Short Story
“Do you think they’ll torture us, Sarge?” The two men sat crossed-legged
on an empty floor, back-to-back. They were each other’s support rest that
way. Plus, they could scan in all directions, as far as the dim light
allowed their eyes to penetrate the darkness. The older one slowly
searched for any activity, left to right, then right to left. The younger
sat cowering, with a look that said it all.
I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Please tell me everything will be
okay!
“I don’t know, Taggart. I don’t know – never been this close to ’em
before.” He wanted nothing more than to offer reassuring words but just
could not allow himself to share fantasy and false hope. He was scared as
well. “No, never been this close to ’em before. I heard back in ’42 they
found a half dozen from the Second ID, soldiers from an advanced party we
sent out to try and fix their location. All they recovered were those six
bodies.” Sitting on the floor, Taggart pulled his knees close and buried
his face to hide his expression. This can’t be happening.
“They sent 128 in total; no one has any idea what happened to the rest of
them. If those six were any indication, it didn’t go well.” The sergeant
continued scanning as he spoke. His detached expression showed no sympathy
for their predecessors. “When they were found, they were stripped and
half-starved. Four were already dead — the others made it another 36 hours
before…”
“Before what, Sergeant Clark?”
Clark wanted nothing more than to reassure his soldier. He could not find
the words but finally choked out a response.
“The bastards had ripped out all of their finger-and-toenails, Taggart.
One was carved up so bad – head cut up and shaved, ears mutilated — you
couldn’t even identify the body as human without…”
The sergeant’s response kept trailing off, repeatedly fighting back the
urge to break down and cry; Taggart was already there.
Clark and Taggart were the only soldiers remaining. At least, they were
the only two at that particular location. Sergeant Clark found it
impossible to tell where they were or why they were being held. The room
was large; Clark found it hard to believe it was needed just to hold two
naked and frightened soldiers. The plan must have been to capture more.
That was, of course, before things got out of hand in the final defense of
Perimeter Tango. Clark never saw bloodshed like that before — he never
even heard of brutality on such a scale.
What the fuck happened? Hell, they’re the Third Infantry Division,
the famed “Rock of the Marne” of 1918. Their dogged defense is still
legendary. Clark was baffled. “It never should’ve gone that bad, that
quickly. What the fuck happened?”
But those famed battles of the American Expeditionary Force were over 160
years ago. Warfare had advanced beyond primitive days of fighting amongst
the trenches, scrambling to capture inches of ground. Their unit was
Earth’s third expedition deployed beyond the galaxy. This time, 432
soldiers were heavily armed when they landed and went in on foot. Air and
ground vehicles proved ineffective against that alien force. The enemy
immediately targeted and destroyed vehicles whenever any left the security
of their assembly area, obliterated before anyone could get a fix on
anything. “Modern warfare” took more than a few steps backward, putting
troops back into trenches.
Scouts were advancing. Then came the counterattack…
Clark and Taggart recounted the same story. Both were hit from behind
while their attention was focused on chaos to the front. They were losing
— the last moment either remembered was their commanding officer giving
the order, “fix bayonets.”
The next thing recalled was waking up in that warehouse. Taggart had a
nasty welt on his back from some sort of piercing. He looked over his
sergeant and found the same, probably a tranquilizing agent. Clark was
trying to assess his surroundings. No equipment. No windows or doors.
Hell, the room was so tall neither could determine just how high the walls
reached until the ceiling emitted its dull brilliance. He paced the empty
room’s perimeter, 50 by 75 meters, figuring the dimensions reduced their
chances of being underground. There were no doors, windows, or openings on
four smooth metal walls. The floor showed signs of recent activity. All
they could see in the low light were each other. Stagnant air gave no
indication of circulation.
Neither could tell how long they were out, but the men were clean-shaven
the morning of battle. Clark caressed the heavy scruff on his face. His
stomach was growling as if it had been empty for days. A few days could
mean their position is anywhere on that planet, or any of the other four
in the belt for that matter. They were alone, confused, and scared. Plus,
they were naked.
Without warning, a slot at the bottom of one far wall raised. From it, a
metal tray slid into view. Both soldiers ran to the opening, but it closed
before they reached the spot. The tray had a pile of what looked like
brown flesh next to two bowls of liquid. Water was Sergeant Clark’s
guess.
Taggart leaned over the specimen to inspect it with his nose. “Is that
shit? Did they just take a shit on a plate to feed it to us,
Sergeant?”
