The Dog

D Vautier
11/2006

His name was Dan [something or other, I forgot the last name] and he was in our platoon when I came to Germany in 1965.  But he was not in my survey party; he was in the forth party.  Forth party was mostly for spare parts and spare personnel too.  We were supposed to have four operational survey parties but we never were able to run more than three at even the best of times.  So it took me several months before I even realized who this guy was or what he was.  Everybody sort of knew him as “The Dog.”  I never cared to participate in this widespread form of degradation, and when I talked about the guy I tried to practice some form of Christian virtue by calling him by his real name, whatever that was.  The usual response was always the same. “Oh, you mean the Dog”

People don’t understand that in a completely male oriented society, dominated by males, governed by males, totally ruled, controlled and manipulated by males, certain courtesies, niceties, and pleasantries, that we often come to expect in a mixed and more balanced society consisting of both genders just did not flat-ass exist there.  You said what was on your mind, in any way you cared to say it with all the usual obscenities, and without the least concern, embarrassment or recrimination.

Therefore woe betide somebody who just happened to be intellectually challenged, physically disadvantaged, or socially inhibited.  Any such individual consequently had to bear a full measure of ridicule, abuse, chastisement and derision.  And there was plenty if that to go around, believe me.  The Dog just happened to be there.  He was our pariah, our fall guy, our scapegoat, driven out into the desert to die for our sins.  He was the personification of our resentment at being placed in this miserable god-forsaken country, half a world from home, where they spoke a funny language, and we had little or nothing worthwhile to do (except drink);  we were placed there to simply waste away our two or three years, until we could get out and start leading meaningful and productive lives.  The Army was just one big parenthesis.  And there was the dog.

So The Dog was a guy who just happened to be in the wrong spot, the quintessential “lifer”, the completely incompetent person who couldn’t make it on the outside, the guy you never noticed because he didn’t seem important enough to notice, and who never said much because he never had anything worthwhile to say anyway, and when he did try to say anything it was dumb, really dumb.  His style was no style; his class was no class.  It seamed everything he did was offensive or obtuse or out of context or bad or poorly done, and everything he didn’t do that he was supposed to do, was important and critical and necessary.  It’s probably a good bet that if he did do it he would screw it up anyway.  He was the guy who would park in a handicapped spot and limp away, steel your TP when you weren’t looking, and flush all the toilets when you were taking a shower.  He was the summation of bad taste, bad breath, bad moves, bad sportsmanship, and bad humor.

When I was promoted to E-5 specialist, within a short time I was eligible to take my proficiency test.  This was a difficult series of tests administered every year to E-5 specialists, and it usually took two or three attempts to pass.  I went to the post library and checked out a big stack of TMs and FMs (technical manuals and field manuals).  These covered just about all the test material.  I learned how deep to dig a cat hole, how far apart the tent stakes needed to be, how to station a perimeter, when to solute, what comprised the rules of war, correct radio procedure.

I passed the test the first time.  In fact I scored second highest in entire 7th Corps.  The first sergeant actually embarrassed the hell out of me by making me stand front center of the entire battery to get some award.  God it was embarrassing!

Poor Dog failed for the forth time.  I felt sorry for him.

He was such an un-inspiration to us.