The poor thing had followed a Marine from the wharf to the deck of the aircraft carrier; someone had put a leash on it and of course he was named Devil. He was the mascot for the Bravo Company and even the officers pretended not to see. And even if the Sailors had said anything, a Marine or twenty would have made sure they forgot, quick.

Devil Dog was a mutt, a half-starved thing that a Marine on leave had tossed a bit of bread at, to impress the pretty Australian broad on his arm. The Marine didn't get the girl, but he got the dog.

Some of them were still in a bad way from Guadalcanal. Devil got that. He was torn up and scarred in places, and the Marines who'd gone AWOL from the field hospital in Melbourne, still limping around with bandages and raw wounds could appreciate that.

They were headed to another shithole island. They got there sooner than they wanted and still Devil Dog hung around.

They left him on the aircraft carrier when they disembarked; or so they thought. He followed them in, and two days later in the thick of jungle and blood and deafening screams and shouts, 5th Platoon heard a yelp.

Devil Dog had gone down. But the rest of them wouldn't.