Brown Dog

By Cpl. Charles Patrick Dugan
2164539 USMC
Vietnam 1966-1967
Machine Gunner – Infantry

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The year was 1966 and I was a newly assigned machine gunner in an infantry unit that was protecting a high mountain pass that was between Da Nang and Phu Bai, Vietnam. The pass is called Hai Van Pass, which means Place of the Clouds. It is located 30 km north of Da Nang. The Marine Corps name of the hill that my unit was on was Hill 724. It was a dangerous and treacherous area that was of high strategic value. There was only one narrow highway that wound up steep cliffs (Highway 1) that reached the peak at Hai Van. At the base of the hill was a small village called Namo. My story starts in that village.

On a patrol through the village, my squad noticed a small wooden cage outside of a hooch. We were new to Vietnam and unaware of the customs of the people. We were always alert for booby traps and we moved closer to the cage. Inside the cage was a small, brown puppy that brightened up when he saw us approach his cage. He began wagging his tail and wanting to be held. It was love at first sight for all of us. Don't tell anybody, but most Marines are real softies when it comes to animals. The owner of the hooch came out and I decided to offer to buy his puppy. I just didn't like his living conditions. The old villager started his trying to up the price and after much debate, he decided on a price. He then pulled out a sharp knife and proceeded to open the cage.

All of us were shocked that he pulled a knife out and we all raised our weapons to him. He looked very frightened and assured us that he meant us no harm. He explained in gestures that he was just going to prepare the dog for us. We were confused and then he made the motion of drawing his knife across his neck to tell us that he was going to kill the dog and dress it out for us to Chop-Chop. I can only tell you that the anger level went up 100 notches at that suggestion. We then realized that the dog was being raised to eat by the villager. I unbuttoned my flak jacket and reached in and took the dog from his hands. I threw the money on the ground and placed the pup next to my heart so I could carry him up the long torturous climb back to our base camp.

The first event that happened was all of us knew that it was going to be a challenge to get our superiors to allow us to keep him. It was a miserable walk back to our hill. Our fears were baseless because we had a wonderful Captain, named Capt. Silva, and he allowed us to keep the puppy as a mascot. We loved him before, but we really loved the Captain after that. Next we had the heated debate on what the dogs name should be. It was not an easy process since marines are very bull-headed and strong willed. After much serious and highly intelligent discussion we arrived at the unique name of Brown Dog. You have to know Marines to appreciate this.

Brown Dog was the darling of the hill and only one Marine hated him and that was OK, because we all hated him too. We all decided that if Brown Dog didn't like him that there had to be a damn good reason. Later he proved to be a coward in combat and was removed from our hill before he had an Accident. Brown Dog was very happy that he left. I lost a stripe because I caught this guy kicking at Brown Dog and I explained to him not to do that again. I explained a little too harsh and the 1st Sgt. explained to me the error of my ways.

Brown Dog had a ritual of his life on the hill. At night we were in bunkers staring out into a dark, fog filled jungle. We were issued Seismic Listening Devices which consisted of probes planted in the ground in front of our bunkers. We had a small console inside that had earphones. We could hear footsteps approaching or animals moving. We got pretty good with the device. Brown Dog would make the perimeter of our positions and visit every bunker to check on "His" marines. He was always a welcome visitor and he spent all of his non patrolling time in his daddy’s bunker, MINE! He also went on patrols with us and had an intense hatred for the Vietnamese. He would growl and really act up when he would see or smell one.

On April 1, 1967, we were dug in and the fog was pea soup thick that night. I was in the machine gun bunker and we were really spooked. About 3 am Brown dog shot up and went on full alert. I rang the field phone and informed the Command bunker that Brown Dog had alerted. Our Lt., (Naval Academy IDIOT) advised me to trust my Seismic Device and not a damn dog!

My bunker was the forward bunker and the most vulnerable. I looked at my machine gun crew and whispered that I was going to disobey the Lt’s stupid order. They all nodded as I prepared the pop-up flare to shoot into the sky. I popped the flare and Lo and Behold we had Beaucoup Gooks in the wire! All hell broke loose and it was a very violent battle that night. It was up close and personal fighting and many people on both sides were killed and wounded. Brown Dog was hit by shrapnel but continued to fight the enemy. I saw him attack the leg of a NVA before he was zapped.

The attack failed and for what seemed like an eternity, we waited for the sun to come up. There were dead people in the wire, burning, and moaning out in pain in the darkness. I held Brown Dog in my arms and awaited the medivac helicopters that were coming to help our wounded. I really thought Brown Dog was going to die in my arms.