“It’s actually pretty good once you finally get past the smell.”
The quip startled both soldiers. They immediately snapped their heads
around to see who or what was there. It came from the other side of the
room. A man was standing by the wall as if he had been there the entire
time. Some part opened then sealed again while they were distracted.
Sergeant Clark took the lead.
“Who the hell are you?”
The stranger boomed, “Corporal Victor Hernandez, Charlie Company,
Reconnaissance Advanced Force, Second Infantry Division. ‘Second to
None!’” He was an old man trying his best to stand tall, snap a salute,
and bark the famed mantra of the Second ID, but his body could only
replicate a pathetic reproduction of the real thing. Immediately, however,
Clark recognized him as genuine.
“At ease, Corporal.” The character relaxed. Even old soldiers find
comfort in protocol. “I’m Staff Sergeant Linus Clark, and this is Private
Vincent Taggart.” Clark was stunned. He stared for a moment into the
geriatric’s eyes. “Have you been here since the First Expeditionary
Force?” Corporal Hernandez must have used up whatever military bearing
remained within him. He waved his hand like a giddy little kid.
“Yep! Class of 2041.” As Hernandez tossed the two soldiers cloth cut from
some animal skin, Taggart gasped and asked if he had actually been held
there for 37 years. “We count time a little different out here, but if you
say it’s been 37 years, then yes, I have. I probably came to this place
much like the way you did. I don’t really know where we are,” he smiled,
“but we both know it’s not back on Earth. I go out into the yard every
once in a while. The sky is a hazy shade of purple and brown, even in the
day, but the sun peeks through sometimes.”
“What are you doing here?” Sergeant Taggart pulled his head through a
hole cut into the tunic. Corporal Hernandez described various duties he
was either tasked with or instinctively developed. He fancied himself a
hospitality director for their new home, often welcoming groups brought in
over the years. “There aren’t as many troopers as you might think. Most of
the time, what comes through is a roundup of regular people — four or five
at a time seems preferred. Children are better than adults since they
don’t really seem to have any desire to deal with grown humans.”
“Maybe they can’t.” Clark’s nonsense was just about the only sentence he
could form, still trying to come to grips with his new surroundings.
“Oh, they’re actually quite sophisticated with our species! They try to
breed us whenever they get a woman of childbearing age or raise a bitch.”
As Hernandez kept talking, Taggart returned to the ground and sat, his
arms wrapped around trembling knees as he rocked, softly sobbing. “The
last one they caught a few years back, her name was Jenny, they kept her
pregnant through seven pups before her body gave out. Yep, five full-term,
one stillborn though, two rejected.”
Clark seemed confused. “They mate with our species?”
“Oh, no,” chuckled the suddenly energetic corporal. Hernandez seemed
entertained for someone who spent most of his adult life as a prisoner of
war. His delight grew the longer he talked; Clark wondered if he was just
happy to see another human after however long it must have been.
“Oh, no,” he continued. “I don’t think they can mix with our breed.
Besides, I’d hate to be the poor female they tried that on. I did the stud
role for a while back when I was a young and tough Ranger. You think you
would never do it. You know – rape a woman. But that’s what they want you
to do. They stick you in one of those ‘breeding rooms’ and don’t let you
out until you did it.”
Hernandez smiled. “Until, you know, you fucked her. They brought one
through here yesterday. Angela, I think her name was. Yeah. Angela
Townes.”
“They got Lieutenant Townes?” Private Taggart was unsure if he should be
happy or frightened from that discovery.
“Yeah, they got her. She came in here buck naked, just like you. She’s a
fertile one.” Hernandez developed a faraway look as if he was visioning
her fleshly form, imagining what he could do with her in his younger days.
“She wasn’t here long, probably sent to the breeder.”
Clark was growing tired of the conversation.
“So, what the hell do they intend to try and do with us? They’re breeding
our women? For what purpose?”
“That all depends on what you end up with.” Corporal Hernandez explained
the situations to which he had borne witness. Humans held in isolation —
brought to the brink of starvation before they are caged with another. Two
men, one scrap of food, locked up until one is declared victorious. By the
third or fourth time any are placed in that scenario, aggression becomes
instantaneous and without mercy.
Some live their life in a pen not much different from the one they were
currently held, except for the walls. One or two sides might be open. A
strange field of energy prevented their escape while alien creatures
gathered. Their intentions were never made known. The few people Hernandez
ever spoke with after such an experience said they felt like exhibits or
observations.
