I ever knew. Ever. He was tough and strong and kind and smart and funny and generous to a fault. He was killed on patrol.

I went nuts. I was labeled a mad dog, dangerous, unusable, and shoved in a cage and forgot. I was scheduled to be destroyed. I didn't give a shit.

I wound up at another SF camp, thanks to my reputation. I had a reputation for being a mad dog, but a great perimeter security dog and good even on patrol. And I was always good with the SF guys. So they trusted me. I ran in the wire nights, ate in the team hootch, even went on some patrols. The team guys were amazed that I never barked, or even growled, when Charlie was close.

The camp got hit. I barely made it out.

I moved to III Corp, assumed the identity of a GI from II Corps. Wasn't that hard. Just have to make sure you are not in the same unit of the guy you become. You don't want to run into someone who knew your new identity. But if you do, as long as you have a common name, like "Smith," nothing is likely to happen. and disappearing is always easy.

I wanted to grab my old buddy the other day, embrace him, tell him how happy I was to see him, that he is still alive and looking good. His scent was strong and healthy, even for an old guy. It had not changed that much. Instead I just smiled at him, nodded, said "Howdy." He said hello back, and looked me over a few moments. His lips parted like he was going to say something. But I kept moving. If he had said anything I might have said too much. It is hard, sometimes, being a weredog.