When the choppers came I handed my baby to the door gunner and asked him to get him medical help and told him that we would all be dead if it wasn't for Brown Dog. Marine to Marine, he gave me his word and I watched the dust-off. My Capt. pulled me aside and told me that he was glad that I never followed orders. He rubbed my head and told me that he was going to call to headquarters and tell them the story and he ASSURED me that Brown Dog was going to get the best of care.

Brown Dog had lost a lot of blood so I really didn't have much hope. The next day we received word that Brown Dog had been taken to Army Vets and they had saved his life. He had over 100 stitches, needed blood and antibiotics but he was going to live. He was the hero to all of us. He received a canine award for heroism and we promoted him to Cpl. I also got my stripe back much to the chagrin of the Lt.

Cpl. Brown Dog returned to a hero's welcome as we had a full formation to welcome him home. I left the hill June 9th, 1967 and he was in very good hands with the Marines on the hill. I tried to take him home but that was impossible. I really hurt having to leave him on the hill, but I knew the Marines would take excellent care of him.

I have always thought it was so ironic that once he was going to be eaten by the Vietnamese and in turn he caused the death of so damn many of them!

All of my friends still have his picture and we all know that we would not be here today if it were not for a little, mixed breed dog named Brown Dog. He will be in our hearts until we die and a part of our souls forever.

When we assemble for our reunions, we always toast Brown Dog. Rest in peace little Warrior and wait for Your Marines to join you. We will always be Semper Fidelis to you and your memory. A Salute and three cheers for the finest Marine on our hill!

Ooo-Rah Brown Dog!

Thank all of you for taking the time to read my story. I am honored that you would take an interest in this story and me being the author. I had the privilege of serving with the finest men in the United States Marine Corps and being led by the finest officers and NCO's in that Corps. The Marine Corps made me who I am today and I am so proud to have been allowed to wear that uniform. I also had the honor of serving beside Col. John Whitfield (Who was a MudGrunt Marine then) He was one of the toughest Marines I knew and I am so proud that we both made it home and have remained close friends over the years!

I am an avid animal lover and today, I am the proud owner of a Jack Russell Terrier, which I gave my rank and serial number to. I was very upset when they went to Social Security numbers and did away with my Serial Number. I remember the day well when I was assigned that number and the pride I felt when they told me that number was mine forever! Needless to say, I was not a happy Marine when it was done away with! In protest, I assigned it to my JRT along with the rank of Cpl. His full title is Cpl. J.R. Dugan USMC 2164539 (The memory of Cpl. Brown Dog still lives! Ooo-Rah!)

He is also a published Marine! His story is in a book titled, "Angel Dogs" (See below) by Allen and Linda Anderson. Our story is the first one in the book.

Here is that story - I hope that all of you will enjoy it.

God Bless Our Country and Our Troops In Harm's Way!

Semper Fidelis,

Patrick (Pat) Dugan and Cpl. J.R. Dugan USMC 2164539

Del Rio, Texas

Honoring Those Who Served

DOGS AS DEVINE MESSENGERS OF LOVE

By Charles Patrick Dugan

I named my dog, a Jack Russell terrier who is twenty-three pounds of solid muscle, Cpl. J. R. Dugan, USMC 2164539. I gave him the combination of the initials for his breed, Jack Russell, (J. R.) with my U.S. Marine Corps rank and serial number, because this dog has the heart of a lion. I call him Cpl. J. R. Dugan or Cpl. J. R., for short. He is tricolor with a light brown patch over one eye that makes him look like a little pirate. Cpl. J. R. is fearless and the smartest dog I have ever had. He is the little heartbeat at my feet.

As a Marine Corps infantryman survivor of heavy combat in the Vietnam War, I have always believed that it is important to recognize the courage and bravery of every man or woman who has served in our country’s military. What I didn¹t realize until one late October day in 2003 was that it would be my dog who demonstrated how vital it is that we never forget those who gave their lives so that others could live.

The favorite place for Cpl. J. R. Dugan and me to walk is the Sacred Heart Catholic Cemetery in Del Rio, Texas. This cemetery is one of four cemeteries that are located side by side ‹ Saint Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery, Sacred Heart Catholic Cemetery, Westlawn Protestant Cemetery, and the Masonic Cemetery. J. R. and I spend countless hours weaving in and out of all four cemeteries and enjoying the lush trees and abundant wildlife. Numerous species of birds, deer, rabbits, and squirrels populate this oasis in the harsh semi desert environment of Del Rio. J. R. and I both prefer these pleasant strolls through nature to walking around a circular track.