“I see some when they are brought back to my little sanctuary. Their
bodies are mutilated.” Private Taggart began to cower and cry at the
notion of that fate. Hernandez seemed to show some sympathy. “Those
examples are few and far between. Most of the time they come back, they’re
old, fat, and happy! I’m sure you’ll be with the second group.” It was not
much of a consolation.
At that moment, a most displeasing guttural howl came from across the
room. Hernandez jumped with glee, grabbed an arm of each soldier,
straining to lift and guide them across the floor.
“Ooh! It seemed you’re about to have your answer, Sergeant. Here! Come
here.” He directed Clark to a spot on the ground, well stained and reeking
of piss and shit. The Sergeant growled.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clark snapped as he struggled against the
man’s grip.
“Trust me,” the corporal insisted. “I’ve done this thousands of times
before. This is my job. I’m supposed to prepare you for a presentation.”
He continued his positioning, coercing Clark over to his intended
location. The private was an easy move, broken and unwilling to wage a
fight against this inconceivable situation. The two were placed about
seven feet apart, facing the commotion.
“Just stand there and don’t do anything stupid.”
They were ready.
Hernandez’s eyes lit up as he bounced on the balls of his feet in
anticipation. “I love this part. Good luck, gentleman.”
The image of a wall seemed to disappear. In its place, four figures
loomed. Sergeant Clark figured three of them must have been at least
twelve feet tall, while the fourth was smaller. He never saw a real Junket
up close before. The pre-mission briefing pictures and videos never quite
captured the matted hair on their lean, muscular frames. Covered in
secretions, the hair seemed to knead and manipulate their four limbs
across the floor.
Like a fucking rotting corpse dipped in barbecue sauce was the
description he remembered.
“Jackpot!” Hernandez began to run around in a frenzied craze. “I know
them! I know them!” Clark and Taggart remained put as their suitor
continued to dash about. “The one on the left, the striking one…”
They were still tall when moving, only leaning forward slightly onto
their second pair of legs. The Junkets reminded Sergeant Clark of a
praying mantis in that position. Clark could not understand what,
precisely, was striking about any of them. They were hideous. Plus, there
was that smell.
“…he’s my master. He is the one who has taken care of me since I got
here.” Hernandez was indeed subject to whatever influence these aliens
held. “I know the other two tall fellows. They’ve been here before, coming
every two or three seasons to get a couple more humans. I don’t know the
last one. He looks familiar, though.” The aliens’ liaison stared silently
for a moment until he remembered.
“Wait! Is that Bobby?”
Clark asked, “What the fuck’s a Bobby?”
“I don’t know his real name,” Corporal Hernandez chuckled, “or if he even
has a name, but when they call out to him, I hear ‘Bobby’ in my head. Wow,
it must have been,” Hernandez paused. “23… It’s been 23 harvest seasons
since Bobby first appeared on the farm.
“Wow! We’re both getting old, Bobby. Aren’t we?”
Two of the creatures moved forward. Clark and Taggart felt it was wise to
do as advised — stand there and not put up a fight. Their hair was
tussled. Taggart’s cloth was pulled aside as his genitals were lifted. It
was almost as if they were inspecting the offerings. The two stepped back
and conferred with “master” while Bobby moved in to explore the two.
Horrific screeches erupted between the three taller Junkets. Bobby seemed
more interested in the new humans, slowly inching closer. One “adult”
emitted a guttural yelp, and Bobby immediately stepped back to rejoin the
herd. She must have been the mother. Only a mother has such control over
their children.
Mom and dad made their way towards the wall where they entered. Bobby
followed close behind, screeching and spitting back towards the
humans.
Hernandez was sure a deal was set!
“A deal for what, Corporal?” Clark burst into anger.
“For you. A deal for you,” the old man rambled. “One of you. Maybe both.”
He began to jump in excitement at the thought. “Maybe they’ll keep both of
you!”
Maybe they’ll keep both of you.
The phrase snapped Private Taggart out of his trance.
“Keep us?” he asked. “You mean, like pets?”
The Sergeant erupted, “At ease, Taggart! No one’s keeping us as fucking
pets!” As Sergeant Clark turned to move towards the aliens, Corporal
Hernandez was already standing in his way. He anticipated the reaction,
one he had probably seen before. He herded the two together while working
to soothe them.
