Frankie
Stevens probably would have died in Vietnam, if it hadn’t been for a king.
It wasn’t an Asian ruler or a dignitary from some other foreign land who
saved theWestmoreland County man. He was a black-and-tan German shepherd
named King. Stevens and King were partners during the Vietnam War, and
they scouted the jungle for signs of booby-traps or enemy troops. No one
in their platoon advanced into an area until King checked it out and Stevens
declared it safe. That was almost 30 years ago, but the memories haven’t
faded for Stevens, 51. He’s thought about King over the decades, but he’s
never talked much about his two years in the Army for the same reason he
hasn’t visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington. “I’m not ready
yet,” he said. “I knew a lot of people whose names are on the wall.”
But after a recent visit to Fort Benning, GA, the Army base where he trained
as a dog handler, Stevens says it’s time to talk about the contributions
that dogs like King made. Stevens and his wife, Margie, recently attended
the dedication of the nation’s second War Dog Memorial at Fort Benning’s
Sacrifice Field. The first is at March Air Force Base in California. Both
memorials honor the war dogs who warned their partners of danger on the
battlefields of World War II, Korea, Vietnam and Operation Desert Storm.
The dogs prevented more than 10,000 casualties in Vietnam alone, said Jeffrey
Bennett, director of the memorial. But they were hardly treated like the
“canine heroes” they were, he said. Many of the dogs that served in Vietnam
were declared “surplus armaments” when America downsized its troops. Instead
of being sent home to the states, they were destroyed or left to unknown
fates, Bennett said. Frankie Stevens doesn’t have to wonder about King.
He knows exactly what happened. Proud to serve Stevens has never been far
from war—or the weapons of it. He’s worked at the Naval Surface Warfare
Center, Dahlgren Division, for 26 years, and he’s currently working on
a system designed to wipe out heavy artillery. He grew up in King George
County, and his late father, Carle, fought in the Battle of the Bulge during
World War II. Stevens and his dad were watching television one November
night in 1969 when then-President Nixon started the draft lottery. Dates
were to be pulled at random, and men would be drafted in the order their
birth dates were selected. Feb. 14 was the fourth date picked. The 20-year-old
Stevens turned to his dad and said, “Well, I’m gone.” He didn’t question
whether he should go. He believed America was the greatest country in the
world, and it was his duty to serve. He enlisted in the Army for two years.
After basic training in Kentucky and Louisiana, Stevens was sent to Non-commissioned
Officers’ School at Fort Benning. He was a sergeant when he graduated and
his company was looking for volunteers for scout dog school. “There were
seven or eight guys in my squad, and we turned to each other and said,
‘I like dogs.’ ‘Do you like dogs?’” They had no idea what was involved,
but they figured the job would keep them stateside for another few months.
The handlers learned about the different tasks of war dogs. The canines
searched for land mines, tracked the enemy or served as sentries. Some
even walked point—that is, they marched at the front of the line with their
handlers, scouting an area before anyone else advanced. Stevens’ squad
used to joke about the worst thing that could happen to a dog handler.
“We’d say, ‘What are you going to do, send me to Vietnam and make me walk
point?’” An instant bond King was 4 years old, weighed 82 pounds and had
serial No. 72M4 tattooed in his ear. He’d worked with another handler on
missions to Cambodia. He and Stevens bonded the moment they met. “I put
the lead on him and said, ‘Heel,’ and it was like I had raised him,” Stevens
said. Stevens quickly learned King’s warning signs. If the hair on the
dog’s neck bristled or his ears stood up, Stevens knew the enemy was close.
The two spent only three months together and went on 13 missions. King
spotted booby-traps or sniffed out enemy soldiers on seven of them.
Stevens said the dogs could distinguish the Vietnamese from Americans by
their diet and other factors. Once, a rocket whizzed by and blew up beside
them. King located the North Vietnamese soldier who fired it, and someone
else in the platoon took the soldier out of action. Stevens and King were
walking targets, and the handler knew it. The North Vietnamese offered
a reward for anyone who killed a dog team.
Stevens
also knew he held in his hands the lives of 30 or more men who marched
behind him. “It was a hell of a responsibility” for a young man of 21,
knowing others could die if he didn’t pay attention to the dog’s signs.
But Stevens had faith in his partner. “I trusted him more than anybody
else.” A mission like no other: On two hot days in June 1971, King did
things he’d never done before. He stopped in his tracks and lay down on
the trail, and he growled at Stevens when the handler tried to get him
to move forward. There were several squads in the group then—about 90 men—and
they were following a map they’d found on an enemy officer. The Americans
thought it would lead them to a weapons cache. Two dog teams had been attached
to the units, but one canine was killed— and his handler hit—the
first day, in an ambush. Stevens and King, who had been bringing up the
rear, were brought to the front. The air was filled with the smell of explosives,
and King was cautious. Twice, he stopped and lay down; twice, Stevens
praised him until King got up and moved. The third time, King left, but
didn’t come back. The men were ready to go down a hill, when Stevens heard
rustling off to the side. He followed the noise and saw King pulling a
North Vietnamese soldier out of ditch. He had the man by the neck and was
shaking him. “The NVA [North Vietnamese Army] had an ambush set up for
us, and King had blown the ambush,” Stevens said. Stevens started firing
at the other men in the ditch, and “at that point, the whole world blew
up.” The rat–tat–tat of machine guns ripped through the jungle, and the
slack man—the soldier who looked out for Stevens since he had his eyes
fixed on the dog—was shot as he stood beside Stevens. The dog handler took
a bullet through the left ankle. The unit called for backup, the NVA eventually
backed off and Stevens and his slack man were airlifted out. King was dead.
He’d been shot in the explosion of gunfire. Happy to be alive Stevens spent
a month in a Japanese hospital before he was sent to another base in Georgia
to finish his tour. He was classified as unfit for combat, with a 10 percent
disability. “It’s not even something worth mentioning,” Stevens said of
his injury. “I’m alive and well and breathing” unlike so many others who
didn’t make it. His slack man was one of them. He was shot in the lung
the day King busted up the ambush, and he died. Stevens spent the rest
of his Army days working with military dogs. He and Margie, high school
sweethearts who had gotten married before he went to war, lived in nearby
base housing. Stevens was happy to be home and thrilled to be alive. He
had a few months to process what had happened “in country” before he got
out of the service. He enjoyed his second assignment with dogs, but never
felt the same bond he and King had. Even his pets at home—orphans he and
Margie took in because no one else wanted them —won’t ever take the place
King had. “I lost a good friend that day,” he said. Stevens said there
were hundreds of dog handlers at the recent dedication, and it was good
to be around other men who knew what he’d been through. No matter what
branch of service they represented, they all shared a similar experience
with man’s best friend. “Each of us put a rose on the memorial,” Stevens
said. “I don’t cry much, but that made me cry.” Stevens might even be ready
to make a trip to “the wall,” on the National Mall. He’d especially like
to see a memorial in Washington devoted to war dogs. Stevens knows he wouldn’t
have made it out of Vietnam if King hadn’t given his life. How often does
Frankie Stevens think of the dog? Does he ever see himself being airlifted
out, then picture King, lying there on the jungle floor? Stevens
has tears in his eyes when he answers. “Every day.”
Frankie
Stevens of Westmoreland
(today,
above, and at beginning of this article and, during the Vietnam War) was
paired with "King." Stevens was in the Army; King was a war dog.
Together, they scouted for signs of the enemy and cleared the way for their
platoon. King uncovered an ambush one day, saving Stevens and other men.
King was not as lucky. Stevens is now working to spread the word about
dogs’ feats and sacrifices.
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