J. R. and I were having a late-afternoon stroll that started like all the rest of our walks, with the exception of a misting rain and a discernible chill in the air. I had parked my SUV near my family’s burial plot and put a light pack on my shoulders. I always carry water, a collapsible water bowl for J. R., J. R.’s first-aid kit, a Swiss Army knife, a snack for both of us, my bird identification field manual, and my trusty Nikon 7x50 binoculars. I made all the pack adjustments, picked up my walking staff, grasped Cpl. J. R.’s leash, and we were off on another adventure.

The wind picked up, and the chill in the air became more pronounced, so I buttoned my windbreaker and pushed my hat a little farther down on my forehead. Cpl. J. R. loved the chill and was prancing like a prize stallion in a parade. I love to watch him be so full of life. Our walks are made more enjoyable by the fact that Cpl. J. R. and I have learned to work as a team. This dog misses nothing. Instead of barking, he always alerts me by making eye contact when he sees something move. After Cpl. J. R. detects animal movement, I can stop and observe the animal with my binoculars.

Our walking trips through the cemeteries are like a time machine that takes us back to the origins of our community. I pass the grave sites of old family friends, mentors, teachers, pioneers, villains, and people who now are known only to God. These are very special walks, since they give me time to reflect and appreciate all the people who helped to make me who I am today.

On this autumn afternoon, Cpl. J. R. and I had walked for nearly an hour when I noticed that he was getting a little tired. He had stopped to show me his extended tongue, his signal that he wanted some water. For our break, I always stop at a little meditation bench in the Masonic Cemetery to enjoy our well-deserved snack and drink.

For some reason, Cpl. J. R. did not want to stop at our usual place this afternoon. Instead, he seemed to be distracted and was pulling me to go in a different direction. I gave in and let him lead me. He appeared to be on a mission and was making a beeline toward another bench that we had never used before. I was becoming concerned at his wild behavior. Today, he suddenly appeared to be obsessed with getting to a destination known only to him.

When we arrived at the bench, I sat down and let Cpl. J. R. have a lot of leash. He started scratching at a grave that had been covered by years of dirt, leaves, and neglect. I watched in amazement, as this was the only grave that I have ever seen him scratch at like this. He frantically threw dirt in every direction. I became worried that there might be something beneath the leaves that could hurt him, so I stood up to rein him in.

As I walked behind him, my interest was piqued when I saw that Cpl. J. R. had been digging at a military gravestone. He turned and looked at me as if to ask for my assistance. I got down on my knees and began to scrape the dirt and debris away from the stone. As I reached the surface of the stone and my hand swept the final layer away, Cpl. J. R. stopped. Rigidly, he stared at the stone. My head turned away from Cpl. J. R., and I looked at the tombstone. I could not breathe, and my heart pounded as I read the tombstone’s inscription:

JACK A. RUSSELL

TEXAS

CPL SIGNAL CORPS

JULY 21, 1928 JULY 16, 1952

I was speechless. It seemed as if all time and motion had frozen. A sudden chill ran up my spine. Cpl. J. R. laid his head on both paws and rested on the headstone of Cpl. Jack Russell, a soldier with his own name, who had been killed in the Korean War. The poor condition of the soldier’s grave site indicated that this was a man who was not being remembered by friends, family, or lovers. But somehow, Cpl. Jack A. Russell had a link to my little dog. Cpl. J. R. and I both sat for a long time, paying our respects to this man who had served his country and made the ultimate sacrifice in time of war.

While we lingered at Cpl. Russell’s grave, I tried to gather my wits as to what had just happened. It was amazing to be part of an experience that had joined all of us together in a brief moment in time and eternity.

Later, Cpl. J. R. and I cleaned the grave site and tombstone of Cpl. Jack A. Russell, to make it a visible and very important part of this world again. I continue to marvel at how, on this day so near to November’s Veterans Day, a little dog paid honor and respect by bringing new meaning to the belief that no soldier should ever be forgotten.

Excerpted from Angel Dogs by Allen and Linda Anderson. Copyright © 2005 by Allen and Linda Anderson. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of New World Library, Novato, CA. $13.95. Available in local bookstores or call 800.972.6657 ext 52 or click here.

Thank you for reading my stories and thank you for asking to re-print. (My pleasure, Pat. I enjoyed both stories. Hugs, Leilani)

Semper Fi,

Pat and Cpl. J.R. Dugan USMC