“Calm down, Goddammit. Calm down.” Hernandez’s demeanor was firm. His
manner changed in an instant. “Let me tell you what is going to happen.”
The Corporal bent down and patted his palms onto the stone floor,
directing the two to take a seat. They had no choice. It was just the
three of them alone in the warehouse again. Sergeant Clark and Private
Taggart complied and took their place in front of the old soldier.
Hernandez comfortably placed a hand on each of them as he continued.
“This is what I do, gentleman. I welcome people to this godforsaken world
and try my best to help them make sense of the rest of their days.” He
rose and slowly circled the two, gently brushing his fingers through their
hair on each pass. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’m pretty
good at my job. Master has kept me in this role, so it must think I’m
doing good.” The crazy old man they first met was no longer in front of
them. Instead, they were taking direction from the noncommissioned officer
in charge.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. In a few minutes, that wall will open
again, and they are going to bring in a cage.” Before Sergeant Clark had a
chance to recoil from the word cage, Hernandez cut him off. “Don’t
interrupt me, Sergeant.
“They will let you know who’s going in the cage. They’ll be gentle if you
don’t put up a fight. They won’t be gentle if you resist.” The Corporal
placed his hands together in prayer. “Please don’t resist. Trust me.”
Private Taggart raised his hand as he posed his question. “What are they
going to do to us, Corporal?”
“I don’t know where you’re going, but I know that you will have it good.
I have seen people after they’ve gone with this family. Life will be as
best as it can get for you on this planet. There will be chances to see
that glorious brown sunset. You’ll get good food. You’ll get used to
it.
Corporal Hernandez continued to circle as he let the words sink in.
“If you resist… If they don’t take you… If any others come for you… I
don’t want to share the horrors of what will happen if you don’t go into
the crate.”
The corporal stopped in front of Clark. Hernandez’s somber look changed
with the slightest hint of a grin.
“Sergeant Clark, you said you are with the Third Infantry Division?”
“First Battalion, Second Regiment, Exo-Planet Task Force!” Clark
boasted.
Hernandez paused like he was struggling to recall his old army days.
“Third ID? ‘Rock of the Marne?’”
“Hooah, Corporal!”
“They still call you Dogface Soldiers?”
“Only in history books,” Taggart replied.
Corporal Hernandez did not need to provide any more clarification. There
was nothing left to explain. He continued to circle his two soldiers as
the reality of their fate firmed.
Neither Dogface Soldier reacted when the wall faded once more, opening
just enough to allow a dilapidated flatbed vehicle through. It seemed to
float inches above the floor, elevated by a sputtering cushion of air. Its
cargo was a square metallic crate with dozens of fist-sized holes
perforating the walls.
The vehicle went silent as it settled. A Junket exited without a sound
and came around back, tracing one of its thin upper limbs across the
crate’s top. Unlocked, one side fell to the bottom of the truck bed in a
violent sound that broke the silence and set Corporal Hernandez to action.
He knew just what to do next.
“Let’s go, Sergeant,” he whispered while gently tugging Clark’s arm.
There was no fight left in the man. He sheepishly rose and followed.
Hernandez herded him to the crate, grabbed the nape of his neck, guiding
him into a sitting position with his knees folded. “Make some room,” he
ordered while pushing Clark deeper into the crate, then returned to
retrieve Taggart.
“You’re up, soldier.” The process was repeated without resistance.
Hernandez backed away as the Junket closed its crate; nothing remained for
hospitality to do. He turned, forgoing any “fond farewell” or “bon voyage”
for his fellow soldiers. Walking over to the untouched food on the tray,
he sat down and treated himself to his reward for a job well done.
The vehicle looked as it had seen better days, slowly sputtering to build
enough cushion and lift itself off the ground. While the engine was
straining, Hernandez took one last look at the two new family pets. He
could barely make out their faces through the air holes. Softly, he began
to hum a tune both soldiers were sure to know. As the engine grew louder,
so did Hernandez’s tune. When the vehicle broke free from gravity, he
burst into song:
“I Wouldn’t Give A Bean
To Be A Fancy Pants Marine
I’d Rather Be A
Dog Face Soldier Like I Am
I Wouldn’t Trade My Old OD’s
For All The Navy’s Dungarees
For I’m The Walking Pride
Of Uncle Sam
On Army Posters That I Read
It Says “Be All That You Can”
So They’re Tearing Me Down
To Build Me Over Again”
The engine howled louder. His song grew bolder.
“I’m Just A Dog Face Soldier
With A Rifle On My Shoulder
And I Eat Raw Meat
For Breakfast E’V’RY Day
So Feed Me Ammunition
Keep Me In Third Division
Your Dog Face Soldier’s A-Okay”
“Good luck, men,” Corporal Hernandez whispered to himself as the vehicle
pulled away and exited.
Neither Clark nor Taggart could make out anything during their trip. As
the engine choked, its speed increased. A bitter wind blew through the
crate as turbulence tossed them about. The men were frightened, cold, and
disoriented. Taggart threw up twice, spewing bloody bile from his empty
stomach. By the time the trip was complete, about 45 minutes, hyperthermia
had begun to set in for both.
Nighttime set upon a world 350,000 light-years away from home.
While Papa Junket guided the metallic crate into a well-lit, heated barn,
Mama and Junior watched from the main house. Taggart peered through the
ventilation hole and watched the younger one. As its mother stroked her
elongated antennae across its thorax, the child mimicked the same motion
across the back of a rather plump elderly woman. Their eyes met for just a
moment.
She did not appear amused.
The crate settled to the ground in synchronized unison just as all lights
extinguished. One side open, spilling its contents of one Private Vincent
Taggart, one Staff Sergeant Linus Clark, and a foul stream of human
secretions. Taggart rolled onto his knees, trying to stand as he peered
into an empty void.
“Stand fast, Private,” were the first words spoken. “You have no idea
what’s out there.” Clark placed his hand on Taggart’s shoulder. He was
still charged with the health and welfare of his subordinate, but this
time, there was no sense of a chain of responsibility. The Sergeant was
not caring for his soldier; he was not soothing a scared boy. Linus was
reaching out for security and comfort from another soul.
“We’re better off staying put,” Clark reassured himself aloud. “At least
it’s warm. We’ll take shifts tonight — I have the first hour, so get some
sleep. At first light, we’ll recon the area and assess our next move.”
Taggart confessed, “I saw something in the other structure when we
arrived. It looked like a female, Sarge.” Clark did not respond. He just
propped himself up against their crate. There were no words to offer, only
the comfort of sliding his arm around Taggart’s neck and chest as the
private leaned back and relaxed every muscle in his exhausted frame.
“Bobby was holding her like they were buddies forever. They looked happy,”
his words trailed off.
“Do you think they’ll be as good to us, Sarge?”
Sergeant Clark held back. He wanted to tell his soldier to toughen
up and quit whining, to share his plans of
escaping and killing every last Junket they found. He thought about making
it to the rally point and rejoining their unit for a second assault. He
wanted to share something positive, something decisive, but he could not
lie to his only friend.
“Get some sleep, Taggart. We’ll talk about everything at first
light.”
That was enough for the young soldier. Tucking his arms under the flimsy
garment, he turned his head into Clark’s chest and closed his eyes.
“Good night, Sarge,” came a soft whisper.
“Woof,” Clark sobbed as he wrapped his arms tighter around Taggart,
gently rocking the young Dogface Soldier to sleep. The only sounds were
his melodic hum and occasional words of their beloved lullaby.
“I’d rather be a dogfaced soldier like I am…”
Acknowledgments
What if it was you on the other side of the cage?
“We fight the big fights to end suffering for all animals.”
Together with millions of supporters, the Humane Society of the United
States takes on puppy mills, factory farms, the fur trade, trophy hunting,
animal cosmetics testing and other cruel industries. Through our rescue,
response and sanctuary work, as well as other hands-on animal care
services, we help thousands of animals every year. We fight all forms of
animal cruelty to achieve the vision behind our name: a humane
society.
Learn more here: www.humanesociety.org/all-our-fights
The Dog Face Soldier Song was written in 1942 by Lieut. Ken Hart and Cpl.
Bert Gold, two U.S. Army infantry soldiers. It is the official song of the
3rd Infantry Division.
Rocky the Bulldog is the symbol of the 3rd Infantry Division. He was
created by Walt Disney himself in 1965. The 3rd Infantry Division gained
the right to display Rocky through an exchange of letters between Disney
Productions and the 3ID commander at the time, MG Albert O. Connor.
“Rocky the Bulldog.” Fort Stewart-Hunter Army Airfield, home.army.mil/stewart/index.php/about/history/rocky
Dogface Soldier
Words and Music by Ken Hart and Bert Gold, additional lyrics by Jack
Dolph
© 1956 SHAWNEE PRESS
All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
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